The Sex Factor

"That's three Yes's!"

Nat felt his heart leap at the words. This was everything he dreamed. His mouth moved but words wouldn't come. With teary eyes he beamed and shook his head disbelievingly at the judges behind the table.

Simon smiled as Louis nodded appreciation. There in the middle sat Cheryl. Lovely Cheryl: dazzling white smile, crimson lips, dimpled cheeks and flawless skin; face framed by cascades of raven hair, her deep, dark eyes sparkling. She clasped her hands and wiped away a tear. "Fabulous, pet, fabulous." Her rich Geordie tones rolled in his head. "Amazing. Really, really, amazing. I just think you're gorgeous."

Nat felt his cheeks flush. He had made it through the first audition, and now the work would begin. And he would work as hard as ever he could to please her, to please all of them, but especially Cheryl. His Cheryl.

"Natty? Come on, it's the big day today."

He woke with a start, head fogged as he gazed around.

"Okay, Mum," his bleary voice called.

Here he was in his little bed, in his little room, alone in the gloom surrounded by posters and pop memorabilia.

Most were of his treasured favourites, Girls Aloud. Concert tickets, record covers, framed photographs and fan club articles. His adored Cheryl took pride of place at the centre of it all, the largest poster of her alone: her long smooth legs slightly parted with the distinctive curled tattoo around the right thigh, her dark auburn hair tumbling over bare shoulders, fulsome breasts pressing out... The dark temptress, ever smiling. Yes, there was that same look on her face from his dream: those eyes, those lips, that hair, and the dimples.

Nat groaned and turned over. His hard-on poked into the bedsheets. Oh, Cheryl, Cheryl, his beautiful dream. But he would see her soon.

"Nathaniel Evans?"

A girl in headphones held a clipboard and called into the hall. Fifty hopeful kids chattered and fidgetted, desperate to catch a camera's eye. Nat broke off his mumbled conversation and held up a hand. The girls with him squealed and jumped in glee, gushing encouragement as he was led from the room.

The next few minutes were a blur. He was hustled along a narrow corridor, through scattered harassed knots of technicians, staff and runners.

Two other hopefuls stood ahead, fussed over by makeup girls and stylists. Each were pushed and prodded, held aside, given snap instructions and directed to cameras as first one, and then the next stepped through double doors and was gone. Nat couldn't focus on the words that were spoken as his turn came, and now he was surrounded, guided first this way and that, fussed over too, until there he stood at the doors. A small earnest man took his arm and smiled reassuringly.

"Just be yourself, Nathaniel. You'll be fine."

And he was through. Bright lights. Space. Lots of people. No sound.

"Step forward, please."

Simon? Nat felt dizzy. His legs moved of their own accord, towards the red-and-white painted 'X' on the floor. He was here, really here.

"And you are?"

"Nathan-uh, Nat."

"And how old are you, Nat?"

"Nineteen."

"I think you look gorgeous."

The watching crew rippled with laughter as Cheryl spoke. Simon rolled his eyes. Nat smiled shyly and brushed hair off his brow. It was really her.

"Okay, and what are you going to sing for us today?"

Did it happen? Did he sing? It might have been someone else that stood there for the next several minutes - or was it hours - before he felt himself again.

"I'm sorry, Nathaniel. Not what we're looking for, I'm afraid."

"Aw, come on, Simon, he's gorgeous."

"He's just a pretty guy who can't sing."

Nat could hardly comprehend the words. Emotion welled within, and he simply held his breath as he shifted on the spot.

"I think he sounded nervous," said Louis. "There's definitely something there, we just couldn't hear it."

"This is about the performance on the night. Do you think we should let everybody keep trying until they get it right?"

"I think he could do better if we heard him again."

"I'd like to hear him again," Cheryl was looking at Nat's chest as she spoke.

"I'll try, Simon," Nat heard himself say. "Let me try again. Please. I'll really, really try."

"You know what?" Simon looked at his co-judges. Nobody that watched the show could be under any illusion where the real decisions lay. "I think I'll give you another chance. I want to see you try again."

Applause broke out from the crew and show staff lined around the room. They knew this would make good television.

"Go away for a few moments and get yourself together, and come back with another song. How's that?"

Cheryl was applauding too, and Nat gasped and struggled to speak, tears welling in his eyes. "Yes, thank you, thank you, Simon. I will. I want to show you what I can do. I won't let you down."

The lights seemed very bright as more applause rang in his ears. Heels clicked on hard floor as someone came running and he was taken in a warm embrace. It was her! Cheryl, Cheryl, Cheryl. His head swam as she held him close. She was so much taller than he expected. He hardly dared touch. A camera loomed near. He could smell her perfume as hair caressed his cheeks: lustrous, fragrant, prickling his skin. Arms around his waist, hands rubbing his back, heat from the press of her body.

An assistant broke them apart. Simon and Louis were already in discussion with a man in headphones at the table, no longer concerned with the faceless auditionee reeling in front of them.

