Eat Me

by Linda Jaivin

  “How is it,” Philippa wondered, “that some men have an unerring instinct for finding the bedroom unaided?”

  “By the time I’d followed him in, he’d fallen crosswise over the bed, feet dangling off one side, head off the other. He was mumbling something. I moved closer, a bit apprehensively, to hear what it was. ‘A bucket, Nats, gettush a bucket.’ ” Chantal lay a slender hand against her forehead.

  “He didn’t.” Philippa gasped.

  “He did,” Chantal affirmed, rolling her eyes. “I got him a bucket, and I can tell you it was not a moment too soon.” Chantal didn’t have the heart to regurgitate, so to speak, what had transpired after that, although she certainly remembered it in excruciating detail.

  She had raced into the bedroom and placed the bucket under his chin. “Uh-rroooop,” he ejaculated. A shudder passed through his body as his dinner and drinks passed through his lips. “Kakakaka,” he coughed weakly in epilogue. “Uh-rrrooooooop.” She turned away, curling her lip and feeling none too salubrious herself. Teetering into the living room, she poured herself a whiskey and stared glumly out the window.

  Chantal was not by nature the nurturing type.

  “Uh-rrrooooop! . . . Kakakaka,” came the chorus and verse from the next room.

  “I did try at one point to suggest that he remove himself to the toilet,” Chantal remarked weakly.

  “Would seem like a more appropriate habitat for his species under the circumstances.” Philippa shook her head sympathetically.

  “By then he was, however, well and truly passed out, his head pointing down into the bucket, his body immovable on my nice new quilt. I returned dispirited to the living room. Around 6 A.M., I finally managed to doze off on the zebra chair. Given the fact I was still wearing my zebra dress, it gave me the comforting illusion of camouflage. Three hours later, I was woken, stiff-necked and stiff-limbed, with whole jungle tribes beating tomtoms in my head, by my mother, just calling to say hello.”

  “Mothers have the best sense of timing,” Philippa commiserated.

  “I told her I’d call her back and straggled back into the bedroom. Bram had by now crawled under the covers and arranged himself longitudinally on the bed, arms and legs thrown across its width, sound asleep. I could have woken him, but didn’t feel in any state to deal with the consequences. So I went back to my chair and sunk into a miserable half-sleep. I thought I dreamed that I was a little girl and my father was going off to work and then he turned into Bram, holding his shoes in one hand and his forehead in the other, crossing through the living room and out the door. . . . It was only when I heard the click of the lock as the door closed, that I realized it was no dream. I went into my bedroom. Averting my eyes and holding my nose, I picked up the bucket gingerly and carried it into the toilet, where I flushed away its bilious contents. Pouring in half a bottle of disinfectant, I filled the bucket with water and let it rest. I checked my quilt cover for vomit stains, silently praised his aim, and passed out on the side of the bed least touched by the adventures of the night. Two hours later, Alexi called, horrendously chirrupy of voice, to ask me when he should come by to pick me up for the party. And here I am.”

  “What a postscript to a relationship.”

  “You know, I have a lot to thank Bram for,” Chantal reflected.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Taught me not to place such a premium on sex. Sex is easy. Relationships are hard. I haven’t exactly been a nun since then but honestly, I have no problems with celibacy.”

  Philippa laughed. “Sure, Chantie.”

  Truth was, Chantal, stunning, stylish, intelligent, and sexy—a nineties dream girl with a happy career, a disposable income, and an excellent wardrobe—honestly thought sex was a bit overrated as a pursuit. For one thing, she considered most heterosexual men to be a bit too low on the food chain to be worth the effort. In her experience, it was mainly gay men who would go willingly to subtitled films or the opera or hold genuinely interested conversations about hairstyles. They never forgot your birthday and often brought you flowers for no reason at all. Even the most promising of heterosexual men usually had some terribly off-putting element in their character, like a tendency to play air drums when they listened to music or a fondness for televised sports. Much to her regret, she was not sexually attracted to women.

  Philippa yawned. She obviously wasn’t going to get much more out of Chantal. And in any case, she wanted to get back to her computer. “How long are you going to stick around?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll just say good-bye to Finn. I really wouldn’t mind crawling back into bed, to tell the truth.”

