Little Elephant

"If only because we have this elephant to slay."

"Slay?" he laughs, and I feel the change in him. "That's a bit extreme, isn't it?"

"I don't know. Is it? What are we supposed to do with elephants when they are in rooms they shouldn't be?"

"God, I don't know what to do about you," sounding so serious all over again.

"So come home with me and we can talk about it, or whatever."

A beat or two go by.

Then, "Will the elephant be listening in?"

I laugh, a shaky sound betraying my fear, my heart still staggering around in my chest. "I don't know. Do you want her to listen in?"

He steps away, plucking at the handle of my case, and we resume our progress, me swapping sides to take hold of his hand again, which twitches then squeezes mine, and I catch a hint of his tight smile when we step out of the alley and onto the better-lit street.

My flat is happily warm and dry as we walk inside, the heavy front door thudding shut behind Ben. He's been here many times before, not least when he helped me move in, swearing at me and at the quantity of books he'd felt to be excessive. We'd almost fallen out about it until he'd cracked some smart joke and we'd laughed and he'd produced the champagne he'd brought to celebrate. We'd proceeded to drink it all on an empty stomach and I'd laughed hard at everything he'd said and suffered the headache the next day without much grace, texting grumpy updates to him full of blame and self-pity.

I shake out my coat. It's raining hard now -- 'like cats and dogs', Ben had said, cursing his head off at it.

Now we're inside, though, it feels tense again. I listen to him pulling his boots off and setting them down near the door.

"Um, what would you like to drink?" I ask, staring into the fridge.

"Is the elephant in there?"

My face burns, more in frustration than anything. When are we ever going to be in synch, between his weird reticence, his flashes of what looks and feels like desire, and my nerves that I'm misreading everything about him in desperation to see what I want?

"Nell?"

He's standing so close behind me there's no room for me to turn around.

"I don't see her in here, but I do see beer and some chardonnay, if you want anything. Do you?"

"Nella," he says, more firmly this time, a hand coming to rest on my shoulder.

"Sorry," I huff. "I don't know what to say. I feel lost for words, and you're going hot then cold, and I don't recognise us --"

"I know. I'm sorry, but I'm trying hard not to fuck up our friendship here."

"Do you think that's what will happen?"

He spins me round, fingers biting into my shoulder, slams the fridge shut and crowds me up against it. "It's my biggest fear, Nell. But I'm also going mad trying not to touch you."

"Oh." I blink.

"But I need to know how you're feeling, what you want --" he halts, his eyes round and dark.

"What do you want?"

"No," he states, the beginnings of a grin curling around his mouth. "You first."

"No, why me?"

"Ladies first."

I click my tongue at him, outmanoeuvred. And then I lean into him, so close we're almost touching. "This. I want this. To at least try."

He makes a stifled sort of sound, eyes darting off to the side. "Nella --"

"Bloody hell, Ben! What is it? Are you going to make me beg you?"

My world suddenly becomes a dark, hot place as he engulfs me, every inch of his body pressed against mine. He kisses my neck, not very gently, and I give myself up to it, turning my head to tempt him upward to my lips, the outer edge of his ear hot on my lips. He presses harder, his belt buckle digging into my hip bone, finally lifting his face, looking flushed and glassy-eyed as he runs a hand around the base of my neck. Air catches in my throat and I lean in to touch my lips to his.

Because I just need to kiss you, Ben, properly, to see if this is real. Please make this real. Don't make me a fool.

He doesn't rush. No, he takes his sweet time, and while my heart races, he seems to gain in patience, tracing the contours of my face with his fingers. So I slide an arm around his waist to encourage him, to urge him on.

"You in a hurry?" he mutters, an uptick to his mouth.

I dig my fingers into the back of his jeans and smile at the resultant kick of his hips, a smile he takes over as he finally - finally -- covers my mouth with his. There's no hesitation, no holding back. Not anymore; his tongue delving deep and bold, curling and stroking. My eyes drop shut, as if conserving energy to help me survive this sensual onslaught. I reach upward, rising onto my toes as if it will help me find more of him and, before I know it, he's taking charge, his hands sure and rough, lifting me.

"Yeah, that's it," he encourages me, using his body to hold me as I wrap my legs around him, half laughing, half panting.

"Aren't I too heavy for this?"

"Trust me, you're not," he replies, his mouth turning into a full smile, so familiar to me, yet also completely not.

