Exploits (2 page)

I shake my head. I really wish I could sleep. I'm just way too nervous to sleep.

"It's because you're cold."

Aaaah, cunning viper.

This place is like a mortuary. It's not a lie. Carpets might help. Curtains too, for that matter.

"You can lay next to me if you want."

Sure thing. Would you like a blow job with that? A foot rub? A cigar and a martini?

He smiles that snake charmer grin at me, "Come on."

How come he's so friggin’ sober anyway? Oh what the hell. I guess this is called the first move. So I shimmy closer. Why did I bring only thongs with me? My T-shirt isn't long enough.

Ooooh looooordy
.
My skin is on fire. Naked legs on naked legs ...
Go-To-Sleep-You-Slut.

I close my eyes and pretend that this is much better. Truth is, now I'm definitely not going to get any sleep. Mmmm, but he is really warm. Cosy.

* * * * *

I wake up with the blinding sun streaming in through the unsheathed window. It's impaling my eyeballs to my eye sockets.
Fuckenhell
. My heartbeat accelerates to 170 mph. There is a hand over my right one. Yes sir! And fuck me, it feels really good. I inch my arm up and peek at the time on my watch. I have had three hours sleep, and I know I'm not going to get any more. And the fucker is awake. Mister, 'I'm pretending to feel you up in my sleep'.
Pleeeeease
stop moving your fingers like that. I am not trained to make nipple erections disappear.

I swivel my tousled head and stare at him pointedly with slate blue eyes. Should I break his arrogant nose, or encourage this? I only met him yesterday. Good girls don't do this. Oh come on, who am I kidding? I'm on the pill; I can do whatever the hell I want. And right now sinning seems like a p-r-e-t-t-y fine idea.

He smiles. The wicked charm is already switched on. He's waiting to see how I'm going to react.

Okay. Game on.

"Is that all you can do?"

Aaaaah
... oof. Oh no, I'd forgotten about the bellows. No, actually all he's doing is kissing me ... hang on, sorry ... my mind goes completely blank the minute someone sucks on my earlobe.

…
Pause ...

… Play ...

Sorry, where were we? Oh right. Yes! Can you believe it? Nothing happened. Just some fondling and kissing. He turned me on like a sauna, and then buggered off to have a smoke with his scary friend Charl. (I am not joking about scary. This guy exudes genetic throwback.)

I use the opportunity to dive into clothes. Brush my teeth and hair, and get a smoke of my own. Okay, so we can all do dragon impersonations, we can blow smoke. What was the point of getting me shit-faced, getting into my bed, for that?

Stuff that. I'm not playing games. I go walking back to the bedroom across creaky yellow-wood floorboards.
HEY
! He's in my Hermès bag. And he's holding my packet of contraception!

He drops them on the bed, gives me his, ‘I am going to make you scream’ seduction stare, and says, "Just checking."

Right. What is this? Do I get strip searched now too? Fucker!

So that's why he didn't do anything last night.

Mmmm
, he's way too close. Okay why don't you just kiss me.
Oooh
and slide your hand under my shirt. Haha, what a pro. Unclipping it with one hand.

Adelle!  Knock, girl!

Chapter 3

Riding the Highway

There was something about Gary I can't put my finger on. He had a quality of reckless abandon. He was also the most persuasive male I have ever met.

So he stayed for the whole two weeks, and this 'good girl' managed to keep that a secret from her prying mother. But how could I hide the glow that sex gave me? Which had nothing to do with bellows that went oof. Instead, it became a journey of discovery. At the first available opportunity, I
went before the jury to plead my case. Ignorance! I was ignorant. And I required a tutor. (
You've heard the expression ‘famous last words
’–
right?
)

It started with a simple game of pool. He is after all a master, with his own cue
-
wiggles eyebrows
. It seemed of paramount importance that I should learn that a girl must
never
jerk a cue. But should build up momentum slowly before releasing the tip into the bal
l
–
(
or is that the ball into the tip?)
After hours of patience, I got it right. And so I graduated to pupil of grand master.

No matter where we were, the minute we hit that Audi of his, things got steamy. I had started ‘forgetting’ to wear underwear. Fold down seats are such a great invention. And thank the goddess Venus that mankind
-(
or horny young men
)–
invented the drive-in. I became a regular. I was a religious zealot about Friday and Saturday night movies under the African stars. And I'm talking
double feature
.

He could play me like a cello, move to harp, back to
synthesiser, over the piano keyboards and down the flute. Move aside Beethoven, here comes Gary! (Did I just say that? Oops, no he never jumped the gun like that. He had the control of a Zen master.)

My life became tactile. I spent every penny I earned on risqué underwear (hidden from mother of course) and exotic perfume. I also intended to woo him with my delectable cooking. So I invented the midnight picnic. Everything a girl needs. In my arsenal I had lots of long lasting candles. Ridiculously expensive KWV cabernet sauvignon, (matured for at least five years), my new favourite Nachtmusik, and plenty of finger food in the picnic basket. I became the proud owner of suspenders, hold-up black Dior stockings, transparent bras and now only wore clothing that could be unbuttoned, never wore earrings (they snag), grew my nails, and painted them as religiously as I went to the drive-in with my new beau.

Sucking on his fingers started the game. He became the Lion King, sprawled supine on his back on a picnic blanket next to a midnight black Atlantic ocean. Candles surrounded us between the boulders of Llandudno, seclusion and fire, making this look like a blue moon voodoo seduction. Wearing shiny black Errol Arendz heel
s–
(so practical for the beach
)–
the shortest schoolgirl skirt I could legally get away with - oh, and did I mention I somehow lost my top between dessert and my next smoke?