  “Let’s rock,” said Philippa, standing up and brushing cat hair off her jeans.

  Meanwhile, in another city, in a café, two women were facing each other with expressions composed of equal parts mirth and guilt. The popular George’s in Melbourne’s trendy St. Kilda filled up fast on Sundays. Bronwyn and Gloria had been lucky to get a table. On it rested two cups of cappuccino, half-drunk; two pastries, half-eaten; and one letter, fully consumed and digested.

  “What are you going to do?” chortled Gloria.

  “I don’t know. But you know my friend in Sydney? Philippa? The one I told you about, who’s writing an erotic novel?”

  “I remember you telling me about her.”

  “I reckon she’d get a real kick out of this letter. I might send it to her.”

  “That’s so naughty.”

  “Naughty is my middle name.”

  Chapter Seven –

  Multiple Choice

  The following Saturday found Philippa sitting at the edge of the Boy Charlton pool at Woolloomooloo swirling her feet in the water. She was wearing a black Speedo one-piece. The way she leaned forward onto her hands maximized the dramatic effect of her cleavage. As she knew. Not, she understood, that any of the beefcakes lying about soaking up January’s rays with their Coppertone-marinated fat-free flesh would have noticed. They had eyes only for each other. Where was Jake? She dabbed some more sunblock on her shoulders and squinted, for the umpteenth time, toward the entrance.

  At last he came, sauntering toward her with a lazy grin as if to say, hey, what’s an hour between friends? “Sorry took so long,” he said, shuffling off his jeans and T-shirt. He had his bathers on underneath. He tossed his clothes in a heap, slid his long lean body into the water, immersed himself, stood up, and shook out his dreads. “Had to see someone off at the airport.” He held out a hand to her. “Aren’t you coming in?”

  “What’s that on your wrist?” Philippa ignored the gesture and slipped in to the pool unaided.

  “Stamp,” he explained. “Went to a gig the other night. I’m a bit of a stamp collector. Do you like hearing bands, Philippa?” He smiled to himself. Nearly called her Norma.

  “Sometimes,” she answered. Nice smile, she thought.

  “What kind of bands do you like?” he asked. He couldn’t remember if he’d told her he was in a band himself. He hoped she wouldn’t say she went to cover bands. Cover bands were for suburbanites in boat shoes and people who had only got around to piercing their navels this year. Anything else, he could pretty much cope with. Except for country and western. Or REM. Or anything associated with aging rock stars with tragic hair. Still, he was a broad-minded kind of guy. He didn’t mind Tom Jones’s latest album. And while he’d be really pleased if she liked the Nine Inch Nails, he wouldn’t really care if she didn’t; girls rarely did.

  “Good bands,” she replied, and kicked off down the lane. He followed behind at a lackadaisical pace. Jake didn’t think too much exercise was good for you. He preferred to conserve his energies for other, more important things. Like eating and sex. A few laps later, he rested at the shallow end.

  His elbows propped up on the side, he watched her plow along with strong strokes. He liked the defined muscularity of her arms. She pulled up beside him. “Nice freestyle,” he complimented.

  “What sort of stroke were you doing? I couldn�
�t quite put a name to it.”

  “My very own stroke,” he replied. “The slacker.”

  Laughing, she reached out to splash him. He slipped down underneath the water and grabbed her ankles, pulling her off balance. “Trying to sweep me off my feet?” she asked when they both surfaced.

  “Being a writer, you should know, Philippa, that the pun is the lowest form of humor.”

  “How do you know I’m a writer?”

  “You told me. At that party where we met.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think you were listening, actually.” Philippa kicked off and did another two laps.

  “So,” he addressed her when she came to a halt by his side. “Where are you taking me for dinner?”

  Who said I was taking you out for dinner? Philippa thought to herself. “Where do you want to go?” she asked.

  He thought, to as nice a place as you can afford. I may look like a slob, but I’ve got a cultivated palate. He said, “Wherever. Some place not too expensive. I’m easy.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “Just.”

