Lingerie For Felons

by Ros Baxter

  ‘Ah, don’t be cranky, Rocket. Come here.’

  He picked up my hand and led me to the couch. I complied meekly, because his hand was so big, and so warm, and my whole body was melty-warm and full of good food, and my eyes were so full of the sight of his great big body and his crinkly eyes.

  We sat down at the same time and my body rolled into his on the squishy sofa. He slid an arm around my shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. I felt his mouth drop to the top of my head and heard him inhale deeply. His breath feathered my neck and I smelled skin and sun and citrus. He fiddled with a remote control and from somewhere close by a beautiful voice rasped ‘whenever I’m alone with you’.

  Then all of a sudden, the room was hot and close and I began to babble. ‘Actually, I’m sure I’ll find out you really faked the whole thing. The meal, that is. Ha ha. I’ll locate the tricky little deli where you got this stuff from. And don’t think I’ll forgive you for making me feel inadequate either. I can hold a serious grudge. Like, really.’ I was talking faster and faster as his big face inched closer to mine. ‘I might not ever forgive you. I might have to exact some horrible revenge.’

  His beautiful, scary green eyes were millimetres away now. I could feel his breath on my face. So close.

  ‘I might… I might…’

  One of his hands snaked into my hair, twisting it around big fingers.

  It was all too dangerous.

  His big, soft-hard lips closed over mine. I’d only been kissed a couple of times in my life, but when Wayne kissed me I had none of the thoughts I’d had those times. Like, ‘ugh why is he doing it like that?’ Or ‘why can I smell coriander?’ Or ‘God I can taste it cologne’.

  It wasn’t like a storybook kiss either: stars exploding, astral travelling, blah blah. But that kiss reached its velvet tentacles right down to my toes, and on the way it grabbed my large intestine like a big, unseen, hairy hand, and stroked it like a very willing kitten.

  And all I could think was: Ah, that’s what they mean by toe-curling.

  I pulled away, gasping for air.

  ‘More?’ he asked.

  I started babbling again. ‘No, no. No way. Not that it wasn’t very nice. It was. Nice. Very. It’s just…er...I think I might have peed my pants’.

  I made a spirited dash for the bathroom, displacing some pottery on the way.

  I sat on the toilet with my mind racing. What. The. Hell. What the hell was this? Why was this crazy Australian suit-boy’s kiss reaching in and stroking my internal organs? And what was I going to do about it? I didn’t know how to do this. I was going to have to ask Heidi about the...logistics.

  I stayed there a full twelve minutes, formulating a plan.

  When I got back, he was lying back on the arm of the sofa, eyes closed.

  He sat up as he heard me approach. For the first time I noticed the little lines on his forehead. ‘Everything okay? I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have —’

  ‘Oh no, no. Look, it’s not that. Really, it was…lovely. Well, you know what it was. It’s just I think I’m out of action. You know. Down there.’ I motioned vaguely in the direction of my vagina and lowered my voice. ‘Women’s business. Suddenly, you know.’

  What the hell did I just say? Did I actually fake having my period and use the pathetic euphemism ‘women’s stuff’? I wasn’t sure what I wanted. But I did know I didn’t want to leave, not quite yet. I also knew there was no way I could handle any more of that kissing until I had sorted some things through in my head.

  So I sat down, carefully, at the other end of the sofa. ‘Um, so let’s just talk, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’ It sounded like shoar-oar-oar. He sounded even more Australian when he was tense. ‘Okay, let’s do that.’

  A pause.

  ‘So, tell me. What do you wanna do when you leave school?’

  Oh no. Not that. Almost worse than the kiss.

  Almost. I took a deep breath. ‘We-ell. I don’t know. Not really.’

  Wayne slid closer to me and took one of my hands.

  My shoulders relaxed a little as warmth slid through me.

  ‘I mean, I’m doing this thesis, and I love it, but I know I don’t want to be a professional mathematician. And I don’t think I want to teach.’

  ‘What then, sweetheart?’

  I wriggled a little in the sofa that was like quicksand, sucking me down and in and closer to him. ‘Hmm. I don’t really know what to do. I just know what I don’t want to do.’

