Not That Easy (25 page)

He let out a brittle laugh. “Uh, kind of weird. Everyone was freaking out that you left, and they made me try and find you. I traced you to a tractor but the driver said he'd dropped you off by the ferry.”

“You came to find me? Why didn't you call me?”

“I didn't really think you'd pick up the phone after the things I said to you in the field.”

I remembered how it had felt like I'd been run over by that bloody tractor when he'd called me a slut. “Hm, fair enough.”

“But you got home okay?” he said, running his hand through his hair. “I felt shit when you left. I was really worried about you.”

“You were?”

“Do you really think that little of me?”

“No, 'course not! I just thought you were too mad at me to care if I was being mugged en route home. But, no, I was fine. Sad, but fine.”

He sat back in the sofa and looked at me. “Why are you here, Ellie?”

I stared back at him. Honestly, I had no idea. Was I really there to try to win him back so that he could be my boyfriend? Could I actually see myself being with him?

I opened my mouth to try to say something relevant but nothing came out. Crap.

He sighed. “Ellie, I really like you. I'm sorry it got so weird on the Isle. I guess I just felt pretty shit that you'd fucked some other guy.”

I winced. “It wasn't like that, Nick.”

“Yeah, I know. But it just made me feel like you don't really want something serious with me. And then . . . I kind of read your columns and I realized you thought I was treating you like the rebound.” I flushed in embarrassment. He now knew everything about me. This was horrible. “But it was my fault. I shouldn't have spoken so much about Sara at the start. So I do have a vague idea of how you feel about wanting it casual. But now I'm telling you I do really like you. Do you . . . do you want more?”

This was it. My opening to say that I did want something serious and please could we put all this behind us and go back to those ten minutes of being a cute couple.

I looked at him, with his tanned skin, floppy hair and hopeful green eyes. He was the ideal guy, but, for some reason, it didn't
really feel like he was the ideal guy for me. He wanted me to be his girlfriend; I just wanted to shag his brains out.

“Oh God,” I said eventually. “I can't believe I'm saying this, Nick, but, I think you're right. I don't want something serious.”

His face dropped, then he crossed his arms. “Right. So you came here because . . . ?”

“Because I really wanted you to be my boyfriend.” He opened his mouth, but I carried on speaking. “No, let me explain. I just . . . I realized how much of an idiot I was last weekend, and how great a guy you are. But then when I got here, I . . . I think I've just realized that you're right; I don't want something serious. I don't feel ready for it, Nick. I really just want to be young, and fun and single and, like, carry on dating guys and having sex—but only with the ones I like.”

“So I was right. You are a slut.”

“You're not listening to me,” I cried. “I want to be single. If that means having sex with more than one person, then fine, yes, I want to be a slut. I want to have sex and feel good about myself. Is that a problem for you?”

He looked taken aback. “No, it's . . . Ellie, it's fine. Obviously I get it. I'm a guy. That's all I wanted to do for the last ten years. But now I'm a bit older and I want more. Ah fuck, I guess I've been pretty harsh on you. You're a few years younger than me.”

“I don't know if it's an age thing per se. I just haven't really been with many guys. In fact, my number is
seriously
unslutty.”

He smiled. “I had a feeling it was. I think that's why I was so shocked about the flatmate thing—it didn't seem very you.”

“It wasn't. But to be honest, Nick, you don't really know me that well,” I said quietly.

“Fair enough. I wish I'd had the chance to though.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I think I've just been all over the place. When you called me your girlfriend in the Isle of Wight, I realized
how lucky I was. You're amazing. But I think if I agreed to be your girlfriend, I'd just be using you. You tick so many boxes it's so hard to say no, but for some reason, I just don't think we're right for each other. I think you deserve more. And I guess I do too.”

“If this is meant to make me feel better, I'm not sure it's really working, Ellie.”

“Sorry. I'm rambling. I just want you to know that you're incredible and I would love to keep on casually dating you. I just don't want a boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. How about it?”

He sighed. “If you'd asked me a year ago, I would have thought you're the perfect girl and jumped at the chance. But, Ellie, I want a girlfriend. I'm getting on a bit and I do just want to settle down.”

I felt disappointment collect in my tummy. “Okay, fair enough. I guess I can't have everything.”

