Not That Easy (12 page)

NSFW

I thought there was nothing worse than being the rebound girl. But it turns out there is: being
told
you're the rebound girl. Suddenly you can't blame the gut feeling on your paranoia or lack of self-esteem. Your inferior status as someone who will never live up to the person the guy really loves is validated—by the guy himself.

That was my Thursday night. I went home with the rebound. It didn't matter that his apartment was exactly the sort of thing a chick-lit hero would have, because I wasn't a chick-lit heroine. My romcom was more
American Pie
than
Love Actually
and my one-night stand only took me home because it seemed more enjoyable than stalking his ex.

I let him do this. Now I am forced to face the reality that I may be mentally deranged. Why else would I
convince—nay, command—the guy watching his ex dance with a bunch of men to take me home instead?

I suppose I was using him too. I really wanted a wild night with a hot man while my friends went home with his friends. It seemed too perfect an opportunity to pass up. I don't regret it. I got my wild night. But, now in the cold light of my walk of shame, I wonder if I made the right choice.

Was I making an empowered decision to go home with the guy who wished I was someone else, or was I just so desperate to be empowered and fun that I settled for someone who didn't respect me?

I gulped out loud. This week's edited, final column was nothing like the mild, PG-rated version I had sent through to Maxine. She had called me into her office and interrogated me on every detail until I realized I had told her Nick's penis looked like a zucchini. She was so horrified by the level of detail that she decided it was too much even for
London Mag
.

But it hadn't stopped her putting in the fact that I wanted wild animal sex on my one-night stand. There was no way my parents would ever speak to me again. Thank God I barely had a relationship with my dad. Hopefully, he would be too preoccupied with his stepkids to notice that his own flesh and blood was telling the world about her slutty Thursday-night anecdotes. It was a miracle my mum hadn't seen my first column yet.

Now I was terrified Nick would see it like Ben had. Should I just risk it and hope he would never see it, or should I somehow bring it up with him and persuade him to never, ever Google me? Maybe . . . maybe I could lie about my surname and he'd never be able to search for me online? Oh, who was I kidding—it's not like there were many Ellies working for the
London Mag
. Even my mum would find it soon.

I felt a tug on my intestines and gasped out loud. My guilt twinges had been getting stronger and deeper. It was Monday now. My first column had been up for four days and with every day that passed without my mum saying anything, the guilt trebled. Deep down I wanted to just pull off the Band-Aid and tell her. Get it over and done with and never have to think about it again.

I twiddled my curly hair around my baby finger and then dropped it in disgust. I had ditched that childhood habit years ago. What was I doing reverting back to this?! I had to sort myself out and tell my mum.

Before I could think twice about what I was doing, I grabbed my mobile and my jacket. Now that Maxine was publishing explicit details of my life to the world, I was getting a lot more brazen about leaving my desk for extended breaks. She needed me. My column was the best read on the website and there was no way she would get rid of me just because I frequented Pret too often.

I asked around if anyone wanted a drink, but I was met with familiar silence. Perfect, it would just make my trip cheaper. My hands were shaking as I exited the building and dialed my mum's number. This was the hardest thing I had ever had to do. It was worse than losing my virginity and shaving my pubes combined.

“Elena?” asked my mum. “Why aren't you at work?”

I sighed. “I am, Mum; I'm just on a quick break. How are you?”

“Hmm, you shouldn't take too many breaks or they'll never pay you.”

“Yeah . . . I guess.”

“I'm having a complete disaster.”

“Really?” I asked in surprise.

“It is the broadband. TalkTalk won't let me quit and now I am paying for them and Sky. But Sky are offering me SkyPlus and OnDemand for much cheaper so now I want to stay with them, and they will give me all my Greek movie channels, so . . .”

Oh God. My mum classified broadband provider–drama as disastrous. How was she going to cope with her only daughter telling the world about her explicit love life?

“Mum,” I interrupted. “That sounds really stressful, but while I'm on a quick break, can I just tell you something?”

“You haven't fallen out with your housemates, have you?”

“What? Why . . . what?”

