Boys R Us

20 Jan
French Martini

flickr image by Stuart Webster

We began our Friday night in the King Street Wharf area of Darling Harbour. Here the drinks are often pricey but the boys are always keen. So much so that my friends and I had long ago nicknamed our favourite bar in the area, ‘Boys R Us’.

No sooner do your drunken legs carry you into the said establishment, before you are taking your pick from the smorgasbord of male clientele. They’re all single, not entirely unfortunate-looking and very much ready to mingle. Of course, it’s highly unlikely that they would be prepared to take you out for a romantic dinner the following weekend. However, you can rest assured that on the night you meet them, they will be more than willing to buy you drink after drink, tell you how gorgeous you supposedly are, and attempt to get you drunk enough to open your freshly shaved legs.

This sordid behaviour may sound tragic to those of you in loving relationships. Or even those of you who are single but prefer to spend your weekends sober, without your head lolling nauseously on your pillow for half the duration of the weekend.

The weekend before, my friend Cass* and I had locked lips with a pair of brothers. They were Italian. Or Greek. Or Croatian. Actually, the details are a little foggy. Let’s just say they had strong accents of some kind.

As the night morphed into morning, Cass and I wiped the last of a greasy late night KFC meal from our lips and hailed a cab. The abandoned brothers looked on forlornly, begging to be able to come with us. Cass and I declined, bade them a cheery farewell and were then off on our merry way.

Now, a week later, I felt a hand reach in from behind and rest itself familiarly on my shoulder. I spun around to find myself starring into the caramel-coloured eyes of one of the brothers from the weekend before. I smiled in recognition – this was the brother Cass had been pashing.

I motioned towards Cass, and began to drag him over to her. However, his sturdy hand on my arm stopped me and instead began pulling me in the opposite direction. “I introduce you to my friends,” he informed me in heavily accented, halting English.

Assuming his brother would be with the group of friends, I obediently followed him.

The previous weekend, this guy had introduced his foreign sounding name to us by way of I’m-still-learning-to-speak-English sign language. “You,” he had pointed dramatically towards Cass. “Gel,” he enthusiastically mimed the act of applying product to his hair. “You-Gel!” he proclaimed proudly.

As You-Gel (I obviously have no idea how to spell his name correctly) excitedly introduced me to his friends, his hand resting a tad too low on my back, it soon became apparent that his brother had not ventured out that night. As You-Gel proceeded to ply me full of alcoholic beverages, I began to suspect his plan was to get me pissed. It then became increasingly apparent that his strategy was working, as we sloppily kissed and drunkenly crashed around the dance floor.

My drunken mind recalls one of my friends wagging a strict finger back and forth in front of my face, as if to indicate I was making a big mistake. Rightly so I may add, given this guy had been passionately kissing one of my best friends the weekend before, and I had been doing the same with his brother. But alas, my intoxicated mind was incapable of good, moral and decent decision making skills at this point and I soon found myself bundled into a taxi with You-Gel.

The cab whizzed blurrily past shops and houses as we sped east towards my sharehouse. By the time we tumbled out of the cab, my jeans were unzipped, my bra unhooked and my dignity nowhere to be found.

We burst into my room and fell upon the bed. Clothes were ripped from our sweaty bodies and thrown carelessly on the floor. One of my hands gripped his surprisingly hairy back, whilst the other fumbled with his testes, my inebriated brain stunned to only locate one.

At this point my one-balled lover flipped me over and entered me from behind. Then sideways, then missionary, then cowgirl… Of course I’m embellishing. I have no firm memories of the act of lovemaking (of course I use that term loosely), rather only hazy visual flashes.

I also wish I was unable to recall the next part of the story.

I awoke to find a jackhammer had taken up unwelcome residence inside my cranium. My mouth was so uncomfortably dry it seemed my saliva glands had stopped functioning. My eyes had been glued shut by the potent combination of sleep and crusty mascara. My nostrils were being rudely assaulted by the pungent and uninvited smell of cigarette smoke. Suddenly my heart thumped fearfully against my ribcage as I remembered my one-balled Casanova: You-Gel.

