by Gemma Rice
"I can drop them off."
"You do that."
(Dripping scorn. Actually doing an Exorcist with it: I picture scorn hurling over the walls and slowly seeping like slime, down to the floor.)
"When?"
"How the hell should I know? I’ll call you when I’m free."
Slam.
Crap, I just did it again.
"Sorry."
"It's cool. I understand. If it rings again, just ignore it."
I nod, "I will. Selene, I'm so sorry to make my shit your problem."
"You didn't. I offered."
I gaze at her aquiline nose and full lips and smile, "I think you're the best friend I've ever had."
She smiles and pushes a plate at me, "Eat! You're going to need it. I think someone's going to be getting shit-faced tonight."
I giggle, "I just might."
Chapter 21
One week later, I moved into my own tiny apartment two roads away from the beast. Naturally, all of my Gary friends were banned from speaking to me or associating with me. (I like the way I get to lose everything, even my friends, because he says so.)
I told you he was spawned by the devil. I told you.
Right, so I have my housewarming that weekend. Gary and Alan move my stuff in for me, including my brand new bed, in the morning, and I'm finally free of my shackles by that afternoon. BUT. There is one thing I don't like about my new one-bedroomed hovel: there is a mirror on the bedroom ceiling!
Right, so that makes masturbation out of the question. Freaky-freaky-freaky.
But, who cares right now? I'm delirious with freedom overload. All I want to do is party.
Oh right. Yeah, I forgot to tell you. My friends? My only friends? That would be the very nice crowd at work. And they're all the best people ever. They're all coming tonight.
I don't think my lounge suite will ever be the same. James makes it look like children's furniture. Julie and Frank are as bad as each other when it comes to flirting and drinking. Shayne is the quietest man on the planet. Michelle can really drink for a nerd. (I think Shayne is perfect for her.)
Dianne has a really rubbish boyfriend, but they both pitched up. They like what I call, doof-doof music, the kind that gives you a headache without alcohol ingested.
What I don't get is, she's fall-off-a-bridge-backwards gorgeous. Seriously, this girl makes supermodels look plain and gangly, she could have any man on the planet and she chooses the guy with the cap, hunched shoulders, tattoos and appalling humour. (Check me calling the kettle black. If we were all saints we'd make better choices.)
I, like an idiot, did not eat anything. So, I am totally wasted by two-thirty in the morning, after playing coinage with sherry! (No, it's not a girl named Sherry, it's the fortified wine called sherry. Shakes head vigorously. Learn from my mistakes please.)
Okay, right, so I've figured out what drunk really is. This is the theory. Have you noticed how, the more you drink, the less gravity has an effect on you? And you feel all floaty? Well, that's why we start to feel sick – it's the zero gravity. They say that space travel is like that. That's why the zero gravity plane is affectionately referred to as ‘the vomit comet’. You see? I've figured it out.
Aw. James is so sweet. He regularly comes to put his arm around me and check that I'm feeling okay. So sweet. But let's be honest here. When are these people going home? I just want to sleep, now.
Selene leaves with Michelle. Then Shayne leaves, in what I would call a reluctant manner. How often is he ever going to see me this floaty? I think he saw opportunity knocking for thirty-two seconds. Anyway, to cut a long story short, everyone leaves except James. Now he wants to help me clean up. Nooooooooooo. Go away.
He's chucking the flirty hints at me so hard that I feel I'm playing paintball. (Splat.) I stare at his gigantic hands and feet and think he'd probably break my brand new bed – and me – in the process. I - don’t - think - so. I like you, as a person, but I can't ever have a boyfriend as humungous as you. And I'm not into a pity fuck right now from you, either. I will never have sex again as long as the mirror is hovering above my bed! Very, very, very, bad feng shui, dude. Just too much Def Leppard in that mirror.
Three coffees later, at more or less 3:45 a.m, he finally leaves, and I have the relief of passing out, fully clothed, on my new bed draped in fresh, fabulous linen. I dig this. It's the best! For years I've lived a monochrome existence. Now I can have checks! Blue and white. I don't do girly, pink, shiny or frilly, (pretend vomit at the thought). I like the masculine look. I hate fuss, it irritates me. (Like those pathetic extra cushions everyone and her mama has on the sofa! I move them, hate them, wish someone would have a bonfire where I can lose them!)
