Page 8 of Sex Ed

I grin to hear him talk about it so politely. My actual words were that I orgasmed so hard, I yodelled.

‘So, it turns out he was a bit of a dick…’

‘Yeah, you mentioned that,’ Ed says, smirking.

‘No, the personality. We went on a date, and he showed up drunk, spent five hours telling me football anecdotes while getting more drunk, so I put him in an Uber which he threw up in. This meant I had to pay the fouling charge AND the bar bill.’

Ed looks supremely appalled. ‘I’m sorry. That is grim. Did he at least try to repay you?’

‘No.’

‘And I guess no sex is worth that, right?’

‘You are correct. I just don’t know what’s happening with men and me at the moment. There’s always something; either the sex is good and they’re dicks or they’re nice but don’t know what to do with their dicks. I think I’m just better off with my vibrator.’ Ed flinches to hear me talk like this in public. He just about tolerates my ridiculous dancing but sometimes when I talk frankly and loudly about sex I see his body recoil with embarrassment, telling me how far we’ve travelled out of his comfort zone.

‘Or just go on dates. Get to know people and build a relationship first,’ he advises me like a grown-up adult.

‘But if I was that sensible, Eddie, I would have no stories for you and that would be dull. I wouldn’t be able to tell you about the bloke who brought me back to his for sex and his mum came in the room and made us tea.’

‘Or the time that man farted in Pizza Express and blamed it on you,’ Ed reminds me, bent over in hysterics. The reason he can laugh and I won’t get insulted is that there is enough space there now for these to be pub stories. In the moment, it always feels like I’m just some sort of bad man magnet.

‘I just need a break from you men. You’re the exception though. Our platonic love affair will and must continue. If only for the free sandwiches.’

His expression brightens to hear me change the subject, and he looks reasonably happy with that suggestion. And, like making him blush, I do love to make Ed happy, to hear those laughs, even if they are usually at my expense. It does nice things to his face. If only I could make him dance though, just a little. I try and bop my hips into his. Yep, that’s definitely not happening.

‘Who do I have to thank for this?’ Beth asks us as she comes over and half downs a beer. Ed puts his hand in the air. She slaps him on the back to say thank you. ‘Needed today. From the sounds of it, it’s been a hard week for all…’

‘That’s because it’s April,’ I say.

We all toast in agreement with that. April is the three-quarter point in the school calendar where the finish line still feels far away, exams are looming, and the kids are starting to turn on each other.

‘Well, here’s to willing the month away without event. Keep those drinks coming, kids,’ she tells us.

Ed salutes her and we watch our colleagues across the pub, all of whom are trading their weekly horror stories, security lanyards removed so no one can identify us when we start calling the kids bad names. I spy Henry from Geography who always starts the week looking relatively normal and finishes like he’s lost a fight with some feral cats. These pub visits are common practice with us – birthdays, promotions, leaving drinks, the completion of building works in the Art department – and the arrival of Caitlin today is as good an excuse as any to convene, despair and get steaming pissed this Friday.

‘You’re still staring at her,’ I tell Ed as he faces away from the bar to glance outside at the beer garden, where Caitlin sits with some of the Maths department, most likely chatting calculators and set squares. The light starts to fade, fairy lights hang off the ivy trellises, a mist from vapes and cigarettes fogging the air.

‘I’m looking. Looking is different to staring. Staring is like…’ He bulges his eyes at me to demonstrate.

I grab a bottle of beer from the bar and take a large sip to stop it overflowing. I turn to look at her too. ‘Is that your type then?’ I ask. ‘She’s quite…’

‘Pretty?’

‘Plain. She’d be the sort who pulls the covers up to her neck, lights off. The sort who wears a nightie.’

‘You don’t wear a nightie?’ Ed asks me, his nose wrinkled up to imagine the alternative.

‘Ed, I usually sleep in just knickers, tits out so they can get an airing.’

‘Too much information.’

‘You did ask. How do you sleep?’

‘Clothed. What if there’s a fire and you have to make a quick escape from your house?’ he tells me.

‘Then I’d make a fireman very happy,’ I joke, confused about how someone has contingencies for sleep-related emergencies. He doesn’t notice the joke because he’s still looking over at Caitlin.

‘I bet she uses hand cream too,’ I say, nibbling at a nail that has scraps of nail polish on it. ‘You’re quite taken with the young maiden, aren’t you?’ I add in Austen tones but still burping slightly under my breath.

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