Dirty Photo

Considering I was pretty wasted, and wearing incredibly tight jeans, I was charging home from town at an alarmingly competent rate. Huge balls of rain pelted down and rebounded straight back up, attacking and drenching my ragged running from every conceivable angle. My plan to run under the shelter of the looming trees backfired, as the leaves stored up yet greater masses of water and launched them at me, upon the capricious demands of the cynical wind. I pointlessly leapt over endless puddles, landing on squelching soles trailed by sodden laces whipping my calves as if to encourage more haste. The fun of the night rinsed out of me.

At home, finally, I let the back of my head collapse against the front door and watched the near monsoon from the haven of the porch. Dripping with a cocktail of rain and sweat, I smirked at thought of the girl I’d kissed not ten minutes earlier.
Had the weather not been so uncooperative, there was a definite chance I could have persuaded the girl to come back to mine. One look at the rain balls firing down and I knew I didn’t want to be burdened by a slowcoach, tottering in high heels. Such a storm called for flat out sprinting, with no delay. I looked on the bright side. By not inviting her back, perhaps I had alluded to a deep respect I held for her, by not assuming her to be the kind of girl wanton enough to go back to boys’ houses after one kiss. What a gentleman I was, considering her such a lady.
 
Belle, her name was. A name I hadn’t previously known existed, outside of fairytales and American teen dramas.
  “Adele?” I’d shouted at her ear, above the blaring music of the pub.
“Belle!” she yelled back at my ear, with a growing impatience.
 “Bell? Like one you’d ring? Like ‘a bell’?”
“Yeh, but with an E on the end!”
“Belle! Right, I get it. Like her off Beauty and the Beast.”
 “Right.”
Nothing like a bit of ‘name confusion’ to get a conversation up and running.

I’d convinced myself I was in love with Belle months before this confused introduction. I’d even spoken to her on numerous occasions, on account of her working behind the counter at the local shop.

“Have you seen that girl in the shop?” I’d ask my mates, with love-struck awe “She’s absolutely amazing.”

The more I went in, the more I tried to engage her in light-hearted small talk, often ill-received. I put this down to the early hour at which I’d frequent the shop rather than my own ineptitude at charm. I was pretty taciturn myself in the mornings so I wasn’t going to hold such ignorance against her.


As I squeezed my way through the bustle of the pub, arduously heaving myself toward the men’s room, I spied Belle coming in my direction. I considered her a vision of angels first thing on a Tuesday morning, so now, fully made up and dressed to impress, my eyes were in such disbelief I felt my heart burst out of my chest to verify the truth of the vision.

I opted to play it cool. I knew she knew who I was, so should she have any desire to get my attention, she would. Otherwise, I’d be cruelly informed that months of forced banter had been in vain.

The closer we got, the more I forced my eyes away from hers. I tried to hold my face in a way as to make it as good looking as possible, then corrected myself, fearing my attempt at brooding sexiness just looked like an unsightly pout, Belle cowering away from the drunken duck-face leering toward her.

  Side by side, squeezing past each other, the kind of body contact I’d been craving for months. The sight of her boobs pushing against my chest was gut-wretchingly awesome, the voice in my head aching to blurt out a blunt request for sex there and then. Still I refrained from catching her gaze until finally, I felt a slight, heavenly hand, the softness of which I’d never thought possible, wrap gently around my wrist, sending a shiver of euphoric fulfilment through my entire being, luminous joy coursing through my veins.

“Are you ignoring me?” Came the voice. The first time she’d initiated a conversation since I’d fallen in love with her. I looked her in the eyes in mock confusion, as if my whole life hadn’t been building up to this moment.
“Guardian and a Snickers?” she offered by way of explanation. Not one of my catchier nicknames, but one I was over the moon to accept given the circumstance.
“Oh my God. Hey. How yer doin?” I almost convinced myself with my false ignorance.
“Did you not recognise me?” Blimey, she’d bought it. What a sucker. I should think about taking up acting.
“No, God. You look amazing.”
“Aww thanks. So do you, I like your shirt.”
This was going incredibly well.
“GET OUT THE FUCKING WAY, YOU PRICK.”