  He gave me a ‘go on’ look. So I did.

  ‘I don’t want to sell out. I don’t want to just have a great apartment, in the right part of town, and a nice little investment place. I don’t want to send my kids to good schools and bitch about the fees.’ My breath was coming short and sharp as I thought about it. Thought about all the bad things in the world. ‘There’s so much to do. I don’t want to be old and look back, and think ‘what good did it do that I even lived? Who did I touch? What did I change? How did I make the world better?’ And have no answers to any of it.’

  My heart was racing, and not because of his touch and the garden and the food and the kiss this time. Some big, serious voice in my head was telling me it was important.

  It was important that I explain this right.

  ‘I don’t want to sell out, gradually. So gradually that I don’t even realize that’s what I’ve done. I don’t want to convince myself that sponsoring some poor little African kid means I’ve done my bit, and I can go on nice vacations and drink expensive wine and have no guilt that the rest of the planet is going to hell. I don’t want to be comfortable.’

  I stopped but didn’t look at him. The CD ended and silence seemed to envelope us.

  I looked down at my boots, rubbing a spot on the leather.

  ‘Er, so your turn. What do you want to be?’

  He didn’t answer for a moment.

  When he spoke, his voice was softer than usual, but even deeper.

  ‘Comfortable.’

  I sneaked a peak at him and for once his open, mobile face was inscrutable.

  ‘I want to have stacks of kids and enough money to give them anything they want. College. Overseas trips. A car when they can drive. A new car too, not some old bomb.’ He paused. ‘You see, something I’ve noticed: only people who grew up with enough of everything think being comfortable is a sell-out.’

  Goose pimples formed on my arms and I felt my face flush. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He patted my hand and laughed. ‘Don’t be. I’ve got just the thing we need.’ He jumped from his seat and came back with two huge plates of apple pie. He proceeded to attack his with gusto while I picked at mine, feeling like five kinds of middle class fool.

  Until I tasted it, and the sweet, buttery crunch overtook the shame.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said, when I’d finally licked the plate clean. ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘Ah, now,’ he began, ‘that is a story.’

  Oh good, that’s just what we needed. A story. A distraction.

  ‘You see, I met this guy. A few years ago., when I was just starting out.’

  I chased a last crumb around my plate. ‘Mm?’

  ‘He was out in Sydney, working with our firm. He was a big deal, really connected here. Said he could help me into a firm over here if I wanted to expand my horizons a bit.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You must have impressed him.’

  He grinned. ‘I’ve got a kind of unusual specialty. A side-line really.’

  ‘Oh, yeah?’ I didn’t know much about what he did, and my curiosity was piqued.

  ‘I help invest party funds.’

  ‘Party funds? Parties like...functions?’

  ‘No,’ he shook his head, getting up to refill my wine. ‘Political parties. It’s kind of arcane. Political parties have particular needs, because of their donors and fund raising rules, and the calls they need to make on the money from time to time. It’s not my bread and butter. I’m in resources. Mining,
mostly. But it’s always been a sideline.’

  ‘Hang on.’ I shook my head. ‘You manage funds for politicians?’

  ‘Well, it’s not all I do.’ It was his turn to shake his head. ‘But yeah. And no. Not politicians. Parties. The machines.’

  Something clanged shut in my head. ‘So.’

  I didn’t want to ask.

  ‘Who was this guy?’

  ‘Hunter Monroe.’

  Oh. Oh freakin’ fourth of July.

  ‘Hunter Monroe?’ It was a mistake. It had to be a mistake. ‘The Hunter Monroe?’

  ‘Er...’ His smile dropped a little. ‘I think so. Hotshot in the —’

  ‘GOP.’

  Wayne laughed. ‘Yep, that’s him.’ He shook his head again. ‘GOP. Still can’t believe they call it that. Man, you’d never get away with that pretentious shit back home.’

  My brain clung to his derision. ‘So you used him, right? You know, as a ticket here.’

  I wanted it to be true.

  I thought about that kiss, and I wanted it to be true.

  I started again. ‘People...some people...do that, right?’ I could hear my voice creep higher. ‘You don’t still see him, right?’

