Eat Me

by Linda Jaivin

  “I thought he sort of redeemed himself in Interview with the Vampire,” Helen commented.

  “I refused to see that film. I’d read the books, and no matter how much blond dye he put in his hair, Tom Cruise is not Lestat—and I don’t care what sort of sucky things Anne Rice said in the New York Times,” Philippa remarked testily. Then she smiled. “When they make the film of my book, of course, they can have Tom Cruise in it so long as they pay me enough. But I won’t ever say I’m happy about it.”

  “How is your book going, by the way?” Chantal couldn’t wait to read it.

  “Two chapters down. Heaps to go. But back to the Tom Cruise issue. This stupidity thing really is a problem with me. I’m not saying he really is stupid. He might be a rocket scientist for all I know. But he looks dumb. I have the same problem with Richard Gere and Keanu Reeves, actually. I wouldn’t sleep with either of them. Even if they begged. On their hands and knees. In tight black leather chaps with their bare asses sticking high in air. While licking my boots.” She popped a handful of peanuts into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Well, maybe if they licked her boots really, really hard.

  “Me neither,” Helen jumped in. “I think we all have to stare into the void at one time or another in our lives, but I’d rather not do it while looking into a man’s eyes. In my opinion, there’s no sexier attribute than intelligence.”

  “Oh, you intellectuals.” Chantal laughed, rolling her eyes and blowing a smoke ring into the air. “A man doesn’t need a Ph.D. to be a good lover. Besides, dumb men tend to have better muscles. You don’t develop excellent pecs reaching for library books. Anyway, you don’t really want him coming up for air long enough to be able to say more than a few words at a time anyway, and those don’t have to be in Sanskrit. ‘Me Tarzan’ is good enough for me.”

  “I remember quite distinctly when you had a thing for weedy poets, Chantal,” Philippa smirked.

  “Don’t remind me. That was a very long time ago. And I did learn my lesson.” Chantal took another puff on her cigarette. “God, old friends are a pain. Especially ones with good memories. If you don’t watch it, I’m going to trade you lot in for new ones with no knowledge of my previous life.”

  “Never mind. We’ll take the new friends aside and fill them in,” Julia promised cheerfully.

  Chantal took the remote control from Philippa and idly flicked through the channels, stopping briefly to flake out over the Mr. Muscle commercial for a household cleaner that masquerades as a young spunk. “Wouldn’t mind having him in my kitchen cabinet. I wouldn’t even make him do the chores. Well, not those chores anyway.”

  “You know, on this brain versus brawn thing, I’m with Chantal,” Julia commented. “What were the words to that old song by Shakespear’s Sister? You know, something about needing a ‘primitive lover,’ a ‘Stone Age romance’? That’s me all over. Except, on second thought, I also tend to go for young artistic types. Do you think there’s such a thing as an artsy caveman?”

  “I can see it now,” said Philippa. “Conan the Expressionist, fresh out of art school, thwacks Julia on the head with his easel and drags her by the hair into his studio.”

  “Mmmm,” Julia purred. “I’d like that.”

  “Why can’t a man have both muscles and brains?” Helen mused, pushing her glasses up on her nose. “Conan the Barbarian becomes Conan the Librarian. Still, Arnold Schwarzenegger’s not really my type. Although, I must admit, Terminator I was a very postmodern sort of film.”

  “Postmodern, shmost-modern,” replied Julia. “I’d just like to glide up and down all of Arnie’s luscious, shiny hillocks and buttocks.”

  Chantal switched channels again. Beverly Hills Cop III was playing on one of the commercial stations. “Stop!” cried Julia. “That’s my man! I would suck Eddie Murphy’s toes after his feet had been in basketball high-tops all day. That’s how much I love him.”

  “I don’t know about the toes,” rejoined Chantal, wrinkling her nose. “But I’d put my mouth anywhere else on that man. He’s scrumptious. Hot chocolate.”

  “Not for me, thanks,” said Helen. “I’m uncomfortable with the treatment of women in his films. I suppose Boomerang was sort of interesting, but overall, I think the image that comes across of women in his movies is negative.”

  “Helen, darling.” Chantal shook her head. “We’re not talking deep and meaningful relationships here. We’re talking sex. Keep your mind in the gutter. And pass the peanuts.”

  Chantal aimed the remote control at the TV. Some male journalist was fronting a documentary on the bar girls of Southeast Asia. Click. A public service announcement about safe sex. Click. Eddie Murphy again. Click. The leader of the Labor Party nattering on about budget deficits.

