Addicted

‘Well … thank you. But, no. I wasn’t talking about myself. I was talking about –’

‘Angelina Jolie?’

‘Yeah – I hear she’s a real deadpan hoot,’ he says, sarcasm so thick I almost gag on it. I have to swallow quickly and compose myself, because then he comes out with this: ‘I’m talking about you, you idiot. You have seen you, right?’

And after he has, my world turns upside down.

‘Of course I have. I saw myself last Wednesday. My hair was doing this woo-woo thing,’ I say, but only because I’m panicking. My palms have gone all sweaty and my mouth has dried to a crisp. It’s like my saliva has disappeared down into my hands.

And all because he said I had nice lips.

‘Can you give me a demonstration of this woo-woo?’

‘Well, my fringe was kind of going out here like – Christ, what am I doing? Don’t ask me to do stupid things.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I might do them.’

Ohhh, Lord. I did not mean to say that. Now he’s got this weird, heavy expression on his face, and the pressure of it is fairly intense. His eyelids go all low over those smoky eyes, and I can almost feel what he’s considering.

He’s considering all the things he could ask me.

And all the things I’d definitely do.

‘OK, so … anyway. Let’s get back to why I’m here,’ I say, just to clear the air and restore normality. After all, I’m likely imagining the whole asking me to do stuff thing. That’s probably just his default setting: hot staring.

‘Is it seducing me? Because you’re doing a great job of that.’

Or not. Oh God, this isn’t his default setting at all.

‘Sorry – go ahead. First question,’ he says – possibly because he can see how stunned I am right now. I think my mouth has fallen open, and my face feels like it’s on fire. My whole body feels like it’s on fire.

There’s a new pulse that’s just started up at the centre of myself, and it’s beating hard enough to show through my suit.

‘Um … OK.’

I get my notepad and flick it open, grateful to myself for having the foresight to jot down some mild queries. So it’s unfortunate, really, that they’re all now nearly impossible to say. I stare at the first few in dismay: Have you ever tied anyone up? Do you ever take a woman to the top of a glass building and blindfold her with red ribbons? Am I insane and too steeped in fantasy land, wanting to write about those things?

I can’t ask him stuff like that, after he’s said ‘seducing’.

‘Well … uh … maybe you could just tell me … something. Like in the group. You tell me a story, and I’ll … take notes.’

‘A story, huh?’

‘Yeah.’

He pauses, as though he’s truly considering. Though he doesn’t pause like a normal person, of course. Now he seems to be smiling without moving his lips, and his eyes are full of this devilish sort of delight. He’s going to really sock it to me – that much is clear.

‘OK. How about this? There once was a man from Nantucket …’

I come close to throwing my pad at him.

‘I was really expecting something then.’

‘I know. You’re practically pushing your pen tip through the paper.’ I glance down, and sure enough, there’s a blob of ink the size of a tomato, soaking through the top layer to seven other layers beneath. I’m a nervous wreck. ‘What exactly are you going to note down, anyway?’

Maybe he’s a nervous wreck too.

But if so, I wish he’d show it.

‘Just any relevant details.’

He makes a worried, this-food-is-going-to-taste-bad face.

‘Like … what? Girth, thrusts per second … are you measuring me for a sex suit?’

‘Yeah, and then I’m going to shoot you into sex space.’

‘Awesome.’

‘I’m just looking for some authentic experiences, that’s all.’

‘And what if my experiences don’t seem authentic?’

Alarms bells ring, at this point. But apparently, they’re the kind of alarm bells that make you want to move towards the danger, instead of running away. They’ve been wired wrong, and now I’m stumbling towards his so-wild-they’re-unreal stories without a thought for my own safety.

‘Well, that’s the point, isn’t it? If you’ve done it, then it’s believable – whether I’m convinced or not.’

‘So it’s sort of like I’m giving you permission.’

‘To do what?’

For some reason I think of a swimming pool filled with writhing bodies instead of water, and me poised on some impossibly high diving board. Go on and jump, he says. But how can I, when I don’t know if anyone will catch me?

They seem pretty preoccupied by each other’s groins.

‘To write what you want to write.’

Oh, what a lovely concept. What a lovely, lovely concept. I don’t tell him how much it makes my heart sing, however. He’d only get the wrong idea.

‘I suppose.’

‘OK. So I’ll start at the beginning, then.’

‘The beginning?’

‘Yeah. The beginning of my escapades.’