  ‘See him?’ Wayne smiled his broadest smile at me, and patted my hand, as though it would make everything better. ‘I manage his fund locally. Well, the GOP’s fund, I guess.’ He made the inverted commas sign as he said GOP, still chuckling like it was a great joke.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he popped a chocolate in his mouth. ‘And we play racquetball.’

  ‘You make money for them?’

  His smile slid some more. ‘Ah, yeah. Did pretty well last year. Got a tidy bonus.’

  ‘For Hunter Monroe.’

  He nodded.

  ‘And you play racquetball. With Hunter Monroe?’

  His mouth was now a tight line. ‘Yep,’ he confirmed. ‘But I just call him Hunter.’

  ‘What?’ My brain couldn’t keep up.

  ‘You know,’ he laughed. ‘I just call him Hunter. Not HunterMonroe.’

  ‘Funny,’ I snapped.

  Wayne sighed, turning to look into my eyes. ‘Hey, Rocket, is this a political thing? I mean, ’cause really, I’m just not that political. And hey, let’s face it, there’s not much between your guys over here, you know. They’re basically identical.’

  ‘Oi-dentical?’ I shook my head, trying to decipher the word through that accent.

  ‘I-dentical. Eye-dentical.’

  ‘Identical? As in, the same?’ I blinked at him. ‘The same? You are trying to tell me that you think the Democrats and the goddamn Republicans are the same?’

  I was speechless. Almost. Actually, come to think of it, I never get speechless, no matter how angry I get.

  In fact, I get speech-ful, if that’s a word.

  ‘Yeah, it’s true,’ he continued. ‘I’ve even asked people about it.’

  ‘Not the right people,’ I insisted.

  ‘Okay.’ He sounded really annoyed now. ‘Let’s get this straight. The main difference seems to be around abortion, yeah? And, correct me if I’m wrong here, but even then, you get some Republicans who are pro-choice, and some Democrats who think any woman who exercises her rights under the law should be shot.’

  My head was spinning. How do you explain the complexity of this stuff to someone who didn’t grow up here? And yet, it’s not really about American politics at all. Or about complexity.

  ‘They are not “oi-dentical”,’ I bit out. ‘And it’s not about the US, or Australia, or anywhere. Wherever you live, and whatever the sides call themselves, it’s really simple.’

  I slowed right down. Not because I thought he was stupid, but because I wanted to get it right.

  ‘One side believes life is chance. We...they, I mean, they believe we need to protect and care for each other, and collectively insure ourselves against those chances. The other side thinks that if life fails you, it’s because you’re lazy, or bad, or inadequate, and therefore you don’t deserve support. Or...’ I groped for the words. ‘Or, at best, maybe just a token, so the good people can sleep easy at night.’

  Those big dark eyes searched mine, which felt like they were on fire. He held up a delicately patterned plate covered with slender, brown squares. ‘Chocolate?’

  ‘Some other time,’ I said, as I picked up my bag and slammed the door behind me.

  The whole scene replayed in my head as I stood panting against his door on the cold, dark street. Hunter Monroe. The Republicans. Politics doesn’t matter. It’s all the same.

  Of course if it had ended there, it would have been too easy.

  Date three — One week after Hunter Monroe

  The day after our disastrous second date, Wayne sent flowers to my office.

  Big, ostentatious flowers.

  I hate those kinds of flowers. Well, I should hate those kinds of flowers. But they were actually pretty beautiful. And the card read ‘So, teach me then’.

  I was very tempted to throw them in the bin, but I didn’t.

  And then, the next day, he sent some more.

  This time the card read ‘One more chance? 2pm Saturday, Hoover Oval’.

  Weird. Hoover Oval was the local sports field near where Wayne lived. Surely he wasn’t suggesting taking me to some sporting event? I hate sports the way other people love them, like a hobby. I yell at the TV when the Superbowl’s on as much as anyone, but the content of my screaming is way, way different. Something like ‘Dear mother of God! I could feed Africa on what this costs!’

  Oh, sports, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.

  One: sports bore me. Let’s face it, even complicated sports generally involving chasing, kicking or swatting some ball around some field, court or pool.