I watch my world spiralling as I wait for sleep. I hate that mirror, it's stuck on askew.
(Yes, I am a perfectionist. Symmetry is everything.)
I'm on a fun-house ride that refuses to slow down. I'm feeling rather ill to be honest. Lesson learned. Sherry and I are arch enemies and I'll never throw my money at her again. Ever.
* * *
One week later, I get crazy. Do you realise that I'm free? FREE. So, now I'm ready: I'm ready for a shag-fest without guilt. I'm ready to go head-banging with Selene and James. I'm ready to get my own chop (tattoo for the rest of you). And I'm ready to make real friends that Gary can't steal from me when he finds a replacement better than me. Every two months it seems.
Item number one on the agenda: Shag shag shag. Sorry if you find this offensive but I'm a biological human being. However, things aren't looking so hot because my day's entertainment is Shayne. He's taking me home to show me his fish. (I mentioned I'm interested in marine fish tanks.)
Now, Shayne is a nice guy. He's not a lot taller than me. He's got floppy, flat, straight brown hair. He wears spectacles and dresses like a financial nerd. But, I don't judge people on the way that they look. When it comes to men, I don't do type. I have only two requirements. Confidence, and you have to be stronger than me, and preferably (but not essential), taller than me. Oh dear, there's a flaw here. Okay, I cannot date a man shorter than me either. Who's going to get things off the top shelf if he's shorter than me? Na uh. That doesn't turn me on.
Right, so we've spent the whole day together and I am bored out of my mind now. I cannot speak about fish any more. There is nothing left to say on the subject. So he comes home with me, and I make coffee and chuck on some decent music. Aaaah, now you see: even a nerd has merit. Shayne then introduces me to Toto. Wow. What a kick-ass band.
(Where have I been? In a cave? That I've never heard this band ever. Oh wait. Duh! I was stuck in the AC/DC time warp wasn't I? And there was no stepping in or stepping out of it either.)
Now we get that awkward moment where he slides his arm around my shoulders, all casual like. My relaxed happy moment evaporates in a heartbeat, completely.
Just what the hell do you think you're doing?
I arch my eyebrows, "Are you coming on to me?"
He grins shyly, "I was trying to, but you ruined it."
I can't explain this to you, but I react so badly. I feel rage. I shudder at the whole, ‘I want to cosy up to you – which could take hours thing.
"Shayne, if you want to fuck me just say so. The answer is either going to be yes, or no. I don't do the mating dance. I HATE IT."
Oooohkay! I think I just blew ‘ladylike’ right out of the stratosphere. Shit. What is wrong with me? Poor dude is stunned into silence.
"I want to fuck you."
I cringe. I honestly didn't mean it like that; it was a bad reaction. It sounds horrible when he says it. So degrading and eeeewww.
I stand, staring at him lounging on the chair in my apartment, and think, Oh, what the hell? I have to break the ice, get out of the Gary shackles. It may as well be with you.
BUT, after Mr Crabs, and ‘I shag the world’ Gary, I have this thing about personal hygiene now.
"Fine! Take a bath and I'll meet you in the bedroom."
Waaaaaahahahaha. I am sooooo peculiar: I can tell he's never had such a weird proposition in his life. Look out boys, here’s the sad strange ex with ‘odd’ issues. She'll shag you but you have to wash between your toes first.
I am blushing.
So, I strip off and pull Victoria on while my victim has his bath. My new place does not have a shower, which would have made life a lot easier.
Cutting to the chase. In twenty minutes I have a glowing, squeaky clean, Shayne, lying on my bed, and it's ready to have its virginity popped with my first post-Gary shag.
So I'm working my magic ... doing my thing. You know what my thing is ... a tongue here, a kiss there, a lick, a caress, hair everywhere. Oh, and I have to tell you something. Who knew? This boy is built like an Olympic swimmer. He's beautiful without his clothes. Really!
What the hell am I doing wrong?
