Free Altar Ego by Kathy Lette

hypotenuse of a triangle.’
    ‘Hell, I didn’t know it was lost.’
    Despite being an unevolved Neanderthal, he had charm, you had to admit. Goddamnit. The guy was more disarming than a team of UN weapons inspectors. ‘Um … it’s the end of the twentieth century. Men don’t treat women like objects, any more.’
    ‘Hey, I don’t treat women like objects. Hell no.’ He gave a kind of James Cagney shrug. ‘I treat my objects
way
better.’
    Like I said – smartass. ‘I’ll have you know that women can do everything that men can do. The only thing men do better is die earlier.’
    ‘Crap. Men are loads better than women at loads of stuff.’
    ‘Oh, yes? Like what?’
    He smirked. The sort of smirk that hints at unmentionable sexual acts, things you couldn’t possibly care for – at first. ‘Guilt-free sex and whistlin’.’
    I put two fingers in my mouth and forced out a decibel-piercing shriek of air that even managed momentarily to drown out the Dire Straits hit being mangled by the band inside. On the Cliveden balcony, guests pivoted in our direction, eyes straining through the blackness. The Man Who Took Women’s Breath Away pulled me out of sight. He rattled the handles on the pavilion doors. Locked. The last door yielded, revealing the pool utility room. I could just make out the folded deckchairs, not yet unpacked for the summer, and a ping-pong table, pyjama-ed in canvas. It smelt mildewed but warm, there in the liquid, sensuous dark. We squeezed inside, close enough to feel each other’s breath. He smelt spicy, yeasty, and – it has to be said – divinely masculine.
    ‘Men don’t have to go to the john in pairs.’
    ‘Women don’t regard sitting on the toilet as a leisure activity.’
    ‘Men don’t get PMS.’
    ‘You’d
love
to have Premenstrual Syndrome. Men have PMS envy. Besides being a woman is better because, when we have kids, we never have to worry who the mother is.’
    ‘Yeah, but we get to have kids without havin’ to wear floral maternity dresses …’
    ‘Men can’t wrap things.’
    ‘Women can’t tell jokes.’ He came closer. Despite his Schwarzenegger pectorals, he moved with an easy grace. He leant a hand on the wall behind me, his bare forearm grazing my shoulder. ‘At least men know how to have fun. A chick’s idea of fun is to buy those tiny glass animals made from blown glass. Knick-knacks, yeah, that’s them. Explain that to me … Chicks get all juiced up over upholstery, man …’
    ‘Just like men do over gadgets. Actually men are just like those gadgets you buy which read “A little assembly required”. Then they sit in the corner all in pieces for centuries.’
    ‘So’ – he placed his other hand on the wall, touching the side of my face – ‘why are you hot for us, then?’
    ‘Hot for you! Huh! I don’t think so.’ Hot for him? I was bleeding from the ears. ‘How could anyone be hot for the sort of breed who like to drop bombs on urban areas?’
    ‘Yer know, yer right. Men are only good at the little things … like runnin’ the world and goin’ to war.’
    ‘At least we’re not always timing ourselves. Oh, that nuclear detonation took 12.6 seconds …’ I hooked one stockinged leg around his calf and drew him closer to me. Nothing like a touch of IBS (Irritable Boyfriend Syndrome) to make you horny and reckless with a complete and utter stranger. ‘Oh look! We did that trip in 1 hour, 13 minutes and exactly 3.6 seconds. And you won’t give way to traffic either. Especially to another man.’ My fragile dress fretted against his hard denim. ‘You’ll accelerate past the speed of light, before either of you idiots will give way … We can drive a small car and not worry what people are saying about our sexual prowess.’
    ‘Yeah, but garage mechanics don’t see
us
comin’.’ He slipped his hand down inside my bodice and rolled my nipple between two warm fingers. I drank in the details of his face. This guy was the practice run