Caitlin

Tag: one night stand gone wrong

  • His Mum FaceTimed Mid-Shag

    His mum FaceTimed mid-shag. I still cannot say that sentence without wanting to walk into traffic.

    It started like every other Thursday that gets out of hand. After-work drinks. The kind that begin as one polite pint because someone is leaving and end four hours later with your coat over one arm and a decision you will defend in the morning even when you should not. He was from the building. Not my desk, not my team, just one of those faces you clock in the lift and then suddenly he is buying a round and leaning in when he laughs. Fit enough. Clean enough. The sort of bloke who smells like decent aftershave and poor impulse control. I was in that smug mood I get when the day has gone my way and my vape is full and I have already decided I am not going home to watch telly with the girls.

    We left together like it was an accident. It was not an accident. We both knew. The walk to his was short and cold and I spent most of it talking too fast about nothing, which is what I do when I already know I am going to take my tights off in someone else’s hallway. His place was fine. Not a palatial thing. One bed, bits of gym kit, a kitchen that had seen a meal deal and given up. Phone went face up on the bedside table the second we got near the bed. I saw it. I clocked the big bright screen and the cracked corner and I thought nothing of it because I am an idiot who thinks the universe is on her side when she is horny.

    Clothes came off with that greedy little rush you get when you have been thinking about it since the second pint. He was good with his mouth. I will give him that. I had my hands in his hair and one knee up and I was making that low sound I make when I stop performing and actually feel it. He got a condom on without the usual faff, which already put him in the top half of my recent list, and then he was in me and it was that first stretch that makes your brain go quiet. I like that bit. I like being a bit loud about it too. Not porn loud. Just honest. Hips, breath, the odd filthy sentence because I cannot help myself when it is landing right.

    We found a rhythm. Me on top for a minute because I like the view and I like being in charge, then he rolled me and got deeper and I had one hand on the headboard and the other in my own hair like a woman who has never been embarrassed in her life. The phone sat there the whole time. Little black rectangle. Innocent. Face up. Bright enough that if anyone had called, the whole room would know.

    Someone called.

    The noise cut through everything. That cheerful little FaceTime trill that should only exist in kitchens and group chats. For half a second I thought it was an alarm. Then the screen lit the ceiling and I saw the name.

    Mum.

    Not “Home.” Not a number. Mum. With a photo. A nice woman. Soft jumper energy. The kind of face that makes scones and asks if you have eaten.

    I made a sound that was not sexy. More like a fox going under a fence. He was still moving. Still in me. Still doing that focused face men get when they think they are about to ruin you in the best way. I slapped his shoulder.

    “Phone,” I hissed.

    He glanced over, saw the name, and I watched the blood leave his face in real time. Which would have been funny if I was not currently impaled and half naked with my tits out and my hair a state.

    “Don’t,” I said.

    He answered.

    I do not know what lives in men. I have slept with enough of them to have theories and none of those theories cover answering your mother on FaceTime while you are mid-thrust. He did it with this panicked politeness, like missing the call would be ruder than letting her see his glistening chest and the top of some random girl’s head.

    I dived.

    Duvet up, body down, face in the mattress, arse probably still visible because duvets never cover what you need them to cover. I could hear my own heartbeat in the pillow. I could also hear her.

    “Hello love, you all right? You look flushed.”

    He was flushed. He was inside me. I was under a duvet trying to become furniture.

    “Yeah, just, training,” he said.

    Training. I bit the sheet.

    “You said you were staying in. Have you eaten? There’s leftover lasagne if you want to come over. Your sister’s here Saturday, don’t forget, and she is bringing the baby so I need you to move the cot down.”

    I was still wet. That is the detail that haunts me. Body had not caught up with the social death. He had gone still but he had not pulled out, which I only realised when I shifted and felt it and had to clamp my mouth shut on a noise that would have ended the family.

    “I ate,” he said. Voice tight. “I’m a bit busy.”

    “Who’s that?” she said.

    Silence. The worst kind. The kind where everyone in the room knows someone is under the duvet.

    “Just a friend.”

