Look to His Like

Chapter Six

Steve arrived at my house at 8pm, laden with a pizza box and a bottle of wine. For old time's sake, I was happy to see him; aside from that, though, the sight of him had me almost reeling with guilt, for I had spent the last half hour lost in an agreeable daydream where I licked mint choc chip ice cream off Drake's rippling tummy.

Steve is a nice-looking man of my height, with floppy black hair and vague blue eyes behind dark-rimmed spectacles. He runs marathons in his spare time, so he is as lean as a grey hound. That night, he limped into my house, explaining that he had a gummy knee incurred on a weekend run - "So, we won't be able to - you know," he said sheepishly. His excuse for not having sex was about as good as all mine had been in the past, but I let it slide, not without a feeling of relief.

I was feeling so rotten about my sexy morning with Drake, and about the ice cream fantasy, that I couldn't bring myself to tell Steve my plans to get married until the last pizza slice was gone. Steve was wiping his fingers on a napkin and grinning at something Homer Simpson had said on the TV when I clasped my hands in a business-like fashion and turned to him with firm resolve.

"Steve - I have to get married," I said, cutting to the chase.

He looked at me then, blinking owlishly in astonishment. There was a smear of pizza sauce on his chin, which he kept missing with his napkin as he wiped his mouth.

"What?" he said.

"I have to get married," I repeated vaguely, staring at the smudge.

"We will - when Matilda is - what was it? I can't remember."

"When Bradman is in high school," I said.

"Oh, yeah...why did we pick that date for anyway?"

"You picked it," I said, my fingers itching to wipe his chin. "And I don't know why ...but that doesn't matter now. Unless you can marry me within the month, you're no good to me, anyway." The smear was making me irritable. I touched my own chin meaningfully, but he didn't take the hint.

He looked hurt. Immediately, I felt sorry. I took my own napkin, wiped his chin as if he was a child, and threw my arm companionably about his neck like I used to when we were in Grade 4.

"Fact is," I said, "I want a promotion, but the firm won't promote me while they think my life is less than above-board. So, I've resolved to be married within the month. The rest will follow as a result of it, hopefully."

"Seems a bit odd to me," said Steve, uttering what was probably the most realistic statement of his life. He gave a sulky pout. "So, it's finished between us then?"

"No, you little silly!" I said, giving him a shake. "I still want to marry you, and we will. This will be a temporary marriage of convenience only - separate beds, separate lives."

He began to look more relieved. "Can we still meet?"

"Of course! Although it will have to be a hotel or something," I said regretfully. "I will probably sell this place."

It suddenly all seemed so drastic and horrible that tears washed straight to my eyes. My hands flew to my face and I gave a strangled sob.

"Hey," said Steve, patting my shoulder. "It'll be okay ...nothing will really change will it? - unless it's for the better, with your promotion."

How to tell him I had suddenly envisioned us sitting in some crumby, impersonal hotel room, watching TV and eating pizza, while years and years of hideous, aching chastity yawned before me. At least here, I had some compensations - my couch, my walls, my roof, my tv ...my house...

My bed, I added later that night when I sank down onto it. My sheets and pillow still carried Drake's spicy scent. I pulled the pillow over my face, breathing in the intoxicating aroma, while one of my hands snuck inexorably to my side table drawer. Soon all my troubles were cast aside as my battery-operated friend got quite a workout, while I indulged in erotic fantasies of Drake's face between my thighs as he played hide-and-go-eat the Ferrero Rocher chocolate truffle.

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"Wow," said Lori after I had explained my quest, opening her beautiful sloe eyes wide with amazement. "How awesome!"

We were sitting over lunch in a café, while outside the bustle of the Queen Victoria Building ebbed and flowed like a tide. My salmon-on-rye was untouched, and a nervous tic fluttered my right eyelid. Lori had just finished wolfing down a chicken ceasar salad and was on her third cup of expresso.

Lori Siu is a stunning Eurasian with waist-length, silky black hair, who I had met at university. Now a lawyer like myself, she worked for the Crown Solicitor and was doing very well for herself, although her main priority seemed to be to catch a husband. As yet, she had been unsuccessful - which should have told me something about her methods, but I failed to grasp it at that time.

"And you want me to help you find a husband?" she squealed now with delight, leaning forward, her face aglow.

"Well - yes," I said, putting a finger to the tic in a hopeless attempt to still it. "I really haven't the vaguest idea of how to go about it."

"Oh, that's easy," said Lori airily. "I know heaps of singles bars and hangouts. Leave it to Lori, my love! Why, on Friday night, we'll go to --."

