get straight back in the shower.
‘Thank you, Jesus, at last!’ I muttered as he left.
‘What was that? What did you say?’ He spun around and, for a moment, he was a froth of anger and spite, but almost instantly he recovered himself, and forced a smile. ‘Oh Nicola, remember, you’ll never meet an American who loves you like I do. They don’t get how ironic you are – they’re all assholes. They think you’re just some uptight Brit who wouldn’t know her ass from her elbow in bed, but I know you’d go like a greyhound.’
And with that, Dale stalked off down the hall to sit in his room for the rest of the evening, watching sci-fi shit on TV.
My Penis Is …
I pushed my way into the pub, past the moronic doorman who maintained every time I went in there and showed him my ID, that I had ‘forged it wrong’, and got my dates mixed up. There was no fourteenth month he said, every time. And every time I calmly explained to him that I was British, and we write our days and months the other way round, the right way round. The aisles were narrow, and crowded, and it took me ten minutes to get to the big seats at the back where my friends were sitting. Jon had been there most of the day, and was looking a little worse for wear. In American terms, anybody who goes to the pub at lunchtime is a drunk, pure and simple, even if you only drink lemonade all day. Jon was at the finding it hard to speak and control his limbs stage. The boys were all playing ‘My Penis Is’, their favourite game. I pushed in beside Jake, grabbed a glass and filled it from the pitcher in the middle of the table. ‘My Penis Is’ was a game that Martin had brought with him from home. They sat around, started with the letter A, and then described their penis, but they had to ‘drink as they think’. So Martin would start and say ‘My penis is aromatic,’ at which point the boys would cheer, and it would be someone else’s turn.
‘My penis is astronomical’ the next guy would say, and the cheering would start again, and so on. They obviously hadn’t been playing for long, because they were only on the letter B. Jon had just said ‘My penis is bacon’ and the game had stopped for twenty minutes while the boys cried with laughter. I didn’t get it, but then I hadn’t been in the pub since midday. Sitting opposite Jon was a guy I hadn’t seen before.
He was obviously tall, but sitting down, so I couldn’t tell quite how tall. He had the body of a footballer who drank too much – slim, with vague muscle definition that he was already losing with every sip of beer he took. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone and I could see a mildly hairy chest poking out from beneath the denim. His hair was spiked at the front, and he had obviously been nurturing his sideburns for a good year. What I noticed most was his laugh. It was loud. And the smile that preceded the laugh almost made me dizzy. It was a huge, face-altering smile. It was a smile that could capsize small boats. He was obviously good-looking, but, more than that, he seemed over the moon with the world, with himself. When he laughed, as the boys all laughed at how funny all their ‘peni’ – plural of penis? – were turning out to be, it was the closest I had come to a religious experience since school.
When he stood up and got his wallet out to get another four pitchers of beer, he did something peculiar – he jogged to the bar. And all the people seemed to let him through. It was a casual jog, not hurrying to get beer, or to go for a ‘slash’ as the boys endearingly put it. He just jogged because his body seemed to want to, it seemed the most natural thing to do. I had to fight the blush from taking over my cheeks as I watched him. I asked Jake who he was.
‘Oh, haven’t you met Charlie?’
I knew I would have remembered.
I watched him as he made his way back from the bar,somehow balancing four pitchers of beer, spilling a little on people’s shoes,
‘Thank you, Jesus, at last!’ I muttered as he left.
‘What was that? What did you say?’ He spun around and, for a moment, he was a froth of anger and spite, but almost instantly he recovered himself, and forced a smile. ‘Oh Nicola, remember, you’ll never meet an American who loves you like I do. They don’t get how ironic you are – they’re all assholes. They think you’re just some uptight Brit who wouldn’t know her ass from her elbow in bed, but I know you’d go like a greyhound.’
And with that, Dale stalked off down the hall to sit in his room for the rest of the evening, watching sci-fi shit on TV.
My Penis Is …
I pushed my way into the pub, past the moronic doorman who maintained every time I went in there and showed him my ID, that I had ‘forged it wrong’, and got my dates mixed up. There was no fourteenth month he said, every time. And every time I calmly explained to him that I was British, and we write our days and months the other way round, the right way round. The aisles were narrow, and crowded, and it took me ten minutes to get to the big seats at the back where my friends were sitting. Jon had been there most of the day, and was looking a little worse for wear. In American terms, anybody who goes to the pub at lunchtime is a drunk, pure and simple, even if you only drink lemonade all day. Jon was at the finding it hard to speak and control his limbs stage. The boys were all playing ‘My Penis Is’, their favourite game. I pushed in beside Jake, grabbed a glass and filled it from the pitcher in the middle of the table. ‘My Penis Is’ was a game that Martin had brought with him from home. They sat around, started with the letter A, and then described their penis, but they had to ‘drink as they think’. So Martin would start and say ‘My penis is aromatic,’ at which point the boys would cheer, and it would be someone else’s turn.
‘My penis is astronomical’ the next guy would say, and the cheering would start again, and so on. They obviously hadn’t been playing for long, because they were only on the letter B. Jon had just said ‘My penis is bacon’ and the game had stopped for twenty minutes while the boys cried with laughter. I didn’t get it, but then I hadn’t been in the pub since midday. Sitting opposite Jon was a guy I hadn’t seen before.
He was obviously tall, but sitting down, so I couldn’t tell quite how tall. He had the body of a footballer who drank too much – slim, with vague muscle definition that he was already losing with every sip of beer he took. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone and I could see a mildly hairy chest poking out from beneath the denim. His hair was spiked at the front, and he had obviously been nurturing his sideburns for a good year. What I noticed most was his laugh. It was loud. And the smile that preceded the laugh almost made me dizzy. It was a huge, face-altering smile. It was a smile that could capsize small boats. He was obviously good-looking, but, more than that, he seemed over the moon with the world, with himself. When he laughed, as the boys all laughed at how funny all their ‘peni’ – plural of penis? – were turning out to be, it was the closest I had come to a religious experience since school.
When he stood up and got his wallet out to get another four pitchers of beer, he did something peculiar – he jogged to the bar. And all the people seemed to let him through. It was a casual jog, not hurrying to get beer, or to go for a ‘slash’ as the boys endearingly put it. He just jogged because his body seemed to want to, it seemed the most natural thing to do. I had to fight the blush from taking over my cheeks as I watched him. I asked Jake who he was.
‘Oh, haven’t you met Charlie?’
I knew I would have remembered.
I watched him as he made his way back from the bar,somehow balancing four pitchers of beer, spilling a little on people’s shoes,
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