    “From work?”

    He made a noise that could have been yes. It could have been a sob.

    “The girl you mentioned? The assistant one? You said she was sharp.”

    I am sharp. I am also naked under his bedding with mascara on his pillow and his mum on a live video call. Sharp does not cover this.

    “Mum.”

    “Well put a top on, you look like you have run a mile. Are you sure you are all right? Your colour is high.”

    “I’m fine.”

    “Is she there now?”

    I stopped breathing. Under the duvet it was hot and dark and I could smell sex and his deodorant and my own perfume going sour with panic. A bit of my hair was out. I knew it was out because I could feel air on it. Dark hair on a white duvet, right at the edge of frame, like a crime.

    “I’ve got to go,” he said.

    “Don’t be rude, put her on. I only want to say hello if she is the one you keep talking about.”

    Keep talking about. I filed that away for later destruction.

    “She is in the bathroom.”

    I was not in the bathroom. I was under the duvet with his cock still in me because neither of us had the coordination to solve that problem while his mother discussed lasagne.

    “All right, well tell her I said hello. And eat something. You get lightheaded.”

    The call ended. The room went quiet in that awful way rooms do when something unholy has just occurred.

    He pulled out. Finally. I came up for air like a woman rescued from a well. My face was hot. My hair was a nest. There was a condom situation that needed addressing and I could not look at it because if I looked at anything practical I was going to scream.

    “You answered,” I said.

    “I panicked.”

    “You panicked into FaceTime.”

    “I thought if I ignored it she would call the landline. She does that.”

    “You have a landline?”

    “My mum does. In her head I still live there.”

    I sat on the edge of the bed with the duvet around me like a shame cloak and reached for my vape. Hands shaking. First drag was messy. I laughed then, which made it worse, because once I start I cannot stop and it comes out mean and helpless at the same time.

    “She thinks I am the girl from work.”

    “You are the girl from work.”

    “I know I am the girl from work. I did not need her to know I am the girl from work who was just getting fucked on a Thursday.”

    He sat there with his hands on his knees like a man at a job interview he has already failed. Still hard, which felt rude. Biology has no manners.

    We did not finish. How could we. The ghost of his mother was in the room talking about a cot. I put my knickers on inside out and did not notice until I was in the hall. Tights in my bag. Blazer on over a top I am fairly sure was his. I left my earring. I know I left it. I have not asked for it back.

    The walk to the main road was cold enough to slap the heat off my face. I ordered an Uber and sat on a wall and vaped until the mango started tasting like regret. Texted the group chat because I am constitutionally unable to hold a disaster privately.

    His mum FaceTimed. Mid-shag. He answered.

    Three dots. Then a flood. One of them sent a prayer emoji which felt optimistic. Another said I should change my name and move to Kent. The third asked if he was still in me when she said lasagne. I typed yes and put my phone away because even I have a ceiling.

    Next morning was worse in a quieter way. Work. Same building. Same lifts. I did my job like a person who had not been introduced to a man’s mother via her son’s naked torso. He came out of a meeting at eleven and we did that tiny nod colleagues do when they have seen each other naked and also spiritually ruined. I went to the toilets, locked a cubicle, and sat there laughing into my hands until it turned into a sound I did not like.

    She thinks I am that girl from work. I am. That is the bit that keeps circling. Not the sex. The sex was fine. Better than fine until the ringtone. It is the lasagne. It is “put a top on.” It is “the assistant one” said in a warm voice by a woman who now, whether she admits it or not, has a mental image she did not ask for. I keep seeing her at Saturday lunch, holding a baby, and suddenly remembering her boy’s flushed face and a streak of dark hair on a pillow.

    He texted that night. Sorry. Then a second message: she asked your name. I stared at that for a long time on the sofa while one housemate painted her nails and the other one ate cereal at 10pm like a raccoon. I did not reply with my name. I replied with a full stop. Then I ruined it by sending another message that said do not tell her. Which is the same as telling her I care, which I do not, except I do in the small ugly way where I still want a promotion and I still have to walk through that lobby.

