It's Not You, It's Them. Portia MacIntosh

have to worry about that right now, is it? I only got engaged yesterday. As fast as we’ve been flying through the motions so far, I’m just taking this engagement a day at a time.

      I think to myself for a moment. That’s it! The idea for my next article: ‘10 Things to Consider Before You Meet Your Boyfriend’s Parents for the First Time’.

       Chapter Three

      What is the quickest way to get back in a man’s good books? I know the fastest way to a man’s heart is via his stomach, but I’ll bet the quickest way to his good books is via his pants. To make sure I have all bases covered, my plan of attack involves both. You see, my article went live this afternoon, and judging by the number of times it’s been shared already, and the number of comments it’s had on Facebook, it’s only a matter of time before Mark sees it. You know what they say: it’s easier to get forgiveness than permission – that’s my strategy with Mark because, if I told him what I was planning on writing, I don’t think he’d be down for it, but once I’ve finished the article and it’s live, he always tells me what a great job I did.

      Mark has never once been mad at me for writing about our relationship, and yet I always have this little mini panic between hitting the ‘publish’ button and him reading it and telling me that he still loves me, even though I share our most personal relationship details (arguments, sexual malfunctions, etc.) with everyone who has an internet connection. This article is a little different, though, because I’ve been messing with him for weeks, testing him, and that does sometimes feel just a little dishonest, even if it is all in the name of journalism. That’s why I stopped at Ann Summers on my way home and bought myself the most alarmingly intimidating set of underwear I could find, in an attempt to disarm and confuse him, so that by the time I’m done with him, and I tell him what my latest article is about, he’ll be too happy and tired to care.

      I walk up to my full-length mirror to admire my new underwear, but for some reason it doesn’t compliment my body quite as well as it did the mannequin in the window. I imagine that’s because she was made of hard plastic, whereas my normal, slightly squishy body is harder to contain with all these peepholes. Trying to wrangle my natural boobs in this cupless bra is proving more difficult than I thought it would, but if I make sure I’m lying down when Mark gets home, he won’t notice the fighting battle I’m losing with gravity. It doesn’t matter than I’m only twenty-nine years old; real boobs are a law unto themselves.

      That’s the plan of attack on his boxers sorted; now all I need to do is dash to the kitchen and grab a can of whipped cream so I can carefully apply it to my body and then wait on the bed for him to come home and devour me.

      I open the fridge and glance around a few times, but I can’t find the whipped cream anywhere. I only bought it last week, and I know I haven’t used it. Dammit, what can I use instead? So long as it’s something I can spread on my body that Mark loves the taste of, it’ll be fine, right?

      Hmm, somehow I don’t think a tub of Philadelphia is the best option, even if it is Mark’s favourite kind of cheese. Ditto that jar of passata. Spying another jar on the shelf, I grab it, reading the nutritional information, as though that has some baring on whether or not I’m going to smother it all over my nipples – I’m just trying to think of a better idea. That’s when I spy another jar on the worktop and, with no alternative options popping into my head, I take them both to the bedroom with me.

      I lie back on the bed, strategically positioning my body in just the right way so that my boobs don’t disappear under my arms and my thong at least covers something, because I’m suddenly a little dubious about whether or not crotchless underwear looks sexy or terrifying. Then I grab my two jars. Well, peanut butter and jam sandwiches are Mark’s favourite… so I can’t go wrong, can I? I don’t imagine mixing them together to make a kind of sticky, cloudy paste is going to look all that great, so I do what any sensible, sound-minded, sexy woman would do and smear strawberry jam all over one boob and peanut butter all over the other. Glancing down at my handiwork I can confirm that – as delicious I smell – this doesn’t look as sexy as I had imagined. I wanted to swirl big dollops of whipped cream straight from the can that my lover could wrap his lips around as he devoured it – instead, he’s going to be alternating trying to eat crunchy peanut butter from around one nipple, and picking strawberry seeds from his teeth after having a go at the other. Well, this doesn’t look sexy or appetising, so I guess I’ll wash it off and just hope the sexy underwear does the trick, except…

      ‘Hello,’ I hear Mark call, closing the front door behind him.

      Fuck.

      ‘Hi,’ I call back. ‘I’ll be out in a second.’

      ‘It’s OK, I’m coming to get changed,’ he calls back.

      Double fuck. I’ve got about thirty seconds, during which I decide that, as awful as this looks, the only way I could make it look worse would be for Mark to see this vertically. Probably best I just stay lying down and hope for the best.

      ‘You had a good… oh, my God,’ Mark exclaims, dumbstruck as he walks through the bedroom door. ‘What… er… what is that all over you?’

      ‘Peanut butter and strawberry jam,’ I say, owning it.

      ‘Of course it is,’ he replies, laughing at me with his eyes. God, I love it when he does that. His deep-brown eyes just light up and I can tell exactly what he’s thinking – it’s usually: ‘what the hell is going on in this girl’s head?’ But it isn’t a judgemental laugh; it’s warm and eternally forgiving, and I just know that, no matter how daft I am, Mark isn’t going anywhere.

      Mark unbuttons his shirt and kicks off his trousers before jumping on the bed.

      ‘Well, I am starving,’ he laughs, kissing his way from my ankle to my thigh.

      I gasp and wiggle involuntarily, the way I always do the second I feel his lips on my body.

      ‘OK, seriously, this was misjudged, I look ridiculous, and I do not expect you to have sex with me while I look like this,’ I tell him.

      ‘Have you seen that underwear you’ve got on?’ he asks me, gently kissing his way up my body until he’s on top of me. ‘You could’ve smeared mud all over yourself and I’d still have sex with you. You look sexy as fuck.’

      ‘Even with the jam?’ I laugh.

      ‘Especially with the jam,’ he replies, kissing my chest, covering his face in it. As he looks into my eyes, he smiles, and even though it’s sticky with strawberry jam, it still takes my breath away how handsome he is. I run my hand through his hair and sigh.

      ‘I love you,’ I blurt out.

      ‘I love you, too,’ he laughs. ‘But I hope this isn’t my tea…’

      I laugh and roll my eyes.

      ‘I bought stuff for dinner, too,’ I assure him. ‘The plan was to cover myself in whipped cream, but we didn’t have any – I thought we did.’

      ‘We did, I ate it,’ he tells me casually. I feel his body tense up as he presses down on me harder – Mark’s tell that he’s too turned on to think straight.

      ‘Oh, OK,’ I reply. ‘Wait, when did you eat it?’ I ask. ‘With what?’

      ‘Just on its own,’ he tells me breathlessly, grinding his body against mine.

      ‘What, like straight from the can?’ I persist with my questioning.

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘You ate the entire can?’

      ‘Yeah,’ he laughs. ‘While I was watching Match of the Day. Now will you just shut up and kiss me, please?’ he demands impatiently.

      I laugh quietly to myself at the image of my sexy boyfriend sitting on the sofa, squirting whipped cream straight into his mouth as he yells