Eat Me (25 page)

‘You used to be a member of a pony club, Jody,' Camilla said admiringly. ‘I can tell. But then what happens, darling? Do you become a professional rodeo rider, or what?'

‘Nah,' Jody considered. ‘He's not actually very intelligent. As you're lying next to the campfire he asks where you're from and you say Australia. He goes, “Ain't that left of Hawaii?” You say it is. You ask if he'll call and he says “Wow. The phone bills'd be astrological.”'

Camilla sighed. ‘I hate it when you realise you've just slept with a guy who's so stupid he has to wear velcro strips across his runners so he doesn't have to embarrass himself trying to tie his shoelaces. They can be the biggest spunks, and great in bed, but the second they open their mouths you want to dive for cover. I never know quite what to do. They're always the post-coital talkative ones, too. The rocket scientists just roll over and go to sleep. Then they use all their powers of articulation the following morning to explain why, although it was great, it can never happen again.'

‘You said “dive for cover”, Camilla,' Jody remarked. ‘Well, that's exactly what I've always done. Dive
under
the covers, actually. When a guy starts saying something so dumb it's painful, you just wriggle on down and start tonguing his balls or something. It shuts them up every time and keeps them doing what you had them there to do in the first place.'

‘Oooh, you're a hard woman, Jody Raphael!'

The two men at the next table paid and left, bent over double, worried expressions on their faces.

‘So what else is going to happen in this book of ours?
Eat Me, the Sequel
?
Daughter of Eat Me
?' Jody challenged the others.

‘Well,' Ellen began, taking the bait. ‘You go to England next. You're running a little short of dosh, and since your grandfather was English, you get to work there. So you're pursuing the job adverts when you see something that catches your eye: “School mistress wanted. Must be a good disciplinarian. Full figure a plus. Discretion crucial. No experience necessary.” You call the number. Next thing you know you're being asked all sorts of questions. There's a meeting with a fellow in a well-tailored suit, who asks you even more questions. Finally, he makes an offer of heaps of money but insists on an oath of secrecy. You're intrigued. You accept.

‘You're driven across London to Tory headquarters. You're taken into a dressing room. A seamstress does a few quick alterations to a stern black suit while a hairdresser gives you the severe coiffure of the classical schoolmarm. You are given a pair of clear, tortoise-shell glasses, a cat-o-nine-tails, a cane and a whip. The only slightly out of character elements to your new look are the black fishnet stockings, stilettos and bright red lipstick. Also, your matronly suit is worn open and low at the neck, your new push-up bra ensuring that your cleavage is more than visible.

‘Finally, you are taken into a room where, despite the fact you've been prepared for this, you gasp under your breath because you recognise the entire Tory cabinet. The reason they've hired you is that they've decided the Conservative Party can't stand any more scandal. They've decided to try to meet all of their needs within a controlled environment. Very controlled. They stand up at your approach, awkwardly, like schoolboys, and chorus, “Good afternoon”. You flourish your cat-o-nine tails and remind them, in a menacing tone, “Good afternoon, headmistress.” They all correct themselves except one, an elderly gentleman with a florid expression and a club tie, and you order him to the front of the room. “Take down your trousers, elite scum,” you say. “Yes, headmistress,” he replies, trembling. He pulls down his trousers. You motion for him to lie across the chair there. He obeys. As your lash licks his fat pink arse, the flesh quivers and reddens under its patchy matting of fur. You realise just how much these men need to be punished. You are really enjoying this now. You take up the cane.

‘After a while you dismiss him. He looks disappointed to be going back to his seat. You look around the room. You look directly at the Prime Minister. “Have you been a good boy?” you ask.

‘‘‘Uh, yes,” he answers, nervously. He thought he was just here to observe.

‘‘‘I don't think so,” you retort. “Come here and pull down those pants.”

‘He frowns, and hesitates. Looking around for support, he encounters a roomful of stiff upper lips.'

‘Wouldn't be the only things that are stiff in that room, I'd think,' Camilla murmured.

‘Oh, for sure,' agreed Ellen. ‘Anyway, he makes his way, with obvious trepidation, to the front of the room. You motion disdainfully for him to pull down his pants. As he nervously unbuckles his belt, you lightly tap the cane into the palm of your hand. “Hurry up, you foul piece of privileged lowlife,” you snarl. His little dick is standing at attention. You sneer dismissively at it. He lies, red-faced, over the chair.

