Sex on Tuesdays (11 page)

All talked out, he nodded.

“Would you like me to call a friend, ask if they'd come and stay with you for awhile?”

This time he blinked owlishly before shaking his head.

“After what happened out there on the road, it might pay to lock your door behind us. Can you manage that okay?”

His nodding head must have been too heavy to hold upright any longer because it bounced off the table a couple of times and then lay still. A second later, the room reverberated with pneumatic-drill snores.

I looked at Simon. “Should we put him to bed?”

“Nah!” He gave the sleeping form a disparaging glance before picking up the empty brandy bottle and tossing it in the disposal under the sink. “Let him be. He deserves to wake up feeling like he's been chewed up and regurgitated. Anyone who cheats on his wife and thinks it's his God-given right to do so, doesn't need our sympathy.”

“You were all for it a moment ago. ‘
Men can't do without sex'
,” I said, imitating his voice with an exaggerated John Wayne gruffness. “The way you two were going on, anyone would think sex was an item you picked up and paid for at the corner shop.”

“Of course I went along with him,” Simon explained. “How else was I supposed to get the name of the other woman?” Opening the front door, he beetled his brows at me. “And if you hadn't kicked me in the shins and distracted him, Derek would have told me her name.”

I glanced at the prone figure slumped on the kitchen chair, head on the table, slack mouth drooling. “I wouldn't bet on it, Templar.”

11

Wednesday, 4:00 p.m.

I was parked down by the River Torrens, which is right in the heart of the city of Adelaide, but eons away from Tamali's coffee shop. As it was already four o'clock, I knew I was in trouble. Megan had this annoying habit of ordering coffee as soon as her bum hit the seat and if I hadn't rocked up by the time she finished drinking, she'd up and leave.

I particularly didn't want to miss her today, as there were a couple of touchy subjects I needed to discuss from today's letters.

So, I'd have to jog.

At fifteen minutes past four I staggered through the open doorway at Tamali's, both heels blistered and my breath rasping in my chest.

Note to self: body in need of attention—e.g., more exercise, less chocolate,
and ask my niece to buy me a vibrator for my birthday
.

Collapsing against the shop wall to find my breath, I looked for Megan. It was standing room only in the coffee shop. All these fresh, vital twenty-somethings toting laptops or backpacks, had made Tamali's their own. University students sipping coffee, working on assignments, debating everything from the Seven Wonders of the World to the sexual activities of frogs.

In the far corner sipping a caramel latte, sat Megan. She appeared completely relaxed and tuned out to the bustle. Today she wore blue velvet. On anyone else, her dress would look like she'd cut up the lounge room curtains—on Megan it looked fabulous.

She glanced up, noticed me watching her, and I swear her botoxed forehead shimmered in displeasure. Maybe it was the rip in my jacket or the dirt on the knees of my jeans. Could even be the graze on my cheek that had her attempting to use her fossilized frown muscles.

Smiling, I gave her a finger wave and hurried towards the corner table. “Sorry I'm late. Bumper-to-bumper traffic along the Main North Road all the way from Gawler.”

“Never mind. At least you're here now.” Her forty-eight-year-old face creased into a smile—all perfectly aligned teeth, but next to no laugh lines.

No wonder she turned the head of every male in the shop with a mere eyebrow hike.

I sometimes wondered what Megan got out of our friendship other than the very small fee I gave her for helping me answer my more exotic letters. Certainly not my scintillating conversation. For it was me who usually hung on her every word—especially when she slipped into storytelling mode and filled me in on some of her more hilarious escapades as a prostitute. But ever since we bumped into each other six months ago in a shoe store where she was buying Manalo Blaniks while I was scratching together the cash to buy on-sale 50% off Nikes—and we finished up in a coffee shop chatting about work—our friendship had blossomed.

Yet we had nothing in common. She'd had sex with hundreds of guys. I only needed the fingers of one hand to count my conquests. She'd retired rich. I had to work to pay my monthly bills. She was tall and classy. I was short and slightly out-of-date. She was beautiful. I was….

Well, you get my drift.

Dropping my tote on the floor, I gave Megan an appreciative eye roll. “Love your dress.”

“What? This old thing?” she said removing a shopping bag from the wooden chair next to her and indicating for me to sit down.

“Don't give me that crap,” I told her. “I saw that dress in the window of The Parisian Joint only last week.”

She let out a laugh. “And here's me thinking you only shop at Kmart and Target.”

