just_a_girl (18 page)

I have been lying in bed thinking about Bevan and that kiss and our chats and what it all might mean, because it wasn’t really sexual but it was like we had a real connection, you know, and I’ve never been really comfortable getting physically close to people but this time with Bevan it was different and I felt like I wanted more, and the one thing that Geoff always used to say was that he wished I could relax, I always had my mind going a million miles an hour when he was touching me, and it seems that some things never change but the thing is, I’ve never really talked about it to anyone, but I don’t think I’ve ever had an orgasm, not like they do in the movies, sometimes it feels a bit tingly, but Geoff always used to bully me,
Did you come? Did you come?,
like I was some kind of performing monkey, and I’d always say,
I think so,
never quite sure, and he would lean over me with a strange expression between concern and contempt.

Last week I saw that older actress from
Sex and the City
and I only watched the show a few times, it’s too American and they talk about themselves all the time, but she was quite
good on
Dr Phil
and she said that the character she plays is so different from who she really is, that she is actually quite shy about sex, and that when she got to 40 she didn’t really know her own body, and I’d never really thought about it in that way but it does seem strange to reach this age and be a stranger to yourself, and she said you can never really please someone else in bed unless you know how to please yourself, and so she embarked on a tour of discovery and she recommended getting a vibrator to help, and when I finished watching the show I felt really inspired by her story, I felt really nervous too, but it made me think it was time to start taking a few risks and so I looked online with some trepidation because I had no idea there would be so many shapes and sizes and I picked one called the Pocket Rocket because it didn’t look so, I mean, some are black and huge and threatening, and it was meant to come with a full instruction leaflet, and then I spent a week terrified that someone at Springwood post office would open it but when the parcel arrived they’d sent me the wrong one because it was called the Purple People Eater and it didn’t fit in your pocket or feel smooth and warm like I had hoped, but I didn’t want to risk returning it and of course it came without batteries and once I finally got it going it made the biggest racket that made me worried that Layla would hear, so I went to the supermarket and bought an electric toothbrush and I’ve left it sitting in an obvious spot so that if she asks, I’ll say,
Just brushing my teeth.

My new best friend Mr C has started getting all techno. He’s completely obsessed. After I sent him that little link to my video he got hooked. He’s on Twitter now. I start to Follow him. He’s got thousands of Followers already. Like he needs them. Isn’t it enough just to get on stage? He’s tweeting every coupla hours even on his days off from church. His subjects are all over the place. It’s funny but he’s more real on Twitter than in the grandstand. He’s even getting the hang of the language now:

—11.30pm: congrats to yet another Riverlay member for gettin 2 finals of Idol. Go Hannah!

—8pm: Like a Rainbow Conference shapin up. Check @arainbow to register for early bird offer

—5pm: How I loved working on my old car today! Nice to b home relaxin

—3pm: Devastated/hopin/prayin for @Henderson family. Chelsea & I always here 4 u

—6am: Goal of the day: Listen to others & involve them in decision making

—5.30am: It’s Sunday. I LOVE SUNDAYS!!! Chance for a fresh God encounter!

I don’t post any tweets. But
just_a_girl
has 1 Follower and that’s Mr C. I told him that’s a bit obvious. But he can’t work out how to stop Following. Mum aka
margot_riverlay3
is Following him too. I taught her how to use Twitter. But she’s only following Mr C. And Dr Phil. In her profile shot she has christmas reindeer horns on with Rusty. I block her from Following me. The last thing you want is your parents retweeting you. They’re starting to take over the internet. Some people on Facebook even have their parents as Friends. There’s nowhere to hide.

The thing about Mr C is he never rushes me. And he knows how to put words together. One after another into a sentence. He’s not like Davo was. Everything was always urgent. His body was hard and fast. Rubbing up and down. Like he was a speeding train. As if I was just the track underneath. I used to think I wanted more. But something’s changed. It’s like the closer I get the less I want it. I think it was Newcastle that did it. That guy just walking away. We never chatted again. And his profile has disappeared.

It’s not what bodies do that interests me. It’s the twist and tease of minds. I like the game beforehand. When it comes to the final touching I don’t feel like I’m all there. And it’s the danger I’m drawn to. Heading into the dark places. That’s what gets me going. Mum says I was always a risk taker. She said I walked early and fell over a lot.
Always egg-shaped bruises on your head.
But I’ve never liked
competition. Except when I know for sure I’m going to win.

