Dumped, Actually(29)

‘Steady on there, Oliver!’ Laughlin says, patting me on the shoulder again. ‘That’s the left side done, now jus’ to get that right side sorted and we’ll move on to yer penis.’

What! What?! Penis?! What is this talk of penis?!

There must be no penis involved! There can be no penis!

The penis cannot be part of this horror! Never! Never the penis!

Never the—





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‘AAARRGGGHH!’

The world has ended. The universe has collapsed. Star Wormwood blazes in the skies.

’Tis the end! The End of Days is here! Everything is dust! All is lost!

‘You okay there, Oliver?’

All I can manage is a quiet burble. My bottom is gone. All that remains is a burning supernova.

‘Ach. Nice to see you’ve relaxed into it.’ Laughlin lifts up the sheet. ‘Now, swivel yersel’ around, and we’ll get that manzilian on the go.’

I want to say no.

I need to say no.

Every fibre in my being demands that I say no.

I do not want this thing he refers to as a ‘manzilian’. It does not sound good. Not one little bit. It sounds like something Godzilla fights at the end of the movie.

He probably wouldn’t stand for this. Not Godzilla. He’d say no to being waxed – before disintegrating the entire city, probably.

I need to be more like Godzilla.

Yes.

That’s the ticket.

. . . as it turns out, I can certainly sound like Godzilla.

When a scrawny Scottish beautician rips a strip of waxed paper away from my pubic area, anyway.





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‘Reeeeeeaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrcccccccchhhhhhhhhh!’

See? Godzilla.

Definitely Godzilla.

For a few moments, I lie there, as ruined as the Incan civilisation. As I do this, Laughlin and Tina tidy away the used strips of waxy paper into a rubbish bag. The amount of hair on all of them doesn’t bear thinking about. I will think about them, though . . . long into the night.

‘Alright, Oliver. You’re lovely and smooth now, in all the right places. We’ll let you relax in here for a few minutes on your own. And when you’re done, pop your clothes back on and we’ll see you outside.’

‘Oh . . . okay,’ I reply with a sigh. ‘That’s . . . fine.’

‘Good! Glad you’re feeling nice and chilled out.’

Chilled out? Good God, man! My entire nether regions are blazing with the heat of a thousand suns. How could I be chilled out??

Laughlin and Tina exit the room, leaving me alone with my thoughts, and the pan pipes.

The one thing I’m principally thinking about is how much of a masochist Monica Blake must be. She’s the one who suggested I come here, in order to help me get over my break-up with Samantha. It’s what she did, after all.

If having all of this done is what got her over her own heartbreak, then she must be clinically insane.

Mind you, I can’t say I’m feeling all that heartbroken at the moment. It’s a little hard to pay attention to what’s going on with your heart, when your arsehole has a red-hot poker shoved into it.

I heave another sigh.

Why didn’t I just say no?

Why didn’t I just get off the massage table before any of this?

What’s wrong with me?

Why do I have this complete inability to upset people? Even when it comes at my own painful expense?

And I don’t just mean surrendering to Laughlin McPurty’s ministrations.

I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t capitulated to Erica. If I had just said no to her in a firm but fair fashion, I’m sure she would have backed down.

But I didn’t, did I?

No. I just went along with it. Just like I went along with the waxing.

Which is now why I’ll be spending this evening with my arse parked in a cold bath.

Did this have something to do with why Samantha finished with me?

Did she want a more manly man, who can thrust one manly hand out and say no to anything he doesn’t fancy getting involved with?

Am I weak?

Is that it?

I rub my hand over my face.

Bloody hell.

This has not been a good use of my time.

And it has certainly not made me feel better about losing Samantha.

If anything, it’s made me feel even worse.

But never mind . . . Now I have to gingerly get dressed again, without letting any material touch my bottom or genitals, for fear of re-awakening the supernova, which has gone off the boil a little in the few minutes I’ve been lying here.

I slip my clothes back on slowly, wincing a bit as I do so. When I am fully dressed and upright, I walk over to the door, trying as hard as I can not to let too much material slide over the skin in the areas that Laughlin McPurty has just ritually abused for his own amusement.

This rather makes me look like I’m trying to hold in the world’s most explosive fart, but I don’t really care, as appearing massively flatulent is infinitely preferable to feeling denim rub across my red-raw skin.

Outside, Tina is standing by with another bogmot orange and minty rubadub tea. Part of me wants to tip it over her to see how she likes the feel of burning skin.

I take the tea with a weak smile and have a sip as I sit down in one of the chairs along the back wall. The salon looks like it’s beginning to fill up now. Both Imogen and Stacy are dealing with customers, and Tina goes to join them to help out. I shuffle a bit on my seat, feeling the burning intensify around my poor bottom again. I am internally praying that the treatments are over for the day.