Eat Me

by Linda Jaivin

  A huge rig pulled in to the parking lot and began to circle me. Slowly. My heart jumped into my throat. I was thinking Thelma and Louise. I was thinking trouble. The driver stared out the window of his cab at me. I glared back, trying to look fierce and potentially armed.

  “G’day,” he called out, in a friendly tone of voice. “Bit of strife with the vehicle?”

  I nodded cautiously, still suspicious. He asked if he could help and, before I had time to consider my answer, hopped out.

  It was a warm night. He was just wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He was probably in his fifties, and as he bent over the hood, I got a good look at him. I was still thinking along the lines of how I would describe him to the police. His face was suntanned and deeply etched with lines. He had well-defined, thick eyebrows and attractive blue eyes, from which fanned a bold network of smile lines. He had light brown hair sprinkled with gray. It was cut short and probably for just ten dollars in some country town, you know the look. He didn’t seem like a bad sort. I began to relax.

  He fetched his toolbox from his truck and set to work. Every so often, he’d look up at me and explain, in his deep rumbly voice and really broad Ocker accent, what he was doing. I wasn’t taking in a word of it.

  I was noticing how hard the muscles of his arm were, how they rippled and bulged as he fiddled with the engine. His hands were large and callused. Each fingernail was outlined in black with dirt and engine oil. He had a tattoo on his right arm of a bunch of red roses, and there was a blue-and-gold oriental dragon on the left. The hair on his arms was thick and blond, his skin browned and freckled from the sun. The back of his neck had the look of tan leather. He was solid around the waist, which only increased his very manly attractiveness. His legs appeared strong and powerful through his jeans.

  There I was, Ph.D.; lecturer in women’s studies; big, noisy critic of even most educated males as having questionable, not wholly reconstructed attitudes toward gender politics; sort-of wannabe lesbian (we’ve discussed this, haven’t we? how you never quite feel accepted within the hard core of feminist circles if you’re not a lesbian?) who in all my thirty-three years has never even slept with a guy who had less than a master’s, and there I was being rescued like a classic damsel in distress by this big brawny bear of a man—and absolutely wetting my pants over him at the same time.

  “Thanks so much for this,” I finally managed to croak. My voice had inexplicably gone all husky.

  He grinned. “No worries.”

  “See this?” He pointed to something or other near the, you know, big bumpy thing in the middle where the spark plugs go. “That was where your problem was. She’ll be right now.”

  “Mmmm,” I replied, vagueing out. Leaning closer to him, I breathed in his pungent male odor, all sweat and motor oil. My heart was beating. Without really thinking about it, I shifted my position slightly, so that our arms touched, and it was, literally, like a jolt of electricity. A great big shiver ran down my back.

  “Cold?” he asked, the hint of a smile playing around his lips.

  Then, can you believe it—I still can hardly credit it myself—I replied, in my new, Mae West voice, “No. I’m hot, actually.” Insinuating my body against his, I pressed my lips against the crinkly brown sausage of his neck. Honestly, Fiona, I’ve never ever done anything like this before in my life. I’ve hardly even had any one-night stands!

  And you know I’ve had my eye on this very nice, sensitive, and intelligent fellow in the Asian studies department, Sam, for months now. I think he might be interested in me too, but the political correctness vibe on campus makes it very hard for anyone to make a move. It’s not like either of us really fears the other would jump up and scream “sexual harassment” or anything, I mean, I’m not his boss and he’s not mine, we’re just colleagues, and not even in the same department; but the mood on campus surrounding all this sort of thing has left everyone a bit edgy. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to flirt. Well, I thought I’d forgotten how to flirt.

  “Struth,” chuckled my truckie. “You are hot, aren’t you?” He put down his tools. He leaned over and kissed me, not at all tentatively or gently like those M.A.s and Ph.D.s have always tended to do, but with a kind of rough urgency that, well, if I’m admitting everything else I can admit this too, I really liked. He grabbed my breast and squeezed my nipple hard, through my shirt. Cars whizzed past on the road. We were shielded by the hood of my car, which was still propped up. But when someone drove into the parking lot to turn around, we found ourselves suddenly bathed in the beam of headlights and jumped apart, a little self-consciously.

