CHAPTER 14 #2
I’ve ended up completely ready to go with about forty-five minutes to spare but a five-minute commute.
I stare at my face in the mirror, daring my makeup to move an inch or crack in that time.
I put on a load of Bee’s washing. I straighten up and fluff the pillows in the living room.
I hang up all the clothes lying on my floor.
Thirty-eight minutes to go. I hand wash our sharp knives and put them away.
I rearrange the spices on the spice rack.
I dust the skirting boards. Twenty-six minutes.
Ahh, fuck it. I’m just going to be early.
I am seated about fifteen minutes before my reservation, and I check and recheck my messages with Arthur to ensure I told him the correct place and time.
I did. This restaurant looks like it’s trying to be a granny’s eclectic living room, but it’s all a little too rehearsed.
Dark green with bronze accents, artfully peeling wall paint (on a paint job not six months old), chinoiserie silk screens disguising the entrance to the kitchen, bric-a-brac from a variety of different cultures.
It’s all a bit at odds with the neon nightclub lighting and low hum of trance music in the background.
I decline a drink other than water because ‘I’m waiting for someone.’ I get to spend a bit of time cleaning up the table because I’m incapable of basic tasks like pouring water from a bottle into one of those tiny shallow glasses that’s got the volume of approximately two sips. Eleven minutes.
He’s in front of me as I’m handing off a wad of napkins to an unenthused waiter.
‘I thought I’d be here first,’ he says, smiling.
He sits. We order a bottle of wine. The waiter recommends a chardonnay that will pair nicely with the Feed Me menu, if that’s something we’re interested in. We are. No, we don’t have any dietary requirements. We clink our glasses together and each take a long sip.
‘So,’ he says carefully, stroking the stem of his wine glass, looking at his fingers and not at me. ‘What’s the occasion? What are we plotting this time?’
‘No plot,’ I reply, staring determinedly at his face—I will be catching his eye when he finally looks up. Every reel I watched today indicated that eye contact is crucial to flirting. I just need him to work with me. ‘I just wanted to hang out.’
He looks up, and the grin there looks like sunshine. He exhales like he was really nervous about my answer.
Thankfully the first course comes out quickly to give us something to talk about.
Oh, is that lemongrass? I think it is. So fresh.
I completely forget how to use chopsticks and definitely do something with them that is considered impolite in many cultures in order to get the wonton in my mouth.
Arthur laughs at me, offering zero support.
He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.
(Comforting to know it’s not just me.) They rake through his hair.
They rest on the edges of the table. They rearrange things so we can fit the growing number of plates around us.
They mess with the condensation on his glass. Finally, they rest in his lap.
‘This is so weird. We’ve hung out so much, but now I feel like I don’t know what to do.’
Deep breath. You can do it. ‘Maybe because when we hung out before it wasn’t a date.’
He looks at me. I look back. Squint slightly as if it makes the eye contact more powerful.
‘Is this a date?’ he asks.
‘I mean, I asked you out on a date…’ Backtrack. Backtrack.
‘It really wasn’t clear from the message.’
‘I was hoping you’d pick up the vibe.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be a date. It can just be two friendly former chaperones who happen to have kissed having a friendly dinner.’
‘No!’ he almost shouts. The lady next to me (these tables really are close enough that she and her husband must be able to hear every single word of this painful exchange) turns to glare sternly at Arthur.
He apologises softly, then turns back to me and places a hand over mine where it rests on the table.
‘I wanted it to be a date.’ He pauses, turning my hand over and squeezing it for emphasis. ‘I want it to be one.’
I can hear the lady next to me muttering something about inappropriate public behaviour, and I assume this time she’s talking about me, because I am definitely looking at Arthur like I want to leap across the table and tear all his clothes off.
It’s easier after that.
Funny how admitting that you both want to be on the date you’re already on can loosen you up.
Within twenty minutes, Rhonda (our table neighbour) and her husband have asked to be moved to another table because of our laughter. They’re not pleased when told the only seats available are up at the bar. Apparently John has a bad hip. I don’t think the online review will be favourable.
We’ve moved to the little cocktail bar next door, and we’re on our second bottle of wine, a nice pinot noir although I lost the ability to tell the difference two glasses ago.
We’ve also ordered some fries to soak up the first bottle.
I lament how I’m going to have a parking ticket because I was too stingy to pay the machine until it expires at midnight, and I’ll have to come get my car in the morning.
Arthur calls me a luddite, signs up for the payment app, adds my car and covers it for the night. I thank him.
We’re sitting next to each other on a little couch in the corner now.
I think this bartender wanted us out of the way.
Somehow, after an embarrassingly short amount of time, the conversation turns to sex.
Maybe every conversation after two bottles of wine turns to sex, or maybe it’s because we’re on a date instead of watching one, or maybe it’s because I wish his hands were raking through my hair instead of his own.
It’s unclear, but the scenario is not unlike the one that led to our attempt at a kiss, so I’m not super angry about the turn of events.
