Suzanne Portnoy

In my phone they no longer have names. A former friend Michelle used to say that I couldn’t use a man’s real name, only a nickname, until I’d slept with them three times. I’ve gone one step farther since she insisted on that rule. Men I don’t want to speak to just become Another Wacko. I now have four on my phone. When I see my phone light up and see the name Another Wacko (1,2,3,4), that’s my cue not to pick up. I guess I’m not doing too badly having acquired only four over the past seven years although if I had to add the men that insist on emailing me after a completely forgettable (for me), anonymous encounter, I could probably add half a dozen more.

So, what separates Another Wacko from a keeper? That’s obvious. If there’s a connection then they become a keeper. Sometimes one time is all it takes to know that despite distance and time, family problems and work commitments, that the chances of seeing someone more than once are highly likely. I’m not a great believer in love at first sight but I know when I’ve met someone who is meant to be in my life. The ‘Wackos,’ on the other hand, tend to be the selfish lovers who simply are looking for another free blowjob or anal. I’m probably under Dial a Free Escort in their phone.

This morning I received an email from a guy I’d met on Christmas Day 2006 that simply said ‘meetup?’ I didn’t recognise his address but a quick mail search quickly revealed he was a married doctor I’d told never to contact me again. We’d had a 30 minute liaison that was satisfying for him but not for me. In truth, if I’d been bolshy enough I would have asked him to hand over £300 that one time. I don’t mind a bit of roleplay where I’m being used as long as at the end of it I get to turn the tables on my lover but this was a very crap ‘wham, bam, thank you ma’am.’ That’s a working girl’s job, not mine. Just as he was about to go, he said, ‘Would you mind fucking my friend?’ further confirming my belief that he should have paid.

‘What?’ I said. ‘Fuck you and your friend?’ I thought he had a kinky threesome fantasy that I would have possibly entertained had we been able to make an evening of it and not a quick 30 minute in and out. He was cute and I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt as his pager had gone off announcing a medical emergency shortly after he had arrived but not before he had come. I was willing, for that split second, to suspend my initial belief that I was being used.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Just fuck my friend. He’s horny too.’

There are few times when I really am lost for words but that Christmas afternoon was one such occasion. It was hard for me to believe that a seemingly nice, NHS surgeon, standing next to his Porsche was asking me whether I could fuck his friend just because I had made the stupid mistake of fucking him. I said, ‘No, I won’t fuck your friend and I’m not fucking you again either,’ and I really thought I’d never hear from him again. But then six months later he emailed and then six months after that and now this morning with just the one word. I love men but I do despair when someone with a medical qualification asks like an uneducated imbecile.

‘So, will I be Another Wacko No. 5?’ said a friend Sunday afternoon while we were sharing a drink at my local pub and I showed him the list on my phone. He was a one shot deal that I met a year ago but I knew that I’d see him again. It was one of those rare occasions where everything from start to finish just felt right. He lived a couple of hundred of miles away from me but coincidentally had to be in my part of town for a job interview. For the past twelve months, we’d corresponded occasionally, even tried to meet up a few times but his work or mine always seemed to get in the way. He liked me and I liked him and well, what else is there? He was looking straight at me smiling and even his smile was making me squirm in my seat. I wanted to kiss him so badly I could practically feel his lips on mine as he spoke. I could tell he felt the same.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ll never be Another Wacko. Not a chance.’