“I'm sorry. But, we're all good though, right? Mates?”

“Yeah, mates.” I smiled.

He smiled back. “I wish I could have more, but I think I'd rather have you in my life than out of it, even if it just means we're friends.”

“Me too. And if you do ever change your mind about the casual sex thing, just shout.”

He laughed. “Okay, and likewise with the relationship thing.”

“Deal. Hey, actually . . . before I leave, how about we say bye properly?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know . . .”

He stared at me blankly.

“Oh for God's sake,” I said. “Do you or do you not want to shag me for one last time?”

He grinned at me, shaking his head ruefully. “God you're amazing. I can't believe I'm letting you go.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Fuck it—I'm still human. Let's go to the bedroom.”

“Or we could stay right here?” I suggested, ignoring the thumping nerves in my arteries.

He kissed me in response.

I was lying naked on Nick's cream couch. My pleather jacket and mismatched underwear were scattered on the wooden floorboards. He was sitting astride me with his penis poking straight out at a ninety-degree angle. It was pale against his tanned skin and I could see the outline of where his swimming trunks had been.

“You're amazing, Ellie,” he whispered in between kisses.

I grinned and kissed him back enthusiastically. This was everything I wanted. It felt so right to be lying there naked with him, knowing that he wasn't my boyfriend, I never had to watch a rugby game again, and—even better—from now on I was free to do this with any other guy that asked.

I lay back on the sofa and closed my eyes. He moved away from my mouth and started giving me little kisses on my neck. Then I started to feel the familiar anxiety. I opened my eyes and saw his perfect face up close to mine. He barely even had any blackheads.

The lights were on full and my very untanned skin was on show. He could see my body hair, tiny moles and lumpy skin. He could
probably even feel the little hairs on my stomach that had grown there ever since I stupidly tried shaving them at age sixteen.

All I wanted to do was run and turn the lights off. Then I remembered—it didn't matter. I didn't need Nick's approval. I didn't even want him to be my boyfriend. We were just two human beings having fun together.

I felt myself relax and started to enjoy the gentle kisses. My mind wandered to the scene earlier in Maxine's office. She'd given me a job. I had the job I'd always wanted, and I was going to get paid for it.

I gasped loudly as Nick put my nipple into his mouth and sucked it. It felt good—and the fact that I was employed made it feel even better. I closed my eyes again and smiled. Things were okay. I wasn't a fuck-up. I might have been bitten, bled on and confronted with a Boyzilian, but I'd survived.

My friends still loved me. I had kind of ruined things with Ollie, but I hadn't been infected by the lost condom and I'd well and truly learned my lesson: guys in relationships were off limits.

Nick did the same to the other nipple. I breathed out loud. It sounded sexy. Oh my God, I was finally having my film noir moment and it wasn't even deliberate. I probably did look like a French movie star lying on the sofa with a hot man pleasuring me. I grinned wider and settled into the role with a loud breathy gasp. I imagined Marilyn Monroe would have made the same sound when guys sucked her tits.

I threw my arms around Nick and snogged him back properly. I sat up and wound my legs around him, so that our very naked bodies were stuck together. He reached across me and pulled out a condom, quickly opening it and sliding it onto his penis.

Remembering his previous requests for me to go on top, I pushed him down onto the sofa and got astride. I gingerly lowered myself onto his gherkin, biting my lip in anticipation of the pain that never
came. He put his hands onto my hips and guided me into the rhythm. I went up and down, while his face spread into a grin.

It felt good, but clearly not as good as it felt for him. I went faster, and simultaneously tried to rub my clit. I tried to enjoy it but it was too hard multitasking. Nick started breathing heavily and I realized he was about to come.

Before me.

I pulled myself off him without thinking and inched up his body. I sat my vagina back down on top of his face.

“Mff?” he asked from underneath my pubes.

“I don't want you to come yet. I want you to lick me.” I did it. I'd told him what I wanted. I was owning sex.

He groaned and started rubbing his tongue against my clitoris. I cried out loud as he got exactly the right spot. I looked down at him and saw his little face moving as he tried to rub my C-spot. He was doing this for me. It felt good, even though my vagina was pubier than I would have liked and I hadn't showered since six a.m. Would he notice?!

