Page 61 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘So, is this for your Instagram then?’ He doesn’t respond. ‘Maybe I could get a hashtag out of all this? #mywifewearsitwell #pegginginleggings?’
He smiles. His hand curves down the paper and I wonder what he’s just drawn; a thigh or an arse cheek?
‘So, how’s the Insta page doing these days? How are the pictures selling?’
There were no rules against talking and making chit-chat.
‘OK.’
‘Is there a market for strap-on art then?’
‘You’d be surprised. Someone asked for one of my pics the other day so he could turn it into a tattoo.’
‘Was it one of my vajayjay?’
‘Yep, wanted it right across his back.’
‘That’d go down well at the swimming baths.’
We both don’t flinch.
‘How much did you sell it for?’
‘Well, I gave it him for a hundred quid in the end, grateful that he didn’t just take it to a tattoo parlour and ask them to copy it. That’s what most would do.’
I pout and shake my head from side to side. That’d keep a kid in shoes for a year and a half. He sees where I’m going with all of this though.
‘It’s not a million pounds but it’s OK.’
The money thing has been a sore point recently. To me, it’s like sitting on a winning lottery ticket but being told I can’t cash it. Danny’s argument is that he doesn’t want the associated hassles the money would bring. He likes being in control of his material and doesn’t want people to know who he is or nosing into his life. It’s a perfectly respectable take on things, I get it. But it doesn’t mean that I still don’t push my agenda which is to be able to go on holiday past Europe, have a second car and extend the house so I can have a separate utility room with a shower for Mr T.
‘You’re not letting that go yet, are you?’
‘Call me materialistic but it’d be kind of awesome. You could still go incognito, like Stu said, you could be a sexual version of Banksy.’
‘That Wanksy thing weren’t funny.’
‘It wasn’t. Maybe Prickasso?’
He doesn’t respond. Of course, this is his thing. I’ll keep trying to wear him down but at least we’ve got to this place where I can enquire about his work in a calm and supportive manner. It’s progress and secretly, something for which I can congratulate myself.
‘Have you tried drawing anything else?’ I ask.
‘I tried landscapes but it was dull as dishwater. Tried animals too but it turns out I can’t do feathers. I tried to draw Mr T once but the fur I drew made him look like he’d been through the dryer.’
I giggle. Why didn’t the dog tell me? And how does one make the jump from realising they can’t draw animals to thinking they’ll sketch a good knob instead?
‘You seem to enjoy it? You said the other night that it was to escape everyday life. Like… To escape me?’
‘If I wanted to escape you, I’d just leave, no?’
I nod. Blunt but true. The fact he’s still here is something.
‘Maybe it’s just to escape being the Kendal King Of Paper Manufacturing. It’s a dull enterprise really, not much call for creative know-how.’
I don’t know how to respond to this. Somewhere in that labyrinthine mind of his there is something that craves more than paper. For that I feel guilt, and some anger that he feels trapped in what he does.
‘Then you could do this full-time, as a career.’