  Two: famous sportsmen are like children. On speed. They wave their fame (and sometimes their penises) around in a most unseemly fashion.

  Three: what I really hate most of all about sports is the whole hero thing. This idea that they are so courageous. So heroic. That they have such huge hearts. Doctors in war zones are brave. Skinny catholic priests opening up halfway houses for junkies in the Bronx are heroic. Racehorses have huge hearts. Sports stars are just people. Skilled, genetically blessed, hard working people. But people nonetheless.

  So I have no idea how I ended up at Hoover Oval on the designated Saturday.

  But I did.

  Wayne was out front to meet me. No borrowed clothes this time. Just me. In blue jeans, Doc Martens, a Bob Marley t-shirt and a colourful poncho I’d bought from a market in Washington Heights. Before I could say ‘I hate sports, what are you doing inviting me here?’ he had broken into a huge grin, swept me up in his enormous bear-like arms and squeezed the protestations right out of me.

  ‘Ah, Rocket,’ he almost yelled in my ear. ‘I am so glad you came.’

  And he looked so pleased, and so crinkly, and I so had not been hugged like that since I’d been three years old, that I just kind of smiled half-heartedly and followed him into the ground. I really needed to prepare myself for his charm onslaught, or I was never going to be able to say the things I needed to say to him.

  Once inside, he told me he’d brought me along to see him play something called rugby league. A team of ex-patriot Australians and New Zealanders played an amateur league each Saturday. His game didn’t start for an hour, and another game was on as we settled into the stands, so he said he’d talk me through it.

  Oh yay. Bring it on.

  Needless to say, I couldn’t follow a single word he said. It wasn’t just that his accent got thicker as he slipped into ‘footy’ speak, or that I was not terribly interested, it was also because the rules were utterly absurd. The game seemed to consist of a whole bunch of guys jumping on another guy every few yards and the ball changing hands every now and then. There appeared to be very little identifiable scoring.

  But they sure were having a great time. And the guys were gorgeous.

  Wayne kept calling people o
ver to meet me. He’d start with ‘meet m’ mate Wozza’ — or Blue or Spanks or Fugly — and then describe the position they played, how good — or, more often, how crap — they were, and how they got their nickname. I’m not even going into Spanks.

  I guessed the average age of the players to be around 30. Wayne, at 28, was on the younger end. Apart from the weirdest and cruellest set of nicknames I had ever heard, the guys were really lovely. All big and shy and pleased I was there.

  They almost all said something along the lines of ‘Gee, you’ve done alright there, mate’ to Wayne, while looking me up and down in a way that was somehow less offensive than it should have been. And then they would motion over their woman friend, if they had one, and say something like ‘meet m’ wife/girlfriend Raelene/Kaelene/Gaylene’ while pushing her forward to participate in the conversation.

  ‘So, what do all these guys do for work?’ I asked Wayne. Some wore shorts with a school-kid trim on them — stubbies, Wayne later explained. Others sported bad track-pants, like you used to have as a kid with elastic around the bottom. The rest wore bicycle shorts.

  ‘Um…’ Wayne looked over at the group of guys standing closest. ‘Fugly’s a…um…corporate lawyer I think. And Ferret’s some global software negotiator thing that none of us understand. He only plays every third week. He’s based in Paris the other two weeks. Um…. Wozza does some finance thing in insurance…’

  I mentally pinched myself. Had I really assumed all Australians were surfers or crocodile wranglers? I hated people who thought like that. Didn’t I?

  As the time drew closer for Wayne’s match to start, he made sure I was settled with a group of women. The other guys kept calling them ‘the girls’ or ‘the ladies’ but I noticed Wayne pointedly referring to them several times as ‘the women’, while his friends looked on and nudged each other.

  He ran off to get changed into his jersey and warm up.

  ‘You’re in for a treat, Lola. The Wombats are good,’ said a sweet-faced little thing who I later found out was a software engineer. I think she was a Sharon. ‘They haven’t lost a game this season. And they won’t today. They’re playing the Wallabies. And the Wallabies are useless, as well as being a bunch of pricks. Too fat, too old.’