Lost in the moment, I failed to realise I was holding up the line of sweaty brutes, sliming their way to the men’s room. Needless to say, they weren’t overly pleased by it and were more than happy to vocalise their chagrin.
The ringleader of the trolls swiftly man-handled me to one side, with worrying ease, forcing me to infiltrate Belle’s personal space with zero grace nor adroitness. I grimaced, mortified, as my jaw bashed her nose, bringing a justified look of mild disgust and horror to her face.

“WANKER.” She blurted out through the fingers grasping her face. Thankfully, there were no signs of blood or nose-dislocation.
“Are you alright?” she added, looking up at me with concern. I couldn’t believe it. SHE was asking ME if I was alright. This girl was amazing. I’d thought it was me she was calling ‘wanker’, but apparently that was aimed at the muscled lummox heading for the men’s room.

As the music got cranked suddenly louder, I’d forgotten all about my need for the toilet, and headed to the bar with the girl from the shop who I now considered beyond the realms of perfection.

“So, what’s your name, Snickers boy?”

All tucked up, warm and cosy in bed, watching the only standard of television you’d expect to find at such a late hour, I was delighted to receive the text message I’d been waiting for.

I’d previously told Belle she should text me upon her arrival at home, so I’d know she’d got back safe. A tactic I used to ensure a girl had my number, whilst giving the impression of chivalry and concern. The resulting message meaning I would then gain her number, which always seemed like somewhat of an achievement. Also, I did have some genuine concerns as to the behavioural morals of the seedy-looking taxi-driver, escorting such an attractive girl home in a state of mild inebriation. Though in hindsight, I’m sure he was a well-meaning family man.

“Hey, home safe x”

Short and to the point, but a lovely message nonetheless.

“Glad to hear it.” I replied, amiably “I enjoyed kissing you.” I added, drunkenly.

No response.
 I waited with zero patience, checking the screen of my phone three times every ten seconds for the message icon to appear. What an idiot. Why did I say “I enjoyed kissing you.”? Such a lame thing to say. That was it, I’d blown it.

A soul-searching twenty minutes later, miraculously, the phone buzzed again.

“Me too. What you up to?”

A perfect response. Unfortunately, by this stage I had gotten out of bed and was currently sat on the toilet, reading the newspaper, with one eye closed for focus. Giving an honest answer under such circumstances was certainly out of the question. I’m not sure “Having a poo, reading about Ukraine’s forgotten orphans.” Was quite the scene-setter she was looking for.

“In bed, watching telly.” I replied, opting for a white lie over a brown truth.

“Wish I was with you. x”

  Woah! Things were looking up. I wracked my brain for a suitable comeback, wanting to confirm my enthusiasm without sounding like I’d spunked my pants at the mere thought of her presence in my bed.
Being sat on the toilet definitely wasn’t helping the sexy vibe, I needed to finish up, sharpish. Cack-handedly, I attempted to fold the broadsheet newspaper, not ideal for toilet reading, when my phone buzzed again.

“You still awake? I’m horny”

Blimey.
“Yeh, me too.” I offered in return, an impossible origami mess of newspaper on my lap.

“Prove it x”

  Prove it? What was that supposed to mean? Prove I’m horny? I was walking a sexual tightrope. One false move and I’d blown it for a second time.

“Oh yeh? And how do you want me to do that?”

My dubious attempt at a playful tone was merely a bluff to gain solid clues as to how to get through the prurient minefield. I’d given up on the paper folding, shoving it all carelessly to the floor. The phone buzzed aggressively on the metal top of the bathroom bin.

“Show me you’re hard for me.”

Good Lord.
Another buzz.

“I want photos.”

It wouldn’t stop.

“Don’t let me down.”

Crikey O’Reilly.
I was no prude, so I rushed back to my room to create the pictures requested.

Sat in bed, I pulled my boxers down to my knees to reveal a sleeping penis, oblivious to the starring performance it was imminently required to take part in. I shook it briskly awake and to my delight, its enthusiasm was exemplary. Straight up and ready for action. I held my phone at arm’s length and took the picture. Turning the screen back round, I checked the results.

