Donna Joy Usher - Chanel 01 - Cocoa and Chanel (21 page)

‘That’s not the point,’ said Nat, shaking her head. ‘This is about changing the energy in your life, allowing you to move on and embrace new experiences.’

‘Have you been helping yourself to my self-help book collection?’ I asked, causing her to burst out laughing.

I noticed Elaine look at her suspiciously, before beckoning Dinah to keep reading.

Step number three – Get a new hobby.

‘Oh perfect,’ said Elaine, as if unaware of the contents of the article, ‘I know just the thing. I’ll organise it and then surprise you.’

‘It says it has to be done in order,’ I protested.

‘Oh don’t you worry about the fine print, it’ll be done in order. Go on Dinah.’

Dinah cleared her throat nervously.

Step number four – Have meaningless sex.

I let out a yelp.

‘You have to have sex again sometime,’ said Nat reasonably.

‘I know that. I just don’t want to be rushed into it.’

‘It’s been a year,’ said Elaine, digging around in her handbag. She flicked open her wallet and handed me a card.

‘Jesus, what the hell is this?’ I squeaked. ‘The phone number of a gigolo?’

Elaine laughed. ‘No, it’s the details of your new web-dating profile. Don’t worry I’ll set up the dates. You just have to sleep with one of them.’

‘You are a machine,’ Nat said admiringly.

‘Thank you.’

‘You just have to sleep with one of them.’ I mimicked Elaine while screwing up my face. I was beginning to feel a little snowballed.

Step number five – Travel to an exotic destination.

They looked at me.

‘Well,’ I admitted, ‘I haven’t been on a holiday in a while. That might be nice. And if I have to have sex first, at least I’ll have earned it. All right,’ I said to Dinah, ‘give it to me, what’s number six.’

‘You’re not going to like it.’

‘What can it be worse than having meaningless sex?’

‘Having meaningful sex.’

What?’ I yelled, trying to grab the magazine from her.

‘Shhhh, people are looking,’ said Dinah. ‘It says right here.’ She flicked the magazine around so I could see it.

Step number six – Have meaningful sex.

‘I can’t see that happening anytime soon,’ I grumbled.

‘Well it has to happen one day or you’re going to spend the rest of your life alone,’ said Dinah.

‘Anyway,’ said Nat airily, ‘who says meaningless sex can’t become meaningful sex?’

Elaine looked at her intently for a long time while I wondered what was going on. Had I become so self-centred, that I had missed something in one of my best friend’s life? Then she finished her scrutiny of Nat and turning to me asked, ‘What, you’d rather spend the rest of your life with that foul mouthed cockatiel your mother gave you?’

I squirmed in my chair and muttered, ‘Bird’s gone.’

‘Pardon?’

‘The bird’s gone,’ I said a little louder.

‘What? How?’ asked Nat.

‘I set him free this morning. I couldn’t take it anymore.’

‘What are you going to tell your Mum?’

‘That I woke up this morning and he was dead.’

‘Don’t forget to mention that you fed him last night and he seemed happy. Otherwise she may think he died of starvation,’ said Nat.

‘I’ll tell her he sat on my shoulder while I watched TV and that I gave him a special treat to keep him occupied while I was gone. You know one of those cuttlefish thingies.’

‘Christ,’ said Elaine, ‘this is why you have to have meaningful sex.’

I stuck my tongue out at her. ‘All right, so what happens after I have meaningful sex?’

Step number seven – Obtain closure.

‘What?’ I asked. ‘How?’

‘I’m not sure about that part,’ admitted Elaine. ‘But I have faith if you follow all the other steps, it will just happen naturally.’

‘You just want me to have sex.’

‘Yes I do dear and the sooner the better.’

* * *

By the time I arrived home it was late afternoon and my hangover had morphed into a general tiredness. Cocky’s cage – which I had placed on the sidewalk – was no longer there. I felt a momentary sadness, quickly followed by relief, and then by guilt that I hadn’t returned the cage to Mum. Oh well, I would just have to buy her a new one if she wanted it back.

