I really don't want to go to this party. Trish and Frank are mates and all, but the sun is melting the tar on the road, and going outside is like stepping into an oven. It's only the fact that work has been so shitty recently, and that there'll be tons of free food and beer, that's persuaded me. I don't get paid till next week, and the fridge isn't exactly bursting at the seams. I sling on a sleeveless t-shirt and a gypsy skirt, and wander down the road.
As I trudge up their drive, I can only see one car, a battered grey Volvo. Wonderful. I'm the only one here.
"Hi Sadie, you're a bit early love," Trish says as she ushers me into the kitchen. She looks sweaty and harassed. "You're not the first one though, Stuart's just turned up. He's just helping Frank put out some chairs on the patio, like anyone's going to sit out there in
this
weather." She waves a hand at a frosted bowl brimming with brown liquid and ice cubes. "Help yourself to punch, sit outside and burn, whatever. We've got to go and get some more booze as
someone
forgot to go yesterday."
Frank's obviously in deep doo-doo -- again.
I'm sampling the punch when Frank wanders in with a guy I've never met before. This is just great. He's not much taller than me, not too ugly, but -- and this is a
big
but -- his hair is shaved to within a couple of mil of his scalp, and he's unbuttoned his shirt so I can see his tattoos. I hate men with tattoos. And Stuart is covered in them.
"Right, we won't be long," Trish says before I can protest, or offer to go with her, or plead a sudden fatal illness. "I'm sure you'll find lots to talk about! Now, no more fuck-ups, please?" And she shoves Frank out the door, and I'm left with Mr Ink.
We eye each other up. Does Trish think I'm so thirsty after my man-drought that I'll fancy anyone? Even someone who looks like a thug? Still, I'll try and be polite. They won't be long -- 20 minutes at the most.
"Nice day, isn't it?" Oh God. I can't believe I said that. Stuart stares at me, and then laughs.
"Hey, Queen of the small-talk!" He takes a mouthful of beer. "Mm, that's so good -- on a
nice
day like today."
"Piss off," I say. He takes my glass and fills it with punch without asking. I take it ungraciously.
"So, what's your name, Foxy? What do you do? Where do you live? Holiday planned this year?"
I think about doing a runner, but my tummy rumbles, and I remember why I'm here.
"It's Sadie, not Foxy -- just because I have red hair doesn't mean -"
"Whoa, hold on!" Stuart holds up his hands in surrender. "Just trying to shift the conversation on a few hours. I find that bit's the worst part of parties, don't you? All the inane questions, when all you really want to do is to ask something really interesting. Go on."
"Go on what?" He's annoying me now. Another mouthful of punch should numb the pain. Hm. It may take another.
"Ask me something really interesting. Act like you care what the answer is."
My brain struggles for a minute.
"Ok, why so many tattoos?"
Stuart nods.
"An obvious one, but not too bad for starters. They represent all the ladies I've loved. Each woman is etched into my skin, just as she is etched into my heart."
"You are taking the piss, aren't you?" He must have over a hundred tattoos, birds and tigers and dragons tumbling over his skin.
He laughs and strokes his backside.
"No, but I've reserved a place for you -- just here."
If I start screaming, maybe someone can rescue me. Oh, stuff it. Must try and be polite.
"You're hilarious," I say. "I suppose it's your turn now."
Stuart grins and swigs his beer.
"What's the maddest thing you've ever done?" he asks.
I shake my head. If he's trying to get make me like him it is so not working.
"Go on, was it really embarrassing? Was it a threesome with two guys you'd just picked up in a bar? Or two girls?" He leans against the sink, wiping his bottle against his forehead.
"It was nothing of the sort!" Oh please, please, let Trish and Frank get back soon. How long does it take to get a few bottles of wine?
"If you don't tell me I'll make something up to tell your mates," he warns. "And it'll be you being rogered by the gym mistress or something."
I take another mouthful of punch to give myself some thinking time. I'm not sure what's in this stuff but I'm starting to feel -- well, maybe a bit horny. Come on, I haven't had sex in -- jeez, months. I'm entitled to have an itch, ok? But this guy is
not
the one to scratch it.
"Ok, ok! The maddest thing I've ever done was -- well, it was a few years ago. I was younger. More naive." I pause, drink some more, and remember.
It's August, the hottest it's been for years. Two of my friends and I have a Saturday free from chores, and we pack sandwiches and cans of soda and wander down to the river for a picnic.
We've got the river-bank to ourselves, and we stretch out underneath a willow tree. We dangle our feet in the slow-moving tepid water; we can look up and see leaves and the sun, and feel its warming touch on our arms and legs.
Holly silently suggests her idea by shrugging off her t-shirt and shorts and lying back on the grass in her white cotton bra and knickers. Susie and I follow suit, equally silently, all of us in quiet agreement that this is certainly a sensible idea, given that it's really too hot to wear too much.
Susie grabs a can from the cool-bag and holds it between her breasts, gasping at its cold steel against her skin.
"That's delicious!" she says. "Here, you two try it." So we grab a can each, and find that she's right. We lie back again, rolling the cans over our freckling chests.
"Oi, try this," says Holly. Susie and I roll over and watch as she hitches off the straps of her bra and pulls the cups down to expose her raisin nipples. She smoothes the can over them, and we watch, fascinated, as they harden beneath its caress. So we try that too, lying on our backs underneath the tree.
I don't know about the others, but strange sensations are starting to pulse between my legs. I don't know what they are, but I daren't ask. We're mates but -- this is totally unreal. I went to a really strict girls'-only school, and I've only recently gone beyond first base. I stroke my breasts with my free hand, and my nipples are just as hard as Holly's, and just for a minute I think of asking her if I can touch hers.
Silence hums for a few minutes. I sneak my can down over my stomach, then hold my breath as I press it into my knickers. Droplets of condensation soak into the cotton, making them wet, making them cling to my skin. I press the can more firmly, stroking it up and down, feeling the round hardness against my own wetness. Something is pulsing harder and harder, I want something but I don't know what it is -- not then.
I bite my bottom lip as I drop the can. It rolls down the bank and plops into the water.