‘‘‘This,” you say, with a mighty WHACK, “is for your bloody arrogance towards us ‘colonials' and this”—WHACK—“is for the way the Conservative Party's policies have widened the gap between rich and poor in this country!” He jumps with each blow. “This”—WHACK—“is for Ireland!” A big red welt forms upon his flabby, lame buns. “This”—WHACK WHACK—“is for selling out Hong Kong!” Another two marks appear. You decide you will make the pattern of the Union Jack upon his flesh. WHACK WHACK. You're really getting into this. You decide there are some men who can never be punished enough for their sins, and, well, you're just happy to be able to do the deed. Quite thrilling, really. Especially when you've got the rich and powerful over a barrel. Literally. Well, a chair. Anyway, you've got a reasonable picture of the Union Jack glowing on his sallow flesh. Tears are forming in his eyes. At this point, you administer an enema. Right up the arse, and hard.'

‘Don't forget to punish them for their dress sense too,' Camilla interrupted.

‘Of course,' said Ellen. ‘I think I'll make them wear nylon panty hose on their heads for that one. Do you think I should give them any tickle with the slap?'

‘Definitely not,' Camilla shook her head.

‘Snuff the Tories!' enthused Jody, whose father came from Argentina and mother from Ireland.

‘That American congressman, the spokesman for the American right, of course, is there as their special guest,' Ellen continued. ‘And you say that you are going to give him a golden shower to welcome him. He seems quite excited by this, until you tell him to open his mouth.'

‘Good one,' Camilla approved.

Ellen sat back in her seat, pleased with herself.

‘You need to have some time by yourself after this,' Jody inserted. ‘So you take the Chunnel to Paris. Yes. It's springtime, natch, and you find this absolutely wonderful little cafe, one with history and gorgeous waiters and waitresses and a great view of the passing trade. You've just been to the post office, and you discover that your mother has sent you a packet of TimTams. They're stowed in your large leather purse. You order
un bol
of cafe au lait, and it's delivered, steaming hot, to your table in a canary yellow bowl. You take a TimTam out of its packet. You sniff it and the sweet aroma of chocolate fills your nostrils. The chocolate begins to melt under your warm fingers. Carefully, you nibble a small hole through the chocolate and into the underlying biscuit in the centre of one end, and then make a similar indentation in the middle of the other end.'

‘I think I know where this is going,' Ellen sighed appreciatively.

‘You brush your hair back with your free hand, lower your eyelids to half mask and wrap your red lips around the upper end of the TimTam. Slowly—very slowly—you lower the other end down to where it is just skimming the surface of the coffee. Timing and concentration crucial. You suck in hard and fast. The coffee shoots up through the TimTam, collecting chocolate as it goes, and fills your mouth with a sweet rich mocha. You pull again, but now the biscuit is melting under your fingers, and a more viscous surge of chocolate and coffee coats your tongue and throat. You can feel that the TimTam is on the verge of implosion. Just before it collapses, you shove the whole thing into your mouth. It's all chocolate, and coffee and softened biscuit, and you shiver slightly as it fills your mouth, and slippy-slides down to your stomach. You tongue the chocolate jism off your fingers and savour the sensation.'

‘Darling,' chuckled Camilla, ‘that was a truly heavenly fantasy. I never realised a biscuit could come.'

‘You haven't lived,' Jody smiled. ‘And of course, anyone who witnesses a girl give head to a TimTam immediately lays themselves down at her feet and offers their services as a love slave.'

‘Of course,' Ellen mused. ‘Why didn't I think of that? Maybe that's my problem. I've always done TimTam straws in private.'

‘It strikes me as a very private sort of thing,' Camilla commented.

The Spanish waiter frowned. TimTams? What the hell were these TimTams? As an immigrant, he reflected mournfully, there were always some cultural references that caught you out. He snapped out of his puzzled reverie when Ellen motioned to him for some tsurros.