  “What are you stopping there for?” Julia asked in an anguished voice. “The economy is such a turn-off.”

  “He isn’t exactly Mr. Sex Appeal in the best of circumstances,” Philippa observed.

  “Hey,” cried Helen. “You don’t prefer the other mob, do you?”

  All four opened their mouths and, pointing fingers at tonsils, made little retching noises.

  “So,” Helen persisted. “If you had to take one . . .”

  “I’d take the prime minister,” said Chantal, her voice heavy with sacrifice, “close my eyes, and think of Australia.”

  Julia reached over and snatched the remote control from Chantal. The Bush Tucker Man appeared, promoting some product in an advertisement. “Now that’s what I call a fetish object,” she squealed.

  “The man or his funny bush hat?” Philippa asked.

  “Both. I really got off watching him range over the outback eating bizarre leaves and crunchy insects. I loved the way he’d never admit it when something didn’t taste very nice. His face would scrunch up into a kind of pained, heroic smile. Reminded me of the expression on some men’s faces when they’re giving you head.”

  They all laughed. They knew exactly which expression Julia was talking about.

  “Do you remember the episode where he consumed honey ants?” Helen sighed at the memory.

  “Absolutely. One of my favorites. I’ve always had this mad fantasy about making love to the Bush Tucker Man in some wild corner of Australia. He’d be wearing his hat and nothing else, and an echidna would be licking wild berry jam off our bodies. And, of course, there’d be an entire film crew standing by, just out of sight, to capture the action. But I think it’s time for you two”—she looked at Helen and Philippa—“to fess up. Who do you fancy, media-star-wise?”

  Philippa narrowed her eyes, tilted her head back, and smiled. “John Travolta. Uma Thurman. Flacco. Ernie Dingo. Linda Hunt. Dale from Twin Peaks dressed in his FBI jacket and nothing else. And that wonderful little fellow who played the out-of-work circus clown in Delicatessen. All at the same time. With a bowl of chocolate cake mix, a feather duster, a snap-on bow tie, some olive oil, and five silk scarves for props. Richard, the head of the writing workshop, would be there too, of course, watching.”

  “You’re really weird, Philippa,” said Chantal appreciatively. “I can’t figure out for the life of me what the fifth scarf is for. But I’m sure you’ve got your reasons for everything.”

  “How ’bout you, Helen? Tell all. Lay the object of your fantasy on the table, so to speak.”

  Helen took a long while in answering. Then, a trifle unconvincingly, she mumbled, “I was going to say Flacco or Ernie Dingo, but Philippa’s got them.”

  “We can share. I don’t mind.”

  “No, look,” Helen blurted out after another pause. “I’ll come clean.” She took a deep breath. “But I think I need a touch more wine first.”

  “Get the girl some more wine!” Chantal commanded. She recovered the remote control from Julia and switched off the TV. Philippa shuffled to her feet and filled everyone’s glasses. She sat down again on the floor but this time in front of the set, hugging her knees, facing Helen.

  “This is so hard to admit.” Helen smoothed
her skirt. The stain was still visible. “And I know it goes against everything I said earlier.” Taking a fortifying swig of her drink, Helen set her glass down on the coffee table and, in a tiny voice, declared the object of her affections: “Rambo.”

  “Really?” Julia was dumbfounded.

  “Rambo?!” Chantal laughed. “But darling, I thought you didn’t like musclemen!”

  “And,” Helen continued, “I know exactly what I’d do with him.”

  Encouraged by the expectant looks of her friends, Helen leaned back, closed her eyes, and began. “I’m walking along the beach in Manly. I think an encounter with someone who looks like Rambo has to occur in a place called Manly, don’t you think? Anyway, I’m looking out to sea, wriggling my toes in the cool, wet sand close to the water when this enormous wave comes crashing onto shore, depositing at my feet a very wet, very disoriented Rambo. I extend a hand to try to pull him up. He is very heavy, and I end up falling down on top of him instead.

  “I wriggle around a little bit to get comfortable. I’m feeling very comfortable. Our faces are about three inches apart, and we are gazing into each other’s eyes.

  “ ‘Uh, where am I?’ he asks.

  “ ‘Australia,’ I reply. ‘G’day, Bo.’

  “ ‘Australia? Is that in Europe? Isn’t that what used to be called Germany?’

