Page 109 of Short Stack 3

“I feel the same about my testicles, but I don’t get them out in mixed company.”

He smirks. “She’s just very free with her person. Are you a prude, Laurie?”

“Is it prudish to not want to see your mother’s boobs?” I pause in horror. “Oh my god, I am. I sound like the judge. No, this can’t be happening to me. Oh mygod.”

He starts to laugh. “You have a way to go. To qualify, you must talk about esoteric laws and make the conversation last long enough for your partner to fall asleep with his eyes open.”

I disappear into the bathroom and grab my toothbrush. As I brush my teeth, I look in the mirror and contemplate the horrific fact that I may have become a prude.

When I come back into the bedroom, I expect to find Mags stripped down and waiting for his turn in the bathroom. Instead, he’s still fully dressed and sitting in the easy chair by the window, his legs crossed and one foot swinging idly.

I come to a stop. “Alright? You look thoughtful, which is never good for my mental health.”

He sends his eyes travelling down my body. I’m still fully dressed in the jeans and black cashmere jumper I wore for dinner, so I’m a little surprised to see the calculation in his eyes. “I thought we could solve your prudish problem,” he says.

“I am not a prude.” He snorts, and I wag my finger at him. “I’m an artist. I’ve slept withmanymen, I’ve swum naked at parties, and I’ve taken part in loads of orgies. I cannot be prudish.”

“Goodness, it is like talking to Charlie Sheen, yes?”

“Did he see your mother naked?”

“Most of the Western world seemed to do that during the seventies.”

I put my hands on my hips. “What are you up to?”

He waves his hand at me. “Strip.”

“I’m about to do that. I want my bed.”

He shakes his head, his eyes twinkling. “No, I mean strip, Laurie.” He sits back in his chair in a rather lordly fashion. “Make it interesting.” He winks. “And not prudish.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you making me strip just to prove my point?”

“Is it working?”

“Completely. Throw me my phone.”

He starts to laugh and hands it to me. “Why?”

“If I’m stripping like the wild man I am, I need the right soundtrack.”

“And what would that be?”

I choose the song I need and connect to the speaker on the bedside table. “Watch and learn,” I instruct, throwing my phone on the bed.

Mags cocks his head as the first bars come on. “Is this… Is this?—?”

“‘Alors on danse’? Yes, it is.”

He starts to laugh, and it’s wonderful — hearty and full of all the life that zings through this dynamic man. I watch him, captivated for a second and then remember my task.

I start moving my hips, overexaggerating the sway to make him laugh more. He watches me, his face alight with amusement.

“I feel I should have some money for you, yes?”

I raise my hands in the air, doing a nifty spin. “Save it,” I advise him. “You’re about to see just how unprudish I am.”

“Is that an actual word?”

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