Six Flavours of Sin
Page 1
Six Flavours
of
Sin
by
Poppet
A Thorstruck Press Publication
Published by Thorstruck Press in 2014
Copyright author Poppet 2009
All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organisations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
This novel is dedicated to Mrs Walker
You're the best friend a girl can have
Until you know better, you won't do better.
This is a tale told in hindsight, an older wiser Stefanie recounts her heartache, the journey into becoming a woman, a journey which started out as a teenager losing her virginity, to falling in love with the wrong kind of man. This is a tale based on a true story, injected with humour and sarcasm to lessen the cut of truth in such a dysfunctional story.
Children who witness domestic violence in the home often believe that they are to blame, live in a constant state of fear. Close observation during an interaction can alert providers to the need for further investigation and intervention, such as dysfunctions in the physical, behavioural, emotional, and social areas of life.
An estimated 1/5 to 1/3 of teenagers subject to viewing domestic violent situations experience teen dating violence, regularly abusing or being abused by their partners verbally, mentally, emotionally, sexually and/or physically. 30 to 50% of dating relationships can exhibit the same cycle of escalating violence in their marital relationships.
Grief, shame, and low self esteem are common emotions that children exposed to domestic violence experience.
Children exposed to domestic violence frequently do not have the foundation of safety and security that is normally provided by the family. The children experience a desensitisation to aggressive behaviour, poor anger management and problem solving skills, and learn to engage in exploitative relationships
~ wikipedia
I reiterate: Until you know better, you won't do better.
Chapter 1
Enter Adelle and Gary
The one thing I was always afraid of, in the sack, was being a sack. I have no idea where this notion came from, but it was omnipresent. I was a good girl. I was more scared of teenage pregnancy, than the act involved. But, I'd heard only good things about doing the dirty.
So, I made it almost all the way to twenty before I took the plunge. (I took the plunge? That sounds wrong.) Lucky for me, I was a good girl. I had absolutely no intention of having shenanigans the night I did. I discovered a few months later from the girlfriend he had whilst simultaneously dating me - (nice one, I sure can pick them) – that she caught crabs and vaginal warts from him. Strike one on the first go.
Thank heavens I didn't keep dating him. Poor girl dated him for months and caught all of those nasties. Now I know where ‘creep’ comes from. They give you STDs that creep and crawl and freak you out. He was obviously cheating on her too. For months.
Right, so um, I thought this was a normal progression. I'd seen a few dirty movies and there was always lots of heavy breathing involved. Naive me, I had no idea this was caused by the sheer body weight of the male participant forcing the air out of you. Oof, breathe! Oof, breathe!
Yep, I had morphed into a hefty pair of bellows. I was young enough to care, so I insisted Mr Crabs ‘teach me’. He had no intention at all of doing any such thing. Don't men get that we aren't programmed to be a femme fatale? It's not hardwired. It's something we hone, like a skill. Same with cooking. Don't assume we just know what the heck we're doing.
Oh, and just for the record, nothing I'd heard about doing the dirty was vaguely accurate. So I dumped the cheating, lying, conniving bastard and went on an ‘I hate men’ mission. They could buy me as many drinks as they liked, it wouldn't make a fudge of difference.
Then .... fate walked through my door. I was in my first employment. Footloose and fancy free. Loving life. It was a huge adventure. And I was a good girl desperate to break a few rules. My good friend Adelle phones and convinces me that we have to house-sit a home together, not too far from work.
"How did you arrange this? Whose house is it?"
"Oh come on! I can't do this alone. It was arranged for a model Alan works with, but he's got a photo-shoot."
My mind is already dancing the happy dance: Freedom.
"How long?"
"Two weeks."
"Okay, but you're buying the booze!"