“I just worry that they will find you difficult to live with,” she explained.

I sighed in frustration. “My housemates love me. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was . . . I've started writing a column. For the website I work for.”

“Writing? About time you did something there instead of just making the teas.”

“Mum, I never made the tea for them—they don't even drink tea. But, yes, it's cool that I'm writing. The only thing is . . . I'm writing about things you might not like.”

I could literally hear her eyebrows furrowing together. “What sort of things?”

“Um . . . so my column is called ‘NSFW,' which means ‘Not Safe for Work,' so . . . I guess . . . X-rated topics?”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the phone. Then my mum started shrieking in Greek. “I always knew I was doomed,” she cried. “Ever since we left the village to come here. The others warned me you would become loose. But I didn't think you had until you tell me this. And you're writing about . . . SEX.”

“Mum, Mum, calm down,” I cried. “I'm not loose!! I've barely . . . I mean . . . I just write about dating. And then, sometimes, I guess it gets a bit more explicit.” I no longer understood what my mum's high-pitched Greek meant. Especially when it was peppered with the occasional wail. “Mum, I'm sorry.”

She breathed out loudly and switched back to English. “Ellie,
why would you do this? How can you write about sex to the whole world? Do you have no shame?”

I felt my tummy crumple up. I did feel sort of bad about doing it, but at the same time, it was so normal these days. The Internet was full of stuff like this. “I know it's kind of . . . out there, but, Mum, this is what I enjoy doing. I'm good at it. It's the most popular thing on the website.”

“Yes, because sex sells,” she cried out. “It's obvious and tacky and . . . cheap. Couldn't you write about something clever?”

I tried to reply, but had nothing to say. She had a point. Was I just selling myself for commercialism? “But, Mum, it's meant to be kind of funny. To make people laugh, but also to make them feel like they're not alone. I want women to realize that everyone else is having awkward sex experiences too.”

“But there's so much you can do, and you choose
this
?”

I sighed. “I'm sorry, Mum. I don't know what else to say. This is what I'm good at and what I enjoy. I'm so sorry it affects you so much. I didn't want to upset you.”

“Of course it's going to affect me,” she cried. “What about when all our family see it? Or my friends? They're all going to talk. Oh God—the
shame
.”

I sat down on a brick wall and put my head in my hands. I hadn't thought about how this would affect my mum. But, surely I had to follow my own path? What would Julius Caesar do? He would definitely betray his family and go for it. Could I do that though? “Mum, I'm really sorry,” I said, taking a deep breath. “But this is my dream and I need to do it. The first one is already online.”

“Why is this your dream though? Can't you aim higher, Elena?”

“I don't know, Mum. I've just realized this is what I'm good at writing and what I enjoy. It's what I want.”

“Well then, couldn't you do it anonymously?”

“My editor wouldn't let me,” I replied pathetically. “I tried, I
really did, but then I realized it's such a benefit for me to use my name. It will help me get famous.”

“Fame? Fame?! You want to be like those loose girls in the magazines who sell themselves for—”

“Mum, chill out,” I interrupted. “I didn't mean fame per se. I just meant . . . I can become well known. In the writing industry. It will be so good for my career.”

“Huh, career. I don't know what kind of career this is,” she muttered. “Are you at least getting good money now?”

“Um . . .”

“Oh, Elena, what is wrong with you,” she cried.

“Sorry,” I muttered, looking at the cracks in the pavement. “And . . . Mum, I really hate to do this, but can you transfer a tiny bit of money to my account? For rent?”

She sighed loudly and moaned. “What have I done to deserve a daughter like this?”

“Mum, I'm still here. And you don't have to be so dramatic; I just need a tiny bit. Like a hundred pounds? I want to make Greek food,” I offered, remembering how it had worked last time. “Like falafel and stuff.”

“Falafel?” she wailed. “That's Egyptian.”

“Moussaka. I meant moussaka,” I added hurriedly. “Please?”

The wailing was so loud I hung up the phone quietly. Moussaka money would have to wait.

