“Yeah, sure,” I said, trying to sound all female empowerment like it was all my idea. Because it was: it was my choice to meet him. It was my choice of venue. I was the one who bought the drinks and now I was the one saying yes.
I was winning at being a modern-day woman. Ish.
Except a £36 cab ride and two hours later I was bouncing on top of him like a jumping jack, screaming his name and trying desperately not to imagine the man beneath me was the aging prince of England.
Not the fairy-tale opening perhaps, but some things, like a good brew of tea, take time.
All was not lost. Yet.
4
Backward cowgirl is great for nosy people like me. While I was up there, dropping it to the beat of “Staying Alive” as per my usual fake-it-till-you-make-it technique and moaning at regular intervals, I managed to sneak a pretty expansive look around his room. He lived in a flat share in Camberwell, a three-bedroom new build with a one-size-fits-all kitchen and generic furniture he clearly didn’t put time into buying. His walls had no artwork, his room had no photos—he was by all accounts a psychopath. He did have one shelf, which was lined with all manner of products that I spent the odd bounce trying to make out the brands of. At least looking up at that was time not spent looking down at his catastrophically hairy legs. At one point I considered how satisfying it would be to pour thick golden hot wax all down them and with one rip to pull out fistfuls of thick curls.
But even as I thought it I felt bad.
It wasn’t his fault he was hairy.
It wasn’t his fault that he’d never been with anyone who’d suggested a little more self-grooming.
This was a man clearly in need of someone to guide him and there I was, ready and open to be the girl who would change his life for the better after we got the awkward first sex out of the way.
Except as a by-product of the hair he must be impervious to the climate because even exerting myself as I was, I was still fucking freezing in his room. I tried once or twice to grab the cover that he was lying on, but his grunts of protest stopped me before I got too far. I tried to change position, thinking the closer I was to him the warmer it would be. Perhaps it would even feel like a nice winter coat in missionary. But trying to turn myself around up there wasn’t going down too well either.
My eyes kept going around the room until, just on the floor in front of the full-length freestanding mirror, I saw what looked like a hoodie. The longer I bounced, the longer I looked, the more I was sure.
I thought about asking, but he seemed otherwise engaged so, as casually as I could I dipped down and forward, causing only the slightest bit of discomfort to myself and an awkward grunt from my bedfellow. I scooped the hoodie up in my arms and threw it over me in a move so smooth even I was impressed by my skills. I turned briefly to look back, to see if there was any protest, but his eyes were still firmly shut so I continued as I was, bouncing away.
The hoodie was soft against my skin. He hadn’t bothered to take off my bra, but the rest of my torso was having a great time as the felt tickled against it. It was a couple sizes too big for me and bright red, the kind of boldness I wouldn’t expect from a man like Charles Wolf, but I guess there was still much we needed to learn about each other.
And there would be time for that. We’d have plenty of time.
Accidentally I caught sight of us in his large mirror. Me, enveloped in a vibrant red hoodie, straddling a man who was 85 percent hair, 100 percent wolf. It looked bizarre. It looked a little tragic. It looked like …
A thought came to mind. A thought so small, so outrageous, that I almost wrote it off completely but the longer I stared the longer I realized that—
“Don’t move!” Charles instructed.
I could hear the telltale moan of a man just about to—
And there it was. The finished product, all wrapped up in Durex’s finest and the thought, like the hopes of my own climax for the night, floated far, far away.
5
I climbed off, and as daintily as I could I lay beside him, wrapping my arms around his large hairy stomach and looking up at him like he was my whole world. Because maybe, just maybe, he would be.
Pillow talk is always the best way to get to know someone anyway, I always think. At a bar you’re guarded, in a restaurant you’re on show, but naked, in bed, post-coitus there is nothing to hide. You’re at your most vulnerable, your most humble, your most intimate.
I waited to see whether he might say something first. I even looked up at him sweetly, batting my eyelashes, but a wash of painfully stale beer and what must have been a lunch of Mexican food departed his mouth and filled up my nostrils so I turned my head back down to avoid direct contact.
He shuffled a little and I realized that shyness that I’d spotted in him earlier was coming back. Perhaps my performance was better than I’d thought. Perhaps he was too intimidated to speak up and ask me all the questions he’d wanted to in the bar.
So I spoke first.
“That was amazing,” I said. Because that’s what you’re supposed to say and I was sure with a little ego boost he’d try harder to take me on the orgasm high with him next time around.
“Yeah,” he said, a little more unbothered in tone than I was hoping for if I’m being honest, but at least he replied. The door was open now for the most stimulating conversation, the awkward laughs and the humble beginnings of a whirlwind romance.
“So I—”
“I have an early start tomorrow,” he said quickly.
Was he kidding? I know what that phrase meant as much as the next girl, but him? Mr. I-have-more-hair-on-my-big-toe-than-most-humans-have-on-their-heads? Mr. I-put-in-zero-effort-and-expect-you-to-satisfy-me? Mr. Big Bad Wolf?
This was my toad that would turn into a prince. This was my diamond in the rough. This was the start to my own happily-ever-after and here he was, fake yawning beside me as if it was the first time a man had ever been that inventive and clever.
“Maybe it’s best that—”
“I got it,” I said, furious.
I jumped out of bed faster than he’d ever be able to move. I had aerodynamics on my side from Venus-shaved legs while he’d always have the weight of a hairdresser’s daily clippings holding him down.
My jeans were on before he’d even turned his head, the rest of my clothes thrown into my bag in anger. I’d sort it out later. I’d sort my whole life out later. I’d sort out my bad life choices and my clean knickers when I got home; for now I just needed to get out of his psychopathically personality-lacking room.
As I began storming out and back through the hallway I heard him shout my name after me.
Unsure, I stopped in my tracks, waiting. He met me at the door, his immense shape—still unashamedly naked—towering over me. He leaned in and, for some reason assuming he was going for a kiss, I shut my eyes instinctively.
“I think you’re wearing my hoodie?” he asked.
Fuck him.
Wrapping the hoodie tighter around me I pulled open the door so violently it stubbed his hairy foot. As he cried out in pain, his head twisted back like he was howling to the great full moon.
I didn’t look back. Dressed in my brand-new red hoodie, I skipped away and into the night.