Sexy Beast: The Intimate Adventures of an Ugly Man

I tried to make the painting into a fitness thing, so that I’d feel less bad about the tobacco intake that came hand in hand with the joints, but I failed. I felt worse still on Sunday afternoon when I woke up with a cough like a canary in a coal mine. In order to assuage some of the guilt, I fell back on childhood rituals and for old time’s sake said half a dozen Hail Marys, three Apollo Creeds, and a handful of How’s Your Fathers. But it was useless. On Sunday I hated myself. And so I regressed, albeit briefly, and lay stagnant, unstable, like a veritable sack of couch potatoes, neither use nor ornament, propped up in front of the telly, and the last thing I wanted was to speak to anyone, so when the phone rang, I let it go to answer machine. Which is when I received the following voice message from Keith:

‘All right, mate. I’ve just got this terrible feeling that you’re sitting at home moping and feeling sorry for yourself and pissed off that you pigged out yesterday. If I’m wrong and you’re right as rain and off out celebrating your joy, then I’m happy to be so wrong. But if I’m right, then…I dunno. Cheer up, mate! You’re allowed to treat yourself once in a while, for God’s sake. It might not be good for your diet but it’s good for your soul. Your soul! Anyway, take care and speak soon…Oh, and everybody here loves you.’

At which point, in the background, Patricia and her precocious children, Ben and Dina, all shouted, ‘We love you, Stanley!’ and laughed. ‘You see?’ said Keith. ‘Seeya later, mate. Give us a bell. Bye!’

At the time, hearing the message made me feel even more pathetic than I already felt. The idea that someone knew me well enough to know that I’d be sitting at home in a nauseating heap, too miserable to even sob, let alone pick up the phone, upset me. Am I so predictable? Is my pathetic personality so widely acknowledged?

But then, listening to the message again a few hours later made me shudder and shake with dirty great tears of something approaching joy. I think I may be slightly emotionally unstable. I think I may have to take that possibility on board.

Then, before those tears had a chance to dry, Ange called and asked me if I fancied a healthy dinner some time. I said that I most certainly did and, immediately, I got back on track with the diet—apples and lettuce and grapes, oh my—and as my weight began once again to crawl in the right direction, I began to cheer up. I started whistling again. By the time dinner at Ange’s rolled around, less than a week later, I was positively chipper, not only at the prospect of a healthy meal, but also at the prospect of spending a little more time with Ange.

I felt nervous as I was getting ready to leave the house. I shouldn’t have felt nervous. My belly was shifting around. It shouldn’t have been doing that. I couldn’t, I can’t stop thinking about how much I want Ange naked, on a bed, savaging me with her body, her cavities. I feel like I’m fourteen again, like I love her.

Halfway through the meal, the conversation turned, as conversations often do, to sex. Ange couldn’t get over the fact that I’ve only slept with two people. I couldn’t get over the fact that she’s slept with over fifty, and none of them were me.

‘It must be worse to have slept with two than with none at all,’ she said sensitively. ‘Because you know what you’re missing, don’t you?’

‘Hmm, yes. That’s very true,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for ramming that home.’

‘But how do you cope with the frustration?’ she wanted to know.

‘What makes you think I cope with it?’ I replied.

We talked about Ange’s sexual partners, her predatory maneating ways. I asked her what kind of men she liked best. She asked me what I meant. I said, ‘For example, short men or tall men?’ She told me tall men. ‘Small men or large men, cockwise?’ Large men. ‘Black men or white men?’ In response to which Ange informed me that she didn’t think she could ever sleep with a black man. Naturally, I called her on this. Specifically, I called her racist. Naturally, she denied it. ‘I just don’t find them attractive,’ she said.

‘But that’s idiotic,’ I replied. ‘It’s like saying, “I don’t find Taureans attractive” or “I don’t find lawyers attractive.” There are as many different types of black men, as many different black “looks”, as there are fish in the sea.’

‘I don’t fancy fish either,’ she said, stupidly.