Emma and I were lying on her bed gazing up at the Ryan Gosling poster on her ceiling. Our hair was tussled together on the pillow and we were listening to her “Feminist Playlist.” For the first time since Emma had met Sergio, I realized how much I had missed just hanging out with her alone. It was so nice lying on her bed without a hairy Spaniard in between us.

“So did it help?” I asked her. “Sleeping with Myles? Do you feel like you've moved on a bit from Serge?”

“Sergio,” she said. “He isn't allowed any affectionate names anymore. And yeah, I guess . . . It was nice to feel wanted again, and to know I can always get a date and a guy. But it didn't really help me hurt less. I think only time will help with that.”

I squeezed her hand. “I'm sorry, Em. You didn't deserve this. He really is a useless pathetic moron.”

“I know. I just hate that he made me feel pathetic too.”

“You're the least pathetic person I know,” I said. “You have an amazing PR job, the best friends ever—though I say so myself.
You're beautiful, clever and funny, and, let's be honest, we all knew you were so out of Sergio's league.”

She grinned. “I guess I was. I convinced myself he was really ambitious and driven because he's studying for a PhD as well as working in the pub, but I think he's going to drop out so he can just stay at the pub. And, as much as I like drinking, a pub mistress's life just isn't for me.”

“Exactly,” I said. “And his English was a bit shitty at times. He didn't understand any of our abbrevs.”

“El, no one understands our abbrevs. We should carry glossaries to wear on the backs of our clothes.”

“Or subtitles.” I grinned. “Audio description?”

“Definitely.” She laughed. “Ah, thank God I have you. Don't go getting a boyfriend on me now, will you?”

“Oh please. I've lasted twenty-two years single. Do you really think that's going to change now?”

“I dunno . . . you lasted twenty-one years a virgin but that changed pretty recently. And you did just have your first ONS. Things are changing for you.”

“Huh, I guess. But, don't worry; I'm still poor and untextable. Nick said he would message me and didn't.”

“Uh-oh,” warned Emma.

“What?”

“You're not meant to fall for the ONS, Ellie. Have I taught you nothing? They take your number for three reasons but none of those reasons will ever be that they want you to be their girlfriend.”

“Relax; I haven't fallen for him. And do I even want to know what these three reasons are?” I asked her.

“No, but here goes: one, in case they need to tell you they have an STD.” I shrieked, but Emma ignored me and carried on. “Two, some kind of man conquest thing. Put you in their little black book, etc. Three, to mind-fuck you. Plain as.”

“Surely there has to be an occasional four, in case they fall for you?”

Emma snorted out loud. “You've been watching way too many romcoms. That does not happen in real life. The only other option I'll accept is, four, you were such a good shag that they want a booty call on speed dial. But never a girlfriend.”

“Okay, got it,” I said, mock-saluting her. “Nick isn't going to call me unless he finds out he's infested me or wants a round two—with no commitment.”

“Exactly. But, hey, if you haven't fallen for him why do you even want him to call?”

“I don't know,” I sighed. “I was so proud of myself for not being the kinda gal who gets carried away by those sex hormones . . . what are they called?”

“Oxytocin.”

“Yeah that. Well, I didn't have any desire for him to profess undying love for me—I was happy to just leave it as a one-nighter. But then he asked for my number and that threw me. Like, why would you ask if you aren't going to use it? If he'd never asked for it, I'd have no expectations and I'd be fine. Now I feel like there could be more there.”

“The classic mind-fuck,” said Emma darkly. “They love doing it. The fuckers.”

“No hard feelings towards men then, eh?”

“Shut up,” she said, rolling away from me. “And why do you keep saying ‘eh'?”

“Oh God, Nick's already influenced me. I think it's a New Zealandish thing.”

“That's not a word. What do you call them anyway? New Zealanders?”

“I guess. Oh wait, Kiwis?”

“Is that racist?”

“I'll Google it,” I said. A few seconds later, I announced: “Nah. They call themselves that too.”

She groaned loudly. “Ellie. What are we doing? We're lying on my bed and Googling crap about New Zealand linguistics. This is not how I imagined my twenties.”

