White City Blue

  No, it doesn’t work. Your question was, ‘What’s the most times you’ve ever made a woman come in one session?’ Perhaps I’m speaking personally, but you don’t only make women come with your dick. You can make them come with your tongue, with your mouth or with your finger. Then you have to take into account accessories. Vibrators, ticklers and so forth. So whether or not you’re hard isn’t necessarily relevant.

  Tony looks defeated by this.

  It has to be per night. Nothing else works, says Nodge, with the air of a circuit judge who is simply interested in impartiality being maintained. His face is at its best like this: droopy, serious, Eeyore with jowls. He’s finished his cigarette, so he’s started biting the tips of his fingers. The nails are pretty much gone, so he’s down to flesh, self-cannibalization. Next cigarette is scheduled three minutes from now. The butt of the previous one still burns in the ashtray, smoke floating into my face and making my Pacific Shrimp taste like a used matchstick.

  Colin nods in agreement. But then Colin has nodded in agreement both to what I have said and to what Tony has said previously.

  Something else has occurred to Tony. A neutral spirit of inquiry is still reigning, momentarily at least. Nodge is fully engaged now, despite himself. He pulls his hand across a head that is even redder than his neck, and more or less hairless apart from a kind of remnant of a tonsure at the side. There is also a sad little island just at the crown that used to be the vanguard of his hairline, now no more than a few centimetres of dark, rippling stubble. Tony speaks now, loudly.

  What if it took place during the day? What if the most times you made a woman come happened, say, in the afternoon?

  Without invitation, Tony raises Colin’s beer glass to his mouth as he waits for Margarita No. 2 to arrive. A fleck of foam slips past his lips and on to his lapel.

  Fuck my cunt!

  A woman in a black two-piece suit sitting at the next table alone while her partner, presumably, goes for a waz looks across at him coldly. He smiles back, that Tony killer smile, all olive skin and pearly whites. It crushes his eyes into slits. It sends out gorgeousness and fascination and bewitchery. She is plain, way below his mark, but, flattered, she smiles back, actually blushes with pleasure. He can do it every time.

  He turns away from her with an expression that suggests he has just finished a tiresomely routine but necessary task and reaches for a napkin to wipe his suit clean, but it just extends the smudge across a distance three times as large. I ponder for a moment, rub the small but clearly visible birthmark that straddles my hairline, then say, I’ve got it.

  Everyone looks up, as if this was important.

  A session extends from the moment you take your clothes off to when you put them on again.

  Colin actually puts his hand up. I think it’s meant to be a joke, but the gesture looks somehow appropriate coming from Colin. Tony nods to him, as if granting him leave.

  People can have sex with their clothes on.

  Tony waves his hand derisorily.

  Frankie’s is the best definition. The best we can do, anyway. How often do you have sex with your clothes on? It happens. Certainly. But rarely. Frankie’s formula is concise. We have to compromise. From when you take your clothes off to when you put them on. That’s good. And multiple orgasms count as a single.

  No. Not fair.

  Nodge this time.

  How can a multiple orgasm count as a single orgasm? It’s… What’s that word, when something’s opposite to itself? Frankie, you’re educated.

  He says this like, Frankie, you’ve got the clap.

  Help me out.

  Tautological, I say, not taking offence. I’m used to it.

  Tautological. I love you when you use all those syllabobbles, Francis.

  Thanks.

  Deadpan, derisory. Nodge carries on.

  We should – nominally – count a multiple orgasm of any kind as double. I know it’s not perfect, but they don’t really have an exact number as such, women, do they?

  Tony looks perplexed again.

  Don’t they?

  Nodge is getting into it now. He’s lit another cigarette. The waiter is clearing away the dishes and pretending not to listen.

  You know, they either have one or a few at the same time. But they don’t know exactly how many. Like they won’t say, yeah I had eight orgasms at the same time. They’ll just say, I had a multiple. You can’t count them.

  I’m scratching my head. Nodge sucks down half of the diet Coke he ordered after the lager, then finishes what’s left of a Peshwari Naan dripping with ghee. Suddenly his tone changes to one of indifference and disdain. He turns to Tony.