Who is this man now? No longer my quiet friend with his flashes of humour and diffident charm, but a man sure of his needs and desires. The press of his hips diverts my mind from these thoughts -- from any thinking, honestly -- and I run my hands down to his bum to encourage him. The fridge rocks slightly with our movements and my back slides against it, probably more comfortable than if it was a wall, but I don't know for sure, since in all my sexual experiences, this -- upright, wrapped around a man -- has never figured. I've never felt so fiercely wanted. The heat and tension emanating from him is more promising, more erotic than anything I've felt in my life. I let myself sink into his hold, into his kisses, losing myself in his embrace.

+++

Half my brain is mad for it, to fuck her right here, crushed up against the fridge. The other, more adult half is ringing the bell for time out, for me to explain myself before it goes too far. I pull back. She looks as wrecked as I feel, her normally pale blue eyes dark, almost bruised-looking, a tiny thread of spit clinging on between her mouth and mine. I stare at it until she licks her lips, breaking it.

"We do need to talk about something first, though," I say, loosening my hold of her, letting her down gently.

Her eyes take on a careful look. "Ok."

"Let's sit down."

I let her go ahead, so I can adjust myself discreetly, before following her over to the couch. For a few seconds I'm stalled by the fact there is only one couch and no other chairs. She's lived here for a couple of years already but still has only the bare minimum of furniture. I sit my arse down at the other end to her.

"So? What is it, Ben?"

She's sitting sideways to face me, legs tucked under her so gracefully, the picture of class. My gut turns to stone at the thought of coming clean with her, but my adult brain reminds me I have to do this if I'm not to risk our friendship.

My silence must be making her nervous because she starts to rise, asking if I want a drink after all. I hold out my hand to stop her.

"No. No, I should do this sober."

"Ok."

A frown creases her lovely face and I take a deep breath. "The thing is, Nell, I have some, uh, particular tastes when it comes to sex."

Her short laugh catches me off guard.

"Sorry Ben. I know I shouldn't be laughing, but I'm relieved. I thought you were going to tell me you were HIV or had hepatitis or something, you looked so serious when we sat down."

My pride rears its silly head, "No, no way! I'm clean as a whistle. I even got myself tested again, after the photo shoot, you know? In --"

"'Clean as a whistle.' I like that -- it's one of my favourites," she smiles.

I'm still lost for words when she closes the gap between us, by just a few inches, but enough to encourage me.

"It's a good one. Underused, in my opinion," she continues, looking like she might be actually teasing me.

My blood rises because I can't stop myself from thinking she might stop this lovely teasing once I enlighten her as to my predilections. I tighten my fists in frustration.

"So, what 'particular tastes' are we talking about?"

I still hesitate. Then, "I like being in charge."

"In charge? Like how?"

"Like being in control. Telling you what to do, or what not to do." I shift around, unaccountably aroused just by saying these words to her, baring myself for her.

"Teasing me?"

I nod, because my throat has closed over and I can't speak.

"Like a Dom? With whips and gags and that sort of thing?"

I cough. "No. No whips or gags. No props, really, just my own hands. Although maybe rope sometimes. Maybe."

Her gaze turns thoughtful and I'm suddenly fearful of being honest, of her intelligence, of her ability to see into me.

"Ok."

Fuck if I'm not going to burn up. But before my brain becomes ash, I have to follow this through, to avoid any misunderstandings.

"That's it? That's not enough. You need to tell me what you're thinking."

"It sounds interesting."

"Interesting? Is that what you'd like, though? Because if you don't, or you don't fancy the idea of it, you have to say so now. Because we can't -- start something and then it gets fucked up by my, um --"

"Are you tongue-tied? Really? You English! You get so embarrassed about sex, don't you?"

"No, it's not that. It's just --" I struggle, fighting the competing emotions of hope and frustration to find the right words. "It's just that some of the girls I've been with have said they're ok with it, but when it came down to it, they weren't, and it ended badly. Really badly."

"Really badly? How? What happened? Did you hurt them, or what happened?"

"No, I didn't hurt them. Not physically. But they said it was degrading for them. And that isn't what I want at all."

"What do you want? What do you like about being in charge?"

I risk a direct look at her. She's moved slightly closer, leaning in a little, as if what I'm saying isn't repelling her at all.

"I like telling a woman what to do and have her do it and know she's as into it as I am," which comes out as a pauseless blurt.

