Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy) Read online

  Love… From Both Sides

  Sometimes, the hardest part of finding love is keeping a straight face…

  For Jamie Newman, being a single guy isn’t proving to be much fun, especially when confronted with a sexually belligerent divorcee and a goddess so far out of his league she might as well be a different species.

  Mind you, being a girl in search of love isn’t a bowl of cherries either. Just ask Laura McIntyre, who’s recently contended with a horny estate agent on a quest for light relief and a rabid mountain bike enthusiast with a penchant for displaying his genitals.

  When Jamie and Laura bump into one another (quite literally) it looks like their luck may have changed – but sometimes finding the right person is only the start of your problems…

  Based on real-life tales of dating disaster and relationship blunders, Love… From Both Sides is a warts-and-all romantic comedy for everyone who knows how tricky (and occasionally ridiculous) the quest for love can be.

  By Nick Spalding:

  Life… With No Breaks

  Life… On A High

  Love… From Both Sides

  The Cornerstone

  Spalding’s Scary Shorts

  Love… And Sleepless Nights

  Buy Nick’s books:

  Amazon UK

  Amazon US

  Amazon Germany

  Amazon France

  Copyright © Nick Spalding 2011

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Racket Publishing

  This Kindle edition published 2011 by Racket Publishing

  The rights of Nick Spalding to be identified as the author of this work have been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

  Love… From Both Sides

  Nick Spalding

  Racket Publishing

  Chapters

  Author’s Note

  Jamie’s Blog - Sunday 9 January

  Laura’s Diary - Wednesday, February 2nd

  Jamie’s Blog - Saturday 26 February

  Laura’s Diary - Sunday, March 20th

  Jamie’s Blog - Thursday 21 April

  Laura’s Diary - Friday, April 22nd

  Jamie’s Blog - Thursday 19 May

  Laura’s Diary - Thursday, May 19th

  Jamie’s Blog - Tuesday 24 May

  Laura’s Diary - Tuesday, May 24th

  Jamie’s Blog - Saturday 4 June

  Laura’s Diary - Sunday, June 5th

  Jamie’s Blog - Monday 4 July

  Laura’s Diary - Sunday, August 14th

  Jamie’s Blog - Sunday 21 August

  Laura’s Diary - Sunday, August 28th

  Jamie’s Blog - Tuesday 6 September

  Laura’s Diary - Monday, September 19th

  Jamie’s Blog - Wednesday 21 September

  Laura’s Diary - Friday, September 23rd

  Jamie’s Blog - Sunday 31 October

  Laura’s Diary - Friday, November 11th

  Jamie’s Blog - Monday 26 December

  Laura’s Diary - Monday, December 26th

  Author’s Note

  ‘You should write a book about dating,’ my girlfriend said to me one evening, while I was putting the finishing touches to Life… On A High.

  ‘I can’t,’ I told her. ‘I’ve used all the funny stories I know about it in this book.’

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s had dating disasters, Spalding,’ she pointed out. ‘I’ve got some you could write about, and I’m sure your friends have too.’

  Turns out she was right.

  After several wine-soaked conversations with the variety of reprobates I call my friends, I had enough material for a new book.

  More than enough, in fact.

  It looks like finding the love of your life is filled with more pitfalls, pratfalls and problems than I’d imagined. From the stories I’ve heard over the past few months it’s frankly a miracle any relationships get off the ground at all…

  Jamie and Laura aren’t real people, but the trials and tribulations they go through over the course of this story most certainly are.

  This book is dedicated to everyone who’s gone through the hell of dating trying to keep a smile on their face. It’s also dedicated to the girl that made going through it all completely worthwhile for me.

  I love you with all my heart, baby.

  Nick.

  Jamie’s Blog

  Sunday 9 January

  Oh God, her breath smells like the gates of Hell have opened…

  This was the first thought that went through my mind when I met Isobel outside the local JD Wetherspoons on Thursday night.

  The second was that I would be killing Jackie the moment I stepped into the office on Monday morning.

  ‘Oh, you should meet my friend Isobel,’ the evil, lying harridan had said over the coffee machine a couple of weeks ago. ‘She’s a lovely girl. I think you two will really get on!’

  …and like an idiot I’d believed her.

  Jackie has a reputation for being sickeningly positive and upbeat about almost everything, so I should have known her assessment of Isobel’s character would be way off the mark.

  I chose to ignore my gut instincts however.

  I’ve been single for two years now - and in those trying circumstances desperation trumps common sense every time.

  Frankly, Jackie could have told me Isobel’s vagina was like a bear trap and I would have still considered going on a blind date with her.

  Despite her being the oral harbinger of the apocalypse, I decide to give Isobel a chance – providing I can find a seat downwind of her.

  The horrendous breath is palpable from a good foot away, so the kiss on the cheek by way of greeting is a bad idea - it brings me close to the Gates of Hades. I hold my breath though and escape relatively unscathed.

  Isobel isn’t entirely unattractive, though her mousey brown hair is scraped back into a pony tail so tight it acts like a DIY facelift.

