Photo by Jon Wilson

I didn’t really want to go there. Maybe because of the social consequences. Maybe because she was young. Though it wasn’t as if she wasn’t experienced.

I was sitting in the smoking court of the Fluid Ounce with a 16 year old girl, Grace – the little sister of my workmate Pandora.

I found it strangely ironic because I knew that what Pandora was doing, buying alcohol for Grace, was illegal – probably with fines of $5000 or more. But I could take her home and turn her out, and that would be perfectly legal. As for the morals, well, we all make our own choices.

“So, how was Canada?” I inquired.

“Canada is fantastic.

“I heard about the student exchange one day, came home and said hey mum I’m going to Canada. They said ‘oh what a great learning experience – you can learn French!’

“There was this woman in my karate class. She was old, like 35 or something. She invited me over for lunch. What could I do? Food is my only weakness. So I went to her place on a Sunday while her family were out – ”

“Wait – family? She was married?”

“Family. Husband, kids, the whole shabang.”

“So a married woman from your karate class seduced you? You are such a player!”

“What can I say.” She looked coy.

“How old were the kids?”

“Not sure, maybe fourteen, fifteen.”

“So pretty much your age.”

“I’m sixteen,” she corrected me.

“My mistake.”

“Anyway, a couple of weeks later I’m in the school cafeteria. This old dude came in and started screaming ‘Homewrecker! Homewrecker!’ and he was screaming at me. He confronted me, said I was a harlot and accused me of having sex with his wife.”

“Well, you did have sex with his wife.”

“That’s right – but I said to him it was only one time. He screamed at me ‘TWO TIMES. IT was TWO TIMES!’”

“So Canada was a learning experience for you then.”

“Sure, and I learnt a lot about French.”

Grace was openly flirting with me. I shot some pool, doubles with her and her sister. Whenever I made a shot Grace would jump up on and hug me, her legs in a full wrap.

“Keep your hands off my sister!” Pandora would say.

“So do you have a thing for my sister?” Grace asked me in the smoking court.

“I think it’s best not to get too involved with your workmates.”

“Yeah I totally know what you’re saying.”

The conversation continued. “Oh my God that’s so cool you totally should!” “OMG really? Teach me some Spanish!” “Oh my God!” she said. “What was that like!?”

She seemed to be impressed by everything I was saying. I kept trying to build to something genuinely impressive so she could have a chance to not fake it, so I would cease the awkward feeling that I was talking to a complete bimbo.

Of course, she wasn’t a bimbo, but this is how some young girls flirt.

The next day at work, Pandora said to me: “My sister thought you were hot.”

I said: “I know.”

Another time, talking to Pandora, she rapid-fired a story at me, delivering a rising tone at the end of every clause. “I lived with my older sister for a while. She was a drug dealer. Sometimes she’d have gentleman callers, and she’d give me these complex instructions about all her customers. I’d say okay – but I never had to tell anyone anything – she’d always be finished. And the guy would take the drugs, leave the money and she’d be lying there with the door open with her legs in the air.”

“Wait… what? Why did she have her legs in the air?”

“Because she wanted to get pregnant. She had lots of guys that came over and came inside her, and she’d put her legs up in the air because she thought it would funnel the sperm and she’d get pregnant. It didn’t help though.”

“Couldn’t hurt.” Might hurt the baby.

“She never got pregnant anyway.”

“Weren’t the guys worried that she actually would get pregnant and they’d have a little crack baby running around?”

“She wasn’t on crack, she just sold weed. Apparently they weren’t worried at all. Though what they really should have been worried about, was STDs.”

“Yeah… that’s a nice story.”

“¡Hola!” she said, before I even opened my mouth.

“Hola bonita,” I said, with a cheesy grin. Her name was Sandra. She smiled back and told me she worked in a massage parlour above the Mexican restaurant in Parque Lleras. She had fake breasts, and was touching my arms as she talked. I thought, there are very few ways to interpret these data – she must be a prostitute. I will stay and enjoy her company for ten or fifteen minutes, then I will leave, and never talk to her again.

She was standing a few steps higher from me, so we could make eye contact. “Let’s go for a coffee.”

“Listo.”

We sat down at a kiosk near Estación Poblado. They were out of coffee. She ordered a tea, and I ordered a Milo. They love Milo over here, and have about ten times as many Milo products as we do.

“We should go out some time… We can share… a walk, a beer –“ she stroked my legs and moved her face closer to mine “ – ¿and what else could we share?” she said, starting to laugh. I laugh, then shake my head and say “Bad girl.”

“¿Bad? ¿How so?” she asked me in a serious tone.

“Oh, no reason.”

She took my phone and punched in her number. She handed me a piece of paper to write down my number. I wrote it down without considering it too deeply, vaguely thinking that she’ll probably never call.

Naturally, she calls me and texts me the next day. I struggle to understand her Spanish over the phone. I text her my email address, and she sends me an email that sounds apologetic.

“Hello, ¿how are you? I want to ask, ¿Do you want to go out tomorrow? To dinner or to a discotheque, whatever you like. I want to tell you a little bit about my life. I know you think I’m a bad person, but -” She works in a doctor’s office, remedial massage or something. Hm. That puts a different spin on things. Maybe she’s not a prostitute.

That same day, I was talking to a girl online whom I’d met on Colombian Cupid. She told me she was 19, but she could have been 15 from the way she looked and acted. She couldn’t sit still and she kept grabbing my hand desperately when we crossed the road, and resisted letting go when we got to the other side. Her MSN status said “needs a boyfriend”. I thought, I don’t think I’ll see her again. Then, she started typing to me, and said the one and only thing that would make me consider meeting her again.

“¿You want to have sexo with me?”

and then followed it up with:

“?”

and

“?¿”

I typed “Uh… yeah, probably.”