How can I have failure? I'm doing everything I can think of, and the bazooka still looks like my lipstick tube. It hasn't changed one iota. So I start asking, probing, questions.
"Do you like this ...?”
"Hmmm."
"Does that feel good ...?”
"Yeah."
Eventually, I sit back and whine, "What am I doing wrong?"
He smiles, "Jesus, would you just sit on me already!"
I am no Jesus, but sure, if that will work.
So I slip over him, and do my Asian number. He writhes and moans and … and ... and ... oh for FUCK’S sake. When will this guy get hard? I'm actually tired, which is saying something.
"Have you come?" I pry.
"Ages ago. You're like a machine!"
What! When? Where the hell was I?
I slip off and stare at the lipstick tube. No way. No way.
This poor man. How can nature be so cruel? His cyclops is still eight years old.
He grins at me, obviously pleased with the show. (Show? What show? Where?)
And then! Then! Then! He says, "You're like a dude."
What? Grrrrooooowl. What!
(I think my face conveys this, because, hey presto, he doesn't look so relaxed as he starts explaining.)
"You just want to do it. No fucking around. No kissing, or cuddling. Just get it on. I think I like that."
(Well, that's just great. But loverboy, this will never work. You're the size of my tampon.)
I grab a smoke and light it. Buying time. I never ever thought I'd be one of those shallow women who cared about size. I always thought size didn't matter, only how you used it. I am so shallow. But now I know, to a certain degree, size definitely matters.
I look at his hands, then his feet. So it's true. He's got hands smaller than mine, feet smaller than mine. That does it, I'm staying the hell away from James.
Sigh.
What have I done? I just shagged a boy from work. This is going to be awkward.
Chapter 22
Monday morning Shayne sidles up to me and fiddles with statements on my desk, "I don't want anyone to know. Just keep it between us, okay?"
YAY!
"No problem."
Inside jiggy dance. What a relief. Although secretly I am aching to tell Selene; I know what a rabid sex-addict she is. She'd find Shayne's dilemma hilarious. To my credit, I never tell a living soul about him. (Until now that is).
So imagine the thunderous ‘Thor is angry’ glare I get from him, when James pops over to my desk, squeezes my shoulders –(ouch!)– and sits his mammoth frame on my desk, folding his arms, to smile at me. He also wears spectacles by the way. (Gee, what's going on in my life?)
"Are you busy tonight?"
Where's this going? "No. Why?"
Slap. Ow! My shoulder is cramping now.
"Great, I'll be over at seven. I'm making us dinner."
Weeeell now, how can I say no to that? Gary is so yesterday. Not to mention Neanderthal.
I smile, "Okay."
Shayne glowers at me but says nothing.
I stare back and want to telepathically yell, ‘Keep your wings on, angel! I'm not going to shag the whole office.’
At seven, James arrives, beaming. Why do men smile at me like that anyway? What does it mean? Is it a secret code for something?
He walks straight into my kitchen, whips out a chardonnay, uncorks it and pours us each a glass.
Clink
"Cheers. Now get out. Go and relax while I cook."
(This is so odd. Why cook here? Why not invite me to your place?)
"Okay."
So I take my black-jeaned ass out of the kitchen and sit down on the couch, sipping wine and indulging in a new smoke. How come none of these men smoke? I thought non-smokers hated smokers?
Twenty minutes later, he produces a plate for me with a flourish, "Tah dah!"
I stare at the huge steak dwarfing the plate. Oh no. "Thanks. This looks fabulous, but I don't eat red meat."
(See? I'm the cheapest date ever. I feel guilty, because I certainly don't mind cooking it for other people. I just don't like it myself. It's like chewing on polystyrene.)
His face is crestfallen. He's horrified. His big surprise just went belly up.
"Darn. It's my speciality. I thought you'd love it."
Oh shit. Life just sucks.
I rub his forearm the size of my thigh, "Thanks; I really, really, appreciate this. I'll try it, if it'll make you feel better?"
"No ... Crap! I didn't know."
I'm squirming for him. This is so awkward. I get up, "It's fine, really. I have loads of meals frozen. I'll just pop something in the microwave."
He masks his chagrin with a rueful grimace, "Are you sure?"
