This oneshot has a funny background story. At the time it was written, one of my dearest readers, Neewa, sent me an interview with Richard Armitage who claimed that Love in an Elevator by Aerosmith would be his choice of drunk karaoke. So, this story was born 😉
There are many things Cosmo will tell you you need to achieve to ensure a stable, meaningful relationship with a bloke – especially if he’s significantly older, disgustingly talented, and scarily rich, a genius of neurosurgery, looks so fit that most women would give ten years of their life to shag him right there, right now – and you are… well, you are you.
But one thing Cosmo will tell you for sure: Befriend the mates.
You don’t read Cosmo, except skimming through it in a queue in a grocery shop. And once you did a quiz with Thea, but you were very drunk. Meaning you had a glass of wine, but for you it’s like drinking a pool of vodka martini. According to the results of the quiz, you turned out frigid and really in need to work on your bedroom skills. Thea laughed for half an hour. She does know something about your bedroom mastery. She once walked on you and John in your room, you thought she was away for all weekend; she smiled and turned away, way too slow to your taste; and left the bedroom. You can swear you heard her applauding from another room.
But back to the mates. The best buddy of your future husband – and yes, you did agree to marry him, you are that bloody stupid – is Graham Dwalinson, the King of Gynecology of this hemisphere, the man so scarily looking that fannies heal themselves like Wolverine just so that they don’t have to be examined by him. He’s massive; his head is shaven; there are scary shit tattoos on his arms and shoulders; he looks like a fierce viking and a biker at the same time – and you two are the best of mates.
He calls you ‘Petroica,’ which you consider the most hilarious thing in the word. It is the Latin name of the flame robin, and he would rather die than confess, but he is a fanatic bird watcher. You often entertain yourself with a fantasy of Dr Dwalinson in full army camouflage sitting his arse in cold swamp water waiting for a Goldfinch.
You became friends when he was patching up your cervix, when it rebelled and decided to kill you – as it turned out you had had endometriosis for years and didn’t know about it. Since somebody, according to him, ‘finally pulled a stick out of John’s arse and smacked him to the head with it,’ you two bonded and have some brew from time to time in your favourite pub. Well, you have lemon water, but their clamfish is wicked.
You’re swirling on an office chair, waiting for the lab centrifuge to stop. He knocks at the door and comes in.
“Howdey, Dr Dwalinson!” You are in an especially cheery mood today.
“Hey, Petroica! I only have a jiffy, and I have a treat for you.”
You really hope it’s pastry. He pulls his mobile out of the pocket of his lab coat.
The video – and you quickly guess it is from the stag night from last week – is shaky; there’s a lot of loud yelling and laughter at the background; and then the most magnificent picture you have seen in your life is presented to your eyes.
Your future husband, Dr. John Crispin Thorington, the Sun and the Moon of the contemporary neurosurgery, in a disarrayed suit and askew tie, his mane loose on his shoulders, stumbles on the karaoke stage. He is so wobbly that you can see someone dashing to support him. The voice of his younger nephew Kilian can be heard at the background.
“Should we get him a stool?”
John proudly gestures, as he thinks, expressing nonchalance, but it looks more like he is trying to shoo away an annoying fly.
Someone pushes the microphone into his hand, and you bite into your bottom lip in anticipation. He has amazing voice, low, velvet, orgasmic, he might even possess the absolute pitch – but that is not one of those nights. To get that bladdered he needs to drink couple bottles of his favourite Jameson in a row, and judging by the flushed cheeks and uncoordinated movements, there are at least three coursing his blood.
You knew it was going to be spectacular but his first full lung capacity ‘Yu-u-u-h!’ almost throws you off your desk chair. Dwalinson is chuckling near you, and with wide open eyes you watch the proper, cantankerous, poised Dr Thorington giving his best impersonation of Steve Tyler, while the club joins in with ‘Wooo yeah!’ in the appropriate spots. He even pops the button on his fancy jacket and it flies open in the exact replica of Tyler baring his chest in the music video. The hair flip, the thrust of hips – you are only grateful he is not rogering the stage like Tyler! And hell yes, his throaty yelling ‘going down!’ and lifting his brow does funny things to your nether regions.
The two of you are roaring with laughter when the door opens, and your bestie and your appointed father-of-the-bride Lan saunters in the lab. He joins the uproar, he was there too, and then does the best impersonation of Steve Tyler’s walk from the end of that music video you have ever seen!
You can’t shake the song out of your head for days. John is livid, and every time you start humming he jumps on his feet and leaves the room.
By the end of the second day he switches his approach and starts pulling off your clothes to shut you up. He’s going down, and you hit the ground! Woo yeah!