Sex on Tuesdays

by June Whyte

  “And she objects?”

  “Oh no, she’s an ex-thespian and loves nothing better than dressing up. The problem is his wife has chronic arthritis and by the time she gets the uniform on…Mr. Let’s-Make-Old-Age-Fun has nodded off to sleep. They’ve been trying for a month now and still haven’t been able to get it right. The wife’s threatening to leave him and go look for a younger model.”

  When I first read this letter, I wondered if it had come from a resident at Sunny Days, my mother’s retirement home. If the rest of the residents were anything like my mother, sex would be high on their list of activities. Although I suspect in most cases it was more a topic of conversation than an actual activity.

  Megan’s throaty laugh echoed through the shop. “Oh, my God. I love it! Sounds like there’s still hope for us in old age.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  Her forehead shimmered momentarily and a rebel line appeared next to her nose. “Hmm…easiest solution would be to hire a third party to help them get their act together.”

  “You’re not suggesting a Ménage a trois?”

  “Why not? It would work for me.”

  I didn’t doubt that for a moment.

  “Not sure the two old dears would be happy about introducing a third party. You know, it could be sort of embarrassing for them.”

  “And playing suck the dead sausage wouldn’t be?”

  “Megan, behave yourself,” I gasped, suppressing the giggles that were bubbling inside my chest. “I suppose we could suggest inviting a care-worker or a nurse to assist the wife into her school uniform and prod the old guy whenever he looks like he’s dropping off to sleep.”

  “Or maybe the nurse could check out eBay and buy a battery charger,” Megan proposed, straight faced.

  I opened my mouth, closed it again, and then quickly swiped another letter from the middle of the pile. “O-kaaay. Moving along. Only one more query to discuss. I have a guy here whose rocket blasts off before he even climbs aboard, and his wife says she’s ready to tie a knot around the offending appendage.”

  “Aha! Our premature ejaculation dilemma?”

  “Got it in one. I’ve been researching ‘premature ejaculation’ on the Net and came across something called, ‘Seman’s technique.’ Ever heard of it?”

  “Can’t say I have. Although it might be the same technique I applied to some of the blowers on my client list.” Megan’s lips twitched. “As you know, my experience has all been…hands on.”

  I turned the letter over, smoothed it flat with one hand, and began reading the research notes I’d written on the back, aloud, in the hope of keeping a tight lid on my fizzing laughter. “‘Semans technique’ is used to help combat premature ejaculation by employing a ‘start-stop’ approach to penis stimulation.’”

  “Aah…my favorite hobby—”

  “By stimulating the man up to the point of ejaculation and then stopping, your partner will become more aware of his response,” I read on, biting into my bottom lip before continuing. “More awareness leads to greater control, and open stimulation of both partners leads to greater communication and less anxiety. The start-stop technique is conducted four times until the man is allowed to ejaculate.”

  “Good God! Exactly what I did to keep Thar He Blows, an old client of mine back in the early nineties, in line.”

  “And did it work?”

  “Ooh, yeah. But the poor guy became so frustrated I began to worry about him having a heart attack.”

  “But surely nothing’s worse than a guy shooting his load as soon as he gets naked. Not that it’s ever happened to me,” I quickly added, feeling a royal hot flush coming on.

  Actually, I was lying. Well, sort of. It did happen to me at a party way back in my late teens, but I was paralytic drunk after having my first encounter with tequilas—so I figured the incident didn’t really count.

  “Ooh, Dani, darling.” A wicked grin lit up Megan’s unlined face. “You’re not blushing, are you?”

  “So…what’s your take on this problem?” I said ignoring her. It was not a blush. I was just feeling hot. Damn heaters were always turned up too high in these city shops.

  “Okay, here’s what I usually do when premature ejaculation rears its ugly head,” she said, chuckling at her own joke. “Just before the guy explodes, grab his wanger and twist. Hard. That usually backs him right off. I’ve also found blowing a whistle in his ear distracts him. Ice water in a spray gun works, too. Mostly though, I pass the guy a handful of tissues, charge him the full going rate, and then poke my head out the door and yell, 'Next!”

