The Art Guy (18+) COMPLETE, FREE to READ

Another Bloody Notch on the Bedpost

London, March 1993

The TV filming was finally finished. Editing, Dee told her, would take ages as that was where the real skill lay when it came to programme making. You took out everything that didn't add to the 'story' and ensured the whole thing flowed beautifully.

Editing was her favourite part, Dee added dreamily. Any idiot could film something. Only a skilled creative could make it look professional.

She had arranged a wrap 'party', though party was too grand a term for it. It started off in a grotty docks pub, the intention being that everyone would move elsewhere once they had front-loaded with cheap booze. By 8pm, that still hadn't happened. The actors/actresses who had made up the Rock 'n' Roll Chef's pretend friends were necking back vodkas and coke at a rate that belied their stated intent that they didn't drink that much.

The camera and sound guys had got into some pool-playing competition with the locals and its end was still being fiercely debated. Dee kept glancing over, wondering if someone might have to intervene.

She'd indulgently funded it all so far, perhaps relieved that they had stayed in a pub where everything was so cheap. She was seated with Katrina and Mick. So far, they had listened to her witter on about the struggles of programme making and the shit-ness of your dad leaving your ma when you were an impressionable thirteen-year-old.

Katrina debated wading in with a 'my father's worse than yours' story. She hadn't seen hers in seven years, Mick being in roughly the same paternal situation. Dee wasn't giving off join in my pity party vibes, though, so she shut her mouth.

Finally, Dee stretched out an arm and looked at the jewelled and expensive watch on her wrist.

"Pumpkin time, little ones!" she said, standing up. "Use condoms!" She threw the last remark over her shoulder as she walked off, winking too.

"Catty," Mick had taken hold of her hands. "Gonnae make my dreams come true?"

Katrina felt her heart flutter. It wasn't a pleasant feeling; an audible thud-thud-thud that flooded her ears, but it was still what happened when you heard words you'd always wanted to hear.

Where do you imagine the about-to-be best sex of your life takes place?

Och, Katrina had plenty of experience of conjuring up the ideal spot in her mind. A four-poster in a hotel stuck in some English backwater? An attic you could on only access through a step ladder, where you fell onto a long-discarded mattress?

Or bent over a kitchen table, The Postman Always Rings Twice style...When you find yourself in a grotty pub, then that's most likely to be the case.

The hands gripped hers. She felt callouses, forefingers and thumbs that moved delicately, tiny movements over the tops of her fingers and then her palms.

Just me? She wanted to demand. When you say, 'dreams come true', what exactly does that mean? She could throw those questions out there, where they would hang in the air, awkwardly, and then plunge earth-wards.

You don't ask Mick questions like that.

No matter, he had pulled her to him anyway and now they were at the back door of the grotty pub. He was whispering in her ear. Oh, he wanted to do this to her, he wanted to do that to her. All of it involved that cock, the thing that might define Mick altogether, forging its way inside her, and who cared where it found its opening—fingers, mouth, vagina, anus. Mick wasn't fussy.

He grinned at her, his eyes nodding at the pool table in the room behind them. There was no-one around, the pool players having moved to the darts board to fight it out once more.

She told him, as firmly as she could, that she wasn't another notch on a bedpost. Men denying that kind of accusation was commonplace, but she gripped his hand hard as he said it.

Katrina did not take risks, not emotional ones. This time, though, she decided to be Cosmo woman. The monthly glossy always lay around Chevelure Chic (even though the salon's rich clients stole them all the time, despite the stickers on the front that promised the staff would photocopy any article that caught a customer's eye) and she read them from time to time.

February's headline article had been You CAN ask him out! It positively encouraged a woman to take control. The 90s woman did that kind of thing. She wasn't passive. She took charge.

"I don't want a shag," she said now, pushing back against the body that was steering her towards the pool table. "If you want me, I come with conditions. I promise you; I'm worth the wait."

Her hands shook. Every one of those words had felt as if they were being sucked up from her guts, glass shards that scraped their way through her intestines, oesophagus and throat. They had lingered for a long time in her mouth, scratching the insides there too.

Mick stared at her. "You want us to be boyfriend and girlfriend?"

She couldn't read the statement. It sounded matter of fact; hard to tell if he was incredulous, disbelieving, or dismissive.

She forced herself to hold his stare, arms folded now and standing out of his reach.

"Yes. Faithful, too."

In for a penny, in for a pound, but you might as well articulate exactly what you want. No use complaining afterwards if Mick claimed she'd said nothing about them being exclusive.

He leant forward, his forehead on hers. "I always thought you didn't do that kind of thing."

The admission startled her. What, had all along this been about Mick thinking she was the one with commitment issues?

And then his mouth landed on hers, those big lips covering hers and his tongue tentative and exploratory. He cradled the back of her head in his hands, and kept his eyes open. The eyes sparkled and danced. Katrina closed hers, afraid he would see her properly.

Inside, she sparkled and danced, but hers were fireworks, dazzling, colourful explosions popping up all over her body.

"'Kay, then," he said when he eventually drew back. "Boyfriend and girlfriend, it is. D'ye want me to take you out for dinner or something? I'm no' exactly sure what it is you do when you're dating."

That broke the mood, but Katrina was relieved. Those exploding fireworks had been a bit alarming. And they probably would have talked her into having sex with him, contradicting everything she had just said.

She laughed. "Aye, you need the practice. You can start with a slap-up meal. Or the cinema. Or something. Use your imagination. I'm free Saturday night."

"Right, so if we've got that sorted...?" he tipped his head back at the pool table behind them, then grinned.

"Kidding! Happy to wait. How many dates do I need to take you on? Be nice to know..."