I nervously opened my eyes to find him perched on my window sill, watching me with an emotionless gaze, a cigarette wedged between his lips. “You drive me home?” he asked, unabashed, in less than perfect English.

I nodded in agreement, the movement sending shockwaves of pain through my fragile skull. Naked, I protectively swaddled myself in the bedclothes and shuffled over to my wardrobe to extract an outfit – all under his unwavering stare.

He waited outside as I scrambled around on my bedroom floor, trying to locate the handbag that had been nonchalantly discarded somewhere the night before. Even the slightest head movement was excruciatingly painful and sent waves of nausea crashing through my severely hungover body. My mouth began salivating with the watery warning of forthcoming vomit. Panicking, I grabbed a glass of water from the bedside table and gulped desperately.

How the fuck was I going to drive this guy home without heaving?

I gave up searching for my handbag from the night before and instead grabbed an older one from my cupboard. With trepidation I lined the inside with plastic bags (in case I needed to vomit during the car trip) and bravely set off to drive You-Gel home.

Blessedly, there was scarcely any traffic at this early hour on a Saturday morning and the twenty minute drive to his place was going as smoothly as could be expected. Of course the conversation was awkward and halting and all the while I was silently praying to safely drop him home without vomiting.

Several blocks away from his house, whilst stopped at a red light, my body cruelly betrayed me. With the all too familiar sensations of a watery mouth, overheating face and prickly neck, my throat opened, permitting a sticky stream of vomit to surge forth. I scrabbled for my plastic-lined handbag and heaved violently inside.

Meanwhile, the traffic light had turned green. Motorists swerved around my stationary vehicle, angrily sounding their horns. I coughed, spluttered and sniffed in a most unladylike fashion before nervously peeping at my passenger.

He sat motionless. To the untrained eye his face was expressionless, apart from a slight downturn of mouth, hinting towards the disgust and revulsion he no doubt felt. He uncomfortably rested his hand on my shoulder for a brief moment, before informing me that he would walk the last few blocks home. His parting comment before shutting the passenger door was something highly clichéd like, “I’ll call you.”

When I returned home I extracted the soggy plastic bag containing my putrid smelling vomit. I walked down the hallway towards the rear of the house, with the intention of sneakily disposing of the bulging bag in the large garbage bin located in the backyard.

As I began to scamper through the lounge room, towards the backdoor, I suddenly realised that two of my flatmates and some of their friends were scattered around the lounge room chatting. We often had guests sleeping in this communal room over the weekend.

I was all too aware that the conversation had petered off upon my entry, and all sets of eyes were now upon me. More specifically, all sets of eyes were upon the foul smelling plastic bag clutched in my outstretched hand.

Marching towards the backdoor with speedy determination, I disposed of my waste and re-entered the lounge room. The group’s ill at ease downcast eyes silently informed me that I had no doubt been rather boisterous during last night’s nocturnal activities.

Hastily departing the room, I tried to ignore the hushed murmurs that erupted in my wake.

Back in the safety of my bedroom, I located my mobile phone and purposefully began scrolling through the numbers. I figured an explanation was owed to Cass, who’d been with You-Gel the weekend before.

Needless to say, it was quite some time before I returned to Boys R Us.

* Well, I wouldn’t use her real name, would I?

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4 Responses to “Boys R Us”

  1. Frank January 28, 2011 at 3:12 am #

    Well Well, another lesson for you I guess.

    Hope things are going good for you down under.

    • Dawn Dash January 29, 2011 at 12:09 pm #

      You’re back! Haven’t seen you in a while.

      Yes, my twenties are turning out to be quite a steep learning curve indeed.

      • Frank January 30, 2011 at 4:08 am #

        Yup, am back after all the hassle of moving countries and getting my life back in order again.

        Hope you are having fun and I can’t wait to read your new adventures. You wouldn’t happen to have msn would ya?

        • Dawn Dash January 30, 2011 at 1:29 pm #

          And where abouts in the big wide world are you now? I don’t have msn, but if you add me on facebook (the link is on my blog) I can use the instant chat on that. I have plenty more stories to share with my Dawn readers, I just need to find the time to sit down in front of my computer and write them. The temptation to lie on the beach in the glorious Australian sun is pretty strong! However, there’s a new story coming very soon…

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