“Really?” I said. “I think I kind of always knew this is how they'd end up. Besides, it's only a Monday night.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Exactly. We should still be hungover from Saturday.”

•   •   •

I lay in bed staring at my laptop. The new Danish crime drama was playing, but I wasn't really paying attention. I was thinking about Nick. I'd told Emma the truth—I didn't really ever expect to hear from him again, but the fact that he'd asked for my number had confused me. It had made me feel like he wanted to see me again and, well, I wouldn't be averse to it.

He'd been funny, and nice to me—and, more importantly, he was insanely hot. Even though the memory of a naked Sara made me feel sick, I'd had fun with him. I'd managed to flirt without coming across like a Bridget Jones with verbal diarrhea, and he made me feel sexy. The sex had been good too. Like, obviously I hadn't achieved my end goal, but it had been more fun than sex with Jack Brown, and definitely more enjoyable than being licked out by Boyzilian. Maybe I'd even orgasm on Take 2?

Damn. Maybe Emma was right and I was falling into dangerous territory? On cue, my door flew open and she barged in waving my phone.

“Oh thanks,” I said. “I forgot I left it in your room. Any messages?”

“HE CALLED,” she cried. “It must be a number four situation. He wants another go. A booty call.”

“Ohmigod.” My onesie slipped off my shoulders as I sat upright. “Seriously? What did he say?”

“Um, I didn't answer. That would be weird, Ellie.”

“Oh right, yeah. Fuck. What shall I do?”

“Call him back, you idiot.”

I froze. I desperately wanted to, but what if I was just falling into the classic romcom mold of being the girl who got used? I was already sitting at home wondering if we'd flirt some more and have sex again. Everyone knew that meant I'd end up getting my heart shattered. I should end it now before I got hurt.

“Emma, he's just using me as a rebound,” I said. “Maybe I shouldn't sleep with him again. I didn't even come.”

“You're using him too though, babe. And remember, he's a pretentious wanker banker with a signet ring. It's an ideal situation. You know you won't fall for each other. It will be strictly business.”

“Isn't that kind of . . . slutty?”

She sat down on my bed and looked into my eyes. “Ellie,” she said earnestly. “We've spoken about this. We're not using ‘slut' in a negative way. Take that word back and reclaim it for whatever you want it to mean. Fuck what the world says.”

“You're right. It's just hard to know what to do.”

“Look. I can't tell you what to do. But just make sure you do what you actually want to do, regardless of labels and being scared of what people will think of you. M'kay?”

“Oh all right, I'm going to call him. You know, I still can't believe he actually called.” I grinned. Getting hurt was part of twentysomething life anyway. If I wanted to live, then I was going to have to deal with the bad bits too. Besides, I might get an orgasm out of it.

“Course he did, you must have been the best shag ever with your barely broken hymen. It was probably the tightest he'd ever had,” she said, walking out the door.

“Wait, where are you going?” I cried out in alarm.

“Um, to give you some privacy?”

“What? Why would I want that? Can you sit back down so I can put it on speakerphone?”

She rolled her eyes and sat back down. I placed the phone on top of a cushion and gingerly pressed call.

Within seconds, Nick answered. “Hey. How's it going?”

I panicked. I hadn't thought he'd actually answer, let alone so bloody quickly. Or that he'd sound so masculine and sexy on the phone. What on earth was I going to say to him? Emma prodded my leg.

“Oh, um, hi,” I said.

“It's me, Nick.”

“Yeah, I know. I saved your number.”

“Sweet. So, uh, how are things?”

“Yeah good, thanks,” I said. “Survived day one of work post-weekend. What about you?”

“Same. Had a pretty quiet weekend after Thursday night. Think I needed to recover.” I felt paranoia rising in me. Did he need to recover from sleeping with me? Was it really that bad? “But I had lots of fun with you.”

Ah. “Me too,” I managed to say.

“Do you want to meet up again? Sometime soon?”

“Yeah, I . . . that would be nice.”

“Sweet. How about Wednesday?”

“Right, sure.”

“Great. I'll text you a plan, but it will probably involve dinner and drinks. How does that sound?”

“Pretty . . . sweet.”

