It was about lunchtime when I got to Savannah’s flat. She wasn’t in. At a tutorial. However, a languorous youth named Julian was in. We shook hands. I’ve grasped firmer rubber gloves.
To make conversation I asked him what he was studying at Cambridge. “Russian and Chinese”, he replied, ‘But I’m just messing around really. I shan’t sit my finals. Im not looking for a bloody job!”
He offered me a coffee with an Italian name and not wanting to sound provincial I accepted. As he pottered in the kitchen with shots and expensive looking beans I regretted my inferiority complex. I asked him if he shared a flat with Savannah.
“I’m married to Sav” he said, “She’s Mrs Pemberton-Fife. Did it as a favour last week. She’s got this great little theory that first marriages should just get over and done with quickly, so we intend to divorce quite soon. We don’t love each other”, he added. Then , “In fact I prefer my own sex”.
“Good”, I said, “Because I intend to be Savannah’s second husband”
“Lovely!”, he grinned, and shot back his expensive coffee.
I did the same, though with a little too much gumption. The concoction was thick like tar and boiling hot. It slid through my lips and down my chin.
Savannah came in. She looked clever and lovely. I grimaced and wiped the brown liquid from my mouth.
“Hello Mrs Perberton-Fife”
“Oh you know then?”
“Can I stay here?”, I asked.
“Yes”, she said.
And so it was.
****
Savannah is textbook beautiful. Her hair is like spun gold and bounces around her shoulders in thick, luxurious waves. She’s got deep blue eyes and an incredible milky complexion like some sort of Slavic goddess, lost and wasted on mere mortals. Her money-creamed lifestyle and wonderful mind only contributes to her brilliance. I’ve been utterly excited by her presence since I was 13-years old and have never quite decided whether I’m in love with this girl, or am simply infatuated by her sheer being. In our youth we dabbled in romance, a beautiful time cut short when I requested putting my hand inside her Marks and Spencers training bra. Afterwards we retreated back to friends, an exercise in both frustration and heartache for me. Being around her again after such a long time turns something on inside me. I can only imagine what developed wonders lie behind her under garments now. Utter torture.
The next day , Savannah and I went shopping for the dinner party she was having later that night. Julian Pemberton-Fife was lying in bed reading a Rupert the Bear annual. He shouted, “Don’t forget the honey Darling’s!”, as we left. He was too homosexual for words and subsequently I knew we would be friends.
Once we got outside onto the street, I told Savannah that she must start divorce proceedings at once as she buttoned up her coat. “Right now, this minute . .these things can take forever”. I offered to accompany her to a solicitor’s office.
“They don’t work on Saturday afternoons”, she said, “They play golf all afternoon”.
“Monday morning?”, I said.
“I’ve got a tutorial”, she added feebly.
“Monday afternoon?!”, I pressed.
“I’m going for lunch with my friends . .”
We went through the whole week and the following. Savannah’s every waking moment seemed to be accounted for. Eventually I foolishly exploded.
“Look Savannah, if you don’t get divorced then we can never get married!”
Savannah stroked a courgette with her lovely fingers.
“Well actually Bryan darling, I don’t intend to get married until I’m at least thirty-six .”
“Thirty-six!”, I screeched, “By then I could be fat, toothless . .or dead!”
She sighed and widened her eyes. “Well”, she said raising her eyebrows, “You’re not exactly dripping with charisma right now are you?”
In my hurry to leave the shop I knocked over a pile of Outspan oranges onto the floor. In the resulting confusion (Which saw several old ladies reacting to the oranges as though they were hand grenades rather than fruit rolling towards them), I failed to see Savannah hurriedly depart.
I ran after her. When I paused for breath at the corner I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder, then a growling voice.
“Runnin’ off without payin’ eh? Well, I’m sick of you students nickin’ my stuff, this time I’m prosecutin’. You’ll be in a police cell tonight my lad’.
It was with horror that I realised I had an Outspan orange in each hand.
****
I have been charged with shoplifting, the evidence against me was too strong. My life is ruined. I’ll have a criminal record. Now I will never get a job in the Civil Service.
The night in the cells was cut short because Savannah’s Father pulled some strings. I suppose I should feel grateful but I can’t feel bitter that these sort of things can only achieved by Affluent bastards like Mr Collins. Savannah is standing by me so to speak. She feels guilty because when she ran out the shop to rid of me she forgot to pay for a pound of courgettes, two grapefruits and a box of cress.