  “ ‘No, Bo, it’s not. But don’t worry your little head about it.’ I slide off him slowly, careful to drag my sensitive bits over his. I give his nipples a tweak as I go. His big, round eyes grow rounder. ‘Now, just come with Helen,’ I say, slipping a pair of handcuffs around his wrist and attaching it to mine.

  “ ‘Uh, okay,’ he says.

  “We get up and stroll along the beach like that, various bits and pieces of his muscled body bumping into my side, as I deliver a detailed critique of the images of women and femininity in his films. I use lots of postmodern terminology that flies over his head. I’m getting very turned on. He fixes me with a bovine stare and says, ‘Gee, Helen, are all the women in Austria as intelligent and beautiful as you?’

  “ ‘It’s Australia, Bo,’ I reply, smiling and patting his cheek. ‘But don’t talk. And let me help you out of those wet things.’ I uncuff him now, and then slowly strip him, starting by taking away his machine gun and cartridge belt. I quickly slip out of my T-shirt and shorts and they join the jumble of clothing on the sand. ‘Give me a hand with the bra, will you?’ I ask.

  “He fumbles around but can’t get it. ‘Never mind,’ I say, and unhook it myself.

  “ ‘I thought women’s libbers didn’t wear bras,’ he says. He’s serious.

  “ ‘We’re called feminists these days, Bo,’ I say, slipping out of my panties. ‘Third-wave feminists, if you want to be very precise about it. Now just lie there on the sand for me, will you? No, no, no, on your back, thanks.’

  “ ‘Like this?’

  “ ‘That’s right.’

  “By this time, a small crowd has gathered. It’s the middle of the day, after all. They arrange themselves in a circle. Among the faces, I recognize a small clutch of nuns from a nearby convent; Murphy Brown; a couple of my colleagues from the uni; Harold Holt, wearing a Soviet swimming costume and looking rather waterlogged; Batman and Robin; and David Letterman. Letterman is standing with the nuns, all of whom are so tall they could eat peanuts off the top of his head. I beckon to Murphy, Letterman, and one of the tall nuns and ask them each to take a wrist or an ankle and help hold him down. Not that he’s putting up a struggle. I straddle his body and sit down on his face. ‘Kiss me on the lips, Bo,’ I command.”

  Julia, who’d been sipping her wine as Helen spoke this last line, choked and spluttered. Philippa leaned over and patted her on the back. “Sorry,” said Julia. “That came as a bit of a shock. But do go on.”

  “ ‘I’d like that, Helen,’ he says, and does.

  “Did you know the tongue is a muscle too? Anyway, about forty-five minutes later, I finally tire of this and move back a little to sit on his stomach. It’s as hard as a park bench. I look at him, panting a bit and considering my next move. He is licking his lips. So is David Letterman. One of the nuns has her hand up the skirt of another, who has her head thrown back and is saying her Hail Mary. Murphy is rubbing up against Harold Holt. Batman is rubbing up against Robin.

  “ ‘Show me your gun, Rambo baby,’ I say. He points to the machine gun on the sand a few feet away.

  “ ‘No, I mean the really big one.’ I turn around. ‘Oooh,’ I say, ‘I think I’ve found it.’ It’s very hard and erect, and pre-cum glistens on the tip. ‘What do you think, Bo, does it need cleaning?’

  “He is still licking his lips. He seems to find it difficult to speak.

  “ ‘If I put the barrel in my mouth, can you promise not to fire?’

  “He nods and closes his eyes. I play the pink oboe. Each time I look up, I am staring into the face of the nun who is holding down Bo’s ankle. Shifting my body slightly so that Bo-burger gets a good view, I alternate giving him head and tongue kissing the nun.”

  “I thought you were a lapsed Catholic, Helen.”

  “Shut up, Chantal. Let her continue.”

  “Rambo, meanwhile, has inserted a finger as big as any other man’s dick into my extremely moist cunt and is moving it around vigorously. He asks the onlookers where the clit-er-us (a word he pronounces very slowly but carefully) is, and a very nice elderly man shuffles over and stoops down to show him not only where it is, but what to do with it. With a shudder and a yelp, I come all over their hands.

  “ ‘Are you ready for engulfment, Bo?’ I gasp.

  “ ‘Engulfment?’ He’s sounding a bit overwhelmed. ‘Isn’t that war over already?’

  “ ‘We’re not talking war, Rambo-pambo,’ I say. ‘You know, engulfment. It’s what is referred to as penetration in masculist language.’

  “ ‘Uh, I guess so.’

