Eat Me (18 page)

‘For someone who is always claiming not to be much of a cook, Chantal, you've done spectacularly,' admired Julia, wiping a spot of pesto off her chin.

‘It's all in the shopping, darling,' Chantal replied. ‘I bought the fresh pasta, purchased the pesto. All I did was boil water. And throw two bags of salad ingredients together. I did give the woman at the DJ food hall a bit of a shock though. I wanted to ask for baby vegetables, but my mind was still on a photo shoot we'd done in the afternoon with some local rock stars, and what actually came out of my mouth was, ‘a bag of baby animals, please'. You should have seen her face. I think she was about to call the RSPCA. But the dinner was a cinch. Credit card cuisine.'

‘Too bad relationships aren't that easy,' Julia sighed. She hoovered up the last strands of pasta on her plate and took a second helping. ‘DJ's could have a love and sex hall and you could just rock up with your plastic and say, hmm, could you let me have a look at that twenty-eight-year-old with the baby blues and the three earrings on his left ear who comes with the twelve-month good sex, high amusement and steady affection value guarantee with an optional yearly renewal (for just $124 a year)? Or, let's see, maybe I'll just take the twenty-two-year-old superspunk special with the cute tattoos and use-by-date of next week. They'd pick them off the shelf, slide their bums over the barcode reader and off you'd go.' Julia giggled at the thought of what her shopping trolley might look like.

‘You know,' Chantal began, a little tipsily, ‘there are places like that. Escort agencies.'

‘Have you ever?' Philippa's eyes lit up.

Chantal smiled mysteriously and sucked up some of the squid-ink pasta through still shockingly red lips. Helen wondered how Chantal's lipstick always managed to stay on. Whenever Helen wore lipstick, it always seemed either to feather up into the skin around her lips, or she'd have eaten it off within the hour. Sometimes, she'd look in the mirror after several hours at a party and discover, to her horror, that, as they say in academe, both possibilities had eventuated: while nothing remained on her lips, a bright red aura glowed around the edges of her mouth. But wait, what was Chantal saying?

‘Well,'—Chantal toyed with a miniature zucchini, plucking at its flower with her fingernails—‘sort of.'

‘Sort of?' Julia leaned forward on the table. ‘Sort of?'

‘Well, yes.'

Sharp intakes of breath.

‘I was feeling, I suppose, a bit
needy.
I considered my options. I could have called an old lover. But then, that gets so complicated, and you have to do so much talking, and there's no guarantee of sex. I could have gone to a pub or a club and picked someone up. Too dangerous. When I say a bit needy, I mean, really, I was seething. Is this too shocking?'

‘I think we all know that feeling,' Philippa replied. ‘Do go on.'

‘I was flipping through a copy of
Women's Forum
when I noticed the advertisements at the end where they list male escort services, “sensuous” masseurs and so on. I chose an ad and picked up the phone. No harm in asking, I thought, but honestly I never imagined that it would go further than that. Well, this man answered the phone, “Spunkfest, may I help you?”

‘Trying to suppress the nervous quiver in my voice, I asked him to explain how it all worked. He told me the prices and stuff, which differed depending on whether you wanted the “full service” or just escort or whatever, and then asked what exactly what I was looking for.

‘This was all getting very concrete.' Chantal sipped at her wine and examined a perfectly formed, one-inch-long carrot before popping it into her mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

‘C'mon, Chantal, you can't stop there,' said Philippa impatiently.

Chantal smiled. ‘I wasn't planning on stopping.'

‘I have to go to the loo. Then I'm getting us another bottle of wine. Don't say another word till I get back,' said Julia.

The other three sat silently savouring the pungent aroma of the slimy black pasta, letting the pesto sauce create garlicky trails down their throats and exploding the little tomatoes in their mouths while waiting impatiently for Julia to return. ‘Could you love a man who didn't love food?' Helen broke the silence. ‘You know, who just ate white-bread sandwiches and refused to go to African restaurants?' A collective shudder went through the table. Most definitely not, they concurred. To revel in food and enjoy eating, they agreed, was to take joy in life itself.

Julia returned with a fresh bottle. She freshened their glasses and sat down. ‘OK. Tell us.'

