Eat Me (6 page)

‘This is so hard to admit.' Helen smoothed her skirt. The stain was still visible. ‘And I know it goes against everything I said earlier.' Taking a fortifying swig of her drink, Helen set her glass down on the coffee table and, in a tiny voice, declared the object of her affections: ‘Rambo.'

‘Really?' Julia was dumbfounded.

‘Rambo?!' Chantal laughed. ‘But darling, I thought you didn't like musclemen!'

‘And,' Helen continued, ‘I know exactly what I'd do with him.'

Encouraged by the expectant looks of her friends, Helen leaned back, closed her eyes, and began. ‘I'm walking along the beach in Manly. I think an encounter with someone who looks like Rambo has to occur in a place called Manly, don't you think? Anyway, I'm looking out to sea, wriggling my toes in the cool, wet sand close to the water when this enormous wave comes crashing onto shore, depositing at my feet a very wet, very disoriented Rambo. I extend a hand to try and pull him up. He is very heavy and I end up falling down on top of him instead.

‘I wriggle around a little bit to get comfortable. I'm feeling very comfortable. Our faces are about three inches apart and we are gazing into each other's eyes.

‘“Uh, where am I?” he asks.

‘“Australia,” I reply. “G'day, Bo.”

‘“Australia? Is that in Europe? Isn't that what used to be called Germany?”

‘“No, Bo, it's not. But don't worry your little head about it.” I slide off him slowly, careful to drag my sensitive bits over his. I give his nipples a tweak as I go. His big, round eyes grow rounder. “Now, just come with Helen,” I say, slipping a pair of handcuffs around his wrist and attaching it to mine.

‘“Uh, OK,” he says.

‘We get up and stroll along the beach like that, various bits and pieces of his muscled body bumping into my side, as I deliver a detailed critique of the images of women and femininity in his films. I use lots of post-modern terminology that flies over his head. I'm getting very turned on. He fixes me with a bovine stare and says, “Gee, Helen, are all the women in Austria as intelligent and beautiful as you?”

‘“It's Australia, Bo,” I reply, smiling and patting his cheek. “But don't talk. And let me help you out of those wet things.” I uncuff him now, and then slowly strip him, starting by taking away his machine gun and cartridge belt. I quickly slip out of my t-shirt and shorts and they join the jumble of clothing on the sand. “Give me a hand with the bra, will you?” I ask.

‘He fumbles around but can't get it. “Never mind,” I say, and unhook it myself.

‘“I thought women's libbers didn't wear bras,” he says. He's serious.

‘“We're called feminists these days, Bo,” I say, slipping out of my panties. “Third-wave feminists, if you want to be very precise about it. Now just lie there on the sand for me, will you? No, no, no, on your back, thanks.”

‘“Like this?”

‘“That's right.”

‘By this time, a small crowd has gathered. It's the middle of the day, after all. They arrange themselves in a circle. Among the faces, I recognise a small clutch of nuns from a nearby convent; Murphy Brown; a couple of my colleagues from the uni; Harold Holt, wearing a Soviet swimming costume and looking rather waterlogged; Batman and Robin; and Andrew Denton. Andrew is standing with the nuns, all of whom are so tall they could eat peanuts off the top of his head. I beckon to Murphy, Andrew and one of the tall nuns, and ask them each to take a wrist or an ankle and help hold him down. Not that he's putting up a struggle. I straddle his body and sit down on his face. “Kiss me on the lips, Bo,” I command.'

Julia, who'd been sipping her wine as Helen spoke this last line, choked and spluttered. Philippa leaned over and patted her on the back. ‘Sorry,' said Julia. ‘That came as a bit of a shock. But do go on.'

‘“I'd like that, Helen,” he says, and does.

‘Did you know the tongue is a muscle too? Anyway, about forty-five minutes later, I finally tire of this and move back a little to sit on his stomach. It's as hard as a park bench. I look at him, panting a bit and considering my next move. He is licking his lips. So is Andrew Denton. One of the nuns has her hand up the skirt of another, who has her head thrown back and is saying her Hail Mary. Murphy is rubbing up against Harold Holt. Batman is rubbing up against Robin.

‘“Show me your gun, Rambo baby,” I say. He points to the machine gun on the sand a few feet away.

