Here’s a little bit of raunch for your Wednesday (hump day, eh?) afternoon. Considering I’m such a prude in ‘real’ life, this is about as explicit as I’m gunna get. So small children and grandmothers (How on earth did you end up here? Welcome! But srsly, go to bed!) perhaps skip this one, or read the slightly censored extended version here.
The low growl of the only Harley in town winds its way up Anzac Hill. Teenagers make out in their parents cars. Tourists shuffle out of caravans, their enormous zoom lenses drawn to the sun fading over Mount Gillen.
‘I’m the one in the red dress’ she texts.
‘I’ll be the one with the motorbike helmet’ he replies.
He gives her gold earrings and he looks good in leather. On the other side of the river, the Casino’s only place left open to eat, so over the trill of pokies and under fluoro lights they talk softly of Sufism, books and bikes.
Second date, suburban share house in the shadow of the mountain. From scratch, he cooks her butter chicken. In a conversation lull they kiss. His lips are wet and don’t move much but it’s been nearly two years since anyone touched her naked body so she goes wandering with her hands. To the back of his neck, his shoulders, his chest then moves both her hands slowly up his thighs.
He grabs her hands and leads her to a single mattress on a floor covered in clothes and junk. There’s no music, just him suckling and calling her ‘Sweetie.’ Not her name, not even babe, but sweetie. She pushes pictures of her grannie from her head as she fumbles with the condom on his tiny flaccid prick.
He removes her hands and masturbates, says he can go all night. She gets on her hands and knees, eyes shut. He holds his shame in one hand and her hips in the other. His hips begin to bump against her arse and she says the three little words no man ever wants to hear from any woman he’s trying to fuck: is it in?
The bumping goes on and after a while he says the three little words no woman ever wants to hear from any man she’s already regretting fucking: I love you.
She shuts her eyes and groans and grips the sheets then convulses and collapses as convincingly as possible. She peels him off. She drives home. She sees him for lunch the next day so she doesn’t seem so shallow as to dump a man for being a dud root. She mourns the nice beanie she left at his house then logs back in online, search criteria: must be male, must live within 500 kilometers of Alice Springs.