I rang Mum, relieved to get the answering machine, and left an over-detailed message about Cocky’s death. I would see her tomorrow at my family birthday lunch; for now I just wanted to be alone to think. I hung up hoping she wouldn’t smell a rat, and went to run a bath.

I love my apartment. Lily – my sister – and I had each inherited one from our great Aunt Bertha, who had died a couple of years ago. We had been overwhelmed at the generosity of the dear old lady who had spent most of her later life travelling overseas. They are in an old, red brick building in Woollahra, which is an inner suburb of Sydney.

Lily’s flat – which she rents out – is right next to mine. She has six children, and is expecting her seventh, so there’s no way they could live there. When Jake and I split I had suppressed my sorrow by renovating – taking my apartment from its 1970′s interior of brown and orange to a bright modern flat.

My favourite room is the bathroom, which is large enough to fit a 2 metre long spa bath. I spent a large portion of last year in that bath; initially crying, but later reading books or drinking wine – always by myself. I had hopes that one day it might be used for something more romantic – certainly not where I wanted to have my meaningless sex encounter, but meaningful sex? Well that was another thing entirely.

I dropped in a bath bomb scented with orange and lime and watched it start to fizz. Once it had finished, I followed it in – sinking into the hot water and sighing with pleasure. But just as I was starting to relax the magazine article popped into my head. I harrumphed in annoyance. Seven Easy Steps to Closure indeed. Was I really going to do this? I had to admit it did seem like fun: my friends and I on a secret quest to find closure, but I didn’t really like the idea of the internet dating, or the meaningless sex.

Had I ever had meaningless sex? I started sifting through my memories, sorting the few sexual encounters I’d had as meaningless or meaningful. The time I lost my virginity – definitely meaningful. Then about 8 months later I’d had what I thought was meaningful sex, but had turned out to be meaningless when the young man in question never contacted me again. That had taught me a big lesson. The time after that was definitely meaningless. It had been ego driven sex – the need to be found attractive again after the previous gut wrenching experience. It had been fun but not very rewarding and I had gone off meaningless sex after that. And then of course there was Jake. The memory flooded into my mind, shocking me with its intensity.

I managed to hold off sleeping with him until our fifth date, when the urge to feel his naked chest rubbing against mine became overwhelming. I spent the entire dinner staring into his deep brown eyes, engaging him in what I hoped was witty conversation. The whole time, all I could think about was unbuttoning his shirt and running my hands over the hardness of his stomach. During the entrée – a mouth-watering chilli mud crab which we shared, I imagined him gently teasing my bra straps off with his teeth. While we ate the main – a mixed hot and cold seafood buffet for two, I pictured him slowly sliding my skirt up my legs. By the time dessert was served – we shared a mixture of sorbets, I was visualising him throwing me onto the bed and ripping off my blouse before ravishing me with his mouth and hands.

I may have been able to resist if it weren’t for the sorbet incident, which occurred after some dripped off the spoon I was offering Jake and onto his chin.

‘Lemon,’ I said, reaching out and wiping it off. Gently taking hold of my hand, he sucked the sorbet off my finger while staring into my eyes. Then he ran his tongue around my finger in a circular motion. If I hadn’t been sitting my knees would have given way.

(I have to admit at this point that I have a toe and finger sucking fetish. I just love having my digits sucked. It’s not something I tell everyone – I am a little embarrassed by it. I put it down to my first boyfriend, when I was 15 and as innocent as a baby, sucking on my fingers while we watched a movie. He had stared straight ahead at the screen as if nothing was happening while I squirmed in my seat, experiencing feelings and emotions I had not known I was capable of.