  Her boobs look quite nice, peeking out as they do from a Wonderbra that’s at least a size too small for her.

  The black blouse she’s also elected to wear is too frilly, and the maroon knee length skirt doesn’t do much for her square arse, but it’s either an hour in the pub with her - or back to my flat for some more lonely masturbation and barbecue flavour Pringles.

  I open the pub door with a sigh of resignation and wait for her to go in.

  ‘Fanks very much. Ain’t you a gentleman?’ Isobel says, her bad breath apparently strong enough to render her unable to pronounce Ts and Hs.

  ‘My pleasure,’ I reply, forcing a smile.

  I can’t help but look at her square arse with a degree of despondency as she walks ahead of me towards the bar.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ I ask when we get there, hoping she’ll order a pint of Listerine.

  ‘Double vodka and Red Bull, please mate.’

  Good grief.

  Five minutes later sees Jamie Newman and his lovely blind date ensconced in one of the ratty looking booths that run along the back wall of the pub.

  Some may believe that Thursday is the new Friday, but none of them are frequenting this place tonight. It’s deader than Elvis in here.

  Breath monster and I are the only customers, save a wizened old man in a green cagoule nursing half a bitter at the bar, and two fat lads of indeterminate age huddled
around the fruit machine, inserting their Job Seeker’s Allowance into it with an eagerness that represents a real triumph of mindless optimism over cold, hard reality.

  ‘Jacks says you do journalism stuff,’ Isobel remarks, swigging her drink.

  ‘Um… yes. Kind of.’

  I’m actually a freelance public relations consultant and copywriter, currently working with a local newspaper on re-branding their image, but trying to explain the difference to Isobel would have required a flip chart and the patience of Job, so I just leave it there. ‘Jackie says you’re a hairdresser.’

  ‘That’s right. Got my own business, haven’t I?’

  I bet it’s called Curl Up ‘N Dye.

  ‘It’s called A Cut Above!’

  Damn.

  ‘I’m doin’ really well. Loadsa customers these days. Taking a week off next month for some holibobs in Menorca.’

  Kill me.

  Kill me now.

  ‘Aah… that’s lovely,’ I say, taking a large gulp of lukewarm Stella Artois.

  ‘You going on ‘oliday anywhere, Jake?’

  ‘Jamie,’ I correct. ‘Maybe. I’ve got some friends in Canada I was thinking of visiting later in the year if I get the chance.’

  ‘Never really thought nothing about Canada,’ Isobel says, mangling her double negatives for all she’s worth. ‘I know they speak French.’ She pauses, head cocked to one side. ‘Is Canada near France then?’

  Oh my, yes. Jackie was going to get it in the neck and no mistake…

  Speaking of mistakes, I probably made a big one by having sex with Isobel that night, I’ll freely admit.

  However, the above was only the first of many large gulps of lukewarm beer I had that evening, in an attempt to fight off the slide into crippling depression.

  …and we all know that too much alcohol can rapidly escalate a situation from quite bad to absolutely dreadful in no time at all.

  By the time Isobel is telling me all about how her brother has just been released from jail - having served a six month stretch for a burglary that ‘them bastard coppers fitted him up for’ – I’m halfway through pint number five and her arse is looking a lot less square.

  By pint seven I’ve got my hand on her thigh and she’s massaging my genitals under the table.

  I say massaging… kneading is more accurate.

  If Isobel ever wants to trade A Cut Above for a bread shop she already has the skills and technique down to a tee.

  Still, it’s making me hard - which just goes to show that when you haven’t had sex for two years, having your genitals squeezed like a pound of dough is not necessarily a barrier to sexual excitement.

  ‘Put your hand up my skirt,’ she whispers in my ear.

  I drunkenly oblige, shoving my arm between her legs with all the grace and sophistication you’d expect from a man way past the legal limit.

  I manage to get my little finger caught in her suspender, which bends it back painfully and causes me to simultaneously stab her in the vagina with my thumb.

  This doesn’t appear to bother Isobel in the slightest.

  In fact, she leers at me like a sex offender and moves in for a kiss. One of her hands crushes my testicles in a death grip, while the other one wraps itself around my forearm, keeping my hand exactly where she wants it - hovering over her growler.

  I’m very proud to say I didn’t vomit.

  Not even as my nose is assailed by a blast of horror breath emanating from her mouth - now delightfully laced with the aroma of seven double vodka and Red Bulls.

  Her tongue goes down my throat in an apparent attempt to lick my kidneys.

  I feel like John Hurt in Alien.

  After thirty seconds that lasts two hours, Isobel lets me come up for air and I make every effort not to gag.

  As far as I’m concerned this is one of the worst things that’s ever happened to me, but I look down to find that my battered penis completely disagrees and wants more.

  Isobel locks her face round mine again and unzips my fly in an expert piece of multi-tasking that must have come from years of practise. Her long fingernails snake into my trousers and find purchase.

  This change in tactic and grip allows me to remove my arm from the moist sex cauldron lying underneath her skirt.

