A Bigger Man
(MF, rom, not much sex)
© Bronwen 2001

I was sitting in the pub breaking up with my boyfriend. Or trying to. Every time he turned up again — plastered, angry, beseeching — I'd persuade him to go down the pub. Anything to get him out of the flat. Give the guy some privacy and I knew he would make a scary, depressing scene. He was a great one for scenes, as well as a bit of shoving. At least in the pub he usually looked no worse than morose.

So there I was, sitting in the pub trying to break up with my boyfriend. For what seemed the millionth time. He had two good cards. Threats of suicide and threats of trashing the flat. Which I'd moved into to get some geographical distance between us. Which belonged to my mother's cousin. Ho hum.

Here we were again, head to head in what to him was emotional high drama. In the beginning I'd cared too, but by now I'd seen through his crap. Today it was no more than a low grade, profoundly dispiriting nuisance. All I wanted was to get rid of the bugger. Perhaps I could persuade him to... Leave town? Eat cyanide? Take a long walk off a short pier? Idly, I traced my finger round a beer mat.

"Tell you what ... " I started hopefully.

"I need a slash," he announced. "I'll be back."

Of course you bloody will, I thought as I stared bleakly at his departing back. Back, and back, and back. To the crack of doom. He's an unstoppable force. I've got as much chance of getting rid of this bastard as bloody King Canute stopping the North Sea breakers. God, I'm bored with this. And I raised my head to gaze round the room; just to take some sort of interest in my surroundings. A mental breather.

All sorts of people in the pub. It was lunchtime and the office workers were in, and the labourers. And the alcoholic actors holding court in the middle of the bar. And a big scruffy man.

He was standing in the far corner, chatting to another guy. But as I looked at him full on he looked up. And something came over me. Don't laugh. I just looked at him, and he looked back, mid-smile from some joke he'd been sharing, and our eyes met and I saw something that warmed me. He was kind. Where most people just look OK, or preoccupied, or predatory, he looked kind. Really kind. Kind and funny. It cheered me up just looking at him. At which point he smiled at me. At me alone. As if he knew me.

You know that fraction of a second when you realise you're staring deep into someone's face without any reasonable precedent? I mean he wasn't my friend or my brother or my anything. He was a complete stranger and I wasn't single. So as soon as I realised what was happening I looked away quickly, feeling a bit exposed.

And a moment later here was Mr Fun trudging back from the direction of the Gents. Our eyes locked — his stony, mine probably pretty desperate. A very different experience. And he and I were back to the interminable round of why it was a good idea we didn't see each other any more (me) and how his passion for me would force him to do something drastic if I didn't see reason (him).

But what I'd seen stayed with me. And it strengthened my resolve. Nothing formal, just a vague feeling that if men could be kind why was I putting up with this miserable low-life and his increasingly overt threats?

The weird thing was that within a week or so I was introduced to the big guy. When my won't-believe-he's-my-ex boyfriend wasn't around I'd go to the pub on my own, play pool, hang out. And someone I already knew said, "Hey, do you two know each other?"

He didn't look at me in any special way, just gave me a friendly grin and nodded. And that was that. He became one of my circle.

I knew an eclectic bunch of people at that time. A lot of actors (the pub was near the television studios and two theatres), a piano tuner, two CIA agents (desk only, great expenses), and some odds and sods of varying degrees of sanity. I was kinda at a loose end — middle of my PhD, just enough money not to work and a bad case of prevarication. For various reasons (professional or psychosocial) the people I knew all seemed to have a lot of free time too. And we all liked to drink. So we did a lot of hanging out.

I love to cook and I had a lot of room, so Sundays meant everyone back to mine after the pub for a roast lunch. Afterwards we'd sprawl out on my huge sofas and watch a movie. Sometimes we'd watch porno and make sarky cracks at the plot lines, the dialogue. All that kid stuff.

