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By Marian Keyes Submitted by deevaa Date: 2003 Jan 23 Comment on this Work [[2003.01.23.13.48.9164]] |
| The preparations for Sunday. Ingredients: One neglected, rejected, dejected, twenty-nine year old woman, who had recently given birth. A generous helping of guilt. A pinch of anticipation. A packet of insecurity about the appearance of her body. A sprig of excitement (wild, if possible). A spoonful of condensed deep despair. A minor stretch-marks panic. Two black hold-up lace-topped stockings. One interesting pair of black knickers. One black bra, of the miraculous rather than just the plain wondrous variety. One bottle of red wine. One dress. One pair of shoes. Decoration: Whore-red lipstick Several layers of dark mascara. Directions: Put the stockings, knickers and bra to one side, for use later. Take the woman. Check her eyes and her skin to make sure she hasn't gone past her sell-by-date. Add the guilt, anticipation, insecurity, excitement, despair and panic. Mix thoroughly. Leave to stew for a couple of days. In a medium-sized bathroom, prepare the woman by shaving her legs, colouring her hair and painting her toenails. About an hour before commencing, baste generously in expensive body lotion, turning frequently. Add the stockings, and the pair of interesting black knickers and the miraculous black bra. Have a couple of practice runs at looking seductive by letting her hair fall over her face and looking through her eyelashes. Check that she can still gasp and arch her back and say sentences like, "oh baby, that was wonderful" and "Oh God, don't stop" while keeping a straight face. Commandeer a sister, preferably Anna, to look after the aforementioned child. Add a generous helping of whore-red lipstick, several layers of black mascara, a short button-though, purple (it is, after all, the colour of passion) dress, sexy black shoes with suede ankle straps and one bottle of red wine. Always take care not to start swigging from the bottle of red before arriving at your destination. As an optional extra, condoms in the handbag are always a nice touch. If it's not possible to procure them -- for example they may be out of season -- you will have to make do with large amounts of self-restraint. Not always ideal, but it does work. Serve on a bed with a good-looking man. I followed the instructions to the letter. I was lucky enough to be able to procure condoms -- courtesy of Laura -- what a woman! I was feeling pretty good. I didn't even get upset when I discovered that thanks to the hair-dye (it's hair-colour-enhancer darling, we don't need to dye our hair, we just need to enhance its natural lights and colour) all right then, thanks to my hair-colour-enhancer my ears and my hair were now colour-coordinated. But I suppose if I had to have coloured ears, I could have done a lot worse than a rich, glossy, shiny chestnut colour. None of your Ebony Shadow or Plum Sugar for my ears. No sir! At about seven-thirty on Sunday evening, I prepared for the off. About to go forth to sin and not a bother on me. I kissed Kate goodnight. As I was furtively making for the front door, my coat buttoned up practically to the eyebrows in case Mum should spot me looking so floozy-like, the phone rang. "Claire, it's for you," shouted Helen. Oh God! But it was only Laura. Ringing to wish me luck and wanting to know if I had practised putting on a condom with my teeth, as per her instructions. "No I didn't!" I told her. I was dying to get off the phone and out of the house because I was terrified of being caught. "Why not?" She demanded. "You can't just arrive along and expect him to be happy with boring old sex. You have to be inventive." "but you only gave me two!" I said, all alarm "I didn't want to waste them. And anyway what was I supposed to practice on?" "Well, lets just hope that you perform adequately with the first one. Or else you won't get a chance to use the second one," she said darkly. "Oh stop in Laura, I'm nervous enough!" "Good" she laughed. "It's much better when you're nervous." I promised to ring her then next day and tell her all the gory details. "or, if I get in early enough tonight I'll ring and tell you everything." I promised eagerly. "If you get in early enough tonight to tell me everything, then there won't be anything to tell," she told me. "Oh." I said. She had a point. "Look, I'm going," I said in annoyance, and I hung up on her while she was in the middle of explaining some sort of complicated sexual activity that she said she had seen done in a show in Bangkok. Whatever it was it could only be done by a woman who was a damn sight more supple than me. I did know how to have sex, you know. I had given birth to a child. How did she think this actually came about? While we are on the subject of sexual shenanigans I've got a confession to make. Wait for it. Here it comes. I enjoy the missionary position. There! I've said it. I'm made to feel so ashamed of myself for feeling that way. As if I'm terribly boring and repressed. But I'm not. Honestly. I'm not saying that it's the only position that I like. But, really, I have no objection to it whatsoever. Naturally, of course this isn't the time to discuss favourite sexual positions. But I'll just tell you very quickly that I think cunnilingus is the most boring thing God ever created. I'd rather spend a day filing than endure a five minute stint of it. And when they're finished with their few minutes of slurping they act like you should be so grateful for it. Beaming up at you like they deserve a medal. And then act like they're entitled to a year's supply of no-questions-asked blow jobs. Of course, some woman swear by it, but... Sorry sorry. I finally left and drove over to his house. |