the hole in my pocket kind of
spurs me on.
I'm not really sure how or why, but here I am heading
towards that wretched street, walking like someone
going to a meeting they haven't put in their diary but still
can't forget. I've tried hard to pretend I really don't care
about this meeting by putting on a boring pair of jeans
and a jacket. But under these supposedly normal clothes
– in case I bump into someone on the way – no one
would guess I'm wearing stockings, which are chafing
slightly. It made me laugh when I put them on, I feel a
bit ridiculous in them. I even shaved in the shower this
morning. Obviously, I do that pretty often, specially
since I've been living with Manu, but this time I made a
real effort, going back over my knees and ankles several
times. A very tricky place, ankles. The reason I did this
so carefully isn't absolutely clear yet.
On my way I realise I haven't prepared an explanation
in case I meet someone in the street. It doesn't matter
that much, anyway, I'm a good liar, I'll come up with
something. When I get close to the station I do start
hurrying though. The sooner I get there, the sooner it'll
be over.
I go through the rules I want to stick to inside my
head, methodically: once, just once. I should have
smoked a joint before leaving. Yes, that's right, why
didn't I think of it? I'd have been much more chilled out,
more relaxed, I might even have found the whole thing
amusing. Might.
Weirdly, I want to take a few precautions, things I
think are important: I won't show myself first, I'll wait
till he gets here. Deep down, I still feel as if this is some
kind of joke. Stationed outside the appointed hotel, I
wait in the chill December air, watching passers-by,
almost wanting Joe to turn up just so I don't have to go
on enduring this icy wind. Joe, the rough sketch who will
become a reality in a few moments' time.
Masses of perfectly logical questions mill around my
mind. He said he'd booked a room – did he give his real
name at reception? I didn't say anything when he
suggested coming here but I think it's such a grim choice.
He must test out all his new conquests here and, if they
deserve it, he makes their day by taking them to more
salubrious places after that. But, actually, if all he wants
is sex, why make such a fuss about it? If that's what it
is, then he doesn't need much else.
Just before the agreed time, an older looking man
stops outside the building and looks around casually,
quite naturally. 'Older', that's what people say when
they want to be polite and avoid saying plain 'old'. So,
basically, he's old. I would never have thought I'd end up
sleeping with a man that age.
He doesn't look anything like the photo. Despite the
younger, sporty image he's gone for, he certainly looks
his age. He's wearing a red checked shirt, tracksuit
bottoms and trainers; with greying hair to match his
years. The middle of his face is adorned by a large
moustache, still brown in colour. Not very stylish but at
least he looks clean. Someone I certainly wouldn't have
looked at twice in the street, but he's not repellent either.
To think I'm going to see him naked! To think he'll want
to touch me! I'm shivering with disgust at the thought.
Perhaps because I was expecting much worse, I jump out
from my hiding place and cross the street to join him. I
also think I'm already forcing myself to switch off my
mind.
He sees me coming and his expression changes. I
couldn't say whether it's for the better or the worse. We
give each other a hasty peck on each cheek, obviously
both quite tense. But he's suddenly relaxing and introduces
himself very politely, in a gentle voice. My God,
he's so old! Oh yes, he's all of fifty-seven now.
'Hello, Laura,' he says, watching me intently.
'Hello, Joe,' I say, not knowing what else to add.
I can't help looking him up and down, completely
unashamedly. I don't feel any particular empathy for
him, more like loathing, to be honest. I'm struck by his
accent and it makes
spurs me on.
I'm not really sure how or why, but here I am heading
towards that wretched street, walking like someone
going to a meeting they haven't put in their diary but still
can't forget. I've tried hard to pretend I really don't care
about this meeting by putting on a boring pair of jeans
and a jacket. But under these supposedly normal clothes
– in case I bump into someone on the way – no one
would guess I'm wearing stockings, which are chafing
slightly. It made me laugh when I put them on, I feel a
bit ridiculous in them. I even shaved in the shower this
morning. Obviously, I do that pretty often, specially
since I've been living with Manu, but this time I made a
real effort, going back over my knees and ankles several
times. A very tricky place, ankles. The reason I did this
so carefully isn't absolutely clear yet.
On my way I realise I haven't prepared an explanation
in case I meet someone in the street. It doesn't matter
that much, anyway, I'm a good liar, I'll come up with
something. When I get close to the station I do start
hurrying though. The sooner I get there, the sooner it'll
be over.
I go through the rules I want to stick to inside my
head, methodically: once, just once. I should have
smoked a joint before leaving. Yes, that's right, why
didn't I think of it? I'd have been much more chilled out,
more relaxed, I might even have found the whole thing
amusing. Might.
Weirdly, I want to take a few precautions, things I
think are important: I won't show myself first, I'll wait
till he gets here. Deep down, I still feel as if this is some
kind of joke. Stationed outside the appointed hotel, I
wait in the chill December air, watching passers-by,
almost wanting Joe to turn up just so I don't have to go
on enduring this icy wind. Joe, the rough sketch who will
become a reality in a few moments' time.
Masses of perfectly logical questions mill around my
mind. He said he'd booked a room – did he give his real
name at reception? I didn't say anything when he
suggested coming here but I think it's such a grim choice.
He must test out all his new conquests here and, if they
deserve it, he makes their day by taking them to more
salubrious places after that. But, actually, if all he wants
is sex, why make such a fuss about it? If that's what it
is, then he doesn't need much else.
Just before the agreed time, an older looking man
stops outside the building and looks around casually,
quite naturally. 'Older', that's what people say when
they want to be polite and avoid saying plain 'old'. So,
basically, he's old. I would never have thought I'd end up
sleeping with a man that age.
He doesn't look anything like the photo. Despite the
younger, sporty image he's gone for, he certainly looks
his age. He's wearing a red checked shirt, tracksuit
bottoms and trainers; with greying hair to match his
years. The middle of his face is adorned by a large
moustache, still brown in colour. Not very stylish but at
least he looks clean. Someone I certainly wouldn't have
looked at twice in the street, but he's not repellent either.
To think I'm going to see him naked! To think he'll want
to touch me! I'm shivering with disgust at the thought.
Perhaps because I was expecting much worse, I jump out
from my hiding place and cross the street to join him. I
also think I'm already forcing myself to switch off my
mind.
He sees me coming and his expression changes. I
couldn't say whether it's for the better or the worse. We
give each other a hasty peck on each cheek, obviously
both quite tense. But he's suddenly relaxing and introduces
himself very politely, in a gentle voice. My God,
he's so old! Oh yes, he's all of fifty-seven now.
'Hello, Laura,' he says, watching me intently.
'Hello, Joe,' I say, not knowing what else to add.
I can't help looking him up and down, completely
unashamedly. I don't feel any particular empathy for
him, more like loathing, to be honest. I'm struck by his
accent and it makes
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