Best Of Both Worlds 6

My name's Jakki Noble, and I'm a stand-up comedian. Well, actually I work in a government office in South London, and do stand-up in my spare time. I'm quite well-known on the circuit, and I'm on first-name terms with some of the biggest names in the business. I've done a show at the Edinburgh Fringe for the last four years; it always costs me a lot more setting it up than I actually make from ticket sales, but that's the Fringe. I'm 28 and I'd love to go full-time but comedy is, ironically, a serious business in Britain, and can be quite a cut-throat one, so I just make do with occasional spots at the Comedy Store, Jongleurs and the other clubs around London, and continue my 'real life' as a supervisor in a jobcentre.

Quite a bit of my act is taken up with tales of my crap love life. I'm famous among my mates for cocking up relationships – they actually started running sweepstakes on how many dates it'd take me to blow it, however hideous my latest boyfriend or girlfriend was, while they all seemed to pull millionaire models from GQ Magazine and Vogue. My record was the bloke walking out on me eleven minutes into our first date; to be honest, I can't even remember what crass comment or action I made, it changes every time I tell the story on-stage.

I've got one particular friend who's really annoying. Her name's Melinda, or Mel for short, and we're often taken for sisters. We're the same age, both have green eyes and brown hair that frizzes so it's impossible to control (well, mine does and is anyway), similar figures, give or take my extra ten pounds, and even sound alike. I love her to bits, though God knows why: she's spent her entire life outdoing me, without ever meaning to. At school I got two B grades and an A for my A Level exams, she got four As. I went to the University of West Bromwich – no, I didn't know there was one either until I got the offer - and got a mediocre degree, Mel left Cambridge with honours and an offer of a place on the faculty. I ended up in the civil service, Mel joined London's funkiest PR agency and has just made junior partner. When we went out together, Mel's dates normally drove her there in their Lamborghini or Jag, I usually ended up helping mine push his pedal cycle because his tyre had punctured. The worst time was when I was going through one of my occasional lezzie periods. I turned up with a very sweet girl who unfortunately looked like a fatter version of Rosanne Barr using Lily Munster as her stylist; Mel, after doubting she'd even find a date, swans in with the new toast of the West End stage, two months before he made his first Hollywood blockbuster. Anyway, you get the idea. The thing is, Mel's such a lovely person, who really doesn't try to do me down, that I find it impossible to be resentful. When my Fringe show got a good review one year from a Guardian journalist I'd had a drunken one-night stand with ages before she actually e-mailed it to everyone she knows! That's what she's like.

I hadn't seen Mel for a few weeks then, out of the blue, she phoned me and asked me out to dinner with her and her new boyfriend. Oh God, I thought, here we go, I know Mel and her boyfriends, she's managed to pull Prince William and she wants to palm me off with Harry. Much as I wanted to see my friend, I tried to back out as I didn't have a partner. I hadn't had one for a while actually, not since my last one had given me a dose of gonorrhoea, two months after we first started sleeping together. Mel brushed that aside and said there must be someone I could invite so, rather than come across as a complete Johnny-no-mates, I said, yeah, okay. Just before we rang off, Mel asked, "Which do you prefer, prick or pussy?"

That's not the sort of question you expect to get asked at 10.30 on a Wednesday morning while you're at work, and I sort of spluttered, "Er, both, I mean either, I mean, Christ, I don't know, why?"

Mel laughed. "Well, if you like both you'll love Jay," then hung up. I wondered for a couple of seconds what the hell that meant, then turned to the far bigger problem of who I was going to ask to come with me. There's a guy who works in my office, Chris, a Londoner with a Nigerian heritage. We get on well – I mean we'd never...well all right, we had, twice – but we decided we liked each other far better as friends than as lovers. I explained my problem to him, and said I'd buy his meal. He gave me this huge grin, and said he would have come anyway, but since I'd offered to pay for both of us he'd happily accept. I smacked him and called him a sod, but to be honest I was quite relieved. I couldn't bear the thought of turning up alone when Mel was going to be preening over her new bloke.

