Buzzing Easter Bunnies Read online

  Just what the hell is going on?

  'There's one more thing I've arranged,' he tells me, and moves out from under my body.

  'What?' I snap rather impatiently. I'm done with the costumed foreplay now, I just want to get to the main event!

  Matt goes and stands by the stereo resting on his chest of drawers. 'Sit back on the bed Christina. You're going to get the full 300 effect tonight!' He grins, and flicks the machine on. Loud, percussive electronic music starts to blare out of the speakers. It's the theme tune from the movie.

  'What the hell are you doing?!' I shout at Matt over the din.

  'Just watch!' he roars.

  Suddenly, the bedroom door flies open with a loud crash. I scream in surprise and horror and whip my head around to see Gerard Butler storm into the room. He's wearing his 300 gear and looks magnificent. The beard is long and flowing, the muscles are tanned and glistening, the stomach is so washboard like I'm tempted to run home and get my smalls, just so I can soap them up and run them across his abs.

  It's unbelievable! Matt has actually paid the Hollywood movie star to come to his flat tonight and perform for me -

  Hang on! That isn't Gerard Butler!

  He's too short for starters - by a good five inches, it appears. And he's slightly balding. Gerard Butler isn't five foot seven and thinning on top - not unless the movie make-up artists are even better at their jobs than I thought.

  Other than these obvious differences though, the Butler lookalike is quite convincing.

  Right up to the point he starts to thrust his pelvis in my face and lick his lips at me. In all my sexual fantasies involving the star of 300, I have never once pictured him gyrating his hips like that, or giving me a look of such sexual aggression that it makes my vagina want to curl up and die.

  I look over at Matt in horror. He returns my stunned gaze with a look of excited encouragement. I turn back to the Butler lookalike to see that he has removed his own cloak and is now facing away from me, rubbing both hands over his stacked buttocks. Said buttocks are also rotating in a manner that is almost hypnotic. Before they can lull me into a coma, I turn back to Matt once again. 'What the hell is this?!' I scream over the pounding music, pointing at the gyrating madman.

  'Sexy, eh? It's like he's right out of the movie!'

  Butler's doppelganger has ceased rubbing his buttocks, and is now facing me again, grabbing at his crotch and licking his lips once more. If there were any sex offenders running around Greece two thousand years ago, this is exactly what they would have looked like.

  'Who is this person?!' I screech at Matt.

  Matt gives me a thumbs up. 'He's for you, baby! I know I don't look like Gerard Butler, so I hired somebody that does!'

  'Hired somebody?!'

  'Yeah, he's from a male escort service! They specialise in costumed fantasies!'

  I'm gobsmacked. Matt has rented a muscular male prostitute to come here and dance for me. 'And you thought I'd like that?!' I shout, even louder now that the music is reaching a crescendo.

  'Yeah, of course! I paid for the full package, so you can do anything you like with him!'

  My lip curls in disgust. 'What do you mean by do anything I like with him?!'

  Matt shrugs his shoulders. 'Well, he is a male escort!'

  This just gets worse and worse.

  'Oh, so fake Gerard isn't just here to dance for me. I can fuck him too if I like?!'

  'If you want. I got the idea for getting an escort from this website I saw!'

  'A website?! What was it called Matt?'

  'Can't 'member,' he mumbles.

  'What was it called?!'

  'Ma' 'er 'um 'arder dot 'om.'

  'What?!'

  'Make her cum harder dot com.'

  I clench both fists. 'You are unbelievable! You're getting sexual advice from a fucking porn site? In what universe did you think I would want to have sex with - oh good god, he's got his cock out!'

  Not only has fake Gerard pulled his sizeable penis out from the pleather codpiece, he is now swinging it around in a circular motion. I believe this is called 'doing the helicopter'.

  That's it. I've had enough.

  I leap from the bed, push Matt out of the way and flick off the terrible din emanating from the speakers. Gerard continues to helicopter his willy around for a few moments before realising the music has finished. As it flops back between his legs he leers and me. 'Oh, we done wit' the dancin' then?' he says in the broadest Lancashire accent I've ever heard. 'You want to get down t' some of the 'orny stuff, do yer?' Lancashire's finest Spartan warrior gently thrusts his penis at me, underlining his question.

