Praise (6 page)

‘Roll over,' I said.

She rolled over, lying flat on her chest with her big arse lifted in the air. I set to with three fingers and finally she came, clutching the pillow over her head.

I sat up and watched her.

‘Hand fucking is wonderful,' she said, after a time. ‘Hand fucking from behind is especially wonderful.'

It depressed me. I was beginning to suspect that Cynthia's orgasms came not so much from anything
I
did, as from her ability to turn herself on to things, to anything, and anyone. I could've
been
anyone. Maybe that was the way it would always be with sex, and maybe there was nothing so surprising about it, but I felt the need to do something more. I had to prove my existence. I needed power. I rolled her over again and applied my mouth to her clitoris.

‘Jesus.' She sounded tired. Her thigh closed around my ears. She held my head there a while. Nothing happened. I stroked away with my tongue. Then her legs opened again. I sat up and looked at her. She looked back.

‘I'll show you something,' she said.

She took my hand and placed it over her own. Then with both our fingers she began manipulating her clitoris. ‘See? Push it one way until it sort of stretches, then roll your finger over it and let it snap back, then push it the other way.' She showed me for a few moments more, then pulled her hands back under her head. I carried on. I could see what she meant. ‘It hurts just a bit,' she said, ‘and it takes a lot longer to come, but then when you do ...'

I nodded. I was interested. These were the things I needed to know. I slid two of the fingers of my left hand into her and began moving them very slowly, in time to my right hand. I picked up the pace. I concentrated on it, coordinating things. It wasn't sex, it was vectors, speed, mathematics. And maths was something I
was
good at. I worked and worked and she squirmed and shuddered and then came, jamming her cunt up against my hand. It was a victory for science.

We lay on the bed for a while, smoking and talking. Then I got up, went to the toilet, and opened us some beer.

‘You hungry?' I asked.

It was early still, so we dialled room service. The menu was extensive. We chose pizza.

We ate and drank and smoked, and watched TV.

Cynthia said, ‘You don't mind me showing you how to do things, do you?'

‘God, no. I can use the help.'

She shook her head. ‘Don't be so down on yourself. You're no natural, you don't do anything right, but there's still something about you.'

‘I'm glad.'

‘Maybe it's just the looks.'

‘What about them?'

‘You're that close to being ugly, you know, you're
that
close.'

‘But?'

‘But you're beautiful.'

‘Maybe to you.'

‘It's not just me, Gordon. I'm sure there's others.'

‘It's not true, Cynthia. Women like to think that other women find their man attractive, that's all.'

She laughed. ‘You don't know a fucking
thing
.'

We finished the pizza and drank some more beer and watched TV. Then we climbed back into bed. She slid down my belly and took me in her mouth. I got hard. Her head moved up and down, her tongue was pumping. I grabbed for her legs and dragged her lower half around. Her cunt was over my face. I nuzzled my way in. She had light brown pubic hair, lots of it. I sorted my way through, found her clitoris. We worked away at each other for a while. Cynthia started making noises in her throat. I felt the pressure building in my erection. It was always a strange thing, that
pressure
. Sometimes it was hateful. Too much depended upon it. But then at other times ...

I was nearly there. My tongue was aching, it was losing its rhythym against her cunt. Then Cynthia pulled her mouth away. ‘Stop it,' she told me, ‘I want to concentrate on this.'

I stopped. She went back to it with her mouth. Her finger was between my legs and nudging at my arsehole. It all still felt good, but the pressure had dwindled away. I didn't think I would be able to come. Ejaculations were fickle things. I moved my hips and tried to will the semen into her mouth. It wouldn't go. I tugged at her arms. ‘Stop,' I said.

She raised her mouth and looked at me. She was rubbing the slippery knob of my penis with her hand.

I said, ‘It's hard to come like that sometimes.'

She laughed. ‘What is wrong with you?' But she slid up and mounted. We began fucking, slowly. In a few moments I was right on the verge again.

