It was 3.30 a.m. on a warmish May morning, and I was sitting in the reception of King’s College Hospital, waiting with bated breath to find out whether the medical staff had been able to dislodge a vibrating bullet from my best friend’s arsehole.
As someone who considered themselves to lead a fundamentally boring life, I could see the humour of my current situation: being woken up at midnight by a frantic call from my best friend Jean, who went on to tell me – in extreme detail – that he had somehow stuck a ‘bullet’ sex toy far enough up his arse that neither he nor his midnight companion could get it out.
‘Have you tried sharting it out?’ I suggested between my badly muffled guffaws as he hyperventilated down the phone.
‘Temz. Now ain’t the time for gags. I’m having a crisis here! Can you please, please meet me at A&E? I feel like I’m gonna blow up.’ I hear a firm beep as he hangs up on me.
Despite needing to be at work in under six hours, I slid on an old Nike tracksuit and power-walked my way down Denmark Hill to the A&E department. I had my keychain alarm and a heavy-ass empty candle jar (Jo Malone’s Pomegranate Noir, of course; I’m fancy) to hand in case some randomer felt like causing trouble while I walked alone.
I texted Jean to let him know that I’d arrived and took a vacant seat in an empty corner of the waiting area. As I was scrolling through one of my Instagram accounts, swiping through all the spam messages and bot follows that seemed to have overtaken the platform of late, one of the profiles that had recently followed my page caught my eye. Something told me to click on their photo to see their full Instagram page:
@RubesCubes 445 Posts 13.8k Followers 902 Following
Ruben Alexander he/him Follows You
Freelancer in Tech // I like to sing sometimes // Add me on Twitch – @RubesCubes5
Music:
[email protected]
For Tech Consultation Inquiries:
[email protected]
As I scanned his page, I realised that I was gazing at one of the most beautiful men I had ever had the fortune of laying my eyes upon. He had this gorgeous mahogany skin that almost looked as if it were glowing; probably owing to him adorning himself with the finest of cocoa butter straight from the coast of Ghana itself. He had a perfectly spherical, shiny head and cheekbones so sharp one could probably cut glass with them. His eyes were small, yet bright and inquisitive, and framing his symmetrical lips was a finely trimmed, full beard.
‘Oh, honey, I am FOLLOWING you, OK?’ I breathed to myself as I hit the follow button and proceeded to look through this stranger’s account for the next hour; I needed the entertainment. Given the circumstances and given my shit track record with men at the moment, I needed all the eye candy I could get right now.
Three and a half hours, three KitKat bars and two diabolical coffees later, Jean appeared from the triage ward, looking pained and embarrassed, but with a slight coy air about him.
‘Not gonna lie, that was probably the most action I’ve had in two months, Temz,’ he said, giggling, as we hugged and made our way outside the hospital. He had a slight limp, and would groan anytime he stood up straight. It took every fibre in my being not to get my camera out and record a video of him to post on Instagram.
‘Jean, how on Earth? Who on earth … Just … why?’
‘Girl, it’s not like I haven’t done this before – d’you remember when we all went to Heaven and I kinda disappeared for about fifteen minutes?’ I nodded. We had been at the nightclub celebrating Jean’s new work assignment, which would have him travelling across Europe on location for a photography project. ‘Well, there was this rando who was selling these little sex-toy bullet things by the bar and I bought one, and so Mike and I decided to test it out in the toilets – and, honestly, sis, it was amazing.’
I shook my head as he continued, ‘Anyway I thought we’d try it out again tonight, and well, chile … I guess it was a case of misjudging the distance once it went in, cause I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have been feeling a vibration around my lungs.’ Jean screamed out in laughter as he booked his Uber. ‘Thank you so much for coming, though, babygirl. You truly are a gentleman and a scholar, and I appreciate and loves ya.’ He mockingly tipped an imaginary hat as I curtsied and playfully offered him my hand to kiss. Jean then glanced down to the empty candle jar in my hand.
