by Donna Alam
‘Horses of different colours, those,’ she says absently, flicking a page. ‘Like donkeys and zebras.’
‘What?’ It was never going to be easy, but really, did she have to make me more confused?
Niamh raises her head, staring into the middle distance. ‘Two . . . states that shouldn’t be housed together.’ Her eyes return to me. ‘Mess your kinksters with your swingers and you end up with crossed boundaries, crossed purposes, or else something really weird.’
‘Okay.’ I draw the word out slowly, not okay at all. ‘What about kinksters, then.’ Swingers are people who swap partners, I think. ‘Kink.’ I repeat quietly.
Leaning her elbow on the arm of the chair, her eyes settle again on mine. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’ve developed a fetish for shoes, ‘cos, babe, that particular kitty-cat’s already out of the bag.’
I smile weakly and shrug. ‘I like shoes.’
‘You like fuck me heels all of a sudden.’ Actually, Kai like’s to fuck me in heels but that’s just semantics. ‘Or are you talking more along the serious lines—bondage, pegging and that pony play stuff?’
I swallow the lump of madness, the chunk of ohmyGodNiamhIlikebondageandbeingspanked lodged in my throat. Trust her to whisk the conversation to the heart of the matter so fast, I feel like I’ve got whiplash. My face burns so hot, I think my outsides probably match my innards. And what the puck is pony play? Because the only animal I’m playing is possum, and I’m doing it right now as I force myself to relax back in the chair.
‘And pegging, what the feck!’ she exclaims, turning an unfamiliar shade of red herself, which totally clashes with her hair.
Pegging? Laundry pegs as bargain basement nipple clamps? Misuse of your laundry stuff, at a guess?
‘Whatever tosses your salad, I suppose,’ she says, sniggering. Then, licking the tip of her index finger, she turns the page, adding haughtily, ‘I think you’ll find it’s a load of sensationalism, mainly. People thinking they’re missing out on shit, making stuff up. Especially as bondage’s become a bit of a buzz word lately. I mean, look at that book, for example. It sent sales of sex toys through the roof.’
‘The one from your book club, Sixty Shags?’
She nods. ‘ ‘Course, there are people out there getting their freaky-freak on for real. Believe me, I’ve seen the homemade porn.’ Shrugging off the admission, she carries on. ‘A freaky minority lusting after inanimate objects and trying shit—sometimes literally.’
Ignoring her reference—I’ve heard of, but not seen, that notorious video clip—I ask, ‘Is there something wrong with that?’ I defend my new, freaky leanings as boldly as I dare. I’m almost tempted to tell her what I’ve been up to, just to watch her swallow her tongue. It’s a fleeting thought and not a very sensible one. ‘You don’t think regular people can have . . . interesting . . . sex lives?’ Not that I’d consider Kai a regular person, not with his background and money. Nope, not at all.
‘That a polite euphemism for rubber and collars now? I’m not sayin’ they’re all perverts, but if the gimp mask fits . . .’ She shrugs dismissively.
‘So you’ve never indulged?’
‘Will you ever feck off!’ she says, turning several pages so quickly, they almost tear. ‘Can you see me in leather? A collar ‘round my neck?’
‘I can totally see you in a dominatrix getup.’ She’s bossy enough. Maybe she and Kai can double up—she can boss me around in my everyday life, while he dominates me in the bedroom. Hang on; I think that’s what already happens.
‘How many glasses have you had? Is working with women turning your head, ‘cos if you’re batting for the other side now, you’re so not my type.’
‘Funny,’ I reply with a snort. ‘And ditto. If I’m going lesbian, you’d be the last les-I’d-be-in.’
‘Where’d you pick this magazine up, anyway?’ she asks, ignoring me. ‘The local Cosmo isn’t filled with smut.’
‘At the airport, before my flight out from Brisbane. I haven’t had a chance to read it yet. And what’s wrong with the local Cosmo?’
‘It’s tame by comparison, sort of catering to the market.’
‘Like abaya’s in the fashion section?’
‘It’s abayaat, plural. And I mean no smut. No ten ways to blow your man articles, like they don’t indulge, for feck sakes. Repression, that’s what it is.’