Camilla leaned forward. ‘As hard as it is to imagine, you eventually weary of Paris and decide to head south to the Riviera. You rock into Cannes just at the time of the film festival. All the hotels and limos and things were booked out ages ago by all the actors and directors and others who are no more glamorous but a bit better organised than you. You head down to the beach to figure out your next move. You slip into your bikini, throw your stylish carry-all down beside you on the blanket and are soaking up a few rays—you don't get melanoma from sunbathing in fantasies, by the way—when this French man approaches and says, “
Pardonez-moi, mademoiselle. Vous etes tres belle. Voulez-vous jouer en film
?” Or something like that. You look up. He is fortyish, handsome in a sleazy kind of way. You're thinking, right. Wall-to-wall starlets and this guy asks me to be in a film. You tell him you're more interested in finding a room. He says he can arrange it. His name is Jean. You shrug, throw on a sundress and follow him to a waiting limo. The limo takes you to a film set. You step out of the limo and a pack of paparazzi strain at the barricades set up between where you are let off and the set. You pose and smile for them. You decide you could live with superstardom. The set consists of a very large swimming pool made out to look like the ocean, complete with a sandy beach. On the water bob blow-up rafts, some in the shape of a woman's tits, others like vulvas with slits in the middle, and still others like erect penises and balls. You realise that you've been invited to star in a porn film. You're about to turn around and walk out when Jean leads over your co-stars: a dead ringer for Christopher Lambert and a woman who looks like Catherine Deneuve. You'll stay.'

‘Of course you will,' affirmed Jody.

‘Chris and Cazza approach you with dazzling smiles. The cameras roll and soon two mouths are roaming over your body and four hands are stripping you. They are already naked. Your self-consciousness dissolves under their caressing fingers. Murmuring seductively in French, Cazza drops to her knees in front of you and begins to lick you out while Chris caresses your breasts and kisses you full on the mouth. She puts a finger up your arse and Chris sticks his tongue in your ear. You're so turned on that you don't even notice at first that she's picking you up on her shoulders, still burrowing away with her tongue and fingers. Chris has got your shoulders and arms and head. They carry you to the pool and lay you on one of the vulva air-mattresses. Your arse hangs down through the slit, and while Cazza paddles over to you on the inflatable dick, Chris takes a dive and, swimming to just underneath your arse, demonstrates his remarkable lung power, among other things. There are underwater cameras, of course, to track all the submarine movements.'

‘I take it that in fantasy, just as no one ever really gets hurt, there's no chance that your parents or professional colleagues or future fiance will ever come across a porn film you star in,' Jody said.

‘None at all,' Camilla affirmed. ‘Unless you want them to. Which is an option, you know.'

‘Is there a plot to the film?' Ellen was curious.

‘Yes, of course, darling. It's supposed to be a kind of
Madame Bovary
meets
The Story of O
in the nineties at Cannes, but there's not much dialogue, so it's not terribly obvious. Anyway, you've tumbled off the float and are holding on to the side of the pool with your elbows. Chris is bonking you and Cazza, who's somehow come up with a strap-on dildo, is fucking him up the arse at the same time while paddling water. You are tongue-kissing her over his shoulder, and it's all impressively athletic and, natch, you look absolutely marvellous throughout. Your lipstick doesn't come off with all the kissing, and your mascara doesn't run in the pool.'

‘Yours doesn't,' observed Ellen. ‘Mine would. Which is why I, uh, you move onto dry land after that one. You spend some time in Katmandu, making friends by showing them the videotape of your porn film from Cannes. Then you trek to the Tibetan border. You want to hitch to Shigatse. Once over the border, a Chinese army truck picks you up. It turns out they're not going all the way to Shigatse after all, and they drop you off by the roadside somewhere in the middle of absolutely nowhere. You try to follow a side road but it peters out to a horse track. You are beginning to despair. Your backpack is beginning to dig into your shoulders. Suddenly, you hear the pounding of hooves, and you turn to see a Khampa tribesman galloping towards you.

‘He has on the Tibetan coat, the chuba, which he wears in the traditional way, off the shoulder. His bare muscular right arm is holding the reins, and he is swinging his whip wildly with his left and singing. His boots are made of red and blue and green felt, and through his long, thick black hair are woven countless red threads. In a dazzling display of horsemanship, he circles you once and comes to a perfect stop right by your side.'