Dumped, Actually(43)

‘No. That’s fine!’ I reply. ‘I’m not, either.’ I blink. ‘Not that I’m a girl. But what I mean is that I don’t like to beat around it, either. The bush, that is. No beating it for me. Absolutely not.’

I drain half of the gin in one gulp.

Vanity smiles and takes the glass out of my hand. She places it alongside hers on the black coffee table next to the couch, and straddles me in one smooth movement.

‘Why don’t you carry me to the bedroom, Ollie? We’ve talked a lot this evening, and now I want to do something else with you.’

‘Okay,’ I reply in a feeble voice.

This is insane. Completely and utterly insane. I’m in the house of an absolutely gorgeous woman, and I’m now 100 per cent sure she wants to have sex with me.

With me.

This is the type of thing you’d expect to find happening in one of those romantic movies I spent my youth watching, not here in the real world. You know, one of the ones where the boy from the wrong side of town gets to fall in love with the girl from the right side. Billy Joel’s ‘Uptown Girl’ would most definitely be on the soundtrack album.

And yet . . . here we are. This is actually happening. This is a thing that is happening to Oliver Sweet in real life. No Billy Joel necessary.

And maybe if something as unbelievable as this can occur, then something equally unbelievable could come from it. Maybe being with Vanity could help me get over Samantha. Maybe being with her could make things so much better for me. Maybe Vanity could be ‘the one’ – instead of Samantha. That sounds like a good story, doesn’t it? A story that hopefully starts with some lovely sex.

This really is all too much for me.

So is trying to stand up with Vanity clutching at me like a spider monkey on a fig tree. I have a go at it, but when it becomes quite clear that I can barely lift my bottom off the couch, Vanity climbs off me and instead pulls me to my feet. So much for showing her what a big, strong alpha male I am.

Oh, who am I kidding? She’s read a story about me getting my arsehole waxed. I’m sure she’s under no illusions.

Vanity then leads me into her bedroom, where a red bed, light-grey walls and a black carpet await. She sits herself on the bed, yanks me towards her and starts to unbuckle my belt.

It suddenly hits me that I’m about to have sex with someone for the first time since Samantha. It’s a surreal and bizarre thought. I’m also struck by that irrational sense of betrayal again – but I manage to push it aside, as Vanity has just reached into my boxer shorts.

Right, now you shut up and go sit in the corner while I get my mojo on.

Okay, Mr Penis.

Good boy.

I gratefully let him take over. It’s so much easier when you just think with your penis. This is why men tend to do it ninety per cent of the time.

Vanity stops rummaging, and instead decides to peel me like an orange. Before I know it, I am completely naked. I haven’t been undressed this fast since I wandered into the kitchen at the age of six covered in dog shit from the Alsatian next door.

Vanity appraises my naked form and, by golly, this girl should be an actress. The way she gazes at my body with hungry lust is quite incredible. I am not an unhealthy person physically – but neither am I what anyone would consider ‘buff’. A slight paunch and a distinct lack of pectoral muscles are not things that people usually gaze at with hungry lust. Mild interest, possibly. But never hungry lust.

Still, that’s what Vanity is doing . . . and now she’s grabbing hold of my penis, so I am rendered instantly unable to think straight – and will be completely incapable of relaying my thoughts for the next few minutes.

Please enjoy whatever light music you may have to hand while this goes on.

. . .

. . .

. . . . . .

. . . . . . . . .

‘Uuuuuuhhhh,’ I moan in ecstasy as Vanity comes up for air. This evening really has taken a most unexpectedly pleasant turn. I will have to send Callie Donnelly some flowers.

Vanity looks up at me, still with that hungry expression in her eyes. ‘Will you do something for me, Ollie?’ she asks.

This is the perfect time to ask a man to do anything – up to and including handing over both kidneys.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I reply, nodding vigorously.

Vanity smiles and leans back over the bed to her white bedside cabinet, from which she pulls a pair of silky red-and-black boxer shorts. She holds them out to me. ‘Put these on for me?’

Okay. This is a bit strange, but the girl can apparently breathe through her ears, so I’m not going to argue.

I slip the underwear on, and it’s immediately apparent they are meant for a man who has no issues with his body image. They are so tight and clingy that you’d have to be very confident in the size of your junk to get away with them. You’d also need a fine set of abdominals parked above them to pull them off properly. I have neither, so slightly resemble an overstuffed sausage.

‘Oh God,’ Vanity says breathily, caressing the pants and my penis through them. ‘Lie down on the bed for me,’ she orders.

‘Okay.’

I do so, somewhat awkwardly, as the tight silky boxer shorts don’t allow for much freedom of movement.

Vanity then climbs on top of me and starts to grind like she’s making a loaf of bread from scratch.

If she goes at it much harder, the static electricity between her G-string and these boxers is likely to give us both third-degree burns.