‘You’ve lost me.’ On both fronts and repressed is not my experience in these matters.
‘It’s just everything’s so prescribed, the do’s and the don’ts, according to the culture and stuff. Anyway, it seems so where relationships and sex are concerned.’
‘How?’
‘Well, I’m not an expert, but that whole thou shalt not indulge in blood sports thing seems a bit over the top. And that business about looking at the opposite sex as being adultery of the eyes. Does that mean if you get a whiff of some fella’s aftershave, your nose is a slut, too?’
‘Hang on, what has hunting got to do with sex?’ Blood sports? What’s she talking about?
Folding the magazine in her lap, she rolls her eyes. ‘Not hunting, eejit. Have a think.’ Reaching for her glass, she raises it to her mouth.
Blood sports and sex.
Blood and sport and sex.
Blood and sex . . .
‘Periods?’ I ask, quizzical.
‘Give the girl a prize! Would tampons or pads suit you? Supposedly, the female race is unclean once a month, the menfolk instructed to stay away. Our state of disgrace, it seems.’
‘Piss off! That’s worse than the no touching before married thing.’ I’m not sure whether to laugh at the absurdity or be offended on behalf of womankind.
‘For realz, no crime scene sex, babes.’ I’m so not going to ask, but it seems I have no say in the matter as she peers at me over the edge of her glass. ‘You know, sex that sometimes leaves the bed looking like the forensics team needs to be called in.’
‘Far out.’ I hurry on. ‘It had to be a bloke who came up with that, not that I’ve ever . . .’ Stop. Not touching that one, either. ‘But whatever tickles your pickle, right? Whatever consenting adults get up to in the privacy of their own bedrooms is their business.’
Come on, Niamh, now’s your chance to make me feel less of a deviant; agree with me.
‘Far out,’ she repeats, instead, slowly shaking her head. ‘That’s seriously seventies. No the wonder you were trying to bring back the bush. And TMI, B-T-Dubs.’
‘Seriously,’ I reply, ignoring her jibe. ‘You’re about ten years too old to be talking in acronyms.
‘But you’ve never . .’ She looks at me curiously as though waiting for me to fill in the blanks. ‘Haven’t you ever been so turned on, that you just had to . . . scratch that itch? Only natural with all those raging hormones?’ When it becomes clear to her I can’t find the words to answer, she holds up her hands. ‘Okay, your business, not mine.’
‘Yes, anyway,’ I respond, eyes like saucers in my head. ‘I think it’s probably, officially, like that for most faiths and cultures. The list of do’s and don’ts, I mean. We could argue that Christians have centuries of repression behind them, too. Sex for procreation only, and all that guff? Come to think of it, doesn’t Leviticus say something similar about women and periods, or was it St. Jerome?’
‘Fucked if I know,’ she answers, placing her glass down. ‘Messy sex is sometimes great, and sometimes a pain in the arse. Literally.’ Leaning back in the chair, she stretches out her arms with a yawn. ‘You already know my views on any sort of organized religion, and I haven’t gone blind from interfering with myself yet.’
I wish my face wasn’t quite so transparent as she carries on.
‘But I think you’re right, essentially. So long as you’re not hurting anyone—or any small animals or anything—whatever you get up to, or whatever gets up you, is nobody’s business but your own. Yours and the people you’re having sex with.’ People, not person. Interesting . . . ‘And as we’re on
the subject, while the only religious experience I’m interested in is getting all heels to Jesus with Rob, I’ve spent a fair bit of time on my knees at mass but I mustn’t have been listening as well as you.’
TMI, BT dubs, for sure. Diversion time. I gesture to her almost empty glass. ‘ ‘Nother?’
I’ll stop the conversation here, I think. I may know a bit more about scripture than her, but I’m guessing she knows an awful lot more about sex than she’s going to say. I decide to leave it at just that—a guess—because this conversation’s going no place I want it to.
Maybe I can order books? Bondage for Beginners? BDSM for Dummies? I’ve looked on the net for advice, blogs and stuff, but those kinds of web pages all seem to be blocked, replaced by an official note from some government ministry or other advising something like if you feel you’ve been misaligned, contact us.