Wait! Adelle: I must tell you about her. We've been friends since the sixth grade. She was my first friend to smoke. She started in the sixth grade, smoking her dad's cheroots. She and Alan were already having sex by grade nine, bumping uglies as often as possible. He would sleep over and sneak out of her bedroom window in the morning - (and they are still together), bumping uglies as often as possible. She was wild. No scratch that – insane! Good thing Adelle loves him; he works with models and she has moments of insecurity. Anyway, he hobnobs in the right crowd, so this house-sitting gig in Fresnaye should be fun.
Day two, called Saturday!
I waltz into the kitchen, my long blonde hair all over the place. This old house is colder than the morgue at the winter solstice, hence my nipples protrude without subtlety against the white T-shirt I slept in. But that's okay, because Adelle is twice my size and her boobs are the biggest I've ever seen. It's a tiny room for a kitchen. A miniature of the farm-style type. I guess that models don't have to cook. They live on carrot sticks and champagne don't they? Well, no one could serve a family from this little nook. I know. I've helped Mom cook enough meals. But the fridge, that's plenty big enough for carrot sticks and champagne.
Hey!
Gulp.
There's a really, really, dishy guy smiling at me; he's sitting in the kitchen at the pathetic square called an island. Down girl. Shit. I still have a nipple stand.
Adelle doesn't seem the least bit fazed as her udders jiggle around, unrestrained, in her loose T-shirt. She grins at me, blue eyes twinkling in a brunette bob frame, and points at the dude, "Stef, this is Gary."
I smile. What the hell am I supposed to say? This is girls only!
She hands me steaming coffee in an amber-hued mug. "He's an old friend of Al's."
Riiigggght! I vaguely recall meeting him once when we went to play pool. So basically this is the first time he's making an impact.
Hey dude: keep your eyes on my face! Look out the window. Not fair. You're unannounced.
I decide I should say something. I look at blondie, with the death-by-grin, grin. "So what are you doing here?" Wait, that sounds rude. "So early?" I add. Gulp.
I’m folding my arms trying to hide these erect nipples that have nothing to do with his blue hypnotist's eyes. It's called ‘Cold as the Mausoleum Syndrome’, okay?
Darn, that smile is naughty. He's aiming it at me and he's shooting to thrill.
"I'm looking after you."
Oh I bet you are. I smile, kinda. "Oh ... Reaaally?" (Dripping sarcasm.)
I give him the, ‘I can look after myself j
ust fine thank-you-very-much,’ stare. It's a challenge. I dare you to say I need a man! To quote Adelle. A woman needs a man, like a tree needs roller-skates.
Oh, be still my rioting heart: he's just pushed his sleeves up. That darn white knitted shirt of his is just clinging to defined arms and ripply shoulders. Those forearms. Phew, hang on, I just need to breathe for a moment; coming over all weird.
Okay, you can stay as loooong as you like, handsome.
Wait. If my mother finds out a guy is staying here I am dead. Dead! Hung and flogged in public until death do I depart.
He shoots those steaming eyes, brimming with ‘I want to do bad things to you’ at Adelle, "So baby, what are we doing today? It's Saturday!"
Swoon. He makes it sound like it's our last day on earth to do anything: the whole ‘now or never’ vibe. I am losing my will here. If he told me to crawl around and snort like a pig, I'd probably do it.
Adelle is the most conniving, manipulating, best friend, ever!
"Let's have the guys over. Play some coinage or something?"
It's seven-thirty in the morning and these people are already planning our let's get shit-faced day? I need to brush my teeth. And put a bra on, dammit. Guys? What guys?
They both look at me expectantly. I shrug. Miss Cool.
"Sure." Making out like I don't give a damn either way. When all I want to do is watch this boy for the rest of my horny days. Hang on. I'm horny! How the hell did that happen? And how come I've known Adelle for eight years, and I am only meeting this boy properly, now? She and I are going to have to talk.
Aaaah, she's a genius.
"Gary you go out and get what we need for lunch, I'll cook. And get shooters while you're at it."