‘So,' Chantal resumed, ‘I decided to let my fantasies take over. It was just a phone conversation after all. He'd asked what I wanted. Black, I said, thinking fast. Black American. Sailor type. Gorgeous face. Big muscles. Uncircumcised. As large as they come. Into oral, not averse to tongue kissing or a bit of light S&M. With me on top.

‘There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. I thought maybe you were only supposed to say something like, “light body hair, big dick”. I thought maybe I should add, “or as close to that as possible, you know, a reedy brunette who wouldn't mind being tied up would do.” Well, I then suddenly realised that in the background there was the faint clacking of a keyboard. This was followed by a few electronic beeps and some whirring. “Hmmm, I believe that Eddie's your man. He's a black American, six foot three, muscled, ten inches when erect, uncut. Would you like to book an appointment?”

‘“Uh, sure,” I said. It all felt very unreal. “How soon would he be available?” The guy said he'd call me back. I began to get the jitters. I decided that I'd say I'd changed my mind. Ten minutes later the phone rang and the sound went through me like an electric shock. I composed myself and answered, my rehearsed response on the tip of my tongue.

‘“An hour from now?” I swallowed hard.'

‘See, Chantal does swallow,' Julia chirped, prompting a round of giggles.

‘“Yes, that will be fine,” I said. I gave my address and hung up. I went into a blind panic. I tore into my bedroom and straightened it up, jumped in the shower, jumped out again because I suddenly remembered that I'd asked Alexi to stop over after work. I called him to cancel, refusing to tell him why though he definitely suspected something was up, jumped back into the shower, dried and powdered myself with scented talc, and got into my best black bra, suspender belt and stockings. Dabbed the patches of white powder off the black bra with a damp towel.'

‘I hate it when that happens. Especially when you don't notice, and there you are, thinking you're all elegant in black, and there are snail trails of Johnson & Johnson down the side of your pits.'

‘Shush, Julia, she's just getting to the good part.' Philippa had her elbows on the table, her face in her hands and her full attention on Chantal.

‘I realised I was taking ages choosing between the stockings with the lace tops and the ones with the lace-up tops, and I had forgotten to brush my teeth. I flossed and brushed, and then buffed my patent leather stilettos. I brushed my hair and threw on a kimono. I sat down and looked at the clock. I got up and changed to a different kimono. There was still twenty minutes to go. I decided to call and cancel—I would pay the guy for showing up, but forget it, I couldn't actually go through with this.'

‘It's very hard, you know, imagining you so flustered,' Helen marvelled.

‘Oh, darling, I really was. I don't know how those final minutes ticked by. As you've probably guessed, I didn't cancel after all. I poured myself a drink, took two sips and brushed my teeth again. Finally, after an absolute eternity, the doorbell rang.

‘I opened the door to see my fantasy come to life. The most extraordinary thing was, he was even dressed in a sailor's uniform.'

‘Must be a popular request.'

‘Yes, I hadn't quite realised how predictable it was. It's a bit of a worry. Next time I'm asking for an astronaut. Or a parking inspector—surely, they can't be popular. Or ET. Anyway, there he stood, grinning at me. “Howdy,” he drawled, looking me up and down. “My name's Eddie and I am most pleased to be making your acquaintance.”

‘“Uh, g'day,” I greeted him, cliche to cliche. “I'm Ramona. C'mon in, big boy.”'

‘Ramona?'

‘I just didn't want to give him my real name. I thought I'd feel, well, freer that way. Names do tie you down. They come with so much emotional Louis Vuitton that sometimes you can barely stand up under the weight. Much less
tango.
Anyway, I doubt he was really Eddie. He was Eddie my fantasy. As Ramona, I was my fantasy too, don't you see? I offered him a drink. My hands were shaking. Perceiving how nervous I was, he put one hand over mine, looked me in the eyes and said, “Ramona, honey-pie, don't be nervous. We ain't gonna do nothing you don't want to be doing. You're the boss lady. And,” he winked, “I'm made to understand you like it that way.” I blushed. “You are,” he added, “one bodacious lady.”

‘At this point, he eased his own rather bodacious bod down into the zebra chair. You know how we all sort of just disappear in that chair? He actually filled it up. He looked down at his groin and stretched the cloth of his trousers over what was looking, even through his pants, like the most incredible hard-on I'd ever seen in my life. “And willya look at that,” he said, shaking his big beautiful head, “the little fella thinks so too.”