I can see the headlines: Australian woman kicked out of UAE for viewing porn.
Think I’ll give that a miss.
Oh well, I’ll just have to come up with a plan B, somehow.
Fourteen
Yay, the weekend is here!
Kai is back!
And the man has plans!
‘Where did you say we were going again?’
Dubai passes by the car window a little faster than I’d like, so I turn my attention to Kai instead. A suggestion of stubble shadows his face, his expensive cologne drifting across the interior of the car.
‘You know full well I didn’t,’ he replies, tightening his grip on my hand. ‘All you need to know is this weekend you’re all mine.’
‘Because that doesn’t sound sinister at all.’
‘Ye of little faith,’ he chides, sliding his arm between the seat and my shoulders, pulling me to him as he kisses my head.
‘More like ye of little clothes.’ I struggle to pull my dress higher over my cleavage, succeeding in only causing a little boob-jiggle as Rashid drives the Merc over a speed bump with a little more aggression than I would myself. It doesn’t help that I’ve pinned my hair up in a haphazard kind of bun, so I’ve no curtain to hide behind, just a few loose tendrils, artfully curled here and there. I do love this dress, though. A fabulous last minute buy; dark green lace over a nude coloured sheath. Kai had commented that, from a distance, I’d looked almost naked, my modesty protected only by the deeply green entwining vines. He likes the corseted bodice, naturally. Probably because it looks like I’ve been poured into it. Sitting down, it looks more like certain parts of my anatomy are pouring out.
‘You may not want to do that in public.’ Despite his teasing tone, his eyes darken as he peers down. Blinking once, his expression clears. ‘I may get you to do it lots later, if you don’t mind.’
‘Last time I wore something like this, it was to a hen party; a bachelorette?’ I say, my stomach starting to warm in a very pleasant way. His only reply is a raised brow. ‘Okay, maybe not quite the same.’ I smooth my hand against my very—assisted—flat stomach. ‘More just a couple of strategically placed fig leaves glued to nude nylon. It’s what you get when you leave one of the other hens to order your outfit. I was supposed to be Poison Ivy. I so wanted to be Wonder Woman. I’d have twirled the shit out of that cape all night.’
‘You look beautiful,’ Kai adds, chuckling. ‘Just try not to . . . bounce quite so much.’
I open my mouth to point out it wasn’t on purpose when the car pulls to a stop, Rashid sliding out to open the door. We’re at the marina.
‘Are we going to dinner at one of the hotels?’ There are plenty of them around here but why are we parked nearer to the boats than the buildings, and why are some of them almost cruise-liner size?
‘No.’ Stepping from the car, Kai turns and holds his hand to help me out. ‘We’re going on this.’ Behind him stands—floats?—one of the larger vessels. Gleaming white and rising out of the water on three levels, it has the moniker Layla swirled on its rear end. Bow? Stern? Clearly, I should stick to teaching. I’d never make it as a pirate.
‘Have you hired this?’ Somehow I know before the words are out, that’s not the case. ‘What, it’s yours?’
‘Is that such a surprise?’
‘That you own the QE2?’ Erm, yeah. Honestly, he’s like some grown-up version of Richie Rich or something. Without the blonde hair.
‘I thought we might go for a little trip, now that you’ve got your sea legs. Rashid told me about your abra trip. Come on, let me show you around.’
I’m wondering what kind of licence you need to drive one of these things—when you drive a big-rig, you need a special license. Is it the same with a boat?—when, thankfully, the captain greets us on the lower of the large, teak decks. A highly polished table, easily large enough for twelve, sits in the centre surrounded by striped seating; areas to lounge around drinking cocktails and sun-baking, I suppose. As Kai chats with the captain, a waiter dressed in shorts and polo-shirt offers me a drink from a tray. Swallowing a mouthful of crisp bubbly, I wander around the deck trying to take in the luxury of my surroundings. It’s not like I’ve never been on a boat before. Geoff, my stepdad, has a tinny, a little tin boat he uses for weekend fishing. And one of Shane’s mates had something a bit more flash, and I’d been out on it a couple of times. But this vessel is something else—a super yacht, sleek and luxurious. And another very expensive marker of our differences in background.
