Page 26 of Sex Ed

‘Natural yoghurt?’ Beth says.

Lucy laughs so hard I worry it might stop the train.

‘But how do you teach someone like that to let go?’ I ask these girls, curious for their input.

‘Baby steps?’ Beth tells me. ‘We’re about to go to a club classics night with about two thousand people, he’d drown. Maybe take him to a bar, few drinks… Are you worried about him?’ she asks.

‘No. Just… I don’t think he has a lot of fun in his life.’

Don’t tell these girls, one of whom you’ve only just met, that he’s a virgin. He just doesn’t have fun in general. He takes his life and work so seriously, too seriously, and before it was something to rib him about. Now, I fear he doesn’t enjoy his life, that he’s never really let go and it feels like my life’s mission to at least help him achieve that, whether that be sexually or not. Maybe it starts with a dance. Or a date with Lucy here who I feel is all about the fun. Maybe I should introduce her to Ed. That could be a thing, though would possibly be like two planets colliding.

‘But Ed does have you,’ Beth tells me. ‘And I think you’re fun.’ This is so very true. The Tube rolls into our station and we disembark from the train, Lucy going through her purse to pass me a mini bottle of vodka. Maybe not the legal or done thing to be doing in public but I’m past caring. And I like a girl who carries travel alcohol. I watch her walk ahead of me, linking an arm through Beth’s, and feel a sudden twinge of sadness at how the dynamic is very different to the one I have with my sisters who I’m lunching with tomorrow. These two share raucous family in-jokes, they’re ride-or-dies. It actually seems that they like each other. I don’t think my sisters even know my middle name.

‘So, ladies, I managed to get VIP passes for all of us,’ Beth explains, turning to me, as we traverse ourselves around quite the crowded platform, everyone I assume to be headed in the same direction from the buzz and the clubbing outfits. ‘Just behave yourself,’ she says, pointing to her sister. I raise an eyebrow and Lucy laughs and winks back. We come to a stop as the sheer volume of people causes a bottleneck at the bottom of the escalators. It’s then we hear it. Music. Usually in Tube stations, the music comes from buskers, but the beat is heavy with this one. Lucy and I turn around to see a man stood by the wall with a wearable mixing desk. He’s dressed in a vintage shell suit, with a visor, clashing trainers, a whistle in his mouth, there are lights and sweat bands and despite the probably very heavy load, this man is ready to take on this Underground station, on his own until the place throbs with his beats. He feels like the human opposite of Ed.

‘ARE WE READY, LONDON?!’ he shouts.

‘FUCK, YEAH!’ Lucy screams at him, abandoning the escalator, and I see Beth’s eyes close for a second given that there are also children in the vicinity.

‘LET’S GOOOOO!’ And with that the beat drops. It’s Lucy who starts jumping and for a moment, everyone who was planning to get out of here starts joining in; it’s the pre-party and it’s free. Fuelled by my mini vodka, I may very well get down. Hell, it’s a Saturday night in my favourite city and I’ve danced in worse places. It’s not a practised dance style that I have but by God, I love that my shoulders always find that beat first before my feet, until the song reverbs to my neck and hips. I’m wearing my favourite dance outfit, too; a gold skirt that makes me look a little like a Quality Street, but I pair it with a vintage T-shirt and matching Gold Converse. They’re my happy clothes and as I put two arms into the air something makes me lose control of my limbs on those tiles. I think it might be joy. I glance over at Lucy who has one arm around her sister’s neck, the other pointing in the air as she sings along.

‘EVERYBODY DANCE NOW!’ It’s the most classic of club classics and she looks at me, pointing her fingers, and sings along.

‘I’m so sorry,’ a man beside me says as his arm flies into me but I don’t think I care. I look him up and down and smile, watching him dance along with his mates.

‘What’s your name?’ he asks me.

‘Mia.’

‘Howard.’

‘Ouch, sorry about that…’

He laughs, for which I’m thankful. Is he good looking? Good hair. It’s a bit scruffy, and I like the smattering of facial hair, the polo shirt I could do without but he’s dancing and that’s excellent. I see Lucy stick her tongue out at me to see I may have already pulled before we’ve even got to the concert.

‘Are you headed to the Club Classics gig?’ he asks me.

‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to play it coy.

‘Well, that is good,’ he says, grinning.

‘Really?’ I reply, laughing.

ED

People are not kind about Taylor Swift, but I think people forget that sometimes simple melodies with happy undertones are all that’s needed. I am a fan. Not that I have her poster on my wall, but I’ll happily listen to her songs in my car and sometimes I may also sing along. She’s also very pretty but if we ended up together, she’d probably write a song about me. I can imagine the lyrics now. She could rhyme virgin with urging. I think about what Mia said to me yesterday. She set me actual homework ahead of our sex date next week. Our sex date. I need a better way to describe this but as you can imagine, I am a mixture of anxiety, nausea and paranoia. What should I wear? Should I eat more protein in the days leading up to it? Is there something I should read? Maybe I should do the homework she set me then, shouldn’t I? I should prepare myself within an inch of my being so nothing can go wrong, and I can’t humiliate myself in front of Mia.

So, as I prepare my vegetables for Sunday lunch, I do the unthinkable.

‘Alexa, bring up Mia’s Music playlist on Spotify.’

Playing Mia’s Music on Spotify.

She’s sending me noise, isn’t she? I feel that her taste is noise with no lyrics and a healthy beat, but I’m strangely surprised that the first song that comes up isSir Dukeby Stevie Wonder. This is clever because this song is hugely recognisable, and you have to be some sort of evil entity to not be a fan of Stevie Wonder. Even I know this song. I top and tail some French beans. She asked me if I danced in my kitchen. I’ve never really felt the need but maybe this is where it starts. I need to do the prep. Will she know if I haven’t danced? Do I need to film myself as proof? My hands otherwise occupied, I side step. I feel like I’m in the middle of a dancefloor at a wedding. Hips. Maybe if I sway them. Front to back or side to side? Side to side feels the safer option. I put my knife down and start clicking my fingers. I’m reminded of a scene fromFootloose. I need to channel Kevin Bacon. The clicking feels wrong. I feel like someone’s dad. I don’t think this is how you should dance, and this is confirmed by the fact Nigel leaves the room to not have to witness it anymore. This is why Taylor Swift is the right choice for someone like me.

The doorbell goes, like some divine intervention, and I go to answer it.

‘EDDIE!’

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