  At first, there are no words. No words to respond with. I have simply never found myself in such a ludicrous situation before. I'm in a bedroom roughly the same temperature as the surface of the sun, with two men dressed as Spartan warriors, one of whom has his unfeasibly large Lancashire sausage pointed in my general direction. The other man is staring at me in a combination of shock and dread. I assume this is because he knows what's coming.

  'Get out,' I hiss at fake Gerard.

  His brow creases. 'But yer boyfriend here paid for the full monty. You don't want it, luv?

  'No Gerard, I do not fucking want it.'

  'Me name's not Gerard, it's Barry.'

  'Barry then! Get out Barry! Get out now!'

  Matt steps between us, sensing imminent violence. 'Er, I think you'd better do as she says Barry. Just grab your clothes from the spare room and go.'

  Barry's brow furrows even more. 'You don't get no refund, you know that, don't yer?'

  'Yes, yes, that's fine. Just leave!' Matt replies in a desperate voice.

  Barry - still with penis dangling, I might add - picks up his Spartan cloak and leaves the room without another word, closing the door behind him as he goes. This will be the easiest job he's ever had as a male escort, I'm sure. There aren't many occasions in that line of work when you can get away with just a bit of cockcopter before being finished for the night.

  Matt turns back around to face my righteous fury.

  'Just what did you think you were doing Matt?!' I spit at him.

  'I just thought... I just thought... '

  'You just thought I would be up for a threesome with you and the Northern Cock Warrior, did you?'

  'It wasn't like that! He was meant for you!'

  'And that's the kind of woman you think I am, is it? One who'll shag any old Barry just because he's built like a brick shithouse?'

  Matt's mouth turns down at both corners and his arms hang loose by his side. He is the very picture of dejection. 'But it's 300. You like that film.'

  'I also quite liked Toy Story. Are Woody and Buzz about to burst through the door and wave their penises at me?'

  I deeply apologise for the hideous mental image that no doubt conjures up. Nobody needs to think of beloved children's characters indecently exposing themselves, but I'm angry right now and don't have much control over what I'm saying.

  'Don't be silly.'

  'I'm not the one being silly, Matt! I didn't invite a complete stranger into our sex lives!'

  'I'm leavin' now!' Barry cries from over by the front door.

  'Yes, yes! Just go!' Matt responds.

  'Both sure yer don't want the full service? Only, I bought the baby oil and me largest dil - '

  'Fuck off Barry!' I rage.

  He doesn't need telling twice. I hear the front door slam as I start to pull off the toga and go for my street clothes.

  'What are you doing?' Matt asks with a defeated whine in his voice.

  'Leaving Matt. I feel the need to be away from you for a while.'

  'Please don't be angry with me. I was just trying to help you feel sexy...'

  Oh, that's unfair. Here I am in full on rage mode and Bunion is giving it the sad puppy dog eyes. It's quite distracting. If I stay around any longer I'll end up feeling sorry for him, and that just won't do. I understand that he was trying to do something nic
e for me, but to try to get me to fuck another bloke is such a blunder of epic proportions that it deserves a little time in the dog house. 'I am going home Matt,' I tell him as I finish dressing.

  His mouth opens. He's about to argue. Then he catches the flintiness of my expression and decides against it. 'Okay. Will I see you again? It's your birthday next week.'

  Of course he will. This evening has been a disaster, but it's the only real disaster so far, so I don't see any reason to break the relationship off.

  Matt doesn't need to know that though. 'I'm not sure. I guess I'll have to think about it,' I tell him.

  Something twists in my heart as I watch his face crumple, but I must remain resolute. I picture Barry grasping at his crotch and leering at me, which strengthens my resolve.

  I pick up the toga and stride past Matt, opening the front door myself. Mercifully there is no sign of Barry now.

  'Bye Christina. Er... drive safe,' Matt tells me as I exit the flat. He looks a little pathetic standing there in his red pleather codpiece.

  'Go back inside. You'll catch your death,' I advise him, before marching off down the garden path, one eye twitching as I go.