  It’s stupid, anyway. What is it? Some kind of test of how big a man you are?

  Tony shows a flash of irritation.

  It’s just a conversation, all right? It doesn’t mean anything.

  Tony turns towards me. Nodge sighs a deep sigh, but stays sitting forward on his chair.

  Perhaps you’re right, though, Nodge, says Tony, having clearly made a decision to repair fences. Yeah. Perhaps you’re right. You can’t be exact about it. Multiples count double. Fair enough, Frankie?

  It makes sense. Like, one clitoral, one vaginal.

  Colin? says Tony.

  Colin smiles, says nothing, going along as always.

  Nodge?

  Nodge takes a deep breath.

  It’s stupid. How do you know the women aren’t lying, anyway?

  Of course you can tell if they’re lying, says Tony, fidgeting with the menu.

  It’s a more interesting selection of puds than usual, which isn’t to say they aren’t horrible. Dry Carrot Tart is the most attractive. Then there’s Barfi, which turns out to be one of those Technicolor horrors you see in Southall market, and something called Ras Malai – sour milk and flour patties served in sweet thickened milk. Tony goes for a basic Kulfi, while Nodge orders the Ras Malai. Me and Colin pass.

  How?

  Because when they really come they… they sort of bunch up. Inside, you know. You can feel it. And they go into a flush.

  Not always.

  Tony sighs and rolls his eyes.

  You’re just trying to sabotage the whole thing because you think it’s… improper. As if you’ve got so much more that’s interesting to talk about. Who have you had in the back of the cab this week, anyway?

  Nodge’s redness seems to deepen very slightly. As I have said, he never, ever loses his temper, because that would mean losing control, but sometimes you sense a kind of volcanic rage inside him that is expressed as disdain, or a haughty distancing.

  That’s not it. I’m just saying you can’t always tell, he says coldly.

  There is a long silence. Some breach has been made in the atmosphere. It often happens like this – what starts out as an innocent joke, ends up as a battle. It’s as if the basic structures of our personalities are too exposed nowadays and graze against each other all the time. We can’t be bothered or we are unable to erect a buffer zone. Still, we cling together. And it’s not only out of habit. I’m sure that underneath it all, we really do like each other. But what good is that, if it’s always underneath?

  If I let the silence settle the temperature will continue to drop, so I start chattering on. I like to build bridges, despite everything. So does Colin, but he doesn’t have the tools. Anyway, nowadays there’s plenty of opportunity. I look at them both imploringly.

  Boys, boys. Can’t we all be friends?

  This was, I immediately see, clumsy, a mistake. Now they’ve deflected their anger from each other towards me.

  Don’t patronize me, says Nodge, lighting another cigarette.

  Tony just grimaces and nods. I plough on regardless, trying to clear the choppy water.

  OK. This is the way it stands, then. The question is, how many times have you made a woman come, in one session, counting a session as from the moment you take your clothes off to when you put them on again. Multiple orgasms counts as two, but y
ou have to take your partner’s word for whether she’s had one or not. Same goes for singles.

  So, what the thing is is, how many times have you made a woman say she’s come? says Nodge, pulling so hard on the cigarette that you can see the tobacco actually regress into ash. The thought comes to me, oddly: transformation. Plant to fag to fire to smoke to… I lose my way and flick the thought away from me as if it too were a dog-end, and continue.

  It’s the best we can do. In the circumstances.

  OK.

  Tony seems satisfied now.

  So who’s first?

  Why don’t you go first? Since you’re the one who brought it up in the first place, says Nodge.

  Since you’re clearly dying to tells us all, I say.

  Yeah, says Colin.

  Or, at least, I see his mouth move to make that shape. The music’s too loud, Colin’s too soft.

  Tony pulls his lips up tight against his teeth, as if he didn’t already have the answer worked out long ago. His eyeballs move up towards the ceiling a couple of degrees.

  I did make a baker’s dozen once. That’s without multiples.

  Nodge laughs out loud. Then he points out of the window, up at the sky, and says, That’s something you don’t see often.

  What? says Tony.

  All the way up there. A whole flock of them. And in formation too.

