Workbenches Are For Tools

11 Nov
Sparky!

flickr image by Elsie esq.

 
After being in a long term relationship for a large chunk of my life, I suddenly found myself single. No longer were my Friday nights spent with my partner, comfortably curled up on the lounge in front of a telemovie accompanied by an oversized packet of Malteasers. I now found myself religiously venturing out to pubs and clubs every weekend, abusing my mind and body with an abundance of alcohol, seedy males and bacteria-riddled kebabs.

In the five or so years I’d been a resident of Couplesville, I’d forgotten what life was like for a single female living in Sydney – a city with predominantly more available twenty-something females than twenty-something males. A city where men are only too arrogantly aware the odds are stacked in their favour. A city where an abundance of single and far too ready to mingle females patrol popular nightspots in outfits so ridiculously skimpy it appears they’ve committed an atrocious fashion faux-par by forgetting to wear pants.

The single scene can certainly be brutal. In constant competition with so many other single females, a girl constantly needs to look her best. Unlike being in a long-term relationship where the tedious task of shaving your legs can be put off for weeks, I became all too aware that being single meant far more maintenance. Hair removal is a never ending task for single women, what with legs, bikini line, armpits, eyebrows and the taboo upper lip. Then there’s the colouring, cutting and styling of hair, manicures, pedicures, facials, exfoliation, fake tanning… The list goes on.   

It quickly became apparent that finding a guy who’d stick around longer than a fleeting sex-charged weekend was a competitive and cutthroat business. I soon felt guilty for patronisingly patting the backs of distraught single girlfriends over the years, whilst offering them unhelpful advice on meeting single males. “Why don’t you join a sporting club?” I would unhelpfully suggest, while inwardly wondering what all the fuss was about. How difficult could it really be to meet a decent guy?

As it turned out – extremely difficult. I’ve found in most cases if you sleep with a man the first night you meet him he won’t bother to call you again, having received all he required from you in the first place. This also seems to leave him questioning the validity of your morals, conveniently forgetting that his own genitals were also involved in the exchange of bodily fluids. However, in my experience, if you meet a man out and instead refrain from sleeping with him on the first night you meet, it is still highly likely he won’t bother to call you, having not received what he required from you in the first place. This often seems to leave him questioning whether he can be bothered devoting the man hours it would take to coax you into opening your legs for him. For every girl not willing to shag him immediately, there’s a slut out there who is.

Of course, not all men go out looking for sex – just the majority of them. There are guys who will call whether you sleep with them or not. But chances are it’ll be at two o’clock in the morning when they’re pissed and feeling horny. By no means do I wish to sound bitter, or reminiscent of Miranda from Sex and the City – I’m sure there must be some genuine guys out there somewhere. But they’re certainly not frequenting the same bars as me. It seems they’re all staying home with their girlfriends – or boyfriends.

With this somewhat negative mindset, I set off for a night out in Kings Cross. As I ascended the stairs towards the entrance of one of the classier nightspots in the area, I noticed Mr Gorgeous leaning against the entry way, smoking a cigarette in a sexy James Dean-ish manner. His elongated, perfect body was clad in effortlessly cool jeans, shirt and jacket. The knee of one glorious leg was bent, his foot resting against the wall. One hand was casually holding the cigarette whilst the other was hidden in his pocket. Mr Gorgeous overtly eyed me up and down, a small appreciative smile playing on his lips. I smiled back self consciously and sauntered past him into the club.

A short time later as I exited the toilet, I spied Mr Sexy again. He was now sprawled across a lounge, propped up on one elbow, his shirt partially unbuttoned, treating my eyes to a glimpse of his beautifully sculpted chest. Watching me with smouldering eyes, he motioned for me to approach. Unable to deny the advances of such a gorgeous specimen, I floated towards him.

