Taking It (Part One)

8 Jul
The Good Life 3

flickr image by Patrick McConahay

As previously mentioned, my last tale (which you can read here) was merely the entrée. This story is the main course.

Please note: I never was a particularly good waitress. I realise it’s been three months in between dishes. And at this point I’m hoping there are still some hungry diners left in the restaurant. Please accept my apology for the tardy service. Enjoy your meal!

After our exhausting adventures from the night before, Lucy and I spent the majority of the day recovering. By night time we’d had our fill of trashy television, greasy food and nanna naps and we were once again ready to take our livers for granted.

Knowing the local sailing club would be dangerous territory, given our promiscuous escapades from the night before, we decided to head to a different watering hole. As we sat in the deserted bar drinking cocktails that tasted of turpentine, we knew there really was no other option if we wanted a fun night out…

As we nervously strolled towards the sailing club we began to strategise. What would we do if we stumbled across our men from the night before? Judging by Simon’s proclamations of love, his barely-concealed desire to procreate with me, and the fact that I had kinda sorta made plans (under duress, mind you) to meet up with him again, I was really under no doubt that he’d be there; a hungry panther, in search of his prey. 

Obviously there really was only one grown-up mature way to deal with the situation. Ignore him. Perhaps teamed with pashing somebody else in front of him, just to be sure my message was received loud and clear.

Apprehensively, we entered the establishment and purchased a ridiculously oversized cocktail bucket each. We located a couple of chairs near the water’s edge and began drinking.

Just as I had dreaded, before too long Simon made an unwanted appearance. Lucy spotted him first, as I was mercifully faced away from the entrance. In hushed urgent tones she supplied updates as to his whereabouts. Until finally she delivered the devastating final blow that he was now located mere metres to the side of me, leaning against a chair, his eyes boring holes into the side of my cranium. 

Paralysed by fear and denying the vomit trying to hop from my oral cavity, I kept my head trained forwards, whispering urgent questions to Lucy. “Are you sure he’s spotted me? Is he coming over? Is he still staring at me with intent to kill?”

We remained in that position for a highly uncomfortable five minutes or so; Simon glaring at the side of my head while I quickly drained my cocktail bucket like an alcoholic hungrily attacking her morning gin. When our buckets had been sucked dry, Lucy made an executive decision. “Let’s hit the dance floor.”

We hastily made our way to the dance floor, joining a group of revellers in enthusiastically dancing to a god-awful Justin Bieber track. As the bucket of vodka I’d just consumed began coursing through my veins, I lost myself in the cheesy music. Pretty soon I had allowed a (clearly homosexual) male to spin me around a number of times, then place his hands on my waist as we rocked drunkenly from side to side with very little coordination. Until my eyes suddenly met the piercing stare of Simon, who was now propped against an exposed beam on the edge of the dance floor. His angry glare hit me like a bullet and I subsequently reeled backwards as though suffering from a gunshot wound. As I backed into the crowd, I grabbed Lucy’s arm, further embedding us safely amongst the throng of dancing partygoers.    

At some point Lucy was sent on a mission to purchase more cocktail buckets, while I stayed safely hidden amongst the mass of drunkenly gyrating dancers. She returned unscathed and mercifully reported that the coast was now clear; Simon seemed to have vacated the premises.

After a while, we retired from the dance floor and approached a pair of guys with Lucy’s age-old “Have you got a light?” pick-up line. At times, there are merits to being friends with a smoker.

Lucy began chatting with one of the guys, while I began conversing with the other; a rather intoxicated twenty-four year old from Adelaide. He attempted to engage me in a conversation centred on his employment as a social worker dealing with troubled teens, along with dazzling me with a comprehensive description of his impressive pot stash. What a fascinating combination of interests. So much so that I couldn’t help but ask if he’d become a social worker merely to pedal his stash to teenagers, thereby widening his circle of buyers.