Nothing has changed. It’s still the rich who get the gravy and the poor who get the blame. Still, she feels bad enough to let me lodge in her flat for a while sans rent, and I’ll be taking it for all it’s worth.
****
The following evening, Savannah and Julian resumed the dinner party they had put on hold given my jail circumstances. Cambridge students are obviously different to your run-of-the mill University hooligans, slicing up a single potato garnished with margarine to share with their equally starving flatmates before putting on all the clothes they own and retiring to bed in the hope that the many layers of material will get them through the night. Savannah cooked shellfish in garlic butter and selected specific chardonnay to complement the dish. She lit candles and set the table with decent silver, burned incense sticks and played obscure Jazz on the CD Player. For all I wished I could hate what was happening around me I secretly loved it. This was it. This was the way it should be.
Julian and Savannah had invited both their friends. Julian’s were all just taller, dimmer or gayer versions of himself. Savannah on the other hand had successfully managed to invite a group of the most beautiful creatures I had ever encountered. Floaty, expensive, lovely people, both men and women, radiating grandeur. Savannah looked magnificent dressed in some chiffon dream with beading laced around her breasts and exquisite tailoring perfectly silhouetting her hourglass frame.
I drank too much wine and watched her from across the table, mentally undressing her. WHEN WAS THIS TO HAPPEN FOR ME!? I thought about the last time I had sex and remembered Mandy’s ample bosom. And then I rememberd her thighs. And the rolls of fat. And that utterly enourmous arse. And the dream. WHAT WAS I THINKING!? And as it all went blurry I retreated to my bedroom in a hurry. Collapsing on my bed clothes, rising only to vomit on the window sill. I fell asleep.
****
I awake about two to the noise of the dinnerparty leaving the flat and returning to their own luxury pads, perfect lifestyles in hand. I’m embarrassed by the situation around me. I never got to tell them how I could have joined them in this idyllic lifestyle had my parents not been victims of Thatcherism, given up on work and thus never really cared about my education. I lie back. What could have been . .
I hear Julian kiss Savannah on the cheek like he does every evening and skip along to his parlour. I can’t help but feel fond of Julian now, I think its just the novelty of a male being in such close conditions with Savannah and me not seeming to care.
I’m just about to dose off again when I hear a strange muffled noise outside my door, like the scratching of a cat . . or mice!? Surely not. But we are by the river. WHAT ABOUT RATS? I curl further beneath my covers, but then think twice and get up to shut the door that leads to the hall. As I reach for the handle I see that mauve chiffon dress through a chink in the door and as I open it I realise its Savannah . .crying.
“OHHH BRYAN DARLING ITS YOU!!!!”
Drunk? Is she drunk? Oh God yes. OH JESUS YES!!!!!!!
“Savannah why aren’t you in bed? Why are you crying?!”
“Oh just feeling a little but lost darling . .just lost”, she replies, smiling.
That voice. Even in its slurred manner still so warm I want to take a bath in it.
“Listen Bryan darling I just want to make love . . .will you make love to me?!”
Make love? Who says that? SHE DOES! She wants it! I feel cheated and sick but too excited to think. I play the chivalric card to be on the safe side to start.
“Sav, let me take you to bed. Don’t worry . .”
AND SHE’S KISSING ME! I mean really kissing!
We stumble onto my bed attached by the tongue, clothes clumsily removed along the way. I can’t believe my luck but at the same time suspect this could end poorly for me with Savannah in a sober state. I try to relax and grab her breasts like I’m holding on for dear life. She gasps.
Oh God. She’s just realised what she’s doing.
“Sorry?” I insist.
“That’s ok”, she says, “I LIKE IT!”, and digs her fingernails into my back throwing me back against the window sill.
I can’t believe her sexual appetite. I always remember her as such a reserved type. She could have easily been entirely sexually inexperienced to my knowledge.
And then she says, “Bryan, have we any protection?”.
Christ. It’s over. I have nothing and I know given our obsessive, verging on the frightening sexual education at school it’s going to happen no other way.
“No Sav, I didn’t anticipate. .”
“No worries darling, I’m taking the pill”
Oh God. The pill. I have been too naive to believe that University life was purely an academic exercise for Savannah. This sexual appetite was by far the result of a sexually deprived being. She was an angel. An upper class angel. They’d be queuing at the door.
