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Suzie

It’s too hot for sex. I should have just said that before he pulled his shorts down and got his knob out.

It’s not just hot, it’s hot-in-England hot which means that it’s all anyone can talk about.

Isn’t it boiling? I can’t cope in this heat.

I swear the pavements are melting. You see, this country is not built for weather this extreme.

We’re built for rain, grey and temperate conditions, light coat weather.

When we’re this hot, we melt like witches in Oz.

Middle-aged men start cycling around with no tops on, cans of beer in one hand; everywhere sells out of fans; people start announcing that it’s hotter than it is in Spain and resurrect the word scorchio .

I am those people. I’m usually saying that word as I peel my sticky thighs off a pub garden bench where I’ve gone on the hunt for shade, Pimm’s and ice cubes I can put down my bra.

So yes, sex in these insanely hot temperatures was not our greatest idea. We may both expire on this sofa in a giant sweaty heap .

‘You with me, babe?’ Paul asks me, beads of perspiration on his upper lip.

‘It’s too hot for this, eh?’ I tell him, trying to summon up a smile as if I may be enjoying this.

He laughs but he still grinds away at me. Obviously not too hot for him, then. Any sex is good sex for Paul.

But such is the way with sex with someone you’ve been with for many years.

The sex is sometimes exceptional, but you also have your fair share of failed attempts, stolen fumbles, moments where you’re not quite there but crack on with it to be a good partner.

And there are times where you fall off the kitchen table because you had three ciders and have to run to the sink to throw up.

(We laugh about that now but I was off work for a week with a bruised coccyx.) I don’t want to use the word routine but that word can be a comfort.

I like the intimacy with Paul. I like the orgasms and how I still find his brown eyes dreamy, how I love tracing a finger alongside the curve of his chin.

On this balmy spring evening, I liked the spontaneity and laughter at first. I was bogged down with marking and all the madness of the end of a busy school term, and he suggested we order a Thai.

The app told us it would take thirty-five minutes.

Paul joked about what we could do to kill the time.

I mean, I could have got through at least four reading assessment papers.

Instead, I’m here, unable to tell if my thighs are sweaty from arousal or the heat.

We really should invest in a proper fan.

Lindy at work has air conditioning. I look at Paul.

He can tell I’m not quite in the room. Why is his face so pink?

He’s the same colour as a boiled frankfurter. I bite my lip trying not to laugh.

‘Here,’ I tell him. I stop proceedings, removing my dress and bra completely.

If I am completely naked then this might work better.

He seems excited by the prospect and we part for a second so he can hop around, kick off his shorts and stand there to take a breath and put his hands on his hips.

It’s a call for me to be impressed by his gym-honed body and dick being half-mast, but all I can see is how matted his chest hair is, like seaweed washed up on pier pilings.

I would joke but he looks so proud and I know that if I call this off now, he’ll be grumpy and hurt.

I’m not sure I can do sweaty and grumpy.

Maybe it’s best if I don’t look at him. I turn around, resting my arms against the back cushions of the sofa.

I can’t lie – the cold air passing from the fan against my buttocks is a relief.

‘Oh, yes…’ Paul murmurs, surprised that I would want to attempt more than one position during this quickie.

I’m just doing this as it’ll mean less of our body parts will be touching.

He pushes up against me. Christ, even his penis is warm.

Can penises overheat? It might weld itself inside of me.

I won’t come like this. He rarely reaches around to assist in this position.

I’d do it myself if I had the energy. Let’s just get this done.

And for a moment, as I stare into the wall in front of me, I wonder if that’s what I should be thinking when another human being is physically inside me.

All couples have this, no? Just sex to fill a void.

Did I just refer to my vagina as a void?

I’m glad he can’t see my expression right now.

That’s not a good sound either. It’s a dual rhythm of slapping and a sound not unlike someone walking through a swamp. That’s not sexy.

‘You OK, babe?’ Paul grunts.

I need to let him know I’m enjoying this.

I moan a little. ‘Yes, just like that…’ Now is not the time for a tutorial.

I need to feed the ego. I know I should sometimes state my needs a bit more, but right now I don’t have the patience or the desire.

No one wants orgasms when it’s this hot, we want to stand in front of the fridge.

Now that’s an idea. Sex in front of the fridge.