Bloody awful. Granted, I wasn’t expecting the sight of a bronzed Adonis, but this just wouldn’t do.
For a start, the lighting was all wrong, far too bright, making my already pale skin look pasty white and totally undefined. I considered myself to be in reasonable physical shape but my lazy posture was doing me no favours at all, rolls of fat gathering on a usually flat stomach. My face looking down at the camera caused an unsightly double chin, again, not something that I’d previously noticed about myself. Delete photo.

Back to the drawing board. I got up, boxer shorts round my knees, and turned the big light off, opting instead for the bedside lamp. I should have thought of that earlier, a bit of soft lighting to convey the mood for love. We were in business. I sat back down and held out the phone for a second attempt. This time I straightened my back to lose the stomach folds and held my face up and smiled, to prevent the double chin. I took the picture and quickly turned the screen back around to check the results.

Awful. My smile looked absolutely ridiculous given the context. I looked like I was smiling for a picture with my Grandma at a christening, not sat in bed with my cock out. Far too friendly. Delete photo.

I tried again with what I considered a more seductive smile, really working the camera. I looked like a grinning tramp, the kind you might see pleasuring himself from a nearby bush as scantily clad girls walk home from nights out. Delete photo.

This time, no smile. This was serious sexiness. Intense lust. I took the photo then turned the phone around to check the results.

Jesus Christ, this was turning out to be a lot harder than I thought. The icy stare, glaring from beyond the stiff cock looked more like I intended to kill someone with it rather than pleasure them. Delete photo.

Maybe it’d be better if my face wasn’t in it at all. Executing an appropriate countenance was proving far too problematic. I held the phone out again, this time pointing it downward straight at my member.

Another disaster. God knows what dodgy angle I’d caught myself in, but it appeared like my penis had a substantial kink in it. A slight curvature would be one thing, but this looked inhuman. If I sent that to Belle, she’d probably reply saying I should consult my GP, rather than put it anywhere near her. My phone buzzed, in what I assumed was a protest at the unsightly images I was exposing it to. Unfortunately it was an impatient Belle.

“I’m waiting…”

Right, that was it. This just wasn’t happening. I replied to Belle, aiming to shirk my duty.

“You’ll just have to wait and see the real thing.”

Not a bad line I thought, she might just let me get away with it. I thought wrong. The reply came instantly.

“Don’t be boring. I want to try before I buy.”

This message turned me off in an instant. “Try before I buy” ? What is this? Window shopping for cock? The “Don’t be boring” bit pissed me off as well, like my entire personality was being judged on my willingness to take a photo of my penis. The whole scenario suddenly felt depressingly low-rent. I wanted no part of it. My phone buzzed again.

“Please x x x”

What can I say? I was a sucker for politeness, and besides, the ‘Don’t be boring’ line was getting to me. Maybe not sending a girl a picture of my dick would make me boring. I wasn’t frigid, I’m a free agent, a free spirit, my morals are relaxed. What’s stopping me, other than being boring? Class maybe? Am I above such an act? I didn’t consider myself a snob in any way. I don’t think people’s sexual activities have any reflection on their upbringing. I don’t subscribe to any straight-laced assumptions as to what’s right and wrong, or good or bad. I didn’t think sending a picture of myself made me any less of a person. This was a good thing to be doing, surely. Proof that I was alive, if nothing else. And certainly proof that I indeed was not boring.

“Do you know that guy?”
“Not really, I get the impression he’s quite boring.”
“Really? I heard he sent a girl a picture of his dick the other week.”
“Blimey, he must NOT be boring then.”
Exactly.

So, the show was back on. I threw the duvet to one side and pushed my boxer shorts back down toward my knees, only to discover that the integral component of the photo-shoot was no longer interested in taking part. The star performer was throwing a diva strop.

“I just can’t work with these amateurs.” I imagined it to be moaning.
“The lighting’s all wrong, the camera work is all over the place, the other guy is totally ruining the scene with his facials and the director, frankly has no idea what he’s doing.”

