Mouthwash

It burns at first, like the time your Auntie Florence put rubbing alcohol on a scraped knee. That's how strong it is. Your whole mouth fills up with its chemical hot-and-cold sting, and for a second you fear that you might accidentally swallow some; death through either choking or a burnt esophagus. You've never been much of a drinker, but this taste reminds you of the way a friend's breath used to smell after a hot date with absinthe. Still, the sensation is cleansing and not altogether unpleasant. You swill it round your mouth for a moment, gargle loudly, then spit into the sink. Now your mouth feels hollow, empty, and as you inhale through it you can almost feel the cool air coming out on the other side of your head.

You look at yourself in the mirror, and are reminded of that old saying; something said by earnest heroines and sober judges. “How can you look at yourself in the mirror?” Easy – just point both eyes forward and voilà. There you are. Two eyes, a mouth and a nose, all accounted for, staring back at you with that blank expression some people often mistake for slowness. Your mama hated the way you'd switch off your features; she used to pinch your cheeks to make you wince and blush, it would remind you to keep moving those muscles, that way at least the other kids wouldn't take you for a derelict and start to throw rocks. Not that there were many other kids around at all. Or at least, none that would waste their time with you, not even by calling you names.

Jacob. That's your name. If you'd had any friends you would have let them call you Jake, maybe even Jay, but that situation never arose. You were the boy who sat by himself during lunch at school, the boy who was never bullied but also never made any friends. It was a pattern that followed you into adulthood – it wasn't until you'd left school and home that things began to change.

That was when you found a way of being a somebody. Her name was Venus; she could make you feel like the most special person in the world, and there was only one condition – her spectacular treatment came in hour-long slots at a fixed rate. A small price to pay, for the wonders she worked on your confidence. The affirmation she gave you, especially when she unzipped your jeans and looked up with the words big boy in her eyes and on her lips... You owe her the world.

You were no longer that loner; you became somebody new, somebody who had no trouble making friends. You were easier to talk to, more comfortable in crowds, soon enough there were people who called you Jake. Once Venus got you out of that shell of yours, there was no stopping you – your new mates found you funny, clever even. And then women started to pay attention.

Betsy was your first real girlfriend, a moody brunette with a face like a smacked arse but killer legs that more than made up for it. It was bliss for a short while, despite her tantrums; having practically no experience with any woman other than Venus, you just assumed that her black moods were par for the course. But it soon became clear that nothing you did could make Betsy happy, so it ended.

There were others after her, but nothing seemed to last. Heidi, Jane, Ella. They would scratch your itch for a little while, but it wouldn't be long before you were dissatisfied again and you grew bored of each other. When it got to that point, you couldn't bring yourself to even pretend that you wanted to make things work. Apparently this is cold, but should you feel bad for telling the truth?

Every now and then, you hear a variation on the same theme, words spoken like the righteous starlet of a big screen movie - “how do you sleep at night?” With a pillow under your head and a painkiller in your belly.

Maybe the problem is that your first love was a whore. Now you treat all women like whores. You would cover Betsy's mouth while you had sex, so she couldn't make a sound (possibly one reason why things didn't last long with her). Very often, you ask them to leave straight afterwards. Half an hour ago, you called a taxi for a woman of Oriental origin, you forget what she was exactly, and she left without saying goodbye or leaving her number. Oh well. There'll be other nights, other girls.

You tried it with a man once. It wasn't horrific, but the entire act had a very uncomfortable feeling to it, like you both knew it was awkward but thought it best to get it done with rather than call things off – typical male pride, neither one wanting to be the first to quit. Towards the end you closed your eyes and conjured up an imaginary Venus to help you along, to bring things to a quick and pleasurable finish. It's an experience you've never repeated, having decided that it's not at all for you. You've not told anybody about it, either – not out of shame, or fear of how you might be treated. Just embarrassment. It's a lot harder to look a man in the eye and then just simply brush him off than it is to do to a woman. Who knows why, but it's true.

Anyway, nobody needs to know that particular tidbit. Some things are better kept to oneself, life stays tidier that way. You're proud of how you've compartmentalized your life; you work hard but not excessively so, you conserve enough energy for fun and games with your pals, and more energy still for trawling the bars and finding a suitable companion for the night.

How far you've come, you think, from the boy who sat on his own at school, talking to nobody. What a long time ago that was.

Betsy wasn't right for you. She couldn't have been. Neither were any of the others. You've not found the girl of your dreams yet, no-one can compare to the intoxicating but ultimately unavailable (without a price) Venus. And if you've made up your mind about someone, if she's not the perfect girl for you, then what on earth is the point in keeping her around?

It's good to think these things through, to take stock. To walk away from things with a clean conscience. You wink at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and go back into the bedroom. You feel better, lighter – fresher somehow.