Chapter One
IT IS A truth universally acknowledged that a single dom in possession of a whip must be in want of a sub.
Or is it? Leaving aside my problem with the depersonalising labels of dom and sub, it seems far from truth and very far from universal acknowledgement. Even to identify oneself as a person with an interest in the kinky side of things is a risk many prefer not to take. We lurk behind the vanilla lines, looking wistfully over at the dungeon parties on the other side, getting our thrills by internet proxy.
This was how I came to find myself at a hopelessly vanilla, horribly Sex in the-City-esque speed dating event at a bar in Gunwharf Quays.
‘I’m really not sure about this.’
But Louisa was already at the bar, ordering white wine spritzers.
‘So what are you going to do? Sit in your flat for ever more? It’s been six months, Chez. I bet Gareth’s met someone else over the summer holidays.’
‘I couldn’t give a toss. In fact, I hope he has. Some cheerleader type who’s happy to stand on sidelines in all weathers. No, I mean I’m not sure about speed dating. It’s not very … organic.’
‘Neither is this wine, but that doesn’t seem to bother you.’
‘I mean, it’s a bit forced. Desperate, even.’
‘Yeah, well, I am desperate,’ said Lou, necking back a big swig of wine. ‘If I don’t get a shag soon, I’m going to start hanging around the dockyard gates in a basque and suspenders.’
‘Ah, all the nice girls love a sailor. But do sailors love nice girls?’
I looked out through the window at the warship radar towers looming in the distance.
‘I’m not a nice girl,’ pointed out Lou. ‘Not like you.’
Oh, if you only knew.
But I couldn’t tell her, and I couldn’t tell Gareth, even though a large proportion of my reasons for fancying him centred on his size and breadth and large hands and capacity to fling me around like a rag doll. Not that he ever used it. He crushed me to a pulp in the missionary position thrice weekly, panting for five minutes then roaring, ‘You’re fucked, girl,’ before indulging in some target practice with the condom and the wastepaper basket.
When I found myself planning a lesson on composition theory during sex, I realised it was time to send Gareth and his vast collection of rugby shirts back into the world of singledom.
‘So, what’s the talent like?’ wondered Lou, casting her eyes around the room. ‘Anything take your fancy?’
I shrugged. It looked like the usual selection of chancers in cheap suits to me. I wanted to choke from the miasma of conflicting fragrance in the room.
‘I’m guessing Hugo Boss is here somewhere,’ I said, sniffing. ‘I bet he’s worth a few bob. Plus, I like his name.’
‘Hugo?’
‘No. Boss.’
‘You like a man who wears the trousers?’
Ooh, close to the bone. I have to deflect this line of reasoning.
‘Yeah,’ I said lightly. ‘Though I wouldn’t rule out Eddie Izzard either. Or even Grayson Perry.’
She laughed and a bell rang. It was time to speed date.
Time to start a dozen abortive, pointless conversations with strange men.
Eleven of the conversations went like this:
Him: Hi, I’m Jim/Joe/Harry/Kamil.
Me: I’m Cherry, pleased to meet you. What do you do?
Him: I’m an insurance salesman/physiotherapist/ paralegal/electrician. How about you?
Me: I’m a teacher.
Him: (leering) Oh yeah? I bet you could teach me a thing or two.
Me: headdesk.
The twelfth took a different course.
Him: That’s a lovely choker.
Me: Oh, thank you. It’s one of my favourites too.
Him: I’ve often wondered how those feel, around your neck. Do they constrict your breathing at all?
Me: Not really. You are sort of aware of it all the time, though.
Him: (smiling dangerously) I like the sound of that.
Me: (speechless, suddenly quivery, giving him a long, hard second look)
Him: It’s a good present from a lover, isn’t it? Like having his hand wrapped around your neck all night. His mark on you.
Me: (gabbling) Are you a possessive type, then?
Him: Oh yes. Not particularly jealous, though, and certainly not in an abusive way. But if a girl likes to feel possessed, then I’m happy to oblige.
Me: How do you … make her feel like that, then?
Him: I’d love to show you.
Me: (quailing beneath keen grey stare, predatory curl of lip, broad shouldered swoop forward) Oh. Really?
Him: Yes, really. Come with me.