Aged in his mid thirties, Mr Smooth had clearly been playing the field for some time. He knew how to compliment a woman, buy her expensive drinks and smile in a cheeky yet irresistible manner. But resist I did. With superhuman effort I flicked a business card at him and walked away, knowing I would never hear from him again. A man like that could have any woman he wanted – a fact I’m sure he was only too aware of. The last thing my fragile ego needed was to be yet another notch on this divine being’s bedpost.

The next day, as the onset of a dreadful flu congested my nasal passage with an abundance of revolting green ooze, my phone alerted me to an awaiting text message. It was Mr Charming. Over the following days my phone worked overtime receiving his numerous texts and phone calls. He sent me elaborate messages telling me how beautiful I was and we spent hours conversing over the phone. He sympathised over my flu and offered to cook me chicken soup from scratch. When I refused, he had his favourite Asian restaurant deliver a delicious bowlful to my doorstep. He serenaded me over the phone with a cheesy eighties love song, clumsily strumming his acoustic guitar and wailing off key. He pleaded, nay begged, to see me again, despite the bountiful quantities of phlegm still residing in my airways.

Initially I worried whether the thrill was simply in the chase for a man like Mr Perfect. He was clearly not familiar with being denied gratification and I couldn’t help feeling a little nervous that he was a player who was going above and beyond, simply in order to shag me. But gradually the constant stream of phone calls and text messages reassured me that this man was in fact genuine. Had it not been for my sickness, I severely doubted I could have deflected his advances up until this point.

My horrendous flu had subsided somewhat by the following weekend, permitting me to venture out for cocktails with a friend. Later in the night, with alcohol coursing through my veins, Mr Persistent called once again, inviting me over to his apartment for a nightcap. Unable to deny his advances any longer, I hastily reapplied my lipstick, bade farewell to my friend and with nervous anticipation found myself travelling towards his place in the backseat of a cab.

As I drunkenly stumbled through the courtyard-come-parking lot at the front of Mr Wonderful’s apartment complex, I caught a glimpse of his pride and joy – a brand new black BMW. He had lovingly spoken about the newly acquired car, and I marvelled at my good fortune in snaring a man who was not only exquisitely good looking but apparently well off.

As I stepped from the elevator onto his floor, I began staggering down the hallway towards his apartment. The front door suddenly flew open and there was Mr Devine, filling the doorway with a pair of impressively broad shoulders. My prior memories of his appearance, as favourable as they were, did not do him justice. The breath caught in my throat and my loins began to throb as I observed his long muscled torso, clad only in a pair of silk boxer shorts. Bare-chested, with one perfect forearm resting against the doorframe, he resembled something from a Fitness First brochure, or perhaps a spread in Men’s Health magazine.

Mr Confident appraised me with only a hint of approval in his smouldering eyes before grabbing me around the waist and pulling me into a sloppy kiss. He yanked me by the arm, inside the apartment, hurrying me towards his bedroom. However, one pit stop was encouraged on route to his suite. This pause was to allow time for me to appreciate several large black and white photographs displayed prominently on the wall of his lounge room. One photo showed Mr Confident, beautifully bare-chested, standing side on to the camera, throwing a pensive look towards the lens. The next had him scantily clad in an unbuttoned white shirt, leaning against what appeared to be the rail of a boat, one balled up fist planted underneath his chin as he stared off into the distance, a look of consternation on his handsome face. However, the third photo was clearly the piece de resistance – a full length nude shot. His back was to the camera, buttocks clenched, face angled side on, his brow creased in a parody of the early nineties heart throb Luke Perry.

“What do you think?” Mr Smarmy asked proudly, stroking one of the photo frames adoringly.

“They’re fantastic!” I replied enthusiastically, suppressing the overbearing urge to laugh over the egotistical shots hung so prominently in his living area. It was at this point that I began to question whether coming to his apartment had been such a great idea. But the doubts in my alcohol-fuelled brain were quickly silenced by his lips on mine, before I was urgently escorted to his awaiting bedroom.

