Potty Powers

I wake up and roll over with a grunt, reaching for my phone on the side table. I know you’re supposed to let your eyes adjust to daylight before shoving a screen in your face, but I can’t help it. I check for notifications… There aren’t any. I open the dating app: no matches. I try to swipe, but I’m locked out until I am granted new swipes in twelve hours. I check the time, it’s 11 a.m. I haven’t slept this much since my depression.

When I was twenty, I dropped out of college, and I hated myself for it. After that, I didn’t date for five years. No sex, no kiss, no cuddle. Zero, zilch. Nada. My love life has always been a bit of a disaster. At university, I was struggling with life and everything. I wasn’t enjoying my course, I wasn’t making friends, and I hadn’t dated much, but I got rejected a lot. That I have a masters in. I was losing sight of my place in the world. I didn’t fit in.

I was studying Geography, why? I don’t know. I panicked. I knew I needed to go to university, but I didn’t know what to study, because I had no idea what career I wanted to pursue afterwards. I was good at geography because I was in love with the idea of travelling the world, but as it turns out, the two aren’t mutually exclusive. Studying about the world didn’t help me experience it, and I dropped out. Things weren’t going my way, and I spiralled.

I gave up on pretty much everything in my life. I was stuck. Until my sister intervened. Sarah is three years older than I am, and she didn’t let her bland name hold her back. She graduated from university with a degree in chemistry, only to take a gap year and meet her husband, Gérard, in France, where she first had the idea to start making homemade soap. She went back to school and earned a master’s in cosmetic science. By the time she was twenty-five, Sarah had already opened and established a successful personal care store, selling all-natural, homemade items, like soap, bath bombs, scrubs, and other things. Those are the only things I know she sells; well, I’m eighty per cent sure she sells them. She does go on a lot. I do use her soaps, though, because they are very good, and she always gifts them to me whenever I see her. I think she thinks I don’t wash. She doesn’t shut up, and she’s a bit annoying at times, but she’s a good big sister, and I’m super proud of her, although I still think she should have gone with my suggestion for the name of the store. I told her to call it Dirty Little Things, because she loved the book Pretty Little Liars, but she told me it sounded like a sex shop. Instead, she went with Scrubalous, like fabulous and scrupulous combined, which I reluctantly admit is an awesome name.

When we were younger, Sarah hated me hanging around her friends and would always tease me for having a crush on Marianne. She would always embarrass me in front of her. Eventually, I became quite shy and awkward around them because of it. On my twenty-fifth birthday, Sarah dragged me out of our parents’ house and forced me to celebrate. She even invited her friends, thinking a few wing-women would help bring me out of my shell. I think she saw that I was struggling. It turns out that Marianne had a crush on me, too, and that’s why Sarah made fun of me - because she didn’t want her teenage brother dating her college friend’s. That night, Sarah gave us her blessing. I think she felt guilty for making me so awkward around girls.

I went on a few dates with Marianne, but her biggest impact was introducing me to my now career. Marianne is a marketeer, and she had a friend who worked at a partner company, a market research agency, whom she introduced me to. They were looking for junior researchers (non-graduates), and given my lack of qualifications and my desperation eagerness to improve my situation, I was a good fit. Within a year, I had my life back on track. As it turns out, working for a market research agency is a great way to meet girls, because it’s like sixty per cent women. The problem was, despite setting me up with Marianne, my sister made me afraid of women, at least that’s what I tell her. She hates it, you can tell she feels genuinely bad about it, but I tell her it’s just my middle-child syndrome, because I don’t have the confidence of Sarah or my younger brother. Jonathan was married by the time he turned twenty-five. He met Ellaine at nineteen after a string of women passed through his bedroom door. I still don’t know how he never got caught. Anyway, he’s a carpenter, like our dad. He joined the ‘family’ business at sixteen and now creates his own line of high-end furniture after helping to reposition the brand as a British-made, handcrafted luxury brand. Then there is me, a college dropout. No wonder I have confidence issues.

Marianne wasn’t much of a thing. I think she did like me, but it always felt like she was doing my sister a favour by hanging out with me. It was never fully X-rated, more like a slash with a caveat to never mention it to Sarah. We stayed friends, though, I owed her for pulling me out of my slump. She lives in London, too, and we meet up occasionally for doughnuts, because it’s the only time she lets herself enjoy sweet treats. Marianne encouraged me to move here and escape the small-town life that she said was holding me back. “Just because it works for Sarah and Jonathan doesn’t mean it has to work for you,” she had told me. And then it clicked. Square peg, round hole. I applied for a transfer right after, but that was a couple of years ago. It took a long time to get here, but I’m here now, and I’m ready to make the most of it. Marianne sold me the dream when she told me she went from clinging on to relationships way past their use-by date to picking the freshest fruit in the market. Now that I’m here, I think we shop at different markets. It’s more like Marianne is in the high-end, fresh, organic aisle, and I’m in the leftovers, must-sell pile. It’s not even an aisle, just a pile of fruit on a crate in the corner.