One Sunday there were eight of us for roast lamb, and I'd made apple crumble and trifle as well. We were all feeling python-like, so when the big guy said he was wiped out and could he slope off for a nap in one of my bedrooms I thought nothing of it. I still didn't think anything of it when he emerged shortly after everyone else had gone home and offered to help clean up.

So he did and, as we mopped, we talked. He said he'd noticed that a couple of times a week I met up with a bloke who wasn't from round here. "I only ever see him with you and you both look so pissed off. What's the story?"

I explained my dilemma and he asked relevant questions and made helpful suggestions. He didn't get all "I'll sort him out for you, baby", which was a blessed relief. Why can so few men understand that when you've got one bloke threatening violence the last thing you really want is two men beating shit out of each other?

For some reason, I didn't think back to that first encounter with the big guy. I didn't realise anything important was happening. I only went as far as thinking I had a new friend. A really good friend. He'd listen to my troubles and, once he realised I'd already tried most of his suggestions, he gave up trying to solve the boyfriend problem and stuck to cheering me up. Silly things like persuading me to have a go on the swings in the park, telling me jokes. Mostly there were other people about, but it got to be routine that he'd stay on those early Sunday evenings and we'd talk about the week. And if was during one of those cosy evenings he came up with the nickname.

"I just wish I could get rid of him. He's totally irrelevant to my life but he just hangs around being a major pain in the arse," I wailed.

"He's a hemorrhoid," said the big guy, his face split in a grin. "That bastard's nothing more than a bloody hemorrhoid!" And after that we called my persistent ex 'The Hemorrhoid'. We made cracks about getting rid of him with cream or by surgery, and the bottom falling out of his world, and it cheered me up no end.

All the things we did cheered me up. I particularly enjoyed playing on the swings. We went to the park with his daughter. She was a sweet little girl and he saw her twice a week. His own ex lived a block or two away.

"God, this is fun!" I called. "Nearly as good as a fun fair!"

"You like fun fairs?" he called back.

"Pure, pure heaven," I sang.

So when he pointed out the poster in Pizza Hut's window for Carter's Steam Fair with traditional carnival rides and asked if I fancied popping on the bus one Saturday afternoon, I jumped at the idea. Not a second thought.

When we got off the bus I realised we were actually quite close to my ex-boyfriend's part of town. But fun fairs really weren't The Hemorrhoid's thing. And anyway, what was the problem? I was only going to the fair with my friend. First dates don't happen in broad daylight.

We went on the waltzer, and then the huge wooden boat swings. I hung on the bar at one end behind all the seats full of people. He hung on the other, behind the seats on that side. And the great painted barge swung up to the vertical and back with a clunk every time while we laughed right into each other's eyes.

It was when we were still reeling from the swings that we saw the roundabout. And it brought me up short. It was the ultimate roundabout. A vision of ornate lettering, tiny mirrors, twirling gilt poles and painted horses with glossy red nostrils. I danced on the spot like a little girl.

"You go on," he said. "I'm dizzy. I'll watch."

And on I hopped. Round and round while the happy music played loud in my ears and we waved every time I passed him. It was a moment of pure joy. He took a picture of me. I still have it.

Later we ate candy floss, and tried to drop ping pong balls into goldfish bowls. He turned to me and said seriously,"Two goldfish in a tank... "

"Yes?" I said, waiting.

"And one said to the other 'Do you know how to drive this thing?'"

It was while we were laughing that I saw the Hemorrhoid. He was looming his way through the clusters of people. Violence in a floor-length leather coat. He cast a shadow in the sunlight.

My stiffening made my friend look round. We were standing side by side under the gaily-striped canopy of the goldfish stall. We'd been laughing, our heads close together. Suddenly I was aware how The Hemorrhoid would see it. But this wasn't how it was. I'd just come to the fair with my best mate. Yes, he was my best mate. But nothing more. He'd just said "Fancy going to the fair?" This wasn't a boyfriend thing. It wasn't a date. Can first dates happen in broad daylight?

