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Ah, the charcoal burner and the fuller, a difficult fable to teach at school, while some might be able to guess that a charcoal burner makes charcoal and, thus, makes everything black; few will be able to guess that a fuller whitens wool as part of the wool making process. Neither trades are now practised, it is all factories on the other side of the world and empty supermarket shelves. Nonetheless, assuming we know what they do, I bet when the charcoal burner suggested sharing an abode, and, perhaps, an intimate life, with the fuller the intention had been all positive: what could possibly go wrong? Whereas the fuller only thought negatively: of what could possibly go wrong.
Anyway those five words that could either be taken positively or negatively, those words were used once when I was told a little story of a major life changing decision.
Mike sitting quietly on the table in the shadows swears he used those words one summer evening but as it was several years ago it may have been edited into his memory as he relayed yet another story about something that went wrong. But even if this is the case there must have been a kernel of the idea in there as memory doesn't tend to invent.
The way Mike tells it is as a preamble to embarking on an adventure of unprotected sex, once mentioned he heads into the glories of sensation, and sensuality. He is right, of course, sex is all about touch: the anticipation, the fineness, the lightness or the strength, whichever be your preference, the friction, the slickness, the touch, always the touch. He claims touch is what he thinks about during intercourse, which is, again, of course, not true. The brain, the most powerful sex organ of the lot, is all imagination not touch. He has told me numerous tales involving his fantasies, at least two of which included moments during intercourse, but those are stories for another day.
This story begins when Jenna, the beautiful woman sitting next to Mike typing away on her phone, told Mike they needed to have a serious conversation. Many things went through Mike's mind between the pronouncement and the conversation. He settled on the most likely situation was Jenna's intention to break up their relationship. It was fair enough, he decided, as Jenna and he were polar opposites in many ways, as black and white as the coal burner and the chalkman. She is decisive and forthright while he is dithering and circuitous. She is fish and chips while he is curry. She is fast fashion while he is recycle and reuse. They had not been dating long, just a couple months. They had known each other for a little less than a year, since when he was moved to her department. Their colleagues did not know they were dating so he thought this must be the point where she nips it in the bud. And while he was disappointed, he had come to terms with it, he was ready for it.
The chat went a very different way. He came to hers as he had a dozen times before. He brought a bottle of wine as he had a dozen times before. His thoughts had drifted to the condom packet in his pocket, a smile had crept onto his lips in anticipation of the glorious delights of Jenna he was about to explore. He forgot completely about the important conversation and was a little taken by surprise by Jenna’s formality when answering the door, setting him at the table and sitting opposite. Thing is, she came straight out, I’m pregnant. I find it hard to believe that Mike's response was: cool, what could possibly go wrong? But that is the way he tells the story. Perhaps he said it by mistake, perhaps he forgot the minor panic between the statement and the response. Either way, he did not take his condoms out of the packet that evening. He rounded the table and kissed Jenna. He lifted her onto the table so she was sitting facing him. He kissed her neck, unbuttoning her shirt he skipped past her breasts, leaving them trussed up in her bra, rather planted feather light kisses on her belly. He undid her jeans and slipped them down, taking his time to kiss the inside of her legs all the way up. He reached her panties and repeated the exercise, this time running his tongue up her flange, lubricating for a slow and sensuous shag, throughout which they maintained eye contact, neither willing to break what would become their unspoken pact.
Is there a better way to make a life changing decision? What could possibly go wrong?
