Page 28 of Wish You Were Here
‘Favourite sexual position?’ says Annabelle suddenly, and I have just put a forkful of risotto in my mouth and I almost spit it out. She can obviously see the look of surprise on my face, and she laughs. ‘I love this question because you boys are always so shocked!’
‘I’m not shocked, just, you know, reasonably surprised.’
‘It’s an important question and one that, I think, elicits quite a lot of pertinent information about a prospective boyfriend. So, Ben, favourite sexual position?’
I really don’t know how to answer this question. Do I have a favourite sexual position? I think they all have their own pros and cons. I enjoy the good old-fashioned missionary because you can kiss and keep eye contact. Doggy style is fun, feels great, and makes me feel like I’m in control, but feels less intimate. I love itwith the woman on top, and the reverse cowgirl is different, but quite a turn-on. I’m sure there are a few more, and some that feel nice but I don’t know the technical term for. The problem is, Annabelle is clearly looking for an answer that lines up with the sort of boyfriend she is after. This answer might be more important than my five-year plan. After a minute of thinking, a sip of my drink and a nibble of risotto, I answer.
‘I think it depends on my partner. I like to just see how it goes. Go with the energy in the room!’ I say, and Annabelle looks at me, and I don’t know if it’s because we’re discussing sex, but there is definitely a little spark of something between us. That is until Annabelle says.
‘Where do you stand on religion, Ben? I think it’s important to be open about these things.’
‘Agnostic, I suppose.’
‘Right, okay, and what about political affiliation?’
‘Is that relevant?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’m not really much of a voter, if I’m honest.’
‘Riiight,’ says Annabelle with a ‘well, that’s quite concerning’ expression on her face. ‘Before dessert, I like to do a quick-fire round. Are you ready?’
I’m looking at her, and I can’t quite believe this. I was expecting a date, the possibility of romance, and instead I’m a contestant on a game show. Before agreeing to her quick-fire round, I make my excuses and head to the loo. I head into a cubicle, sit down and get out my phone. I go to WhatsApp and bring up my message thread with Saskia. It’s almost nine o’clock here, so nearly six o’clock in the morning there. She might not be awake yet, but I start typing anyway.
I’m on a date with a woman who asks questions like it’s a job interview! It’s awful. What’s my five-year plan?Worst personality trait in a partner? Favourite sexual position? I made an excuse, and I’m hiding in the loo. When I go back in, she has a quick-fire round! Please help!
Saskia doesn’t reply, so I assume she is still asleep. After a few minutes, I know that I need to head back into the restaurant and face Annabelle’s quick-fire questions. I could say no thank you and leave, but there is something inside of me, something deep-down in the depths of my subconscious that won’t let me. It’s the same well-hidden characteristic that won’t let me complain at a restaurant when the food is terrible and forces me to apologise when someone bumps into me. I skulk back to the table, sit down and get ready to face Annabelle’s questions. She looks at me, smiles and then she says.
‘You don’t have to look so nervous, Ben. The quick-fire round is more light-hearted.’
‘Okay, right.’
‘Ready?’
‘Yes,’ I reply, hoping for something jovial and fun to kick things off.
‘Would you call yourself a feminist?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Feminism, Ben. Discuss. You have thirty seconds. Go!’
Then she starts the stopwatch on her iPhone.
12
Saskia
I wake up in an absolutely gorgeous bedroom, and when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is Brad, standing next to me, topless with those incredible abs, and he’s offering me a coffee.
‘Morning,’ he says with his ridiculously perfect smile. ‘Oat milk latte?’
It takes me a moment to get my bearings because my head is feeling a little delicate. How drunk was I last night, and what exactly happened with Brad? I peek under the sheets, and at least I am wearing underwear.
‘Don’t worry. Nothing happened. You were drunk, a bit emotional, and we just talked.’
I sit up slightly, pulling the sheets up with me.