  “What do you mean, just?”

  “It’s about to be repossessed,” he explained. “But I don’t think they’ll come for it tonight. Besides, I neglected to inform the bank where I’d be today.”

  Philippa thought a moment. She had almost forgotten about Nielsen Park until Helen mentioned it that day they met in the post office. She suggested they have a bite and then go there for a walk.

  “A walk? That’s something old people do. My parents go for walks. How old are you, anyway, Philippa?”

  Philippa raised one eyebrow. “Would you prefer,” she countered, deadpan, “that we take our skateboards? How old are you, Jake?”

  “Is it, like, a cool place, this Nielsen Park?” The best defense, he often reflected, was to change the subject.

  “In what sense, exactly, do you mean ‘cool’? Being by the water, there’s a bit of a breeze, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t think we’re likely to run into Tex Perkins. On the other hand, Hugo Weaving has occasionally been spotted there.”

  “That guy who was in Priscilla?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “That’s okay then.”

  They hung out at the pool for a while longer, showered, and dressed. At a Moroccan restaurant in Darlinghurst, Philippa watched Jake clean the plate of mezze with a wedge of Turkish bread and silently marveled at how much food such a thin boy could put away. When the bill came, he excused himself to go to the toilet. Upon his return, he thanked her for paying and put his hand over hers across the table. He’s cheeky all right, Philippa thought to herself. Aloud, she said, “My pleasure.” She withdrew her hand and suggested they head off to the park. Wandering out across the beach, they found a secluded spot on the rocks that offered an enchanting view of the setting sun and of the city, glowing in the late dusk across the water. Philippa sat down and hugged her knees. Jake lay down, at an almost perpendicular angle to her, ankles crossed, head just touching Philippa’s thigh.

  “Have you got a boyfriend, Philippa?” he asked after a silence.

  “Not really,” she answered. Girls didn’t count as boyfriends, did they? “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Oh, not really,” he dissembled. “Well, I was sort of seeing this other girl. But she’s gone away now, and anyway, it was pretty casual.” He arched his neck to look at her and gauge her reaction. Philippa was a cool number, compared to the last one, not quite as easy to read, especially upside down. “She was older too. I rather like older women.” He returned to his original position and stared intently at the sky.

  “Why is that, Jake?”

  “Dunno. Guess I can relate better,” he told the moon. “I like a woman who’s got her shit together.”

  Not to mention her finances, Philippa thought.”Do you think all older women have their shit together?” she asked.

  This was getting difficult. Jake rolled over, hauled himself up to a sitting position, and looked her in the eyes as soulfully as he could manage on such a full stomach.

  “No. But I think you do.”

  Philippa regarded Jake through narrowed eyes. A smile briefly tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Oh really? And what makes you think that?”

  Her gray eyes had a steely gaze that he found a little disconcerting. He grew intrigued. Jake was fairly lazy in his habits. It hadn’t actually occurred to him before this point to be intrigued by Philippa; the only real thought he’d given to the matter was that she was likely to feed and possibly fuck him as well. Julia had been good fun, but he had never been particularly intrigued by her. Besides, with Julia he had begun to smell the unmistakable, yeasty aroma of a relationship rising and ready to be popped into the oven. Not to put too fine a point on it, but he wasn’t really into relationships. He was what you might call commitment-challenged. “Cause,” he said.

  A light breeze blew up and rearranged Jake’s dreads so that three momentarily gathered in a single column at the top of his head. Philippa snorted with laughter.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I think your head’s got a stiffy.” Philippa swiveled round to look at the sea, concealing her mirth. Jake patted his head. But the dreadlocks had fallen back down again. He hadn’t a clue as to what she was talking about.

  Most people had left the beach by now. Except for the sound of the waves breaking below them and a phrase or two of conversation drifting over from the path nearest the rock where they perched, a quiet that seemed almost preternatural for the city had descended on the park.

  When Philippa turned to face him again, she noted his slightly bewildered look. He was an operator, all right. But there was an appealing vulnerability there as well.