  I’d been busy scribbling more notes on the back of the letter, and almost swallowed my tongue. “Megan!” Then I burst out laughing. Fair dinkum, the woman should write a book on her exploits; a best-seller for sure.

  Still giggling, I stuffed the letters back into my tote bag. “Okay, that’s it—too much information.” Then, before she snaffled her shopping bag with one hand and pushed back her chair with the other, I folded my arms across my chest and gave her my best, don’t-you-dare-move stare. “Before you go…how about filling me in on this guy you’re setting me up with tonight, Edward Granger. If he’s so great looking and filthy rich why would he be interested in going out with me? And how come he’s not already married? All sounds a bit suss to me.”

  “Hmm…let’s see.” Megan’s smooth expressionless face tipped to one side in thought. “Well, I guess Edward is what you’d call highly work-orientated and he’s never in one country longer than a few months at a time. As you can imagine, this hasn’t made for successful relationships. However…that was in his past. Now he’s realized time is passing him by, so he’s on the hunt for a suitable mate.”

  A suitable mate? Blimey! Sounded more like a pedigreed stud dog checking out all available bitches.

  “But why me?” I persisted. “With all those beautiful sylph-like beauty queens in his world, why does he want to go out with me?”

  “Dani, Dani. Stop worrying. The guy is a real sweetie. I spoke to him this morning and he said he’d be happy to meet you at the ticket office tonight at 8:30. If you connect with each other, that’s fine; if not, it’ll be a great night out anyway. I told him you’d be wearing your gold hoop earrings. Okay? And he’ll be dressed in an Italian silk grey suit with a pink carnation in the lapel.”

  “Any distinguishing marks?”

  Megan did her forehead shimmer. “Um…let’s see. Well, there is a sexy scar—kinda hot—that runs from his collar bone down to his belly button.”

  “Holy crap!”

  “Something to do with a gang or payback…I think. We were a little busy at the time he was telling me the story, and I wasn’t paying much attention to the details.”

  “Gang? Payback?”

  “But that was a long time ago,” she hurried to inform me. “He’s not into that sort of activity now. Anyway, you probably won’t get a chance to check his scar out tonight. Unless, of course, he takes you back to his house for a nightcap.”

  “Not much chance of that on a first date,” I assured her.

  “Um…well…in case you do, there’s something I should tell you about Edward.” Megan reached into her Gucci handbag and flipped out her mobile, which was playing the theme from Moulin Rouge. “It’s just a little quirk,” she added putting the phone to her ear. “Nothing you can’t handle. He just—”

  Her full-blown lips shifted into a snarl. “What?” she screeched into the phone. “You did what?”

  “The little quirk?” I reminded her, getting agitated and pulling at the neck of my jumper.

  She hurled the mobile into her bag and leapt to her feet almost upending the chair. “Sorry, Dani, I have to go.”

  “What do you mean…a little quirk?”

  But in a rush of blue velvet and Poison perfume, Megan had swept out of the coffee shop.

  12

  Wednesday, 6:30 p.m.

  Every time I tried Megan’s mobile, her answering machine kicked i
n.

  “This is Megan here. I’m tied up at the moment and can’t come to the phone. If I don’t get back to you by morning, it means the keys to the handcuffs haven’t been found.”

  Not only had I phoned her but I’d messaged her. I’d emailed her. I’d even considered borrowing a carrier pigeon and fastening a message to its leg.

  But I still hadn’t got through.

  Half a dozen times, I lifted the phone to ring Edward and cancel our date, but then changed my mind. Finally I gave up. Quirk or no quirk, this man had two tickets to Singing in the Rain—my all-time favorite musical show. After my brush with death outside Derek’s house earlier in the day, I guess the fact that Edward had an odd foible or two was the least of my worries.

  As I stood under the shower relishing the feel of the hot water as it pummeled my skin, I tried to piece together scattered segments of the puzzle currently turning my life into one big, black, ugly void. Had the Subaru been following us when I noticed it on the Birkenhead Bridge? Was the driver trying to off Derek or had he also been intent on turning me into road kill? And was the woman who’d rung Derek on the night of his wife’s murder the same woman he’d been having an affair with? The same woman he’d unceremoniously dumped a few days before his wife’s death?