    A week later I saw him by the coffee machine. He said she keeps asking if I eat properly. I told him to say I am an adult. He said he already did and she said assistants never eat properly. I laughed so hard I spilled oat milk on my sleeve. Then I went back to my desk and answered emails like my soul had not left my body in his bedding.

    I have not been back to his. Not out of morals. Out of self preservation. There are men you can shag and still look in the eye. There are men whose mothers have seen your hair during penetration. Those are different lists.

    Would I do the Thursday drinks again. Yes. I am not going to pretend a FaceTime from somebody’s mum is going to turn me into a nun. I like sex. I like being wanted. I like the bit before the fall when I still think I am the cleverest person in the room. I will put phones face down now. That is the entire lesson. Face down. Silent. In another room. Preferably in another postcode.

    She still thinks I am that girl from work. I am. I just wish she thought it because I am good at my job and not because her son answered a video call with his hips flush against mine and a condom on and my mouth full of duvet.

    If you are going to be filthy, be filthy with the screen off. If you cannot manage that, at least have the sense not to say training. Nobody looks like that from training. Nobody. Not even the liars in the gym at 6am.

    I vape on the balcony most nights and tell the story when it comes up, which is often, because I have no chill and my friends are ghouls. It still makes me cackle. It still makes my stomach drop. Both things can be true. That is the whole job of being twenty five and messy and a bit too sure of yourself until a woman in a jumper says hello love and the universe reminds you that you are not, in fact, untouchable.

    Put the phone down. Face down. Then you can be as loud as you like.

  • Cramp Hit Mid Footjob

    I still walk with a tiny limp when I think about it too hard, which is mental because it was only a cramp. A cramp. Like I am fifty and I have just done a fun run. I am twenty five. I do Pilates when I remember. I vape more than I stretch. That last bit is probably the problem.

    It started like most of my better ideas. After work. Thursday. That dangerous night where you tell yourself you are only going for one and then you are three deep and your smart casual is suddenly doing a lot of heavy lifting. I had been in the office since half eight pretending to care about a calendar clash that was not my fault. By six I wanted noise and a drink and something that was not a spreadsheet. He was already at the bar when I got there. Work adjacent. Not my team, thank God. Tall enough. Clean enough. The sort of bloke who laughs at your jokes a beat too quick because he already knows where the night is going. I liked that. I like knowing.

    We did the usual. Pint. Then a double because I am not made of patience. He talked about a promotion he wanted. I talked about mine like I was not already mapping the pay jump in my head. I vaped outside between drinks because I am classy like that. He watched my mouth when I did it. I let him. I was in that mood where I feel slightly invincible and slightly bored at the same time. Dangerous combination. The one that makes me decide I am going to be impressive.

    We ended up back at mine because my flat is closer and I had already decided I was not getting an Uber to Zone whatever at gone ten on a school night. The girls were out. One at her sister’s. One on a date that I had already predicted would be mid. The place was ours. Shoes off. Telly on low for the noise. I chucked my blazer over the chair and felt that little click in my chest that says yes, this is happening, and I am going to be good at it.

    He kissed like he had been thinking about it since the second pint. Fine. Hungry. A bit clumsy with the buttons, which I do not mind because it makes me feel like I am the one running it. We made it to the sofa because the bedroom felt like effort and I was already in my head planning the bit I wanted to do. People assume I lead with my mouth. I do, often. I am not shy about that. But there is something about using my feet that makes me feel properly smug. It is a skill. It looks ridiculous if you do it badly. It looks filthy if you do it well. I do it well. I have had enough practice and enough feedback to know I am not imagining it.

    I told him to sit back. He did, grinning like he had won something. I peeled my tights off slower than I needed to because I like the look on their faces when they realise I am not joking. Work skirt still on, shoved up. Bare legs. Dark polish that was two days past needing a redo, not that he was going to be studying the pedicure. I warmed my feet first, which sounds clinical written down and feels filthy when you are actually doing it. Palms on his thighs. Then the soles. Slow. I watched him try to keep his face normal and fail.

    “Christ,” he said, which is not poetry but I will take it.

