"So, you see, I need some help with it, and I trust you. Say something?" Natalie asked, dropping the eye contact she'd managed, blushingly, to maintain to look into her mug.
I paused, thinking. Natalie's request was, needless to say, unexpected and a little unconventional: and I wasn't sure how I was going to respond.
Natalie and I had met almost exactly a decade earlier, when we started at the same university. A group of mutual friends had seen us spend a lot of time over the next four years together, and we were pretty close. It'd never come to anything more—not for any defined reason, just that we were good friends, and that was fine. I'd had a few girlfriends over the years, though I'd never been aware of Natalie being in any substantive relationship. I read between a few lines and thought there might have been a couple of dates, but none of them seemed to lead anywhere. In this regard, Natalie had always been rather reserved, and had never shared much about this side of her life, despite all the time we'd spent together.
We'd not lived in the same city for a half-dozen years, now, as I'd moved away to take a job—Natalie had stayed put, working for the university's economics department, and doing well at it. She currently lived in a flat near the city-centre, a perk of the post, in some ways. I came down to visit several times a year, and Natalie would, once in a while, come my way. We'd drink coffee, discuss our work, occasionally visit somewhere, cook together, and stay up late with a bottle of wine. In many ways, not dissimilar to when we were students. But at its heart, the problem Natalie wanted my help with stemmed from before I met her. A hereditary condition left Natalie with minimal strength and manoeuvrability in her legs: although she could stand and walk, it was painful, and outside her flat she always used a powered chair. In ten years, I think I'd known her visibly struggle only a handful of times, her stoicism and measured approach to circumstances impressing me. Natalie got along, day to day, quite well, with a handful of friends she'd occasionally call on to help with something specific. In its way, that's what this was, I suppose: something she needed a hand with.
After spending most of the day in the city, we'd retreated from the cold autumn day to the warmth of Natalie's flat, and were enjoying a mid-afternoon coffee. We had vague plans for dinner, but hadn't really discussed what we were doing that evening, or before I set off home after lunch tomorrow.
"You know, Matt, I often ask whether you're seeing anyone, but you've not asked after my love life for years. Don't you care any more?" Natalie joked.
I had to laugh at her mournful tone. "Just got bored of always getting the same reply, and getting the brush-off," I retorted.
"And, in truth, I've always been grateful you didn't pry," she admitted, "though it seemed as though you were curious."
"Well, I was: pretty, smart girl like you, I thought you'd probably get asked out—I assumed you weren't interested. Not entirely my business if you weren't..."
"Too kind," she smiled at the buried compliment, "but you know it's not really that straightforward."
"I know? Well, no, I've always found it nerve-wracking approaching a girl, but—not to blow my own trumpet," I caveated, wryly, "sometimes they approached me. So, why were you turning men away?"
"You've always taken me as I am, and I appreciate that. You've never been odd about my legs, or what they mean, but not everyone's as relaxed about that sort of thing. I'm not sure, really, I'm the dateable sort. Yes, sure, there's the occasional interest, but I don't know: I worry about how it would all work, you know?"
Carefully, not wanting to undermine the abnormal candour, I asked, "Kind of. You didn't want to just take it as it came, and see?"
"I'm not sure it's that simple. We've spent ages together, and you know what I can do, and what I find hard—you know how to help me with awkward furniture, and you've carried me about when it's been needed. I don't trust too many people to do that: you know that. With someone I don't know well, there's all the normal 'getting to know one another' nonsense that everyone faces, but...I just worry, I guess, that it'd be too much, and I'd stress about everything too much to enjoy their company. And now, you see, it's even harder."
She took a ruminative sip of coffee. Waiting, I didn't interrupt, or prompt.
"I avoided romance when I was a teenager. Well, I guess there was the occasional, uh, moment with boys from school at a party, but nothing more than a teenage kiss. Then, when we were at uni, there was enough to deal with without the complications relationships would bring me. Well, that's what I thought then."
Natalie swallowed, looked away, then looked back at me, blushing slightly.
"Sorry to be blunt, but after this long I know you'll cope. The problem is, I feel a bit old now to get on the dating scene for the first time."
I smiled at her, trying to cover for her discomfort. "Bit old? Steady on, we're only 28. And I thought there were a few dates you played down in recent years?"