So on the Friday night Chris and I went with our usual crowd to the pub for a couple of drinks after work then, as it was still early, we stopped off at a wine bar near the restaurant where we were meeting Mel and Jay. As a result, when we got there I wasn't drunk exactly, but let's say decidedly relaxed. Chris and I arrived first – naturally Mel would show up fashionably late. When she and her date did arrive, I barely noticed her. Even by her standards, this one was a real knickers-off-and-lie-on-the-table-with-my-legs-open doll. He was only an inch or so taller than me – I'm five-seven – but drop-dead gorgeous. (Look, I quite liked him, okay?) He was, I quickly found out, half-Chinese and half Portuguese, which accounted for the shape of his beautiful black eyes and his olive skin. He was just the right side of 30, his hair was fashionably short, jet black naturally, he had a button nose, a twinkling smile and a trim figure. He was the most simply dressed of all of us, in an open-necked white shirt, a cream linen jacket, black jeans and loafers – he looked as if he'd stepped right out of a Cotton Traders catalogue. I wouldn't say my reaction to him was unsubtle, but Chris whispered in my ear "Jak, put your tongue away before the poor guy trips over it."

This living, breathing god's full name was Jay Luong, and he was a lecturer in Oriental studies at the University of London. Mel explained that one of her colleagues was promoting Jay's new book, and that was how they had met. Even if I had thought his specialist subject meant supporting Leyton Orient FC I would still have found him fascinating. As it was, having holidayed in Thailand and Cambodia a few years earlier I knew just enough to show I wasn't a complete moron, and I really did find Jay's conversation very interesting. He had a pleasant tenor voice, with an accent that suggested an education at a minor English public school. Mel had either heard it all before or was less moved than me by the beauty of Angkor Wat, and after showing off for a few minutes at her capture of such a brilliant specimen she started chatting Chris up. I heard them exchanging embarrassing stories about me at one point, but worked hard at ignoring them.

By the time we had finished our dessert course Mel and I had both rather oiled the wheels in alcohol. When Jay excused himself to go to the gents', Mel cackled something to me about him tossing a coin. Chris had gone outside for a smoke, and I said, "Fucking hell Mel, he's lovely. What did you mean the other day about him being perfect if I like pick and prussy?" That's what I actually said – not that I was drunk, mind.

Mel smirked. "That's what I meant about tossing a coin when he goes to the loo – he could go to either. Well, I say he..." She sniggered at the confused look on my face. "Jay's a very rare and beautiful thing, Jaks – he's a hermaphrodite."

I stared at her, feeling none the wiser for a moment. That was when Jay chose to return. He took one look at our differing expressions as he approached and smiled, shaking his head. Jerking a thumb at Mel he said, "I see she's told you then." I started to mumble an apology, but he shook his head again. "It's okay, she did warn me she has no secrets from you. If I'd objected to her telling you I'd have made it very clear. But you'll understand why I don't exactly shout it from the rooftops."

I nodded, still trying to get my, um, relaxed mind around the concept. After a few seconds, I said, "So, does that mean you're a whatsit, transsexual?" (Recalling the conversation the next day, that was the point at which I started slamming the wardrobe door on my head.)

Jay gave me a strained little smile and said, as if explaining to a precocious eleven-year old, "No, that's someone who has taken the decision to medically re-assign their gender. A hermaphrodite combines elements of both the male and female genders. Don't you know the word?"

That was when I did it: made the sort of crass comment with which I always manage to end a promising relationship with someone who is actually my date (yes, even more crass than the first one). I said, "Yeah, course I do, I just thought they didn't really exist, like unicorns. So you've got a horn and a pussy, yeah? Like a female unicorn."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mel bury her face in her hands, clearly wishing she, or preferably I, was in Vladivostok or somewhere. Chris was on his way back and clearly wondered what was going on. Jay, though, astonishingly, didn't turn and flee but actually chuckled at my comment. He leaned across the table and said in an undertone, "Yes, you might say that; only hopefully not quite so loud next time!"

The party broke up a few minutes after that, and I started to experience the bloodcurdling embarrassment we've all felt when our brain clicks into gear five minutes after our mouth. No? Oh well, must just be me then. When Mel nipped off to the loo I took Jay to one side and said, "Look, I really am sorry about that. I'm not usually such a total shithead. Well, not all the time, anyway."

He smiled and placed his hand on mine. "Forget it, I've really enjoyed meeting you. Look, here's my card, why don't you give me a ring sometime?"

