Embarrassment

Embarrassment

How do you deal with embarrassment? You don’t embarrass easily: maybe, as a girl, you used to, but after living with Bill for so long, you have learned to deal with it. You usually ignore his asinine games. If he makes an inconsiderate and insensitive remark among friends, just to make you blush, you now give him the look that tells him to shut up or else, and then change the subject. If he tries to lift your skirt in the pub to show his mates what colour knickers you’re wearing, you just step aside and laugh it off as a laddish prank: boys will be boys! Sometimes, however, it’s not Bill’s fault. You make a stupid mistake, or you commit an indiscretion you know you could have avoided, and you look foolish to everyone around. In those cases, you can’t blame him and you have to accept responsibility for your humiliation all by yourself. You have a choice: tough it out, or leave the country. Mostly, no always, you choose to tough it out. Always, that is, until now.

Right now you feel like you could cry. You want to. You want to feel burning tears on your cheeks and your body racked with sobs. Maybe that would make you feel better. Exorcise the shame. But the tears won’t come. Instead your toes curl and that weird sensation that is humiliation engulfs your whole body. Your mind can focus on nothing else but the enormity of what you have just done, and what everyone else must think of you. Who has been told? Who else knows? The whole bloody world! You go over and over it in your mind – the incident itself and what led up to it. If only you’d been more sensible, behaved like every other decent girl would, then this would never have happened. If only …

And the really annoying thing is, it really was Bill who made it happen this time. But the faux pas was your own.

You slam your foot vehemently onto the accelerator with self-rage, and your car jerks forward too quickly; you have to brake hard to avoid hitting the motorbike in front. You smile apologetically as the rider’s helmeted head turns to look at you. He looks like Darth Vader you think, and you will him to destroy you. But he just acknowledges your apology and moves off. You swear foully and repeatedly, although it doesn’t help.

You had walked out of the office as soon as it had happened. Everyone was laughing, or trying not to. Even Maria, who tried to console you as you stalked out with as much dignity as you could muster had first wiped tears of laughter from her eyes. Well – be honest, you laughed yourself too for a moment. Just for a moment. Then you left the office, got into the car and just drove.


You replay the events in your mind. It was your birthday a couple of months ago, and, over a romantic dinner you and Bill had decided the time was right to try to make a baby. That night was special. You couldn’t remember Bill being so sweet since the time he proposed. You wanted to give him something precious back, and so it was agreed you would come off the pill and start a family.

But then your Mother came to stay, just for a week, but that was a month ago. She decided she could help you more by staying longer. And she was still here. You liked having her. Even Bill liked her. There was no problem about her staying. It’s just … it’s just that it’s so inhibiting having her around when you want to have sex.

You were off the pill, but you didn’t feel like you were “making babies” when you grabbed a quickie while Mother was out shopping. It was more like the sex you used to have as a teenager. Fast, dirty, awkward but fun. Hiding at the back of the bike sheds, your boyfriend of the moment holding your leg up and clumsily shoving himself towards you while you supported yourself on his shoulders or by leaning against the wall. You hoped at least he wouldn’t finish before he’d got inside you. Thus it was while Mother was here: you took your chances when they occurred.

This morning, for instance, while mother was taking her shower, you got between Bill and the breakfast table, and dropped your dressing gown. You stood there naked and inviting. Bill never needed twice asking, even if it would make him late for work! He unzipped his trousers and, instantly ready, he thrust himself inside you. You leant away from him to give him a better angle and he penetrated deeper. At that point, you both stopped and listened. You could hear the water running through the pipes. “Yes,” you thought, “She’ll be a while yet.” You pressed yourself against Bill’s hot body. Bill had been motionless inside you, while you had listened. He felt big and hard. Just being inside you gently throbbing was enough to arouse you. But now Bill started to “do the business”. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t romantic. But it was dangerous, thrilling and exhilarating. It didn’t need to be anything else. You weren’t making a baby today, you were shagging.

You both finished quickly and together. Then you stayed joined together to get your breath back … and you heard the bathroom door open. “Shit! She’s coming down!”

Bill let you up and zipped up his fly. You quickly pulled on your dressing gown and went over to the sink to fill the kettle.

“Tea, Mum?” you asked as she walked in, drying her hair with a towel.

“Yes, please, dear,” she said, looking at you. “Are you feeling alright? You look flushed.”

“Fine, Mum” you answered, concentrating on watching a blackbird in the garden rather than look at her. You felt yourself redden. You feel Bill’s cum running down your leg. Can she tell, you wondered.


Bill excused himself. He had to get to work. You gave him his lunch and asked him if he wanted anything special to eat this evening. He didn’t pick up on your innuendo, and perhaps it was just as well. You watched him get into his car and leave for the garage. You hate the place, but you know it suits Bill. He was always a practical person. Good with his hands. He could make anything work. It seemed inevitable that he’d be some kind of mechanic straight out of school. And he was. He was still working at the garage he joined all those years ago as a spotty teenager. Fixing cars was his world. Cars and football, and, of course, boozing with his mates down at the Crown & Anchor. They were a good group of lads, always ready for a laugh. Always willing to help each other out. Always there for each other. You’d been out with a couple of them before you got involved with Bill, so you were part of the gang as well. An honorary bloke, so long as you didn’t go all girly or sensible on them.

