Adrian and I got off to a good start. We did things t’each other I didn’t know we could do. In his car, in the cinema, in the dump, in the Ladies. On the car, on the loo, on the fridge. He was, in other words, great. Then he moved in with me…”
by christine tothill
He was shit in bed. He didn’t even try. My desires, unfulfilled, are up there undisturbed, making their way down, down, down. But I don’t do that. Never have – won’t.
Adrian, what a name, he pulled me in the local last Friday. Had my eye on him for a couple of weeks, untouchable, uncaring, big-head. The sort I like. I didn’t try ‘hard to get’ – once I knew he had the hots for me. He offered to buy me a drink, I accepted, no problem there. It was the triple vodka. The cost. Cool.
We did it out the back, up against the Gents. He had me reeling in moments and it was over in a flash. For me. He went hammering on and I went some more and some more and some. He knew what to turn on.
My mate Veronica, what a name, was dead jealous. She fancied him half to death, fancied me too, but I don’t do that. Never have – won’t. She is one of those, you know, can’t make up their minds sort. I reckon it’s because she hasn’t got tits to speak of, she likes to fondle others, likes to fantasize while doing it. Mind you, I don’t know why because I’ve never asked her. Funny Vunny.
Adrian and I got off to a good start. We did things t’each other I didn’t know we could do. In his car, in the cinema, in the dump, in the Ladies. On the car, on the loo, on the fridge. He was, in other words, great. Then he moved in with me. Into my shared house. Into my bedroom. Only known him six days and six long evenings. It seemed the right thing to do as we were running out of places to shag. He brought his duvet, his hi-fi, his mini-fridge.
It went wrong from then on. His music was dreadful, plonky guitars out of tune. His mini-fridge only held juice. Vodka’s for the pub, he said seriously, not even a wicked twinkle shone from his eye.
Vunny sat on our bed and glowed all over whenever he talked to her. She sat on his duvet cover on our bed wallowing in him. We drank juice and listened to his music. We had to wait ages for her to go, we hadn’t done it in bed. Proper like, in bed, under his plain brown cover of ‘his’ duvet. Surely we should be on top of it, doing all the things we did before, in the week… It was shit. He was pathetic. Nothing happened, not even the mini-fridge moved. Just goes to show eh? He wasn’t what I saw in the window. He was shop soiled. He was weird. But with a name like Adrian, what did I expect?
(illustration: kurt eisenlohr)
Christine Tothill is British and lives in Spain. She writes short fiction, flashes and articles. Christine has published work in UK and Spain. She writes with Alex Keegan’s online Boot Camp and plays the organ in any other spare time she has, which is hardly ever.