Then it hit me—I didn't actually care. For the first time, I really, really didn't give a shit if my vagina didn't look like the perfect ones I imagined existed behind the lacy panties in Calvin Klein ads. My VJ may not look like a bald plucked chicken, or smell like Jo Malone, but so what? It had a perfectly good clitoris attached to it and there was a very willing man beneath it.

I didn't even care about what number on my list Nick was. Or whether I was “slutty” or not. That was all totally irrelevant. The only thing I cared about right now was how . . . oh God . . . amazing the sex felt.

I closed my eyes as he licked me faster. I forgot to breathe sexily like Monroe and made loud grunting noises. The familiar buildup feeling came and I gripped onto his shoulders. “Faster,” I shouted.

I grabbed onto him desperately as the feeling built up in me. “Oh
God, keep going,” I cried out. He obliged. I could feel myself getting close to climax. Oh my God, was I actually going to orgasm with a real live male?

I felt the orgasm start to plateau and banished the thought from my mind. It didn't matter if I orgasmed or not, I was just there to enjoy myself. Although . . . if I did want to orgasm I'd better start breathing more and get a fantasy.

I started picturing an enlarged penis hovering in the air, and tried to do the yogic breaths I'd learned off YouTube videos. “Om . . . Om . . . AHHHH.”

I cried out loudly as I felt my body melt. I closed my eyes tighter as the feeling ran through my body and my vagina trembled. I breathed out slower as it subsided.

“That . . . was . . . amazing,” I said, opening my eyes.

Nick's eyes were screwed shut and he looked like he was in pain. I shimmied down his body onto his chest. “Um, are you okay, Nick?” I asked.

He ran his hand across his face and opened his eyes. There was a damp liquid clinging from his eyebrows to his eyelashes. With horror, I realized what it was.

“Ellie,” he said, “you just came on my face.”

NSFW

It is not easy to orgasm.

I just need to put that out there because I don't think it's something that a lot of women hear that often. But it's true. About fifty percent of women experience problems with orgasms, fact.

In movies, TV and pretty much all media, orgasms look easy. You see women having mind-blowing sex with a guy they've just met, or orgasming every time
their boyfriend goes down on them. THIS IS NOT TRUE.

Which makes it a lie. Perhaps these media execs think it's a pretty harmless lie—maybe they even think it's empowering to show so many women having great sex—but I think it can be pretty damaging.

It means that those of us who struggle to reach those few seconds of ecstasy feel shit. Like we're not real women. Or we're sexual failures. Friends have told me they've felt guilty when their boyfriends have spent hours down there and nothing's happened. So they do a
When Harry Met Sally
and fake it à la Meg Ryan.

It's partly to make their boyfriend feel better—but it's mainly so they don't feel like crap girlfriends. So they don't feel like they've managed to mess up the one natural joy that God gave us.

But I think it's time we ditched that guilt and faced up to this taboo—it's fucking hard to orgasm. There's stuff you can do for it—all it takes is a quick Google or a trip to your GP—but at the end of the day, you're never going to suddenly pull through in a blissful cloud of euphoria unless you accept there's a bit of a problem.

I wanted to keep this column a bit less “confessions of a twentysomething woman” and more “serious issues women face” but . . . I may as well admit that I've struggled with this.

Alone in my room with my fingers, I was coming anywhere and everywhere.

Put me in front of a penis and I was doomed. But, dear lovely readers, I'm writing this minutes after I overcame that hurdle. In fact, he's lying by my side. He's not the love of my life, and, to be honest, I doubt we'll ever
do it again (it's okay, he knows this). But it wasn't
him
that helped me get there—it was me.

I thought that the big hurdles to orgasming were actual issues—his skills, the state of my vagina, the real worry that it was too unattractive for him to spend too much time down there. But now I've realized that's all bollocks. The only real hurdle was my lack of self-love.

And the second I ditched the paranoia, the insecurity and the worries? A wet, sticky bliss. I've also learned that nothing else matters. It doesn't matter if you're sleeping with number 2 or number 222, or whether they're The One or just a one-night stand—the only important thing is that you actually enjoy the sex and feel comfortable.

Fuck everything else. None of it really matters. Because when it comes to sex, all that matters is that you're having fun.

On that note, I'm off for round
two.