Page 75 of Sex Ed

‘Yeah, all good,’ I say, holding my bottle of cider in the air.

I watch as he goes to the bar. Damn you, Scott. There was something there that clicked so well via text. A brilliant line of conversation, sexually very in tune, a couple of cultural references in there that made me think we had things in common. But now I’m thinking of him talking dirty into my ear, the prolonged squeak he’s going to make when he orgasms, and I bite my lip trying to keep in the giggles. Why does this happen to me like this? It’s always something. Maybe I’m being too picky. He could have other assets. I’ve seen the assets for myself, and I could forgive a high-pitched voice if he’s as good in person as he is on sext. I need to think about all the other qualities that make someone fanciable and future boyfriend material. He returns to the table with a pint and a packet of crisps. Salt and vinegar, that’s a good start.

‘So I’ll start by saying, it’s a bloody relief that you look like your pictures,’ he says, taking a large sip of his pint.

‘Have you been catfished before then?’ I ask.

‘Oh yeah. All the time, you?’

‘I once chatted to someone who swore he was the drummer in Coldplay. Turns out he was a tree surgeon called Kevin.’

He laughs. Oh dear. It sounds like a car starting in the winter. Don’t judge him, Mia.

‘Well, I’ve had nothing that extreme but the number of women I’ve met who outright lie is ridiculous.’

This time it’s time to focus on the words, less on the quality of his voice. ‘They lie to you?’

‘Oh, you know, they lie about how they look, their size. I’ve met some colossal women who’ve told me they’re a size eight. You’re what, a size ten?’

‘Depends on the clothes shop,’ I reply, biting my tongue to not say anything more.

‘Well, I can see you work out.’

‘I don’t.’

I only go to spin classes for the beats and the free coconut water. He really said that about women, didn’t he?

‘Well, it must be all that sex you have then,’ he comments. He winks and I feel a bit of my cider repeat up my nostrils. I’ve told this man too much already. Only two nights ago, I told him I wanted him to push me up against a wall and stick his assets in me. Now I’ve only been with him for two minutes and I want to push him off a wall. I reach over and help myself to a crisp and suddenly feel a short sharp slap to my fingers.

‘Naughty,’ he tells me, waving a finger at me.

I’m not averse to a slap in the right context but as soon as he does this, he turns his crisps around to face him.

‘If you want your own then you’ll have to buy them. I don’t share food.’

What?He’s generous too, eh? I can’t quite seem to remove the shock from my face that he slapped me in an open place.

‘Scott, how do you see this afternoon panning out?’ I enquire.

He seems confused by the change of tack. ‘Well, I thought we could chat, and you could see I’m not some serial killer and then come back to mine. We could make all your fantasies a reality.’ He smirks.

I swallow hard to think about all the things I disclosed to him. Oh dear.

‘So essentially, that would mean kissing, having sex and the exchange of bodily fluids. And you can’t even share a crisp with me?’

‘It’s my thing.’

‘Well, my things are generosity, kindness and an appreciation and respect for women. All women.’

There’s an eye roll and I feel a sudden urge to slap him myself. I shaved my legs for this. I’m wearing a thong. You’re not the only person feeling disappointment here. Was I supposed to just fall at his feet because of the abs, cheekbones and the bigger than average penis? It’s going to take more than that, I’m afraid.

He drinks half his pint quietly and then pushes his chair away. ‘Well, if you’re one of those raging feminist types then that’s not my bag, I’m afraid. A shame, you and me could have had fun.’

‘It’s you and I,’ I say, like correcting his grammar is any sort of forceful parting shot. He grabs a coat from the back of his chair and yes, he takes his crisps with him like a sociopath. I wave but he doesn’t respond, and I sit there nursing my bottle of cider, laughing to myself. I think back to a younger version of me who wouldn’t have listened to the words. She’d have been swayed by the fitness and had a fling that went on for way longer than was necessary. So well done to me for showing some element of growth.

However, is it weird that at this precise moment I’m thinking about someone who would have shared his crisps with me? I think about texting him. I could go over and quiz him on sex stuff before the big day tomorrow, but that wouldn’t be right. Maybe I should just jump on Tinder and start again. Or go home and watch porn. I look around the bar. I’m sure there was a time when you could pick up a person in an establishment such is this. One cheesy pick-up line and there was your meet-cute. But it’s 5 p.m. It’s a little early for that, maybe. I scan the bar. Too old, too denim, too tourist. However, my eyes then stop. Tommy from the P.E. department. Too much of a complete and utter dick. I hope he hasn’t seen me, though this could be a really good opportunity to spill something on him or order him ten burgers with all the toppings that he has to pay for. I watch him chat to the barman for a moment, scowling from my seat until someone comes to join him. There’s laughter, a hug, a hand to her waist and then a kiss. A long-drawn-out kiss.

As soon as I see who it is, I gasp loudly, the sadness overwhelming me.

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