    I got into it. That is the problem. When I am good at something I lean all the way in. I used the arch. The ball of my foot. A bit of pressure, then less, then more, the way you do when you actually give a toss about whether they enjoy it instead of just waving a limb about and hoping. He was hard fast, which I took as a personal compliment even though men are not complicated. I talked a bit. Not baby voice, I would rather die. Just filthy and pleased with myself. Told him he was easy. Told him I knew I was good. He swore and laughed and dropped his head back against the sofa like he had been personally attacked by competence.

    It was sexy. I am not going to pretend it was not. There is a particular quiet that happens when someone is trying not to finish too quick and you can feel it in their breathing. The telly was still muttering some property show in the background. My vape was on the coffee table. I remember thinking I would have one after, like a cigarette in an old film except mango and slightly tragic. I shifted my weight. Put more into the right foot because the angle was better. I was showing off. Properly showing off. The smug little engine in my chest was purring.

    Then my calf turned into concrete.

    It was not a twinge. It was not a warning. It was a full lock, vicious, like someone had reached into the muscle and twisted it with a wrench. My foot seized mid stroke. Toes clawed. The whole lower half of my leg went from useful to enemy in half a second. I shouted. Not a sexy shout. Not even a surprised little oh. A proper, ugly, I have been shot noise.

    He jerked like I had kicked him on purpose.

    “Alright, yeah, harder,” he said, breathless, still in it, still thinking I was performing.

    “It is not a bit,” I said, or I think I said, because my voice came out strangled. “It is not a fucking bit.”

    I tried to pull my foot back and the cramp doubled down, spiteful. My leg would not straighten and it would not bend. I was stuck in this stupid elegant pose that was no longer elegant, half on the sofa, skirt rucked, one foot still vaguely in the vicinity of his cock like the world’s worst magic trick. He sat there with his trousers open looking between my face and my leg as if the answer was going to appear in subtitles.

    “Cat?”

    “Kitchen,” I managed. “I need the kitchen.”

    I do not know why the kitchen. In my head there is tiles and cold water and a chance to swear properly. I tried to stand. Bad idea. The second I put weight through it the muscle screamed again. So I hopped. One foot. Skirt still up. No tights. Dignity in a pile by the coffee table with my vape. I hop-hobbled across the living room making a noise I will take to my grave, this mix of pain and fury and leftover horniness that had nowhere to go. He stood up with his dick out and his hands useless.

    “Do you need me to rub it?”

    “Do not touch me,” I snapped, then immediately, “no, wait, yes, just not like that, Jesus.”

    I made it to the kitchen doorway and grabbed the counter like it owed me money. The overhead light was far too bright. There I was, twenty five, personal assistant, maths degree, woman who can talk her way through a board pack, folded over the worktop with one leg hanging like a dead thing. He followed, still half hard, which would have been funny if I could have breathed. I told him to run the tap. Cold. I shoved my calf under it and the shock made me swear so loudly I am surprised the neighbours did not bang the wall.

    He hovered. “Is this a thing you do?”

    “What, cramp mid footjob? Yeah, mate. Signature move. Really gets them going.”

    He had the decency to look embarrassed then. I will give him that. I massaged the muscle with both thumbs, brutal, the way you do when you want it to surrender. It twitched and held and twitched again. Sweat on my back that had nothing to do with being sexy anymore. My foot was still pointed like a ballerina having a breakdown. I started laughing because if I did not laugh I was going to scream and the scream would have been worse. He started laughing too, carefully, like he was checking it was allowed.

    “I thought you were being kinky.”

    “I was being good,” I said. “There is a difference.”

    That set me off again. I was laughing so hard I had to put my forehead on the counter. The cold water ran over my skin and down into my shoe, which I was still wearing on the good foot because of course I was. Work shoe. Smart. A bit scuffed. Soaked now. The whole scene was so far from the version I had in my head that it circled back round to pornographic in a cursed way. Him in the kitchen with his trousers undone. Me treating my own leg like it had personally betrayed the evening. The kettle sitting there judging us.