‘Erm. Sis? What’s this for? I know you’re all “Woowoo” and everything, but I don’t think smoking the bullet out woulda worked, to be honest.’
‘First of all, you’re very welcome, sir, but next time, I’d appreciate you doing this at a more reasonable hour when I can actually get a few minutes’ nap in beforehand. And secondly,’ I retorted, tossing the candle jar between my two hands, ‘I’m a single Black woman walking through Camberwell in the early hours of the morning; your girl’s gotta stay strapped at all times.’
Jean tried to stifle a laugh before flinching in pain slightly. Hopefully the meds would kick in soon. ‘Only Artemis Owusu would think about attacking someone in the middle of the night with a Jo Malone candle. Not even an Aldi or TK Maxx one you know. Bougie bitch.’
Typical Jean to get into a situation like this. I love the guy and he’s a fucking fabulous mate, but I do sometimes feel more like his caretaker than an actual best friend.
Jean (pronounced ‘jawn’ like the ‘gen’ bit in ‘genre’, as he likes to remind everyone) is the first of my two best friends in the whole world, and the way that we met is a tale I always delight in retelling.
Five years ago, I was on a disastrous first date at the Telephone Exchange bar in London Bridge, trying to figure out how to get out of it. I had met the guy on Tinder, and as he approached the bar and caught a glimpse of me – all five feet six inches and eighteen stone of me – I saw the light slowly leave his eyes. He approached with a strained smile.
Throughout the date, I could tell he was uncomfortable with my appearance and wanted nothing more than to leave. I ordered a pasta puttanesca with a side of garlic bread and the side-eye he gave my plates could have cut glass, or coke, which I presumed he was also high on at the time. Whenever I shifted my dress in my seat, he scoffed and shook his head. He then proceeded to wax lyrical about the online workout classes he took each morning, asking me if I’d be ‘keen to get the YouTube link too?’ I would rather suck a denim vest through a straw while having my taint waxed then wake up at the crack of dawn and emulate fitness influencers with Brazilian Butt Lifts completing bleep tests.
‘Nah. I’m OK, thanks, mate. I already have a gym membership, can’t you tell?’ I flexed my arms in jest. He stared blankly at me, not getting the joke. Yep, an absolute write-off.
If I weren’t so used to guys acting this way on dates, I would almost be offended. I started dissociating and turning my eye towards the other patrons in the bar after the Tinder Date Guy asked me whether I would ‘be eating all of that’ for the third time. After ten minutes, someone had caught my eye. A tall, slender-looking man, sitting alone in one of the booths across from us. He had deliciously supple, smooth, caramel skin peppered with light freckles, a jawline that could cut glass, bouncing black curls that framed his handsome face perfectly, a wickedly devilish smile and the biggest most beautifully shaped cloudy-grey eyes I’d ever seen. He was, for all intents and purposes, absolutely stunning; like a porcelain doll of sorts.
What’s more, I noticed that he was noticing me too, looking up every few minutes to smile at me with a cheeky glint in his eye. This carried on for the next half an hour until my date had to go to the bathroom. He never came back. Crushed and slightly drunk with absolutely nothing left to lose, I decided to sexily saunter across to this mysterious stranger and try my luck.
‘I noticed you noticing me,’ I slurred, ‘and I just wanted to put you on notice that I noticed you back.’ He laughed a hearty, deep guffaw that sent tingles of pleasure through each of my orifices before proceeding to tell me that he was, in actual fact, trying to make eyes at my date. I let him know that he had actually left already.
‘You’re very cute too, though, sis, and fuck him for leaving like that halfway through. He didn’t deserve ya. I’m Jean, by the way, pronounced “jawn”, as in “genre”,’ he drawled, as he held out his hand for me to shake.
‘I’m Artemis, but everyone calls me Temz for short,’ I mumbled sloppily.
‘Artemis? Well, OK, I see you, Goddess! Love to see it and lovely to meet you. Now, let’s get a few more rounds in.’