I sat on Gary
,(
he was still dressed
),
trailing my tongue down his neck. Nibbling, biting softly. I always knew what he liked because his hands would tighten on my hips and he'd hold onto me like an anchor looking for safe harbour.

Why do men wear belts? Would someone please explain this to me? I'd get his faded blue jeans off, just enough. And that's where he'd stop me and give me that salacious smile, which dissolved me into mush. He melted me from the inside. (His eyes had the effect of a blow torch.) All it took was that naughty grin and a softly pleading, ‘Oh come on.’

Right. How could I forget? The girl doesn't get to play unless there is Chanel lipstick on the dipstick. Chalking the cue is apparently the only way to sink anything.

* * * * *

I know my descent into debauchery is all rather graphic. But this is how it was.

Gary had an appetite like a wendigo. I have only ever met one other man that can go and go and go, making that fluffy pink bunny in the advert more like a playmate than I
could ever have realised. Not to mention that it's incredibly romantic: learning the art of lovemaking with a sea breeze tousling your mermaid's locks. Tasting fine wine off his full lips; pure white talc-soft sand surrounding a mohair blanket, casting ghostly light; the waves serenading our rhythm. It was perfect. My blond hunk sculpted in caressing moonlight, his strong hands feeling my breeze-teased nipples, you can't buy memories like that. It was at once new and primal. It was exciting, clandestine and wicked.

You see, Gary was my first long-term boyfriend. What we did, I just thought, was how it was done. Mr Crabs didn't have time to teach the potato sack how to dance, so when I did learn, I had no idea that I was shacking up with the demon-lord of sexual depravity.

There were rules. And if I wanted to keep him, I had to abide. If I was disobedient, he managed to make me feel as though I had betrayed him in an all night orgy with every person I could find at a moments notice. I was his puppet. He made me into who I became. I was addicted and lived, breathed, for him. (And my next fix of him.)

When the rules began trickling between us, I accepted them. I had no reason to question them, or him. No, not for years.

Rule Number 1
:

The woman serves. That means she gets what she wants. First you give the man what he wants, for as long as he wants it. Then you get to have your say.

Rule Number 2:

If the pants are off, fellatio is the introduction. Without it, nothing is going to happen.

Rule Number 3:

Always do what he says and we'll get along just fine. Otherwise there's the door. It's over.

Rule number 4:

Sex is as vital as water. Without it, a man and his 'loving' demeanour are doomed. Put out, or piss off.

Rule Number 5:

Be available when I want you. No matter who died, or is getting married. Your previous life is over. If you want me, then you have to be mine.

I would do ANYTHING to avoid breaking rule three. This guy was hotter than chip oil and the other girls were going to have me on my feet and ready to please him no matter what. They had balls those girls. Cheeky wenches would phone him, hit on him, all in front of me. I had to get a ring on my finger. And the only way to do that was to give him one made
of lipstick, every time I saw him.

Hence, I discovered a way to make sure he was always happy to see me. He'd pick me up, off we'd whisk into the day. I never knew where we were going, or what we
were going to get up to, or with whom. Life was one endless surprise. (Now I hate surprises.) But it always took us at least fifteen minutes to get there. At the first traffic light, that guy looked like he was driving the car, and was alone.

I'm telling you, how I lived to tell this tale is a miracle. A BJ at top speed in the fast lane on the highway, um, how many laws did I break? But this became my signature move. And he became an expert driver. He was behind the wheel and I was going to ride that highway all the way to the end.

Which reminds me of that song by Tom Cochrane which sings about life being a highway. It's so apt.

But instead what I have ringing in my ears is AC/DC -
‘Highway to hell’.

Chapter 4

Move over Madonna

Within the first three months of my seduction, I had gone from ‘hardly ever been kissed’ to ‘let's get it on’. We were inseparable. (What can I say? He was obviously enjoying tutoring me.) I drank far too much alcohol, (he liked me drunk, said it lowered my inhibitions and made me more fun); smoked too many slimline cigarettes, and learned to dance like I was permanently attached to a stripper's pole.

I learned to head bang to his heavy metal as if I was seducing the gods of rock; I call it the snake dance. Snaking from side to side, but the long blonde hair went too. I learned to pout, was finally given my bedroom eyes, and the master key.

I also beat all of the other girls to the finish line. I met the parents. He was so strung out I was beginning to fear he would violate me unconscionably if I ‘fucked up’. I had to be the Virgin Madonna for his parents. And I was to be raunchy Madonna Ciccone for him. (Big secret – he was like a double agent. His parents had no clue that he drank, smoked, listened to heavy metal … oh , and was the spawn of the devil.)

My demure prissy-missy upbringing had me in good stead. I wooed his refined and sweet parents living in their sprawling and expensive home in Groot Constantia, and we were given the thumbs up. Finally, I was moving in with the hottest man this side of the universe.

His laugh, smile and eyes were seductive. And I have witnessed this charmer seduce friends and work foe alike. He can talk the talk and
twist the most resistant mind around his little finger, (or his pen ...oopsy … or his pool cue.)

* * * * *

I'm ready for this. My things are unpacked in this refurbished home in Rondebosch.  Finally we have our first night alone, legitimately.  The candles are lit, dinner is made, the music is on, and I am wearing suspenders, hold up stockings, a camisole, g-string and stilettos. Oh and Van Cleef and Arples.