Husband Replacement Therapy

by Lette, Kathy

  ‘What?! What about Alessandro? I thought he was your Italian stallion?’

  ‘I lied. Okay? Sandro hasn’t touched me for years. Don’t tell Amber. She’ll only gloat. The reason I comfort eat is because I’m suffering from chronic hetero hunger pangs. I want to put “men” back on the menu. Our last hormonal hurrah. I think it’s okay to be physically unfaithful, as long as I’m not emotionally unfaithful. What happens on board, stays on board, right? For you too. Harry’s infidelity has given you a “get out of the bedroom free” card, I’d say. Especially after Kev’s vile appearance.’

  Now, I thought. This was the right time to tell the truth about the misdiagnosis – except that I’d tied myself up in so many knots with all my lies, I’d need to hire a top escapologist to help me get the hell out of them.

  ‘Great. See you aboard HMAS Hedonism!’ I heard myself say instead of the truth. ‘Love you, Emmy.’

  ‘Ditto,’ she replied. Coming from rational, unsentimental Emerald, it was the equivalent of a Shakespearean love sonnet.

  As I hung up, my main worry now was that the cruise ship would sink under the weight of all my excess emotional baggage.

  7

  ‘Emotional roller-coaster’ is an overused expression, but I felt it was far too tame a description for the nail-biting, knuckle-gnawing, vomit-inducing big dipper ride my life had become. In the past week I had been diagnosed with cancer then miraculously cured, discovered that my beloved husband was a cheating bastard, thrown a party with all my friends and family to celebrate my fiftieth birthday, then promptly alienated them all and been exiled as a pariah to the persona non grata parish, been excised from my mother’s will and drunkenly booked a cruise for my two estranged sisters, who’d flat-out refused to come . . . but who were now, astonishingly, leaning up against the railing of an ocean liner, sipping cocktails with little umbrellas in them.

  ‘Where are we going again?’ Amber asked, slugging down her second piña colada as we slipped moorage at sunset and cruised past the pale, shimmering sails of the world’s most famous opera house.

  ‘We’re sailing out of the heads and turning left, then we’ll simply keep going until the ice cream melts,’ I explained, gesturing vaguely towards the Pacific. I’d been too plastered at the time of booking the tickets to take note of any exact geographical details.

  Emerald’s work schedule and Amber’s helicopter parenting meant we were the last passengers to board and had only just made it to the departure gangway with moments to spare. Emerald had been delayed by a bereaved pet owner who’d insisted on hiring a medium to connect with her dead dog from beyond the grave, and Amber had run overtime with her tutor studying ‘fronted adverbials’ and ‘gerunds’, and how to calculate the kinetic energy of a two-tonne car travelling at thirty kilometres an hour. Apparently tutoring for kids is so common, Amber had decided that the only way to guarantee better grades for her precious progeny was to get tutored herself as well, enabling her to offer even more effective homework help.

  I’d promised myself I’d level with my sisters about the cancer misdiagnosis the minute the boat set sail . . . but the moment was so perfect, with the tangerine sunset lighting up the sparkling harbour, which lapped like a contented cat on the sides of our ship, that I postponed my confession until after another round of cocktails. And then another.

  I vowed to make a clean breast of things as soon as we found our cabin and were changing for dinner . . . But that didn’t go to plan either. Amber and Emerald had always pooh-poohed cruising; Emerald feared a cabin so small even a sardine would feel cramped, prompting Amber to fret that she’d have to ‘go outside to change her mind’. So, when my sisters saw our spacious, three-bedroom suite, complete with expansive balcony, they had to tilt their heads backwards so that their eyeballs wouldn’t fall out in amazement. They leapt about as though doing a Californian aerobics class.

  ‘You should get drunk and surf the net more often!’ Emerald exclaimed, dive-bombing onto her capacious bed.

  ‘Yes, let’s just keep our little sis in an alcoholic stupor!’ Amber agreed, popping open the ‘welcome aboard’ champagne that had been in an ice bucket, awaiting our arrival.

  My sisters were agreeing. That was a first. How could I burst their bubble – their champagne bubble? My confession was on the tip of my tongue, but so was the Bollinger, which fizzed and frothed like the sea beneath our balcony.

  I then pledged to come clean at dinner, but both my sisters were being so uncharacteristically attentive and kind – ‘May I buy you another drink? I’m thinking champagne – vintage’; ‘You take the best seat, Rubes, the view should be all yours – especially of the cute buns of the boys in the band’, and so on – that I didn’t want to break the fragile spell.

