The Three Halves of Martyn Manning-Chapter Twenty-One: Deep Thought - Part One

The
next morning was Saturday morning. Shagging morning. Elena arrived at
the usual time, just before seven, naked except for her cotton
dressing gown. She knocked softly on Martyn’s bedroom door and
entered. The curtains were still drawn and it was dark outside but
some light filtered through from the streetlamps and it looked to her
like Martyn was still asleep, though actually he’d been awake for
some time and was simply thinking with his eyes closed, his back to
her. She stood for a couple of seconds then heard a half-hearted
“Hi”. Her answering “Hi” was equally unenthusiastic as she
took off her dressing gown and climbed into bed next to him.

They
lay still and silent for several minutes. Elena began to hope it
might be her lucky day, a rape-free Saturday. Yay, lucky Elena! But
then Martyn spoke. He still had his back to her.

“You
went out again last night.”

“Yes,
I did. Is that a problem? I checked the kids were fast asleep before
I left.”

“You
should have told me.”

He
turned over to look at her.

“I
need to know if you’re not here and I’m the only one in the
house. What if there’s an emergency?”

“Sorry,
I’ll try to remember next time.” (Not sorry, I was fucking angry
with you.) “I was only out for an hour.”

“It
doesn’t matter how long you were out, you still should have told
me. Where did you go anyway?”

“Just
back to the bonfire for a bit.” (Not that it’s any of your
fucking business.)

“Did
you go to the pub?”

“No,
we were going to go but we never actually made it.” (Not a lie!)

“We?
Who was there?”

“There
were a few of us, I don’t know all the names, just drinking and
chatting.”

“Was
Billy there?”

“Yeah,
Billy was there. He was pretty pissed but most of them were.”

“I
told you to stay away from Billy, he’s bad news.”

“You
told me he was bad news and to be careful. You didn’t say I
couldn’t stand around a bonfire with a group of people if he was
there.”

“It’s
for your own good.”

Under
the duvet he began the wriggle out of his pyjama bottoms.

“Martyn.”

“What’s
up?”

“Martyn,
I’m having my period.”

“So?
Is that a problem?” He began unbuttoning his pyjama top.

“It’s
quite heavy. It will be a bit messy.”

“Get
a towel or something. Lay it on the bed. It’ll be fine.”

“Wouldn’t
it be better if I did an extra day next week? It’s nearly finished.
I could come back on Monday or Tuesday?”

“No.
It’s in the contract. Saturday mornings. I want it today.”

“OK.”
She got out of bed and went to the bathroom where she picked out the
darkest coloured towel and lay it on the bed beneath where she’d
lie.

He
didn’t hurt her exactly, though his frenetic thrusting suggested
he’d like to. He didn’t let her go on top, or even turn her over,
he just pumped away till he was done, then climbed off leaving Elena
to contemplate the finger bruises she would later have on her
shoulders.

