Monday, April 30, 2007

Chapter Eight

I hate to be shallow, and buy into that whole porn queen persona, but having a bald muff is really sexy! Now I’ve got over that initial horror at the pink, turkey plucked skin, it actually feels really nice. It’s a beautiful sunny Friday and my white gipsy skirt is billowing in the breeze. I’d like to think I look like Marilyn Monroe standing over the vent, but I catch my reflection in the revolving door smoked glass windows and realise that I don’t look anything like her. More like Marilyn Manson.

“Hi Sophie,” Ellie, the receptionist smiles at me as I glide across the marble-floored reception area. It’s great when people start to recognise you at a new job, but it takes a while sometimes. Ellie seems really nice and I smile back at her, with a little wave. I wait for the lift, aware that she’s looking at the back of my head and wondering whether she can hear my stomach rumbling. In an attempt to be on time I didn’t get the chance for any breakfast, and I’m starving already. I try to focus on how I’m going to handle the speed dating event in a bid to ignore my hunger pangs. I’m both nervous and excited about speed dating, but feel slightly less worried as I’ve tried to reassure myself that I’m there for research purposes only. I’d love to ask Maria Delaney whether she’s ever been speed dating. She seemed so enthusiastic about me going and it got me wondering. She is married though, to a guy who, like her, seems to work all the hours god sends. Maybe their entire marriage is speed dating – they probably live and breathe the 3 minute slots! The lift pings and the silver doors slide open silently. I step in, along with another guy who arrives at the last minute. The doors nearly catch him as they slide closed.

“Whoa, that was close,” he grins, a twinkle in his eye. “Must stop buying my breakfast from Starbucks!” He holds up a large Styrofoam mug, a small waft of steam snaking from the tiny mouth hole cut into the lid and shakes a couple of brown paper bags. The smell of the coffee is heavenly.

“Mmmm, you can’t beat a good coffee first thing in the morning,” I offer, wishing that I’d thought of calling in for a takeaway before work. “I’m always too late to stop off on the way, and that smells great.”

“Too right! Can’t start without my Macchiato! Floor number?”

“Oh, 3 please.”

He smiles, “Knew it. Woman to Woman offices isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I’m blushing! How embarrassing. What’s my skin trying to do – make a complete fool out of me? Suddenly I’m acutely aware of my waxed poontang and it’s as if he knows. He smiles at me as the lift stops at number 2.

“Oh, my stop.” Thank god for that, I’m desperate to say. But I don’t. Instead, I move toward the buttons and press 3 again. He blocks the doors as they slide closed, with his foot, housed in a rather large tan leather shoe,

“Here,” he holds out one of the brown bags to me, “seeing as you didn’t have time to stop for breakfast. Have one of these.

“Oh no, I couldn’t. It’s OK, really.”

“Go on,” he urges, his brown eyes dancing and white teeth looking really good. I’m hating myself for being so easily swayed, “it’s a lemon muffin. A skinny one too.”

“Alright, thanks.”

“No problem.”

“I owe you one,” I quip, completely genuine, but think maybe he takes me up the wrong way.

“Well, I’ll hold you to that,” he laughs as the lift doors begin to close. He says quickly, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Sophie. My name’s Sophie.”

“Great!” his voice is muffled now as the doors are virtually shut. I hear him shout, “See you around Sophie. I’m Adrian.”

*

I wish I had a work friend. In my old job I could have breezed into the office and Katie and Liz would have wanted to know all about the gorgeous guy in the lift when they’d noticed the huge muffin on my desk. I sit closest to AJ and have no desire to even look at her, never mind talk to her. The muffin tastes great, light and citrus on my tongue and I just know the poppy seeds are scurrying into the small crevices between my teeth. I really want to turn around and gurn at AJ, a mouth full of muffin and crusty seeded teeth – but I don’t. I’m too busy checking our online directory and super-sleuthing my way to find an ‘Adrian’ who works on floor 2…..

*

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Adrian was pulling his elbow back sharply, praising himself on his smooth tactics. He’d deliberately bought an extra lemon muffin with the sole intention of giving it to Sophie and it had paid off, waiting around in reception for that extra fifteen minutes. And so his plan had begun. He was going to be the one to make Sophie Regan break her shallow ‘vow’ to remain single. Let Woman to Woman write a feature on that! He was glad that he’d decided to leave yesterdays t-shirt on his floordrobe, choosing instead to wear the new Paul Smith one. It looked fucking hot under his faded blue jacket and jeans and never failed to give him an air of urban playboy. Now he’d made the initial introduction, luring Sophie Regan into bed would be like taking candy from a babe.

*

I’m sick. Don’t let me drink again. I’m serious. I can’t handle it. It’s been such a great day at work. I knew it would be, after such a great start. And my smooth snatch and great day finished off with a bottle and a half of Pinot Grigio has made a fool out of me. The laugh’s on me. Again. And those bloody mobile phones! I don’t even know why I have one!

I know, I’m not making sense. But it’s like this. I’m laying on my sofa and the room is spinning. Just a little bit. And I turned over the telly and who’s on bloody Jonathon Woss show? Ben Scott. Yes! The Ben Scott. Chat show host Ben Scott who I went out with for five months and who I really really liked but didn’t like me as much as I liked him obviously! And it’s made me sad. And made me realise how much I liked him and how lonely I am and how I wish I had someone to show off my new poontang to. And I did the unthinkable. I texted him.

“I know it’s stupid!”

But I did it. It wasn’t that bad. No, I don’t want to tell you.

OK – I will. It said something like ‘hey big boy – I’ve got something here for you to unwrap if you think you’re man enough.’

I know, it’s shit. I pressed that damned button too quick. But it’s worse than that.

Afterwards I sent another one. Because I felt so stupid, that’s why.

It just said ‘please ignore that text – it was meant for someone else.’

It’s all going Pete Tong….

Chapter One

Chapter Two
Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Nine


2 comments:

Dirty Filthy Princess said...

Very nicely written. I loved the beginning where you write about the bald turkey look and then how you get used to and like the shaved pussy. I can totally identify!

Sophie Regan said...

hey - princess, thanks v much! Love your blog too - lots there to make me laugh, and make me think aswell....

I highly recommend readers to take a look at your blog (so to speak!).

Isn't the word 'blog' awful btw!

And yes - I've spoken to lots of women who agree about PTS -
Plucked Turkey Syndrome to
Pretty Tidy Snatch -
all in a matter of, ohh, about 24 hours!!

x