Trophy 18 - A room of one's own

This is how I like my flat most: in the living room, I can hear the leather of my thrift shop sofa squeaking as Gary shifts his weight. The smoke of his rollie starts to make its way into the kitchen where I'm making us Yasmin tea. The smoke finds its way through my open bedroom door as well, so that when I go to sleep tonight, the fragrance will remind me of my best friend's presence. What the smoke doesn't reach are my statues and paintings, because the door to the second bedroom is locked. As far as Gary knows, it's a storage room.
When I carry the tea tray into the living room, I see that Santa has made himself comfortable right next to Gary, almost forcing him to finger the soft fur of his flank.
I smile and sit down on a cushion on the floor; Gary flicks ash from his ciggie on a saucer next to the sofa; Santa makes the tremendous effort of lifting one big ear.
“Been up to much lately?” I ask.
Still stroking the rabbit, Gary gives me a serious nod. “Believe it or not, mate, I've been thinking about your little predicament.”
“My what?”
“You know, your problem with the ladies. But not to worry, I've got just the girl for you. The name is Angel.”
“Gee, thanks, but you don't have to set me up with a date.”
“Don't tell me you want to save yourself for Mrs. Right,” he says. “There is no such thing as the right woman. Only women who are good enough. Plural.”
“That's lovely, but I think I'll pass on this one.”
“Seriously, Angel's perfect: blonde, big tits, tiny waist, firm grip, more flexible than a snake charmer's snake...”
“I assume you've been there? Why do you need to set her up with someone else? Is she getting too clingy?”
“Not Angie, man. This girl is a professional.”
“Professional what?”
Gary leans forward to kill his cigarette butt, making Santa sit upright. “A professional whatever you want her to be. You ask her on a date, she gives you a quote.” Smoke escapes from his lips as he speaks. You pay upfront, tell her your problem over dinner, she gives you another quote and does the job for you there and then if that's what you want.”
I'm awestruck. Is my best friend really telling me to lose my virginity to a prostitute? But all I can ask is: “Is this legal?”
“I doubt she pays income tax, but to be honest, I would find it a huge turn-off if I knew the tax man would get 40% of what I gave her, don't you think?”
“A rather harsh pimp-charge indeed.”
It's too much for Santa when Gary tries to retrieve something from his pocket. Dissatisfied, he stamps his foot and jumps off the sofa.
When Gary has found the scrap of paper he was digging for, he puts it face down on my table. “Best get it over with as soon as possible,” he says, “no man should have to wait twenty-three years. Especially not a good-looking lad like yourself.”

Trophy 13 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

“As if you were that much older!”

“At least I was old enough to know what a condom is.”

We're drifting off and I don't like where the current of this conversation is taking us. He's meant to find out who I am, but instead I'm wrapping myself in lies like rice in seaweed. Gary pops his sushi – wasabi and all – in his mouth while I close my eyes, preparing myself to break the tide.

“No man,” I say, “you're right. I'm more of a virgin than Holy Mary was when she gave birth to baby Jesus. My word.”

When I open my eyes again, Gary's eyes and mouth are wide open in disbelief.

“Oh come on,” I say, “don't be like that.”

But he's having none of it; he drops his chopsticks in the saucer of soy sauce and starts banging on his own chest in a rather apesque manner. He even rips open the collar and top buttons of his chequered shirt, baring a bit of chest hair. He's demonstrating his virility as if my virginity is contagious, to make sure no one mistakes us for two virgins.

“You like wasabi, sir?” The waiter is smiling like a frog while putting a glass of water in front of Gary. “You like wasabi very much?”

Trophy 11 - Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you'll never see him again.

“The words of a man who hasn't had a girlfriend for... how long?”

I overdo it on the wasabi to hide that my cheeks are turning a bright shade of lobster. “Oh, I don't know.”

Gary stares at me with big blank eyes that remind me off... well, you get the gist. This is the moment that he'll learn more about me than he has done over the past fourteen years. We've been inseparable like fish and chips since we were twelve, up to the point that teachers wouldn't know for sure which one of us was Terry and which was Gary. He used to do most of the talking, though. I'm an expert when it comes to his flings. I know everything about them, from the way they shave their seaweed to the crazy things they moan during intercourse. Sometimes I think I know more about his love life than he does. In fact, he seems to have the memory of a gold fish when it comes to women. One time, when we were in Fabric and there was this girl – off her face on fuck knows what – that kept following him around, until he told me “I think she fancies me, whaddaya think?” and I had to remind him he'd been there already – she was the one that put her fingers up his bum when she was about to come. "Are you sure?" he asked. "Sounds rank. Did I like it?"

This is the moment that my best friend will finally dive into the deep, intimate details my life, instead of wading through superficialities of employment and housing.

“You're not a virgin, are you?”