At an opening last week I spotted one of those guys – you know the type, you see them round from time to time, always at the same thing and the timing well it’s never quite right. The last time I saw him was about a month ago but once again the timing was off but four weeks after that episode I found myself face to face with him at a bar.
‘Hey, cute shoes.’
‘Cheers’ I blushed as I clicked my patent leather lace ups together.
‘So what’s new?’
‘Not much really’ I remarked as I nibbled on a hummus drenched carrot stick.
‘You seeing anyone right now?’
‘Wanna come back to mine for a drink?’
and in what can only be described as what will no doubt turn into a series of events that mark my departure from my twenties, I said yes.
Now the first clue should’ve been that he didn’t believe in taxis.
“Brothels on wheels’ he called them ‘I make it personal choice not to pay for service.’
I nodded as if I agreed, not willing to admit to myself that maybe I was confusing his conviction with blatant stupidity.
‘Oh is this your place?’ I asked startled, as he led me up the path to what could only be described as a half-way house minus the sign-in sheet.
He fumbled for a key under what might have at one stage been a pot plant prior to the apocalypse.
As we walked inside I felt my skin, my expensive shoes and my moisturiser try and jump off my body and escape the horror that lay before them. It was worse then I could imagine and I once lived with a guy who left rotting bits of seafood around our flat and claimed it was good for the circulation – kept your immune system on the defensive.
We waded through what I assumed was the corridor or the mouth of hell to what some might argue in a court of law was the kitchen but to be honest I don’t think was any evidence left to suggest that beneath the bucket bongs, soiled Playboy mags and cans of Not Quite Right Spaghetti.
I looked at him – nice glasses, clean hair, wool crepe jacket, laptop – maybe he was just here to drop off some food supplies, maybe his estranged brother was crack addict and I was only here to play witness to his humanity as his way of sealing the deal…but no, that wasn’t the case.
‘Sure’ I watched as he stumbled around the room for some glasses, settling on some jars in the sink.
‘Let’s drink vintage style’ as he handed me a an old vegemite jar.
‘Southern Comfort alright with you?’
‘Um, do you have any wine?’
He picked up a box of goon and shook it.
‘Sounds like there’s a bit of sediment left, could just mix it up with a bit of water for you?’
‘Southern Comfort sounds great.’ – he broke the seal and the masochist in me reminded me ‘this isn’t so bad Lou’ – I searched my dignity or common sense and it was, as usual, no where to be found.
We adjourned to the sitting room and after a couple of awkward moments of trying to ignore the mammoth stack of late nineties porn in the middle of the room he leaned over and kissed me and as we’re all friends here and you people would never dare judge me – I kissed him back and then he pulled away suddenly. I couldn’t help but think to myself that a pattern had been developing between me and men of late.
‘Is everything ok?’
‘Yeah, I just want to make myself more comfortable if that’s cool.’
‘Fine by me’
Now, I would assume that taking ones shoes off would be enough to make someone comfortable but for this lad it took a whole lot more – he took off everything, and I mean everything…except his t-shirt, he left that on.
And so there I sat with a half naked man on a couch that had cling film on it and yet still I didn’t remove myself from the situation – it was the t-shirt, I needed to know why.
‘Um, what’s with the t-shirt?’
‘It’s cause I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, I’m a little old fashioned and just want tonight to be about getting to know each other.’
Ok…but he had no pants on, but part of me felt petulant for pointing out the obvious.
He went to kiss me again.
‘Ok, I’m sorry but it’s all well and good you being the old fashioned type but your genitals are on display.’
‘Can’t you look at a man Lou without sexualising him?’
‘Yes I can do that, but to be fair in this instance you have no pants on and are lying on top of me – is this another case of me getting my wires crossed?’
He sat up exacerbated and placed his hands on his head, neglecting to cover his cock.
‘Can’t you just put that away?’ I asked.
‘I just thought I could be myself with you Lou…I, I thought you were different.’
I felt a little bit of Catholic guilt creep up on me and not for the obvious reasons.
‘Do you have a scar or something? is that why the t-shirt?’
‘For fucks sake what is it with you girls always going on about the t-shirt!?’
I moved away.
‘Everytime it’s the same thing, so what if I want to wear a t-shirt, as I see it if I’m expected to go down on you then I can wear a fucking t-shirt – even Stevens Lou, even Stephens.’
‘Ok I think it’s time I left.’
I grabbed my bag but that Southern Comfort had gone straight through me.
‘I need to use your bathroom, where’s your bathroom.’
I watched as he put his jumper on, but still no pants!
‘I think it’s upstairs’ he mumbled.
‘You think? This is your house isn’t it?’
He went for his socks and yet still no pants.
‘Nup, my mate lets me use it to bring girls back to.’
…of course he does…
(I have no way to dignify this story with an ending – I just left).