My fetish did lead to one embarrassing moment while I was at Uni. I had played tongue hockey at a night club, with an extremely handsome rugby player. One thing led to another and we ended up back at his flat mucking around. I expressed a desire to have my toes sucked and he seemed happy to oblige. Unfortunately I had been wearing cheap, synthetic shoes, and unbeknown to me was suffering from a bad case of foot odour. The luckless fellow worked his way down my body until he got to my feet. He picked one up to start the toe ravishing, stopping with his mouth about an inch from my big toe. ‘I’m sorry,’ he spluttered, ‘I just can’t.’ He collapsed on the bed, so overwhelmed by the smell of my feet and the alcohol he had consumed that he passed out. Anyway enough of that – back to the restaurant.)

I rushed off to the ladies, all hot and bothered, and examined myself in the mirror. My face was flushed and my nipples were sticking out through the material of my blouse. I splashed cold water on my face in an attempt to cool off, but some of it slid down my cleavage, only enhancing the sensual experience. There was nothing to do except grab the bull by the horn and invite Jake home for coffee. Then I would wait until he expressed a desire to take things further and calmly let myself be seduced.

The sexual tension in the car was so thick I had to think calming thoughts to stop myself leaping on him whenever we stopped at a red light. These calming thoughts were totally ruined by the left side of my brain, which is very arty and quite mischievous. One minute I would be deep breathing, picturing waves washing gently over golden sands and then pop, Jake and I would be on those golden sands, naked, with the waves washing gently over our feet. He was deep inside me, thrusting away. Christ, by the time we got home I was in quite a state.

I lasted until the front door was closed before leaping on him, pinning him to the door with my body and my mouth, while I tried feverishly to undo the buttons of his shirt.

‘Here,’ he grunted, buttons flying everywhere as he ripped it off.

The fabric of my blouse was a little softer and I heard fabric tear as he shredded it from my body. All I could think about was getting as close to him as possible. I had to feel naked skin moving against naked skin or I was going to go nuts. And even then it wasn’t enough. I wanted to get under his skin, eat him up, and tear at him with my nails, all the time pulling him closer and closer until I got what I really wanted.

He took me there against the front door. Lifting me up so I could wrap my legs around his waist, he thrust straight inside me. I remember clutching his hair and calling out his name.

I felt weightless pinned against the door while I tried to pull him deeper and even deeper, until suddenly we both came, me bucking backwards against the door as the waves of my orgasm took me higher and higher.

When the overwhelming sensation had finally subsided, I managed to roll my eyes back to the front of my head and open them. He was watching my face, the remnants of pure lust fading from his. I was wearing my bra, undone at the back, and my skirt was up around my waist. His jeans were lying around his ankles, his boxers caught mid-thigh. His hair had been thoroughly ruffled by me running my hands through it and was standing up on top like a rooster. I don’t think the whole episode lasted more than five minutes.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘that’s one to tell the grandchildren.’

And then he kissed me.

The sound of the phone ringing brought me out of my reverie. I could hear my mother’s voice talking to the answering machine. ‘Tara love. Sorry to hear about Cocky, I know how much he meant to you. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow. Don’t be late.’

My bath had been totally ruined by the memory of Jake.
Damn it,
I thought as I dried myself off. I didn’t want to do this anymore. I guess for a while I had, in a sick way, enjoyed the moping and crying. It had gotten out of hand though, and been going on too long. Was deciding to move on enough to actually enable you to move on? Was that the catalyst I had been missing: a true desire to say goodbye to depression and self-pity? The letting go of the final tendril of hope? The acknowledgement that there would never ever be anything between Jake and I again?

I certainly hoped so. If it took a
Cosmo
magazine and ‘Seven Easy Steps of Closure’ to get me over the finish line then by God I was going to do it. The hair, the shopping, the dating, the meaningless and the meaningful sex, I suddenly wanted it all. I went to bed that night feeling positive for the first time in a year.

* * *

I was, as usual, late arriving at my parent’s for lunch the next day. My Mum and Dad – Elizabeth and Albert Babcock, better known as Bet and Bert – retired to Umina Beach about 10 years ago. Umina Beach is 60 kilometres north of Sydney, and is only a 75 minute train ride from town. They have a cute little cottage with a big back yard, and are close enough to the beach to hear the waves and smell the salt.