So, dragging myself out of bed, I decide I need to freshen up my look and remove myself from the discarded fruit pile to the acceptable, everyday fruit snacks. I get myself washed up and dressed, remembering to shave and moisturise so I don’t look so tired and blotchy. Despite sleeping eleven hours, I don’t look fresh until I’ve splashed myself with cold water. I pop on my best shirt and jeans and head out to Hampstead Heath for an impromptu photoshoot. If I’m brave enough, I might even ask a stranger to help take one for me, but maybe not. I don’t know, we’ll see.

...

After two hours of wandering around, trying to find picturesque, yet quiet or secluded locations to take photos in private, I realise it’s a fool’s errand. So far, I have been too self-conscious to even take a selfie. I did try, but I took it super quickly, without stopping, and it came out blurry. I wanted a picture under the pergola, but so did everyone else, and I was the only one who wasn’t a girl or part of a couple. I felt so awkward and hot in the face that I had to get out of there. At one point, I did catch a girl looking at me as though she was going to offer to help, but I got so shy that I turned my face to the ground and shuffled away, like a kid in trouble. Now I’m scuffing my feet in the grass by the pond, wondering if I could ask the old lady with her dog to take a photo for me. If you were profiling potential photographers in the park, I don’t think she’d be the best candidate, but she seems approachable. That’s when I get a tap on the arm, and I turn around with concern, only to find an adorable Asian couple smiling apologetically. They ask me to take a photo of them, which I do gladly, slipping my phone back into my pocket.

I make sure to frame their faces and take more than one, so they have options, both in landscape and portrait. When I hand it over, I wait for the universal nod of approval. Then the girl with Korean bangs asks if I would like one in return, and I have a mild internal panic. Blame Marianne for me knowing the difference between normal bangs and Korean bangs. She’s the one who got me into K-dramas. Anyway, with the heat of embarrassment rising, my instinct is to say “No, thank you,” and run away like an absolute lunatic. I contemplate throwing myself into the pond behind them and swimming over to the other side, but politeness wins out, and I hand over my phone with a grateful smile. I do my best to look natural in my least awkward pose. Hands clasped in front of me.

“No, no, like this.” She says and instructs me to angle my body and stick out a lead foot with one hand in the opposite pocket. At first, I’m confused by the direction, but in the end, I’m relieved because I never know what to do with my hands.

After a few dozen photos, I thank them profusely and hightail out of there, proud of myself for interacting with strangers, but instantly seeking solitude for self-collection. In the shade of a tree, I study the photos, pleased to see that with her help, she’s made me look almost dateable. Feeling more at ease, I head to the aesthetic streets of Hampstead, where I find it a little easier to ask for help this time around.

It takes three days to get my first match, and it feels like progress. I message Leanne and ask her how she’s doing, but she doesn’t reply. I check my phone almost every hour until she disappears from my profile. We lived a whole relationship in my head before we even met. I am so not ready to date. So I text Roger, my best friend. We went to school together, before he went off to travel the world, while I floundered. He’s a lot braver than I am.

Dude, you’re such a Dave. Suck it up.

He knows how to get under my skin, but he also knows how to motivate me, so I do as he says. I press on, with my thumb on my screen, swiping. Several days and a few matches later, I’ve got myself a date.

...

At home, getting ready for my date, Clara wishes me well and heads off for a night out of her own. Gary is nowhere to be found, which leaves me free to lose my shit in the shared spaces of our flat. I’m so nervous that I’ve had to change my shirt because of all the sweating. I looked like a drowning victim. To make matters worse, my stomach is in knots, and I’ve peed and pooped more than an incontinent puppy. I suddenly have this irrational fear of farting on my date, and it makes me question my sanity. I check the time, and my mental and physical breakdown will have to wait, or I’m going to be late. It’s not ideal.

When I arrive, my pits are clammy, and I do my best to waft myself discreetly, but I’m too busy worrying about mistaking my date for someone else. So, standing by the entrance, I recheck Beatrice’s profile so I can recognise her when she arrives. I’m also checking to see if she’s cancelled and quietly wishing for it when someone catches my eye. I think it’s her, but I’m not certain, so I keep my head in my phone to avoid smiling and waving at the wrong person like a weirdo. She can approach me. Save us both the embarrassment.

Beatrice is pretty, with dark hair wrapped in a bun, tied with a red ribbon, and rocking a polka dot choker; she stands out. She’s wearing a black top that frames her bust, and a red skirt that reveals enough leg to give the beads of sweat on my head something to run for. We take a seat in the semi-crowded bar, at a small wooden table with enough distance between us that any contact would be intentional. As soon as my bum hits the wood, she’s asking me about myself, and I feel my throat drying almost instantly. I suggest ordering us some drinks first, because it’s easier when I have an alcoholic buffer. At the bar, I have a moment to breathe and collect myself, but I’m struggling. There’s a ball of gas in my stomach threatening to ruin my day. The bartender ignores me and serves the girl who arrives after me. My internal thoughts roll themselves, and when he eventually hands me our drinks, I take a fortifying breath before rejoining my date.