“Welcome to my workbench,” he rasped as he threw me onto the bed in one fluid and obviously well practised manoeuvre. Slowly his boxer shorts were peeled off. “Enjoy,” he whispered huskily, indicating his flawlessly toned body and large erection. Mr Cocky then joined me on the bed and hastily removed my clothes. Pulling away from me slightly, his critical eyes pored over my naked body. Even through my haze of drunkenness I felt a tidal wave of self consciousness as his eyes continued to rake over me. He gave a curt nod of what I assumed to be approval, before flipping me over onto my stomach and having his way with me.

Afterwards, we lay cuddling, my cheek resting uncomfortably on his stubbly shaved chest. “You clearly enjoyed that,” he remarked cockily, before pulling the used condom off and flinging it out the open window. “Let’s go again.”

The Beast was insatiable. Not to mention one of the most arrogant and self involved men I have ever met. Of course the sex was fantastic but I began worrying how many women this guy had slept with over the years, and just how many sexually transmitted diseases I was contracting. As I lay on my back with him pumping away on top of me, I was surprised to note there was no mirror attached to the ceiling. It was a wonder the whole bedroom wasn’t panelled with mirrors in order for him to admire his naked torso as it coupled with another less perfect mortal – not unlike the manner of Patrick Bateman in American Psycho.

As sunlight gradually began to filter into the room I asked The Wanker for a glass of water. “You know where the kitchen is,” he replied dismissively, eyes closed. He turned away from me, lying on his side, a loud sigh escaping from his lips. “I’m meant to be working out at the gym this morning, but I’m so tired after your little impromptu visit last night that I just don’t know where I’ll find the energy,” he informed me, his voice heavy with undeniable accusation.

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked, taken aback at his suddenly cold disposition.

“That’s up to you, babe,” he replied, uttering the last word sarcastically. “But whatever you do, can you do it quietly? I’ve got to get some sleep.”

Shocked at his suddenly cruel and indifferent demeanour, I plucked my discarded clothes off the carpet and hastily redressed myself.

“You can hail a cab from the main road,” he mumbled dismissively as I left the bedroom.

Descending in the elevator, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Teamed with the unflattering fluorescent light, my appearance was far from favourable. My hair resembled straw, wispily framing my cranium in an unflatteringly awry fashion. My make-up was smudged and crusted around my eyes, now red from a rapidly increasing hangover and lack of sleep. Clothed in my heels and dress from the night before, it would be obvious to anyone witnessing me hailing a cab that I was undertaking a Walk of Shame. And shame was certainly the operatable word. My stomach twisted in nausea and the blood rushed in my ears as I remembered the rude and flippant way I had just been treated. Long gone were the flowery compliments and wooing techniques.

As I exited the building and began walking through the front courtyard, my face burned with humiliation and I raged with self hatred at being fooled into shagging such a fuckwit. Tears stung my eyes as I continued to berate myself, before finding myself walking alongside The Tool’s beloved automobile. My hand twitched impulsively, and as if with a life of its own, had reached inside my bag and removed my house keys. Before I could fully comprehend what was happening, with a satisfying screeching sound the key had dug itself into the immaculate paintwork on the brand new BMW and had inflicted a long scratch from boot to bonnet.

Startled by the sound of feet pounding towards me I hurriedly tried to deposit the keys back inside my bag. Instead, I watched despairingly as they dropped from my hand and landed with a guilty clatter on the paved ground.

The footsteps faltered, then stopped. I looked up guiltily, ready to meet The Tool’s accusing stare. Instead, I found myself facing a stunning blonde woman clothed in jogging attire. She peered down to the keys at my feet, before slowly raking her eyes over the angry gash now penetrating the paintwork of the BMW. Like a deer caught in headlights, I remained rooted to the spot.

Gradually, her gaze returned to me, carefully taking in my dishevelled appearance. Realisation slowly dawned on her pretty face. She directed her gaze back towards the vicious scratch once more, a knowing smile now playing on her lips. She gave me a small knowing nod, winked conspiratorially, then shot off to continue her morning jog.

With a newfound sense of satisfaction, bizarrely mingled with a hint of pride, I set off to hail a cab.

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