Knock knock knock. Crrrrrrreak (sound of door opening). Argh (sound inside head). The minister was as naked as the day he was born. I swanned past him, picked up the newspaper and sat down in the armchair. I strategically raised the paper to just above eyebrow-level to avoid seeing his tender bits. The newspaper was upside down – look out George Bush!
I was 33 years old at the time and I thought worldly wise. My friend, the minister, had been hitting on me for some time now. Plying me with oysters to test some old theories about their aphrodisiac properties, soliciting advice behind closed doors on matters I knew nothing about in the hopes that I would swoon, holding my hand in full train carriages and not for reasons of palmistry.
In the first version of this piece the naked minister was a persistent he-man who subscribed to the “when a girl says no she means yes” school of thought. The more honest version is that he was a bit of a he-man and I was giving it out mixed signals. Why did I simply not say “I’m flattered and I like flirting with you but I don’t want anything more”, well you may ask. I don’t know. I do know that what we do, or don’t do or say has consequences. Mine?
Jet plane, naked minister, naked minister’s wife, naked minister’s assistant. Destination: Europe. Important fact: wife dropped off in country 1 to tour solo. Every evening thereafter the naked minister invited me to dinner. Every evening I had a headache. I was worried my rejection was wearing thin. After all I did need this man. So I leapt at the breakfast invitation. What could go wrong? My gran only warned me about going to dark places with men. “Meet you in the dining-room?” I asked. “Swing by my room and pick me up,” he said.
To this day my biggest regret is that I didn’t look. If I had this story would have had a whole different title. Maybe Does it come in other sizes or is it one size fits all?