I always used to feel a tinge of embarrassment when stating my name for the first time, because for some reason, people never expect someone who looks like me to be called something like that. A whole dictionary of perfectly reasonable names and my parents had to go and name me Artemis of all things. It’s not that I don’t like my name, it is beautiful, and being named after a Greek goddess was always going to be pretty cool; it’s just one of those names that gives off intense ‘Main Character Energy’, I suppose. I guess that’s what you get when you have two parents with a love of Greek mythology and fine art: bougie for no reason.
Jean and I had a few drinks that night accompanied by incoherent tales about our lives, and when it was time to go, I lazily booked an Uber back to my place and we ended up sleeping together. We remained sex buddies for about five months or so, and in all that time I had only really seen him as a good friend, so it was a pretty cool arrangement for me. We ceased the sexual part of our friendship when we both started dating other people, but we’ve remained the best of friends ever since.
A mere two-and-a-half hours after my A&E excursion, I clambered groggily out of bed and started getting ready for work, with the sweet melodies of Sam Cooke blasting in the background serving as my early morning soundtrack. I started off each morning doing the same thing: I stared at myself in the mirror for a few minutes; traced my bumps and curves with my hands, and my thighs that displayed a myriad of small, moon-like craters of cellulite I had tried so desperately to get rid of as a teenager.
My eyes casually flickered over the other markings on my thighs, secretly self-inflicted during my lowest moments but which I eventually came to accept and love. My small ‘Gye Nyame’ Adinkra tattoo, signifying my Ghanaian heritage, stretched over my expanding ribcage, now resembling more of a Rorschach blob than an ancient African symbol.
I opened up my journal and wrote a list of the awesome things I liked about myself today:
I put my journal away and hopped into the shower, thinking about this morning’s chaos with Jean, as well as wondering what fuckery I was going to have to put up with at work today. I daydreamed of a Pret A Manger cappuccino to relieve the gross fatigue and exhaustion I felt as I hurriedly got ready for work.
‘Artemis, babes? Just a quick one. Can I pull you over to remind you about all the shower stuff?’ my flatmate Natalie called from her room, and the hairs on the back of my neck instantly rose up as I went into flight-or-flight mode.
‘Nat, I’m gonna miss my train – is this something we can chat about when I get home?’
Upon hearing me reply, Natalie peeked her head of voluminous blonde curls around her bedroom door and glanced at me in a manner that let me know that she was approaching her final Karen form. I don’t bloody have time for this …
Natalie is one of a small group of people who refuses to call me by my shortened name, despite me insisting at every instance. She’s been my flatmate for two years and she is – all hyperbole intended – an absolute nightmare, with a puffed-up superiority complex that can only come from a person who has grown up with immense wealth and privilege. But the rent is cheap and I still get to live in Zone 2. Swings and roundabouts, I s’pose.
I check my phone to glance at the time – seven minutes until my train.
‘I just wanted to remind you of the time limits for taking a shower in the morning, Artemis. I know you’re … you’re a bit bigger than me and everything—’ she shuffles as she looks down at the floor; I smile ‘—but I thought we agreed that we would keep it to under seven minutes for each shower? You were in there for at least twelve minutes, is all.’
I stared at her, considering my response. Do I keep it cute and tell her it wouldn’t happen again? Or should I dress my answer up with a little bit of shade? Decisions …
‘I’m sorry, Nat, I know you’re not used to washing your body with a sponge, and that’s probably why it takes you such a short time. But normally, in order to ensure the cleanliness of skin generally, a degree of exfoliation is needed, and this can sometimes take a little more than seven minutes to do. We’ll chat later though, babe!’
I smiled sweetly and slammed the door on my way out, taking delight in seeing Natalie’s incredulous expression as I power-walked through the park and into the station.
I cherished my daily train rides to work as it meant time to carry out the admin for the little side hustle I’ve had for a few months now – my lovingly and thoughtfully named Instagram: Say Aloe To My Little Friend (™ coming soon), where I write about all things houseplant-related.