  “I signal to the four helpers to move away and to the crowd to leave us a path to the ocean. Slowly, I lower myself down onto him. It feels like I’m being fisted.”

  “You’ve been fisted? You never told us that!”

  “Shut up, Chantal. Go on, Helen.” Philippa was rapt.

  “Locked together we hump to the rhythm of the waves, if waves had a rhythm that grew faster and faster, that is. Finally, we roll together toward the sea, and I come for the last time as a great wave breaks over our bodies. He comes too, and as he comes, he cries out, ‘I know! I know! Australia’s where they made Crocodile Dundee!’ I embrace him and pant, ‘Yes, Bo, yes. Oh yes!’

  “He is still smiling when an undertow catches him and pulls him off to sea. As he waves good-bye, one of the onlookers tosses his clothes, gun, and cartridge belt at him; and he catches them in his outstretched hand. Just as he disappears, he shouts, ‘Thank you, Helen. I’ll never forget this day. By the way, how do I get back to Hollywood?’

  “ ‘You’re headed in the right direction, Bo,’ I shout. ‘Just keep on swimming.’

  “The crowd applauds, and then disperses. I sit on the sand, at the edge of the water with my arms around my calves, licking the salt off my knees.”

  The room was so quiet you could have heard a condom wrapper drop.

  “Well, that’s it.” Helen shrugged. She looked around. No one moved or said a word. They looked as though they’d been snap-dried. Chantal was breathing a little unevenly.

  “I’ll never,” Julia said after a long silence, “be able to think of David Letterman the same way again.”

  Chapter Four –

  The Road to Gundagai

  Dearest Fiona,

  How’s life in Darwin? Is the work with Aboriginal women going well? Let me know if you crave anything from Sydney. I can’t send you the cafés of Victoria Street or fireworks over the Opera House, but anything else your heart desires that can fit in a postpak, just let me know.

  It’s been an age since I’ve written. Can you forgive me? I’ve been flat out, what with exams to ma
rk and preparing a paper called “Like Chocolate for Water: Food and the Femme Fatale in Contemporary Cinema” for a womyn’s studies conference in Canberra last week. I know I should probably tell you all about the conference, and the papers, and all that, but I can’t resist jumping straight to a little adventure I had on the road.

  It was funny because, just the night before, I’d been talking with Chantal, Julia, and Philippa about fantasies (they all send their best, by the way), and I’d admitted that, as ideologically suspect as it may sound, I rather fancy the odd macho muscleman. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Don’t you love driving long distances by yourself? I bet you do a lot of it up there. Of course, there are times you do crave company. Like when you see that sign that says “Injured Wildlife, phone XXXX” and you just want to turn to someone and quip, “If they’re injured, how are they going to get to the phone?” But I digress.

  I left Canberra to drive back on Thursday evening, getting on the road a bit later than I’d intended. I hadn’t been driving for very long when my engine started making these wretched clunking noises. Soon, steam was pouring out of the hood. Luckily, I was almost at Goulburn. I took the turnoff and kept going till I reached the Big Merino. You know the Big Merino—it’s that huge concrete sheep that squats on a souvenir shop, one of those places selling heaps of eye-glazing generic Australiana like Akubra hats and flyswatters in the shape of the map. The merino has little red eyes that light up at night. (The locals say that once it had testicles too, but that they were sawn off—an urban, sorry, rural myth?) There’s a restaurant and a service station just next door. I was praying that the service station, which is the biggest in the area, would still be open and a mechanic on duty. It wasn’t. I was beginning to panic. Thinking the car was about to blow up, I pulled into the parking lot there anyway.

  There was hardly anyone around. They were just shutting down the souvenir shop for the night when I got there, and the last of the staff were locking up, getting into their cars, and driving off. I opened the hood and stared in despair at my smoking engine. Do you remember when we vowed that we would learn about our cars so that we would never be intimidated by male mechanics again, and we could fix them ourselves? I don’t think we ever got much beyond changing the tires. Well, I could’ve kicked myself for not taking it all more seriously. I was trying not to panic. I was thinking, now that’s the fan belt, and those are the spark plugs, and that’s the carburetor—isn’t that pathetic? You’re probably wondering why I didn’t just call a tow truck. Well, there’s no logical reason at all. I just didn’t think of it. I didn’t get my Ph.D. in common sense, after all, I got it in film theory. As you know, they are completely unrelated fields. I’m sure it would probably have occurred to me to call them before much more time had passed. As you’ll see, fate intervened first.