"No, Friday is too far away," I interrupted. "I have no time to lose. We have to start tonight."

Lori's rosebud mouth formed an awed O. "Wow," she whispered. She shook away her daze. "Okay then...tonight it is." A little frown appeared between her delicately arched eyebrows as she cogitated on the problem while I waited in breathless anticipation, my tension slowly steeping away as I sensed my troubles being unburdened. "The Marble Bar at the Hilton," Lori announced at last. "Being a Wednesday, it won't be as crowded, and you're more likely to encounter the sedate, serious sort, less interested in a simple romp in the hay - just what you're after, really." She rubbed her hands gleefully. "Meet me there at 6.30 ...and ditch the jacket," she added, eyeing my grey Anthea McGill suit. As with the previous day, my suit was comprised of a close-fitting and tailored sleeveless dress, worn with a matching single-buttoned jacket, although today the jacket was long, stopping just a few inches short of the dress hem. I thought it looked feminine and elegant, worn with my grey leather pumps, although no doubt it was not something a siren would wear.

I sighed and agreed. To my relief, the tic had subsided and my appetite had returned. Feeling safe in Lori's capable hands, I picked up my sandwich and bit into it.

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For all it was mid-week, that evening we found the Marble Bar crowded with suited professionals and rocking with loud music which sounded awfully like AC/DC. Lori and I pushed our way through the throng to the bar, where we perched on vacant stools and ordered vodka coolers. I wondered how on earth anyone could conduct a conversation amidst this din, and fervently wished I had not come.

Within minutes of our arrival, Lori had attracted the attention of a suit and was working him to the hilt. Annoyed, I finished off my drink rather too fast and ordered another. I was fumbling in my purse for the appropriate change with which to pay the barman, when a shout came from behind me: "I'll get that."

I turned at once. A stocky man with spiky, bleached blonde hair and too-pretty facial features handed the barman a bill and turned on me a charming smile. He was jacketless and tieless, and his white shirt, somewhat limp from perspiration, was open at the neck to reveal sunburnt skin. He had an air about him as if he was over-confident about his allure. Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough for me to give him the brush-off within minutes, yet this time it was his very lack of attraction for me that had me drumming up a flirtatious smile and gushing my thanks for his gesture.

He said something to the man who occupied the bar stool on my right. The man looked at me and gave Bleached Blonde a nudge-nudge, wink-wink sort of look before leaving us. Bleached Blonde pulled the stool closer to mine and sat down.

"Fuck me if I'm wrong, but isn't your name Sarah?" he yelled above the din. He chortled and waggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx.

Keeping the smile pasted on my face with an effort, I held out my hand, and with a forced giggle and shake of my head, shouted my correction.

"Sawyer Staal," he responded, shaking my hand, and spelled his last name as if by rote.

Staal thrummed with keenness as he stared at me. He had the sort of faded, smarting blue eyes that come about when their owner spends too much time in the Australian sun without UV-protection sunglasses. His face too, bore evidence of sun damage while in pursuit of the perfect tan - prematurely-aged, liberally adorned with sunspots and freckles. He'd probably be taking regular trips to the skin cancer specialist in twenty years, I figured, just as he reached over and pulled an ice cube out of my glass. Bemused, I watched as he laid it on the bar, lifted his fist and smashed it.

He leaned into me. "Now that the ice has broken, wanna fuck?"

As I registered my distaste at his boring crassness (God knows, I get enough of it at work for it to be a novelty), his suitability as a prospective husband improved further - no chance of me wanting to have sex with this guy, I figured. Now that I had him hooked, for better or worse, I needed to assess him further, then make my proposition to him. I had no time to waste. However, this was not the place for such a serious conversation. I quickly finished off my drink for some Dutch courage, while Staal watched with a salacious grin, slammed my glass down and looped my bag over my shoulder.

"Come back to my house," I yelled rashly, slipping off the stool. I waved to Lori when she looked around in surprise. She flicked an avidly curious glance at Staal, then nodded in approbation, before I made my way to the bar exit, Staal panting at my heels.

During the taxi ride back to Darlinghurst, I kept a firm distance between me and Staal in the back seat, which only seemed to fire him up further- he fidgeted several times with his trousers in abject discomfort and I felt his hot gaze all over me. When the taxi drew up outside my house, he leaned into me and said:

"I think we have to fuck on your front lawn like crazed weasels, NOW!"

"I don't think so," I responded coolly before I could stop myself. I hastily softened the blow by saying sweetly, "Come inside."