  I break away from the stomach-churning kiss to grab what’s left of my seventh pint - and drain the bastard in one go, trying to fight back tears of shame as I do.

  ‘I want to screw you,’ Isobel gurgles into my ear.

  Do you really? I hadn’t realised… what with you more or less jerking me off in public, and your skirt pulled up high enough for me to see the Poundland thong you’re wearing.

  ‘Okay,’ I mumble back, deathly afraid I’m about to ejaculate over her hand – thus ruining the hideous plans she no doubt has in store for me back at the flesh palace she calls home.

  One short but traumatic taxi ride later I’m surprised to find that the flesh palace is actually a rather neat three bedroom semi-detached in an area of town where the drug dealers have the good grace to conduct their business indoors.

  ‘Me mam’s place,’ Isobel explains. ‘I’m only livin’ here until the divorce is finalised.’

  I really am going to kill Jackie...

  Isobel’s mum is out, thank God. If she’s anything like her daughter I’d have found myself being double-teamed into an early grave.

  The front door is barely closed before Isobel is on her knees and unzipping my trousers again. She whips out my abused penis - which by now is beginning to resemble a caveman’s club.

  The experience that follows can be accurately recreated by any man who might be reading this. If you’re a woman you’ll just have to use your imagination.

  Simply find the nearest Henry Hoover, turn it on and stick your John Thomas in the hose.

  If you can find a yak nearby that’s trying to clear a particularly large hairball, you’ll get the aural effect as well.

  I wasn’t complaining though. Not out loud, at least.

  This is the first blow job I’ve had in two years - since my ex-fiancé Carla decided her boss was a better prospect for healthy children and a balanced bank account, and promptly left me.

  …Carla could never manage to get both my testicles in her mouth, it should be noted. Isobel is quite the talented lass.

  She eventually stops her impression of a performing seal and stands up with a look of such animal aggression in her eyes, I regret not telling my loved ones where I was going that evening.

  ‘Upstairs big boy,’ she orders. ‘You’re gonna eat me.’

  I trust she means that she wants me to perform cunnilingus on her – and not that she wants me to engage in cannibalism. I can’t be a hundred percent sure either way though…

  Isobel pulls me up the stairs by my belt, my penis waggling around merrily as we approach her bedroom.

  On the door is one of those children’s name plaques. ‘Isobel’ is written on it in bubblegum pink and a couple of tutu clad fairies squat at either end, gormless smiles on their cherubic faces.

  It hits me that I’m about to have carnal knowledge of a sexually belligerent divorcee in her childhood hideaway.

  Once we get in the room, Isobel pulls her skirt down in a flash, her square arse exposed for me to see and (sort of) enjoy.

  Her blouse is next, revealing those attractive breasts we spoke about earlier.

  Focus on the boobs, Jamie, I tell myself. That’ll get you through this.

  Isobel lies on the bed, spreads her legs and pulls her Poundland thong to one side. ‘Get to work,’ she demands.

  Even my penis is starting to have doubts about this whole debacle now and is beginning to lose its happy mood.

  Still, I’ve come this far, so I do indeed ‘get to work’ as best I can.

  Thankfully Isobel’s lack of hygiene is only an oral issue - otherwise the seven pints I’ve consumed would probably be making a triumphant encore appearance right about now.

  Isobel
grabs me by both ears and pulls my head in so hard it’s like childbirth in reverse.

  As I lap like an arthritic dog trying to satisfy Isobel’s desires as best I can, I’m painfully aware that I have to insert my currently flaccid penis into her at some point in the very near future.

  The scene now looks so pathetic from an objective point of view it’s enough to make a grown man cry: Me squatting on the floor at the side of Isobel’s single bed, performing drunk oral sex on her and mindlessly flogging my penis in a last ditch attempt to get it hard enough to penetrate the hairdressing sex fiend; Isobel with her legs locked around my neck, her head thrown back in an orgiastic display of carnal delight.

  ‘Do me now!’ she screeches like a hyper-active drill sergeant.

  ‘Okay!’ I cry subserviently and stand up, still beating myself off like a man possessed.

  Luckily I’m just about upstanding enough to enter Isobel’s dark domain.

  This is like chucking a chipolata up the Blackwall Tunnel.

  I don’t know who Isobel’s soon to be ex-husband is, but there must be horse DNA in his genetic code.

  Despite my lack of girth and malfunctioning erectile tissue, Isobel seems to be enjoying herself immensely and starts spouting such filth from her mouth it makes me wish I’d brought a crucifix.

  ‘Oh yes… ram that hot pussy, you horny bastard!’

  Yes ma’am! Please don’t hit me!

  ‘You feel massive!’

  I’m pretty sure I don’t love, but thanks for the vote of confidence.

  ‘Bury me, you bastard. Bury me!’

  With a stake through your heart and some holy water? No problem!

  ‘Cum all over my face! I want it in my mouth!’

  Which might explain the awful breath, I suppose.

  All I want to do now is arrive… then leave.