“Oh, I do. But let's just say my window-shopping sorties tend to be a lot classier than when I'm out to make a purchase.”

She took a sip of coffee and eyed me over the rim of her cup. “I thought you weren't coming today. What happened? In trouble again?”

“Mm…” I agreed, noting the gold shine on each well-shaped nail as she placed her cup back on the table. “Been a bit of a rough day.”

“Do the tear in your sleeve and the black marks down the front of your top have anything to do with the rough day?”

“Could say that.”

When I filled Megan in on exactly
how
rough my day had been, she wasn't at all impressed.
I told you so
dripped from her glossy pumped up lips even though she didn't actually voice the words. I guess she was right. Playing detective wasn't at all as straightforward as it was in the Nancy Drew books.

“You need to keep your nose out of this, Dani.” Her fingers dug into my arm as though she wanted to shake some sense into me. “There's a killer on the loose out there. A real killer—not a story book villain. I want you to promise me you'll leave it to the police.”

I nodded. What else could I do? Her nails were like eagle talons. I half expected her to rise in the air and carry me off to her nest.

Evidently satisfied with my acquiescence, she unhooked her fingers and glanced down at her diamond Rolex.

“God, is it that time already?” She lifted her coffee cup and drained the last of her caramel latte. “Mind if we get started on the letters now? I have an appointment with my hair professional at five, and you know how Carlo gets cranky and turns into a drama queen if he's kept waiting.”

I flicked my eyes to Megan's stylish hairdo, which to my eyes needed as much attention as a Mona Lisa smile. In fact, if her hair was any more perfect it would be a wig. Yet as soon as Carlo spotted her, he'd bounce around on his $2000 Italian handmade ostrich-skin loafers, flick scissors, and comb through the air like a magician's wand—and then charge her more than I made in a week for the privilege of cresting his salon door.

Bending down I produced a sheaf of letters from my tote. “Most of these are straightforward; nothing I can't handle, but there's a couple I'd like to run by you first.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay, the first is a premature ejaculation—”

She smirked. “Oh God, did I say
shoot
?”

“And the other is a ninety-year-old guy who wants his eighty-eight-year-old wife to dress up in a school uniform and suck on him. It's true,” I said grinning at Megan's open-mouthed disbelief. “See, this old guy can't get it up anymore. Viagra is too dangerous for his heart. So he figures if he can't have the real McCoy, a little game-playing might be fun.

“And she objects?”

“Oh no, she's an ex-thespian and loves nothing better than dressing up. The problem is his wife has chronic arthritis and by the time she gets the uniform on…Mr. Let's-Make-Old-Age-Fun has nodded off to sleep. They've been trying for a month now and still haven't been able to get it right. The wife's threatening to leave him and go look for a younger model.”

When I first read this letter, I wondered if it had come from a resident at
Sunny Days,
my mother's retirement home. If the rest of the residents were anything like my mother, sex would be high on their list of activities. Although I suspect in most cases it was more a topic of conversation than an actual activity.

Megan's throaty laugh echoed through the shop. “Oh, my God. I love it! Sounds like there's still hope for us in old age.”

“Any suggestions?”

Her forehead shimmered momentarily and a rebel line appeared next to her nose. “Hmm…easiest solution would be to hire a third party to help them get their act together.”

“You're not suggesting a
Ménage a trois
?”

“Why not? It would work for me.”

I didn't doubt that for a moment
.

“Not sure the two old dears would be happy about introducing a third party. You know, it could be sort of embarrassing for them.”

“And playing suck the dead sausage wouldn't be?”

“Megan, behave yourself,” I gasped, suppressing the giggles that were bubbling inside my chest. “I suppose we could suggest inviting a care-worker or a nurse to assist the wife into her school uniform and prod the old guy whenever he looks like he's dropping off to sleep.”

“Or maybe the nurse could check out eBay and buy a battery charger,” Megan proposed, straight faced.

I opened my mouth, closed it again, and then quickly swiped another letter from the middle of the pile. “O-kaaay. Moving along. Only one more query to discuss. I have a guy here whose rocket blasts off before he even climbs aboard, and his wife says she's ready to tie a knot around the offending appendage.”

“Aha! Our premature ejaculation dilemma?”

“Got it in one. I've been researching ‘premature ejaculation' on the Net and came across something called, ‘Seman's technique.' Ever heard of it?”

“Can't say I have. Although it might be the same technique I applied to some of the
blowers
on my client list.” Megan's lips twitched. “As you know, my experience has all been…hands on.”