The lighting would make my boobs look outstanding.

‘Babe, I’m close. So close…’

I moan again. Thank fucking god. I’ll need three pints of water to rehydrate after this .

‘Are you close?’

Haven’t even left the depot, lovely. ‘Hmmm…yeah, it’s so good.’

I can tell he’s close because he’s picking up speed, like a car engine in full throttle.

Why do I lie? I should be honest. I’ll tell him after.

I’ll turn it into a joke. We’ll laugh at how my tits left sweat patches on the sofa cushions.

It’s one of those little things you put up with in a relationship.

Occasional selfish and unsatisfactory sex, annoying relatives, the way they hog a duvet.

Ow! He just slapped my arse. I’m not quite down with that.

But yet again, I fake some sense of enjoyment.

To be fair, he does this too. He sits through romcoms in the cinema.

He agreed to Thai even though he still gets wigged out by noodles.

It’s called compromise. It’s what you do in a long-term relationship. We should repaint this wall.

‘Aah, yes… yes… yes… you absolute…’

Please be a good word. I’m begging.

‘ Beast… ’

What? Is he referring to me? Or was he talking to himself?

Or worse, his penis? He withdraws from me, leaning over to put an arm around my midriff and kiss the side of my neck.

I’d trade the last nine minutes for that lone kiss, the breath on my skin, his fingers tracing my hips.

But he moves away quickly. I flip over to regain some sense of composure.

‘Heads up,’ he says, and I scramble my arms around to catch the tissue box he throws in my direction. I hate it when he does that. I can’t catch things. He knows this too. ‘To clean yourself up.’

This is romance. ‘Beast?’ I question him, hoping I don’t sound hurt.

He chuckles to himself, pulling his shorts on again. ‘Not you, obviously.’

‘Well, that’s a relief. I mean, I need a wax but I was saving that for… ’

‘Christmas?’ he jokes.

‘So funny…’ I retort. I was actually saving it for our summer holiday next month so I could time and plan my regrowth without too much itchiness and stubble. I put my knickers on and go and stand in front of the fan. ‘Grab me a Fanta from the fridge?’

Paul disappears. I need a shower. Maybe after we’ve eaten we could go to the beach?

We live five minutes from the sea and everyone is at the beach after work during this early heatwave.

It would be a welcome reprieve to just run into the sea, submerge and cool off.

I feel an ice-cold can at the back of my neck and close my eyes.

We should have started with this. That feeling, that relief is sexy.

I grab the can from him and hold it to my forehead before opening it and downing at least half. Paul watches me curiously.

‘It was too hot for sex,’ I tell him, putting the can down and sliding my dress over my shoulders. I twist my dark brown hair to the top of my head into a loose bun.

He makes a face. ‘This isn’t hot. When I lived in Dubai, it was forty-two degrees,’ he informs me.

‘You had air conditioning…’

‘Methinks the lady doth complain too much,’ he says, winking.

‘The lady doth worry about expiring before her time.’

‘I can think of worse ways to go…’ he says.

I’d rather go in my sleep, to be honest. The doorbell chimes through the house.

Well, I know the food is early because that sex did not last thirty-five minutes.

I get up, watching as Paul shifts his gaze to his phone.

I hope he’s looking at buying us a new fan.

In the hallway, the cool of the tiles against my bare feet is welcome and I open the front door.

‘Oh, I think I’ve got the wrong house?’ the delivery man says, casually looking at the number on the door and back at me in confusion.

I have sex face, don’t I? I’m dishevelled and pink.

It could also be because I didn’t put a bra back on, but I’ve been out in worse.

I chased the bin men in knickers, a T-shirt and UGGs once.

‘No, that’s possibly for us…number thirteen,’ I tell him. ‘Are you…Sajeed? Code is 5672.’

He nods curiously. ‘It’s just…last time, you…I mean…it was a different lady. Maybe a housemate or sister? The girl with the red hair.’

I pause for a moment to think about the people who’ve been in this house, the food we’ve had delivered. A different lady?

‘She works at the gym, an instructor maybe?’

‘The gym?’

And in a split second, Sajeed’s eyes meet mine and we share the same realisation. His expression changes to distraught. ‘Must have been a different house,’ he says, trying to backtrack.