Managing to rustle up an answering smile, Natalie clarified her embarrassment, "Yes, alright, there were a few—though I thought I'd kept them discreet!—but...well. Matt, I've not slept with anyone. There you go, that's what worries me. How's that going to work? No-one I might start a relationship will be in the same position, like they might, just, have been when I was nineteen or twenty. And I won't know what I'm doing. Well, I'd know what I was doing, I'm not a complete ingénue," she stumbled on, gesturing at her legs, "and I understand the mechanics, but how would these work?"
She sighed.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked, gently. "I've never wanted to poke my nose in, and you seemed—well—I suppose 'resigned', now I think about it, to being single. Have you thought of playing a long game, and trying to build on a longer-standing friendship."
I realised what I was saying, and laughed at myself.
"I'm not trying to sell myself here, you understand; if you were going to hit on me, I think you'd have done it long before now."
Alarmingly, Natalie blushed deeper, rather than laughing.
"That's just it, Matt. I'm not trying to hit on you: but I do want to ask your help. I'm not asking for a relationship, as it were, just...some practical help. I've worked myself up, now, to worrying that my inexperience is going to stand in the way of seeing someone. Instead of just worrying about, you know, the first physical intimacy with them, I'll be worrying about it being my first time. And I don't want that kind of pressure in a relationship where, actually, intimacy is kind of key. It's my own fault, in a way: I should have got all that out of the way sooner, when we were all messing around at university, and most relationships didn't last too long. It matters more, now, and I've not figured out how I can deal with sex already, and I really don't want to take the burden of my virginity to a relationship. So, you see, I need some help with it, and I trust you. Would you say something?" Natalie asked, dropping the eye contact she'd managed to maintain, to look into her mug.
I paused, trying to gauge my move.
"Natalie, what do you mean?" I asked quietly, "How do you want me to help? Advice on what to expect?"
Finally, she grinned at me. "Damn it, you've always been too nice. No, advice I can get, in this wondrous age of IT. I need someone I trust, and who knows me, and where I hope it won't jeopardise the relationship, to—well, to use my metaphor, relieve me of my burden. I know I'm not the prettiest girl you've dated, no, don't argue, I'm not: but...would you like to spend the night with me, please?"
"Not knowing how to reply is becoming a pattern in this conversation, Natalie. I...don't know what to say. Don't you think it would get weird? Besides, what are we going to do? I agree, and we just strip off and screw on the sofa? I mean, I'm...flattered, I suppose is the word. It's a brave thing to ask, and a big...responsibility? You realise it'll probably be...well, awkward, like you said?"
"That sounds like you're agreeing, I'd say," she grinned, bashfully, then returned to her more customary repartee, "and I don't think you argued my deprecation of my looks enough, mister."
"That's beside the point," I objected, not wanting to laugh this off, "I don't want things to be odd afterwards, and it's not going to be—wouldn't be, I mean—entirely 'normal'. You've never shown any interest, before, in me like that. And any attraction I felt, I've put aside years ago, because you didn't seem interested. What I mean is, how do you think we go from just friends two hours ago, to sleeping together later?"
Seriously, now, Natalie countered me. "Happens all the time, doesn't it? Think about it: long term couples aren't actually groping one another in public all the time. Are we any less close than many lovers? We've spent enough time together. We've drunk too much together, made fools of ourselves, argued over all sorts of nonsense, and still been friends afterwards. This is just one more thing we do together—and if it's not so great, then just think of all the awful movies we've watched: they might have been crap, but we laughed it off and carried on."
"This from the woman saying that she's worried about the first time in a relationship? What's different?"
"I don't know, entirely. I guess it's that we know we can be platonic friends, and so it doesn't matter if the sex is awful—or if I find out it's not something I can make work. If I start seeing someone, that feels like it would be a deal-breaker, for a lot of men. And, maybe, me. I don't know. What I do know is that I've been thinking about this for months. I weighed up whether you'd be offended by even the suggestion, as well as the consequences. But I'm tired of not knowing what I'm missing, for one thing, and I don't want to be alone, either. Solving the latter, for me, now, means knowing I can make this bit of a relationship work. And at this point, I need it to be someone who likes me, knows me, isn't going to be weird about my legs, or how I look, and can help me. Please, Matt?"
"Can I think about it?" I asked, stalling.
"Of course: I'll make another coffee," she smiled at me. While she put the drinks together in the adjacent kitchen, I tried to think it through. She came back, and we sat in slightly tense silence for a few minutes.
I broke it: "I'm not saying yes, yet. But how would you want to do this? Have you thought?"