"The wine's great." I give him a reassuring wink.
We go into the kitchen together and I prepare the 'other half' of our meal. I watch his deft movements around the kitchen and am impressed. He's really overdressed though. Black boots, black trousers, black button up shirt: a closet goth cooking in my kitchen. I smile to myself. Spiky dark brown hair. This guy is just huge, it's the only way to describe him. I suppress a giggle as I realise that his hand is bigger than my face.
We eat together and this evening is dragging. It's early but I'm awkward and nervous.
Why is he here? What's his intention exactly?
At nine, after he's washed the dishes (HELLO!), and after at least forty-five minutes of small talk, he suggests, "Should we go out?"
Hell yeah. Anything to get out of this rut.
"Yes!"
"The Corner Bar okay?"
I nod.
Great! Smokes, money and off we go.
This evening is working now. I haven't ever met a man who actually dances. That's what girlfriends are for. He towers over everyone on the dance floor. Now we have something to bond over. Music! I love this place. It's a biker's, head-banger's, delight. It's dim, smoky, and wall-to-wall average dudes and gothic chicks. The men are all earthy and ordinary. Jeans, T-shirts, denim or leather jackets are everywhere. Lots of interesting tattoos, lots of long hair on everyone, I fit right in. The girls all look vampish. So my maneuvers are right at home. No one hits on me. No one harasses me. Wow. The people here respect each other. Don't believe the stereotype rubbish you hear; or maybe it's because I'm with my own personal bouncer?
To make my life complete, we are lucky enough to have one my favourite local bands playing live. Unobtrusively, I lean against the wall, watching Nic James growl out lyrics that I've set my life to. I mean, come on, a girl's allowed to swoon in secret isn't she? I am way too cool to ever do the groupie thing.
Lordy, Gary might have stripped my dignity, but in public I have my pride. Nic James is really tall, his hair is dyed black, and he has electric blue eyes that scythe through the room seductively. Couple that with his, ‘I can sing the pants off you’ voice and, let's just say, my body likes him very much. A lot of their lyrics are heavy, deep, intellectual. Which is probably why James likes them too …. hmm ... I wonder if James planned this?
I watch their drummer, Marc, strip
off his shirt with the suffocating heat in here and am reminded of how groovy it is to be single; and grin at the Feedback CDs stacked on a table, ‘Pieces’. How apt. My life is in smithereens. My heart is smashed to shards. Nic's voice is like Sam Elliot mixed with Chad Kroeger. Just close your eyes and let that voice carry you anywhere you want to go. I think it's time I upgraded to a man.
I fan myself, imagining how awesome it must be to be stuck in a blackout with this crowd. Is it suddenly clammy in here?
That was the night that James and I became friends. He never ever put a move on me. And I respect him for that. We share a love of grungy music. Soon this becomes routine, sometimes including Selene. I like having male friends.
Anyway, so I meet Don at the Corner Bar. Don does tattooing for a living. And who needs Tupperware, when you can have a tattoo party? I explain how shy I am. The only tattoo parlour I know of with a good reputation contains two flaws. A gigantic python! And glass windows into the studio. Which means everyone will see me with my pants off! No can do. I pout, plead and manipulate, until Don tells me, "Fine. But make it worth my while. I'll do yours for free if you line up five clients."
So that weekend I have five friends lined up. Don is expected at two in the afternoon, so I wonder what the hell? when my doorbell rings at eleven in the morning.
I look through the peep hole and see a huge man I've never seen before at my door. He rings the doorbell again.
Suspiciously I crack the door open, "Can I help you?"
"Are you Stefanie?" I nod.
He smiles, "Great! I'm at the right place."
Huh?
"Sorry?"
"Hey man, it's breezy out here, aren't you going to let me in?"
I am a dimwit. You can tell. "Um. Why are you here? Who are you?"
"Eddie! Jake sent me."
Jake? Dianne's seedy boyfriend Jake?
"Dianne's boyfriend?"
He nods, looking around as if he's about to score drugs off me and has a guilty conscience. So I let him in.
He walks in, surveys my tiny home, and flops his body-builder's frame onto my sofa, "Got anything to drink?"
