Later that afternoon, as she was dropping me off after a successful shopping spree, Elaine reminded me about my date the next night. I resisted the urge to stomp my feet like a small child. ‘Fine,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘but you’ll be sorry if this one’s an axe murderer.’
‘Wear your new dress,’ she ordered.
I had bought a crisp print dress, while Elaine had bought a stunning gold number. It clung to her breasts revealing the perfect amount of cleavage, and then crossed under them. From there it was ruched down to her waist and over her hips. I could never carry off a dress like that. My breasts just weren’t big enough.
‘Where am I meeting him?’ I asked sullenly.
‘At Darling Harbour, outside the IMAX theatre. I’ve emailed over his details to you.’
‘Thanks. I’m kind of losing enthusiasm for this whole internet dating thing.’
‘What do you mean losing? You never had any to start with. Heaps of people have met on the internet.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe these men would be perfect for you not me.’
‘A man that takes you to McDonalds on a first date?’ she said in horror. ‘I think not.’
‘How did that slip past you?’
‘I read body language so I’m pretty clueless in a chat room,’ she admitted.
‘Is that how you do it? Body language?’
‘What did you think?’
‘Mind reading or supernatural powers – something like that.’
I stopped as Elaine burst out laughing. ‘I wish. Anyway, I think that was the week I got the reunion invite. I was a little distracted.’
‘Gee thanks.’
‘No problems.’ She smiled cheekily before driving off.
* * *
I was busy that week rescheduling Dinah’s patients who couldn’t or wouldn’t be seen by the English locum dentist, Sarah. It wasn’t till Wednesday night that I caught up with Elaine and Nat for dinner and filled them in on my latest date.
‘How was it,’ Nat asked breathlessly, when she finally arrived. Her face was flushed and her long blonde hair tousled. I was guessing it was cleaning night.
‘Terrible,’ I said, pulling a face at Elaine.
‘Oh come on,’ said Elaine, ‘I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.’ She reached over and poured Nat a glass of champagne.
‘He was a dog groomer,’ I started.
‘At least he had a job,’ Elaine said cutting me off. ‘Honestly Tara, you’ve got to stop being so fussy.’
‘He was a dog groomer with a snotty nose,’ I said, looking at Elaine with my eyebrows raised.
‘Eueeew,’ Nat said, looking a little ill.
Elaine was trying to remain serious but I could see a smile starting to twitch the corners of her mouth. ‘Everybody has a bit of bogey sometimes,’ she said.
‘We’re talking margarita glass crusty,’ I said.
She started to smirk. ‘Maybe he just had a cold.’
‘They quivered when he laughed.’ I took a sip of my champagne as I watched her reaction.
‘At least he had a sense of humour,’ she retorted, smiling broadly now.
‘He only laughed at his own jokes,’ I said.
‘It can’t have been all bad,’ she said laughing.
‘At the end, when I went to leave, he kissed me,’ I said, expressing a shudder at the memory.
‘See,’ Elaine said, obviously congratulating herself on her match making skills, ‘not all bad.’
‘I could feel snot drying on my cheek afterwards,’ I replied.
Nat started to laugh. ‘That is horrible,’ she said.
‘See Elaine,’ I said, ‘even Nat agrees it was horrible.’
‘Yes, well, Nat is having sex with someone so she doesn’t have to date the dog groomer with the snotty nose,’ Elaine tartly advised me.
‘No more,’ I said laughing.
‘One more,’ she bargained.
‘When?’ I asked, sighing.
‘Friday,’ she advised me.
‘What are you going to do if that doesn’t work out,’ Nat asked, as she wrestled the cork out of another bottle of bubbly.
I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe I should hire a gigolo.’
Elaine looked at me in surprise.
‘I mean really,’ I continued, ‘would it be that bad? At least I would be being totally honest about the situation.’
‘You’d be comfortable paying someone to have sex with you?’ Nat asked me.
‘Not when you put it like that,’ I admitted. ‘It makes me sound pretty desperate.’