I turned the letter over, smoothed it flat with one hand, and began reading the research notes I'd written on the back, aloud, in the hope of keeping a tight lid on my fizzing laughter. “‘Semans technique' is used to help combat premature ejaculation by employing a ‘start-stop' approach to penis stimulation.'”

“Aah…my favorite hobby—”

“By stimulating the man up to the point of ejaculation and then stopping, your partner will become more aware of his response,” I read on, biting into my bottom lip before continuing. “More awareness leads to greater control, and open stimulation of both partners leads to greater communication and less anxiety. The start-stop technique is conducted four times until the man is allowed to ejaculate.”

“Good God! Exactly what I did to keep
Thar He Blows
, an old client of mine back in the early nineties, in line.”

“And did it work?”

“Ooh, yeah. But the poor guy became so frustrated I began to worry about him having a heart attack.”

“But surely nothing's worse than a guy shooting his load as soon as he gets naked. Not that it's ever happened to me,” I quickly added, feeling a royal hot flush coming on.

Actually, I was lying. Well, sort of. It did happen to me at a party way back in my late teens, but I was paralytic drunk after having my first encounter with tequilas—so I figured the incident didn't really count.

“Ooh, Dani, darling.” A wicked grin lit up Megan's unlined face. “You're not blushing, are you?”

“So…what's your take on this problem?” I said ignoring her. It was
not
a blush. I was just feeling hot. Damn heaters were always turned up too high in these city shops.

“Okay, here's what I usually do when premature ejaculation rears its ugly head,” she said, chuckling at her own joke. “Just before the guy explodes, grab his wanger and twist. Hard. That usually backs him right off. I've also found blowing a whistle in his ear distracts him. Ice water in a spray gun works, too. Mostly though, I pass the guy a handful of tissues, charge him the full going rate, and then poke my head out the door and yell, 'Next!”

I'd been busy scribbling more notes on the back of the letter, and almost swallowed my tongue. “Megan!” Then I burst out laughing. Fair dinkum, the woman should write a book on her exploits; a best-seller for sure.

Still giggling, I stuffed the letters back into my tote bag. “Okay, that's it—too much information.” Then, before she snaffled her shopping bag with one hand and pushed back her chair with the other, I folded my arms across my chest and gave her my best, don't-you-dare-move stare. “Before you go…how about filling me in on this guy you're setting me up with tonight, Edward Granger. If he's so great looking and filthy rich why would he be interested in going out with me? And how come he's not already married? All sounds a bit suss to me.”

“Hmm…let's see.” Megan's smooth expressionless face tipped to one side in thought. “Well, I guess Edward is what you'd call highly work-orientated and he's never in one country longer than a few months at a time. As you can imagine, this hasn't made for successful relationships. However…that was in his past. Now he's realized time is passing him by, so he's on the hunt for a suitable mate.”

A suitable mate?
Blimey! Sounded more like a pedigreed stud dog checking out all available bitches.

“But why me?” I persisted. “With all those beautiful sylph-like beauty queens in his world, why does he want to go out with me?”

“Dani, Dani. Stop worrying. The guy is a real sweetie. I spoke to him this morning and he said he'd be happy to meet you at the ticket office tonight at 8:30. If you connect with each other, that's fine; if not, it'll be a great night out anyway. I told him you'd be wearing your gold hoop earrings. Okay? And he'll be dressed in an Italian silk grey suit with a pink carnation in the lapel.”

“Any distinguishing marks?”

Megan did her forehead shimmer. “Um…let's see. Well, there is a sexy scar—kinda hot—that runs from his collar bone down to his belly button.”

“Holy crap!”

“Something to do with a gang or payback…I think. We were a little busy at the time he was telling me the story, and I wasn't paying much attention to the details.”

“Gang? Payback?”

“But that was a long time ago,” she hurried to inform me. “He's not into that sort of activity now. Anyway, you probably won't get a chance to check his scar out tonight. Unless, of course, he takes you back to his house for a nightcap.”

“Not much chance of that on a first date,” I assured her.

“Um…well…in case you do, there's something I should tell you about Edward.” Megan reached into her Gucci handbag and flipped out her mobile, which was playing the theme from
Moulin Rouge.
“It's just a little quirk,” she added putting the phone to her ear. “Nothing you can't handle. He just—”

Her full-blown lips shifted into a snarl. “What?” she screeched into the phone. “You did
what
?”

“The little quirk?” I reminded her, getting agitated and pulling at the neck of my jumper.