The world’s next beloved women’s fiction phenomenon — part 1
My name is Jenny Woods. Jenny Lauren Rachel Woods. Apparently my mum and dad toyed with calling me Alicia or Harriet, but thankfully they realised that it would have been far too exciting, and well beyond the two-syllable quotient of any normal, relatable woman’s name. I have a friend called Melody and I never understand what she’s going on about at all, so usually I just throw tomatoes at her.
I’m pretty bored of my life right now. I work in a non-descript job at a magazine. You might be wondering how I landed a job at a magazine, considering it’s such a competitive, tough environment to get into.
Anyway, I’m just a regular girl, nothing special. I recently broke up with my boyfriend, Nick Luke Chris Smith. He was really sweet, but then we broke up, because.
I’m totally done with men, I swear! That’s absolutely it, no more sex for me. I want to be a spinster forever and that’s that. My love life will be like Guantanamo Bay. I don’t really read the news much but I’m pretty sure that’s an accurate and charming comparison.
So! This is it, Jenny! You’re an independent woman now! No more men, forever! This will definitely never change! There will be no unexpected surprises about this! The rest of my story will only be about how much I hate men!
Because I hate men so much and will never date a man again, I’m currently heading to have a drink with my friends. I have two best friends, and they’re actually the best friends that any girl in the entire world could ever hope for.
The first is Amy, short for Amiable Fat Sidekick. She’s amazing, seriously the funniest girl you could ever meet. She once ate a pizza and it was so fucking funny. This one time she went on a date and the guy was so annoying!!! Only Amy can make me laugh like that. We probably held back each other’s hair when we were sick one time.
My other best friend is Jazz Hands. He is a gay man.
I’m meeting Amy and Jazz Hands at a cocktail bar. We have the best ever evening routine — we sit around drinking £17 cocktails and talk about how our terrible jobs mean we’re too deprived to buy this month’s Prada clothes and have to save up for last month’s instead.
“BABY GIRL!!!” exclaims Jazz Hands when I walk in. He kisses me on the cheeks and does a tap dance.
Amy gives me a hug. “Oh my God, Jenny, I accidentally had sex with my pastor again!”
We laugh for twenty minutes.
“DARLING!!!” summarises Jazz Hands.
“Well, Amy, you’re going to have to have extra sex with him on my behalf!” I announce. “I’m not having sex with anyone ever again. I think I might become one of those things, you know, that doesn’t have sex? Is it a Mormon? A Jihadi? I think I heard someone say “Jihadi” on the bus the other day. Anyway I’m definitely never having sex again.”
We cheer and toast, because we’re outlandishly drunk now. Amy keeps screaming and hitching her skirt up. Everyone finds it charming and we get a round of applause from the whole bar.
“GORGEOUS!!!” insists Jazz Hands.
And then my whole world slows down.
A man’s just entered the bar. He is a man. He has impossibly beautiful brown hair, unbelievably stunning blue eyes, and an incomprehensibly sexy red t-shirt which has “Death to the Bourgeoisie” written on it.
“Breathe, Emma, breathe,” I whisper to myself.
“Your name is Jenny,” Amy reminds me.
“Oh yeah. Breathe, Jenny, breathe,” I whisper to myself.
“HOT STUFF!!!” analyses Jazz Hands.
Oh. My. God.
He’s looking right at me.
Mr Sex-On-Legs, Sir Sex-A-Lot, the Notorious S. E. X., The Artist Formerly Known as Sex, is looking right at me.
Before I know it he’s holding my hand and looking deep, deep into my eyes.
“I loved the way you threw that candle at that waiter who spilt your drink,” he croons in an unfathomably good-looking voice. “It reminds me of the way I want to overthrow our bourgeois oppressors.”
I drool at him in response.
“Haha!” he grins. “You’re hilarious! Hilarious like the idea of ethical capitalism.”
EARTH. TO. EMMA!
(“It’s Jenny,” murmurs Amy.)
I’m supposed to be staying single! I can’t be doing this! I can’t be playing crazy hot sex lacrosse with De La Sex!
“DON’T GO THERE!!!” agrees Jazz Hands.
“I can’t!” I cry, and wrench my hand from A Tribe Called Sex. “I need to become a Jihadi!”
He nods. “I understand. Well,” he says with a wink. “I hope to see you again soon. I hope it just as I hope the ideals of Lenin will prevail in future generations.”
And in a flash, he was gone.
“O-M-G!!!” muses Jazz Hands.
And despite myself, I wonder whether I’ll ever see that Sex Hot Chili Pepper again.
