Eat Me (19 page)

‘I ordered him to stand up, to turn and face me, and take off his boots and bellbottoms. Before he did this, he dug into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a handful of condoms, which he tossed onto the carpet. I thought, wow, and counted, one two three four five six seven eight nine. He's certainly come prepared for some action. His ginormous meat whistle, however, had decided to take a bit of a rest. Time for a wake-up call. I flicked it lightly with my lash. Immediately, it perked up and waved at me.'

‘I love it when men do that,' Julia chuckled. ‘It always cracks me up.'

‘Then what happened?' Philippa demanded impatiently.

‘I took the purple-helmeted warrior of love between my fingers and, very, very slowly, lowered my mouth down towards it. As I approached it, I could see that tiny nub of pre-cum pushing its way up to form a perfect pearl on the tip, a dollop of cream on dark plum-pudding. I licked it off, and he shuddered.

‘“Now sailor darling,” I said, rising, and twisting one of his nipples, hard, as I went, “I am going to give you your instructions for the rest of the evening. You are going to tear my lingerie off me with your white and pearlies. You are going to worship my cunt as if it were the first you've ever seen, and the last you'll ever see again. You are going to lay me down and ravish me, fucking me good and hard and long as only big strong Yankee sailor boys can. You are going to fuck me so that I feel it all the way up to my eyeballs.”' Chantal lit a cigarette, and blew smoke rings into the air. She seemed lost in thought.

‘And?' Philippa, unable to bear the silence, interjected.

‘And he did.' Chantal smiled. ‘Two hundred dollars and I had the best rumpy-pumpy of my life. Fireworks! Let's go outside.'

‘Oh, they really have started,' Julia was the first to realise that Chantal was being literal. Grabbing their glasses, they hurried onto Chantal's balcony, which overlooked Woolloomooloo. It was a clear summer's night, and from the balcony they had a good view of the bridge and the top sails of the Opera House. Glittering bursts filled the air over the harbour. The city centre, with its narrow ridge of tall buildings, shimmered like a giant cruise ship about to pull out of its moorings.

A spectacular red flare soared high into the air with a great whizzing sound. No sooner had it taken off than it exploded, its sparkling ejaculate dissipating almost as soon as it hit the sky.

‘Boy firecracker,' observed Julia, ‘of the worst sort. Gets your attention in a big way, then once it shoots its load, it's gone.'

Three soft whistles and now three twinkling jellyfish in gold, violet and green danced in the air, one after the other, waving their phosphorescent tentacles as they leisurely faded back into a pulsating sky.

‘That was beautiful,' Philippa commented.

‘Girl,' Julia nodded. ‘No doubt about it.'

When the fireworks crescendoed with a great, multiple orgasmic explosion that filled the sky with glitter, Julia sighed with appreciation.

Helen was the first to speak. ‘You know, I still find it a wee bit disturbing, Chantal, this thing about you enacting a mistress-slave fantasy with a black man. I realise that it was consensual, and that he obviously enjoyed it and made money out of it, and that no sexual practice should be considered unduly transgressive if it is mutually agreeable and, oh, I don't know. Do you think I'm overly analytical? Should I get the dessert going?'

Chantal grimaced like a naughty girl caught with her hand in the biscuit tin. ‘It was a bit over the top, wasn't it?' They all sat in silence for a minute or two.

‘I'd better put on the kettle.' With that, she stood up and strode into the kitchen.

Helen looked guiltily at the others. ‘Do you think I upset her?' she whispered.

Julia laughed. ‘Don't worry about it. I'm actually quite sure she made the whole thing up.'

‘What?' Helen looked surprised.

‘You see,' said Julia. ‘I once did a photo essay on sex workers who specialise in bondage and discipline and sadomasochism and they told me they will never act as the bottom for a client. It's simply too dangerous. They sometimes may accede to a request if they know the client very well, but a first time—never. I don't think her sailor boy would have allowed her to do that sort of thing. If there was ever a sailor boy at all, that is.'

‘Helen darling,' Chantal called from inside. ‘What's happening with that dessert?'

In Beijing, on the same night, Mr Fu's wife, Yuemei, put her hands on her hips and studied her husband with a coolness that bordered on contempt. Her trousers and underpants were pulled down to just above her knees. They were standing beside the bed in their tiny bedroom.