“We are friends but we can have sex, ¡my beautiful friend! ¡It’s common here!”

Maybe some Colombian girls are just really direct, I thought. After all, this is Medellín, not Las Vegas. People are friendly here. Maybe I was wrong about Sandra being a perra.

“Alright, come over to my place and I’ll cook you dinner. I’ll cook you an Asian dish that will blow your mind into a million pieces and reconstruct it again in a more optimal configuration.” Google Translate had a hard time with that one. I will cook her my specialty: stir-fry. People don’t really know Asian food here at all so I figure anything I do will be impressive.

“So I’ll meet you at the station at 6:30.”

“Okay, but I live 28 minutes from El Poblado. ¿Isn’t it easier if I take a taxi and you can pay for it?”

“¿Huh? ¿Why do you need a taxi? Just take the metro to Poblado and we’ll take a taxi from there.”

“Okay…”

I get there at 6:30, and wait by the steps. I’m not sure why, but Colombianas have a very strange sense of time. “¡Be punctual! ¡Don’t keep me waiting!” a girl will say, and every time a girl says that to me I chuckle a little, because I know I will be waiting for 20 minutes – maybe 45.

After ten minutes, I call Sandra to see what’s cracking. “Hey, ¿where are you?”

“At my house.”

“…¿What?”

“I’m at my house. I didn’t have money for the taxi.”

“¿Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

“I did, I told you on MSN.”

“¿What? This is bullshit.” And I hung up.

The next day she apologised profusely. In future, I think I’m going to be dubious of anybody who apologises profusely.

She said she didn’t have the money to call me, and her sister was going to lend her money for the taxi but couldn’t, that’s why she sent me a message. She had sent me a message – after I’d left to walk to the station – which depending on how you read it (and how well you can read Spanish) seemed to say that she wouldn’t be coming.

“I live very far away. The taxi costs 25.000 pesos.”

“Uh… but you work in Parque Lleras, so obviously you know how to get there pretty well.”

“Yes, but I start at 11 am and leave at 7 pm. It’s early enough for the bus and metro.”

“So… ¿why couldn’t you have taken the bus yesterday?”

“It was late and I had no money. Believe me, when I have money, it’s not a problem.”

“I’m not sure if I can trust you.”

“Okay, I’m going to walk the dog in the park.”

“Alright… bye.”

I must have been desperate to get laid, because I don’t know what more bullshit she spun me, but I agreed to meet her that night. We sit down at Mr. Cocktail and get a couple of beers. She’s all over me again. She’s licking her lips and sucking her finger, looking into my eyes.

“Let’s go to the Mexican restaurant to get something to eat.” She suggests. If this was Australia, we’d probably go Dutch, or maybe I’d pay the bigger half. In Colombia, I’m probably going to pay. It’s a cultural thing, and the girl will normally expect it. So, whatever. The food is cheap. I’m not going to kick up a stink over $6 when it behooves me to go with the flow instead.

She’s feeding me the meat from the fajitas with a fork, touching my legs, and giggling. She says she knows a good club close to here, called Pandora. “¿Really?” I say. “I walked past and thought that place was for children’s birthday parties.” She thinks that we should go and dance.

“Perhaps. Let’s go for a walk.”

I take care of the bill and we walk around in the general direction of Pandora. I tell her I have a bottle of Aguardiente at my place and we should go have a drink. I take her and kiss her. She resists.

“¿To your house? No. I just came from my house – I don’t want to go to your house.”

I kiss her again, and she resists again. Something funny is going on here.

“Ah come on, it’ll be fun.”

“I don’t even like Aguardiente.”

“I thought you were a paisa. Let’s go to my place.”

“¿What do you think I am? ¿Easy? I don’t trade food for sex.”

This is an unusual reaction. A few minutes before, she was all over me. Now I try to escalate the situation, she’s a different woman.

I stop in my tracks, and speak in English, and speak sternly.

“I don’t like you.”

“¿Que?”

“I don’t like you. I think you’re trying to use me.”

“¿Que? ¡Necesitas hablar en Español o no entiendo!”

“Oh, I think you understand perfectly.”

“¿You think I trade food for sex?” she said in Spanish.

I responded in English: “You think I trade food for sex? What do I look like, a fucking john?” I walked off.

She texted me saying the same thing.

I wrote back: “I don’t think you’re going to trade food for sex, I think you’re going to take the food and leave.”

“I’m not going to sit in your house and drink, that’s not my style. I like to go out, dance, have fun at clubs.”

That’s not your style, because you have no style, and no class. “Fuck you, I think you’re phoney as hell.”

I went to Alma and met some more girls.

When I woke up the next morning, I had a friendly email waiting for me. She’d written a little novel saying how I was an idiot, I’d misunderstood, and she only wanted a friend and that I’d turned out to be a very bad friend. I guess in Spanish, when you want to be friends with someone, you act like you want their dick in your mouth.

“That’s very clever. Normally, when I have sex with a girl, I don’t pay for dinner – I don’t pay for anything. I don’t pay for sex. But last night, I did pay, and it was a cheap price to get rid of you. You have two faces, you greedy slut.” Zorra interesada.

She responded, and when the first line was: “So’s your mother,” I had to laugh. How did I let myself be deceived by such an idiot? That will teach me to look for the best in people. “¿You think I’m greedy? ¿You think I’m a gold-digger? ¡I paid for my own taxi, you son of a bitch!” Wow… congratulations, and welcome to the human race.

She said she was going to get her husband to kick my ass, as she’d told him how I was harassing her. I considered writing back to say “Your husband, or your pimp?” But I thought better of it. Then she came on MSN and said the same thing to me three different ways.

I typed “Okay. Good bye.”

“It was so sad last night… I watched a porno.

“The dude said ‘Okay, so you want to try out to be an adult actress. Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to have sex, then I’m going to come in your mouth.’

