Six Flavours of Sin

by Poppet

  He walks in behind me, beaming with cheer. I am naked. He grabs a fondle and whispers, "What a good woman. Getting up to cook me breakfast."

  Oh! (So, he thinks I got up to serve him?) Oh! (Realisation dawns.)

  THWACK.

  One day I am going to thwack him back with a cast-iron frying pan.

  "I saw a movie once with a broad cooking breakfast in nothing but an apron." The hmmmmm in my ear gets the hint across. I make myself coffee and don the apron. Bacon and eggs coming up, master.

  He yells from the lounge, "Where's my tea, Woman?"

  I make his breakfast with precision, and feel good about his pleasure at being served by a not yet fully compos mentis me. When he is happy, he's so loving. That's when he smiles, cuddles and gives me a warm happy feeling. He's showered and dressed after eating. He's ready!

  "Hurry up, woman! We're going to be late!"

  "Where are we going?"

  "Out."

  Great. Thanks for clearing that up. So I dig, "What must I wear?"

  "Jeans!"

  I pull on my jeans, my Doc Marten's, over a skin-tight body suit and give my nipples a modicum of decency by covering them with a waistcoat. (Gone are the designer classy days.)

  I flip my wavy tresses and fluff them out. Grab my smokes, stuff them into my pocket. Put on my sunglasses, and walk to my master.

  … Pause …

  (Catch a wake up! You know you're in a screwball, highball, tea-ball relationship when you have to ask him what to wear!)

  It was a slow poisoning of my taste. Endless criticism, to downright, "I'm not being seen with you dressed like that." And each time, I bought the clothes he wanted me to be in, I wore the clothes he preferred for each occasion. It was often subtle, but it undermined my self-confidence perfectly.

  … Play ...

  The cocky smile says he approves.

  THWACK.

  That manages to successfully catapult me out the door. Two helmets. Right, we're taking the bike then.

  "Why are we taking the bike?"

  "Because you get a nipple stand from the wind and I like to feel you press them into my back."

  Is everything in life about sex?

  No. I should have known. Where there is sex; there's drugs and rock 'n roll.

  It's an amazing sunny day. The perfect kind, where you ache to go to the beach. The sky is perfectly sun-bleached cobalt, not a cloud to be witnessed, the warmth of the sun feeling like a soothing caress. I understand why he decided to take the blood red Suzuki.

  I discover where we are going when we get there. Alan broke it off with tall and voluptuous Adelle some time back, and is now dating a seriously cute brunette with a mane of wild hair, a-la Tawny Kitane. She looks like a model, about five-foot-five, with a heart-shaped face and vivid green eyes, and is sunnier than margarine. We climb off the bike at Alan's new digs. A rambling house in Durbanville.

  I’m hauled straight to the homely kitchen to help Kristy with culinary preparations for the gang. Gary pisses off outside to smoke a joint with Alan. (Male bonding.) I hear a voice yell from beyond the open kitchen door, "Woman, be a doll and bring us a few cold ones!"

  Kristy looks at me, "Woman?"

  I laugh, "Yeah. It's my pet name." All that's missing is my leash.

  I do as I'm ordered. The men are watching the new puppies playing in the immaculate yard. Lording it up, doing nothing. As I walk back into the terra-cotta tiled kitchen, a full glass of chardonnay is pushed into my hand by a knowing Kristy. She makes me feel at home. She brings sanity back into my life. She giggles and gossips. Oh, and she's allowed to spend her own money.

  Lucky bitch.

  She breaks every rule, and puts on ‘Don't want no short-dicked man.’ Her favourite song, (Alan's age must have rubbed off on her.) She never stops telling me how amaaaazing Alan is in bed. The downfall of many a good woman is how good her man is in bed. Call us shallow. Or stupid.

  Gary walks in with towering Alan, and glowers at Kristy, "Who put this crap on?"

  Alan walks up behind her, giggling like a teenager. Dope can do that to you I hear. He starts fondling her cleavage and I watch her cheeks turn puce. "Alaaaan..." she objects shyly.