  Glancing around, he said, “Come on,” took my hand, and led me over to behind the Big Merino. There are some picnic tables there. He sat down on a bench and pulled me onto his lap. Fumbling with the buttons on my blouse, he finally just ripped it open. He grappled my breasts out of my bra and rubbed them and pinched the nipples. I threw my head back and closed my eyes. He nibbled and sucked, occasionally biting my nipples so hard it hurt, but I liked that too, the wild intensity of it all. I was straddling him by now, my skirt riding up high on my hips, and he was kneading my ass with those strong hands. (You should see the grease and oil stains on the blouse and the skirt—they’re practically fingerprints! And half the buttons are torn off the blouse. It’s funny, but I was just thinking about disposing of those old things the other day and getting some new clothes. Now I have to!) I could feel his dick straining hard against his jeans, and I was riding up and down on it.

  Is this too pornographic? Are you shocked? I can’t really stop here, though, can I? Besides, if it’s pornographic, do you think it proves or disproves Robin Morgan’s thesis that if rape is the practice, pornography is the theory? What happens when we women write the pornography? Can we rape ourselves? I’ve been thinking about this issue a lot lately. The other day, Philippa shared one of her erotic stories with us and asked about the latest line on pornography. I’ve never quite understood the difference between erotica and pornography, have you? I mean, is erotica merely porn with literary pretensions? Or is something pornography if written by a man but erotica if penned by a woman?

  Anyway, there we were, writhing away. I was really digging his gamey smell. I don’t think I’m going to give up on intellectuals after this by any means, but they do tend to have a bad habit of wanting to shower before going to bed, and I think I’m just not going to allow that any more.

  He took my hand and placed it on his crotch. Then he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his fly, and took my hand right down into his jocks. His dick felt hard and hot under my touch, and I swear I could even feel the pulsing of his veins. He squirmed around a bit so that I could pull down his trousers and his underpants. “Hold on a tic,” he said. He wrapped my legs around his back (my arms were already around his neck) and stood up. Hobbling along (his trousers had fallen down to his ankles), he carried me over to the back wall of the Merino, his tongue down my throat the whole time.

  As I slid down his body and onto my feet again, I became aware of music playing. You know those tapes they play in souvenir shops? Songs of the bush, that sort of thing? It seems when they’d locked up the shop, the attendants had forgotten to turn off the tape. Anyway, he now put one of those big paws on the back of my head and pushed me down to my knees, urging my mouth down on to his ginormous cock (certainly the biggest I’ve ever seen!). He leaned over sideways. I could hear the sound of leather sliding along cloth—he was slipping his belt out of his trousers. Without pulling out of my mouth he leaned over me and yanked my hands behind me and strapped them together, behind my waist, with the belt. I could tell he wasn’t fastening the belt very tightly. I’m pretty sure I could have gotten my hands out if I’d wanted to. It was frightening and thrilling at the same time. He used his hands now to control the rhythm by pushing down on my head. We both responded to the Muzak coming out of the store, so I ended up sucking to the beat of “Waltzing Matilda.” After a long while—but I don’t want to s
eem like I’m complaining because I was enjoying every minute of it—I could feel his balls begin to tighten. He groaned. Lifting my head off his knob, he unfastened the belt and helped me to my feet. My knees were raw from the pavement and my stockings were in shreds, but I didn’t care.

  Now, he pushed me against the wall, where the stucco strip between the windows dug into my back. He dropped to his knees, clawed down my undies and my torn pantyhose and, well, he gave as good as he got. I remember having one, oddly lucid thought, and that was of registering that directly above me was a round window exactly where the sheep’s asshole should have been. I don’t remember much else except that he took me right over the edge, and then immediately did it again, and I could hardly stand by the time he finished.