‘You are desperate,’ said Elaine. ‘Desperately in need of good sex. Go on this date and if it doesn’t work out we’ll think of something else.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking how sad my life had become when I had to thank a friend for promising to get me laid.
‘Thank me when this is all over,’ she replied.
* * *
This date started off promisingly. His name was Anthony. He was a lab technician at the Sydney North Shore Hospital. He was cute. He had a nice voice and he took me to a fancy French restaurant in King’s Cross.
They were all ticks in the right boxes. Maybe I would even throw in a gold star. The problem began when we were eating dinner and I noticed the extremely long nail on the fifth finger of his left hand. We’re talking corkscrew curly. It was off-putting watching him place food in his mouth with this huge nail passing in front of his face. I started to get concerned that with one too many drinks he might accidentally gouge out an eye.
And of course then I couldn’t concentrate on anything else. Why would he have a nail that long? How long had it taken to grow? Would he be devastated if it broke? What was its purpose?
‘Would you like to try some snail?’ he asked me politely.
‘What?’ I yelped, having heard him ask me if I wanted to try some nail.
‘Snail?’
‘Oh yes lovely.’ I shuddered at a vision of him stabbing it with his nail and serving it to me like a kebab.
What if he used it to pick his nose? Or his ears? Well he would really only be able to clean the left ear with it. Maybe he had grown the right one as well but it had broken during a particularly serious cleaning session.
In the end I crept off to the toilets and rang Elaine.
‘It’s just a nail,’ she said, ‘and it’s just meaningless sex.’
‘I can’t get past the nail.’
‘Why don’t you ask him about it?’
‘Mmm. Maybe, but what if it’s really embarrassing?’
‘It’s just a nail.’
So when I came back from the toilets I casually brought up the topic of his long, long nail.
‘My, that’s a long nail.’ I tried for a casual approach, but I think it came out a bit strained.
‘Yes it is getting long isn’t it,’ he said proudly, holding it up in front of his face and admiring it.
There was an awkward silence while I looked at him with one eyebrow raised, waiting for him to disclose the reason for it. It became evident that he wasn’t going to explain it unless I asked directly.
‘So tell me Anthony. Why do you have such a long nail?’
I could have accepted many reasons. I was hoping for an explanation like, ‘Oh when I was travelling in Tibet last year I stumbled across a village where all the children were born blind. I’m raising money – by growing this extremely long nail – for research and the possible development of a cure.’
Or here’s a plausible one.
‘I find if I don’t grow it really long I end up with an ingrown nail which is extremely painful and very annoying,’
Hell, I would have even accepted, ‘my mother’s been kidnapped by an evil witch and if I can grow this nail for a year and give it to the witch I’ll get my mother back alive.’
But when he shrugged casually and, looking at his nail said, ‘I just like it.’ I felt myself turn off. I realised at that moment there was a chance
I had become far too fussy to have meaningless sex.
Later that evening when he dropped me home and leaned in for a goodnight kiss, I really did try. I let him kiss me. I closed my eyes and tried to think of England. I moved my mouth in an appropriate manner. But when I felt the end of his nail graze my cheek, my eyes popped open and I jumped out of the car with a, ‘Thanks for a great night. I had a really good time. See ya.’
When I got home, (which took a few minutes as I had Anthony drop me off up the road, and I had to cut through the back yard of another block of flats and a house), I found that Fishy Fishy had finally managed to achieve his goal to take his own life.
Poor little guy, he was all dried up and hard, hanging there with his fin caught in the mosquito net cover. As I flushed his little body down the toilet I wondered how long it had taken him to come up with the idea.
‘No Mum,’ I repeated for the third time. ‘I did not go out and leave the netting off. He jumped up and caught his fin in the netting.’
‘Really Tara, do you expect me to believe that garbage?’ she said.
‘Yes I do expect you to believe me.’
‘Well I’m sorry but after the whole Cocky debacle.’
‘Hey, I only lied about Cocky because I couldn’t handle him any more.’