"What things do you want to tell her to do?"

My brain does a slow double-take, as if it's only just catching on to the fact it's Nella, my oldest friend from school, who's sitting here asking forensic questions about how I like to fuck.

"Come on, Ben, give me a flavour of what you ask these girls to do. Is it like, 'Get on your knees and suck my cock,' or is it a bit more specialised, like, I don't know, you'd tell me to bathe in baked beans for an hour before you come home and then kneel at your feet while you drink whiskey and watch the news in your slippers?"

"Baked beans?" I snort, grateful for her humour, since watching Nell say the words, 'suck my cock' has practically reduced my brain to fucking ash.

"Yes. You're obsessed with baked beans in this country. I still remember the first time I saw them at school. You had to tell me what they were, don't you remember?"

I do, but I don't want to get distracted by it, so I duck it and focus on the prize. "It's much more like your first suggestion."

"No baked beans?"

I sigh. "No. No baked beans in sight. No food, in general, actually."

"Just orders? What about spanking or slapping? Do you do that?"

"No, not really. Well, maybe a bit of a smack now and then."

"To show who's boss?"

My patience snaps and I propel myself towards her until I'm crouched on all fours, staring down at her. "Maybe. Yes, sometimes. But it only feels good when I know it's feeling good for her too. I mean, there's a bit of pain, but good pain." And then my brain kicks in with Nella's use of the words 'you' and 'me' in her baked bean riff and I almost lose the thread, before blurting, "If it'd feel good for you, I mean. Because you'd be the boss really. I wouldn't want to do anything you wouldn't want to do."

"Or at least try once?"

Her eyes look so blue. I swallow. "Yeah, but only if you'd be totally honest with me, you know, about whether you were into it or not."

"I could do that, Ben."

"Really?"

"Do you trust me?"

"What?"

"Do you trust me to tell you when I like something and when I don't?"

Which is when I understand just how deep I'm in it with her. If I wasn't already braced like this I'm sure my body would've buckled and collapsed. Her hands slide around my hips, coaxing me downwards, but I can't let that happen. Not yet.

"Yes, I think so, Nell, but this is all so -- different. I mean, I don't even know how you feel about this. Not really."

"Do you need to be in control every time you have sex, or just sometimes?"

"Not every time, no. But I like playing with the power dynamics of it," I pull away, to sit back on my heels.

"I can see that," and she smiles one of her ridiculously wide smiles, her eyes flicking between my face and my crotch where, no doubt, she's getting a pretty clear idea of how into it I am right now. And then she sits up, coming face to face with me, eyes serious again. "Honestly, Ben, thanks. I'm glad you wanted to tell me."

My eyes close for a second or two and her lips bump into mine. Her kiss is light and smooth. I lean in for more when she draws back a fraction.

"Can you take being told what to do as well?"

"Sure, so long as I can give it back."

Her eyes flash as she gives my chest a shove. "Sit down then."

"Wait --"

Which she does, while I struggle with what I need to say.

"Ben -- this doesn't seem like a big deal to me. You say you don't want to hurt me, just boss me around? That sounds ok to me."

"It needs to be more than just ok, Nella."

"You're uncomfortable with it, aren't you? With needing to be so dominant."

"Yes. You know Mum'd kill me if she knew --"

A smile of shared understanding passes between us. Because my mum's one of the leading academics in feminist literary criticism in the country. So yeah, even though I'm her only son and she loves me, I'm not sure she'd love what I like to do in bed.

"Do you need to use nasty words to get off?"

"What? No!"

"So it's not about shaming or --?"

"No," I cut her off. "No, it's nothing like that. It's --" I stare up at the ceiling, "It's only good if she's someone really intelligent and --"

"Who likes being bossed around? Giving up control?"

"Yeah."

She lays her hand flat to my chest and holds it there. It's surprisingly calming, or it might just be that I'm surprised by how much I needed to calm down. Doors slam overhead, sounds of shoes and bags dropping to the floor in the flat above us. My breathing slows and I allow myself a glimmer of real hope, because she hasn't thrown me out on my ear for being a dirty bastard. Yet.

"Now, how about a drink? I'm going to put the kettle on and have a honey and ginger tea. What'd you like, Ben?"

I dip my head to give her a soft kiss, one I hope expresses how much I love her for being so brilliant.

"Yeah, I'd like the same, thanks."

