I pull my skirt down and wipe my hands on John’s desk chair. Still panting, I sit back and kick off my knickers, a twisted eight around my ankles. I pick the box up from the floor and notice that most of the brown wrapping paper’s still covering the bottom half of it.
Brown paper? you ask. Why in the name of the Good Lord would anyone who order a bunch of pornos, a tube of lube (large, please) and the latest vibrator on the market (the iBrator for iPod, iPad & iPhone) have it wrapped in brown paper? I hear you ask. This is orgasmic technology, woman! It should be wrapped in bright, glittery-clittery-pink paper with a million black dicks of all shapes and sizes slapping and spitting at each other all over the show. 69ers. BJ’s. A fuck-off big red bow is what your package needs, I hear you plead. It’s the gift of the century, Dolorez, a gift to yourself. The most delicious goddamn treat this side of the Sahara, darling. Why screw it up with brown paper?
Because that bitch of a Michelle Greene at the Post Office has a very fucking loose mouth, that’s why—not that I’m in the least bit embarrassed about ordering sex toys and a few dirty DVDs, it’s just that Michelle makes everybody else’s business her business and then everybody else’s business again. I mean everybody else’s business.
She pisses me off, that Michelle Greene. She really does.
I remove the rest of the wrapping paper and think about giving John’s seat a good wipe. It’s a bit late now, but what the fuck. It’s the idea that counts, as they say, eh?
My legs feel like jelly and I sink back down into the chair. I didn’t realise such a small device that goes brrrrrrrr could take it out of me like that—I mean really take it out of me. Absolutely fabulous. I’m shattered. I burst out laughing. Pleasure’s still fluttering between my legs and I want more. A moth to the flame. Physically, I know I won’t be able to take much more. Things are starting to get a bit a little sensitive, if you know what I mean.
I push my fringe back over my head and the sweat keeps it there. The air-con cools my forehead. I stare at the computer monitor. Jake X is now on top of Alicia but the other way round, upside-down like. An inverted 69. A 96, then. I don’t know what they call that position, but it’s dirty and I like it.
I lean over to switch off the monitor and some more fluid run down the insides of my thighs onto John’s chair. He’ll probably blame the cat. Shit! I’ve got to remember to take the little fucker out of the storeroom. Not that it’s going to die or anything. I mean it will, eventually, after a week or two, if John thinks it’s gone and doesn’t realise that it’s locked in the storeroom, because I won’t be here to tell him, of course.
Jake X comes over Alicia’s back and I switch off the monitor with a groan. I push the vibrator back into its cleverly-designed hole in the box, and get up. I need a cold beer and a joint. Christ, what I wouldn’t give for a bit of Swazi right now. How could I have forgotten my stash at home?
I go to the fridge and take out a Windhoek Light. That’s all there is. That and shitty box wine. White. The instant migraine kind of white. Then again, what could I expect from the man who married Michelle Greene? Not much, that’s all I’ll say about it. Fuck-all-o.
The cat is going apeshit in the storero—Did I say storeroom? Apologies. I meant pantry. At least old John Greene built his bitch-of-a-wife a paaaantry. The cat is currently ripping to shreds bag of some sort. Rice, I hope, or flour. Something that makes a real mess.
The kitchen counter’s nice. Tiled. Italian type pizza-pasta colours with a touch of basil-leaf green. Lovely. The barstools are very comfortable. Sorry about the old snail-trail, there, Michelle. You’d better get that Vim out of the pantry and start cleaning this house. It smells like sex in here. Could John have had someone over… no… impossible… but what about the pair of black lace panties under his desk? And the porno in the computer. And the other four DVDs under Michelle’s pillow?
I finish my beer and get another one. I sit on a ‘fresh’ barstool when my phone rings.
Mum. Great. Gotta take it. Better than taking the ‘Why don’t you ever return my calls’ BS.
“Why don’t you ever return my calls, D?”
Oh, for the love of Christ the Saviour.
“Dolorez, are you there?”
“Yes, Mum. How are you?”
“Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”
I finger the label of my vibrator box. Made in China, it says. “I’ve been to Beijing.”
“No, not Baywatch, Mum.”
“I didn’t say Baywatch, you dunce. Nobody goes to Baywatch. It’s a TV programme. You never bloody listen to me. I said Bay-what?’
“Oh, right.” What the fuck is going on?
“So, where have you been?”
“Erm … Beijing, Mum. Beijing. You know that city in China?”
“Don’t start with me, young lady. I know that tone of voice. Are you back on the booze?”
“No.” Windhoek Light isn’t booze, is it?
“I’ll call your sister to come and pick you up and drive you back to rehab immediately if that what it takes.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Yes, it bloody-well will be. D, if you’re drinking again— Dolorez, where are you and what’s that awful racket?”
“It’s just … my new cat, Mum.”
“Cat? You bloody liar. You’re allergic to cats and you hate them. Auntie Gladys still carries an emotional scar after you doused her Persian in cooking oil and drop-kicked it into the fireplace.”
“It scratched my leg. Besides, I was young.”
‘No, it licked your leg. Cats have very rough tongues. Another fucking reason to kill’em all.
“And that happened six months ago, D. Now, where are you, Dolorez? I’m sending your sister to pick you up.”
“I’m off again, Mum. Plane’s leaving in three hours.”
“What? Where? Leaving again?”
I take out my iBrator and iPhone. The app loads in less than a second and the speed setting, a big throbbing reggae-coloured cock, asks me if I’d prefer the feather- (yellow), drizzle- (green), or waterfall setting (red).
“I’m going back to Beijing, Mum. The waterfalls are just fabulous. Call you later.”