  Then we get blasted with more AC/DC. I can see why Kristy thinks Alan is hot. He is reminiscent of a younger Val Kilmer, but at least six-foot-five, with a very sexy mouth. (Have you ever seen a Michelle Pfeifer mouth on a man?)

  A happy Gary strolls back through the kitchen with the other sidekick. Charl has arrived: Creepy Charl, with his imaginary chin. His mouth just slopes off into his neck, it freaks me out.

  His cheekbones are non-existent which makes his face look like a fish, streamlined for swimming, it makes his eyes look freaky, and his nose too large for his face.

  And off they go for joint number two. I'm happy and while the day away with a vivacious Kristy. We end up sitting in the lounge on their burgundy leather couches, surrounding a very costly oriental carpet. They're into this stuff and can tell you about pile, the oils in the wool maintaining lustre and strength ... I zone out and suck on my smoke and drink my wine.

  I watch the three men walk past the lounge to the bedrooms, and wonder what the heck is going on. I stand up and walk, a tad unsteadily, over wooden floors to Alan's bedroom. Gary blocks the door, "Woman! Hey baby! You shouldn't be here. We're doing guy stuff."

  I like him in this mood. I wrap my arms around his waist and whisper, "I'm horny." It's true. Red wine turns me into a whore.

  This is one thing I don't like about Gary. He never believes a word you say. He has to check. He moves my waistcoat, and sure as atoms, they're standing to attention. He smiles and gives me a wink, "We'll go in a bit." He turns me and THWACK. "Off you go."

  Humiliated, I walk to the bathroom. I smell all of Kristy's perfumes and envy her budget. Then I sneak back out and peek through the tiny gap made by the bedroom door hinges. Alan is snorting cocaine. I fear that I'll get caught, so tiptoe back to the lounge, sit down with a very intoxicated Kristy, and light a smoke before downing my 2006 Simonsig Cabernet. I feel like crying.

  A very cheerful Gary swaggers into the room. I watch him advance, seductive to my hormones, in his black leather waistcoat and porcelain white shirt, exposing his strong, tanned, kissable neck. He flops down next to me, shamelessly ensconcing his hand between my legs. Kristy is way past the point of caring about decorum.

  (Why do parents pay for private schools anyway? If this bunch is any indication of money well invested.) Alan walks in with Charl, a bottle of shooters in each hand, "Let's drink."

  Coinage it is. Some games never get old. I never get any better at them either.

  Somewhere around three, we get back on that bike and go home. No one can handle liquor and drugs like Gary. He seems as sober as a Monday morning, he's lucid. I'm not.

  My head spins and lurches with every corner we lower into. I don't care that my long blonde hair is wrapping a noose around my neck. I just want to get home alive.

  As we get inside the front door, I help to close it as Gary pins me against it. Tearing off my clothes. Oh right. Shit! It's Saturday night. I'm glad I'm so drunk.

  Within minutes my naked master sprawls atop the evilly black duvet, while I dine on his toes. Massaging the arch of his foot, applying delicate pressure to muscles, kissing calves, running my tongue up the inside of his thigh. I start proceedings the way I've been taught. With my submissive lips coating the maypole, preceded with a caressing and moistly executed tea-bag.

  Usually I have to be on top first, but he disarms me by flipping me onto my knees. I'm hardly resistant with all the alcohol in my veins.

  That was the night I learned what the wheelbarrow is. Maybe that's why I remember it.

  Chapter 7

  Scream the House Down

  Sunday is coitus day. And friends’ day. Friends come over to watch movies, get drunk, smoke up a storm, leave me and my resplendent home, wasted. But we indulge in copulation all day, until they arrive. My u
nderwear has gone through a few transformations over the past year. And the Sunday practising of spawning starts off with handcuffs and blindfolds. (He's so classy. A real class act.)

  Let's rename Sunday to ‘Indulge Your Master Day’. Today, he knows exactly what he wants, he's going to try out the Kama Sutra. And I'm the idiot with the engagement ring on my finger. So guess who he's testing the theory on?

  Please, I'm begging you: don't do it. I did ballet and gymnastics, could still do the splits, and I found the Sutra too much like contortionist masochism. But Gary was having a ball. And I was getting two. (Yes. To answer your question, every single one of those positions was recreated.)