With Mr C I was always sure it was going to happen. Maybe that’s why I’ve chosen him. Because he’s the big prize. Everyone wants to touch him. They hang on his every word. He stands in for everyone they’ve lost in their lives. They’re hungry for him.

But I’m not like that. And that’s why he’s chosen me. I don’t go to church. And mum’s always there. So he plans it really carefully. He knows when she’s not around. He sees her drive in. So we don’t get caught. The media are always criticising him. For making too much money. For asking for too much money. They keep an eye on him. They’d have a field day if they found out about me.
A Current Affair
on my doorstep. Imagine the heartbreak. The betrayal. For Chelsea and all his fans. The empire he’s built. His church would come crashing down.

But we both love the risk. More than anything that’s what we share. I wonder how far we’ll push it.

Am I like Long Island Lolita?

Do I really just want to get caught?

On Saturday night Mr C popped around while mum went to a Riverlay workshop.
How to Heal Past Relationships.
I’ve shown him where we keep the spare key. It’s where everyone keeps the spare key. Under the pot on the back verandah. The pot closest to the door. So he can let himself in.

Anyway. We were on mum’s bed. Just mucking about. But I told him I wasn’t ready. I want to wait until I’m 16. Fifteen just seems too skanky. You can’t tell your kids you lost your virginity at 15. They’ll just want to do it even younger. And he said he’s happy to take it slow.
I know it’s going to be worth waiting for,
he says.
It’s a very special time, not something you’d want to rush.

But he was just going through the motions. He’s always precise with his words. He usually has no trouble convincing people. But he knows he has to tread carefully with me. There’s so much I could just, well, reveal. And it’s all backed up on my laptop.

It’s better to make Mr C wait. Keep him dripping with anticipation. And to tell the truth he doesn’t
really
do it for me. He touches me slow and methodical and thoughtful. He’s always looking at my face to see if I’m enjoying it. I don’t like to be watched all the time. I’d rather just shut my eyes and drift off. Not have to give feedback every second.

Tick the correct box. Would you rate yourself:

He gets off on thinking he’s teaching me. About my own body. He imagines me looking back on him as a gentle first lover. He brought
The Joy of Sex
along for us to read. I just couldn’t stop laughing at the hippie pictures. A couple doing it on a motorbike.
Look at all her underarm hair!
I told him it was more of a turn-off than porn mullets. And he put it back in his briefcase.

But where Mr C does come in handy is his experience. He tells me about my clitoris and all the things it can do.

And then on mum’s bed it finally happens to me. He uses his tongue like a raft. And I cling to it pretending I’m a girl drowning. It makes me squirm as if I’m being tickled from the inside. Another first. I show Mr C that I really know how to smile.

But he’s just as interested in looking at his own body. He keeps checking out his abs. In the sliding mirror doors of mum’s wardrobe. When he thinks I’m not watching. He has a personal trainer who gives him a workout each morning. They do boxing and weights. He posts photos
on his blog. But a supercut body doesn’t interest me. I like soft skin. Sexy eyes. Cool hair. Someone it’s nice to snuggle into on the couch.

I show him where mum’s hidden her vibrator. We laugh as it clumsily spirals along the bedside table. Mum’s not due til after nine so we run a bath. We sit in the cool bubbles and he massages my feet. I lie down with my ears under the water listening to the muffled sounds.

—Layla, your mum is always asking me. Why don’t you come to church any more?

My ears pop as I sit up. It’s the question I always imagine answering. Fuckadoodle, it’s the big one.

—I don’t really believe there’s a god. Why would a god destroy the planet? Climate change. Wars. Cancer. It doesn’t make any sense.

He smiles as if he’s heard this one a million times.

—Look, I’m concerned about global warming too but, it’s not God, man has destroyed the planet.

—But god created man.

And we go round in circles until I really want to push him.

—Well, why does god hate gays so much. Why can’t my dad belong at church?

—Oh Layla, God doesn’t hate homosexuals at all, he just doesn’t condone the act ... it’s just that homosexuality is out of touch with religion, it’s not in God’s plans for us.

He gets up and sits behind me. Starts slowly washing my hair. I close my eyes. Enjoying his fingers on my scalp.

—Homosexuality is unnatural, we have proven there is a cure, here at Riverlay, many men I know, and some you
do, have changed, have gone on to train as pastors, to get married...

