Page 44 of Lovers in Lockdown

I still can’t believe that I’m sitting here looking at a handful of penises when the only one I’m actually interested in seeing is safely stowed away down Noah’s trouser leg.

No, wait. Ignore that. I didn’t mean it.

I absolutely do not want to see Noah’s massive cocktapus again.And I also totally don’t have dirty dreams about it every night either.

Maybe if I repeat it to myself enough times, I’ll actually start to believe it.

‘My ex-boyfriend had balls just like that,’ I think aloud, my nose wrinkling in disgust at the memory.

It’s not that I make a habit out of memorising the genitalia of all of my sexual conquests, but trust me, if you saw his balls, you’d have a hard time forgetting them too. And I don’t mean that as a good thing.

Noah turns to me with a grimace. ‘Jesus Christ, are you serious?’

‘Yeah. Had a dick like that too. It’s probably why he acted like such a raging cockweasel all the time.’ I shake my head, unsure of why I’m even talking about it. Perhaps to distract me from thinking about Noah’s waging cockweasel.

Noah tilts his head to the side. ‘He wasn’t nice to you?’

‘Not really,’ I shrug.

‘In what way?’

I look down. ‘Called me names and stuff. Told me he’s the best I’m ever going to get. I’m too ugly for anyone else to want me, so I should be thankful to have him, all that lovely kind of stuff.’

Noah scoffs, but I can’t meet his eye.

It took a long time for me to rebuild my confidence after that relationship. A long time to realise that what he said wasn’t the truth, that he said the things he did to mask his own insecurities. Men like that use their partners as scapegoats, a punching bag to unleash their frustrations about themselves.

But I still don’t like to talk about it.

Noah takes my hand in his, running the pads of his calloused fingers over my knuckles in soft, tiny circles. ‘I think you have the opposite problem.’ he whispers so quietly I almost don’t hear it.

I blink at him, not understanding what he means. But he doesn’t clarify, just turns back to the TV to watch as the lids open again to reveal the faces of the last four remaining contestants.

And suddenly I’m screaming, throwing my hands across my eyes and fighting the urge to vomit all over my lap.

Because my ex-boyfriend himself, the very same one we were just talking about, is standing inside the red coloured box with a shit-eating grin on his face, proudly displaying his dangly bits on Tuesday-night prime time TV.

Good lord, the man really is a narcissist.

Noah looks at me, perplexed by my reaction.

‘Um, so you know how I said that those balls look like my exes?’ Noah nods. ‘That’s him. That’s actually him. Thomas. My ex. That’shim.’

‘Wait.That’syour ex?’

‘Yep.’

‘The ex you were just talking about?’

‘Yep.’

‘The ex that-’

‘Yes, Noah, the same ex!’

‘Jesus,’ he releases a low, astonished whistle.

I’m dumbfounded. Stunned. Flabbergasted. Dazed. Confounded. Absolutely bloody thunderstruck at the sight of my ex’s overgrown man bush currently taking up the entire 55-inch TV screen.

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