“Then the chick said ‘But… I thought this was just an audition…?’, and she’s saying it all in this innocent voice, and the whole thing is a bit too real.

“‘It is, but we have to know if you have what it takes.’

“‘Will I be paid?’

“‘Not for this – it’s just an audition. But for future videos you’ll get $1000 a shoot.’

“‘Why do you have a video camera recording?’

“‘For reference purposes – I have to review the best girls with my colleagues.’

“‘Oh… but isn’t there a chance that it will get onto the Internet?’

“‘No, absolutely not. There is definitely no chance of that happening.’  But obviously there was, because I was watching it.

“So he convinced the girl to have sex with him, then he blew a fat load in her mouth and said ‘How was that?’ You could tell she wasn’t prepared at all. She had this disgusted look on her face and said ‘It was a bit more than I was expecting…’”

“That’s messed up man. Scum.”

“Yeah, it made me sad. I want my porn to turn me on… not take me on an emotional journey!”

“Do you talk to any of them?” said my boss, Kendricks.

“I catch a train home with one of the girls.”

“Which one?”

“The cute one.”

“There’s a cute one who works in Appco?”

“Hell yeah there is.”

Strawberry blonde hair… Freckles. Skinny. Her name was Cindy… Shortly after that, Kendricks transferred me to Appco because I wasn’t making any sales in charity.

Norton was my new boss. He was about an inch shorter than me, with a voice half an octave deeper. Listening to his morning meetings would half send us to sleep. We wondered how he made so many sales – probably sent his customers into some sort of hypnotic trance.

Then a lot of times we would skip the meeting and just go for coffee in Hunter Street mall, like that Friday when Norton first introduced me to the team.

“This is Juan. This is Ambrose. This is Pauly. Charlotte. Olga. And this guy we just call Pads.”

“Padmavati. Pleased to meet you.”

We went out into the mall and holed up outside Gloria Jeans.

I suppose Cindy was off sick that day, because Pauly started in front of everyone. “I took pictures.”

“Of what?”

“Of Cindy.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah, of course. Want to see? I took videos too.” he said to Norton.

Norton considered it deeply.

“Yeah, alright.”

I didn’t look.

We needed to spend a week in Sydney to get training for the new Sintelco campaign. We stayed at the YHA. We were all together in one dorm, guys and girls. Cindy was on the far right side, top bunk. Pauly was on the bottom bunk. I was on the near left side, on the top bunk.

I was having a conversation with Cindy about some bullshit.

“So it’s must easier when you know and have been, etc, and so on, know what I’m saying?” I said, or something like it anyway.

“Ha yeah, and then they ansdn difnmkb kxm…”

“They what?”

“They ………….”

“I couldn’t hardly make out a word of that”

“Yeah, I can’t hear you either. Want me to come over there?”

“Ha yeah right. As if that’s ever going to happen.”

She didn’t say much after that. It was just me being cocky-funny. Not yet socially aware enough to realise that this girl was offering herself, and all I had to do was say “Okay,” and I would get laid, in the same dorm room as all of my new workmates. Later, when I understood who she was a little better, I was relieved I hadn’t accepted her gracious offer. Even from that scene – to put it together piece by piece – Cindy had a boyfriend, and was there in a dorm room in a bunk above the guy with whom she was cheating, and was hitting on me as well. Wow.

I went to sleep.

An hour or so later I woke up.

“What are you doing?” she said.

And then he said: “I’m going.”

“Why?”

Silence.

“I’m going.”

Footsteps. Door opened. Door closed.

I went back to sleep, and when we woke up, Pauly was gone.

Sitting next to Cindy in training, I looked over at her notebook.

Later, as we were breaking for lunch, I said to her: “Is your last name… Chamberlain?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Hm… That explains everything.”

And I walked off. I overheard her bitching about it to Ambrose. She sounded so puzzled, like she didn’t really know what it meant, but suspected the worst.

Chamberlain was the name of two sisters I had known from Maitland. Madison was the eldest, blonde, and had a reputation for dating just about any guy. About six years earlier, I was seventeen. I’d met Madison at an underage nightclub, the Ace of Spades. She was tall, gorgeous, model material, with a huge smile and big-ass teeth. I was like a rock-star at these things, because I dance like a nutcase (and still do). Nobody knew what to make of it, but everybody could see that I didn’t give a shit what anybody thought of me, as long as I was on the dancefloor. Off the dancefloor, I was still awkward and didn’t understand a thing about girls.

“Can I get your number?” I said to Madison as she walked off with her friends through the carpark.

“Really?” she said.

“…Yeah.”

I got her number and called her as soon as I could work up the courage.

“Oh… I don’t know if I can go out that night Jones… I’ve got a lot of exams coming up.”

“Oh… okay.”

The next time I saw her, she walked right up to me at the Ace with her friends and said, smile beaming, “Hey! I finished all my exams.”

“Good for you,” I said. “I hope you get into your course at uni.”

“Uh… yeah, me too.”

I walked off. Six months later, I slapped myself on the forehead.

Then there was another time, I was twenty-four. I walked out of Fanny’s on a Wednesday night and walked towards the train station. I’d been talking to girls all night and was really hyped up. I don’t even know if I’d made out with any girls, but I’d probably went for the make out with at least ten. Walking up the road I saw a familiar face. I kept walking towards her “Hey!” I said with a smile, grabbed Madison and made out with her for five seconds.

“Wow… hey… who? Oh, it’s you Jones!” I got her number again, though, again, I never really followed that through to its inevitable conclusion.

Moxie was the youngest sister, a brunette, and I’m not really sure if she was as into free-love as the other two – however, the last time I saw her she had a shaved head, so for the sake of this story we’ll assume she swings both ways. She was kind of cute and a little chubby, but, also for the sake of this story, we’ll assume her body was out of this atmosphere, and fingerbanged mad lesbians every weekend. Awesome!

So I guess Cindy must have been the missing link in this daisy chain of sisterly love. In the end, it turned out Cindy was the black sheep of the family.

“Chamberlain?”

“Yeah… why?”

“That explains everything.”

“What?? What is that supposed to mean?”

“Everything. It explains everything.”

I don’t think Cindy really talked to me for the rest of the training. Driving back to Newcastle in Norton’s troopy, Cindy started reciting a list of lovers like it was a line of descendants from the book of Genesis: “Then when I left billy for thommy. Later I left Thommy for Christian. Billy was so jealous…”

A few weeks later while Juan was driving us out to the field, he told me a story where Cindy had come over to his place after work for dinner or something, then his mum was like “Okay it’s getting late – I think it’s time for you to go home.” And Cindy tried to talk her way into staying in Juan’s bed. It was the only time Juan has ever been happy about his mum cockblocking him.

O’Riley sat in the interview room before a panel.

“So, tell us a little about your previous position.”

“I was working for SalesPower in the JetFlights campaign in Carlton.”

“Oh really – my son works there at TransLink, on level three. Do you know Andlin?”

“Uhhhh…”

She had thought the interviewer looked familiar.

Seven months earlier she had taken Andlin home to her place, her parent’s place. Andlin, O’Riley and her coworker Tenille piled out of the cab. O’Riley’s mum was away in the UAE on business so they had the place to themselves.

O’Riley and Andlin got to the bedroom. They had sex for about five minutes.

“Ugh.”

“Ughh.”

“Ughhh.”

He pulled out.

“Hey, can I come on your chest?”

“…Okay.” She said. The subtitles read: Sure, whatever, this was obviously a bad decision, so just do whatever you have to do so I can go to sleep.

Andlin was perched over O’Riley, doing the five-knuckle shuffle. O’Riley tried to be encouraging.

“Come on baby, come for me all over my chest… et cetera.”

Ten minutes later the alarm went off for O’Riley to go to work. Snooze button. It went off three more times, and Andlin was still there using all his might, to try to relieve the tension.

“Hang on a minute,” she said. “I have to call in sick for work.”

He continued to stroke, but slowed down the pace a bit, waving his member in her face while she spoke to her boss.

“I don’t think I’ll make it in today.”

“Are you drunk? You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

“Yes… can we talk about this another time please?”

“HahhahAHAHAha… okay, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Stroke-time: forty eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. He finally made it: pure white snow all over her chest piece.

“Finally.”

They both rolled over.

“You know… I don’t feel so hot,” he said.

“Yeah I’m hungover too.”

“No, it’s not that… I have a headache.”

“I have some Panadol around here somewhere.”

“No, it’s not that kind of headache. My left side is numb… I can taste metal.”

“Oh.”

“I think I’d better go to the hospital.”

“…oh.”

O’Riley showed Andlin to the door. She stood there in her onesie waiting for the taxi with him. Not a lot you can say in that situation, really. He got in the taxi and left. O’Riley walked back in and shut the front door.

“What the fuck was that?” shouted Tenille from the couch where she was trying to get to sleep.

“Urgh… can’t we talk about it in the morning?”

“It’s 8 am.”

“Whatever… just let me sleep.”

Three months later, O’Riley sat down in training.

“Hey!” said Andlin. “Can I sit with you?”

“Uhh…”

“Good to see you!” he said as he said down. “Don’t worry about the thing, I’m okay. It was just a brain-bleed. No lasting damage. Hey do you mind if I get lunch with you?”

“Uhh…”

“Okay awesome I’ll come with… anyway – ” Andlin continued to tell his life story for the last three months.

Another three or four months later, she sat down for an interview in front of three panelists, and that’s where we came in, folks.

“Do you know Andlin?” asked Andlin’s father. “He’s worked there for nearly a year now.”

How do you respond to that? Yeah, I know your son – I nearly fucked him to death one time, funny story.

“Uhh… oh. No. I don’t think I ever met him.” Oh fuck.

“I see. Well I think I’ve heard enough, unless the panel has any more questions.”

The panel responded negatively in murmurs.

A few days later, O’Riley got a call offering her a job.

“Come on dude, we’ll go to the Gold Coast for the weekend; it’ll be sweet. Flights are cheap right now – up and back for $150 – I already checked it out. It’ll take your mind off things.”

“I dunno… I think I’d rather stay at home and drink Coopers feeling sorry for myself. I downloaded the new season of Dexter. Maybe I’ll just crawl into foetal position and cry.”

“Fuck that shit man. Don’t be a pussy. The world offers a lot of possibilities for a young single man. Like midget stripper threesomes.”

“Man… Even if I wanted to I couldn’t. I’m strapped.”

“Relax baby. I just got my tax return and I can cover the flight for you. Vamos, puta madre. I’m booking the flights now.”

“Urgh… okay.”

The plane hit the ground with a cringeworthy whirrgedewhirredethunkathunk. Anton jumped into a cab. Johnston fell into the same cab, and rubbed his eyes. They checked into the hotel. It was seven p.m. on Friday.

Johnston took a nap, and Anton woke him up by ordering a pay-per-view adult feature.

“OH… ARrghh… Yeah fuck me… fuck my ass good. AOohhhr!”

“Dude what the fuck? What is this shit?”

“…Asian Anal Happytime Four.”

Johnston covered his head with a pillow. “Motherfucker… I don’t even like Asian chicks.”

“Come on dude it’s past nine. Put on a collared shirt and let’s go.”

Johnston got dressed and sprayed on Jean-Paul Gaultier Pour Homme. “Let’s go to that place that looks like a log cabin from the inside. They play deep house.”

“They play commercial crap. That place is full of Wapanese tourists with cameras around their necks. Let’s go to Melba’s.”

Anton threw a condom at Johnston, who barely caught it, between two fingers. He studied the packet for a moment.

“Make sure you strap up. Statistics show that one in five young people have chlamydia.”

“I think at this stage I’m more likely to give a girl chlamydia… That fucking whore.”

“Yeah… It’s okay dude. We’re in the magical kingdom of paradise, and every fruit is yours for the tasting. Let’s go taste some magical fruit.”

Shoes. Door. Cab. Queue. ID. Drinks.

“Can I get two rusty nails please?”

“Sure… if you can tell me how to make one.”

“One part Scotch whisky… one part Drambuie, on the rocks.”

“Here’s to freedom,” said Johnston.

“Exactly. Here’s to freeballing… Feels good man. You should talk to that chick over there.”

“What, the troll with the three moles on her face?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“For a warm-up.”

“This isn’t little athletics.”

“You’ve been out of the game for a long time. Things have changed. New technology. Talk to the fatty to get into a talkative mood, then things will come easier when you get to the hot girl, every thing will flow easier.”

“Maybe… I was never good at this stuff. I don’t even know what to say.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you remember when we used to go to the movies and pick up girls in high school?”

“I remember you talking to girls and me watching.”

“Oh… yeah. No matter. Just go up to the troll and tell her you thought they looked cool so you came over to say hi.”

“But…”

“Go on.”

“Alright. No guts, no glory.”

“No nuts, no nookie.”

“No balls, no blowie in the bathroom.”

“Touché.”

Johnston gulped his rusty nail, started walking, and bombed. He walked back.

“There. Doesn’t that feel better?”

“In a word, no.”

“You just got rejected by the ugliest girl in the club. Things can only get better. There are some cute girls.”

“Give me a moment… I’m still recovering.”

“Recovery is for testicular cancer patients. Put your hand between your legs.”

“What? Why?”

“To check if they’re still there.” Anton cocked his leg as if he were about to make sure in the firmest way possible.

“Okay okay, I’m going.”

Johnston stumbled into a conversation with two Kiwi girls.

“I’m Johnston.”

“Yes, you are.” She said approvingly. The dark one was extroverted. Her name was Connie. The blonde was quiet and had curly hair. Her name was Debra.

Connie had a certain warmth, and she seemed to get excited about everything. Debra sat quietly and smiled, and sipped a vodka cranberry. Debra went to the bathroom. Johnston leaned in and kissed Connie on the lips. She grabbed him and nearly molested him. Debra came back, and someone had taken her chair. Johnston was a little confused when Connie suggested she sit in Johnston’s lap. She did. She wrapped her arm around him and smiled sweetly.

Connie winked at him.

“So… there’s a pool back at my hotel,” he said. “Do you guys feel like taking a, uh, dip?”

Debra leaned up against his neck.

“Skinny-dipping?”

He pulled out his phone and texted Anton from across the room. “Gtg, catch you tomorrow bro.”

They got back to the hotel. As they walked through the hallway, he had his arms around both of the girls’ waists. He was trying to play it cool but the thought of an impending threesome was dominating his thoughts. What did it take to satisfy two women? Could he do it? What if it all went wrong?

“Which is your room?”

“It’s right up here.”

Debra collapsed onto the bed and Connie sat down and started feeling up her leg. Johnston stood in amazement for a moment.

Heavy petting. Condom. Insertion.

“Uh… uh…. uhh…”

After twenty seconds, Connie pushed him off and pulled up her panties.

“And that’s all you get.”

“W…what?”

Connie zipped her skirt and picked up her handbag. Debra followed suit.

Johnston just sat there on the tousled bed, his penis still throbbing within the condom. The expression on his face was a child’s expression.

Connie glanced in the mirror as she walked out. “Oh snap… I smeared my lipstick.” She pulled out her make up kit from her handbag and started touching up. “Hey do you think we could get Bobby to pick us up?”

“Nah, not tonight. He’s got a gig at the Palais.”

“Oh yeah. Fuck it, we’ll take a taxi… Shit, have you got cash?”

“Nah, I’ve got card though.”

“Oh, sweet as.” Connie closed her make up kit. Connie and Debra opened the hotel door, turned off the light, and walked out, leaving the door open.

Johnston lay there for a minute, wearing nothing but a shirt and a condom. He got up and closed the door. He picked up his phone and called Anton.

“Heeey what are you doing calling me?? Didn’t I just see you leave with TWO GIRLS??!”

“Man… I think I’m going to cry…”

Charlton’s is a great dive for karaoke. Though it once sported the most exhaustive list of possible karaoke songs, now somehow it had changed karaoke companies and the list has been cut down to a bare minimum of thirty five sheets, lacking even a single Bowie song.

I’m standing on the side of the dancefloor with Bernadette. Bernadette is taking pictures of her friend Gizi getting groped on the dancefloor by a post-punk.

The five foot tall girl with the black hair and glasses pulled Bernadette down to talk in her ear. Bernadette pulled me over to talk in my ear.

“Apparently I don’t have to worry about – that guy is impotent. Don’t ask me how she knows this… I hope she’s right because that guy looks like a sexual predator.”

“She must be his confidant.”

Romeo continued to molest Gizi. He started to put his hands up the back of her skirt, still on the dancefloor. Classy.

Shorty grabbed Bernadette and pulled her ear down again.

Then Bernadette, to me: “She says the guy I’m talking to has a really small penis.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Aw snap. And it was going to be a surprise too.”

“Apparently she can tell the size of guys’ penises just by looking at them. She’s a penis psychic.”

“I bet she gives really good head.”

“She’s boner fide, if you know what I’m saying. HEY where did Zigmund go?”

Zigmund had disappeared with the Penis Psychic. That night he broke his five-and-a-half-month dry spell, with the one woman who could really appreciate his manliness.

I guess you can always go home.

