Page 20 of Sex Ed

‘If that’s what it takes.’

FIVE

MIA

So it turns out that I’ve agreed to have sex with Ed Rogers. I’m not sure what I was thinking in that car. Part of me is strangely curious, and I feel my love for falafel may have affected my judgement, but I did think about all the times I’ve been judged and sex-shamed as a woman, and I didn’t want him to feel the same for being a virgin. That said, I also have an affection for Ed. He’s mildly awkward and super serious but, by that same measure, he is kind and generous, not laddy, he’s the best sort of work husband. And he deserves to have sex. He should be able to feel physical pleasure with another person and discover how awesome it can be. And maybe I’m the perfect person to do this with. I’ve been around the block when it comes to sex (not too many times, I’ll have you know) and I will look after him and not expect the world. I won’t shame his lack of experience, I will make this as light and painless as possible.

However, I do feel we need to chat more about when and where this will happen. Maybe we need a solid plan at least, because I’ve come round for our Wednesday takeaway night and Ed is in a suit. I’m thinking he may have taken the idea of hump day quite literally.

‘Hello!’ I say with gusto as the door opens. To his credit, it’s a well-fitting suit but I’ve realised that since Monday we’ve not really ironed out the finer details of our arrangement. ‘You’re wearing a suit.’

‘You’re wearing a tracksuit. It’s very bright. You look like a children’s TV presenter,’ he says, as I step over the threshold and give him a peck on the cheek.

‘You smell nice, too.’

‘Thank you,’ he says awkwardly.

‘Have you come from somewhere? A job interview perhaps? A court appearance?’ I ask, leading him into the kitchen.

‘No,’ he says, grabbing the takeaway from me, trying to hide the fact he’s gone formal this evening.

‘Ed, are you wearing date clothes?’ I ask him, eyebrows raised.

‘I didn’t know what this was… I just thought…’

‘You’d go formal. For takeaway Wednesday. I guess I should be glad you didn’t answer the door naked at least, with a flower in between your cheeks.’

He blushes. Takeaway Wednesday has been our thing since we started at this school, a type of check-in moment where we can decompress from the week’s madness and, more often than not, he can help me fill in some of my difficult teacher paperwork.

‘You do look very smart though. A for effort.’

He pouts in return. ‘Remember to take off your shoes.’

I nod. Ed likes his hygiene, so I scrappily use my back heel to kick my trainers off without undoing the laces. He stares at me while I do it and I wait for him to tell me I’m going to spoil my shoes, but he’s strangely quiet. Pensive. As he leads me through the house, I realise I’m taking in details of this place that I never have before. Ed isn’t me. I waste away my well-earned wages in a house share with other young professionals where I assumed we’d all hang around a lot and drink coffee, likeFriendsbut not. Instead, we fight over cheese and the whereabouts of all the teaspoons. Ed lives alone in a newbuild flat where he personally hoovers the communal staircases. It’s tidy, grown-up and everything has a place, from the thriving houseplants to the books and Kandinsky prints hanging on the wall. I hang bras off my radiators.

Ed does have one very lovely housemate though, who makes his way towards me now.

‘Nigel!’ I say, picking him up as he nestles his feline face next to mine. ‘How you doing, kitty cat?’

Naturally, Nigel doesn’t reply but I will admit that I’ve always rated Ed in how much he loves this cat and invests in quality toys and premium treats for him. I put him down and he slinks off to Ed who carries him and rubs his belly, making him purr.

‘See? You are good with pussy!’ I say.

‘You’re funny,’ he says flatly, trying to hide the fact he finds me completely hilarious.

He’s mopped, hasn’t he? Bless him. I get an even bigger surprise when I turn the corner to his open-plan kitchen and see the table laid with glassware, a candle in the middle of the table. I try to hold back my smile. He puts the bag on the countertop, getting out all the containers and noisily sifting through his cutlery drawer, swearing a little at not being able to find his chopsticks. I eye him curiously.

‘You seem extremely nervous. Did you think we were having sex tonight?’

‘Maybe? I don’t know! I just wanted to be ready… just in case…’

‘…I jumped you?’ He laughs but I still see his hand shaking as he removes the covers from the takeaway lids. ‘I’m not a jungle cat, I’m not going to just pounce on you and de-sex you. You watch too much Planet Earth,’ I joke.

I look at him; his body is tense, his eyes are scanning the room, as if he doesn’t really know what he’s doing. I go over to the counter, removing his gripped hands from the side and wrap my arms around his tense, arrow-straight body. It’s how I’d imagine people at Greenpeace feel when they’re hugging trees.

‘Eduardo. Relax, hug me back.’

He puts his arms around me and pats my back, like one would an old aunt. Warm citrus tones let me know he’s showered thoroughly and spritzed with some aftershave, too. This man is really all about the prep.

---