Ben Elton - Blast From The Past

And then finally it was over. A quite spectacular orgasm, fuelled with love and lust and all the gay abandon of youth, had run its noisy course. Slowly the room returned to normal, the overhead light stopped swinging on its flex, the teacups on the bedside table ceased to rattle and the plaster clung less desperately to the walls and ceiling. Jack rolled off Polly’s quivering body and reached for his cigarettes.

“So, did you come?”

Jack could joke at a time like that. He was older, experienced. Confident and witty. American in the way Americans are supposed to be. Sexily sardonic and capable of sparking a Zippo cigarette lighter into life using only one hand.

“Just fooling,” he said. “I imagine that there are people in other parts of the country who know you came. Certainly the only people within this hotel who didn’t know you came are either deaf or dead.”

“Sorry. Was I too noisy?”

“Not for me, I’m used to it. I used earplugs.”

Polly laughed, but she was embarrassed. Most people feel a little awkward and exposed when it comes to the noises they make during sex and it’s even worse when you’re only seventeen.

Jack lit two cigarettes and gave one to Polly.

“Don’t worry, I’ll call reception and tell them you’re a Christian fundamentalist seeking enlightenment, asking God to give it to you longer and harder.”

Polly felt that Jack’s joke had run its course. She might have been young, but she was a woman out of whom only so much piss could be taken.

“Look, I was enjoying myself, all right? And to do that I need to express myself. People should express themselves more. People are too uptight. If people recognized their true feelings a bit more and let them out occasionally there’d be a lot less anger and violence in the world.”

“OK, OK. Fine. I’m glad to have been a part of your personal fulfilment programme. There was me thinking we were having sex and it turns out you were making a contribution to world peace.”

Polly and Jack smoked in silence for a few moments. Polly wasn’t really angry. In fact she loved fighting with Jack. She loved everything about Jack with the exception of his “Death or Glory” tattoo. Never before in her short life had she experienced such emotions, such passion. Every atom of her physical self tingled with it. The tips of her toes were in love, the hair on her head was in love, the backs of her knees were in love. And such exciting love, dangerous and wrong. Illicit love, forbidden fruit.

Polly stretched out under the covers and felt the crisp clean hotel sheets against her body. What luxury. Only rarely did Polly experience such exotic delights as clean sheets, let alone fresh soap and towels. And a lavatory! Her own personal lavatory. With a door! Only a person who does not normally have the use of one can understand just how wonderful having a lavatory is. Polly would sit on it for half an hour and read the hotel brochures, never tiring of news of mini-breaks for two in the Cotswolds, the Peaks and the heart of England’s glorious Lakeland. Jack said he sometimes felt that Polly only slept with him in order to use the toilet.

“That’s not true, Jack,” Polly assured him. “You’re forgetting the little chocolate mints the maids leave on the pillows.”

Jack got out of bed, crossed the room, drew back the curtain slightly and looked out.

“Can’t we have the curtains open occasionally?” Polly asked. “It feels so claustro’.”

“No,” Jack replied. “It makes me feel too exposed. I mean, if we were caught together…”

Why did he have to remind her about that? Just when she was so happy. He was always reminding her about that.

“I know. I know! You don’t have to go on about it.”

“Hey, baby, I do have to go on about it because that’s how I stay careful. And I have to stay careful because if my colonel ever found out about us my career would be over, you hear that? Everything I’ve worked at since I was seventeen would be gone. You’re only seventeen right now, Polly. You don’t have a life to throw away yet, but I do. They’d court-martial me, you know that? They might even throw me in the hole.”

Jack returned to bed. Some ash from Polly’s cigarette fell onto the sheet. She tried to brush it off but only made it worse.

“Leave it,” said Jack irritably. “We’re paying.”

“I hate that kind of attitude,” Polly snapped. “We’ve paid so we can act irresponsibly. And I hate this sneaking about too, this constant tension.”

“I do not have a choice but to sneak about. I have to be discreet, which is something, incidentally, you have made considerably more difficult by your decision to dye your hair puke colour.”

In her heart of hearts Polly had to admit that the orange and green highlight effect she had tried to create had not really worked.

“If you don’t like sneaking about, baby,” Jack continued, “go hang out with one of your own kind.”

“You don’t choose who you fall in love with, Jack, and don’t call me baby.”

Polly was starting to look a little teary. She didn’t like it when he referred to their relationship in such a casual manner.

“Oh, come on, Polly, not the waterworks.”

All her life Polly had cried easily. It was her Achilles’ heel. She wasn’t a crybaby; it was just that strong emotions made her eyes water. This was actually quite debilitating in a minor sort of way. It made her look a fool. It would happen in the middle of some particularly frustrating political argument. There she would be, banging her fist on the pub table, struggling to find words to express her deeply held conviction that Mrs Thatcher was a warmongering fascist and suddenly her eyes would start getting wet. Instantly Polly would feel her image transforming itself from passionate feminist revolutionary to silly overemotional little woman.

“Well, there’s no need to cry about it,” Polly’s dialectical opponents would sneer.

“I am not bloody crying,” Polly would reply, tears springing from the corners of her eyes.

The tears were there now and Jack did not like emotionally charged situations. He liked to pretend that life was simple. Polly thought him repressed and out of touch with himself. Jack just felt he had better things to do with his time than get worked up about stuff. But the truth was that he was worked up, terribly worked up. Beneath his highly cool exterior he was anguished and distraught. Because Jack was in love with Polly and he knew that he would have to leave her.

“Jack,” said Polly, “we need to talk about where we’re going.”

Jack did not want to talk about this at all. He never did want to talk about it, because deep inside he knew that they were not going anywhere.

“You know why people smoke after sex?” he said, dragging at his cigarette. “It’s an etiquette thing. It means you don’t have to talk.”

“What?”

“People smoke after sex to avoid conversation. I mean, in general post-coital is a socially barren zone. Particularly that difficult first time. You’ve known somebody five minutes and suddenly you’re removing your horribly diminished dick from inside of their body. What do you say?”

Sometimes Polly found Jack’s crude, abrasive style sexy and exhilarating. Other times she just found it crude and abrasive.

“We didn’t say anything after our first attempt, did we? Because we were hiding in a field trying to avoid large insects and the police.”

“Yeah, well let me tell you, it saved us a lot of embarrassment. Any diversion is welcome in such a situation. Even the cops. Think about it. You’re naked with a stranger. What do you say?”

“A stranger?”

“Sure, a stranger. The first time you sleep with someone ten to one they’re going to be a stranger. How many times do you have sex with someone for the first time whom you’ve known more than a few hours?”