They
put on their dressing gowns and left the bedroom at the same time,
though not together. Elena went to her room for a hot
shower
while Martyn went downstairs to the kitchen to make coffee and pick
up his weekend newspaper from the front doormat. Back in his
bedroom he opened the curtains, climbed back
into
bed
and started to relax. He
had strong
coffee on the bedside table, his
glans was serene
and undistracting,
and he
had two
hours ahead of
him with
the
news,
politics and his favourite columnists. This
was his favourite time of the week, his treat, his pamper. The
cover headline said “PM: CAPTAIN DYNAMIC TO MAJOR SLEAZE.” He
read the accompanying story and it’s continuation on page 2 then
flicked through the pages, noting the articles he’d come back to
after the editorial and the lead feature. He’d
moved on to the political sketch writer before he was forced to admit
to himself that something was wrong, that
he
was restless, unsettled,
that
he
wasn’t enjoying his me time in the normal way. He
put down the paper and picked up his coffee. It was too
cold
to
drink so
he put it back down again.
He realised
now that he’d tried
to punish her. He’d
wanted to hurt her and that was unforgivable. He was ashamed and
he was sorry.
Maybe he should apologise later. Yes,
he must. But
why had he done it?
Why had he behaved so disgracefully? It
was so out of character. Well
clearly
it
was because he
was annoyed that she’d gone out again without telling him. That was just
irresponsible. What would have happened if there’d been an
emergency and
he’d needed some
help
with the kids?
What if
there’d been a fire? He might have had to risk his own
life
running back into the blazing house to try and find her when
she wasn’t even there.
That
was it, that
was why he’d
wanted to hurt her.
He’d
been angry and he’d wanted to take his anger out on her physically.
It
didn’t excuse his behaviour but it explained it. He
picked up his paper and flicked through a few pages of unseen headlines but
then put it down again. No
Martyn, you’re
better than this, stop
rationalising, you’re fooling nobody, least of all yourself. Don’t
insult your own intelligence. That
wasn’t the
reason you behaved so shamefully.
It
was Billy wasn’t it, or
something to do with him.
He’d
warned her off Billy
and
she’d ignored him. He’d
categorically told her to stay away, that Billy was bad news, and
she’d deliberately defied him to
go hang out round the bonfire. She’d claimed Billy was just one of
the crowd, peripheral, but he didn’t buy that. He knew Billy and he
was pretty sure he’d have been all over Elena like a rash,
especially if he was drunk. So
why did that annoy him so much? Was it that she’d ignored
his
advice?
Or
was
it about Billy himself? Or
was it the thought of Elena being attracted to, then
pawed
by, and
potentially
fucked by another man, any man? He
pondered this. He was certainly annoyed that she’d ignored his
advice but he
had to admit it was up to her. She
was an adult. She
may be foolish not to listen to him but there wasn’t much he could
do about it.
Similarly, he couldn’t stop her being attracted to other men. He
could hardly have put a clause in the contract, “Para: 7.2.1 –
You are not to find other men sexually
attractive”,
that
was
just
the
way of the world. At
least for heterosexual women.
And if
he had inserted
that clause she’d
probably have
turned
out to have been a cougar-lezza
and
spent all her time burying
her face in hairy
village muff. Actually
he’d have been
quite happy with that if they’d let him watch, at
least the video. Still, “Para:
7.2.1 – You are not to find other human beings including
women sexually
attractive”? No, that wouldn’t have worked either. As
for actually getting fucked by other men, that was something he certainly
could
have done something about. He
would have been quite
within his rights to have included a prohibition on romantic liaisons
while she was in his employment and in retrospect he was a little angry with himself for his lack of
foresight. But
whatever, it was too late now, there was no prohibition clause in the
contract so there was nothing he could do to stop her if that’s how
things turned out, as long as it didn’t impact on her work and the
kids of course. Yes, that was actually a good point. If she did start
putting it about then
he’d
have to watch that like a hawk. Even
if she didn’t let it impact her work overtly
he
was pretty sure that with a little thought and imagination he could
concoct
some trumped up grounds for putting a stop to it on
that basis. But why would he
want to? Why would it
bother him anyway? What
was it to him if
she wanted a bit of freelance action, as long as she didn’t climb
into his bed dripping with someone else’s jizz. After all, he didn’t own her.
But then, he supposed he could argue that in
a way he
did own
her.
Looking back he supposed that owning
her could
have been his intention all along, it was
just a shame that he hadn’t structured the contract more
robustly.
Well
he hadn’t and that was that. If she wanted to go out and get laid
in her own free time and it didn’t impinge on her professional
responsibilities it was up to her and there was absolutely fuck all
he could do about it. But
why would she want to? Was
she a nymphomaniac? Well clearly not, she was hardly beating a door
to his room for overtime every night. Or
maybe she really
was
a nymphomaniac and her
seeking
satisfaction
elsewhere was a judgement on his skills
between the sheets?
Maybe
he
was
just crap in bed? He
thought
about this. He didn’t
think he
was crap in bed. He certainly didn’t remember any partner ever
telling him so. But then he supposed they wouldn’t, would they.
He’d
never read any scientific evidence but he was pretty sure women
had two special strands of DNA that men didn’t have,
one strand
which
said “Never criticise his performance in bed” and another even
more powerful strand which said “Never ever EVER say he’s got a small penis, or
heaven forbid, compare his
size to someone else.”
But then
he’d
been married to Janet for years! She’d never said anything, and
knowing Janet he was pretty sure she’d have said something if she
thought he wasn’t coming up to scratch. And
then there were the girls before Janet. One
of them, a fellow trainee at his first architectural practice stalked him for weeks. They finally got it together, and as
he was working her up with
his finger she
kept muttering “Oh Martyn,
I knew you’d be good.” Boy,
did
that make him full
of himself! He was walking round like a Viking Sex God for days
afterwards. It
was all he could do to stop himself telling everybody at the bus
stop. And then
the
other one, the
blind date his mate had arranged when he was working away in
Newcastle. She’d snuggled up to him afterwards and breathed
in his ear, “You make me feel like a woman again.” Surely
that was a compliment? So
no, on balance he didn’t think he was crap in bed. And
he did try very hard not to be a selfish lover. He always made a
point of getting his partner to come before him, or at least of
trying
to.
(OMG,
female orgasms. Don’t even
go
there, that way madness lies!) He
liked to think this made him a gentleman, a caring feminist, but
then he’d read an article by a real
life actual female
feminist
who
claimed that by doing so he was perpetuating the patriarchy. He
didn’t quite
follow
her argument, but if he was honest with himself he wasn’t being
purely altruistic when he did this. If he got his partner to come
first then he could relax and enjoy himself afterwards,
so maybe the feminist had a point. As
for John Lennon and his “Come Together” bollocks,
yeah John, dream on, easier
said than done mate. So
anyway, assuming
that Elena’s not a nymphomaniac and accepting that he’s not useless in bed, why
else might she wanna fuck around? Was
he unattractive? Well he wasn’t Brad Pitt, but he wasn’t The
Elephant Man either. He had to accept he was a lot older than her but
he was still in decent condition, he hadn’t let himself go to seed.
But maybe he was asking the wrong question. Maybe the question wasn’t
“Was he, Martyn Manning, attractive
or unattractive”
but “Was
he, Martyn
Manning, more
attractive or less
attractive than, say, just for the sake of argument, Billy?”.
Interesting. It
was empirically proven that quite
a
lot of women, quite
a lot of young
and attractive women, did find Billy attractive. So
why
was that and how
would Martyn shape up against Billy in a direct comparison? Martyn
was objectively
wealthy,
successful, highly educated, intelligent, good company, at least
passably
good looking and acceptably
good
in bed. And he was Elena’s employer, which must count for
something. She
was after all to some extent reliant on him. Both
he and Billy were about the same height and build. Maybe
Billy was a centimetre taller and the physical nature
of his day
job must
make
him a little more honed, but
no-one could claim that
he
was wealthy, successful, highly educated or particularly intelligent. He
supposed Billy might be considered good company to
a certain demographic,
and he supposed he might also
be
good looking, but he assumed Elena would not know, at least not yet,
if he was any good in bed. He was undeniably much younger than Martyn
and that had to be a big plus in his favour, more in touch with the,
you
know, vibe or
whatever. Maybe
young
women just weren’t turned on by wealthy,
successful, highly educated and intelligent. Maybe
they preferred oil-stained feckless Lotharios with no prospects who were more
their age group and made them laugh. Well,
that was up to them. Silly
girls. He
sighed. He was bored with navel gazing.