He stands. Whoa! This is a sin. No one is allowed to look that scrummy in plain blue jeans. He's lean and muscly in all the right places, with a real gladiator ass. He gives me a cocked eyebrow as he picks up his keys, "Be good while I'm gone."
Gulp. Ha ha. I smile. How do I answer that?
I can't breathe. My insides are trying to climb out of my throat. My heart's pounding. (Is it obvious?)
I had no idea, right there and then, I submitted. This boy was going to do very bad things to me. He would turn the sack into his own version of the Pussycat Dolls. And I would wear stilettos and corsets, doing the Kama Sutra, willingly.
Chapter 2
Coinage
It's March. Summer in Cape Town is just magical. Although I went to a snob school and hung out in the snob crowd, I personally prefer the surfer type. Adelle has always been my most relaxed and rebellious friend. It's normal for her to hang out with older guys; she’s used to drinking, smoking, and chilling. Me, however, I'm realising that I've lived a fairly sheltered good-girl existence, up until now.
Oh dear. Being a closet nerd leaves you unprepared for hardened drinkers. Who, by the way, are expert at bouncing a coin into a shot glass, even when slurring words. They are all gunning for me.
Every coin ends up with me downing the creamy Amarula alcoholic beverage, which I am washing down with apple cider. I've got that warm buzzzzzzzzz just humming through my veins. I'm kind of on diet, so I haven't eaten very much today. Anyway, I can't eat when I'm feeling self-conscious, and Gary has been here all day. So this stuff is just smacking me around like Mike Tyson with a midget.
Magically, Alan's photo shoot ended early, and he's pitched up in time for dinner. (What happened to two weeks?) Gary's friend Charl, who reminds me of Al Bundy from 'Married with Children', is also staying the night. So now we're short on beds, there are only two double beds. Talking of double, darn now I have to down three? Hey! This isn't fair.
Woooooooo! I am going to bed. I can barely focus. What was that? Gary will sleep with me, Charl in the lounge, Alan with Adelle. Fine.
Hang on a sec! Gary is sleeping with me?! In my bed? Um ... shit! Now I'm sober as a druggie on the twenty-eighth day of rehab.
It's somewhere around 3:30 a.m. and I'm still wide awake. I'm pretending to sleep, but I can't. He is a foot away from me and it's all I can think about. He's been making moves on me all day. I know he manipulated his way into my bed. And now we're ‘sleeping’?
Not to mention this old creaky house is just creepy. Absently I examine the pressed ceiling above the bed, reflecting moonlight off the perfect white paint. All of the old houses are overly decorative. It's taken for granted in this moist climate that everyone has wooden floors and window frames. All of these old houses have gigantic rooms that a normal double bed looks pathetic in. I don't like the old houses. They just seem sad and lonely to me.
Flippenheck, scare me why don't you!
Eyes are watching me. "Can't sleep either, huh?"
I shake my head. I really wish I could sleep. I'm just way too nervous to sleep.
"It's because you're cold."
Aaaah, cunning viper.
This place is like a mortuary. It's not a lie. Carpets might help. Curtains too, for that matter.
"You can lay next to me if you want."
Sure thing. Would you like a blow job with that? A foot rub? A cigar and a martini?
He smiles that snake charmer grin at me, "Come on."
How come he's so friggin’ sober anyway? Oh what the hell. I guess this is called the first move. So I shimmy closer. Why did I bring only thongs with me? My T-shirt isn't long enough.
Ooooh looooordy. My skin is on fire. Naked legs on naked legs ... Go-To-Sleep-You-Slut.
I close my eyes and pretend that this is much better. Truth is, now I'm definitely not going to get any sleep. Mmmm, but he is really warm. Cosy.
