Loe raamatut: «Addicted»

Chapter Two

The first thing I hear after I’ve finished reading is my best friend’s laughter. And the second thing I hear is more laughter – this time with actual tears streaming down her cheeks to accompany it. Apparently, my erotic masterpiece is amusing to her. More than amusing, in fact. After a second she holds a hand up, like she’s begging me to stop the mirth.

It takes her a while to realise.

‘Oh,’ she says, as she wipes away the tears. ‘Oh, you were serious? This is a serious start to a serious novel?’

I kind of wish it wasn’t, now. But I plunge on, regardless. I mean, I read it with the intention of getting some feedback. It’s probably best if I just brace myself and hear it.

‘I know it needs work.’

‘Oh, honey, I’m sorry,’ she says, and I can tell she really is. She’s a good friend, Lori. She’s not the type to laugh because she’s a horrid jealous cow – though really, what does she have to be jealous of? She’s blonde, I’m not. She’s tall, I’m not. She’s interesting.

I am not.

Which is probably why I’m writing ridiculous stories about kinky things I’d never dare do. She’d probably dare do them, when I really think about it. If she stopped finding them hilarious for five seconds.

‘It just wasn’t what I expected, that’s all. I mean, the blindfold … the businessman … I didn’t think you were capable of writing something like that.’

I flame red, then, thinking of the words I actually dared to speak aloud. How did I do that, again? Typically I can’t even tell a sex partner that I’d like to kiss and cuddle, now. So this seems … suddenly impossible. I’ve somehow made it impossible, after actually doing it.

‘It was so graphic.’

Oh, God, it is. It was. What’s wrong with me?

‘And a little …’ She pauses, wincing. But it’s OK, because I’m wincing right along with her. ‘… unrealistic.’

She clearly doesn’t know that a word like that is a lifeline to me. She looks as though she’s just murdered my grandmother, but the second she says it this weird relief slides through my body. Unrealistic – I can handle that. Hell, she’s probably right.

After all, what do I know about sex? Nothing. Less than nothing. Every sexual encounter I’ve ever had has occurred beneath the sheets, under a double layer of darkness. Once I started kissing some guy’s elbow, thinking I’d found his cock. And as for the pleasure I’ve just described to her, in my twisted tale of kinky delights …

Well, I guess that’s disingenuous of me, at best. I should have written:

Sex for her was sort of like being vaccinated, by a big pink finger.

‘You’re not mad, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Because, you know, it’s just … well. People don’t really do those sorts of things, do they? In real life, sex has consequences. And there are all these issues, obviously … especially for women.’

She’s got a point. So why do I kind of wish she didn’t? I remember being this gawky teenage girl, once, who truly believed in passion and pleasure and crazy thrills. There were no double duvets and fat finger vaccinations in her future, no way, no how. She was going to take sex by storm, and experience delights the likes of which the world had never seen.

Where did she go, exactly? How did I end up here, with these papers in my hand and the certainty that Lori is correct? People don’t really blindfold each other, down here in mundane reality. And if they did manage to do a thing like that, it would probably end really badly. Someone would stumble into a chair, and accidentally fracture their jaw. Or maybe my kinky businessman would turn out to be a total asshole, who filmed everything on his camera-phone then put it all up on YouTube.

Are those the kinds of consequences she’s talking about? Because I can absolutely see myself being on YouTube; for wanting something as simple as excitement. In fact, I can imagine worse, when I really put my mind to it.

Maybe he’ll sell me to slave traders, and I’ll end up in a sex factory – for ever being vaccinated, for the amusement of strangers.

‘Here,’ she says, and I know what’s going to happen before she’s even finished fishing through her wallet. She’s finding a card for me, with the name of some expert on it. She did the same thing last year, when I told her I was afraid of spiders – she sent me to a wellness specialist, who made me touch a spider.

Which doesn’t bode well for this particular scenario.

I can’t imagine myself fingering a penis, to get over my need for more exciting sex. If anything, the penis fingering is only going to make me crazier – though of course I don’t say that. Mainly because it’s insane, but also because I suspect she’s going to offer me something far more daunting.

‘You want realism? You should try this on for size,’ she says, then hands me a square of yellow construction paper with a terrible-sounding title emblazoned across its front. Sexual Healing, it says. As though Marvin Gaye is going to help lower my expectations and make me all normal again. ‘It’s a kind of therapy group for people with sexual … issues.’

Oh, God, there’s that word again. Issues. And if I’m not mistaken, she seems to think that I have them. This isn’t just a friendly word of advice to help me be more than a librarian.

This really is her way of making me touch a spider – only the other way around. She wants me to sit in a cold, probably clinical room, with people who think sex is a hideous nightmare. I’m going to come away even more depressed about the whole thing, and probably never do it again.

