ears.
‘Who are you talking to, hon?’
‘No one.’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s my dog. Say hi, Amundsen.’ I let him lick my hand next to the computer.
‘Aw. Cute. Okay, getting a drink too.’
I put the laptop on the living-room table and look through the alcohol cabinet. I’m bored of White Ace. Dad’s Famous Grouse is almost gone. There are two more bottles of red wine, half a bottle of Baileys, something lumpy and made of coconut, something called ‘grenadine’, sloe gin, sloe vodka, sloe tequila (all made by Dad for Christmas), and port. I decide I want red wine. People like red wine. One of the bottles has a church on it, the other has autumn leaves. I choose leaves, because churches are for people who are dying or dead.
‘Have you got one?’
I jump. I forgot there was a woman here.
‘I’ve got one. Have you?’
‘Yes. Some good Shiraz.’
I look at the label on mine.
‘I’ve got some great Cabernet Sauvignon.’
She laughs. ‘You mean Cabernet Sauvignon, hon.’ She says it like Cah-bern-ey Soh-vin-yon. I said it like Cab-er-net Soh-vig-non. I said it correctly, I feel.
‘It’s how we say it down here. Aren’t cultural differences so interesting?’
She laughs again. ‘Cute,’ she says.
‘Um.’
‘Tell me what it’s like now. You aren’t in your study?’
I hold the bottle between my legs and uncork it. I take a deep swig. ‘I’m lying on the sofa in my living room. My living room is bare wooden floorboards, a Persian rug, a large television, and some erotic statues and other sexy things. The sofa is huge. It’s a seven-person sofa.’ That sounds too big. It sounds creepy. ‘A seven-children sofa,’ I say. ‘That’s a joke I like to make. I don’t actually have seven children. I don’t have any children.’ I think, slow down. Relax. Nothing bad is going to happen.
‘Haha. Okay. It sounds pretty.’
‘Your turn.’
‘Okay, well, I’m lying in bed with my black lace bra and panties on. I can see a few stars outside and what I think is a gibbous moon.’
I have a boner already. Gibbous moon. That’s so sexy. I want to tell her to make sex noises but she is a fully grown woman so I have to be slow and seductive like in films. I have to make her feel special. I want to. I feel somehow that she feels like I do and that is how we’ve ended up in the same room.
‘That sounds great.’
‘What are you wearing?’
I blink and flex my toes. I’m wearing grey, paint-flecked jogging bottoms and a t-shirt that says Malta over a cartoon palm tree.
‘White Y-fronts and a dressing gown.’
‘Maybe you should take it off.’
‘Okay,’ I say, my voice sliding up. I pull the jogging bottoms down to my ankles and cup my balls. ‘I did it.’
‘I wish I could see. Will you send a pic?’
No.
‘Yes. Will you?’
‘Of course.’
I turn on the webcam and step back to look at myself in the screen. I undress to my boxer shorts. My body is pale and lacking in muscle definition. It isn’t short, but my BMI is noticeably below average. When we have to line up in height order for school photos, I fall around the middle.
By rolling my shoulders forward, tensing my neck and pushing out my jaw, I make my body look more substantial and alluring. It still doesn’t seem particularly alluring. It seems upsetting. I want Gok Wan to appear and tell me how beautiful I am. I want him to introduce me to new ways of thinking which make me shine like the star I am.
I’m stupid.
I’m nothing.
I’m a slashed hovercraft, stuck in marshes, miles from the nearest town.
Macy’s the nearest town.
Macy’s Scotland.
‘Did you take one?’
‘Yes. Did you?’
‘Sending.’
My dick beats. The woman in the picture has large breasts and well-distributed curves. Shafts of toned muscle divide her skin like sand dunes. She must work out on a daily basis. She must be capable of prolonged and rigorous sexual activity. Once, I had sex with Alice for forty-five minutes. I was
‘Who are you talking to, hon?’
‘No one.’
‘Who is it?’
‘It’s my dog. Say hi, Amundsen.’ I let him lick my hand next to the computer.
‘Aw. Cute. Okay, getting a drink too.’
I put the laptop on the living-room table and look through the alcohol cabinet. I’m bored of White Ace. Dad’s Famous Grouse is almost gone. There are two more bottles of red wine, half a bottle of Baileys, something lumpy and made of coconut, something called ‘grenadine’, sloe gin, sloe vodka, sloe tequila (all made by Dad for Christmas), and port. I decide I want red wine. People like red wine. One of the bottles has a church on it, the other has autumn leaves. I choose leaves, because churches are for people who are dying or dead.
‘Have you got one?’
I jump. I forgot there was a woman here.
‘I’ve got one. Have you?’
‘Yes. Some good Shiraz.’
I look at the label on mine.
‘I’ve got some great Cabernet Sauvignon.’
She laughs. ‘You mean Cabernet Sauvignon, hon.’ She says it like Cah-bern-ey Soh-vin-yon. I said it like Cab-er-net Soh-vig-non. I said it correctly, I feel.
‘It’s how we say it down here. Aren’t cultural differences so interesting?’
She laughs again. ‘Cute,’ she says.
‘Um.’
‘Tell me what it’s like now. You aren’t in your study?’
I hold the bottle between my legs and uncork it. I take a deep swig. ‘I’m lying on the sofa in my living room. My living room is bare wooden floorboards, a Persian rug, a large television, and some erotic statues and other sexy things. The sofa is huge. It’s a seven-person sofa.’ That sounds too big. It sounds creepy. ‘A seven-children sofa,’ I say. ‘That’s a joke I like to make. I don’t actually have seven children. I don’t have any children.’ I think, slow down. Relax. Nothing bad is going to happen.
‘Haha. Okay. It sounds pretty.’
‘Your turn.’
‘Okay, well, I’m lying in bed with my black lace bra and panties on. I can see a few stars outside and what I think is a gibbous moon.’
I have a boner already. Gibbous moon. That’s so sexy. I want to tell her to make sex noises but she is a fully grown woman so I have to be slow and seductive like in films. I have to make her feel special. I want to. I feel somehow that she feels like I do and that is how we’ve ended up in the same room.
‘That sounds great.’
‘What are you wearing?’
I blink and flex my toes. I’m wearing grey, paint-flecked jogging bottoms and a t-shirt that says Malta over a cartoon palm tree.
‘White Y-fronts and a dressing gown.’
‘Maybe you should take it off.’
‘Okay,’ I say, my voice sliding up. I pull the jogging bottoms down to my ankles and cup my balls. ‘I did it.’
‘I wish I could see. Will you send a pic?’
No.
‘Yes. Will you?’
‘Of course.’
I turn on the webcam and step back to look at myself in the screen. I undress to my boxer shorts. My body is pale and lacking in muscle definition. It isn’t short, but my BMI is noticeably below average. When we have to line up in height order for school photos, I fall around the middle.
By rolling my shoulders forward, tensing my neck and pushing out my jaw, I make my body look more substantial and alluring. It still doesn’t seem particularly alluring. It seems upsetting. I want Gok Wan to appear and tell me how beautiful I am. I want him to introduce me to new ways of thinking which make me shine like the star I am.
I’m stupid.
I’m nothing.
I’m a slashed hovercraft, stuck in marshes, miles from the nearest town.
Macy’s the nearest town.
Macy’s Scotland.
‘Did you take one?’
‘Yes. Did you?’
‘Sending.’
My dick beats. The woman in the picture has large breasts and well-distributed curves. Shafts of toned muscle divide her skin like sand dunes. She must work out on a daily basis. She must be capable of prolonged and rigorous sexual activity. Once, I had sex with Alice for forty-five minutes. I was
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