‘Stop,' I said.

She stopped and shook her head at me. Then she lay down flat on my chest. She kissed me. Then she began moving again, very slowly. I felt more in control this time. We picked up pace. Cynthia reared herself up on her arms, then she was sitting upright.

‘I'm gonna come soon,' I said.

‘No, not yet.'

She began bucking her hips furiously. She was close. I grabbed on and pushed as hard and fast as I could. Cynthia threw her head back. She said, ‘Not yet, not yet, not
yet
.' But there was no stopping things now — I came. She threw herself back down on me, sweaty and panting and angry. ‘Oh
fuck
.'

We lay there for a while.

‘You didn't make it, did you,' I said.

‘No.'

She looked at me with a flushed exasperated bleeding face that I suddenly found deeply beautiful.

‘We're going to have to do something about this,' she said.

It was morning again. The phone was ringing.

Cynthia reached over and picked it up. ‘Yeah?' There was a pause and then she sat up. ‘Helen! Where are you? How'd you know I was here?'

I climbed out of bed and wandered into the toilet. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was pale and round and unshaven, with a head of long tangled hair. Not even enough fat there to look sleek. Just flab. What was the appeal? Cynthia's body was better. It was solid and strong and indulgent. I didn't feel comfortable with slim women. Somehow a well maintained body suggested a dubious preoccupation with good living. There had to be room in a life for drinking too much and eating badly and lying around in front of TV for days on end ... fitness was a curse.

I pissed and went back out to the bed, curled up next to Cynthia. I waited for the phone conversation to end. She was laughing. When she finally hung up she said, ‘I can't believe it! Helen is in Brisbane.'

Helen, it turned out, was an old friend of Cynthia's from Melbourne. They had shared a house for a time. Helen was up in Queensland for a two-week holiday, with her boyfriend. She'd tracked Cynthia down through the agents who were selling the house.

Cynthia was excited. They had arranged to meet in the City for lunch. ‘You'll come, won't you? You'll like Helen and Dave.'

‘Well, I should really get over to Social Security at some stage. Before the weekend. After that, though, I'll be free.'

Cynthia, knowing all about Social Security, predicted they'd keep me there for at least a few hours. We decided that she would bring Helen and Dave back to the hotel room after lunch. I could catch up with them then.

There was a knock on the door. A man's voice called out Cynthia's name.

‘Shit,' she said, ‘it's Dad. Quick, get in the bathroom.'

‘Is he really going to mind that much?'

‘No, I just don't feel like doing it now. Go on.'

I went and stood in the bathroom, feeling foolish. Cynthia opened the door. My clothes were still spread all over the carpet. There was a man in this room, any father could see that, any
major
could see that. The man was hiding in the shower, he was raping a major's daughter in an army hotel room. The major's daughter was raping
him
in an army hotel room. The major's daughter was taking
photographs
of it ...

I waited. I could hear them talking in the doorway, but not what they were saying. There were no yells, no threats. Then she came back. ‘They're going out for the day and wanted to see if I was interested. I told them about Helen.'

‘Okay.'

‘I'm sorry about hiding you.'

‘It's probably for the best.'

We got dressed. I went out to my car. I drove back to my flat, had some toast for lunch, then gathered up the Social Security forms.

Social Security.

The
Department
of Social Security.

They made me nervous, they weren't like the C.E.S. The C.E.S. didn't care what you did. The C.E.S. had forty times more people on their lists than they had jobs. Eighty times more people. They knew they were losing it day by day.

Social Security, though, was different. They were dealing with money, they knew they were important. They wanted to know what you were up to. Their application form was five or six pages long. I filled it out. The questions were detailed and disturbing. I appreciated the necessity, but that was all. I told them I wasn't married, wasn't de facto, had no dependants, no disabilities, no savings, no investments, no hope ... but I still didn't have the three forms of identification. This was a more serious problem than I'd expected. I couldn't prove who I was. A licence and a bankbook — I was only two-thirds in existence.