‘I don’t know how you think I’m going to trust you with another pet.’
‘Well maybe if you stopped getting me such deranged ones I wouldn’t have this problem.’
‘Good night Tara.’
‘Well, goodnight to you too.’
That night I dreamt that Fishy Fishy had a huge hard curly fin which he used to pole vault himself out of the bowl. Then, when he had died and gone hard, I kept him to use as an ear-cleaning tool. It was a pretty disturbing dream and I woke feeling a little creeped out by the whole thing.
* * *
Saturday morning I got an SMS text from Nat.
Urgent. Need to talk.
R u okay?
Not okay. Bad, really Bad.
Do you want to come over?
I’m at your front door.
I opened the door to a Natalie I’d never seen before; rumpled with red weepy eyes and large black bags.
‘Shit. You look terrible.’
She put her handbag on the kitchen bench, perched on one of my stools, and let out a miserable sigh.
‘Natalie,’ I placed a hand on her shoulder, ‘what’s wrong. Come on tell Aunty Tara.’
‘Too bad.’ She slumped down and put her head on the bench.
‘You’ll feel better when you share.’
‘This is bad Tara, really bad. I think I may get the sack.’
I felt a prickle of alarm. Oh no. Had Nat stuffed up some huge court case? What if she ended up going to jail?
‘All right talk,’ I demanded.
‘Last night, my boss walked in on Ricardo and me having sex.’
Not jail then. I let out a sigh of relief. ‘Like actually going for it, not just kissing?’ I asked.
‘He was sitting in my chair and I was on top, riding him.’ She mumbled the last part and blushed as she said it.
I have to say I was impressed. ‘What did she say?’ I asked, as I poured her a cup of coffee.
‘That’s the worst part of it. Nothing except, “Oh Excuse me”, and then she left.’ She took a big swig of the coffee, grimacing when she realised I had forgotten to add sugar.
‘Sorry,’ I said, handing her the sugar. ‘How’s Ricardo?’
‘Worried I’ll lose my job.’
‘What about his job?’
‘He says he’ll get another job easily.’
‘Yeah. Tristan would hire him in a shot.’
She smiled weakly.
‘This is probably a silly question, but why were you still having sex at work?’
She squirmed in her chair. ‘Sexual anticipation.’
‘Huh?’
Her face reddened with embarrassment as she said, ‘Knowing he was getting closer and closer to my room; it was really exciting.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ I asked after I had absorbed that information.
‘Start looking for a new job?’
‘No seriously on Monday, what are you going to do?’
‘Guess I’ll go face the music.’
‘I feel sick.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
* * *
That Sunday I made the trip to Umina for The Official Sunday Roast Lunch. I will go a long way for a roast dinner and Mum’s is the best there is. Lily, Martin and the clan were already there when I arrived, and Camellia was trying to ride Fluffy, who was unenthusiastic about the idea and had decided to lie down.
‘Up pony,’ piped Camellia as I walked around the back of the house to the rear stairs.
Fluffy rolled one eye to look at Camellia, letting out a big whoompha of air, before putting his head back down on the ground.
‘Pony, up,’ she said, tugging on his big ears as if they were reins.
Fluffy closed his eyes and lay so still that for a moment I contemplated he might actually be dead. Maybe he had had a heart attack at the thought of being ridden.
‘Hi gorgeous,’ I said, giving Camellia a hug while watching Fluffy with concern. Over her head I saw him jump up and disappear around the side of the house. I let out an inaudible sigh of relief before jogging up the stairs to the house.
‘Where pony gone?’ I could hear her asking behind me.
By the way Lily and Mum stopped talking the precise moment I entered the house I knew they had been talking about me.
‘What’s up?’ I asked suspiciously, not sure I wanted the answer.
Lily wordlessly handed me a pretty collection of layered cardboard and paper. It was a wedding invitation – Jake and Tash’s wedding invitation.
‘Do I want to look at this?’
Lily nodded her head at it.
