Caitlin's log: Sunday, 10 a.m. I'm lying in bed with a terrible, nagging ache. You'd be forgiven for thinking I'd gone ten rounds with a Cabernet Sauvignon, but you'd be wrong. The ache was spiritual rather than physical, the apocalyptic realisation that for the third night running I'd lain awake for hour before falling asleep, contemplating all manner of things related to re-igniting my sex life. See? That's what I keep doing, dressing the issue up in euphemisms - "re-igniting my sex life", "putting the excitement back into my love life". I loved Richard, I really did, but I was reaching the point at which I could no longer handle being so ignored. Therefore, you could put it however you liked but in the end we'd still be talking about having an affair.
A quick walk on the park, fresh air and sunshine, would be the tonic required to revivify myself. I tried to help out my elderly neighbours when I could, and walking their dog was one of the ways I could offer my assistance, so after dressing I nipped round to collect the dog (a Greek breed, the dog's name was Candaules, don't ask me why). I'd have a walk round the park - school playing fields, technically - drop in at the newsagent, and get back to start on lunch.
It was certainly colder than I expected on the park. Windy, which gave the air a deceptive bite if the breeze caught you. Should have worn something more substantial than a vest top and combat trousers, but there you go. There were two games in progress on the park, and I watched the wrong one - the dull one - for a good ten minutes. In fact, it was only the mantra-like 'ooh', 'aah', and 'shit, that must have hurt' that made me turn round. Watching closely, there was a certain defender on the far side who was, shall we say, uncompromising in his determination to win the ball in tackles. There was an egghead in a white coat who was measuring the impact of his tackle with expensive-looking seismological equipment, let's put it that way. After one particular transgression, and a protracted and unnecessarily complicated attempt to construct a homemade splint for one of their players, said enthusiastic tackler received an invitation to an early shower. My suspicion that this player was my new crush, Roger, was confirmed when he left the pitch a little further down the sideline. I watched him as walked across the field in the direction of the school changing rooms, dabbing his bloodied nose with what remained of an opponent's shirt, as his team mates shouted things like 'bad luck skipper' and 'we'll get the bastards for you skipper'.
There's no real way to slip away from a football match to follow a young man into the changing rooms without the adjective 'furtive' being squirreled in there somewhere. If I were writing a book and the requirement for such a description arose, I think I'd be tempted to go with 'breezily, she took an early morning stroll around the playing fields, simply enjoying the buzz of activity, fresh city air and morning sunshine'. See how false it sounds? 'Furtively, she slipped away from the crowd with head bowed, trying not to look like she was following the dismissed captain into the changing rooms in order to secure a conversation she absolutely didn't want anyone else to hear'. You can't argue that it simply sounds more natural, not to mention accurate.
The silence inside the school building was an eerie contrast to the noise, activity and hangover-fuelled violence on the pitch. Wholly unlike James Bond I slipped through the double doors and down the corridor in silence, staccato bursts of movement followed by a pause to listen for any indication I'd been observed. I've no idea why, so don't ask. I just knew that I wasn't supposed to be here. Listening at the doors in turn, I made my choice of which to enter. After apologising to the gang of nearly naked 8 year old boys inside, I went for my second choice with rather more caution.
There were sounds indicating activity, but with no chatter I assumed the occupant was alone. I closed the door quietly, making the sharp right turn along the corridor and into the changing room. Peering round the corner stealthily - think the waiter from Fawlty Towers trying to be a spy - I scanned the benches down either side of the room for him, but through the forest of jeans and shirts I could see no sign. If he was in one of the many cubicles I wouldn't have a chance of spotting him anyway. Emboldened, I skulked further into the changing room. It was bigger than I thought, and beyond the dressing area was a large anteroom designed for schoolchildren to dry themselves before entering the changing room proper. Beyond the drying area was a large, communal shower where shower heads protruded from the four walls like some bizarre collection of stuffed miniature triffid heads, and where Roger stood naked, soaping himself down and grinning at me.
"Come in," he said simply, trying not to laugh at me. I observed the proper rules of decorum and etiquette and blushed furiously.
"You're, umm, sorry to intrude, naked," I stammered eloquently. Accurately, too.
"Yes, I find it the most effective way to take a shower," he soothed. His sarcasm, gently applied and lightly rubbed in, did little to dispel the awkwardness I felt. "Of course, if there's compelling evidence that there's an alternative and more effective way to shower I shall certainly consider it. Perhaps there's been research into the matter that I'm unaware of." Whatever he may be unaware of, I remained utterly aware of his still-nakedness. He continued soaping himself as though alone, and unable to find words I simply watched as he washed his arms, his chest, his thighs.
"Not that I mind such company as yours, but was there something that you wanted?" Well yes, there was, but I should wait until you've finished soaping it.
"I saw your nose bleeding, just before got sent off for grand testicle-icide, just wanted to make sure you were okay," I lied unconvincingly. He laughed, a deep bellow that made my diaphragm vibrate. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling.
"He caught me with a good one in the first half, with his elbow. My nose is still bleeding, on and off. I just wanted to make him aware that he who lives by the elbow, dies by the size twelve!"
"But your nose, is that okay?" Why was I blathering on about his nose? It was the one protuberance I was least interested in. He laughed at the obvious transparency of my remarks.
"Yes, it's fine, thank you for your concern. I do wonder how it provoked such concern in a complete stranger, though," he asked, not unreasonably. I felt like I should to bring up what happened the other day, but I wanted to do it in such a way that made it clear I wasn't a voyeur, or simply an outright pervert. Strangely I decided the best approach would be to follow the bull into the china shop.
"Well - skipper (here he smiled, knowing that I must have been watching him for some time) - I was thinking about the other day..." His expression suggested he'd been waiting for this topic to come up. His eyebrows arched in expectation of my protests; it occurred to me that he was actually waiting for me to complain! There are many, many things that wind me up in this life - bank charges, American presidents, reality TV, do-gooder pop stars - and one of them is people pigeonholing me. This young man already thought he knew me, and that made me mad. It wasn't just waving a red flag at a bull, it was having him come home and find you in bed with Mrs. Bull. I was determined to confound his expectations of me - but how could I do that and remain true to myself? "What happened the other day..." My voice trailed off again. He smiled, but it ran dangerously close to being a smirk.
"Did you enjoy watching us?" He asked quietly, nonchalantly, as though discussing the right shade of beige for the carpet in the hall. Strangely his expression, and the tone in his voice made me want to mother him, and boy was that ever the wrong thing to be thinking with his dick waving about in front of me. "I was hoping you would join in but you left... with an abruptness that bordered on being rude." Floundering, I tried to comprehend the rules to this game. I wanted to discuss inadvertently watching him in a private sexual encounter; he was scolding me as though I'd left the table without excusing myself. Just what was happening?
"I... I wasn't being rude. What you were doing with the hired help was your business. I was simply looking for the toilet."
"Nevertheless you found us. Found us, and watched for several minutes, did you not?"
"It was just a brief glance..." Never has one snort expressed such derision. I deserved it.
"I'm sorry, but I must disagree. It was several minutes, during which you could have joined our little tryst at any point. You would have been very welcome. Still, you're here now, so let's make the most of this opportunity."
"What! We can't-"
