Page 28 of Has Anyone Seen My Sex Life?
‘You lied to me about all of this, you kept it from me.’ He’s silent at the accusation. ‘You could draw fruit. People draw fruit.’
‘Well, bananas and penises are kind of the same thing.’
‘Or not… You said username?’
‘I put these pictures online. I have an Instagram page and a website and I copyright the images so they can be used for tattoos and bespoke art.’
I imagine someone’s walls adorned in vag, a natural pairing for a couple of corduroy cushions, no? I am trying to rationalise whether this is wrong. If it doesn’t hurt anyone and the pictures are not exploitative then surely it’s an artistic expression of the human form. I saw nothing there degrading women or men. They are for the eyes of the more discerning adult, but it sounds like he’s selling these pictures. This isn’t bad. This isn’t the worst-case scenario I had imagined. But there’s also something here that doesn’t make me feel good. He sits there gauging my reaction. He looks like he was expecting angry, and for me to launch the book directly at him. Instead I hold it close, almost cradling it in my arms. My thoughts are scattered. When did he do this? What is going on here?
‘So it all eventually ends up online? For people to see?’
He nods. He goes to his phone and starts scrolling through some pages. There is a lot to process here. This was all on his mobile. Our kids use that phone to watch YouTube clips of baby pandas. Why did I not know this? He shows me an Instagram page of all his pictures. I scroll through the comments. It seems that people are fans. He slides to another page. I take the phone from him. He has a webpage. He has followers. He has fifty thousand followers. It’s linked to Twitter and Instagram and there’s even a PayPal link. People pay for this stuff. By the bollock? And it’s only then do I see the username heading it all up.
Captain Mintcake
‘Say what now?’ I mutter. ‘Captain Mintcake?’
He nods.
‘You’re Captain Mintcake?’
‘Yes.’
Mint cake is their thing up here in Kendal, their regional foodstuff. It’s an overly sweet mint confection that people take up mountains for energy. I never really understood the appeal myself. It has the consistency of firelighter and tastes like you’ve downed a tube of Colgate.
‘That’s the unsexiest username I’ve ever heard. You’ve also spelt it wrong. It’s two separate words.’
That doesn’t seem to be a concern to him. ‘People like it. It sounds reassuring. Not in your face, or overtly sexual like…’
‘RockHard4U? VatofPussy1?’ We are both surprised that these roll off my tongue so easily. ‘Because the giant pictures of the knobs aren’t too in your face, you know?’
I’m veering into sarcasm now and I can tell Danny doesn’t know if this means I’m bordering on bitchy too. It’s all a bit hard to process in my fatigue and delirium and a leg half-cocked up in the air. I open the book again. There’s a woman there with her mouth open like a basking shark. That’s a pretty large tallywhacker. She’s going to take that in her mouth? No, she’s letting it rain down on her. Like a sprinkler.
‘I don’t know what to say, Meg. This is it, this is what the dildo was about. I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know what you’d think of all of it. It was just fun to start off with, just something silly to bide my time. I didn’t think anything would come of it.’
‘Well, who knows? Does Stu know?’
‘No, and I want to keep it a secret.’
I am silently processing everything. The date on that first picture was eighteen months ago. Polly wouldn’t even have been born. Was this because I was pregnant and he didn’t want to scare me by saying, ‘Oi, look what I’ve drawn here!’ in case it’d send me into premature labour? I feel more confused by the fact this was a secret, that it was hidden and that he didn’t think I was open-minded enough to accept it. Besides that, there is this feeling in the pit of my stomach because there are pictures of many many women here, women who aren’t me. I stop at a picture of one of these women on all fours in the middle of a bed. That was me, once, maybe. When my stomach was flatter and I had time to wear matching underwear and condition my hair but now I’m more inclined to sit in the middle of a bed and eat a packet of prawn cocktail crisps while playing Candy Crush.
‘These people on your website… do you converse with them? Have you met any of them?’ I ask.
‘Only online. I did research. It’s not cheating or anything.’
He says that last sentence defensively. I’m not sure now is the moment to discuss the moral aspect of what he’s done. To be honest, I’m still taking it in. I’ll admit to baulking slightly that a mere five hours ago we were attempting to indulge in the sort of sexual act he draws about. Damn it, we even did it this morning. Twice in one day which is a record for our sex life. I bet in Danny’s scenarios no one’s leg falls through a dresser. A sadness still prevails that I can’t seem to shake.
‘I’m sorry.’ I don’t know why the words fall out like they do but I feel apologetic, I feel guilt. I feel ashamed because I don’t know why he’s done this. Is it a hobby? A career change? Why did he hide it from me?
‘You’re sorry?’
‘Just because…’
He shakes his head. I put the books down, lower myself down the bed and prop my head up on a pillow. I curl into the foetal position away from him. He sits on the side of the bed space next to me, a hand to my back.
‘Are you alright? Do you need anything? Do you want to talk about it some more? Are you in pain?’
‘I’m kinda tired.’ I can’t look at him. Not for feeling prudish or shocked but just an immense feeling of confusion. What has just happened today? From thinking that my husband was having an affair to finding out he’s someone called Captain Mintcake. And now, I’m in a hospital bed and I’ve just looked at pictures of curves and body parts that are definitely not mine anymore, of sexual thoughts and scenarios all drawn by Danny. And deep down, this nagging feeling like these pictures are some sort of artefact of who we used to be, that he’s almost had to document these moments so he can verify they actually happened once. It makes me feel like a bad wife, a failed lover. They’re not bad but they don’t make me feel good. Danny takes his arm off my back. The curtain opens. Joanne McArthur stands there with a wheelchair.