  He had a cheeky grin on his face as he stood up again, wiping his mouth and chin with the back of his hand, and saying, “I love a wet woman.” He took a condom from his wallet and gave it to me. My hands were shaking, and I could hardly rip the little package open. Then I couldn’t tell which end was up. Don’t you hate that? Trying to roll it down and it won’t go because the teat’s facing in and it’s upside down? Anyway I worked it out. Would you believe, and I’m not exaggerating, his dick was so big that, in fact, I actually couldn’t roll on the condom—he had to show me how to stretch it out with my fingers and pull it on that way. He whirled me around now, so that my back was to him and shoved me up against the wall. I vaguely made a note to interrogate myself thoroughly—at a later, more convenient date—on why I found this rough, dominating sort of sex such a turn-on. It really is a worry, ideologically speaking. Anyway, it was. A turn-on, I mean. Now I was bent over, ass up, head down, hands flattened on the windowpane to steady myself. “The Road to Gundagai” was playing now, and he entered me in energetic thrusts perfectly timed to the music while gripping my hips with his hands. The sensation of that massive rod sliding in and filling me up was both agonizing and exquisite. When he really began to slam it in, I orgasmed again while staring through the glass at rows of stuffed koala bears waving little Australian flags. He came too, with a powerful, animal grunt. We just rested there for a few minutes, his arms now wrapped around my waist, his hot, sweaty, prickly chin resting on the back of my neck. Then we straightened up and got our clothing back in order and headed to our vehicles, arms around each other’s waist.

  I could hardly walk.

  He removed his toolbox from my engine, closed the hood, and said, “You shouldn’t have any trouble getting that going again now.” He added that I should have it checked by a mechanic when I got back to Sydney, and said he’d wait and see that I was able to get off okay.

  “By the way,” he said, in a tone that was almost paternal, “I wouldn’t let strange men tie you up like that. That was shocking. Someone could really do you harm, you know.”

  Still a little unsteady on my feet, I thanked him, for everything, including the advice, and got into my car. Everything was purring, including me. I waved good-bye and got on the road. And that was that! We never even asked each other’s names. My leg muscles are still sore, and everything else is tender, and all the clothes I was wearing that day are wrecked (I stopped at another petrol station outside of Mittagong to change) so I know it wasn’t just a hallucination. Besides, I’ve still got the Wide Load condom wrapper ( “maximum head room” ) that I picked up from the ground as we left.

  I wonder what Sam would have thought of it. He’ll never find out, of course, but I’d love to know whether he’d be turned on by the idea, or repulsed. Part of me would like him to be turned on, and the other part, maybe the good Catholic girl in me, would prefer it if he were horrified. As if that were somehow a guarantee that Sam was a higher life form, more capable of caring and commitment or something. I think I’m getting in touch with my inner pagan. I must reread Camille Paglia.

  I really did mean to tell you all about the conference, but maybe I’ll do that in another letter.

  Do tell me what you’ve been up to. You owe me a vicarious adventure.

  Much love,

  Helen

  P.S. Please, please do me a favor and not mention any of this to anyone. As you know, I’m not really the confessional type. Then again, there’s usually not much for me to confess!

  Helen pressed “Control P.” The department’s laser printer whirred into action. She glanced at her watch. It was getting on to evening and she’d told Julia that she’d meet her for dinner. She wanted to go home and change first. But there was still time to do a few more things before leaving the office. She quickly tapped out two letters to colleagues, one at the Australian National University and another at Melbourne University, requesting copies of the papers they’d given at the conference. She then composed a cover letter to send with a copy of her own paper to a prestigious women’s studies journal in the United States, printed all of these out, and started a note to her parents, who lived in Perth. She went to the photocopy machine and made a few copies of an article she thought would interest her colleagues, and of some of her own writing for her parents.