  Men!

  Not only did they expect their cake naked, primed, and stretched out waiting for them on a plate at home, but they also craved that oh-so-tempting plateful of forbidden cake on someone else’s doorstep.

  Now I remembered why I was still single.

  After wrapping a fluffy bath towel around my middle, I reached for the elegant jar of Sister Mary’s Anti-Aging Creme that sat smugly on the wash basin under the bathroom mirror. I piled the thick porridgy gunk onto the train-tracks on each side of my eyes and the lines around my mouth, and rubbed the cream in until it was absorbed into my skin. Then, leaning closer, examined my reflection, searching for the slightest sign of improvement.

  Nix. Naught. Nothing.

  What a rip-off. For two solid months I’d religiously followed Sister Mary’s daily instructions, and yet, my three-day-off-fifty-year-old wrinkles were still deep enough to wade in. I should have noticed the women demonstrating the cream on television were either too young to need Sister Mary or, like Megan, had already solved their problems with cosmetic surgery.

  Muttering that I may as well have smeared mud from the backyard on my face, I finished blow drying my hair into a smooth page boy style and wandered into the bedroom.

  On the middle of my bed, head resting on both front paws, lay Horace. An ex-racing greyhound I’d adopted from the Greyhound Adoption Program a couple of years ago, Horace was now my best friend, my confidante, and my protector.

  “What do you think, sweetie?” I asked him holding up a flowered skirt with a white silky top. “This hot enough?”

  Horace blew through his nose.

  “Okay, so you think that’s a bit stuffy for a night out at the Festival Theatre.” I threw the skirt and top on the bed beside him. “How about black slacks and a flowery top?”

  Horace covered his eyes with a paw.

  “You’re right…not dressy enough.”

  I peered into my wardrobe. Slid the hangers along until I came to a dress I’d bought twelve months before and hadn’t been game to wear. It was a silky red halter dress of cocktail length with an uneven hem. Utterly gorgeous—but so not me. What had I been thinking when I paid half my weekly salary for the damn thing. A halter dress was for firm young skin, not for a middle-aged woman with droopy fat on the undersides of her arms.

  I held it up to Horace and sighed. “Gorgeous, isn’t it?”

  Grinning, he scooted off the bed and padded across to me, his tail wagging in agreement.

  “Like it that much, huh?” I leant down and petted him. “Well…I suppose I could get away with it if I wear my overcoat over the top to hide my floppy bits.”

  Decision made, I quickly dressed, remembering at the last minute to attach my gold hoop earrings to my ears.

  Wednesday, 8:30 p.m.

  All I had to go on was a pink carnation in the buttonhole of a grey suit.

  Standing beside the ticket box at the Festival Theatre—minus my new spectacles that made me look like a stuffed owl—I peered short-sightedly at the flood of suits passing by. Surprisingly, grey seemed to be the color of the month. There were so many people swirling around me, eager to get out of the cold and enjoy the show, I found it difficult to check every grey-suited male heading for the foyer. After ten minutes, I’d discovered two white nasturtiums and a purple orchid.

  But no pink carnation.

  What else was it Megan had said about Edward? Oh yes, the scar that ran from his collarbone to his belly button. The scar he’d acquired in some sort of gang warfare or payback.

  I decided to concentrate on the carnation.

  “Hello. You must be Megan’s friend, Danielle.” The voice was pure honey-smooth and suave in my ear. And when I looked over my shoulder, the speaker matched the voice. Wow! Did he match the voice! All smooth planes and sophistication. Dark eyes, dark hair with just a tantalizing touch of grey, full kissable lips, and a swimmer’s six-foot-plus body. I could see this guy in Speedos doing lengths in his own private pool every morning.

  And there, displayed in his right button hole, was a perky pink carnation.

  A little overwhelmed, I blinked up at him. Megan said he was good looking, but this guy would give Pierce Brosnan a run for his money. “Edward Granger?”

  “At your service, ma’am.” One hand, complete with long elegant fingers and perfectly manicured nails, settled on my arm. “When Megan spoke about you she forgot to tell me how beautiful you are.”