“Awesome. Catch you later.”

“Bye.”

I hung up the phone and turned to face Emma. “OMG you're right, my vagina must be tiny. He wants to go for drinks!”

“Get you,” laughed Emma. “An actual date from your one-night stand. Maybe it's time I started learning from you.”

“But that was officially the most awkward phone conversation ever,” I said. “Why didn't he just text me like a normal person?”

“I think it's cute he called. I see what you mean about the accent though. It's strong but kind of sexy. Or should I say six-y? Eh?”

I threw my pillow at her. “Have you never heard a foreign accent before? Now get out of my room,
chica
.”

“Too soon to joke about Sergio,” she warned, exiting my room.

“Wait, Em, can I borrow your pubes trimmer thing?” I called out. “I need to prepare for my date.”

“Ellie, can you just buy your own? It's like ten pounds from Boots.”

“I know, sorry, but I keep forgetting and I can't use scissors in case I cut my clit again. You know I'm paranoid about that.”

She rolled her eyes at me. “Fine. It's on the top shelf in the bathroom.”

“
Gracias, guapa
.”

•   •   •

I ran around my room in my towel, shoving things into a bag. It was eight a.m. on Wednesday. I had to leave for work in half an hour and I had a date in less than twelve hours. It meant I had a dilemma: should I bring a change of clothes for the next day?

If it were a weekend, it wouldn't matter. But if I stayed at Nick's place, I'd need some clothes to change into or Maxine would know I had stayed out. Only, if Nick noticed my new outfit in the morning, he'd realize that I'd assumed I was going home with him. That would be seriously embarrassing.

Oh fuck it; I'd better be safe than sorry. At worst, I could always get changed in the loo at work or a nearby café. I grabbed a black
cotton dress, tights and underwear and shoved them into my bag. Was it too premeditated to pack some contact lens solution too? And some moisturizer? I chucked them into my bag before I could chicken out. I'd just have to hide them from him.

My towel slipped down as I picked up my bag and I caught sight of my naked body in the mirror. It was lumpy and pale as usual, bar the black forest in between my legs. Oh fuck—I had forgotten to trim my mass of pubes. I groaned out loud and ran back into the bathroom for a speed-trim.

I sat on the loo, legs wide open, brandishing Emma's pink bikini trimmer. One end was a typical razor and the other was a battery-powered pube trimmer. It was revolutionary. I no longer had to navigate my pubic zone with a wobbly pair of nail scissors, hoping I was cutting them to a normal length. Now I could just select one of three lengths and press “on.”

I selected the shortest length and switched it on. It started humming and I gently steered it around my vagina. I pulled the lips up so it could cut the thick hairs short, and then coasted it around the top. The only part I was still unsure about was my crack. How far down did I trim? Was I meant to go all the way up to the bum hole—and was it weird to have short hairs though? Should I just leave them, or shave them?

I groaned at the thought of shaving—I hated the hairs growing back stubbly and itchy. I couldn't wait until I actually started earning a salary, so I could go and get my bum crack waxed for a fiver in Peckham. It might hurt more, and still had the potential for full-blown disaster, but at least someone else would be accountable.

Shit, I was getting late for work. I pulled my bum cheeks open and ran the trimmer along the edges. That would have to do until Maxine gave me a salary. Hopefully Nick wouldn't mind the spikiness. He wouldn't even see it—unless he went down on me. God, I really hoped he wouldn't go down on me. I couldn't handle the
stress of trying to act relaxed, or faking an orgasm, whilst constantly stressing out that the smell of my vagina might cause him to pass out. Now I was even worried he'd choke on some loo roll hiding in my labia.

I yelped out in pain. My trimmer had just caught one of the longer hairs and pulled it. I breathed through the discomfort and pulled the skin taut so it wouldn't happen again. It reminded me of the excruciating agony of getting a full Brazilian wax. Thank God I had eschewed those porn-originated pubic styles in favor of my trimmed, spiky little hedgehog. I gazed at it fondly and gave it a small stroke. Eight fifteen wasn't too late. I definitely had time for a quick wank.