  Sipping nightcaps on the top deck beneath a canopy of stars seemed the perfect moment to fess up, but I took another dose of pathetic pills and gave in to cowardice by convincing myself that it was best to just have one night of harmony before my guilty admission and the avalanche of fury that would follow.

  But the next day was so blissfully happy . . . and then the next . . . By the afternoon of day three, the truth still hadn’t found its way onto my lips – perhaps because my lips were far better employed working their way through the colourful cocktail list of ‘Slippery Nipples’, ‘Orgasms’, ‘Corpse’s Revenge’, ‘Sex on the Beach’ and big full glasses of a lethal beverage called, appropriately, ‘The Bull Shooter’.

  Besides, I had other things on my mind, notably the number of handsome young men on board. Ship life was like being afloat in a huge aquarium. Every imaginable species drifted by – tall women as pencil-thin as trumpet fish; big, bloated wrasse with lugubrious lips; contented, kimono-ed whales who seemed to eat as though they had seven rectums; little darting types in coordinated sporty clothing who tended to swim in schools – all filtering luxury through their gills like oxygen. The men aboard, on the other hand, seemed to be of one breed only: muscled, chiselled and bronzed.

  We Ryan girls were lying on our sun loungers, poolside, on the afternoon of our third day at sea, with me positioned between my two older siblings, the ham in the sisterly sandwich as usual. I was enjoying the view – that is, the passing pulchritudinous male parade – when a forty-ish man with cultivated perma-stubble bounded on deck and boomed a boisterous, American-accented ‘Hello, Laaadeeez,’ into his microphone. ‘I am Brent, and I’ll be your entertainment officer for the duration of the cruise!’

  It takes a lot of personality and a lot of chutzpah to be an entertainment officer, and let’s just say that this bloke was over-qualified. To disguise the fact that he was losing his hair, Brent had shaved his head, giving the overall impression of a billiard ball with a sneer. ‘I need three of you bewdiful ladies to volunteer for a very special assignment . . . judging the “Neptune, Sea King of the Cruise” competition! And, of course, I need some extremely sexy male competitors. The only rule, dudes, is that contestants must check out of the judges’ cabins by nine am tomorrow, okay?’

  The pool area was suddenly overpopulated with generously-buttocked mining heiresses in spiky heels, waving money to help influence the judge-selection process. Spray-tanned, bling-embellished, floral-bikini- or leopard-print-sarong-wearing and highly G-strung middle-aged women from all over the sundeck whooped and hollered as they gravitated poolwards, giggling.

  I instantly felt dowdy and underdressed in my old olive-green speedo with questionable elastic. I’d always loved how the colour set off my red hair, but I hadn’t noticed until now that the cossie had lost its elasticity – much like my marriage, which I also hadn’t noticed had faded and sagged. Clearly ‘costume drama’ isn’t a description of a BBC series with bustles and bonnets, but indecision over whether I was too old to buy a fashionable bikini from the onboard boutique. No other female afloat on HMAS Hedonism seemed to share my insecurities. I longed to be more like them, but right now my confidence level was so low I’d need a pressurised mini-sub to locate it.
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  By now, twenty or so eager young male contestants had stampeded to the makeshift stage. Clad in bathers tight enough to reveal their religions, the young blokes struck Adonis-type poses to fully display their biceps, triceps and undulating six-packs. The men’s abdomens were so sculpted I wondered if they’d simply swallowed loaves of bread without chewing, which were now lined up in those taut tummies. One Nordic Viking was rippling his stomach muscles with such rapidity it resembled a horde of hamsters hiding out under a flesh-tone doona.

  ‘Has either of you noticed the inordinate number of handsome young men aboard?’ Emerald inquired, peering over the top of her Ray-Bans. ‘Young, single men who seem footloose and fiancée-free? There’s not a beer belly or a food-stained footy shirt in sight.’

  ‘Well, yes, now you mention it,’ I agreed. ‘Including the entertainment officer, who clearly believes in life, liberty and the happiness of pursuit.’ I pointed at Mr Charisma, who was flashing his blinding-white teeth as he sauntered through a crowd of female passengers, casually patting posteriors and planting kisses.

  ‘Well,’ the waiter chimed in as he placed our next round of technicolour cocktails on the side table. ‘It is kinda to be expected on a cougar cruise, right?’