  I’m straining to look now as well.

  What? Where?

  Pigs, says Nodge.

  I laugh, and turn back to Tony, who is throwing his head back to displace his fringe, which is always falling in his eyes. Women find this sexy, I am told.

  I say, Thirteen singles is biologically impossible.

  Tony shrugs, like he doesn’t care whether we believe him or not.

  She just had a hair trigger. It’s not like I’m saying I’m a –

  What? Stud? A super pants man. Of course not, says Nodge.

  I just had to touch her in the right place and… ptttft.

  Ptttft?

  No, not ptttft. More like…

  Tony makes a sound like he was lifting barbells that were too heavy.

  Nodge is still trying to separate himself out from the voyeurism of the conversation. He wants to be lofty, analytical.

  And this took place over what period exactly?

  A night. We were awake all night. I was on E.

  Hold on, I say. That doesn’t count then.

  Nodge nods censoriously.

  That’s right.

  Colin nods too, but says nothing.

  It’s like using steroids if you’re a body-builder, I say.

  Tony pretends he’s outraged. He spreads his palms outwards. Innocence.

  Yep. You got to be clean, says Nodge.

  That’s stupid, says Tony. Like, if you’ve had a few glasses of wine, it doesn’t count either?

  This brings things to a halt momentarily.

  That’s a fair point, says Colin. That would change the number of organisms.

  This time Colin is audible and we all laugh. Once he has worked out why, he starts laughing too.

  Orgasms, I mean.

  He is embarrassed. He has a T-shirt on that reads ‘Silver Valley Silicon’. It’s the company he works for, in Perivale.

  Right on, Col. But look. The two things are different. Alcohol is a negative factor. It can only decrease your performance. E improves performance, says Nodge.

  He looks pleased with himself, an expression that is always hiding near the surface of the folds of his face.

  But Tony won’t give it up.

  How would you know? You’ve never done an E. Besides, it was only me that was on one, not her. And it’s her orgasms that would be affected.

  He turns to Colin, who was the most recent person to give him any support.

  Colin, you’re neutral. What do you say?

  Colin looks immediately uncomfortable. He hates being forced to take a position. I watch his face. It is unbalanced. One nostril is bigger than the other. The French crop shows a whorl on the right side of his crown. One lip is thick, one thin. The right eye is narrower than the left. Perhaps this is why he’s always seeking to balance things up. More likely, though, he’s simply weak.

  I can see both sides, I suppose. But –

  Look, I’ll tell you what… I’m speaking over the top of Colin, which is something that is no longer rude since it has been established by custom. We’ll have two categories. Class-A sex, which involves the consumption of Class-A drugs. On that count, let’s say Tony wins…

  Not, of course, that this is a competition, says Nodge, with mild, indifferent sarcasm.

  Not, of course, that this is a competition, but a general inquiry into the nature of human sexuality. But what about Class-B sex? That’s involving soft drugs – alcohol or puff – or nothing at all. One session. Where do you stand here, Tony?

  Tony takes it in good part. No one believes the baker’s-dozen story anyway. It’s just a shot across the bows.

  You’ll have to give me some time to think then. I accept the category, though. Nodge, what about you? What’s your personal best Class-B sex?

  Leave me out of it.

  He raises his hands like he was halting traffic.

  That’s so typical. Nodger Cromwell, the Shepherd’s Bush succubus, I say.

  What’s a succubus? says Colin.

  He looks puzzled. Colin always looks puzzled. But at least he has the honesty not to hide his confusion. Or the honesty has him. Perhaps honesty itself is a succubus.

  A succubus? It’s like… like a vampire. Feeds off your energy. Puts nothing back, I say.

  I’m trying to make it jokey now, realizing how harsh the words sound. I don’t want the temperature to drop again. I want us all to get along, particularly tonight.

  Tony laughs.

  Bang on. Suck Yo’ Bus. Good word, Frankie. Word of the week.

  He finishes the last of his pudding and summons the waiter for a digestif. He chooses a twelve-year-old whisky.