I’ve already racked up around five thousand online followers over the last eighteen months, half of whom frequently send me a barrage of random houseplant-related questions which – me being ever the professional (by way of owning thirty-four houseplants and being lucky enough to live in a flat with south-facing windows) – I am able to answer with finesse and ease. It’s my dream to one day be to houseplants what Nigella is to home-cooking.
I opened up the Instagram account and checked through today’s selection of DMs:
@KatieB2016: Babes! I hope you’re well. My Devils Ivy isn’t growing and I need to know what I’m doing wrong xx
I respond:
SayAloeToMyLittleFriend: Hey my love, thanks for getting in touch! Trim the plant underneath the little nodes; it’ll force the plant to grow longer over time – lemme know how it goes! Xxx
@BusyBumblebeexo: Hey Aloe, can you recommend the best soil to plant a cactus in? There’s a weird smell coming from mine atm
SayAloeToMyLittleFriend: Hey! Any combination of normal potting soil, bark and gravel will work well for cactuses and succulents. Make sure you add loads of stones so the soil drains freely
Ugh. I was such a natural. Perhaps horticulture could be my true calling.
@aeo8110: Click HERE for the chance to win an iPhone 14 Pro!!
I carried on scrolling through the various comments on my latest Instagram post featuring my collection of favourite succulents when I came across a comment that caught my eye.
RubesCubes: Damn, ma … that’s hella plants you got there. Impressive.
My encyclopaedic knowledge of US TV dramas and sitcoms kicks in, instantly letting me know that the owner of this comment may be from the West Coast of the US – more specifically, California. Even more specifically, the Bay Area. I briefly looked at the username and caught my breath: it was only Mr ‘Fine-as-Fuck’ RubesCubes himself, who had followed my account earlier. I smiled to myself as I quickly swiped back onto his full profile to remind myself of how just how fine he was:
@RubesCubes 445 Posts 13.8k Followers 902 Following
Ruben Alexander he/him Follows You
Freelancer in Tech // I like to sing sometimes // Add me on Twitch – @RubesCubes5
Music:
[email protected]
For Tech Consultation Inquiries:
[email protected]
‘Whew.’ I breathed quietly to myself as I swiped through some of his most recent photos. I quickly flitted back to his comment on my photo, liked it, and replied:
SayAloeToMyLittleFriend: Ahh thank you, yeah I’m pretty awesome with plants tbh
I scrolled through his grid posts, briefly dipping into a daydream where I imagined what our prospective kids would look like and which private schools they’d be attending, and liked a few of his photos before putting my phone down, trying to not obsess over whether the Adonis that was RubesCubes would comment back.
Unable to resist, I switched my Instagram account over to my personal account and found Ruben’s again and with the aim of viewing his Instagram Stories of the last twenty-four hours. It seemed safer to do it on my own account as I didn’t want to give him the impression that this random plant page was stalking him and being all weird. I’d have all the time in the world to stalk him privately, though. Then I had a sudden thought – before looking through his Stories, I quickly changed my profile picture to something more alluring. Fat chance he’d even click onto my profile to have a look at who’s been viewing his videos, but on the off chance that he did, I wanted him to be greeted with a photo of me looking like an absolute snack, even if the rest of my profile was currently on private. I quickly sped through Ruben’s IG Stories, all four of them. Him posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. A photo of the biggest, slimiest cheeseburger I’ve ever seen with the caption ‘Beeftown’s cheeseburgers are the best, make sure y’all check them out!’ A portrait photo of him with a link to his SoundCloud account (which I made note to copy to my clipboard to peruse later) and then a final photo of him topless in bed with the caption ‘Goodnight y’all’.
I lingered on the last photo for a couple of seconds, admiring his chest. He was broad and bear-like; slightly chubby yet toned. He had the kind of body that would be capable of giving a person the greatest hugs of all time, and somewhere deep down in my stomach I felt a sudden twitch of pure, hot lust. I had become – in that moment – obsessed. The fact that he could also sing only added to the allure. I needed more.