All the thinking happened very quickly. And then my mind went blank. I was scared. What if he hit me? What if he hit us both? What if there was a fight? But it was too late. The Hemorrhoid was upon us. Right up close. I'd seen that expression before. It left bruises.

"What's this, Bronwen?" he started, but I didn't have time to answer.

"We're having a good time," my friend said. "She's having a good time. Is that a problem?"

And then I suddenly became aware of how big my big guy was. And he was doing something. Some man thing. He hadn't moved but he had changed. His body was different. He and Hemorrhoid were staring in each other's faces. It was as if they were doing some sort of calculation. I've seen dogs do something like it, but I'd never seen men do it. It went on for well over a minute. And my big guy was calm and went on being calm, while the Hemorrhoid was getting angrier. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a couple of guys from the stalls kinda clustering. They were getting prepared. But there was no need. The Hemorrhoid took a breath and suddenly seemed to get smaller.

"No. Not a problem," he said. And he walked backwards a couple of steps with his eyes on both of us. Then he gave me a long look that I knew was supposed to make me feel guilty, turned and walked slowly away.

I watched him go and turned to look into the face of my best friend.

"What happened?" I asked.

"It's over," he said. But it wasn't. The Hemorrhoid was over, but it took my big guy ten minutes or so to get back to normal and start smiling again. The testosterone was coming off him in waves.

"Yes, but what happened?" I asked, baffled. Not a word, not a blow. I'm so dense about man things. The way he explained it was that it was instead of a fight. He wasn't going to fight but he made sure The Hemorrhoid knew that it wasn't worth starting one. He was also telling The Hemorrhoid that I was with him now, though he forgot to mention this at the time.

We went home after that: got on the bus and walked back to my place. I felt as though someone had hit me hard several times with a pillow. We talked a bit and I cried for a bit, from relief mainly, and the drama of it all. In the end I fell asleep on the rug in the living room.

I was woken by a call from the other room. "Come and see what I've done!" came a cheery voice.

When I walked into my bedroom I was amazed. It was beautifully tidy and my bed was made with fresh linen. I could see all this by the light of my bicycle. My bicycle which was carefully decorated with sparkling Christmas lights. It must have taken ages. It looked so terribly pretty and daft. And my big guy was standing there, smiling proudly.

I looked at him and understanding awoke me gently. I felt like Tinkerbell. Someone believed in me. Love could be having a good time. Love could be kind. Love could be fun.

I stepped into the room, and walked right up to him. Chest to chest, so that he'd put his arms about me. Which he did. And I lifted my face to his and looked into his eyes. And then he kissed me. Which is what I wanted.

The undressing bit was a bit of a blur, though I remember the "clunk" it made when his silly rock 'n' roll belt hit the floor. And we never got under those fresh sheets. We were standing in each other's arms, kissing and kissing and kissing. And then he raised his head and cupped my face in his hands and said "You've no idea how much I've been waiting for this."

A rush of glorious heat poured through me and all sorts of feelings sparkled inside. I realised a million things but I didn't have time to think them out just now.

I was so wet that it was no trouble at all just to topple slowly backwards onto the bed and draw him into me as we fell. Every last inch of him was as deep inside me as it could go by the time we landed. And as we landed I went into orgasm without any excuse at all and during the ensuing hours I made the happy discovery that my big guy had immense self-control and some great new games.

We didn't stop making love apart from brief breaks to eat and wash for several months. Perhaps that's an exaggeration, but it was our main preoccupation. Everything else we did was an interlude in our love-making.

Which is how I met my husband. Because within nine months we were married. The whole glorious performance. Top hats, white lace, and a church with a choir — even a steeple. All our friends came. But not The Hemorrhoid.

N.B This story was written for a Writer's Duel. The challenge was to write a story containing 10 words provided by my opponent in a fixed time. The words were: