The Drought (The hilarious laugh-out loud comedy about dating disasters!) (13 page)

“
That is what
they all say,” she said, stumbling slightly as she slammed the
glass down on to the bar.

A few people around us were now
looking over. “I promise I didn't know she was 15,” I said.

“
You were
trying it on with a 15-year-old?” Ollie suddenly decided to quiz
me.

“
No, you
idiot,” I shouted back at him, before turning back to the mum. “It
was just a misunderstanding.”

“
You should
try going after a real woman instead of chasing schoolgirls
around,” she said shoving an accusing finger in my face.

She was getting louder and I
was starting to panic that I was going to get lynched and put on
the sex offenders’ register. “Look, I’m really sorry but it wasn’t
my fault. She shouldn’t be in here if she is 15. It was a
mistake.”

But she wouldn’t let it go. She
just got louder and kept prodding her finger into my chest. Even
the band was now staring in our direction, while Ollie and his
hippy friend watched on like it was some sort of sporting
event.

“
What exactly
is your problem?” I snapped after one too many pokes to the
chest.

“
I can’t help
it if I like shagging young boys,” she abruptly blurted out, before
grabbing the back of my head and forcefully pulling me towards her,
shoving her tongue down my throat and grabbing at my
crotch.

I stood there like a rabbit
caught in the headlights, too afraid to move. “Go on, my son!” I
heard Ollie bellow out behind me. I let her finish, and as she
pulled away she told me in no uncertain terms, “You’re coming home
with me.”

This was not the response I
expected. One minute you're being labelled a kiddie fiddler, the
next minute you are copping off with someone old enough to be your
mother. I probably wasn't in the best state of mind, but I heard
myself agree to go back with her. Partly because I was too scared
to turn her down, and largely because I hadn’t got my leg over for
six weeks now. Taking me by the hand, she dragged me out the pub.
An old guy with a receding hairline and a bushy moustache stared
daggers at me and made a cut-throat sign with his thumb. I could
only imagine that he was in there with the peroxide mum before I
arrived on the scene. I glanced back at Ollie who was still sitting
at the bar giving me the thumbs up.

“
What is your
name?” I asked as we walked back, realising I couldn’t call
her
mum
all
night, especially during the wild throes of passion. That would
just be weird.

“
Toni,” she
replied. “Come on Chloe, keep up!” she shot at her daughter who
shuffled behind us, quietly sobbing that her mum had stolen the guy
she had been chatting up just minutes ago. I had a feeling this was
not the first time this had happened. I wasn’t exactly proud of
myself, but I was a desperate man and desperate men do desperate
things. Plus I was really pissed.

After a 10-minute walk, we
arrived at a house with a red door and paint peeling from the
wooden frame. Chloe ran upstairs and slammed her bedroom door shut
behind her. I thought about making a run for it myself, the fresh
air had sobered me up slightly and I was now starting to fret over
whether this had been a good idea.

“
Shouldn't you
see if she is okay?” I sheepishly asked.

“
She'll live,”
Toni said with a fag hanging out of her mouth, and grabbed me by
the arm and pulled me into the living room. She pushed me down on
to the sofa and stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray already
overloaded with fag butts.

“
Please,” I
said pathetically holding my hand up to her, “be
gentle.”

A wicked grin appeared across
her face and within seconds she was on top of me, kissing me in
quite a violent way. She finally let me up for air and squeezed my
cheeks with her right hand. “Let’s have a drink,” she announced as
she playfully slapped me across the face.

I was relieved to catch my
breath. She poured me a straight whisky and lit up another
cigarette. She sat next to me, blowing smoke in my face, and
caressing my thigh. “You’re so tense,” she said in her gravelly
voice, no doubt from years of too many cigarettes. “I know
something that will make you feel better.” She rose to her feet and
took the drink from my hand, gulping down the remainder of the
whisky in my glass.

She unbuttoned my jeans and
unzipped my fly, shoving her hand into my pants. She was not
exactly gentle and toggled it back and forth like it was a
joystick. “You like that, don’t ya?” she said with a wild look in
her eyes, cigarette still clenched between her teeth.

Like it? I was genuinely
worried she was going to pull it off. Did she think I was somehow
impervious to pain? I prayed she would eventually get bored and let
go, but she just kept going. She started to do it quicker and
rougher. I held my breath trying to stifle the pain and my
impending screams. But with one tug too many she flicked her wrist,
and I let out a howl before smacking her hand away. “What the hell
are you doing?” I winced. “Don’t treat little Dan like that.”

“
What is your
problem? Most men would kill for a hand job like that,” she
declared.

“
Kill or be
killed?” I snapped back rubbing my crotch.

“
Mum, is
everything okay?” A deep voice shouted from upstairs.

“
Who was
that?” I said anxiously. It certainly didn’t sound like
Chloe.

“
That’s my
son,” Toni said, oblivious to the long trail of ash from her
cigarette finally dropping off and landing on the carpet, creating
a miniature puff cloud.

“
Your what?”
Footsteps were now coming down the stairs fast. I managed to put my
mangled penis back into my pants and zipped myself up. “How old is
he?”

“
Is everything
okay, mum?”

I knew that voice. But surely
it couldn’t be, could it? I slowly turned my head, every part of my
being wishing I was wrong. But I wasn’t. I sensed the rage in the
air the moment he stepped into the light of the living room
doorway, and the sheer horror of the situation took over me.

“
You!” Dave
menacingly hissed and started stalking towards me.

“
I can
explain,” I desperately said trying to buy myself time, while
rising to my feet and moving slowly backwards, my hands held up in
front of me in both protest and defence.

“
What’s all
the noise?” To make matters worse Stacey now appeared. “Dan? What
the hell are
you
doing here?” she said with all the contempt she could
muster.

“
You know
him?” Toni said as she poured herself another drink. “He’s a frigid
little sod.”

“
I’m not
frigid,” I snapped. “You just need to learn to treat the male organ
with a little respect.” Probably not the best response I could have
given under the circumstances.

It is often said bad things
happen in threes and right on queue 15-year-old Chloe appeared at
the doorway, in her pink pyjamas, looking every inch the schoolgirl
she really was now all the make-up had been washed off. “He tried
seducing me as well,” she said with an accusing finger point.

“
What?! I did
no such thing,” I tried protesting my innocence for a second time,
but knew I was barking up the wrong tree if I thought Dave would
take any notice.

“
You’re a dead
man,” Dave said and lunged at me. I fell back against the armchair
and the force of Dave landing on me somehow enabled me to flip him
over my head in the process and send him crashing into a
cabinet.

“
Get up, Dave!
Get him!” Stacey hollered, and I started to wonder if Stacey would
always be urging someone on to beat the hell out of me whenever our
paths crossed.

With Stacey and Chloe blocking
my exit through the front door, I made a dash for the kitchen. Toni
simply sat on her chair, a fag in one hand and a glass of whisky in
the other. In amongst all the chaos I couldn't help but think it’s
how she would have wanted to be remembered.

Dave was up on his feet and
right behind me. I ran through the kitchen towards the back door,
knocking down a stack of plates to stall Dave and buying myself
precious seconds. They crashed to the floor behind me and
shattered. Dave couldn’t stop himself and slipped on the broken
crockery. I grabbed and pulled the door handle. It was unlocked –
the first piece of good luck I’d had so far this night.

I flung the door open and
stopped almost dead in my tracks, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.
From nowhere a snarling Rottweiler leapt at me from the darkness of
the garden. Its sharp canine fangs were coming straight at my
throat and I simply froze in pure terror.

But then nothing.

Instead of the sound of
snapping neck bones under the force of the beasts rampaging jaws, I
heard a yelp, which released me from my paralysed state. I forced
myself to squint open one eye and thanked my lucky stars that I had
been saved by a large metal chain attached to the dog’s neck,
preventing him from reaching me. I whistled a huge sigh of
relief.