Suddenly remembering that I hadn’t caught up with Jean since last night’s events, I sent him a quick text as the train slowly pulled into Victoria Station:
Me: Babes! Just sliding through and seeing if all is OK? Hit me up if you need anything xx
Jean instantly hits me back:
Jean: I’m good babes, will call you this eve! Speaking of ‘sliding through’, I’ve been shitting non-stop since they gave me that enema at the hospital last night xx
I laughed to myself as I made a mental note to ask Jean later if he would mind reviewing my private Instagram page from a man’s point of view, just in case I needed to tart up my profile with some thirst traps for when I eventually decided to follow Ruben on that account. Outside of dating apps, the majority of guys I’ve dated in the past have come from my DMs being slid into on Instagram, and I’m not about to ruin my current streak with this one: Atlantic Ocean be damned!
Sent at 8.42 a.m.:
Artemis,
I have just booked a meeting for us at 10:30 in boardroom 3 for a last-minute pitch rundown for Maranette Clothing this PM. Please make sure to update the slideshow deck with their relevant social media statistics as well as any prospective content creators and journalists we could potentially offer them. I have left more notes on your desk.
Cheers,
Stephen
I finished reading the email on my phone while simultaneously juggling a pain au chocolat and a large cappuccino in my other hand as I speed-walked down Great Portland Street to my office: an absolute unit of a building on the corner of Margaret Street that overlooked all the other digital marketing agencies on the street. Great. Another last-minute email with work fluff more suited to a PR assistant than the head of content.
*Note to self: speak to Stephen about me potentially getting an assistant.*
My boss Stephen was – for all intents and purposes – wonderful at his job as a marketing director, but also scatty and very last-minute dot com, often to the detriment of the rest of the team.
I made it to my desk with seconds to spare, trying to stabilise my breathing to make the two flights of stairs I’d just climbed sound less like I’d just completed a twenty-six-mile marathon.
My role as head of content meant coming up with creative strategies and marketing plans for clothing and luxury retail brands wanting to expand their visibility online, in print and on TV. As someone who would often internally scrutinise and amend tube station billboards and magazine ad concepts during my daily commute like the apparent jobsworth I am, I took to the role like a duck to water. Despite it becoming a little boring, I enjoyed my job for the most part. The money was great and most of the people were cool.
My meeting with Stephen was a little chaotic, to say the least. We’d been trying to pitch Maranette, a huge national clothing chain, for months, and after finally being able to get a meeting in, Stephen had taken an almost neurotic approach to ensure that this afternoon’s meeting went without a hitch. However, not only had I forgotten to include at least four key media contacts in my slideshow, I then accidentally knocked my coffee over the keyboard, immediately short-circuiting the laptop. This was shaping up to be an amazing day!
‘Artemis, what’s going on? Speak to me,’ said Stephen, propping himself up on the edge of the table looking like a concerned social worker as I mopped up the keyboard, apologising emphatically. I was exhausted after last night’s shenanigans, but I needed to get it the fuck together. I wasn’t going to tell him that, though.
‘I’m fine, honestly, Stephen. Again, I’m sorry about the laptop. I have a back-up of the presentation in my emails so it’s all good. I promise you, I’m ready.’ Today was my opportunity to show Stephen and the clients why I was so good at my job – today’s clumsiness excluded, of course.
‘OK, well, get yourself another coffee and I’ll ask IT about borrowing another laptop. I know you’re probably a bit nervous about today, but you’ve got this. The whole department believes in you! You’re gonna slay this thing.’
Thanks, Stephen. ‘Slay.’
I’ll try to!
I decided to take an early lunch down Great Portland Street in order to prepare myself for the Maranette pitch in the afternoon, grabbing Claudia – my work bestie – from her desk on the way out.
