I said Huw was mine, that wasn’t strictly true. Not at first. Not through a degree and unfulfilling temp jobs and sharing a bathroom with six people. He wasn’t consistently in my bedroom or kitchen or that spot in the woods off campus where a bench was dedicated to Frank Edmonds, who sat there with his wife Mary and probably didn’t expect people to fuck on it at 2am during reading week.
Once I belonged to Oliver. Short and blonde and somehow always there, telling jokes and haemorrhaging student loan payments on Irish Knights cream liqueur and PlayStation games. Oliver didn’t make much eye contact, wore loud shirts and lived for traffic light parties, Halloween parties, any kind of party where he could pretend to be someone else. He stared at me a lot in class – could afford to, he was a maths whizz. We swapped notes if ever one of us had skipped lectures, slept late, had an emergency trip to the GUM clinic.
Oliver ate me out in the SU toilets, stood me on the rickety toilet seat so I could peek over the cubicle walls, like a Goddess. His mouth was wet with cheap beer and he was half wrapped in a grey bed sheet. Toga party. I cut my losses and wore a mini dress with nothing underneath. I wasn’t expecting oral sex, it was just a happy coincidence.
For all his foot-in-mouth weirdness, Oliver’s language was vulva. His tongue was exploratory, his fingers too, pinching the skin of my inner thighs, tongue in my cunt, fingers in my cunt, I’m making too much noise for this to go on, biting the soft skin of my left arm, the toilet seat could shatter at any minute.
It happened because we danced. The DJ was all slow and sticky, grindy music for horny undergrads. Huw had accompanied me, but it wasn’t his scene and he was itching to leave after twenty minutes.
“Meet you at your place later?”
But I was already eyeing Olly from across the room, chasing pints with rugby boys, an upper middle class cliché in a fitted sheet.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back. I’ll text you. Don’t wait up.”
He side-hugged me and nodded at Olly.
“Tell me how it goes. Don’t break him.”
By the time I was a drink or two along, Olly was dancing with a few other girls from our course. The last song bled restlessly into the Marilyn Manson cover of Sweet Dreams and I was making my move, gliding along the pitted vinyl floor, smiling a wicked, red-lipped smile and insinuating my thigh between his legs as the slow slow seduction began.
“Hi Olly. Having fun?”
“His eyes flickered from my tits to my face and back again.
“Yes.” He placed his hand on the small of my back and sank against me a little. I could feel the sheet getting damper and damper.
We kissed and I passed my hand under the wraps of cloth around his waist.
“Boxers? Boo.” I pouted, and caught his eye as his hand slid up my thigh, first caught the warm moisture on my skin, on his outfit, and what that meant.
He kissed me harder, and soon his fingers were slick, rubbing my clit under cover of egyptian cotton, in the middle of the dancefloor.
He didn’t make me come right there and then, in front of oblivious peers. I would have let him, but he whispered urgently in my ear.
“Can I eat you out?”
And who was I to resist? So to the toilets we went, and I stood on my rickety pedestal, slowly easing up the skintight dress until he could see my vulva, and I braced myself against the wall as he approached with something like caution.
“I can smell you.”
“You can taste me, too.”
I reached down and spread the flesh apart for him and my cunt gasped at the exposure, the audience.
And so he dove in, with his tongue, with his teeth, with his fingers, as if he knew exactly what it took to make me come, or he’d grilled ex boyfriends. The fingers slid in as deep as they could, curling upwards with his tongue more delicately lapping at my clit. Fuck, suck, slip, grip; he knew, he must have known. Should I tell him? Is it polite to murmur “I’m going to come hard, I’m going to make a mess, I’m going to squirt.”? What if I didn’t. I was going to, though. I knew it. At least I was half crouched over the toilet.
My legs began to shake and I knew I was about to let go. Forget biting my arm, forget holding it in. I was making the kind of noises we’re so used to dismissing as performative, we forget good sex can make us scream and moan and whimper and grunt. He was there, right there, pushing the button, stroking it, sucking it, and I made noise, felt my chest vibrate and the river flowed over his face.
When I looked down at him, his face was ghostly white and wet – with only a red flush to his cheeks.
I held out my hand and he looked at it as if his experience had completely wiped his memory of human interactions, before helping me down.
I took a fold of his toga, and wiped his face.
“That was lovely.” I said quietly. He still said nothing, still shocked and I started to worry he might need medical attention, but the flush grew across his face and he started to fiddle with the corners of the sheet. My heart dropped, and I gently pushed past him, to open the cubicle door.
“Coast is clear.” I stated, and he almost barrelled past me, into the labyrinthine heat of the club.
We stopped keeping backup notes for one another after that. He never spoke to me again. At graduation, he and his girlfriend kept looking in my direction and giggling during the Chancellor’s speech.
When he contacted me five years later, asking if I’d consider being his accountant, I left him on unread and deleted the message.