Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

Dance class goes great. I feel braver and more sensual than any other practise day. It’s scary to think I’m coming to the culmination of my time. The reason I’d started taking these classes in the first place was a self-inflicted prod to help bring me out of my shell. I’d started the classes in Paris after a visit to Le Crazy Horse cabaret when I’d first arrived. It’s absolutely a tourist spot and, as far as I’m concerned, a must-see item for any holiday agenda. I’d watched in awe as the dancers had completed their routines with poise and grace in high heels and ballet shoes and, to be quite honest, not an awful lot else. I was enthralled. It’s one thing to prance across the stage in five-inch heels, but to do it topless? It seemed like the height of bravery—like art. In a moment of madness, I’d signed up for a burlesque dance class. I’d reasoned it would help me feel more sensual, along with helping my confidence. And if nothing else arose from it, it would at least help me learn how to move gracefully in heels.

I’m not sure if the experience has anything to do with my late sexuality bloom, or if it was more to do with exposure to Mac, but one thing’s for sure; lately, I’ve never felt so desirable. And when I’m in his arms—or when he’s on the floor with his tongue in my girly parts—I’ve never felt so liquid and loose. So bloody sexual.

It’s hard to believe the girl lying rigid on that Parisienne hotel bed was me. The girl with her hands balled into fists held by her sides. I’m beginning to wonder if the reason I’ve held onto my virginity so long says less about me as a person and more about my luck in men.

I tell myself I’d enrolled in this class after admiring the dancers poise and elegance, but I concede I’d also hoped the experience would make me see myself as a sexual being. Had I known I’d meet Mac, that I’d be capable of feeling the way he makes me feel, I doubt I’d have bothered enrolling in this London class. Especially as the culmination of the term is to end in a display of my new skills. A segment booked in a London club.

I look forward to it with a mixture of terror and thrill, that makes me feel quite ill.

Exhausted and slightly sweaty, I pick Louis up from school. We stop on the way home for an ice cream as a treat for me as much as him. Summer is well on its way, and it fills the city with a sense of optimism. Everything seems better in the sunshine. Days seem endless and possibilities abound.

Louis chats all the way home, and it’s so nice to hear about his day, even as my mind is preoccupied with the routine I’m learning for my little act.

See? Optimism.

Which is all knocked to the back of my mind as I step through the front door and skid in a smear of dog poo.

‘Merde.’

‘You said a bad word,’ says Louis from behind. ‘Ew, what is that smell?’

‘Looks like Charles Rififi helped himself to the contents of the bin this morning.’ Bits of packaging from the chicken lay strewn across the room, along with something that looked suspiciously like soggy pre-packaged cheese.

‘Eww. It has given him the walks,’ Louis cries, pinching his little nose as we make our way—carefully—farther into the room.

‘It’s certainly given him something.’ Though I rather think it’s the runs, according to the streaks of brown throughout the place. ‘Oh, not the carpet!’ Brown stains on an oatmeal-coloured rug are not a good look.

‘He is stinky! Where is that bad puppy?’

Three large bowls of warm, soapy water, two cloths, and one huge roll of kitchen towel later, the floor is clear, and Charles Rififi has been confined to his crate. So far so good as far as excrement explosions go, and the place is starting to smell less like a methane farm.

‘Waf, I don’t feel so good,’ Louis complains from his place on the sofa. ‘I think I might be sick, too.’

‘I think it’s just the smell.’ The doors are open and candles are lit—what else can I do? I’ve even washed the little rodent’s bum while managing not to spew.

‘I can hear your phone winging,’ Louis adds balefully. ‘You should tell Daddy he needs to come home to me.’

I make a mental note to tell Mac that his son required his presence earlier today—that he’d asked for him in person—while peeling off the rubber gloves and digging into my bag for my phone, which had buzzed with a text, not a call.

Mac: Hypothetical question.

Me: Are you sending it telepathically or telephonically?

Mac: Someone’s angling to be put over my knee again.