It’s a sticky, Bakewell tarty sort of kiss that tastes of cherries and sweet dessert wine. Interesting. His hands move over my back, cupping my buttocks, as I wrap my thighs round his waist. Staring into my eyes, he peels off my trousers, unzipping his own in quick succession. I prop myself uncomfortably on one big toe for easy entry, at last feeling that familiar puppet string pull of excitement in my groin.
And then it hits me.
I’m about to have sex with a total stranger.
Because I can.
I don’t even know what his name is.
How cool is that?
In the event, the sex is short, urgent and only Candarel sweet. He seems to think he’s in a porn film, finding it necessary to keep up a running commentary throughout.
‘What do you like?’ he keeps asking me. ‘What do you like?’
Seeing as though we’ve only just met, ordering him to stick his head between my legs and damn well stay there until I’ve finished doesn’t quite seem the ticket, so instead I say, ‘Oh, this is fine, thank you,’ as though I’m praising a rather bland restaurant meal. It’s just easier that way.
Besides, I’m too busy holding my stomach in, trying to keep my balance and leaning far enough forward to disguise my sticky-outty belly button to start quizzing him on his general knowledge of the Kamasutra. On the whole though, it goes pretty smoothly for my first time as a complete strumpet. And on the plus side, he doesn’t have a dick like a chipolata. And no belly button fluff.
He doesn’t even ask me to finish myself off and let him watch, which Janice has always assured me is pretty good going for a one-off.
OK, so I don’t get Croissants, but then anyway that’s an event usually as rare as a French beefburger in my limited experience.
Oh, and he produces a condom without my even having to ask, which is lucky, because in all the excitement of casual sex, I doubt it would have occurred to me to mention it. And this guy doesn’t really have the cheekbones for sperm donation. If I was going to get pregnant accidentally on purpose, I think I’d probably rather have George’s. And I’d go for someone with that extra bit of height.
When we’re done and dusted, he actually looks more relieved than gutted when I push him away and yank up my knickers, pausing only to slip on my tarty slingbacks and throw one last withering glance at his rapidly deflating erection before legging it, but who cares? I’m empowered. I can do anything.
I swan downstairs on a powder puff of postcoital elation. George is going to be dead impressed. I’ll get extra hardness points for doing it at a wedding. He spies me the moment I trip back into the ballroom.
‘Where’ve you been?’ he demands accusingly. ‘I’m bloody miserable here without David, darling, and there you go and disappear on me.’
‘Missing David, eh?’ I tease him. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books. I wouldn’t worry about him. He’s probably off shagging some complete girl. He’s dead flirty, you know. He’s probably bi.’
‘Darling, he’s as camp as a row of pink tents with “Ooh knickers” scribbled on the side. And he seemed pretty interested in me, thank you very much, so I think we’ll give him the benefit of the doubt before we condemn him to a life of football, Firkin pubs and fanny batter, don’t you?’
‘Whatever.’
‘So where have you been?’ he asks, slightly deflated, as I pause to poke in a sausage roll.
‘Having sex,’ I boast.
‘No, seriously.’
‘Just what I said.’
‘Nooooooooo.’
‘Yeeeeeeeees.’
‘Oh my God, darling.’ He slooshes wine around in his glass. ‘I hope you’ve had a shower since. I mean I know that this is a real breakthrough for you and everything, what with you being practically hermetically sealed, but the bride’s about to throw the boookay.’
‘So?’
‘We don’t want you catching it with dribbly bits running down your legs, do we? We’ll have the whole of SW1W smelling like a fleet of herring trawlers before you’re done. Which just won’t do. I mean, I’ve been to Hull Harbour, darling, and it isn’t dainty. And I do hope you were selective, sweetie.’
‘Sort of.’
‘Oh look, come on, darling,’ he urges, forgetting my conquest as though it were completely run of the mill. ‘She’s about to throw it now. Right nasty little scrubber she looks too. Real pram face. Come on, you’re a girl. Up you go.’
‘But…’
‘No buts, darling, come on. Join in.’
And before I can protest, George, like a pushy mother at a ballet competition, has physically shoved me among the throng of girls in sparkly Cinderella dresses, all bobbing up and down expectantly at the side of the stage area, where Basildon Bride stands, brandishing a bouquet of salmon-pink roses, set off by billowing clouds of the nasty frothy white stuff you always get in service stations.