    The cramp eased in ugly little stages. Not gone. Just less murderous. I could put the foot down if I did not ask much of it. I turned the tap off. Silence except the fridge hum and the telly still talking about open plan living like anyone in this flat could afford it. He passed me a tea towel. I wiped my calf and felt about twelve years old.

    “Do you want to sit?” he said.

    “I want a vape and I want to die in a tasteful way.”

    We went back to the sofa because standing there felt worse. I sat with the bad leg stretched out like I had been in a minor car park incident. He tucked himself away, which I respected. The mood had not survived the hop. It had got as far as the kitchen lino and expired. I hit the vape. Mango. The same one. I offered him it and he took it like we were now in a different kind of intimacy, the post disaster kind, which is honestly more binding than some orgasms I have had.

    “You are actually really good at that,” he said after a minute.

    “I know.”

    “Even with the screaming.”

    “Especially with the screaming. Adds texture.”

    He snorted. I let my head fall back. The smugness was bruised but it was still there, which is how I know I am going to be fine. I do not crumble. I cramp, apparently. I hop. I swear at my own body in the kitchen like it is a colleague who has missed a deadline. Then I sit there and accept the compliment because I earned it before the muscle mutinied.

    He asked if I wanted him to go. I nearly said yes out of pride, then thought about the empty flat and the leftover want sitting in my stomach with nowhere useful to be. I told him he could stay if he made himself useful and put the kettle on properly this time. He did. We drank tea like pensioners. My leg throbbed. I kept flexing my foot to check it still belonged to me. At one point I tried to explain the exact second it happened, the way the arch had been doing something clever and then the cleverness got hijacked by biology. He listened like it was a sports injury. I suppose it was.

    The front door went just after midnight. Housemate number two, date as mid as predicted. She took one look at us, me with my skirt still a mess and one shoe off, him looking like he had witnessed a crime, and she just went, “Do I want to know?”

    “Cramp,” I said.

    “Sure.”

    She went to her room. I heard her laugh through the wall. I will never live it down. I already know it is going into the group chat in some form. Not the explicit bit. The hopping. The kitchen. The fact I shouted like I was being murdered by my own calf during the one act I am genuinely, irritatingly good at.

    He left about one. Kissed my cheek like we had been through something, which we had. I locked the door, vaped on the balcony in my work skirt, and stared at the bins like they had answers. The muscle still jumped if I pointed my toes. I tried it once, experimentally, and swore at the night air.

    Would I do it again? The footjob, yes. Obviously. I am not retiring a skill because my body decided to be dramatic. The hopping, no. Next time I am stretching first, which is a sentence I cannot believe I have to write. I will do the boring circles with my ankle. I will drink water like a person who has heard of consequences. I will not get so carried away showing off that I forget I am made of meat and poor decisions.

    I can still see his face when I shouted. That hopeful little look, like I had just taken things up a notch. Poor bloke. He thought he was getting the filthy version of me. He got the version that has to sidestep to the sink and negotiate with a lump of muscle. Both are me. That is the annoying part. The confident one and the one swearing on one foot exist in the same body, often in the same hour.

    Anyway. Thursday is ruined as a concept now. I see a sofa and I think about arches and timing and the exact pitch of a shout that is not sexy. I went into work the next day walking like I had done a very ambitious spin class. Someone asked if I had started running. I said yes. I have started running from my own legs.

    If you take anything from this, stretch. Or do not attempt your party trick after three drinks and a full day in heels. Or do, and accept that you might end up in the kitchen with the tap running and your dignity somewhere near the remote. I keep telling myself it was hilarious, because it was. It was also hot right up until it was not. That is the split I live with. One minute I am excellent. The next minute I am a cartoon.

    My calf is fine now. Mostly. It twinges when I point my foot too far, which feels like a warning and a joke at the same time. I have not retired the skill. I have just added a warm up, like I am an athlete, which I am not. I am a PA from Essex who got too smug on a Thursday and paid for it in the most unglamorous way possible.

    Still good at it, though. That part stands. The cramp can fight me in the kitchen all it wants. I know what I can do.