  Nodge isn’t smiling. He hates me using vocabulary. He bites the tip of the smallest finger of his left hand, then says, A succubus isn’t like a vampire, actually. A succubus is a demon that preys on sleeping men. A vampire sucks blood. And a succubus is always female.

  Nodge is what is known, I think, as an auto-didact. He reads books because the covers make him feel smart, even though the books are crap. He’s got them all on his shelf, all the pointy heads, the great unreadables – Thomas Pynchon, James Joyce, Jeanette Winterson, Angela Carter, Salman Rushdie, Uncle Tom Cobbleigh and all. He goes to French movies that go on for ever and admires the cinematography. He even goes to modern dance, perhaps the most shit of all contemporary art forms. Closely followed by opera, of which he also professes to be fond.

  As I’ve said, not your traditional taxi driver then. Except that he is, actually. You can take the boy out of the Bush, but you can’t take the Bush out of the boy, as my dad was always fond of saying. Which is why he goes to all this effort to prove that he’s not just a cabby, that he’s escaped. We’re all in the business of escape, one way or another.

  Tony shrugs, unimpressed, not interested.

  Whatever. So you’re a vampire. Anyway, what about you, Colin? How many times you made a woman come in one session?

  Can’t remember, says Colin, a little too fast.

  This is an unkind question to ask Colin, because he, at the age of thirty, has only been known to have about three or four girlfriends his whole life, and the last one was a long time ago. The thing is, he probably can’t remember. Then he speaks again, just to get himself out of the spotlight.

  Three times.

  We all whistle and hoot.

  Not bad… Who with?

  Tony’s left leg is bouncing up and down in its place, as if it acts as earth for his nervous energy.

  Colin doesn’t like this question. Partly because he’s shy, but partly because he will feel he’s betraying the woman he slept with. He seems to make
himself smaller in his chair. It’s a gesture I remember from school when a teacher picked on him. His natural instinct is privacy, but he knows he has to give something out. His lifelong losing struggle to make himself interesting, to make himself accepted, demands it. He doesn’t have Nodge’s confidence to hold himself within.

  Tricia.

  Tony’s foot-tapping rate increases.

  You’re shitting me.

  Tricia was Colin’s girlfriend, season of 1988–9, I think it was. Worked in a library. Small, mousy. Her nickname was Trish the Fish. Pale, emaciated, bloodless. Colin grins now and fidgets with the salt cellar. He inverts it, makes a little white pile on the bare table.

  Yeah, Trish. She was mad. Full on.

  Tony turns his head away, because he’s started to laugh. I’m trying desperately not to join in.

  Three times. Pretty good.

  I slap Colin on the back with a sudden rush of genuine affection. I like Colin. I like him for his vulnerability. It’s a little pathetic perhaps. But it’s easier to love than the armour that Tony and Nodge always are so intent on maintaining. If they feel some kind of weakness is being exposed, they get cold or aggressive, whereas Colin just looks kind of sad. Sadness is more genuine, isn’t it?

  OK. I’ve worked it out now.

  Tony turns back, face composed, desperate to get on before he starts giggling again.

  Geraldine Pascoe, 1991. Panter Pascoe as she was known. I was completely clean, she had half a bottle of Piat D’or inside her. Class-B drug. It was between the hours of eleven-fifteen at night and approximately three in the morning. Straight sex, no oral, no accessories. One multiple, counted for these purposes as two. Final count. Seven. No, no hold on. Eight. Eight orgasms. Six of those in the first two hours. Those were all singles. The multiple came last of all. After a little nap. Timed at approximately 2.55 a.m. Woke up half the block of flats. She was a screamer. Big-time. She could have been a professional.

  A professional what?

  Nodge is seeking out political impropriety. Like, Are you saying she was a whore because she expressed her sexuality?

  A professional screamer. They have them. Like, in horror movies, says Tony.

  Colin brightens up. Colin is a movie buff, especially horror. Latterly, Wes Craven, Dario Argenti and John Carpenter. But his all-time favourite films are 1) Invasion of the Body Snatchers (Walter Wanger, 1955), 2) Dead of Night (various directors, 1945), 3) The Exorcist (William Friedkin, 1973).