  He leaned toward her. Just a little. Testing the waters. The steel in her eyes seemed to have warmed a degree or two. Everything about her was naturally cool, he thought, from the smooth icing of her alabaster skin to the watermelon gelato of her lips. He lowered his eyes to those lips, wanting a taste, and then raised them to meet her unsettling gaze. He moved a little closer. She did not move away, but neither did she draw in toward him. He looked at her lips again and caught the flickering curl of a smile. Would they melt under his? Or just mock him? He looked up at her eyes again; the steel seemed to have given way to a calm winter sea. Should he dive in? A dreadlock bounced down in front of his left eye. He pushed out his jaw and blew up at it. It was a particularly heavy dread, and it rode his breath playfully, like a kite, but refused to return from whence it came. He decided to ignore it. It’s hard to ignore a big blurry stripe dissecting your vision in half. Never mind. He returned his concentration to those lips. They seemed to be halfway to a smile. He looked back into her eyes for a clue. She lowered her lids a little. The sea warmed fractionally. He lowered his eyes, he looked down at her lips. He looked at her eyes, he looked at her lips. Eyes, lips, eyes, lips. With each swing of the vertical pendulum, they seemed more inviting. He thought, now or never, stood on his mental diving platform, bent at the knees, took a deep breath, and flung himself into the water, closing his eyes as he went. His lips came gently to rest upon hers.

  No reaction. To be precise, there was no positive reaction, but then again, there was no negative one either. He could have been kissing a statue.

  A gull squawked and swooped. Sandshoes crunched the gravelly dirt of the path by the rock. “Mum, what are those people doing?” squeaked a young girl’s voice. The footsteps sped up and faded away.

  Jake felt sillier and sillier. Time passed. Should he do something else, put his hand on her waist or something, or nibble, or just retreat while he was ahead? For some reason, a picture of his amp popped into his head. It was broken and would need to be fixed before the gig in a couple of weeks at the Sando. That could cost a hundred dollars at least. Such a ripoff. Where was he supposed to come up with that kind of money? Certainly not from anyone else in the band. They were even less solvent than he was, if such a sorry state were possible. He sh
ould have borrowed it from Julia. Julia. Philippa. He suddenly remembered where he was and what he was doing.

  What was he doing? He opened his eyes to see if her face could give him some signal. Her eyes were closed. He considered this a good sign.

  He was jumping to conclusions. It was not necessarily a good sign, because, in this case, it meant Philippa was thinking. Philippa was not quite as easily impressed as Julia. She had a slower reaction time with boys. Of course, she wasn’t comparing her reaction time to Julia’s because she had no idea just how relevant the comparison was. And if she had, her reaction time would have been less than zero: she didn’t believe in fooling around with her friend’s lovers.

  What was running through Philippa’s mind, racing, in fact, neck and neck, were the following two thoughts: Thought 1: She fancied Jake. He was a total spunkrat, a sexy boy with a dry and wacky sense of humor. She liked his cheeky presumptuousness and found his slacker style—in and out of the water—highly amusing. Thought 2: He was Big Trouble. Her warning system was going off like a smoke detector in hell. Did she really need Big Trouble in her life, she asked herself.

  Just as he was contemplating a tactical withdrawal, Jake felt the slightest twitch of her lips against his. He persevered.

  Of course, she didn’t have to get too involved. He was ten years younger than her. He probably wasn’t into the idea of involvement anyway. She could make it just a one-night stand kind of thing. She didn’t mind a touch of discreet, casual sex now and then. But hold on, what if it proved a truly excellent one-night stand? Wouldn’t she want a second night? And what if they had a second night, and that was good too, and then it ended? Two-night stands were actually far worse than one-night stands. A one-night stand is just that. You wake up in the morning, you look at each other. You go, hmmm. If you’re both thinking, so that’s what the cat dragged in last night, the visiting team packs up its gear and exits the stadium. The home team takes a shower and gets on with the day. If you’re both thinking, babe, you have one for the road. They don’t call, or you don’t, or you do, or they do, and you discuss it, and then you get over it. But two-night stands, those are the really painful ones. To you it’s a relationship, to him it’s just a coincidence. You’ve started to tell your friends, he’s already on the prowl for someone new.