Claudia Aoki is my day-one buddy. A safe space. An ally during times of distress, anxiety and sporadic freakouts at work. We started at Season Eight Digital around the same time, and I remember our very first introduction to each other with much fondness, alongside a tinge of embarrassment. Halfway through my induction, I had suddenly found myself overcome with a nervous bout of what I can only describe as the ‘green apple splatters’ (also known as The Shits). I spent approximately eighteen minutes in a random seemingly empty bathroom on the eighth floor relieving myself while singing several show tunes from my favourite musical, Hamilton. As I reached the climax of the song, a voice from a couple of stalls down from me suddenly arose out of nowhere: ‘LAFAYETTE!’
It took another few minutes of digesting my shame before I came out of the stall and faced the person who would eventually end up becoming my best work friend.
‘Babes, we’ve all been there. I, too, like to find an inconspicuous bathroom where I can shit and recite Hamilton to my heart’s content. Hi, I’m Claudia, by the way.’
Thus began what would go on to be a beautiful friendship. We were also the only ethnic members of staff in our little department, making us bond even more as we spoke about workplace microaggressions and traded our traditional food recipe link over Slack, with me sending through some Ghanaian soup dishes while Claudia would link me to her favourite Japanese recipes. As well as being brilliant at her role as my number two in the office as content executive, Claudia’s also an incredible listener who always makes time for me and my Series of Unfortunate Dating Events sagas. As someone whose relationship with her fiancé began long before the boom of dating apps, I’ve always treasured Claudia’s perspective and advice when it comes to my online dating woes, even if she does view them from a place of mild interest.
I paid for my protein buddha bowl and latte and found us a seat at our favourite cafe on the corner of Great Portland Street and Mortimer Street.
‘How did your date go last week by the way, babe?’ Claudia asked, midway into devouring a ploughman’s sandwich.
‘Oh, him,’ I mumbled, suddenly remembering the random Tinder date that cancelled on me two days after matching. The story of my life. ‘The bastard ended up calling it off. To be honest, he referred to himself as a “Sapiosexual”, and that immediately triggered my fight-or-flight response, so it was probably for the best.’ That kind of talk always tends to give me the ick anyway. ‘You would think it would be easier to just call yourself a dickhead.’
Claudia gazed at me incredulously behind her sandwich, raising her eyebrow in a way that even Dwayne Johnson would be proud of. ‘Lord! Not “Sapiosexual”! That is, indeed, worthy of being considered a Capital Crime, Temz,’ she whispered in a low voice in a tone that reeked of sarcasm. ‘This is what you do, though, isn’t it, Temz? You have a tradition of always going for guys you have nothing in common with! I’m not sure what it is with you settling for dudes that aren’t on your level, but you need to snap out of it because you’re a fucking catch.’ And with that, Claudia took another bite of her sandwich and sipped her tea in a way that let me know she was subtly throwing shade.
She’s right. In a perfect world, I would be this super empowered, super confident woman who doesn’t take any shit from men, knows her worth and can march to the beat of her own drum, but in reality, I’m a somewhat-confident woman that dates random guys who either constantly mispronounce my name or date me because they think I’m easy. So yeah, I could kind of see Claudia’s point there.
‘All I’m saying is,’ continued Claudia, now staring me dead in the eyes, ‘you’re an absolute hot spice, OK? You could have your pick of any guy you wanted if you really wanted to. If you just … I don’t know, made an effort to actually look for someone nice. You always seem to think that it’s about your weight or something, but I don’t think it is at all – it’s your attitude, babe. You’re a – what is it you say all the time? Pong thang, so to speak!’
I grimaced at the last part of Claudia’s motivational speech. *Note to self: stop teaching Claudia slang.*
‘Um. I think you mean “Peng ting”, Clauds.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s it. Well, whatever “Peng” means, you’re it, OK? And you’re gonna smash the meeting this afternoon too!’
‘Thank you, my love,’ I replied, sighing. ‘And uh, we’ll work on your London lingo, OK?’
She was right. As I stared into the foamy folds of my pistachio latte contemplating my latest dating dilemma, I felt my phone buzz in my jeans pocket. I unlocked it to find that I had received a message on Instagram – and for some very strange reason, a small cluster of butterflies began to flutter in and around my diaphragm. Could it be that fine ass Mr Rube. . .
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