I took the business card, amazed that he still wanted to even know me, and wondering what he meant about phoning him. I saw Mel rooting around in her handbag as she returned. To cover my continuing embarrassment, I said, "Oh no, I couldn't call you, Mel might get the wrong idea and start sticking pins in her juju doll of me again – ooh, ouch, aagghh". As I squirmed in mock agony Mel rolled her eyes dramatically, but Jay seemed to find it genuinely amusing.

Over the next few weeks I saw Mel a few times. I didn't meet Jay again, and I certainly didn't phone him, but he phoned me once. He almost pretended it was like he'd got a wrong number, and we talked about nothing much for a few minutes. When we'd hung up I had the vague feeling that he'd wanted to ask me out, but hadn't plucked up the nerve. Just as well, there's no way I'd cheat with my best friend's boyfriend behind her back. Not even one as fanciable as Jay. Well, not unless he asked me nicely, anyway. And he hadn't. When Mel and I did meet up, naturally the conversation turned to how our personal lives were going, hers with Jay and mine with romantic fiction and hot water bottles. Once, just as we were going our separate ways, I said, "I know this is a fucking impertinent question Mel, but I've got to ask. You and Jay, what's the sex like?"

She gave me a wolfish grin and a wink and said, "Different!" With that she flounced off. Now, in all the years I've known Mel, she's been totally a man's woman, the sort of person who has nothing against lesbians, she just wouldn't want her daughter to marry one. I still remained intrigued, therefore, by that question. I mean, did she just concentrate on his cock while his pussy played no part in proceedings, or had she ventured into the black hole as it were?

In fact, the more I thought about Jay's life, the more I began to fixate on hermaphrodites in general. It was a subject which had never really impinged on my consciousness before, but I started to read about the condition on the Internet, and to study pictures of hermaphrodites, or 'intersex people' as they're also called. I observed that although they vary somewhat in appearance, the general pattern seemed to be the same: a fairly ordinary looking, though usually quite small, penis, with a vaginal opening of varying size immediately behind it. Testes didn't seem to be much in evidence, if at all. My observations suggested that most hermaphrodites who go public tend to fall into one of two (not necessarily mutually exclusive) categories: those, mostly living as women, who exploit their unusual characteristics to take advantage of the growing interest in any and all forms of porn on the Web, displaying themselves and indulging in graphic sexual acts; and those who experience very real and serious mental turmoil as a result of their condition, often leading to breakdowns, institutionalisation and suicide. It was clear, though, that many hermaphrodites, like Jay I assumed, came to terms with their circumstances and led generally quiet, ordinary lives. The more I studied the subject, the more respect I developed for intersexers as a group, even the guy who publicised himself on the Internet as 'the man with the pussy'.

As the weeks went on, when I met Mel she seemed increasingly uncomfortable talking about her relationship with Jay, and I gathered that things were not going so well. It wasn't a total surprise, therefore, when she told me that they were no longer an item. Almost in tears she said, "He's such a lovely man, and nice looking too" – you think? – "but, the sex...I mean, don't get me wrong, he's a good lover but, well, it all just felt a bit too weird, it was freaking me out. He was so nice about it too. He just sort of smiled and said he understood. He gave me a cuddle as I left, and said he'd like us to stay good friends..."

She broke down at that point, crying into a tissue while I clucked sympathy and put my arm around her. Meanwhile, my little brain was turning over the morality of the situation. I mean, Jay had obviously liked me that night we met, despite my behaving like a prize arsehole. And he had phoned me, I hadn't called him. But still, I mean, even so, I couldn't move in on my best mate's ex, it just wasn't ethical. It wasn't as if he'd dumped her though, it was her who gave him the big E. Nevertheless, that sort of thing just isn't done. Well, at the very least, I should leave it a decent interval before...

I did. Nearly a whole 24 hours. I called Jay's office and they said he was working at home so I tried his mobile. He answered on the fourth ring, and suddenly I felt like a kid in the playground meeting a boy she has a crush on. I started to babble. "Oh, hi Jay, this is Jakki, I don't know of you remember...yes, sorry, of course you do. Well, anyway, Mel told me, that is she happened to mention, that you two have split up, and, erm, I just wanted to say how sorry I am, I mean that's why I called, that is...oh fuck, no it isn't. Look, would you like to meet me for a drink sometime? I mean no strings attached, just a drink and see how we...get on."