As Staal stepped across my threshold, I experienced too late a serious qualm over inviting a strange man into my house. I flicked a glance at Damien's and Eric's house; fortunately they were seated on their front porch with a bottle of port between them, for it was another warm night, and were watching me with interest and brotherly concern. I waved, gestured to Staal's retreating back and raised my shoulders as if helpless. How they understood the message, I don't know when I did not even know what it had been myself; however, both of them nodded meaningfully and raised their thumbs. My guardian angels were on the watch.

I entered the house as Staal took a seat on the couch and looked around. "Your place?"

"Yep," I said, taking a seat in the armchair opposite, determined to get this interview over with as soon as possible. "Where do you live?"

"Palm Beach," he replied. "Hey, have you ever kissed a rabbit between the ears?" As I blinked at him in astonishment, with a leer he pulled out his trouser pockets, and said, "Wanna try?"

Holy crap, I thought, this guy's a prize. But, Palm Beach? It wasn't technically the North Shore, but it was a salubrious address nevertheless. The interview was worth proceeding with.

Wolf chose at that minute to slink into the room. He stopped short when he saw Staal, and the fur raised slowly along his spine, his tail sprung upwards as he arched his back, and his golden eyes narrowed.

"Hey, you have a cat," said Staal. "I love pussies." As I groaned inwardly, he went on, "Although I hoped you might be a bird watcher." He leaned back in his seat, unzipped himself and whipped out his penis. "Would you take this for a swallow, do you think?"

Wolf gave a yowl, spun in mid-air and streaked from the room. I wished I could join him, only I got a grip on myself, as with more suggestive eyebrow gymnastics, Staal reluctantly returned his penis back into his trousers.

"What do you do for a living?" I managed to blurt out.

"Stockbroker," he said. "What can I do to make you sleep with me?"

"Maybe tell me what sort of car you drive," I forged on.

"Porche. Hey, wanna play war?"

"What?"

"Yeah, I lie on the ground and you blow the fuck out of me."

"Music?" I panted. Come on, girl, I urged myself on. Nearly there!

"Anything goes with me, babe. Look, let's cut the small talk and face it, I'm hot, you're hot, and we both know you gotta crush on me. And really, who can blame you with a gorgeous face like this? So can I snatch a kiss or vice-versa?"

"Vice-versa?"

"Kiss a snatch." Staal rocked back and bellowed with laughter. As he did so, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Wolf prowl back into the room, looking as if as if he had spied a bird he wanted to pounce on - all sneaky and intent on evil, his golden slitty eyes glowing at Staal as he crouched down in the shadows beside my chair. Staal didn't seem to notice as he stood up and loped over to stand before me. His trouser pockets were still out and his fly undone.

"Last night," he began, "a little leprechaun told me that if I don't get a fuck tonight, my dick's gonna fall off...we don't want that, do we?" And whipped it out to wave it in my face.

With a yowl, Wolf took a flying leap from his vantage point. He latched onto Staal's loins, claws and teeth digging into fabric and flesh. Staal yelled, his face going purple, and started to dance around the room, for all he was running on hot coals.

"Oh!! Ah!! Oh!! Get awf! Get awwwwwf! Argg! EEEEEK!"

"Keep still!" I yelled, trying to restrain wild laughter as I followed him around the room, ineffectually trying to pull Wolf off. However, Wolf clung like a limpet to his target, while Staal continued to howl like a banshee.

Wolf was only dislodged when Staal made a sound horribly like a series of barks and began to repeatedly lurch his pelvis back and forth; then, my cat sprang off his perch with a screech, feline face stretched into a grimace, and tore from the room. A second later, Staal followed in similar fashion, screaming as he burst out into the night "You're evil, eeeeeveeeel!"

I staggered onto my front door step, to see Staal hurtling down the street, the open pockets of his trousers - and no doubt something else - flapping wildly. Damien and Eric were on their feet, struck immobile with astonishment. As one, they turned from watching Staal's flight, to look at me as I clutched my stomach, pained with intense mirth. When I met their eyes, slow smiles formed on their faces, and up went their thumbs again. A victory for the girls.

I wobbled back inside and sank back into my arm chair, my laughter subsiding into the occasional giggle burst. A moment later, Wolf slipped into the room, only a slight twitching of his tail betraying his earlier aggravation. He bounded onto my lap, and kneaded it with his front claws, before curling up with a sigh, and burying his face under one foreleg.

I stroked his silky fur. "You are indeed the most perverted cat, Wolfgang," I said with a grin.