Jaclyn and Edward Dubone and Juliette and Mark Wellington
are pleased to invite you to the
Union of the Lord Mayor Jake Wellington with Natasha Dubone
On Saturday 30th November
at 64 Piazza Crescent, Avoca Beach
‘Blah Blah Blah Blah,’ I said while I read it, torn between the urge to stick my fingers down my throat and to admire the beautiful gold cardboard they had used to print their invitations. And then I saw it.
‘Are you kidding me?’ I heard my voice rocket up an octave.
Mum and Lily winced.
The invitation was made out to Aunty Bet, Uncle Bert and Tara. They had fucking invited me to their wedding. What a nerve.
‘Well of course I won’t be going.’
Mum looked distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Mum – I’m not going,’ I said.
‘Of course you’re not love,’ said my father. Thank God for the voice of reason. ‘Your Mum’s caught herself in an awkward situation. She told Jackie that you had a new boyfriend.’
‘Mother,’ I said, a little shocked, but also secretly delighted she had lied on my behalf. ‘Your nose is getting bigger.’ She subconsciously touched it as I hugged her. ‘Thanks for not making out that I’m a big sad loser.’
‘I guess now is as good a time to also give you this.’ Lily handed me a hot pink piece of cardboard.
‘The hen’s party?’
She nodded.
‘God that brings back some memories, I hope hers is as sucky as mine was.
Lily and I both laughed.
My hen’s party was a complete disaster. It was the week before the wedding – just in case I ended up with the mother of all hangovers. Nat and Dinah had organised a dinner, that was all I was told. What they had failed to mention was that it was at a place that specialised in hen’s parties and had a stage up the front. We sat at long tables perpendicular to, and coming off the stage, one hen’s party to each table. They had to chip in and buy me a shirt that would identify me as the hen. I didn’t want it, but we decided that if we were the only table that
didn’t do it we would look like a bunch of sad tossers.
So there we all were sitting at this table, me with my special shirt on, and I like a naive idiot am wondering what the stage show was going to be, when out comes the first stripper. I looked at Nat, who shook her head.
‘Sorry,’ she whispered. ‘It said stage show. I didn’t realise they meant strippers.’
I’ve never really been able to get into the male stripper thing. Maybe because they all look gay, prancing around like show ponies, groping their own packages and thrusting them into women’s faces. That night was no exception. The guys were whipping off bits of clothing left, right and centre, while I tried to have a conversation about the coming nuptials with Nat and Dinah. One of the strippers, trying to get my attention, got down on his hands and knees in front of me and started wiggling his red g-stringed buttocks in my face. Everybody else was screaming, but I could see some coarse, black hair poking out from under the G-string, so I was pretty grossed out.
Then Mr Hairy Bottom insisted on dragging me up on stage. I fought pretty hard, but the girls from the table behind us grabbed my legs and threw me bodily onto the platform. I landed on my hands and knees with my bum in the air and my mini skirt up around my hips, flashing my G-string at the crowd. The girls held me down and smacked me on the bare arse, (they were pretty drunk by this stage), while Mr Hairy Bottom waggled his package about an inch from my nose. It was totally humiliating.
He sat me on a stool and started swinging his hips to ‘Man I Feel Like A Woman’. Much to my disgust he held a towel in front of himself and whipped off his G-string. I, thankfully, could only see the blue and white striped towel, but he grabbed my hand and stuck it on his crotch. I could feel his sad, limp dick through the fabric of the towel, and to my dismay, the tip of my little finger missed the towel grazing his soft, waxed balls.
Now I want to get one thing straight. I am normally not that fond of penises. I mean obviously I liked Jake’s, but I have never, ever had an urge to see a strange man’s package, let alone feel one. I certainly didn’t appreciate being forced to touch his, and given a choice I would have taken putting my hand into a jar full of huntsmen spiders over this. As thoughts of herpes and syphilis flashed through my head, I leant forward and whispered in his ear, ‘If you don’t take my hand off your dick this minute you’ll be using a straw to pee through for the rest of your life.’
[2012] The Seven Steps to Closure Page 11