But I had no time to
contemplate my good fortune as close behind, Dave was charging
towards me. Stacey was now in the kitchen and threw a piece of
broken plate in my direction while screaming at me. I ducked and
slammed the door shut, catching Dave full in the face. I quickly
made my move, scaling the wooden fence. The Rottweiler was not
going to give up that easily and snapped at my heels, and clamped
its teeth into my arse as I was halfway over the fence, causing me
to scream out in pain.

Dave staggered out of the back
door. He shook his head and started making his way in my direction,
a bloody great big kitchen knife in his hand. With all my strength
I made one final effort to pull myself over the fence and kicked
out at the snarling mutt forcing him to release me from his grip.
One final shove got me over as Dave hit the fence, the knife
piercing through the wood and just missing my head by inches on the
other side.

It was enough to scare me back
up to my feet and for the second time in six weeks I found myself
sprinting through the streets to escape one of Stacey’s hired
hitmen. Surely break-ups had to be smoother than this?

Chapter 9:
Visiting the Folks

Sunday, March 1, 2009 -
12.32pm

Drought Clock: 59 days, 0
hours, 5 minutes

I had been having this
recurring nightmare. I’m standing on a stage in nothing but my
pants. There is a huge crowd of people staring at me. From nowhere
appears a man who informs me he is a Guinness World Records
adjudicator. He is immaculately dressed in a black pinstripe suit,
slicked back hair, and a thin hairline moustache. He is holding a
certificate in one hand and a microphone in the other, and is
addressing the sea of people that just seems to go on forever.

“
It gives me
great pleasure to award the Guinness World Record for the longest
period without sex to Mr Daniel Hilles,” the adjudicator proudly
announces to the crowd in an annoying nasal monotone accent. Polite
applause starts up as he continues. “Mr Hilles has not come into
contact with the female genitalia for two months, eclipsing the
previous record held by 97-year-old Hubert Grayson.”

A wrinkly bald old man with
huge floppy ears – resembling a cross between Dumbo and a scrotum
– starts to celebrate. Hubert Grayson dances around his walking
stick, showing great delight that his long-standing sexless record
has been eclipsed by yours truly.

The applause grows louder,
aided by heckles and taunts such as “cobweb cock” and “dusty dick’.
Not content with the indignity he has already imposed on me, the
adjudicator congratulates me by shaking my hand and presenting me
with the certificate before he continues his verbal assault.

“
Mr Hilles
coined the phrase ‘couldn’t get laid in a brothel’. No matter how
hard he tries, here stands a man with a complete lack of skills to
get any ass. He will use any means necessary to obtain it yet he
constantly fails at every attempt to get the pussy.”

I stand there gasping,
speechless and wide-mouthed. I can’t get the words out to end this
humiliation I am being forced to endure, and he continues: “Mr
Hilles faces an uphill task to ever see a real vagina in the flesh
again, let alone get near one. Ladies and gentleman, please show
your appreciation to a truly sexless individual – Mr Daniel
Hilles!”

By the time he has finished
berating me the applause has broken into hysterical laughter. In
fact the only person in the crowd not wailing in delight at this
mortifying scene is my mum. She stands there, clutching both hands
to the side of her face with a strange look of pride in her eyes.
My dad is standing next to her shaking his head, his arms folded
across his chest. I can hear his words echoing in my head from the
day when my mum had found my porn stash under my bed when I was 13
years old.

“
You have to
see it from your mother’s point of view,” he explained to me in the
aftermath of the horror that was the great porn discovery of 1998.
“In her eyes you have gone from her sweet innocent little boy to,
well, a perverted little wanker.”

That’s it! I snatch the
microphone out of the hands of the smug adjudicator and launch into
my defence. “Sexless is not technically true,” I proclaim to the
stunned audience. “Yes, I have not had sex for many months now, but
I have in fact had self-sex in the last 24 hours.” I pause for just
the right effect, “Twice.”