He gestured for her, for the third or fourth time, to turn around and bend over.

‘
Zhe daodi shi weishenme?
' she asked, crossly, finally acceding, her palms on the floor. ‘What the hell is all this about?'

‘
Bie shuo hua, haobuhao?'
he answered, unbuttoning his own pants and pulling out his erect cock. ‘Can you keep quiet for a minute?'

She grunted as he entered her from behind. He came rather quickly, and, withdrawing from her, went to the other room to get them some tissues. Not much fun for her but she was relieved to be released from the uncomfortable and humiliating position. He'd behaved so oddly since that last job. If she didn't know him so well, she'd suspect him of having had an affair with that, what was she— Austrian?—photographer he'd had to escort around.

‘
Qi tama guai,
' she commented under her breath when he returned, shaking her head and grabbing a tissue off him. ‘Fucking weirdo.'

GOOGY EGG ON TOAST

‘She's
so cool, Carolyn. She spins me out.'

‘She's not bad. I think her beige fixation is a bit of a worry. Not much style. And she's got thick legs.'

‘That's so unfair,' he protested, fiddling with his green pigtails. ‘When did you become a fashion Nazi? I just don't buy into traditional, commercially promoted notions of female beauty. I thought a feminist like you would appreciate that. Anyway, I would describe her legs as voluptuous. Quite luscious actually.'

‘So you would. You're so goddamn politically correct. Hey, come on, I was only pulling your own luscious leg. Hers aren't
that
thick. And I know what you mean. I like her too. Remember, I was the one who recommended her classes to you. I wonder what this place is like?' She peered inside a doorway. ‘It's just opened. I think it's the only cafe in Glebe I haven't been to yet.'

‘I have. It's excellent. They've got really good vegetarian pita sandwiches with sprouts and tofu and stuff. And it's run by this really together lesbian couple. What? What did I say?'

‘Nothing. Sometimes, you know, you just crack me up.'

Marc tossed Carolyn a doleful look. They'd finished their first day of classes for the new year, and Marc had just come out of Helen's course. He'd been nervous, but she'd given him a big smile and that had reassured him. He didn't stick around to speak with her, however, because she'd been surrounded by new students. Carolyn, a physics major, had spent a less emotional day grappling with gravitons.

Though late in the day, it was still warm. But the new autumn light was crisp, and the Sydney sky a deep blue. Walking up Glebe Point Road, Marc and Carolyn had passed fellow students shlepping knapsacks full of books, and adorned with tribal regalia: arts students, in their beaded fezzes or long Indian skirts, carried net shopping-bags full of wholemeal loaves and organic peanut butter; law students sported short haircuts and proto-professional wear; and music-heads announced their individual tastes on screen-printed t-shirts. Also on the beat were middleaged crystal healers and aura therapists in vibrant batik turbans, gauntly handsome artists from Latin America with paint splashes on their cotton trousers, and the occasional clot of thick-bodied yobs in red plaid shirts who'd leaked into the neighbourhood from some place deeper west. It was as if all the colour that was suppressed in Darlinghurst, where black ruled and white accessorised, had crossed the centre of town to capture Glebe and its more seriously eccentric sister suburb of Newtown. Glebe and Newtown were hundreds and thousands to Darlinghurst's licorice and cream.

Despite the fact that her manner of dress was neither particularly showy nor eccentric, Carolyn attracted admiring looks from both men and women. She was extraordinarily feline, with long sleek legs, a sinuous, sly way of moving, startling jade-green eyes and—reinforcing the impression that she was some highly evolved species of pussy cat—ears that were slightly pointed. She had spiky blonde hair and a prickly wit to match. ‘Want to sit here in the window?' she suggested.

‘Sure. We can perv on passers-by.'

‘And they,' she said brightly, ‘can perv on us.' Carolyn plonked her patent-leather backpack down on the next stool.

Marc waved to the cafe owner. ‘Hi, Jean.'

Jean waved back with a big grin. ‘G'day!'

‘How'd you know her name?'

‘I asked. I've come here a few times since it opened.' Marc tucked his skirt under him on the stool. He was in a particularly androgynous mood today.