  Dear Mum and Dad,

  Hope this finds you both well. I’m so glad Dad has recovered. You’ve got to be so careful with heart conditions. Remember what the doctor said—no stress and no undue excitement.

  Sorry I haven’t written for a while. I’ve been working long hours. Last week I presented a paper at a conference in Canberra on food, women, and film. It caused quite a bit of discussion, so I suppose from that standpoint it was a success; and I’ve just finished revising it (partly on the basis of the comments at the conference) to submit to a journal in the States.

  Other than that, I haven’t been doing much of interest to report. I see a fair bit of the girls, of course; and they all said to send their best to Dad and to say they’re glad he’s doing so well. Julia’s heading off to China in January on a three-week cultural exchange. She’s very excited.

  I’m enclosing photocopies of the paper I gave at the ANU. Let me know what you think. I’ll write again soon. Take care.

  Love,

  Hellie

  Helen swept the sheets of paper off the top of the laser printer and glanced at her watch. Damn! She’d be late if she didn’t hurry now. She closed all the files, saving the work-related ones and dragging the others into the little trash bin on the bottom right hand corner of the computer screen. She told the computer to empty the trash. While shutting the machine down, she fumbled in her desk drawer for business-size university envelopes. Hastily, she addressed them and shoved the letters into the envelopes together with the photocopies. She tossed the envelopes, all of which were quite fat, into the outgoing mail sack. After a quick trip to the toilet, she returned to her office to grab her bag, turned off the lights, locked the door, and headed out of the building. She was nearly at the front door when she turned around. She half-ran back to the mail sack and, rummaging through its contents, retrieved the letter to Fiona. Maybe, she thought, I should just have another look at this before mailing it. Maybe, she thought, I won’t mail it at all.

  Helen arrived ten minutes late at the new Thai restaurant where she was meeting Julia, but Julia wasn’t there yet. Chantal had recommended the place to them. The interior had been featured in Pulse. While she waited for Julia, Helen looked around at walls painted to look like the outside of a decaying building, complete with graffiti; she gaped at the wildly tilted and outsize chandelier illuminating the galley where busy chefs tossed colorful dishes in flaming woks, and squirmed to get comfortable in the aesthetically impeccable but ergonomically impossible metal seat. Julia bounced in about five minutes after Helen, swung her bag onto the floor beside the table, and apologized for being late.

  The waiters were the crème de la crème of the Thai gym queen crowd. One sashayed over to their table. He presented the menu with a gestural flourish that would not have been out of place in the court of Louis XIV.

  “No wonder Chantal likes this place.” Julia giggled after the waiter had taken their drink orde
rs. “Gay boy heaven.”

  Over the entrées, fat parcels of banana leaves wrapped around microscopic chunks of chicken, Julia told Helen that she had decided to do a series of photographs on the theme of PMS as a way of creatively processing the outburst of the other day. They talked about the kind of images that she might try to capture, of female rage and despair, that would convey the full weirdness of being in the thrall to one’s hormones and yet not demean women in any way or imply that they were, well, in thrall to their hormones.

  As their dishes arrived—chicken with cashews, stir-fried beef with coconut milk and green vegetable curry—Helen silently debated whether or not to tell Julia about her own encounter of a different hormonal kind. Before she had a chance to say anything, Julia confided that the boy she’d been out with the other night was really turning out to be something special. They had seen each other twice since then, she said, and the sex was fantastic.

  “Sounds like a relationship to me,” Helen marveled.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” countered Julia. “Or rather, I’d go that far, but I’m not so sure he would. He’s young and doesn’t like the idea of being tied down. Once, I brought up the subject of commitment. He yawned and said, ‘Isn’t that a movie about an Irish rock band?’ I didn’t feel like pursuing it after that. He doesn’t even like to make plans more than three days ahead of time. Never mind. He’s a major babe. And it’s the nineties after all. I feel lucky to have found a man who actually wants to have sex. You know, sperm counts are falling all around the globe. It’s a real worry.”