Six Flavours of Sin (2 page)

Chapter 2

Coinage

It's March. Summer in Cape Town is just magical. Although I went to a snob school and hung out in the snob crowd, I personally prefer the surfer type. Adelle has always been my most relaxed and rebellious friend. It's normal for her to
hang out with older guys; she’s used to drinking, smoking, and chilling. Me, however, I'm realising that I've lived a fairly sheltered good-girl existence, up until now.

Oh dear. Being a closet nerd leaves you unprepared for hardened drinkers. Who, by the way, are expert at bouncing a coin into a shot glass, even when slurring words. They are all
gunning for me.

Every coin ends up with me downing the creamy Amarula alcoholic beverage, which I am washing down with apple cider. I've got that warm
buzzzzzzzzz
just humming through my veins. I'm kind of on diet, so I haven't eaten very much today. Anyway, I can't eat when I'm feeling self-conscious, and Gary has been here
all
day. So this stuff is just smacking me around like Mike Tyson with a midget.

Magically, Alan's photo shoot ended early, and he's pitched up in time for dinner.
(What happened to two weeks?) Gary's friend Charl, who reminds me of Al Bundy from 'Married with Children'
,
is also staying the night. So now we're short on beds, there are only two double beds. Talking of double, darn now I have to down three?
Hey! This isn't fair.

Woooooooo! I am going to bed. I can barely focus. What was that? Gary will sleep with me, Charl in the lounge, Alan with Adelle. Fine.

Hang on a sec!
Gary is sleeping with
me
?! In my bed? Um ... shit!
Now I'm sober as a druggie on the twenty-eighth day of rehab.

It's somewhere around 3:30 a.m. and I'm still wide awake. I'm pretending to sleep, but I can't. He is a foot away from me and it's all I can think about. He's been making moves on me all day. I know he manipulated his way into my bed. And now
we're ‘sleeping’?

Not to
mention this old creaky house is just creepy. Absently I examine the pressed ceiling above the bed, reflecting moonlight off the perfect white paint. All of the old houses are overly decorative. It's taken for granted in this moist climate that everyone has wooden floors and window frames. All of these old houses have gigantic rooms that a normal double bed looks pathetic in. I don't like the old houses. They just seem sad and lonely to me.

Flippenheck, scare me why don't you!

Eyes are watching me. "Can't sleep either, huh?"

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 ball –
(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 heels – (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’.