‘I’m not that excited by sex, actually,’ I say, leaning so far back against the booth that I’m basically horizontal. My hand flops in between us, emphasising the point. I stare at it, at the gap between my floppy palm and where his hand rests a few centimetres away.
‘I don’t really know how to respond to that without prying into your sexuality or whatever, so I am just going to nod sagely and wait to see if you happen to open up.’ Arthur commences the nodding, like a drunk bobblehead.
‘I appreciate that. But it’s not that deep. I just don’t think sex is that good. I feel like people oversell it or something.’
‘Meaning you’ve never had good sex? Never?’
‘Never.’
‘You’re telling me that not one of those previous sidekick boyfriends managed to make it any good?
I mean, I know there were issues with your selection process, but surely one had to be decent in the sack.
’ He looks offended on my behalf. I read too much into the fact that my selection-process issues are apparently past tense.
‘I guess it just depends on your definition.’
‘Did you come?’
‘Sometimes. Rarely.’
‘That’s generally the definition of bad.’
‘Is the goal always to come during sex?’ I wonder, reaching for a few more chips. Should we get another bowl? The kitchen might be closing soon.
‘Not always if the rest of the activity is pleasurable.’
‘Oh. Then yeah, it was bad.’ More chips.
‘What about when you came?’
‘What about it?’
‘Even those times were bad?’
‘Yes?’
There’s only salt left in the bowl. I gather it on my finger and suck.
I can feel Arthur’s eyes on me as he traces the movements of my finger.
Then he takes a big gulp of his wine. Finishes it off actually.
Then pours himself another and tops me up.
Shakes his head. Says, ‘I’m sorry, I’m really struggling to see how an orgasm is bad.
Or was it because you knew what was possible and it was so rare? ’
‘Leaving the orgasms to the side for the moment…’
He scoffs. ‘Sounds like your boyfriends should have been doing that a little less, but sure.’
‘It’s not really about the orgasms,’ I say.
The wine and his eyes are making my brain foggy, so I look down at my lap, where my hands wring together.
‘It’s hard to explain. Sex is just…empty for me.
Like afterwards I feel empty. And when you hear about people who claim to have really good sex, they talk about feeling full—don’t make a fucking joke—and, I dunno, connected? Is that the right word?’
‘I think connected is a good word,’ he says quietly, looking down at our hands.
‘And I just feel like every dick just hollows me out a little bit more. Like they leave and take something with them. And we know how little there is to take…I mean, before recently.’
‘Do you think that maybe you feel that way about it because those relationships weren’t really real? Or maybe that’s not right…they weren’t what you would necessarily choose for yourself now?’
‘Maybe?’
‘And that now that you’re more confident in who you are as a person, better sex should naturally follow?’
I don’t answer, just hum. Something like hope is starting to bloom in my chest, and while my instinct is to snuff it out, I kind of want to see where it goes.
Could Arthur be right? Also, the way his T-shirt is tightening around his upper arms as he talks with his hands has temporarily robbed me of the ability to speak. Oh shit, he’s still talking.
‘I mean, we can all pretend that sex is just passion and mechanics, and perhaps some people are good at the no-strings thing, good luck to them. But even then, sex is vulnerable. You’re naked, literally and figuratively, with another person, and I think that requires a lot of trust. And if you don’t know yourself, trust yourself, how can you ever trust who you’re with and really just let go and get into it? ’
I feel naked right now—figuratively speaking, of course.
His brown eyes are glazed over, and I can see myself in the reflection.
But he’s looking beneath my clothes, beneath my skin, right down to the bones.
My instinct is still to lighten the mood, to put my figurative clothes back on, because I’m not quite ready yet.
‘Are you secretly a sex therapist? Were you hired to covertly help me in all areas of life?’
He laughs, surprised. The spell is broken, and he takes my cue. ‘Nah, I just listened to a podcast once. I’m also a human male who has had sex before. And loved before.’
‘Send me a link to that podcast!’
‘I will.’
We drink in silence for a bit. I watch a couple in the corner who are clearly in denial about the fact that their relationship is over.
He’s wearing cargo pants and scrolling his phone, and she’s unashamedly checking out the bartender, unnoticed by her boyfriend.
I predict she’ll slip him her number before she goes.
But something Arthur said before makes me want to know, ‘When you’ve been in love, and had sex, does it really feel the way it looks in movies?’
He thinks for a moment. Longer than a moment.
A rudely long time, really. ‘Yeah, I think it does. Probably doesn’t look as good.
The lighting is rarely as flattering. So, do we need to add this to the list?
I feel like it’s now a personal mission to help you understand the joy of sex.
Oh, is that book still in print?’ It takes him a second, but I can pinpoint the exact moment when he realises just what he has said.
His face goes bright red, and he starts spluttering.
‘Of course, I don’t mean literally, like in the physical sense of helping you understand.
Maybe we can start a book club? Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus… ’ He runs out of steam and trails off.
I try to smile seductively. I think it might actually look sleepy: all droopy eyes and slack mouth. ‘Huh. That’s a shame. I wouldn’t mind a practical lesson.’