"I know you can do it," Cheryl smiled. "See you soon."

Those words rang in his ears as he stumbled away, once again surrounded by staffers and TV people, all for the show, not much caring for his delirious heart.

"You can wait here," the assistant told him, holding a door. "Someone will be with you in a moment."

The door closed, and he was suddenly alone. He looked at himself in a huge mirror along one side of the room. His dark handsome face glistened, sweat shining on the firm muscles of his chest under an open shirt. Had he really started to cry out there? Two chairs faced the mirror over a wide counter. This was a dressing room, and items of makeup and clothing were scattered on top.

Where was he, what was happening? Had he really been there, held in her arms? He brought his fingers to his nose. They bore the trace of perfume.

He took a few deep breaths, and fell into a chair, where he sank gratefully into its spongy embrace, aware now that he was exhausted. He rested his head on a hand, and tried to collect his thoughts.

This was her room, he was sure. These clothes, this makeup. He gazed among the items scattered on the counter top: flowers, cards, newspapers and magazines. A scarf, a hat, a gaudy bangle or two. This brush, with her hair in it, the smell of the room. He glanced all about. Were there cameras in here? No, he was alone.

Her things. He drank in every detail: a cup with a faint smudge of lipstick; dresses on a rail, a coat over a chair, a bag. His heart raced. That must be her own private, personal possession. What secrets lay within? His fingers trembled as he reached out.

It might have been another person who lifted the soft leather bag, pulled open the catch, and held the sides apart. His fingers felt among the papers and stuff. On top was her mobile; a very expensive model, but he was no thief. Neither was he interested in sneaking a glimpse into her private life, and he pushed it aside. He knocked small items and rattled objects at the bottom of the bag, and felt into a side pocket. Without knowing how, he knew what he might find.

Knickers.

He drew the crumpled silky garment from the bag, that he numbly replaced on the second chair. He held the delicate feminine scrap for a moment, not daring to believe that he held in his hands such a precious, intimate item. He felt close to her at that moment, closer perhaps than any man, now that she was separated from her husband. Had they been worn?

He heard the doorknob rattle, and swiftly stuffed the knickers in his trouser pocket. He turned, expecting the assistant.

"Who the hell are you?" It was a large man in an expensive suit. "What are you doing in here?"

Nat jumped to his feet. He felt an erection slide in the folds of his loose trousers, and concealed himself partly behind the chair back. "I'm on the show. They told me to wait."

"In here? What the fuck are they on. Cheryl?" The man called over his shoulder.

"Gawd, Mike, man. What's all the commotion, what's up?"

"You know this guy?"

Cheryl appeared behind the man, at once patting her hair and fiddling with the strap of her dress under the attentions of a makeup assistant. She cast her dark eyes on Nat, and he felt himself blush.

"Oh, yeah. We're just taking a break and he's coming back to audition again, isn't that right, pet? I don't know why they put you here, though, I thought this room was just for me."

"Too fucking right," said the man in the suit. "I'm going to have a word about this."

"It's all right, Michael," Cheryl put her hand to his arm. "We can share for a few minutes. Fetch us some water, would you?"

"There's some on the table," the assistant offered helpfully.

"Yeah, but I'd like it cold, you know?"

The assistant looked doubtful but Cheryl ushered her from the room.

"Oh, and Mike, pet, just check I didn't leave my phone out in the studio, would you?"

"I think it's in-" Nat stopped himself just in time.

"It's okay," Cheryl smiled as she put her back to the door. "Just gives us a few moments."

They were alone.

"I'm sorry," Nat stammered. "I didn't know it was your room, they put me in here."

"I know. I asked them to."

She turned the lock. Nat became rooted to the spot as she moved silently towards him, eyes running down the length of his body.

He woke with a start. The pop posters stared down around his bed. A dream, just a dream.

It was no surprise really, this was becoming an obsession. He had thought of nothing else but Cheryl since he screwed up the courage and applied for the show, praying each day that his idol would remain on the judges panel so that he could perform just for her. He counted each day, coached himself, protected his voice, rehearsed every line and each move. Every detail planned.

He stared at the poster of Cheryl on the wall. Always that smile.

A brief tap on the door, and his mother bustled in. "It's your big day," she trilled. "I've pressed your new shirt, and here, what are your trousers doing over this chair? You'll get them creased."

His mother lifted the trousers from the back of the chair, and brushed them out.

"You want to look your best if you're going to be on the telly. I've told everybody about it, and we're sure you're going to go through. Even if you don't, at least you'll meet that Sherry girl you're so taken with."

"Cheryl," he murmured. A dream, just a dream.

As his mother folded the legs of the trousers she felt something in the pocket.

"Really, Nathaniel," she spoke sternly as she stood over the bed. He tried hard to shake himself fully awake. A pair of silk knickers hung off her finger. "Just where did you get these?"

THE END