  I have never been happier to have his friends arrive to disrupt my life. In nanoseconds the chains, cuffs and ties were hidden. I launched into the bedroom and shut the door to get clothes on.

  Gary just pulled on his jeans, lit a smoke to disguise remnants of activity, and opened the hefty door to his alcohol-wielding friends. The goofy musketeers were reunited. Two more friends followed. A decent couple: Cindy and Graham.

  I walk out and smile, lighting a smoke with a trembling hand, cheeks flushed.

  Charl is probably the most depraved man I have known. And he hones into that picture book like an addict needing a fix, "What's this?"

  (Which is creepy to observe: picture someone with bulbous fish eyes offset with a caricature potato nose, alighting with demented anticipation, almost drooling ... yeah you get the picture ...)

  Gary does his deliciously wicked chuckle that still makes my knees turn to goo, "The Sutra."

  Charl's steel-hued eyes light up, (glistening like the old black and white version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame), "Does it work?"

  Gary flops into a recliner, his diabolical smirk illuminating his face, "I'll let you know."

  (How come, when he does that, he looks handsome - not demented?)

  Alan drops the afternoon's entertainment on the table in front of Gary. Porno movies just brought in by his boss. Kristy picks up the Sutra and leafs through it. She passes the book to Alan. He opens it and informs Gary, "I'm borrowing this."

  Gary picks up the movie on the top, "Then I'm keeping this."

  Alan smiles and throws an unlit joint to Gary, "Deal."

  The drink flows like the fountain of youth. (It works that way, have you noticed? Everyone looks better – even Charl – once you're sozzled.) My home is a smoky haze and I'm giggly on fumes. We drink, we eat, and we watch porno stars show us their stars. It's disgusting I know. But inevitably a long afternoon and evening morphs into sex talk, Irish coffees, and the last joint of the weekend.

  I don't care who's done what with whom. I'm learning secrets from Cindy. She has a friend who's a nurse, and she's telling me how to prevent ejaculation so that it lasts longer. Kristy is flipping through Cosmo and reading to us how to successfully perform a blow job.

  "It says to hold it and lick it like an ice-cream cone."

  Cindy laughs sarcastically, "We know how to do it, Kristy."

  Kristy drops the glossy mag as though it's anthrax, "I can't believe they have to explain that! How can you not know?"

  I keep quiet. I didn't know. Gary's sadistic lifestyle taught me that and waaaay more. (In fact I naively thought it was a blow job. I had heard the expression and had a vague idea of what went on during the act, but I had no idea back then that he did the blowing (up) not me.) Two accusing and perceptive pairs of eyes pin me to my cigarette.

  "What?"

  Kristy starts jiggling with raucous giggling, "Stef! Oh my God!"

  The room stops, and all men present are staring to see what the commotion is about. I feel my cheeks getting hotter. Gary is smiling at me. Instigating, he eggs, "Show her how it's done, Cindy."

  There is still a lady inside me somewhere, and she wants to crawl under the sleeper-wood table as Cindy grabs her empty beer bottle and starts performing her version of oral sex on it. I notice that Charl's perverted hands have just snaked into his loose dirty red baggies. He is so gross. (Did he honestly think that none of us would notice?)

  I can't watch and avert my eyes to stare morbidly at the taupe carpet, listening to the mocking laughter as Cindy performs her expert craft on a piece of cold moulded glass. Music blares, breaking the tension, when a hand grips me and hauls me into the arms of my lover.

  He smiles with understanding and squeezes me tight. Whispering confidentially into my ear, hotly, "It's okay woman. I won't tell them."

  I love him. I really do.

  Eeuw, Charl's just made his way into the marine blue bathroom. To jack off no doubt. I hold on and kiss my man. He's my haven in this never-ending flurry. He's in a romantic mood for a change and holds my hand.

  Expelling his friends from our abode at last. We all have work tomorrow. A part of me is dreading having to do more Kama Sutra, or gymnastics like the flippin' wheelbarrow. If he was any taller that wouldn't work.

  I look at the mess and sigh. I clean up ashtrays, bottles and greasy glasses, while he watches Miss Magic Boobs in her porno movie. I walk in just after midnight and have an education on the flat screen burned into my retina, the multiple facets of using an ice cube. A long ice cube. A long, rounded, ice cube.