‘“Not so little fella,” I replied. I thought to myself, well, Chantie, isn't this what you wanted? I gathered my courage, opened my arms, let my kimono fall open and then crumple onto to the floor and my nervousness somehow miraculously dropped away with the rustling silk. I sashayed over to him, and, well, I must say, I did get my money's worth. With interest.'

‘Oh, come on, Chantie! You can't just leave us with that. We want
details,'
cried Julia.

‘Details!' echoed Philippa.

‘Details!' Helen joined the chorus.

‘Oh, you know,' Chantal lit a cigarette. ‘You know what happens next. Kiss kiss, rub rub, lick lick. In and out here, in and out there.'

‘Don't believe it,' Philippa shook her head. ‘What about the S&M part?'

‘It'd be a lot easier, you know, if you girls weren't such attentive listeners.'

‘C'mon!'

‘All right, all right. “Well,” I said, “as a matter of fact, I do like being the boss. So you, sailor, will call me mistress from now on. Out of that chair, now, and on your hands and knees at my feet.”'

‘Wait a minute,' Helen suddenly twigged. ‘Are you saying you made a
slave
out of a black American man? Jeez, Chantal, isn't that just a bit sus? I mean, when you think of the historical resonances and ideological implications... I don't think I could do something like that.'

‘Helen, remember, we're talking about enacting a fantasy. With his consent. Not real life, darling. As much as I sometimes think an entourage of scantily-clad male and female slaves of all stripes and colours would suit me, I would probably die of embarrassment if anyone actually threw themselves at my feet begging for the opportunity to serve. So do you want me to go on, or not?'

‘But...'

‘Oh, Helen, let's save that for later,' Julia cooed, refilling Helen's glass and putting a friendly hand on her arm. ‘Do let her go on. It's getting
most
exciting.'

‘He dropped to his feet, and put his lips on my shoes. “May I worship your ankles, mistress?” he pleaded.

‘“Have you been a good boy?” I asked.'

‘Where'd you pick up this dialogue, Chantal?' Philippa interrupted. ‘You sound like a natural.'

‘Of course I'm a natural, darling. So he hung his head and said, “No, mistress, I've been a bad boy. I don't deserve to worship your pulchritudinous pivots, not until I've been properly punished, anyway.” I strode over to the closet and took out a suede lash.'

‘What were you doing with a suede lash in your closet?' Julia giggled.

‘Oh, right, it was, uh, for a costume party, yes, a bit of a dress-up thing, you know.' Chantal hurriedly resumed her narrative. ‘Anyway, I walked over to behind where he was kneeling. I noticed that he'd lowered his head down onto his arms and stuck his arse into the air. I hooked a finger under the waistband of his pants, and tugged them down, exposing his dark cheeks. He was, of course, wearing no underwear. I couldn't resist running my hand over his bum. He pushed it up into my palm, and I stroked the firm, muscular globes. I ran my hand lightly down the crack, past his anus and over his balls. I heard him expel his breath with a little sigh of pleasure, at which point I drew myself up and let the lash crack down upon that beautiful flesh. He winced, and the buttocks contracted in the most aesthetic manner, all sinews and definition, rippling waves of melted chocolate. I brought it down again, and again, until a roseate glow began to blush through the brown skin, and when I felt it with my hand, it felt hot to the touch.

‘“Sit up, sailor,” I ordered him, and he obeyed, rocking back on his heels. “Does that hurt?”

‘“It hurts good, mistress. It hurts real good.”

‘“Take off that top, sailor,” I commanded. He took it off very slowly, raising his arms and swaying from side to side as he went, showing off the extraordinary lineaments of his arms and back. I knelt down beside him for a moment, on the carpet, right there, in fact,'—Chantal pointed to the patch of white carpet between the zebra chair and the dining-room table. Their gazes followed her finger—‘and kissed his neck and back. I trailed my fingers after my lips, digging in harder and harder with my nails until I could see the scratches on his skin and he was beginning to writhe under the pain. I stood up then and whipped his back, and his bum too, perched so pertly, as it was, upon his heels. I had put a Cowboy Junkies CD on the player, and I was just sort of swaying back and forth to the music as I lashed him. It was quite hypnotic, really, and exciting, in a rather mad sort of way. To have this incredibly large and male and muscular creature writhing in pleasure-pain on your own lounge-room floor, totally at your command, I mean, what more could a girl want?