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Authors: Jane Costello
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presses her lips against mine . . . then lets out a small gasp. I’m fairly sure it has little to do with any dexterity in my right hand.
‘What was that?’ she asks.
The wail of half a dozen drunken women reverberates through the house. ‘Oh God . . . it’s that lot downstairs,’ I groan.
‘They’re right below us,’ she hisses.
‘They must’ve moved into the living room. Why couldn’t they just stay in the kitchen?’
‘We can just do it quietly,’ she whispers.
I nod. ‘They’re too busy talking anyw—’ She has her lips on mine before I can finish my sentence and is manoeuvring into position underneath me.
But as blood thunders in my ears, I become aware of something. The bed has a squeak. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a big deal. But now, with the Golden Girls downstairs, it is catastrophic, comparable in volume to an eighty-piece orchestra of primary-school violinists.
Every movement I make on the mattress involves the entire frame shifting with me. I realise that I am holding my breath, which does nothing for a sensuous approach.
‘They’re making a lot of noise down there,’ Gemma breathes. ‘They won’t hear us.’ She grabs my behind and pulls me forwards; by the time I’m inside her, frankly, I wouldn’t give a toss if the Pope could hear.
That’s what I think at first anyway.
After a minute or so, it is very apparent that this is not the moment of tender intimacy that it should be, largely because each thrust sounds like I’m riding a rusty Penny Farthing across a defective bridge. Eventually, I slow down and can see the outline of Gemma’s expression. It is not a look of sexual rapture – rather the look you’d wear if you had one ear on a tumbler glass and were trying to hear what your neighbours were discussing through the door.
‘Why are they suddenly not making any noise?’ she says in my ear.
‘I have no idea,’ I mutter, determined to plough on.
But above their silence, the soundtrack to this seduction consists of one note: squeak, squeak, squeak.
‘Let’s do it on the floor,’ Gemma suggests, so we haul ourselves off the bed and onto the sanded floorboards, just under my Fast and Furious poster.
I offer to go underneath, wincing as several splinters harpoon my bum. ‘The chair would be better,’ I decide, as we scramble into the tub seat by the window and, as the laughter starts again, Gemma attempts to climb on top.
Chairs and sex can be a nice combination. But not this chair. This is the kind that was meant for nursing babies or sewing tapestries. But FHM’s Positions To Please a Woman number 27, absolutely not.
It’s too small, too round, too squashed, and no matter how many attempts Gemma makes at wrapping her legs round me in various positions, the closest we get to success results in her big toe tickling my ear canal.
‘This is the least sexy sex position ever invented,’ Gemma sighs, clambering down. ‘And I am bloody determined to have a shag tonight. Determined.’
Under normal circumstances, these are not words I’d be unhappy to hear. But over the course of the next forty minutes we try the no-pants dance on top of a suitcase, a stack of pillows on the floor, a bin bag full of handbags (yes, a whole bin bag), before finally attempting it against the chest of drawers.
‘This is just no good,’ Gemma sobs, defeated. ‘There’s a knob between my legs and I don’t mean in a good way.’
I stop myself from laughing and kiss her as I note that it’s gone quiet again downstairs.
‘DON’T STOP ON OUR ACCOUNT!’ someone shrieks. Gemma’s mouth falls open in silent horror as she makes it clear from her expression that she is now too mortally ashamed to (a) have sex ever again (b) leave this room ever again or (c) make any form of human contact ever again.
We lie in bed, listening to what sounds like a cackle of hyenas pissed on Malibu Screwdrivers, and I ask, ‘Remind me how long you reckoned it’d be before we
‘What was that?’ she asks.
The wail of half a dozen drunken women reverberates through the house. ‘Oh God . . . it’s that lot downstairs,’ I groan.
‘They’re right below us,’ she hisses.
‘They must’ve moved into the living room. Why couldn’t they just stay in the kitchen?’
‘We can just do it quietly,’ she whispers.
I nod. ‘They’re too busy talking anyw—’ She has her lips on mine before I can finish my sentence and is manoeuvring into position underneath me.
But as blood thunders in my ears, I become aware of something. The bed has a squeak. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a big deal. But now, with the Golden Girls downstairs, it is catastrophic, comparable in volume to an eighty-piece orchestra of primary-school violinists.
Every movement I make on the mattress involves the entire frame shifting with me. I realise that I am holding my breath, which does nothing for a sensuous approach.
‘They’re making a lot of noise down there,’ Gemma breathes. ‘They won’t hear us.’ She grabs my behind and pulls me forwards; by the time I’m inside her, frankly, I wouldn’t give a toss if the Pope could hear.
That’s what I think at first anyway.
After a minute or so, it is very apparent that this is not the moment of tender intimacy that it should be, largely because each thrust sounds like I’m riding a rusty Penny Farthing across a defective bridge. Eventually, I slow down and can see the outline of Gemma’s expression. It is not a look of sexual rapture – rather the look you’d wear if you had one ear on a tumbler glass and were trying to hear what your neighbours were discussing through the door.
‘Why are they suddenly not making any noise?’ she says in my ear.
‘I have no idea,’ I mutter, determined to plough on.
But above their silence, the soundtrack to this seduction consists of one note: squeak, squeak, squeak.
‘Let’s do it on the floor,’ Gemma suggests, so we haul ourselves off the bed and onto the sanded floorboards, just under my Fast and Furious poster.
I offer to go underneath, wincing as several splinters harpoon my bum. ‘The chair would be better,’ I decide, as we scramble into the tub seat by the window and, as the laughter starts again, Gemma attempts to climb on top.
Chairs and sex can be a nice combination. But not this chair. This is the kind that was meant for nursing babies or sewing tapestries. But FHM’s Positions To Please a Woman number 27, absolutely not.
It’s too small, too round, too squashed, and no matter how many attempts Gemma makes at wrapping her legs round me in various positions, the closest we get to success results in her big toe tickling my ear canal.
‘This is the least sexy sex position ever invented,’ Gemma sighs, clambering down. ‘And I am bloody determined to have a shag tonight. Determined.’
Under normal circumstances, these are not words I’d be unhappy to hear. But over the course of the next forty minutes we try the no-pants dance on top of a suitcase, a stack of pillows on the floor, a bin bag full of handbags (yes, a whole bin bag), before finally attempting it against the chest of drawers.
‘This is just no good,’ Gemma sobs, defeated. ‘There’s a knob between my legs and I don’t mean in a good way.’
I stop myself from laughing and kiss her as I note that it’s gone quiet again downstairs.
‘DON’T STOP ON OUR ACCOUNT!’ someone shrieks. Gemma’s mouth falls open in silent horror as she makes it clear from her expression that she is now too mortally ashamed to (a) have sex ever again (b) leave this room ever again or (c) make any form of human contact ever again.
We lie in bed, listening to what sounds like a cackle of hyenas pissed on Malibu Screwdrivers, and I ask, ‘Remind me how long you reckoned it’d be before we
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