I heard him chuckle and felt my face flushing, having made a complete prat of myself. Then he said, "It's nice to hear from you Jakki, yes, I think a drink would be nice. By the way, I caught your act last week, at the Canal Café, I really liked it."

I was just starting to preen at his praise and say he should have come backstage when I had a sudden flashback to that gig in Paddington. I mumbled, "Oh, right, so you heard the one about..." My flashback reared up in vivid colour. "I may be desperate but, I mean, this hermaphrodite asked me out the other day. Well, I told him to go fuck himself." It had only been a throwaway gag, but the audience had liked it, after the split second it took them to get it. I hadn't seen any gorgeous-looking blokes storm out in a huff after it. I clapped my hand over my eyes and said, "Oh God, I'm so sorry about that joke, it wasn't meant to be about, that is...oh bollocks, look this is a really shit idea, can you just forget I phoned, please?"

When he replied, Jay pretended to sound hurt – at least, I hoped he was pretending. "Oh, does that mean my invitation's cancelled then? Jakki, the joke was fine, I laughed along with everyone else. Look, if you still want to meet up for a drink I'd really like to. I was going to phone you next week and see if you were up for it anyway."

After I'd smashed my skull to a pulp with my phone receiver I said weakly, "Good, that sounds great. Just say where and when and I'll meet you there."

We agreed on Friday night in a wine bar in Covent Garden, as it's about halfway between our workplaces. God, I can't remember ever being so nervous before a date. I felt guilty too, as if I was going behind Mel's back, even though she had split with Jay. When I arrived he seemed just as nervous as me. He gave me a peck on the cheek and asked what I wanted to drink. The real answer was something big and very strong, but after my previous drunken performance I played safe and went for a white wine spritzer.

At first our conversation was pretty stilted, with several false starts. Let's face it, we barely knew each other; all I knew was Jay was a university lecturer and a hermaphrodite – not the safest topic - and all he knew was that I was a smartarse civil servant and the best mate of his ex-girlfriend. About halfway down the second glass we both started to relax though, and settled on fairly safe ground. There was an exhibition of Indonesian art starting in London the following week, and we both agreed how interesting it sounded. Jay then gave me a mini history of Indonesian culture. It was interesting, but to be honest I was only half-listening, as I gazed at his beautiful eyes and his lovely mouth.

We moved on from there to a few personal details, my shitty little flat in Balham, his new pad in Islington that he was just decorating and so on. After maybe an hour I thought we both felt comfortable with each other, and realised how hungry I was feeling. Without even thinking about it I said, "Look, I'm famished, d'you fancy a Chinese?"

As the words left my mouth I looked into Jay's half-oriental face and screwed my eyes up in embarrassment, thinking my dating self-destruct gene had kicked in again. Jay sniggered, and didn't exactly let me off the hook. Putting an arm around my shoulder he leaned very close – I could smell Paco Rabanne – and, in a seductive voice, murmured, "The question is, Jakki, do you fancy a Chinese?"

After that the ice was well and truly broken, and we had a really good time at the restaurant, me talking about my dating disasters, him relating some juicy university goss. I also told him some pretty risqué stories from the crazy world of stand-up comedy. After a really nice meal Jay walked me to the tube station, and we had our first kiss. Well, several kisses actually. I refused his gallant offer to see me home, then make his way halfway across London back to his own home. To be honest, I wasn't sure I'd fully trust myself if I got him inside my flat, and I didn't want to look like a total slut on our first date. (I only do that with people I'm pretty sure aren't going to be long-term prospects!) When I got home I felt giddy from our meeting, my heart was fluttering and Barry Manilow was singing softly somewhere in the background of my head.

The next day I woke up wondering if the song Barry had been crooning was Bermuda Triangle. You know how it is: you look back at last night and think it really can't have been as wonderful as I remember, therefore in reality it was probably bloody awful and I'm just kidding myself. I began to wonder if I had really been attracted to Jay the person or whether I just had an unhealthy interest in his...gender issues. No, that was bollocks, he was dead fanciable. He was charming, intelligent, funny, and very beautiful. I decided I wouldn't have cared if he was built like Action Man down below, just a flat expanse of pink plastic. After all, he still had fingers, and a mouth, and a tongue...for Christ's sake! I went for a cold shower after that – nothing to do with my libido, just the crap heating system in my building.