Free Putty In Her Hands by R J Butler

later, my
evening’s contentment was made complete with the arrival of Dawn’s
text: I’m having a glass of champagne and toasting us. Here's to
you my darling. x.
     
    Joyful, I locked myself in the
bathroom, and texted back: Having a great time. Pissed and
happy. Wish I could give you a new year kiss. Your so fucking
wonderful, love you, R.
     
    1.30 p.m. I’ve done a
bit of work, not much. Updating the ‘Learning and Development
Directory’, but mainly sorting out my files – the sort of New Year
task I always quite enjoy. Dull stuff really but I am on the top of
the world – I have just received a text from Dawn: Can you
escape to mine tomorrow after work?
     
    I text home: Ok if I go out
for a drink tomorrow after work? An hour later, comes back the
response from home: Yes.
     
    I text Dawn in return: Sorted. I’ll be at yours tomorrow from 5.30. And in return a
slightly disappointing text: Great. Bring some dvds.
     
    DVDs? Are we going to watch
bloody DVDs all night? I rather had other plans; plans that were
exciting me and making me nervous at the same time. Again, the old
anxieties creep in – what if I don’t get an erection this time, I
did last time but that doesn’t mean anything. Viagra. It’s the only
solution; might not need it but better safe than sorry, etc.
There’s a sex shop about two miles from home; surely they’d sell
it. But if we’re simply going to watch a DVD then why the bother?
Perhaps in Dawn’s world, “watching DVDs” is merely a euphemism for
an evening of rampant sex. I certainly hope so. Since December
21 st , I’ve visualised many a time her nakedness, the
shape of her breasts. And I want more, desperately so.
     
    5 p.m. It’s dark, I pull
on my hood and park a little distance away. I have no qualms about
going into a sex shop in Central London but here, in my own
backyard, so to speak, where I know people and have friends living
nearby, this is different. I scuttle along, head down, conscious of
a large bus queue on the other side of the road. The door is open,
and I push aside the beaded curtain and enter. Like any sex shop,
it’s brightly coloured, too hot and induces in one a sense of
unease and guilt. Inside a couple of blokes in suits stand back to
back looking at the array of porno DVDs. Behind a high counter,
perched on a high stool, sits a pale faced man with tattoos on his
hands and knuckles, smoking a roll-up. Behind him is a TV screen
showing one of his products – a porno film with a couple making
noises of operatic proportions with various genealogical close-ups
where cameras should not tread. How can one work with that behind
one all day long? Does one become immune to it? Maybe we should try
it at the office.
     
    Hi, I say. Between us,
on the counter, sits a display of brightly coloured vibrators, some
which bend at peculiar angles, others surely too thick for your
average woman to even contemplate.
     
    Right. His accent his
Irish, his voice bored. His fingers are heavily stained with
nicotine. I venture that this man has never read our ‘Guide to
Providing a Customer Led Service’, which I helped compose.
     
    Do you sell Viagra?
     
    Yeah. How many will you be
wanting?
     
    I glance up at the TV. God,
that woman is flexible. Don’t know, to be honest, I’ve never
taken it before.
     
    Right. They all say that.
     
    God, that man in the film has
got some cock. I’ve seen horses with less girth. Oh. Well. I
guess one will do.
     
    He rummaged beneath the counter
as the screams on the TV behind reached a new crescendo. I would
hate it if Emily screamed like that; the neighbours would never
forgive us. And surely that bloke isn’t going to put it there?
     
    Ten pounds, he says,
wrapping the blue, diamond-shaped pill in a twist of paper.
     
    Ten pounds for one pill? It seemed very large as pills go. Should I take it all in one
go? I ask handing over a tenner.
     
    I wouldn’t; else you’ll have a
hard-on from now to Easter. Just take half, or