  I shudder.

  He flips it off, we're cloaked in blinding darkness. Strong arms surround me. He kidnaps me to the bedroom. Wow, kisses and cuddles. For a change he's making love to me as he strips my body naked. Caressing me. Sucking my youthful skin with his magnificent mouth. Turning my relaxation into exquisite anticipation.

  I am so relieved to just lie back and be indulged. Tonight he's being slow, gentle, no violence or hard, punishing, invasive manoeuvres. Letting him rock my body with the motion of the ocean, I succumb to a heightening.

  Each time he eases himself into me, I become more aroused. I'm twenty-two, and something happens. It's divine. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced. I have never felt this good in my life.

  A hand clamps over my mouth, "Shut up, the neighbours will hear you."

  I don't care, just keep moving. I don't care (Houston, we have lift off!) I wasn't even conscious of my voice moaning out of me. Now I'm done.

  It's official. This is the man for me.

  He looks like a god, and finally he's giving me what girls have been talking about since high school. I'm not going anywhere. Just keep doing that and I'll stay with you.

  Chapter 8

  A Good Woman Stays Home

  One thing I loved about being with Gary, was the lifestyle. It was chaotic and wild. Perfect Cape ocean-view bike runs at least twice a month along the coast.

  Sometimes doing the wine route, other times following the scenic coastline to the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve, where we'd end up swimming naked together on secluded beaches we had to illegally hike to; endless pubbing and clubbing, from Mercury Live to Stones in Tableview; socialising eight days a week. It kept me motivated.

  I can't say when the switch happened. It was that insidious. He often kept me waiting at work, insisting on fetching me. So my best friend was the security guard. He was a very nice guy, with fair hair and big blue eyes. A tall and lanky dude who came from the same town as Gary. I worked in a particularly seedy and crime-ridden area at the wrong end of Adderley Street; so waiting outside after dark was not even a consideration.

  When Gary came to the door, looking through the glass to see me laughing and joking with Mr Security Guard, I was completely unprepared for the jealous repercussions. He could have any girl he wanted. I knew my place. I would never cheat on him. A: I didn't have the energy – (you've heard the expression, ‘I'm fucked’, right?) – and B: I loved him so much, I would have laid down my life for him.

  I was the recipient of the sulky-silent treatment all the way home. Not knowing what I'd done, I can take it no longer and as we walk inside I broach the subject.

  "What is your problem?"

  "Why were you talking to him?"

  "Gary, he is the security guard. No
one else is there at that time! What must I do, sit and stare at the wall? He's just a friend."

  I get The Look. Wow, he must be angry. He fetched his own beer.

  "What were you talking about?"

  I look at his face and know he's a cobweb away from violently angry. I know that look and I never want to see it again.

  "Music. We like the same music."

  I get the ‘yeah right!’ look.

  Half an hour later I sit down with him in the lounge, waiting for dinner to finish cooking. He looks across at me with those smouldering blue eyes and states, "You don't love me."

  What!

  He's breaking up with me because I spoke to the security guard about the kick ass rock band, La Paz? Are you kidding me? He's ripping my heart out of my ribcage with his wounded stare. I can't lose him. I can't.

  I can barely breathe, "That's not true. I do love you."

  "Prove it."

  I'm shaking. Why am I so afraid?

  "How?"

  "Never talk to him again."

  Okay, that’s impossible. I work there. How can I never talk to the man who opens and closes the door for me? It's irrational. I know I can't keep my word if that's what he wants.

  "I can't not talk to him. That's unreasonable."

  Silence.

  I know Gary. I've been with him for a long time. So I get on my knees and crawl over to him. This always works.

  He pushes me away, "I don't want you anymore."

  Cue: Sledgehammer. Pounding me into emotional smithereens.

  Tears. I can't help it.

  "Why not?"

  "I don't want what another man has had."

  I'm shocked breathless. "Gary, nothing happened! I promise."

  "You were alone. You just said so."

  God give me strength. "That doesn't mean a thing. I can't wait in the dark for you. Gary, I would never ...”