I started going through drawers and boxes around the flat. I found my tax file number. That was useful, but it didn't count as ID. I dug deeper. I found old poems, old stories, old letters. I read some of them, lost track of the time. I was there for a couple of hours. All I came up with was a copy of my senior year school results. Report cards. Why did I still have things like that? Why didn't I keep anything I needed? Where were my tax records, my rent receipts, a pay slip with a current address? I went back to the list. It was a miracle. There, at the very bottom, it said that academic results, while not preferred, were an acceptable proof of identity. I'd stumbled over the line. The years of education had meant something after all.

I packed it up and drove into the Valley.

The Valley Social Security office was in a big blue, almost windowless building. There were four or five people hanging around on the footpath outside, smoking and talking. They were all under twenty. They watched me walk in with my paperwork. They had a bored, competent air. They knew what it was all about. They probably knew how to get by without any ID. I didn't. I was soft. I'd had it easy for the last six years.

Inside the place was crowded, non-smoking and partly desperate. Most people were there just to lodge their fortnightly forms, but there was a strong percentage, maybe a third, who were there to confront the system, to work it. There was money available. The system freely gave out a certain amount, but these people wanted more, needed more; you could see their minds working over it. And there were ways. There was provision in the Social Security code for Special Benefits above and beyond the standard payments. And these people knew that. The stories were running round in their heads ... my money got stolen, I got robbed, they're kicking me out of my home, I need the money now, I've gotta eat, haven't I? I gotta
survive
.

None of it mattered. The only thing that mattered was proof. The Social Security staff weren't fools. There was a large sign over the counter. ‘Normal living expenses — including rent and food — are
not
considered sufficient cause to be eligible for Special Benefits.'

I joined one of two queues, ten or fifteen back from the counter. It was moving slowly. Apart from the queues, there were twenty or thirty people sitting around in the plastic chairs. They were waiting for interviews in the booths. Being a first-time applicant I was destined for a booth, for my preliminary interview. Cynthia had warned me that this was where I'd be held up for an hour or two. I looked at the clock on the wall. It was already mid-afternoon. I was going to be late getting back to her hotel.

The queue shuffled forward. Most people just handed over the regular form and left. A few had more complex requests or complaints. They argued, listened, got rejected or got waved over to the chairs to wait. They slowed things down.

Finally I arrived. The woman was waiting. I said, ‘I'd like to apply for unemployment benefits.' I pushed the forms across to her.

She took them, glanced through. ‘ID?'

I gave them to her. She looked at the licence, and the bankbook, and then at the school results. She looked at me.

‘This isn't really much good ...'

‘Sorry. It's all I could find. It's on the list.'

‘Haven't you got a birth certificate?'

‘I lost it. I could get a new copy of it, I suppose.'

‘New copies won't do.'

‘Well?'

She drummed her fingers. She sighed. ‘Okay. Look. Try to find something better before you come back for your interview. I'll make you an appointment for Monday.'

‘Monday?'

‘We can't fit you in today. Look at the place.'

‘Oh ...'

‘Read these,' she said. She pushed some leaflets forward. Then another form. ‘And fill this out if you think you need to. It's the Special Benefits form. Okay?'

‘Okay.' I picked it all up. She filled out another card saying that my appointment was for eleven a.m., Monday.

I moved aside, walked back out on the street. The smokers were there, watching me, reading me. I still felt that they knew something I didn't. I hadn't walked out with any money. I hadn't even walked out with the promise of any money. That couldn't be good.

I got to my car, climbed in, and drove back to Cynthia's hotel.

Cynthia and Helen and Dave were all in the room when I arrived. Helen was a nurse and Dave was an unemployed mechanic. Helen was about thirty-five. Dave was younger, maybe mid-twenties. He rode a bike, a Ducati. The two of them were taking it up the east coast. The introductions were made. We settled down over some beer. Helen and Dave weren't terribly happy with the way their holiday was going.