Page 82 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘You know what I mean…’
‘You shouldn’t listen to her. You do what makes you happy.’
‘I know.’
And maybe that’s what’s at the crux of this. Happiness. Is Danny happy? Because here he lies on our youngest’s bedroom floor and I’m conscious that up till recently, I didn’t really know him all too well. There’s this whole side of his life that he kept from me, a brain lined with curious artistic leanings. I haven’t been scared off. But I’m lying here with this brain and it’s very confused. It doesn’t know where it’s supposed to be. I cross everything that I at least make him a little bit happy. Because there’s no other place this brain should be but right here, next to me. Look at those sad glassy eyes. Don’t look at me with those sad eyes. I run a finger down his cheek and trace the outline of his chin. You muppet.
‘It’s been a day,’ I say.
‘That it has. You couldn’t make it up.’
‘I’m really sorry I nearly broke your cock.’ I touch it through his trousers to ensure it’s OK.
‘Stop pestering me for sex. It’s getting boring.’
I laugh and rest my nose against the stubble on his cheek, my legs entwined around his.
‘Are you really OK?’
He doesn’t answer.
Fifteen
The one thing I like about the Lakes is that it has a very artisan side to it exemplified by the number of places where you can get a hand-stitched throw, a hand-raised pie, any number of pastel sketches and paintings (usually of a lake). There are little villages scattered around filled with galleries with these curiosities, next to shops selling overpriced cream teas and outdoorsy clothing joints where one can obtain a sturdy cane and a hardcore hooded jacket that has more pockets than any person really needs. These places are also usually filled with artsy people who love a Peruvian poncho, corduroy and are gnawing on some damsons; people like Rufus and Rowan.
Today, we are at The Brewery where Ro is exhibiting some of her drawings and sculptures. I’ll admit, some of it is very Rothko and beyond my understanding, but there are a few phallic pieces that catch me off guard and make me glad we’ve left the kids with Gill, who has extended her forgiveness to us for all recent sexual misdemeanours. It’s a very civil affair, by which I mean the homemade alcohol has been limited to one glass and there are bowls of nuts and seeds about the place that I believe Ru grew and smoked himself. Ro looks her usual radiant self in a green velvet dress, her hair long and tousled whilst Ru has gone full tweed with a pair of very battered old Doc Martens. They welcome everyone in the room with warm hugs and celebrations. It’s contagious and makes me want to hug the gentleman next to me as we examine a large metallic structure that I am pretty sure is supposed to be a penis. I take back everything I said about that dildo in the post. This isbig.
‘Visceral,’ claims the gentleman who is wearing a T-shirt that has either been attacked by moths or may be a fashion statement. ‘There’s a real command of the material and the subject matter: sexual dominance I think?’ I don’t know what to say. This penis doesn’t have bollocks.
I feel a hand in mine. Danny. He pipes in. ‘I disagree. I think the metal points to one’s relationship with their manhood being a reflective experience; you are always looking inwardly during sex.’
We both nod. I’m slightly in awe at my husband’s artistic insight. We both cock our heads to the side. Moth T-shirt man moves on.
‘Have you tried the nuts?’ I ask.
‘It’s like he dragged them across the floor. Told you we should have eaten first.’ Danny curls his body into mine. ‘I love these guys but how long can we stay before we skedaddle?’
‘You look at everything once and then congratulate the artist, feign interest in buying and then on to the pub.’
‘I think the giant metallic penis would work well in the bathroom.’
‘To hold the towels.’
‘Exactly.’
I dressed down today in an attempt to appear casually chic. I’m in a three-quarter skirt and pointed flats that Tess said made me look like a witch but I also made an effort with a coral lip and a touch of eyeshadow. I know the Wezzie was thinking of dropping in and I know there’s nothing worse than being in the local paper looking like a surprised tramp in one of their shots. We head in different directions across the room in an attempt to cover more ground. I move on to another mixed media piece drenched in every shade of red but splattered in white. It’s like a bukkake session gone terribly awry. A fellow art appreciator nods at me.
‘This is so powerful. How one’s femininity does not equate to a loss of energy.’
I nod in agreement. Let’s go with that.
‘How do you know the artist?’ I ask.
‘We went to college together, here in Kendal before she went overseas for a while.’
Alas, it’s another Kendallian. I want to ask if she has any intimate knowledge of the Morton brothers but one of them beats me to it.
‘Steph! You are having a ruddy laugh? Seriously?’