Carolyn observed him with barely concealed amusement. ‘You know, Marc, you're almost too good to be a boy.'

‘Why do you insist on judging me on the basis of gender stereotypes? If I said something like that to you, you'd be ropeable. As you should be. I try my best to use ambigenic language myself.'

‘Ambi-what?'

‘Ambigenic. Means non-sexist.'

‘Why don't you just say non-sexist then?'

‘Because it's negative, you know, it defines things in negative terms. Ambigenic is a positive word for the same quality. Uh, yeah, Jean, thanks I'll have a latte. And a slice of chocolate mudcake with cream. Ta.'

‘Same for me. You are
so
cute. Oh, don't look so hurt, Marc. Although that wounded puppy expression of yours is actually quite adorable—your eyes grow very round and button-like, and you end up looking like a character out of Tintin. Sort of vulnerable and sweet.'

‘So that's how you think of me, a cartoon.'

‘Sure,' she qualified, ‘but not just any old cartoon. A classy French cartoon. Things could be worse. I could think of you as Bart Simpson. Or Stimpy. Besides, on some level, you must think of yourself as a cartoon or you wouldn't wear your hair like that.' Marc's hands flew up to his pigtails and his mouth opened in an affronted ‘O' that exactly matched the round circles of his eyes. Carolyn burst out laughing. ‘That only makes it worse. So, back to what you were telling me—are you saying you have a crush on Madam Teacher?'

‘A bit worse than that. But I don't know if I want to tell you now, Carr.'

‘Don't be such a child. I think that boy standing outside with the guitar is looking at you.'

Marc looked up. ‘Oh it's Jake!' He waved him inside.

‘Marc! How ya goin', mate?'

‘No complaints. Jake, Carolyn. Carolyn, Jake. That gig was sick, man,' Marc said admiringly. ‘You were so tight. The crowd totally went off.'

‘Oh yeah? Sometimes it's hard to tell. I mean, sure, we could sense it and I think that's why we were really cooking. You never know from gig to gig whether that's going to happen, or whether anyone's gonna come at all. It gets sorta depressing when you look out at the audience and there's, like, one completely blotto dude about to pass out on the bar, two or three punters standing towards the back of the room with their arms folded on their chests, real icy-like, and a small pack of groupies who've come for the next band standing over to one side, chewing gum and talking all the way through your set. It's always nice to see a familiar, friendly, happy-vibe giving face like yours beaming away out there.'

‘Oh, I reckon you had plenty of happy-vibe givers in the audience on Saturday. It was packed.' Marc indicated the stool next to him. ‘Join us for a cuppa?'

‘No, can't. Got a rehearsal.'

‘Too bad. By the way, why are you wearing two different shoes?'

Jake shrugged. ‘Long story. My personal life's been a bit full-on lately. Tell you about it some other time.'

‘When's your next gig then?'

‘Next weekend. Ever heard of Bram Vam? Punk poet and cult hero of the early '80s?'

Marc frowned. ‘Doesn't really ring a bell. Then again, I was only a little kid back then. Why?'

‘And you call yourself an alterna-type,' Jake tsk-tsked and then laughed. ‘Actually, I only know about him cuz he's my cousin. He's been away from Sydney for about ten years. Even though he's really old, like in his forties or something, he's pretty cool. The reason he's back is cuz there's been this new interest in his books and stuff, and his publisher thinks it's time for a comeback. So, like, he's gonna do this next gig with us. See how it goes.'

‘Cool. I'll try to make it.' Marc sounded enthusiastic. He liked the idea of supporting old people, especially when they were doing cool things. He was against ageism as well as sexism.

‘Catch ya.'

‘See ya.' Marc and Carolyn watched Jake lope down the street, dreads bouncing like springs.

‘Marc, that guy is a babe! Why didn't you introduce me earlier.'

‘Sorry, Carr, but I thought you only went for women.'

‘I'm not that dogmatic,' she shrugged. ‘Whatever's fresh and in season.'

‘Anyway,' he continued, a tad vindictively, ‘you're not his type. Too young.'

‘What do you mean? I'm twenty-one. How old's he?' Jean returned with their coffees and retreated to the counter, from which discreet vantage point she continued her interested inspection of Carolyn.

‘Twenty-two. What I mean is, he's into older women.'