  The sight of the three Ryan sisters simultaneously spitting out their Slippery Nipples must have been accidentally captured in the background of at least ten iPhone videos, and would surely be the cause of much puzzlement when replayed by other passengers anon.

  Amber was the first to regain her composure. ‘I’m sorry – a what?’ Shielding her eyes, she squinted upwards to survey the Herculean hulk clad in black shorts and a tight white tee who had made this revelation.

  ‘A cougar cruise.’ The waiter flexed his muscles, then stood in an inverted-V position, legs apart, his formidable groin at eye level.

  Emerald gave a swoon worthy of an Elvis concert circa 1956. ‘So, what does that mean exactly?’ she asked, in her most velvety voice.

  ‘Youse older chicks pay, and cubs sail free.’ He winked. ‘Didn’t ya know?’

  ‘“Cubs”? No, I certainly did not know. Did you?’ Amber asked me, her voice prissy with disapproval.

  I shook my head so vigorously that my sunhat fell off. ‘Jesus, no! I was so drunk when I booked. I just paid for the first available cruise out of Sydney. Hey, at least it’s not a swingers cruise, or a nudist cruise or, god help us, a Republican Mormon float-fest.’

  ‘Bloody hell. How excellent!’ Emerald exclaimed. ‘And are these young “cubs” required to provide flirtation and frottage?’ she asked, tucking a ten-dollar tip down the front of the waiter’s black shorts. I gazed, agog, at his, um, effrontery. His penis seemed to be in a separate time zone from his body. The male waitstaff had clearly been hired from Rent-a-Bulge. Unless they were wearing padded underpants – a kind of Wonder-pant for men.

  ‘Well, it ain’t compulsory.’ The well-endowed waiter smiled. ‘But you know what we blokes say – every hole is a goal!’

  ‘How romantic.’ Amber glared disgustedly at the waiter before covering her retro, designer polka-dot two-piece in a thick white towel and strangling her lovely long blonde hair up into a tight bun.

  ‘The only thing my sister wants in bed is breakfast,’ I explained to the waiter, with an apologetic smile.

  ‘Breakfast I don’t have to cook for myself for once. But what I definitely don’t want is another man wanting something from me.’ Amber shuddered.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Emerald purred, peering lasciviously at the poolside meat market. Even though she was strapped into the kind of sturdy orthopaedic bathing suit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on someone swimming the Channel in the 1920s, she coquettishly lowered one thick strap. ‘I knew cruises offered an all-you-can-eat smorgasbord, but I wasn’t expecting a boy buffet.’ She turned her head to watch the waiter’s peachy posterior retreat.

  ‘Emerald, you’re a vet. Surely you see enough animals on a daily basis,’ Amber chided. ‘I mean, he’s not exactly a conversationalist.’

  ‘Yes, but he does have other charms, like a ten-inch cock. Sure, we could sit around discussing the benefits and drawbacks of the adaptive unconscious, applying economic theory to sociological problems, and the difference between instinct and measured thought . . . or we could just go get laid. Hard call,’ she said facetiously.

  ‘Did you not hear him? “Cubs” cruise for free. That’s practically prostitution,’ Amber declared from within her terry-towelling cocoon. ‘Plus, it’s so insulting. We’re in our prime! Those boys should be paying us!’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, possum. Just look at poor Ruby, traded in by Harry for a younger model. Boys will be boys . . . and so will a lot of middle-aged hubbies who should know better.’

  ‘Emerald’s right,’ I concluded with dull resignation. ‘Only two things improve with age: red wine and George Clooney.’

  The entertainment officer’s Californian drawl rang out once more over the deck. ‘There are three categories, dudes. Dance moves, underwear modelling and a talent round. Let’s get started, ladeeezzz!’

  ‘The loudest insect on the planet is a two-millimetre-long species of water boatman that uses its penis as a violin bow. Now that’s talent,’ Emerald mused. ‘Not to forget the swallowtail butterfly, which has eyes on its penis to help to position itself correctly during mating. And Indian stick insects, which stick together to have nonstop sex for seventy-nine days.’

  Her zoological observations were drowned out by the opening chords of ‘It’s Raining Men’, which burst forth from the speakers. Twenty young male contestants immediately began busting out their moves, grinding and gyrating, wiggling and waggling, much to the tipsy delight of the mumsy throng.