“So, you’re from Kent?” I ask, deflecting her attention from my fidgeting. My stomach is quite uncomfortable.

Beatrice tells me she has three sisters and she’s the youngest. I stare at her choker as she swallows back a gulp of white wine. I find her intimidating, and I don’t know why, because she seems lovely. She tells me all about herself, but I’m struggling to concentrate as the ball of gas starts bouncing around my insides like a five-a-side football match. I hold out as long as I can before it’s acceptable to excuse myself to the bathroom. I force an apologetic smile and try not to give anything away in my walk, but I’m desperate. I hope the bathroom stall is free and tucked far enough away from any sensitive ears, because it’s about to get loud.

Out of sight of my date, I burst through the door, leaving all composure outside. My legs start twitching, my buttcheeks are clenched tight, and there’s sweat dripping from my brow. I stumble through the door of the vacant stall with no time to feel relief. I clamber it shut and rush out of my jeans, dropping backwards until I feel the cold press of porcelain and… just in time! My stomach muscles and ass cheeks immediately unclench with a resounding, “Pppppfffttttttttttt-t-t-t—ing!!!” Followed by an onslaught of sensitive sounds you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. The commotion is enough to startle an innocent bystander, my stall neighbour, who clears his throat to politely request that I give it a courtesy flush. I feel like I’m in an Austin Powers movie, and the disturbing noises he’s hearing are the sounds of me waterboarding the number two henchman with a swirly, trying to uncover who he works for. Dr Evil is who he works for. I know this because as soon as I flush, there’s a second round of hell shooting out of my ass that forces me to kick my feet out in front of me and clamp my hands onto both walls for stability. Why is this happening to me?! This is not what I had in mind for a memorable date. My frown lines deepen, and sweat drips down my back. “Good luck.” Says the guy next to me as he flushes and exits the stall, probably in search of breathable air.

It’s just my luck that the first date I have had in months has me pooping like I’m committing a crime. I should be charming the pants off of my smoking hot date, not dropping my pants and smoking out of my ass. She’s probably wondering what’s taking me so long. After several minutes of clench and release, I’m finally able to breathe and regain some composure. I leave no evidence of the crime I just committed and wash up, checking my clammy self in the mirror, hoping I don’t look like I just wrestled a bear. I do my best to dry the sweat and fix my hair, airing myself out by the window as I check the time to see I’ve been gone almost ten minutes. Enough for my date to worry that I’ve run out on her.

As I approach her, she’s using her phone, and I wonder if she’s readying herself to leave. I wouldn’t blame her. I avoid eye contact and offer a tight-lipped smile, hoping we can ignore my prolonged absence, but she asks me if everything is okay. I want to shrivel up and die. I take an overly large sip of my beer and swallow a “Mmhmm,” in response. There are a few painfully quiet seconds which have me wishing I were one of those guys who could poop in a public space without an ounce of shame. I think of Roger, “Suck it up.”

To my relief, she changes the subject, and we talk about her plans for summer vacations. She likes to travel, too, but I don’t have any plans to share, and I’m back to feeling a little insecure. I don’t know what I have to offer a girl at the moment. My life feels like it’s in transition. I’m in a much better place than I was a few years ago, but I’m still behind. I’m thirty and not even a manager yet; all my university buddies were managers by the time they were twenty-seven. Most of them are married with kids. Beatrice is twenty-seven and a fashion designer for a really cool brand. She’s the boss, and I’m already daydreaming of her bossing me around, standing over me in heels, telling me to undress. Do I have a kink? Her brown eyes glint at my thoughts, and my face flushes with heat. I suggest another drink, and to my surprise, she accepts. I know I’m not blowing her away, but I’m thankful that she’s giving me so much of her time.

After the date, I walk her to the underground station to say goodnight. I linger, unsure of how to end the date. “You’re going this way, right?” I ask.

“Yeah, and you?”

I throw my thumb over my shoulder and swallow the lump in my throat. Neither of us moves for a few undecided seconds, and I clear my throat, “Um, well, it was really nice meeting you. We should do it again sometime?” I say it like a question, because I can’t tell if it went well or not. I’m still feeling awkward about it all.

I rock on my heels, “Aren’t you going to kiss me?” She asks, catching me off guard.

I’m confused. I replay the date in my head; I barely made her laugh, but for a couple of small chuckles. I told her nothing that could impress her. I forgot to compliment her, even though she looks fantastic. I don’t know how to respond. I lick my lips in thought and anticipation as Beatrice steps closer. So I follow her lead and lean in, placing my hand on her hip. Our lips meet with gentle curiosity, but it feels forced. My eyes are open, surprised by what’s happening. I force myself to close them and concentrate on the action of my mouth, but it’s awkward. I’m thinking about it, and you shouldn’t be thinking about how to move your lips when you’re kissing, then she slips in her tongue and robs me of my thoughts.

When we break away, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and tells me to call her. I nod and say goodnight, knowing I would never call, but I will send her a WhatsApp. I watch her leave; I never noticed her ass until now. I adjust my trousers, kissing always turns me on, even when I’m doing it wrong.

...

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