Is that the aim here? To make me never do it again?

‘Lori, I really don’t think I need to visit a sex issues group,’ I try, but I already know it’s too late. Her eyebrow is raised in that particular pointed way – the one that makes her look like a schoolteacher, who always knows what’s best for me. And once it’s up there, I simply can’t finagle my way out.

The weight of her one eyebrow is like seven bags of sand, tied too tight around my neck. I’m being dragged down to God knows where, and there’s really nothing I can do. I simply have to take the card, and hope for the best.

Even if the best is me signing up for a life in a nunnery.

* * *

The meeting isn’t held where I thought it would be, in some sterile semi-hospital, set in the middle of endless green grounds. It’s on Becker Street, right in the heart of the city. The front of it reminds me of an old abandoned warehouse, or maybe a crumbling town hall, and it’s sandwiched between a barely surviving video store and a pizza place.

The flickering pink neon from the latter’s window gives the dark, narrow building a tawdry air – and it’s worse inside. Kind of homey, in one way. But worn and withered, in another. The big heating pipes that run along the hallway remind me of school, as does the wrought-iron banister that lines the staircase – the one that leads to God only knows where. When I dare to duck my head and look up those stone steps, all I can see is the fuzzy, faded darkness that all old buildings seem to have.

And just past the stairs to hell is a noticeboard, which brings me no more comfort. The signs tacked to the cork surface are gaudy, even jaunty, but the things written on them are not. Anger Management, the first one says. Followed by Violent Outbursts, Night Terrors, and my personal favourite: Inexplicable Rages.

As opposed to the totally explicable ones, I suppose, where the situation warranted you throwing a chair across a room before tearing out all of your own hair.

What exactly have I gotten myself into here? I don’t have night terrors or angry outbursts – and, more importantly, I don’t have sex issues either. What am I supposed to say, if everyone starts going into their deepest, darkest fears and problems? Lori made it sound quite light and fun, but this isn’t a light and fun sort of place.

This is the sort of place where I’m going to be exposed as a horrible fraud, who preys on the issues of others. It will come to my turn and I’ll have to say the only thing I can: One time Martin McAllister accidentally slipped his cock in my bum a bit, when aiming for my vagina. And then he expected me to be mortified, only I wasn’t!

God help me, I wasn’t.

And then maybe I’ll cry a little, or wring my hands, just to make the whole thing more convincing. Though I can already tell it’s not going to be. My sensible half is laughing at my ridiculous attempts at sexual verisimilitude, and even if she wasn’t I’d be aware of how silly I am. I have to go, now, before others find me out. I have to Google sex and authenticity instead of making any attempts at actual research – after all, that’s what most authors do, isn’t it? Scour Wikipedia for a helping hand?

But of course it’s already too late. I can see some kindly aunt-type standing by the door to the main hall, and as I do my best to slink past her, she hooks my arm. She actually hooks my arm, like she just knew I was trying to make my escape.

And once I’ve looked her in the eye, I know I’m not going anywhere. There’s just nothing I can convincingly say to this woman, to make a clean getaway. She has the friendly, open face of some beloved relative I don’t actually have, and, when she speaks, things only get worse for me.

She has a Scottish accent. A kindly, whisky-biscuit Scottish accent. And she uses that accent to say the following:

‘Are you a little bit nervous, petal? Don’t be. Come on in, and have a cake.’

Which is quite possibly the most welcoming set of words I’ve ever heard. It started with an acknowledgement of my main weakness – nerves – before launching into the kind of epithet I’ve always wanted. And to finish, she offered me a cake.

A cake.

She gave it to me with both barrels, and doesn’t even know it.

‘Well, maybe I can … sort of … I don’t know …’ I hear myself saying, as she leads me into a hall that time forgot. Honestly, for a second I expect my old headmaster to come bouncing over the trampoline-like wooden floors towards me – which only makes things worse.

I can’t lie in front of my old headmaster. I can’t even lie in front of this lady. She asks me what my name is, and instead of offering the fake one I thought up for this very occasion, I go with the real deal. Kit, I say, and then she writes it on the sticker in her hand and plasters it to my right boob.

Now I have to be me, for all eternity.

‘You just take a seat when you’re ready, Kit,’ she says, but the sight of that prison-like circle of plastic chairs makes me dizzy. I try the fold-out table of orange squash and home-baked treats, instead, only to find I’ve forgotten how to eat. My hand shakes as I raise a square of ill-gotten ginger cake to my mouth, and I end up putting it back down.