—Yeah, that’ll work, look at mum and dad.

—Your dad seems like a good person but sometimes the Devil can inspire people to act on homosexual desires. I’ve talked to men who’ve undertaken our therapy, you know, we have the Ray of Hope course, and many have been victims of sexual abuse or molestation, or neglected by their own fathers. I’m not saying this happened to your dad but there’s always a reason.

—But what about the unconditional love shown by Jesus in the bible. Shouldn’t we all be like that and accept everybody? Isn’t it a bit hypocritical to judge others?

—Look, God does love those of homosexual orientation but he asks they control it, refrain from sexual activity outside heterosexual marriage. It’s only really through the power of the Holy Spirit they can be totally free of it. I’d question their faith. I mean, God doesn’t let this happen to someone who really trusts in him. People can change. You know, when I was a small boy, I even had some experiences. I have some understanding.

—You what...

—There was another boy I always saw on holidays and sometimes we shared a tent when our parents went camping. We used to touch each other. It went on for a few years. But as I got older I realised that it was just curiosity and needed to be left behind. He tried for a while to pursue it. But I was much more interested in loving women.

—So it’s just about appearances. About being fake. Pretending to be something you’re not.

—Everyone has something to hide, Layla. It’s about growing up. You learn to keep secret what makes you vulnerable. You know, when I was at high school I used to be so shy I could hardly speak to anyone. But I had to learn to confront my fears. I know things seem hard now but it gets easier, believe me.

—But my dad loves people as much as anyone else, what’s the difference between you and him?

Mr C doesn’t answer, just pulls the plug to let the water drizzle out. As I step onto the bathmat he grabs a towel and starts drying me off.

When I put on my pyjamas I tell him about my past boyfriends. I give him lots of details. I tell him about my on-again off-again relationship with Davo. The pain and the kisses. How his parents fight like feral cats. I tell him what I’m wearing to the formal. About Marco. I try to keep him guessing. There’s only so long this can last. I want to keep him in my pocket for a little while. In case I need him later.

Mr C puts on his boxers and starts carefully blow-drying his hair. I’ll be asleep and it’ll be dry when he gets back to Riverlay. When my mum’s just pulling out of the church carpark.

I pull on my striped top and skinny jeans. Silver sandals with pointy heels. I try not to walk like a man. Dancing, no problem. Mum’s letting me catch the train with Marco to the city. She thinks we’re seeing a late-night flick at Broadway. I tell her we’re seeing a movie that I’ve already seen. In case she asks questions later. But I’ve got Marco’s sister’s ID. Marco’s sister’s a brunette like me. Mum drops me off at Springwood station and Marco’s waiting. He’s caught the train down from Leura. He leans in the window to say hello. His hair smells like coconut. Fresh and creamy. Mum likes him I can tell. She knows his mother from church. She thinks he’s solid. He has a wide smile for her and looks her in the eye. He doesn’t wear a hoodie. Well, not tonight anyway. That’s all she asks, really.

As we wait for the train two girls turn up at the station. Wannabe Olsen twins. Maggots. Bleached lank white blonde hair. Skinny white tops and tats above arse. Ciggies in hand and gold-rimmed sunnies. From a distance they
look identical. They sparkle and reflect each other in the fading light. One girl has a cask wine bladder stuffed into a plastic bag. Pure class. And gosford skirts. Where you can see all the way up to the entrance.

Marco and I look at each other and laugh. I’m glad I’m wearing jeans.

We grab a seat in the front carriage where it’s quieter. We sit next to each other but slightly apart. He’s so relaxed and he’s got these wide shoulders that you could use as CD racks. He does a lot of swimming but he also reads. No guys at my school read actual books. We talk about
Romeo and Juliet.
The book versus the movie. Our favourite applications on Facebook. Whether Paris Hilton deserves to die. I tell him about
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle.
He says he’d like to read it after exams.

By 9pm we’re in the gutter queue outside the Abercrombie. Luckily we have two drunk losers behind who look much younger than us. One keeps kneeling at my feet. Begging me to help him get past the bouncer. A Tongan guy with a face that never cracks. I step out of the bouncer’s eyeline so he can see the other guy swaying. Being just that bit too loud. Tongan dude gets distracted and quickly checks our IDs. Before shooing us past to size up Dumb and Dumber.