‘This way.’
His hand curls around my hip, drawing me inside, the teak flooring leading seamlessly to a large lounge, with stylish sofas dotted around its periphery. A dining table, large enough for a banquet, sits at the far end of the room, a bar standing in a far corner, another polo-shirted member of staff standing behind and setting out an anticipated drink for Kai.
Glass in hand, Kai’s neck works as he swallows, his raised brow making a return. ‘Bedrooms.’ It sounds like an invitation. With a vague wave of his glass holding hand, he points out a corridor to the left.
‘It took me ages to get into this damn dress, you’re not getting me out of it without a fight,’ I counter playfully, smoothing the dress against my ribs, though I know that’s not quite what he means. Eying the banquet table, I hope whatever we’re doing tonight doesn’t include a large dinner. Could be painful in this dress.
‘That sounds like a challenge,’ he purrs, glass poised at his mouth to take another sip.
‘Yeah? Well, it’s not,’ I answer, pulling away. At the window, I swallow more champagne and realise we’re moving, smoothly, but moving definitely. ‘We’re . . . casting off?’ I’ve changed my mind, I could well have missed my calling as a pirate. ‘Where again?’
‘I told you, it’s a surprise.’
Suddenly behind me, his words are spoken as softly as the finger he strokes across the exposed slope of my neck, skin bared from the weight of my hair.
I shiver, wrapping an arm around my waist.
‘Is there something wrong?’
And I suppose there is. It’s like that kid's song, the one about things being different. One of these things not being like the other. I’m one of these things that just doesn’t fit in. I’m the cheap end of the mall; Forever 21 and H&M, while he’s the Gucci end. Probably not even that, probably more custom made and imported, Saville Row or Milan. I thought the hotel was strange and the cars a bit over the top. How can I tell him this boat is just another wedge of difference between us, without making him feel as bad as I do? Because, when faced with reminders of his wealth, its depths, it makes me feel more than a little ill. It’s an uncomfortable reminder of how different we are, where we’ve come from. How this is likely to end, at some point. And always in the background is this nagging awareness of what people will think. Gold digger. That’s how I’ll be labelled, regardless of how I feel about him.
‘I’m just tired, I think.’
If he’s unconvinced, he hides it well, stooping to place a kiss behind my ear. I’ve never been a fan of scotch but the faint tang spurs me to turn as I wonder if it�
��ll taste any better from his tongue. I slide my arms around his neck, placing my lips against his. Yes, okay, I’m trying to blot out the thoughts, and as his free hand curls around my waist, I can almost anticipate its onward journey.
His soft lips curl against mine, one hand sliding down to cup my arse. ‘Tell me where we’re going, or unhand me booty, mate.’
I feel his smile against my own before a breath of whiskey and pleasure crosses my cheek as he laughs. ‘A party, of sorts.’
‘With other people?’ I pull back to peer up at him.
‘That’s the usual state of affairs.’ He smiles, sort of secretly. ‘A meeting of like minds, or perhaps an acquired taste. But we don’t have to stay.’
As I swallow the remains of my drink, we dock at an island, which can’t be far from the mainland given we haven’t been moving for more than one glass. The island itself seems to be covered in palm trees and lush with greenery. In the distance, a palatial house rises from the surrounding green as lights, reminiscent of a runway, make a path to the house, disappearing into the trees before reappearing on the path beyond. A dozen boats of similar calibre to the Layla float alongside. People—some dressed for cocktails, some for a club—mingle at various points between the large jetty and the house, most making their way along the path.
‘What is this place?’ I ask as we stand on the deck.
‘Sweetheart, this is the world,’ he replies with a wry smile.
‘Comedian. We’re still in Dubai technically, right?’
‘We are. Haven’t you heard of The World?’ My blank expression answers him. ‘It’s a manmade archipelago, made to resemble a map of the world. It hasn’t been fully developed. The recent financial crisis put it on hold but for a few points on the map.’
‘Huh.’ His explanation triggers vague memories. I must’ve seen a TV program about it or something. I seem to remember thinking it a bit mad, but that’s Dubai, I suppose. ‘So, what’s this one, which part of the world, I mean?’