Sadly, the young Radelaidian was too intoxicated to appreciate my wit. I chose to believe that was the case, rather than my joke being viewed as completely inappropriate and therefore unamusing. However, any fleeting doubts of my comical talent were quickly laid to rest with the appreciative chuckle of another male who had just joined the conversation.

Scott from Melbourne was cute. He had the Robert Pattinson-esque hairstyle typical of a male Melbournite of a certain age. Although his look was a little confused; scuffed sneakers, cut-off denim shorts and what appeared to be a baggy black surfing rash shirt. However, he kept referring to his odd choice of t-shirt as his “sports top”.

As it quite characteristic of a drunken conversation, the topic somehow rapidly ricocheted in a completely different direction, with Scott stating that all women prefer to sleep with older men.

Amazingly, the Radelaidian hadn’t yet drunkenly passed out on a patch of sand somewhere and he heartily disagreed, claiming that girls prefer younger guys of the ‘toy boy’ variety. “Older chicks like younger toy boys, right?” They both looked at me expectantly for confirmation either way.

I thoughtfully considered the argument, while taking a sip of my obscenely large cocktail bucket. “I’m twenty-eight, and I prefer men who are at least in their thirties,” I responded. Was that a slightly disappointed expression on Scott’s face, even though I was agreeing with him? “However, if it’s just a shag or a bit of a fling, I wouldn’t mind going a bit younger,” I added. Was it my imagination, or did Scott’s expression brighten slightly with my latest revelation? Getting on a roll, and to be honest, loving the attention, I continued, “But being jackhammered by a twenty-one year old? No thanks!”

Scott’s face instantly registered a hurt expression. “I’m twenty-one.”

Well. I hadn’t seen that one coming. To my intoxicated eyes he looked older than twenty-one and I’d mistakenly placed his age to be around the same as the Radelaidian’s. I fixed him with my gaze, one eyebrow suggestively lifted. “Well perhaps you’re the exception to the rule.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, peering back at me with sexually-laced eyes.   

More drinking, trash-baggery and looseness ensued. Our little group soon consisted of a motley crew including Scott, Lucy, some guy Lucy had picked up, the about-to-pass-out Radelaidian, Scott’s eighteen year old brother, a girl who barely spoke English and a couple of others.

Scott’s endearingly inebriated younger brother briefly attempted to converse with me. “Twenty-eight? That’s so cool. You must be finished uni and have a proper job and everything. It’d be so awesome to, like, live out of home and make proper money and stuff…” He trailed off, staring past me wistfully. “Think I might go skinny-dipping.”

Shortly afterwards an executive decision was made to once again grace the dance floor; this time with our entourage in tow. It was here, while our ears were being raped with a barrage of tacky tunes, that Scott and I locked lips.

There were no fireworks. No waves crashing against rocks. No volcanoes erupting. However, there was a sticky trail of his saliva generously deposited all over my mouth and surrounding areas, along with half of the contents of his cocktail bucket clumsily poured all over my arse. This meant I had to employ the age old sloppy kiss trick; where you cunningly give your pash-partner a little post-pash cuddle, thereby allowing you to sneakily wipe the excess saliva he has liberally dumped around your mouth onto his shoulder as you embrace.  

The perfect crime.

By this stage, there was really no doubt in my mind that I’d hit the nail on the head when I had doubted the sexual prowess of the average twenty-one year old male.

However, I was enjoying myself and didn’t want the night to end just yet. Before too long the club closed and we were forced back to the dodgy watering hole where Lucy and I had begun our night all those hours ago. Lucy soon took her leave to retire to bed. As she left the bar, she thanked Scott for his company and left with the parting comment, “I like your rash shirt.”

“It’s a sports top!” he yelled indignantly to her retreating back.

In hindsight, I should have departed with Lucy. But instead, I decided to fornicate with Scott, the twenty-one year old Melbournite, who despite his hearty denials, was wearing a rash shirt.

To be continued…

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