The garage workshop is a dreadful place. There’s a musty, oily smell in the air. Loud noises of hydraulic jacks, electric motors whiring and tools clattering everywhere. The men yelling instructions at each other. Working in inspection beds with cars over them. What if those cars fall off the ramps, you worry.

The walls are brick, covered with cream paint that is peeling in places. They are adorned with tyre adverts and Health & Safety notices. Tool racks range along the end walls and a door leads off to the toilets: the “bog” as it is aptly named. You had to use it once. You prefer to hold on now. There are a few girly pictures - topless girls from Page 3 of The Sun. You have been invited to pose for photographs yourself, but have always sweetly declined: cheeky sods!

Then there is the tannoy. Announcements are made to the men to call them to the phone, or to talk to a customer, so loud as to be almost deafening. And between announcements, music is relayed from Britain Radio, a national pop music station notorious for the antics its DJ’s get up to for publicity stunts. David-Alexander Masters presents the station’s morning programme: a mix of top 40’s hits, oldies and competitions with great prizes. Although he is internationally famous as a top DJ, broadcasting on a satellite station too, David-Alexander Masters has a bigger reputation for an enormous sexual appetite and deviant tastes. But that’s nothing to do with your embarrassment. The competitions, however, are.

Unknown to you, Bill had sent his name into the show to take part in one of the competitions. The prize was a trip to Las Vegas for two, with $5,000 spending money. Today it happened that Bill’s name was picked out and he was called at work by the radio station. After a few moments’ chit-chat on air, Masters explained the rules of the game. The competition was only open to married couples and couples living together, and one of them – Bill in this case – would be asked a few intimate questions about their sex life. (You cringe again as the words “sex life” run through your mind.) After Bill has answered the questions on air, Masters would call up the partner – you – and ask the same questions. If your answers were the same as Bill’s, you got the prize. Simple.

Because you work in a large City bank, you were unaware of what was happening. Blissfully unaware until the phone rang. It was the radio station. David-Alexander Masters was calling you direct. Why? How had he got your number? He explained: Bill had just told him a few things about your sex life (stupid bugger: Bill will go too far one of these days, you think) and if you give the same answers, you’ll win a fantastic holiday in USA for two, plus spending money. “Is that OK, Sandra?” he asks in a voice like treacle.

You think of yourself on holiday with him rather than Bill. Your mouth goes a bit dry, but you say with a nervous giggle, “Yes.”

Bill is on another line, and says “Good girl, Sandra. Just answer the questions and you’ll be OK.”

Right, Bill,” you answer.

“OK, Sandra,” says the DJ, a bit more business-like now. “How long have you been together with Bill?”

“We’ve been married for three years, but I’ve known him for much longer” You hear the guys in the garage cheering on the other line.

“Three years is fine, Sandra. That’s just what Bill told me.”

“I’m surprised he remembered,” you joke nervously, but relieved to have got past the first stage.

“Next question. You ready, Sandra?”

“Yes.”

“When did you and Bill last have sex?”

You are shocked when you hear the question. You expected it, but you are still taken aback a little when you hear it. You remind yourself that Mother would never listen to Britain Radio, so she won’t hear you answer. However, you notice that everyone around you seems to have stopped working. Somehow word got around that you are on the radio and everyone had tuned into the station’s internet broadcast. You silently curse Bill and his friends. Holiday or not, you think, they’ll have to do some serious sucking up to you later if they want you to forgive them for this.

Bill encourages you to answer. But you still hesitate. This is so personal! You pause for one more beat, then speak. “This morning, just before Bill left for work,” you reply. You notice the reaction of your colleagues. Things aren’t ever going to be the same around here, you think.

The cheers from the garage on the other line are dying down as Masters says, “That’s the answer we all wanted. You’ve got one more question to answer. How are you feeling, Sandra?”

“Nervous” you answer. You mean embarrassed. You can see people smirking at you and talking to each other while casting looks in your direction. You’re glad you can’t hear them.

“OK, Sandra. The third and final question. If you get that right, you’re off to Las Vegas. Have you been there before?”

“No”

“I’m sure you’ll have a fantastic time. You only need to get the next question right, so don’t go away. We’ll be back after this …”

Disappointed, nervous and frustrated, you find yourself listening to a string of commercials being played. Just before the last one ends, a voice speaks to you to check you are still on the line. Then David-Alexander Masters comes back and says, ”Welcome back.” He explains to the listeners what has happened so far and gets ready to ask the final question.

“Sandra,” he says. “You had sex this morning just before Bill went to work, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” you reply. This is getting tedious. How much more time does he want to buy?

“OK, the final question for the American holiday is, Sandra, where did you have it?”

You are shocked. “Oh my God, Bill! You didn’t tell him THAT, did you?”

“Just answer him, Love,” says Bill.

I’ll fucking well kill you tonight, you bastard, you think.

“Sandra? Where did you have it?” Masters presses you for a response.

You feel the eyes of your colleagues willing you to tell him. You hear Bill entreating you to reply. You lick your lips and take a breath.

“Up the arse,” you say …