  Emerald immediately forgot all about stick insects, water boatmen and butterflies. ‘Woman overboard!’ she adjudicated as the song climaxed. ‘And it’s every woman for herself. I think I definitely need some mouth-to-mouth-resuscitation . . . although, full stomach-to-stomach-resuscitation would be even more life-saving.’

  Entertainment officer Brent played the theme music from Jaws to allow time for the exuberant judges to put their hennaed and highlighted heads together in heated discussion.

  Emerald was quick to give her own verdict. ‘Did you see the size of number seven? That guy could pole vault to Vanuatu on his own appendage. I definitely want to get to know him better . . .’

  Amber jabbed Emerald in the thigh with a stiletto nail. ‘I’m sorry, but isn’t that a wedding ring I see on your finger? What about Alessandro? You’re always bragging about the prowess of your Italian stallion.’

  Emerald’s face closed like a clam. ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Amber.’ Then she looked daggers at me. ‘I told you not to tell her!’

  ‘I didn’t. My lips are big but sealed,’ I protested.

  ‘Tell me what?’ Amber asked.

  ‘Come on, Emmy. I think we’ve drunk too much from the bottle to put any genies back in it,’ I pleaded, raising my glass in her direction.

  Loosened up by two Slippery Nipples and an Orgasm, Emerald acquiesced. ‘Oh, Christ. Just don’t gloat, okay, Amber? I hate it when you exceed the daily recommended amount of smugness . . . My Italian stallion’s gelded.’

  ‘What?’ Amber canted a pencilled brow.

  ‘What’s said on the cruise stays on the cruise, understood?’ Emerald insisted in a piercing whisper. ‘I was relining a hamster cage with newspaper at work last week and glimpsed an article about marital sex. The headline read “Sex Ten Times a Year”, and I thought Gosh, that much?! I sneaked it back to my office to read it, and it went on to say that sex ten times a year means your love life is defunct. Hopeless. Dysfunctional.’

  Amber shed her improvised beach-towel burqa and pivoted to face her older sister, leaning across my prone body. Emerald mimicked the manoeuvre, swivelling sideways. I lay between my warring siblings in a kind of human no-man’s-land.

  ‘Seriously? When was the last time you had sex?�
� Amber probed, astounded.

  ‘On my birthday, if you must know . . . my birthday three years ago. It was like being ravaged by a tree sloth. The only frickin’ physical contact I get these days is checking my breasts for lumps. It’s got so bad I look forward to my bloody mammogram. There, are you happy now?’

  ‘Happy? I’m jealous,’ Amber groaned. Her mouth was a calligrapher’s thin line. ‘Look, as we’re being honest with each other . . . I lied about my marriage too. It’s hard, hard work. Most days I feel as though I’m stirring wet cement with my eyelashes.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Emerald slurred, reaching for my Slippery Nipple and downing the dregs.

  ‘You didn’t tell her?’ Amber asked me, scrutinising my face for signs of sincerity.

  ‘Of course not! I never tell either one of you what the other says. I keep all your secrets. It’s bloody exhausting! The real secret, as far as I’m concerned, is why the secret to a happy marriage is such a well-kept bloody secret,’ I quipped, but neither sister was listening to me, so intent were they on each other.

  ‘Remember when I got mugged at the ATM by the train station?’ Amber confessed. ‘And the thug threatened to break my legs? My first thought was Great! I won’t be able to have sex . . . Don’t gloat, okay?’

  ‘Gloat? I’m jealous. Mum always made us believe that the male libido was an untameable beast: that sex was all men wanted. Well, now sex is all I want. Why did I ever say no? I can’t believe all the cock I batted away in my youth. My husband told me that he loves me, but he just doesn’t find me attractive anymore. Do you know how that makes me feel?’ Emerald screwed up her eyes as if in pain. ‘Am I so repulsive?’

  ‘No!’ Amber and I said in unison.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ I added.

  ‘Thanks, but I still want to enrol in a rejection course, except I’m scared I’ll get rejected from that too. A bit of flirtation will do me good.’

  The entertainment officer interrupted my sisters’ disclosures to announce round two. ‘And now, ladeeezzz, the category you’ve all been waiting for: underwear modelling! Okay, dudes – Versace are looking for their next David Gandy and Channing Tatum. Are you ready to strut your sexy stuff? Then suck it in and push it out! Let’s go!’