  When I get home the first thing I do is find my DVD of 300 and throw it in the bin. There's no way I can ever watch it again. When the opening credits start to roll I'll just picture Lancashire Barry's wildly flailing penis, and the whole thing will be ruined.

  The second thing I do is give the toga a quick iron and hang it up in the wardrobe. It might come in handy in the future. I may not be a woman so adventurous that she wants to take on two men in pleather codpieces, but that doesn't mean I'm one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Thinking of the word horse just reminds me of Barry again, so I have to go for a long lie down in the dark.

  K.I.S.S

  My birthday dawns bright and clear.

  This is the first time it's fallen on Easter Sunday for as long as I can remember, but you couldn't have nicer weather for both occasions.

  Sadly, I'm not really in much of a fit state to enjoy it as I'm righteously hung over, thanks to a night out with the girls from work. I fell through the door at 3am. It's now 11am, and I think I'm sober again - but I wouldn't want to bet my driving licence on it.

  When one is in a delicate state such as this, quiet serenity is most definitely the order of the day. Hence the fact I'm now sat out in the sunny back garden with a nice cup of tea and two Nurofen working their way through my bloodstream.

  My dreamy haze is rudely interrupted by my mobile phone going off. Hilariously, the girls must have gotten hold of the phone last night while I was drunk off my arse, and downloaded a Justin Bieber song to use as my ringtone. The cheeky cows have also turned the volume up full. The peace and calm of my hung over Sunday morning is shattered by the Canadian spunk trumpet wailing 'Baby, Baby, Baby, Ohhhhh!' at the top of his girlish lungs. I answer the call as swiftly as possible just to shut him up.

  'Hello?' I say irritably.

  'Um... hi Christina.' Matt sounds very unsure of himself. I doubt the waspishness of my tone is helping.

  'Morning Matt,' I say, wincing as my head throbs thanks to Justin's caterwauling.

  'I just wanted to ring and say happy birthday.'

  This is the first time we've spoken since the Night of Barry. I've been meaning to call him, but work and birthday preparations have taken up all of my time. I would feel bad about it, but this bloody headache won't let me.

  'Thanks Matt.' I rub my eyes. 'It's nice to hear from you.'

  'Is it?' He sounds amazed.

  'Yes. It is. I'm sorry I haven't called.'

  'That's okay. I kinda thought you were done with me after the other night. I've been thinking long and hard about it, and it really was a stupid plan, wasn't it?'

  'Yep.'

  'Anyway,' he says, changing the subject for all he's worth, 'as it's your birthday, I was wondering if I could come over and see you?'

  I have to confess, for a moment I consider saying no. Not because I'm still angry at Matt, but because I feel like death warmed up. However, I have left the poor lad hanging for longer than I should have... and I would like to see him.

  'Sure, come over about seven?'

  'Sounds great!'

  'And Matt?'

  'You haven't been looking at anymore stuff on the internet, have you? I don't think I could take it.'

  'No. I'm done with that.'

  'You sure? Because I don't want to do anal, have no desire to dress you in a nappy, and my nipples are already way too sensitive to have anything clamped to them.'

  This actually makes him laugh. It's a nice sound to hear in the bright morning sunlight. 'Nope. It'll just be me tonight. No silly surprises.'

  'Great. See you later.'

  I put the phone down and sit back in the chair, closing my eyes to let the sun warm them. Five minutes later I have to go inside, as the last vestiges of the alcohol in my system don't like direct sunlight and are dangerously close to making me throw up.

  I hope to God I'll feel a bit better by the time Matt arrives. I want to restore some of the good feeling between the two of us, and me vomiting all over his shoes will not be the way to do it.

  Luckily, I am feeling worlds better by seven o'clock. An hour long bath and several more Nurofen have taken the edge off the hangover nicely, and by the time the doorbell rings I am more or less back to my usual self.

  Inexplicably, by mid afternoon I start to become a bit nervous about seeing Matt. I haven't felt like this at any stage previously in our whirlwind four month relationship, so I find it quite perplexing as to why I should be feeling it now.

  Then it hits me - I'm thirty.