And then I feel it. A thick, wet liquid falling down my back. The sick. THE FUCKING SICK!. In her rush to bed I had been thrown against the window and thus been covered in the consistency. This was a nightmare. A dreamlike situation with what I was sure to be nightmare consequences.
I give her a disgusting, tonsil-licking kiss to create a diversion and started to plan a way to clean myself up. But I can’t leave her. She’ll lose interest. Or maybe pass out.
I lie on my back to dwell for a minute but she pulls at my undergarments and climbs on top of me. OH GOD! I hadn’t even started to consider the pressure of this scenario! THIS WAS SAVANNAH. I started rocking like a madman until the fear got too much and I started losing it. I feel a flush of panic, try desperately to convince myself that it’s a momentary lapse, awkwardly remove myself from inside her and flip her onto the bed with all the strength I can muster, distractingly groping her so hard its like I’m performing CPR.
It’s really gone now. Nothing. Nothing at all.
What in God’s Name is wrong with me? She grinds her hips against and I bump a little to try and get something to happen. But nothing. My penis is simply not a member in good standing.
The thought of Savannah reaching down ,expecting a Hot Dog and finding a Cocktail sausage is all too much for me. I do what any sensible person would do: I go down on her.
Now I’ve never done this before, with my situation surrounding Mandy’s thighs I always remain at her upper body, amercing myself in the only feature of her biological make-up that makes me forget what I’m doing. I start to believe my timing is a little off as when I’m about to dive in so-to-speak Savannah moans “Oh yes. TALK TO ME!”
Like I don’t have enough on my mind, now I’m to provide a multaneous running commentary. This is all too much. She was always the girl that thought conversation was of prime in importance in a relationship.
“What do you want me to . .?”
“Don’t Stop!”, she says, mashing my face into her crotch.
“I dnt thnk I sn tlk lik ths”, I say into her pelvis.
“Oh yes! That’s it”, she purrs.
“I CNT BRTH!”
She shivers and her pale skin turns to goose bumps. I’m glad to see one of is having a good time.
“Yu dnt ndstand!”
“More”, she says.
I have no idea what to talk about having never given thought to conversing with a vagina before. I say the first thing that comes to me head. : :Listen my children, and you shall hear/Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere.
I’m not sure this is what Mrs Sudgen had in mind when she assigned it to our English class in our first year of High School, but I am here to tell you that Longfellow’s famous poem and a supple tongue make an effective substitute if you do not have a Long Fellow of your own available. I remember enjoying this poem very much in class but Savannah having mixed views about it. OH HOW THE TABLE’S HAVE TURNED! “I am the very model of a major general” sends her into fits of pleasure and for all I should feel triumphant for making this happen all I can think about is my flaccid penis .At one point she tries to curve her body around like maybe she should reciprocate, but I stop her by springing my head up and whispering in my best sensitive, new-age-pro-feminist-like way, “Let’s just focus on you, ok?”.
Savannah lies back, relieved more than likely in not having to bother and stretches out like a cat wanting it’s belly scratched, or in this case her cat scratched I suppose. I try to cup her in my hands as I reach deeper inside her with my tongue and start reciting all the various Shakespeare monologues I’ve memorised. She gasps and grinds her hips as if trying to swallow her whole, which given the circumstance would probably suit me fine. I’m so upset that I can’t get hard even in this dream-like scenario that I’d like nothing more than to peel back the layers of her and crawl inside, feeling my way along the dark, moist walls of her vagina until I’ve disappeared completely, leaving the world-Mandy, The Library, My flaccid dick behind me. Then I could just curl up like a baby inside her womb, all quiet, warm and peaceful.
It occurs to me that these sort of thoughts are probably what contribute to my penis problems. After a short passage from the aptly titled ‘Much Ado About Nothing”, she purrs with contentment and curls up smiling, her hair in drunken disarray and red wine stains all around her rosebud lips. I go to the bathroom to wipe the sick from my back and review the situation with my cock. I urinate before retiring to bed and feel the thick, acidic, burning sensation that I encountered at the Richard’s abode. WHAT IS GOING ON! I’m a biological disaster.
The good news is that my strategy worked: for those of you who aspire to be cunning linguists, you should know that rapid iambic pentameter drives Savannah so wild that she almost broke my jaw with her thighs when she came.
The bad news is, I can’t help but think this may turn out to be awkward come the morning.