I went back to see my family in Maitland a few weeks ago. I guess it’s just what I expected. Nothing really changes there, and it almost reminds me of how little I’ve changed in the past two years – or maybe it’s just been so long that I don’t remember the references I had used to know who I was there.

I smoked a cigarette with Hawk and he told me what had been happening in my hometown.

“Miguel is joining the Navy.”

“Really? That’s great. He loves that shit. Is he in comms or something?”

“Nah – he’s in research and development for submarines. He’ll never see the front line, which is good. If he told me he was going to become a grunt, I’d have to slap him. But nah, I think if he ever is even ever in a submarine, they’ll be joy-riding around the harbour for testing purposes.”

“How’s Sherbet?”

“Sherbet… I don’t talk to any more.”

“Why’s that?”

“It got too weird. She started hanging out at my place a lot. A lot. Like every day, every weekend she’s texting me to see what’s happening. In the end I had to tell her go home, you should be with your husband.”

“Oh. Hey, did Disco get married?” I hadn’t talked to him in years, and when I looked at his Facebook I noticed the status change, and thought maybe it was a joke. Then I looked and saw all his wedding photos, with him in a tuxedo. In the back of my mind I still thought it was a joke. Maybe he was only dressed like that because he was at his best friend’s wedding. Then I saw the ‘kiss the bride’ photo, and thought, what is he doing kissing his friend’s wife?

I guess he really did get married. Though he was something of a ladies’ man, and once told me he’d slept with 300 women “- and that’s low-balling it. That’s like, the number I tell my girlfriend.” I didn’t believe him of course, but he had seen a few things. But when he was drunk, he used to always talk about his sweetheart ex-girlfriend of four years. He always wanted a relationship. Perhaps a cruel irony would be if he really had slept with 300 women, wanted to be in a relationship with every one of them, and afterwards they refused.

“He did. The thing about Disco is, he’s a serial doter,” said Hawk.

Disco said to me once “Whenever I get a girlfriend, I just become so protective. I don’t want her seeing anyone. I just see her every day and don’t let her see anyone else.” I thought it was sick, but I laughed. “Straight to the dungeon,” I said.

“That’s right, the dungeon,” said Hawk. “I haven’t seen him or heard from him since he got married.”

“I always had such a good time with him… when he was in a good mood.”

Disco would come up to me at the Belmore and say “Man I just heard this guy talking shit about you. He said: ‘See that fairy dancing on his own in the smoking court. I’m going to go up and punch him.’ So I said, ‘You do that, and I’ll smash your face in, you useless sack of shit.’ I got your back man!”

I said thanks, and I knew that this was Disco showing his love for me in a backwards kind of way. However I knew nothing was ever going to happen – it never did. I’d been out in Maitland dancing on my own like a hippie on ecstacy for six years or more, and no-one ever did shit. In more recent years, I think some guys might have came up to me planning to do it. The conversation would go something like:

“Hey buddy.”

“Hey man, what’s up?” Smile beaming 1000 watts, grabbing his hand to shake it. “Aren’t you friends with Xxxx. Good to see you man, hope you’re having a good night.” How do you stay angry when you’re faced with that? You’d have to have a heart the size of Phar Lap’s, pumping pure formaldehyde. Nobody ever fucked with me, and rightly so.

After my parents had gone to sleep on Friday night, I went out to the Belmore. I saw some girls from my year in high school, except they weren’t really girls any more – they were twenty-seven and had rings on their fingers. Everyone else at the Belmore, though, had only gotten younger. I was standing in the middle of an alcohol-fueled play-pen… yeah.

Second cold approach of the night, I was talking some shit about coming in from Melbourne for a romantic weekend – only problem was, I came alone. The girl, Yvette, was giving me terrible body language, but – let’s face it – a girl has to be pretty explicit with me to get me to leave her alone. Every time I turned to face her, or turned her to face me, she would revert back to gazing to 82 degrees to the left of me. She was still laughing at my jokes, but it was not a strong look.

But then, the clutch. Her friends came up and said they were going to the Brewery, and vamos.

“I’m going to the Brewery,” she said.

“Okay then. Have fun.” It’s about five minutes into the interaction. She doesn’t have enough invested in me for me to get her to stay, and I don’t have enough rapport for me to tag along with her. I figured I may as well get a make-out, because the situation isn’t looking promising. Kiss kiss, right cheek, left cheek. Make-out.

“Whoa…” she said as I released her. “Where did that come from?” Something had just been turned on that could not be turned off.

‘Okay… well… wow. I’m going to the Brewery.”

“Yep.”

“Pretty sure you should come with me.”

When you’re in, you’re in.

To the Brewery. Have a dance, a couple of beers. Hang out for a couple of hours, catch up with an old friend. Notice that every girl in Maitland that has any kind of boobs, has them bursting out of their tops.

Then it was time to go. “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Uh… For a walk.” Logistics are not so hot for me. I forgot to put a condom in my pocket. I’m staying at my parent’s place in the spare room, on the lower bunk of a double bunk bed… At least no one was sleeping on the top bunk.

I didn’t really know what I was going to do. I wondered how my parents would react if I brought Yvette out for our Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausages.

“Okay,” she said. She doesn’t care where we’re going, and she doesn’t care that I don’t even know where we’re going. “Just let me find my friends and say good night.”

We found her friends, outside. Lydia was waiting for her dad to pick up her and her friend/boyfriend/gay best friend, or whatever he was.

“Do you want a lift to your place Yvette?”

“Oh yeah, that’d be awesome.”

“Do you want a lift to Yvette’s place, Jones?”

“Uh… okay!”

“If it comes up, you two have known each other for at least a week. I don’t want my dad to think you’re a whore.”

“I’m not a whore!”

“Just play it cool, okay.”

I started making some conversation with Yvette about amateur theatre or something. She’s sitting on a brick fence in front of me and she starts kissing me. She’s pretty drunk.