I didn’t have time for this, it was getting late and Belle’s horny state wouldn’t last forever. I grabbed the unwilling participant and worked vigorously at coaxing some enthusiasm out of it. To my relief, it started to show signs of life, but as soon as I’d let go to take the picture, it’d flop lazily over to one side or sway around drunkenly. Any pictures I took looked like I was propping up an inebriated friend, passing them off as sober when they clearly didn’t have the capacity to stand alone.

Tugging with rampant determination, I desperately tried to conjure sexy thoughts of Belle to inspire turgidity downstairs. Absolutely nothing. Not even remote signs of any willingness to participate anymore. My phone buzzed. My heart pounded in embarrassment and panic.

“Sleepy now. Night.”

God damn it! I was too late, I’d blown it. The girl I’ve been in love with for the last six months wanted a picture of my dick and I couldn’t provide it. How pathetic. I was never going in that shop again, that was for sure. What a let down I was. How boring I was.

“Do you know that guy?”
“No. I get the impression he’s quite boring.”
“Yeh, my mate asked him to send her a picture of his dick and he didn’t do it.”
“Yeh, sounds about right. He MUST be boring then.”
Exactly.
 
I lay back in my bed, gutted at the missed opportunity. Although a small part of me was thankful, and relieved the ordeal was over so I could finally get some sleep. My phone buzzed again. Belle.

“Disappointed ”

  Right, that was it. This girl was getting a decent picture of my stiff cock even if it killed me. I jumped out of bed and turned on the TV with alarming alacrity for that time of night, in search of outside stimulation.

 I knew exactly what I was looking for. In the upper echelons of the channel listings lived a large bank of stations dedicated to phone-sex TV, starring a variety of naked girls shaking their oiled arses at the camera for the sexual gratification of a lonely caller paying premium rates for the pleasure.
The first channel offered up some ropey old tart who looked like she’d been dragged off the street five minutes earlier. I flicked to the next channel for something more like it, and was pleased with the results.
Toned and tanned with her perfect ass stuck in the air, this was exactly what was needed. As the girl on the TV simulated oral sex on her brightly clawed fingers, there was an awakening down below and all of a sudden we were back in action, the star performer harder and more rampant than ever, on board and determined to help me get the job done.
I needed to be quick to catch Belle awake. I leant back to ensure a toned stomach, no face, too much hassle, lighting was fine. I held out the phone and took the picture, then turned the screen back around to see the result.

  You know what, it was fine. It’d do. Send photo.


That was it. The picture was gone. Off into the ether, to some girl who was probably asleep. A rude awakening if ever there was one. I didn’t even care anymore. I was stressed out, hot and bothered and so tired.

I lay supine on the bed, penis perpendicular. I’d done it. I’d actually sent a girl a picture of my private parts. What did this mean? Anything? I was now the kind of guy who did such a thing, rather than the kind of guy who didn’t do such a thing. Should I tell people I’d done it? Would people think less of me? Would people think MORE of me? Maybe people who thought I was boring would be proved otherwise. Maybe people who respected me, or thought I was a good person, would be proved otherwise.

With no sign of a reply from Belle, I turned off the girl on the TV and swiftly fell asleep.


Blinding strips of sunlight burst through the blinds as I groggily leant over for the glass of water by the bed. I glanced at my phone on the floor and saw the little red light flashing, indicating a message received. All of last night’s antics came flooding back. What was I thinking? Ridiculous behaviour. Oh well, it was done now. I sniggered at the thought of all the failed attempts and the facial expressions.
The message was from Belle. Well, here goes nothing. I clicked to open the message.

“Fell asleep sorry. Looks like interesting viewing. x”

  Eh? A bit vague. “Looks like interesting viewing”? What did that mean? That she’d give it a proper look later? I’d put too much of myself into that picture for it to be greeted with such lazy indifference. I reopened the picture to remind myself of what I’d deemed worthy of public consumption, only to discover exactly what she meant.
Over my right shoulder, in the mirror over on the wall, you could just about make out a toned, tanned girl with her arse in the air, performing the unmentionable on her own fingers.

For fuck’s sake.
I dragged myself out of bed, thinking about a different shop I could buy my Snickers from.