It’s the first time I’ve got in underage. The dancefloor is full of light. We watch for a while from the couches. It’s a place where no-one cares what you look like. Except for maybe Marco. Who points out all the guys with jeans and belts hanging lower than their bums. That look doesn’t really grab me either. It just makes the guys look like they have short legs and no arse. And I like an arse
in
jeans not
out of them. Guys’ bums look like a baby’s when they strip off. White and dimply. Except for those guys on steroids where they look all hard like cardboard. Davo always said his butt cheeks were so tight he had toast not buns.

Purple Sneakers is celebrating its 100th birthday with a safari theme. Drunk Janes in camouflage khaki stagger about clutching free Strongbows. Hoping to find a Tarzan for the night. A guy plays pool with a branch coming out the back of his collar. He showers eucalyptus leaves over his shoulders when he pockets a ball. Two sprigs come out of his wrists. He looks like he’s trying too hard. That’s the problem with dress ups. It’s all or nothing. If you go too far people either despise or feel sorry for you. Especially if no-one else has made an effort. I always give it a miss.

Arctic Monkeys give me the excuse I need to shove Marco onto the dancefloor. He’s been slouched on a soft corner of the couch. Taking time over his vodka, lime and soda. I tell him I always thought it was a girl’s drink. Guys get that little bit hotter when they dance. The more they can move and show off the better they’ll be in bed. Sarah said to me that you can tell how a girl comes by how she sneezes. And it made me laugh because I thought of mum. How she holds her nose except for a tiny little squeak that always manages to escape. She sneezes on the inside. And then next time I sneezed I noticed that I’m really loud and loose. I just let it all hang out there. I tried not to sneeze in front of Sarah after that.

So, Marco’s up and, damn, he has a few standard moves. But they don’t come naturally. He looks into the air above my head. To hide his concentration on not concentrating. He has a very sweet mouth. A smile he can’t seem to
control. Meanwhile I do a few booty moves. Bump and grind and stick my butt out. Until a guy sneaks in behind me as if he was invited and I slap him away. I try to get Marco to do some robot dancing. But the night is still too young.

Marco saunters away to watch some pool. His face is serious. His fingers twitch. As he imagines the moves he would make. A door behind him opens and a few girls come out.
What’s up here?
I grab Marco and we stagger up the dark staircase. Clinging on to each other. At the top it’s laid out before us. The savage streets of Chippendale. A rooftop garden of empty beer bottles. But at least we can breathe up here. We go down a level and peer into skanky rooms where old men snuffle. Under piles of bedclothes and TV flickers. We open all the doors off the corridors. Like a nightmare version of
Alice in Wonderland.
We enter a kitchen that hasn’t been cleaned since before I was born. Piles of unwashed plates and saucepans fill the sinks. The stove is caked in brown fat that looks like shit.

Marco backs out in horror. But I block his way with a goalie crouch. I push him over so he’s leaning hard against the kitchen bench. I ask whether he wants me to go down on him. Fuckadoodle, is there a single guy in the universe. Who has ever said no to that question. But the pressure’s on because I know. I’m not just giving him head. I’m giving all the guys at his school head. Because they all talk and joke about it and rate the girls. It’s good head or bad head or
incredible
head. And I just have to be incredible. I hear them on the train, the grammar guys. And the way they compete. They love each other, not their girls. And I know I have to tread carefully. Because I don’t want
people to think I’m a slut. But I want Marco to like me enough to see me again. So I figure just oral this time.

But then Marco surprises me.
Actually Layla, I’d rather eat you right now.
He grabs my belt buckle and scarf. And it throws me off balance. This casual turning of tables. And this kitchen is so filthy. All I can think of is Danny. And the cool metal hanging from the ceiling. Marco has the kind of face that I could trust. But I’m really not ready to go there right now. So I give him the most sexy kiss I can perform in this shithole. And drag him downstairs to the dancefloor.

After another vodka he starts to loosen up. He trickles his fingers up and down my arms. I sit on his knee on the couch. The pokies ping their beeps of seduction. He says he doesn’t usually drink much. But he loves a glass of wine. Ecstasy is his drug of choice. The silky and velveteen rush. The way you’re more in control of what you feel. Our bodies are the right sizes. My small frame fits into his large one. Snapping together like Lego. He whispers into my hair,
I think it’s going to be incredible with you.
His mobile strikes midnight and we start to run.