A poem is a one-night stand, a short story a love affair, and a novel a marriage.
We went in and she headed straight for the bathroom.
She sounded like she was playing the drums with the amount of noise.
I turned on the TV and turned it up as loud as I dare. There was a film about the war on.
I sat on the edge of the bed cross legged when she came out dressed only in her underwear.
“I need to tell you something.” She slurred.
“I have thought about it and I think you should have sex with me.”
“Sex. You. Me.”
“You are in a relationship not with me.”
“You will regret it in the morning.”
“I’m going to the bathroom.”
I disappeared into the bathroom as quickly as I could without seeming terrified. I splashed water on my face and studied me in the mirror.
So now was the point of no return.
I did like her. A lot. Too much for a one night stand.
When I was with Victoria, every night had the excitement of a one night stand.
And I didn’t want to sneak around.
And I didn’t want to think only with the contents of my pants.
Summer was a good friend and I didn’t want to spoil that. The next time I had sex with someone, they would be more than a womb with a view.
OK… I can do this.
But then I walked out and all my agonising was for nothing. Summer was asleep, sat upright, still with her glasses on. I tried to take them off, but as I touched them, she groaned and turned her head away. I just left them there, got into bed and watched the film.
Thank god. We were friends.
And that was enough for me.
No one gets hurt.
Well I didn’t want to hurt any more than I already did.
Carpe Mentula is ‘seize the penis’ in Latin