  While I was in my twenties, I had no reason to feel older than Matt, but now I am a wizened old harridan - past my prime and no longer young, carefree or attractive in the slightest. He is still well in his twenties, so it's almost a guarantee that the second a woman not as crone-like as me homes into view, I'll be unceremoniously dumped and forced to fend for myself as I slip into old age.

  Okay, I'm exaggerating wildly, but that psychological hang-up of entering my fourth decade on the planet is at the forefront of my mind as I choose an outfit to wear for Matt's arrival. I go with the nice light, floaty white dress, as I'm slightly worried anything tighter might set off the headache again. It also shows off my cleavage quite nicely, which appears to have survived the transition into my thirties without dropping six inches.

  A very strange sight greets me when I open the front door to a rather timid knock. Usually, Mr Bunion is dressed in a pair of faded jeans, trainers, and a t-shirt depicting one sci-fi movie or another. I'm considerably shorter than he is, so there have been many times when I've gone in for a hug, only to be bogged out by C3PO or Godzilla. Today though, he is almost unrecognisable.

  The wild hair has been wrestled into a degree of neatness, the Star Wars tee has been replaced with a smart dark red shirt, the jeans are brand new and clean, and instead of ratty Nike trainers, we have a polished pair of black shoes. Matt actually looks... like an adult!

  A very handsome adult at that.

  'Wow. You look very smart,' I tell him as he hovers on the doorstep, holding a carrier bag in front of him like it's a security blanket.

  'Thanks Christina. You look beautiful.'

  Well there you go... the cleavage dress must've been a good idea.

  'Come in,' I say and let him in through the door. He shuffles in nervously. 'Matt?'

  'Yeah?'

  'You look like you're going to the gallows. I'm not bothered about what happened with Barry anymore, honestly.'

  'Okay,' he says and nods his head with relief. 'I'm really pleased you're not mad at me.' He thrusts out the carrier bag. 'I've bought you a present... presents actually.'

  'That's very kind of you.'

  Matt's eyes go wide. 'Almost forgot!' He leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. 'Happy birthday,' he says softly, making me go annoyingly gooey.

>   'Thank you,' I reply, in a voice that has far too much school girl embarrassment in it for my liking. 'Would you like a coffee?'

  I hurry past Matt so he doesn't have to see how red I've gone, and we go into the kitchen. There, he hands me the carrier bag. Inside is a birthday card - which is romantic, but not gushing, I'm pleased to say. You can tell when a man's thought about which card to buy. When they just pick up the first one that looks appropriate, they tend to be full of the worst kind of cheesy sentimentality that just proves he didn't look inside before taking it to the till.

  To celebrate the fact that Jesus rose from the grave the same day I was born - this year anyway - Matt has also included a large Green & Blacks Easter Egg. It's a dark chocolate one, which is my favourite, so Bunion gets two ticks for the birthday gifts so far.

  He gets a third, fourth and fifth tick for the actual present though. It's a beautiful silver necklace, featuring a gorgeous teardrop shaped filigree pendant. I don't get the chance to wear much jewellery, so I don't know how he knew what style I'd like, but the necklace is absolutely perfect.

  'Oh Matt, it's stunning.'

  'You really think so?'

  'Yes. Help me put it on?' I turn away from him and lift up my hair so he can clasp it round my neck. He does so. 'Thanks. Now would you like that cup of coffeeeeeeee...'

  The reason for the rather odd end to that last sentence? Matt has just kissed the back of my neck in the softest, most pleasurable way possible.

  I turn back around and let him kiss me on the lips as well. This, if anything, is even better. In fact, within a minute or so, I'm so turned on that I've even forgotten about the fact that I'm now thirty. Which says quite a lot, doesn't it?

  Matt has really stepped up his game tonight.

  The clothes, the card, the presents, the soft kisses... it's almost like he's a different person. It's just not like him to be so -

  Hang on a bloody minute!

  I pull away. 'Have you been on the sodding internet again?'

  'What?'

  'The internet, Matt. The source of all your romantic ideas? Without which I would never have tried to have sex in a plastic box at 30,000 feet, or seen the Barrycock?'