‘Fair enough,’ I countered cleverly. ‘But to say you don’t fancy black men is like saying you don’t fancy freshwater fish, or you don’t fancy bream, whereas with other fish you have no problems. Or, in other words: you’re a racist.’

‘I can’t believe you’re calling me that,’ she said at this point, seemingly on the verge of becoming quite upset.

‘I can’t believe you’re being so overtly racist!’ I cried. ‘OK, let’s calm down here,’ I suggested, more to myself than to Ange. I poured some more wine. I drank some more wine. ‘What would you think,’ I said, ‘if a black man said that he refused to sleep with white women, that he just didn’t fancy white women?’

She paused, as if to suggest—at least as far as I read it—that she was about to lie. Then she lied. ‘I’d think it was fine,’ she said. ‘It’s a matter of personal taste.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Well, it seems to me it’s personal taste informed by personal prejudice. OK, let me try another tack. Tell me—honestly now—don’t you fancy Denzel Washington?’

‘No, I don’t,’ she replied, scowling racistly as she did so.

‘OK, what about Kanye West?’

‘Nope.’

‘Right then. What about Thierry Henry?’ I was feeling confident. Every woman I’ve ever met can’t help drooling over Thierry Henry.

‘Nope. Look, I’m sorry, Stan. I just don’t fancy black blokes.’

I sighed. Could I ever love a racist? Probably. Just not a black one. I’m joking. In reality, I couldn’t bring myself to believe that what Ange was saying was really true. But I felt that to call her a liar as well as a racist might be verging on the offensive.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘When you go on holiday, do you like to sunbathe?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I can see where you’re going with this.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’ll give you time to come up with a decent answer. Have you ever been to bed with a white bloke with a deep tan?’

‘Yes,’ she said defensively. ‘I really fancy white blokes with tans.’

‘Well, what’s the bleeding difference?!’ My exasperation was beginning to flow over.

‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what it is.’

‘You’re racist?’ I offered.

‘No,’ she said. ‘And I really wish you’d stop saying that.’

I apologised. Sincerely.

‘Have you got a type?’ she asked. ‘What’s your type?’

I started to shrug. ‘I really don’t think I do have a type,’ I replied, avoiding the obvious, because I couldn’t see that it would get me anywhere. ‘I’m incredibly unfussy.’

‘You must have a preference,’ she said. ‘In your head. An ideal.’

I shook my head. ‘Conscious?’ I offered. ‘But really, I’ll take whatever I can get.’

‘OK, well you’re probably a special case. Most other people—let’s call them “normal people”—they have a type. My type is tall, muscular white men, with thin noses and large, square chins. What I don’t like, however, are African men. And this is probably going to make me sound more racist than ever, but what I don’t like about them are their physical features. I like blue eyes and hair I can run my fingers through. I don’t like short, wiry black hair. You know? I like pale ginger blokes. And I know a lot of people don’t. Loads of people don’t fancy gingers. Are they racist? I don’t think so. It’s personal preference.’ She paused, then added angrily, ‘For fuck’s sake.’

I laughed. She had worked herself up into quite a little froth. But I was also scheming, and dreaming. ‘I’m pale,’ I said. ‘And certainly gingerish.’

‘Yeah, but you’ve got a face like a bag of elbows,’ she said. ‘And you’re too fat.’

I smiled and retaliated quickly with ‘Fucking racist,’ but I was hurt.

I hid it. I think.

She laughed.

‘No, but seriously,’ I said. ‘This personal-preference thing. It’s tantamount to prejudice.’

‘Oh, God…’

‘OK, OK.’

We changed the subject. But I maintain that not fancying black people is racist. And maybe the reason it rankles so much is something to do with me, and my popularly perceived level of attractiveness. For if I can label Ange racist for not fancying black fellas, then surely I can label everyone else racist for not fancying me.

Indeed, if I believe that every woman who’s ever looked at me with even a hint of disgust is prejudiced—prejudiced against ugly people, prejudiced against fat people, prejudiced against me—then that makes me feel better about myself.