Watching her in the kitchen, the gentle swing of her hips as she moves about, fetching mugs and tea, filling the kettle, settling in to watch it boil, her face in neutral. My inner voice raises its ugly head, suggesting she's probably using the time to have second thoughts, to retract it all. I turn my head and drop it to stare at the rug on the floor.

+++

"And then what happened?"

"Nothing. I mean, he was sitting there staring at the floor looking --" I hesitate. "Looking unhappy."

"And?"

"And nothing, Freja. We drank tea and then he left, making some excuse about needing to get up early this morning."

My sister frowns, hands holding the glass of orange juice on top of her big stomach. "He left just like that?"

My thoughts fly back to the all-too-fleeting but deep kiss he'd given me at the door.

"Mm, well I think that answered my question."

I blush -- no, I blush even more. "But what do you think is going on, Freja? I mean, why didn't he stay?"

She shifts her hips, pushing a hand against one side of the bump, coaxing the baby to move. "Well, given that he didn't leave here before at least giving you a kiss or two, I think he maybe needs some time to himself to get used to the idea."

"Really?"

"Don't you think he's conflicted about it?"

"About what?"

"Nella!"

I fidget in her gaze. "Conflicted about me?"

"Yes. But, also, he sounds conflicted about the kind of sex he likes, especially if his past experiences haven't been all that positive. And maybe he's not so sure you were being honest with him?"

I hum with confusion. Freja brushes my hand.

"Look, I'm not going to go all pop psychologist on you, but I think maybe he needs some more time. Why don't you find ways to spend time with him, like you've always done. As friends. No pressure. Ben's a nice man. I don't think he's fucking you around. At least, not intentionally."

I kiss her cheek. "Thanks for coming over. I know you have plans for today and I'm sorry if I've disrupted them."

"Don't be daft, Nell. We're only ten minutes up the road. And my plans amount to the thrill of another ante-natal class spent trying not to pee my pants laughing with Gus, and a long walk around Hackney Downs to encourage this one to make an early appearance, because I don't know how it's possible for me to get any bigger."

I eye her. "You look beautiful."

She eyes me back. "I'm not complaining too much. Gus likes me like this," and winks.

We both cackle at that, and I thank my lucky stars I have this sort of relationship with my sister. We've been close since I was born and that closeness only increased when we moved here for Pappa's job, thrown into new realities of single-parent family life after a bloodless divorce, and the rough and tumble of English high schools. We've never held back with each other, although as I think that, I frown.

"You won't say anything, will you, next time you see Ben?"

"Of course not. In the same way I know you'll never embarrass Gus with what you know about him."

We cackle again, before Freja hands me her empty glass and launches herself to her feet.

"I've got to go, Nell, but call me tomorrow, ok?"

I nod, see her off, before closing the door and contemplating what's next. The usual Saturday chores and some work to do before Monday. Maybe a spinning class later. But I feel aimless and, even after Freja's reassurances, uncomfortable about Ben. I can't shake the feeling from remembering him sitting on my couch last night, head down, in an exact replica of how he'd been after the photoshoot. His eyes flat, as if his confidence had deserted him. I pace around, pushing away the idea his kiss at my door had been a kind of farewell.

I'm cleaning the kitchen when my phone jiggles on the countertop. Suds drip to the floor as I read it, brain flooding with light when I see it's from Ben.

-Hey what you up to today? Am packing before heading out tomorrow. Wondered if you want to catch some dinner later? B

I smile at that 'B', as if I wouldn't know who'd sent this to me without it. But he still includes it in most of his texts.

-Chores + some work. I could cook for you if you come over?

I hold my breath, watching those three dots pulsing for longer than seems necessary for a simple reply. And when it doesn't come, I return to the sink, stomach dipping lower and lower at the idea he needs this much time to respond. That we've lost that easy-going feel between us. I resist the impulse to run to the phone when it finally buzzes again, instead swilling the water around the bowl for the inevitable teaspoon before tipping it out.

-Yes. If you're sure?

And isn't that a loaded question. I cast my eyes to the ceiling then back to the screen.

-I'm sure

His answer is rapid.

-Ok. Will bring the booze. Bx

Has he ever used a kiss before? The ongoing question -- what's changed and what's the same? It's driving me insane, yet I thumb my way through the long, long chain of messages between us and, yes, sometimes he's appended a kiss, and sometimes not. I sigh. Then apply my restless energy to making a shopping list for tonight.