“You know, you’re a really good kisser,” she says after an intimate moment.

“Thanks. I practise at home on my hand.”

“I’ll bet you do.”

“I put lipstick on it and everything.”

Lydia’s dad pulled up, and I quickly asked “Lydia, what’s your last name?”

“It’s Johnston.”

I got in the car and said “Nice to meet you, Mr. Johnston.”

“Call me Geoff.”

I stayed cool, and I’m sure that Geoff had no idea that I’d only known Yvette for four hours. Though, I wonder how I even get into this situation when I’m twenty-six, and Yvette is (or claims to be) twenty-five. Her friend was obviously a lot younger. Still, I imagine what would happen if I’d got into the car and said something like:

“Hi Mr. Johnston. I just met your daughter’s friend four hours ago, and expect to be bending her over backwards within twenty minutes.”

All the people in that car whom I hardly know, whom I’ll probably never see again, who have no impact on my day-to-day life whatsoever, would probably hate me. Also, I might ruin my chances of getting laid that night – but somehow, I think it’d be worth it. I managed to restrain myself.

Got to Yvette’s house, met her housemate, went to the bedroom. Shit all over the bed, make-up kits, dresses, clothes, bras, tampons. Hm…

Yvette cleans it up, I lie down, she jumps on me like a wild thing.

We’re getting busy, still fully clothed. I’m rubbing up her thighs and lifting up her skirt to dry hump her for a minute or two. Then she goes and ruins it all by saying something silly like: “I need to pee.” Hm…

She goes to the bathroom and comes back. We resume our regularly scheduled programming, and I feel up her thighs.

“I need to ask you something.”

“What?”

“Do you always leave your panties off after you pee?”

“No, just some of the time.”

I fingerbang her for a minute, then I take my finger up and stick it in her mouth so she can suck on it, and she does.

I think I’m kind of in trouble, because she is going to want to get down so bad, and I don’t have any condoms. Remember, safe sex kiddies. Luckily, she has some stashed away.

We go for a while, but the sex is average because I’m so tired. While we’re in the middle of it, her phone rings and stops, two times. On the third time she says “Shit… I really have to get that.”

She hops off. She takes the call, and goes out the front door. I lay there on the bed naked, with the door half open.

There it is, on my dick… the strawberry surprise. I had to suspect the Communist flag was flying. Tampons on the bed + “I have to pee” (a.k.a. “I have to take my tampon out”) + …sucking my finger after I’d fingered her? I guess that’s kind of kinky. She probably reads Twilight.

Lying there on the bed, at 5 a.m., I nearly fall asleep about three times. I’m worried because I know if I sleep now, here, I’ll wake up at 1 p.m.

Eventually she comes back in, and I’m fully clothed.

“I’m sorry it took so long. My best friend was in trouble.”

“That’s okay. I have to go though. I told my parents I’d have breakfast with them, and they don’t even know I’m gone.”

I call a taxi and give her a hug and a kiss.

I woke up at about ten thirty and had breakfast with my parents.

I guess the main thing that has changed in Maitland is my friend Hawk.

“I’ve been doing a lot of shows lately. Nelsons Bay, Tamworth, Warners Bay. I like to put on a show. I bought a hazer the other day so I can make that fine mist you can’t make with a regular smoke machine. I own about $2500 worth of lighting equipment. When I get up there I’m always dancing and moving and shit.

“Sometimes, in the middle of a set, I’ve lined up a song perfect. The track is just building. It’s early in the night and the dancefloor is still empty. Thirty seconds before the track peaks, I launch out on the dancefloor and start shuffling my heart out. All the wallflowers and guys on death-row turn around and do a double-take. They’re like… wait, what… it’s the DJ!!! FUCK YEAH! I make an experience for the audience, like a live show. They love it. I get the best compliments from all the venue owners.”

By the way, you can listen to some free album-length electro/dance mixes by DJ Danç’s here.

Her name was Iola. She’s about thirty. Dark skin. Curly hair. I met her at Bar Open.

The night I met her, she invited me to come to her place for a barbeque, but she never gave me the details, so I didn’t go. After that, I didn’t speak to her for a year. I texted a bunch of girls in my phone, telling them to come to a party at my place. She said she was busy, but we should catch up.

I went to meet her on Brunswick Street. She was there with her friend Sam, and when I sat down and introduced myself, Sam continued with what was obviously a long monologue about how her housemate wasn’t talking to her, was being a bitch, etc.

Iola went to go get some drinks.

“I’m sorry,” said Sam. “I’m not normally like this.”

“That’s okay – everyone has bad days.”

“Ha. More like a bad year.” She may as well have said: “Actually, come to think of it – I am normally like this.” I could see why she was having friendship troubles.

Sam took a taxi home and I went with Iola to the Night Cat. By that time I was fairly drunk. I ordered another beer. We sat down on a lounge.

“My dad was a geologist and my mum was an archeologist. I moved around a lot, and I never watched TV as a kid… People always make these pop culture references and I never have any idea what they’re talking about. It’s awkward.”

“Yeah,” I said, and leaned in to kiss her.

“Wait – what are you doing?”

“I was going to kiss you. C’mere.”

“Wait – no. I think you got the wrong idea. I only invited you out here as a friend. Can’t we just be friends?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure, whatever. I’m going to get another drink.”

I went to the dancefloor and started scoping out some other girls, and I was about to grab one and twirl her, when Iola jumped in between me and my mark. I glared at her. I thought, not only do you want to be my friend, you want to be my cockblock as well.

Funnily enough, nothing panned out for me. The bar shut at 3 am. I went outside with Iola and said “Good night,” and opened the door of a cab.

“Wait!” she said.

“What?”

“Come talk to me a minute. I need to tell you something.”

I closed the cab door and walked over to her.

