Saturday, July 11, 2009

When the spoon position is never enough.

The scene was set. I’d splashed out and purchased myself a French maids outfit. Forget that I’d spent the entire day cleaning the house in polyester fleece, scraping atrophied weetbix off the lino and ripping a hamstring after treading on a stray piece of Bionicle and falling on the coffee table. No.

I was about to look like a cleaner of an exotic variety (surely no-one cleans dressed like this do they?) After a notable hit of $99.00 to the credit card I had arranged to meet my new friend for a second date in the city.

Arriving early I decided to chew up some time in a sex shop called Twisted Toys. I climbed the floodlit stairs looking like a born again Christian entering an orgy. I approached the shop assistant for help only to discover it was another petrified looking customer, er sorry you look like you work here.

Eyes darting about like an epileptic on Ritalin, I withdrew quickly to the relative comfort of the more familiar vibrator section whilst my perplexed peripheral vision tried to quietly assess the large latex fist beckoning me from its lonely display. The lovely shop keeper approached me with all the care of a sympathetic librarian to a dyslexic child.

She guided me through the pros and cons of each model, the baubles, the knobbles, the rabbit, the conqueror and so on while I had my eye on the time knowing that I was about to enter the dark side, ie be late for an online date. My credit card was swiped to the bejesus and I left feeling slightly fleeced but in a nice way.

Within 15 minutes I was meeting my online friend and thanks to the nature of online profiles these days, was across his vital statistics. I turned the corner of one of Melbourne’s well known lanes to be confronted by my friend. The first thing that struck me was his shirt. Had he ironed it seventy times? He was so immaculately and incredibly pressed and groomed within an inch of his life.

I glanced about myself nervously. Did I have child’s snot on my dress? Were my broken capillaries adequately concealed? Were my chewed to the shizen-housen fingernails going to put him off? And what about my weird toe nail? Being uber aware that the gorgeous twinkling moments of daylight were carving highlights in my crows feet, I was keen to hit some flattering lighting asap so off we went.

My ideal was that he’d book a room in a luxurious hotel, no actually, an entire floor with acres of carpet and miles of rainbow infused bubbles spilling exotically from the pre-filled spa and then the French champagne would be popped – INTERUPTION-
This scene is now being played by deluded single mother in French maids outfit in room the size of three single beds and an echo chamber for a toilet.

We return to transmission. Er, (v) shortly afterwards and after watching a scintillating 30 minutes of cricket on Foxtel in the spoon position, he had to dispatch. Just as well really as I had a bath to run, a few toys to try out and a room to clean (not). Strolling later through the misty city, I popped into a pub to watch the last quarter of one of Richmond’s rare victories for the year, so in my book the night ended up successfully.

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