I wake up with the blinding sun streaming in through the unsheathed window. It's impaling my eyeballs to my eye sockets. Fuckenhell. My heartbeat accelerates to 170 mph. There is a hand over my right one. Yes sir! And fuck me, it feels really good. I inch my arm up and peek at the time on my watch. I have had three hours sleep, and I know I'm not going to get any more. And the fucker is awake. Mister, 'I'm pretending to feel you up in my sleep'. Pleeeeease stop moving your fingers like that. I am not trained to make nipple erections disappear.
I swivel my tousled head and stare at him pointedly with slate blue eyes. Should I break his arrogant nose, or encourage this? I only met him yesterday. Good girls don't do this. Oh come on, who am I kidding? I'm on the pill; I can do whatever the hell I want. And right now sinning seems like a p-r-e-t-t-y fine idea.
He smiles. The wicked charm is already switched on. He's waiting to see how I'm going to react.
Okay. Game on.
"Is that all you can do?"
Aaaaah ... oof. Oh no, I'd forgotten about the bellows. No, actually all he's doing is kissing me ... hang on, sorry ... my mind goes completely blank the minute someone sucks on my earlobe.
… Pause ...
… Play …
Sorry, where were we? Oh right. Yes! Can you believe it? Nothing happened. Just some fondling and kissing. He turned me on like a sauna, and then buggered off to have a smoke with his scary friend Charl. (I am not joking about scary. This guy exudes genetic throwback.)
I use the opportunity to dive into clothes. Brush my teeth and hair, and get a smoke of my own. Okay, so we can all do dragon impersonations, we can blow smoke. What was the point of getting me shit-faced, getting into my bed, for that?
Stuff that. I'm not playing games. I go walking back to the bedroom across creaky yellow-wood floorboards. HEY! He's in my Hermès bag. And he's holding my packet of contraception!
He drops them on the bed, gives me his, ‘I am going to make you scream’ seduction stare, and says, "Just checking."
Right. What is this? Do I get strip searched now too? Fucker!
So that's why he didn't do anything last night.
Mmmm, he's way too close. Okay why don't you just kiss me. Oooh and slide your hand under my shirt. Haha, what a pro. Unclipping it with one hand.
Adelle! Knock, girl!
Chapter 3
Riding the Highway
So he stayed for the whole two weeks, and this 'good girl' managed to keep that a secret from her prying mother. But how could I hide the glow that sex gave me? Which had nothing to do with bellows that went oof. Instead, it became a journey of discovery. At the first available opportunity, I went before the jury to plead my case. Ignorance! I was ignorant. And I required a tutor. (You've heard the expression ‘famous last words’– right?)
It started with a simple game of pool. He is after all a master, with his own cue - wiggles eyebrows. It seemed of paramount importance that I should learn that a girl must never jerk a cue. But should build up momentum slowly before releasing the tip into the ball – (or is that the ball into the tip?) After hours of patience, I got it right. And so I graduated to pupil of grand master.
No matter where we were, the minute we hit that Audi of his, things got steamy. I had started ‘forgetting’ to wear underwear. Fold down seats are such a great invention. And thank the goddess Venus that mankind - (or horny young men) – invented the drive-in. I became a regular. I was a religious zealot about Friday and Saturday night movies under the African stars. And I'm talking double feature.
He could play me like a cello, move to harp, back to synthesiser, over the piano keyboards and down the flute. Move aside Beethoven, here comes Gary! (Did I just say that? Oops, no he never jumped the gun like that. He had the control of a Zen master.)
My life became tactile. I spent every penny I earned on risqué underwear (hidden from mother of course) and exotic perfume. I also intended to woo him with my delectable cooking. So I invented the midnight picnic. Everything a girl needs. In my arsenal I had lots of long lasting candles. Ridiculously expensive KWV cabernet sauvignon, (matured for at least five years), my new favourite Nachtmusik, and plenty of finger food in the picnic basket. I became the proud owner of suspenders, hold-up black Dior stockings, transparent bras and now only wore clothing that could be unbuttoned, never wore earrings (they snag), grew my nails, and painted them as religiously as I went to the drive-in with my new beau.