“What. What do you need to tell me?”

“Well… where are you going?”

“Home.”

“Oh.”

“Is that it?”

“No…” she said. I glared at her. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Because,” I said. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“What’s so ridiculous… I just thought, if you’re going home… I could come with you.”

I could have slapped her. Instead, I pushed her into the cab and made out with her.

I hate having drunken sex. It’s my second-least-favourite form of sex. We woke up in the morning and had hungover sex, my least-favourite form of sex. She had fake breasts and her nipples seemed permanently erect.

Then she left.

I’ll tell you the rest another time.

]]> http://troubleinabubble.com/fucking-stories/iola-lets-just-be-friends/feed 11 http://troubleinabubble.com/fucking-stories/straightforward-girl-with-mysterious-breasts http://troubleinabubble.com/fucking-stories/straightforward-girl-with-mysterious-breasts#comments Sat, 26 Sep 2009 08:29:19 +0000 Kurt Robinson http://troubleinabubble.com/?p=851

I’d just gotten into Melbourne. I met this chubby eighteen year old girl with braces on Johnston St. Textbook as it comes. Said “hello” waiting for the little man to go green, got her number. I said “I’ll call you.” And she said “I look forward to it!”

I called her a couple of times – pumped my state beforehand by jumping around a bit, told her a few funny stories or whatever. Said we should meet up. When we did, I realised how little game was actually necessary. I had her from “hello”. Pretty fucking romantic really.

I met up with her near her work on Johnston.

“Do you want to get something to eat?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ve just eaten.”

“Okay. I’m starving. I know this great place to get a falafel.” I bought a felafel for $5 from Lamb on Brunswick. At that time I was living off savings, so I knew all the cheapest places around Fitzroy to go for food. Go to Vegie Bar and order the nachos for $7.50, and they give you an enormous plate of nachos – they must use a whole bag of corn chips. (Not any more though – I guess they cottoned onto the fact that this “starter” was bigger than most of their main dishes). Go to Lentil As Anything at the Abbotsford Convent and pay by donation. Especially go before 11 for the breakfast menu.

I ordered a falafel and two pieces of bakalava. “Here you go.” I handed Vanessa a piece of baklava.

“What is it?”

“It’s baklava. A Greek pastry with nuts and honey. Delicious.”

She took one bite and handed it back to me. “Uh.. Thanks. Where are we going now?”

Then I said those two words that I would become very used to saying over the next few months: “My place.”

I took her back to my scummy studio apartment. Make out. Bedroom. Take off her jacket. Take off her shirt. Take off her bra… almost.

“Wait – don’t.”

“Okay.” Make out. Take off her skirt. Take off her panties. Take off her bra.

“Wait… I can’t take my bra off.”

“Why not?”

“That’s only for special people.”

We had sex, with her bra still on. I was scrambling with the strap, trying to take it off just at the right time so she might not notice, and get a glimpse of those bazoongas.

She stopped bouncing on top of me. “Don’t. Hey! When did you undo that?!”

I fingered her and tried to get her to come. I put my index and ring finger on her labia, and tried to put my middle finger on her clitoris. She was starfishing. She just lay there and didn’t make a sound.

“It’s done,” she said.

“What?”

“It’s okay. I’m done.” Worst fake orgasm ever. “Don’t worry,” she said “One day someone will teach you how to do it.” Most condescending sexual statement ever made by an eighteen year old girl in any bed I’ve slept in. I felt like telling her that I’ve had quite a few sexual partners that seemed to think I did know what I was doing. But then, what would I gain from telling her that.

She was the only girl in that period that I invited back for more sex. She came over about once a week for four weeks. I was really curious about her breasts. I don’t know if it was a brilliant ploy on her behalf to get a continuing sexual partner – but if it was, it worked wonderfully. They looked great in a bra. She said if she was drunk she would probably show them to me. So I bought a bottle of wine and invited her over. She took about two sips.

“Why do you want me to drink so bad?” she said.

As if I wasn’t being obvious enough. “No reason,” I said. I guess this was before I invented “Direct As Fuck Method“.

She didn’t finish her wine. I took her to bed. I have to wonder why she kept coming back, considering she seemed so dissatisfied with me every time I had sex with her. I never made her come, unless she is one of those girls that just looks like they’re daydreaming when they orgasm. Though, she never made me come either, except for the one time when we were watching lesbian porn beforehand. That time I came almost as soon as I entered. Oops.

After that, I stopped seeing her. I guess the possibility of seeing her breasts wasn’t enough to warrant keeping her around any longer.

I got a text from her a few months later. The worst booty call text ever. “hey is anyone bored this week?” Okay, you’re not really selling me here. You’re telling me that this is a mass text message to all of your fuckbuddies, and implying “hey, if you’ve got nothing better to do, you can stick your weiner in me.”

I wrote back “I would, but I’ve got a girlfriend now.”

About nine months after that, I texted her for some reason. I think it was to invite her to a party. Everyone knows you can’t have enough cute sluts at a party – they’re what make it worth turning up.

She wrote back something like “I’d love to but I have a boyfriend… What would we do at this party?”

I wrote back something charming like “I’d stick my dick in your butt.”

“Oooh, that’s my favourite!”

Following was about half an hour of sexting, with her telling me what a dirty slut she was, and how I should blow a hot load in her mouth – fun stuff like that. Her boyfriend had dungeoned her, refusing to let her out of the house to see her friends. I think there must be some kind of formula… I’m not sure of the exact science, but it would go something like:

SLUT + DUNGEON = TURBOSLUT

She told me to text her back in a few weeks when she could get rid of her boyfriend. I assumed she meant she was going to dump him, but who knows.  I haven’t spoken to her since.

Sweet girl. I wonder what her breasts actually did look like. I guess some things man was just not meant to know, or at least a man without strong liquor.

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