The Sex Was Great But... by Tyne O’Connell Page A

the six degrees of separation theory, the whole of Mexico would know all about my naked street guy by lunchtime!
    Ricky Martin would be telling Madonna over dinner, and she’d be telling her friends in London, and tomorrow Jack, the head of network, would ring up from his holiday villa in Tuscany and say, What’s this I hear about you having a street bum with an uncircumcised penis in your garden. Is this how you repay me?
    Jack has always left me feeling that my existence is an unpaid debt I still owe him for. The only two people I talkabout in therapy—apart from the men I date—are Jack and my mother. Both of them make me fret and leave me with feelings of deep inadequacy. My mother trumps Jack in only one way—she actually goes on talk shows to expound my inadequacies to the nation. Jack at least reads from the Hollywood script written for me by the network press department when he talks about me to others.
    When Leo came back out of the poolhouse wearing the trunks, he pulled a few he-man poses that made me giggle. He has a surprisingly good body, taut and molded in all the right places. But I tried not to think these sorts of thoughts. Leo was a man, but not in the available-for-fantasy sense of the word. He was a street person—well, a sofa-surfing beggar, albeit a good-hearted, reasonably attractive sofa-surfing beggar. This is what I reminded myself as he began mocking me by taking deep cleansing breaths.
    I suppose I asked for that one. I went indoors to change.
    I opted for my strappy Gucci sandals, a Chanel bikini bra and a sarong I’d bought in Bali. I told myself I was dressing for me, but I knew I looked sexy in this outfit. Even Ted, who is, let’s say, economical with his compliments, loves this outfit. “Pretentiously casual,” he used to call it, but it always gave him a hard-on.
    Grabbing a pitcher of iced ginseng that Conchita had prepared earlier, I went back outside to check on Leo. He was still under the less than powerful shower by the pool. I waved.
    â€œShite shower,” he yelled. “I thought the Americans invented the power shower?”
    I pressed my temples as his voice echoed all around the Hills. What had happened to British reserve?
    Joseph must have had his hearing aid in, because he came charging around from the side where he’d been hosing. Excited about the possibility that there was more comedy on the way.
    â€œIt’s all right Joseph. Leo’s just taking a shower.”
    Joseph shuffled around on the spot reluctant to miss the action. His hose gave me an idea and, taking it from him, I sent him round to the faucet to turn it on full.
    The pressure was incredible, so much so that I had to straddle the thing, and even then I was struggling to control it by the time Joseph came back. It took the two of us to maneuver it down the slope. “Watch out,” I called to Leo when we were in range. “Here comes the pressure you wanted!”
    Joseph and I took aim and fired, virtually knocking Leo off his feet with the force of our water cannon as we aimed the jet up and down his body. Every time he opened his mouth to say something water shot in and he’d start choking. I don’t suppose it was that comfortable, but Joseph was having the time of his life. I thought he was going to have an asthma attack as tears of hilarity streamed down his face—the guy was having a hell of a day.
    We were making so much noise we didn’t hear Nancy arrive, and when we did finally become aware of her presence she’d already set up her tripod and was busily attaching a camera.
    â€œI had to get this historic event on film,” she explained when I called out to her. “Aren’t I brilliant, darh-ling? I swung by the camera hire shop on the way here.” She was using her fake British accent.
    Leo was oblivious to anything apart from the need tokeep his eyes and mouth closed. His white body was pressed against the