But that just makes me look like some nervous first-timer. A willowy woman in seventeen layers of lovely clothes pats me on the back, and tells me everything will be fine. ‘Just share your inner self,’ she says, as though my inner self could be so easily persuaded. I can’t even tell someone on the subway that they’re standing on my foot, let alone this.

Because, oh, this is something else.

The guy in the tweed with the nice professor’s face – he can’t stop masturbating. He masturbates so often that I find myself doing the maths in my head, but once I have I’m no less in awe. His weekly total is more than my yearly one. In fact, if I divide the four and carry the one, it’s more than I’ve ever masturbated in my entire life. I don’t even know how he’s functioning, in all honesty. I don’t even know how someone can physically crave something that much … something so small and ordinary and nothing. God, when I do it – it’s nothing.

But when he describes it …

‘It’s a rush,’ he says. As though it’s some new drug I wasn’t aware of. And then even more thrilling: ‘It’s a rush to think I might get caught. I do it in my office, sometimes, with the door unlocked, half hoping someone will walk in.’

And once he’s done, all I can think of is my old university professor, Dr McCaffrey. Dr McCaffrey, with those leather patches on his elbows and his pipe and his neatly parted hair. And most of all those steel-grey eyes of his, surveying the study hall with a kind of disaffection.

Did he have a secret life like this, behind the cold façade? Did he imagine keeping students behind after lectures – students more lovely than me, obviously – before offering them something strictly prohibited in the university handbook?

Bend over, he says in my head, and then he raises that pointer of his, about a second before I snap back to reality.

God, Lori’s right. My attitude to sex is weird. They’re talking about their problems, and I’m in the middle of some crazy fantasy featuring a teacher I once had. I’m imagining what it’s like to be this consumed by sex, to be this nuts about it. The woman on my right has a ritual, for fuck’s sake. An actual ritual.

She goes to the same bar every Saturday night, and picks up a dark-haired man – preferably with a moustache. And then she takes him back to her apartment, puts a collar on him and makes him stumble around her living room like a dog.

My Saturday-night ritual consists of me deciding whether to wear pyjamas or a nightie to bed. Is a jam sandwich a good idea, after ten-thirty? Or will I wake up feeling nauseated and too thirsty? Chances are I’ll be thirsty. And then I’ll drink half a pint of lemonade and need to pee at six in the morning – it’s a whole big thing, and far too much hassle.

Better that I don’t have the jam sandwich.

Yeah, that’s right. She has trouble fighting her urge to have wild and anonymous sex. I have trouble deciding about preserves and buttered bread. I’m ashamed of my attitude to late-night snacks. If I needed any further proof that I shouldn’t be here … that I should feel guilty about peeping in on their private feelings … this would be it.

I mean, these people are really hurting, about actual things. They’re all freaked out by their obsessions and unsure of what to do next – all of them are. Every last one of them, down to the girl who can’t even bring herself to say the word ‘vagina’ and the man who’s never so much as shaken a woman’s hand.

I don’t belong here.

And neither does that guy on the other side of the circle.

I don’t know how I missed him, at first. He’s completely unmissable, in every way possible. He’s like a sore thumb in a room full of perfectly healthy fingers, though I really don’t think I can be blamed for overlooking him. I was just so engrossed in other people’s sad tales and my own rampaging guilt that I didn’t pay any attention to the one other person in the room who isn’t real. Maybe I thought he was a mirror on the other side of the circle, reflecting me.

Because it’s obvious he is. He isn’t slumped in his chair, defeated, or full with celebration of some small victory over sex. He doesn’t look the least bit sad or ashamed about anything. His arms are folded jauntily over his chest, and I immediately notice two things because of this:

First, his arms and his general chest area are absolutely enormous. They’re so enormous that they briefly blot out all light in the universe, and cause a cataclysm the likes of which the world has never known.

And:

Those earth-destroying arms are covered in tattoos.

Though maybe all of that is just a slight exaggeration. He’s so incredible-looking I briefly hallucinate, and imagine him pounding downtown Los Angeles with his immense fists. He’s already taken root in my brain, and I don’t even know how. His face just exerts some kind of gravitational pull, and the moment I make the mistake of looking I’m caught for ever in his orbit.

I can’t explain it. Usually I barely register men at all, and I certainly don’t find myself engrossed in the way they look. Guys that women call attractive – footballers and rugby players and other rugged examples of extreme manhood – I barely pay attention to. I’d kind of accepted that my responses were mostly dead, in terms of actual men in real life.

But this guy … oh, this guy. I don’t even know what it is about him, but the moment his sultry blue gaze locks with mine something happens inside me. That dead thing rises from the grave and starts stumbling around, looking for loins. I’m lost, I think, I’m totally lost. I can’t even stop staring at him, despite all of my best efforts.