  This guy had charm-school written all over him. And shitloads of money, which he’d likely acquired doing nefarious things, which I wasn’t going to think about right at that moment. “And she failed to warn me about your silver tongue.”

  He laughed. A low laugh that rumbled in his swimmer’s chest. “My mother always taught me beauty was on the inside,” he crooned. “And I have this god-given knack of seeing what a person is really like. You, my dear, are quite beautiful.”

  “And you, Edward, could charm for Australia.”

  When he smiled at me, warmth pooled in the pit of my stomach and shivers of anticipation made my mouth dry. Perhaps, if I played this right, I could end up with hands-on experience for my column. His fingers shifted to my elbow. “Shall we go inside now? The show is due to start in ten minutes.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to the show all day. Guess I’m a bit old-fashioned, but I adore the songs and the dancing in Singing in the Rain.”

  “Me too,” he said, and his dark eyes twinkled as he steered me towards the nearest entrance. “I just don’t broadcast the fact. After all, I have my macho image to protect.”

  “Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.” I twinkled back at him. Hey, I could flirt with the best of them if I really put my mind to it. “Even if a gang of torturers poked screwdrivers under my finger nails and butted their cigarettes out on my face, I still wouldn’t divulge your secret.”

  For a second, his smile wavered and his eyes darkened. Oh hell, I’d probably described an activity this guy participated in weekly. “Where are we sitting?” I asked, changing the subject before I managed to shove my foot any further down my throat.

  The high-wattage of his smile slowly returned. “For Singing in the Rain? Where the real action takes place—in the front row, of course.”

  That surprised me. Edward looked more like an upstairs, best-seat-in-the-house sort of guy. “Well, in that case, we’d better buy a couple of raincoats.”

  As well as two brightly colored plastic ponchos from a nearby stall, my new found friend procured two jumbo sized buckets of popcorn, which immediately placed him even higher in my estimation. Then, chatting and joking, we followed the usher down the aisle and settled companionably together in the center of the front row.

&nbs
p; Watching Singing in the Rain with Edward was a lot of fun. We laughed, munched on our popcorn, and when the stage hands became over enthusiastic with their fake rain, screamed and pulled our ponchos over our heads.

  As we left the theatre, Edward slipped his hand into mine. And it felt okay. No sweaty palms. No sleazy question with his thumb. Nothing but a pleasant sort of let’s hold hands because I’m enjoying your company. In contrast to his suave businessman façade, I was finding Edward a fun guy. And contrary to Megan’s subtle insinuations, he didn’t press me to go back to his place for a coffee…or for anything else. I wasn’t sure if I was upset about that or not. Perhaps he wasn’t as interested in me as I was in him. Or it could be that he was a perfect gentleman.

  I opted for the latter.

  “Come on, Dani, I’ll see you to your car,” he said, and we joined the crowd heading toward the Festival Theatre’s large underground car park. Not content with holding my hand, he hooked his arm around my shoulders as we walked, pulling me close to his body. And that was all right, too. I let my head drop against the silk of his suit, inhaled his expensive cologne, and felt safe.

  Coincidentally, Edward had parked his car next to mine in the car-park, which made me laugh. My battered Ford against the sleek lines of his shiny BMW reminded me of a muddy stray cozying up to a pedigreed Doberman.

  “Thanks, Edward,” I said as I beeped my car doors open. “I had a wonderful time tonight. Thoroughly enjoyed the show and the company.”

  He leant down and brushed his lips against mine. They were soft and warm, and tasted of popcorn. “How about I ring you tomorrow?”

  I nodded. Couldn’t find my voice. Probably misplaced it during the kiss.

  “We could go out for dinner somewhere.”

  “That’d be lovely,” I told him, slipping into the driver’s seat of my car. I must have misunderstood Megan when she hinted at Edward’s ties to the Mafia. This guy had real potential as a future Mr. Right. Good looking, a gentleman, flash car—and what’s more, he was a front-seat lover of Singing in the Rain.

  Unable to wipe the smile off my face, nor stop the daydreams flitting around in my head, I turned my key in the ignition.