‘“No, I mean the really big one.” I turn around. “Oooh,” I say, “I think I've found it.” It's very hard and erect, and pre-cum glistens on the tip. “What do you think, Bo, does it need cleaning?”

‘He is still licking his lips. He seems to find it difficult to speak.

‘“If I put the barrel in my mouth, can you promise not to fire?”

‘He nods and closes his eyes. I play the pink oboe. Each time I look up, I am staring into the face of the nun who is holding down Bo's ankle. Shifting my body slightly so that Bo-burger gets a good view, I alternate giving him head and tongue-kissing the nun.'

‘I thought you were a
lapsed
Catholic, Helen.'

‘Shut up, Chantal. Let her continue.'

‘Rambo, meanwhile, has inserted a finger as big as any other man's dick into my extremely moist fanny and is moving it around vigorously. He asks the onlookers where the clit-er-us (a word he pronounces very slowly but carefully) is, and a very nice elderly man shuffles over and stoops down to show him not only where it is, but what to do with it. With a shudder and a yelp, I come all over their hands.

‘“Are you ready for engulfment, Bo?” I gasp.

‘“Engulfment?” He's sounding a bit overwhelmed. “Isn't that war over already?”

‘“We're not talking war, Rambo-pambo,” I say. “You know, engulfment. It's what is referred to as penetration in masculist language.”

‘“Uh, I guess so.”

‘I signal to the four helpers to move away and to the crowd to leave us a path to the ocean. Slowly, I lower myself down onto him. It feels like I'm being fisted.'

‘You've been fisted? You never told us that!'

‘Shut
up,
Chantal. Go on, Helen.' Philippa was rapt.

‘Locked together we hump to the rhythm of the waves, if waves had a rhythm that grew faster and faster, that is. Finally, we roll together towards the sea, and I come for the last time as a great wave breaks over our bodies. He comes too, and as he comes, he cries out, “I know! I know! Australia's where they made
Crocodile Dundee!
” I embrace him and pant, “Yes, Bo, yes. Oh yes!”

‘He is still smiling when an undertow catches him and pulls him off to sea. As he waves goodbye, one of the onlookers tosses his clothes, gun and cartridge belt at him and he catches them in his outstretched hand. Just as he disappears, he shouts, “Thank you, Helen. I'll never forget this day. By the way, how do I get back to Hollywood?”

‘“You're headed in the right direction, Bo,” I shout. “Just keep on swimming.”

‘The crowd applauds, and then disperses. I sit on the sand, at the edge of the water with my arms around my calves, licking the salt off my knees.'

The room was so quiet you could have heard a condom wrapper drop.

‘Well, that's it,' shrugged Helen. She looked around the room. No one moved or said a word. They looked as though they'd been snap-dried. Chantal was breathing a little unevenly.

‘I'll never,' Julia said after a long silence, ‘be able to think of Andrew Denton the same way again.'

THE ROAD TO GUNDAGAI

Dearest
Fiona,

How's life in Darwin? Is the work with Aboriginal women going well? Let me know if you crave anything from Sydney. I can't send you the cafes of Victoria Street, or fireworks over the Opera House, but anything else your heart desires that can fit in a postpak, just let me know.

It's been an age since I've written. Can you forgive me? I've been flat out, what with exams to mark and preparing my paper on ‘Like Chocolate for Water: Food and the Femme Fatale in Contemporary Cinema' for a womyn's studies conference in Canberra last week. I know I should probably tell you all about the conference, and the papers, and all that, but I can't resist jumping straight to a little adventure I had on the road.

It was funny because, just the night before, I'd been talking with Chantal, Julia and Philippa about fantasies (they all send their best, by the way), and I'd admitted that, as ideologically suspect as it may sound, I rather fancy the odd macho muscleman. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Don't you love driving long distances by yourself? I bet you do a lot of it up there. Of course, there are times you do crave company. Like when you see that sign that says ‘Injured Wildlife, phone XXXX' and you just want to turn to someone and quip, ‘If they're injured, how are they going to get to the phone?' But I digress.

I left Canberra to drive back on Thursday evening, getting on the road a bit later than I'd intended. I hadn't been driving for very long when my engine started making these wretched clunking noises. Soon, steam was pouring out of the bonnet. Luckily, I was almost at Goulburn. I took the turnoff and kept going till I reached the Big Merino. You know the Big Merino—it's that huge concrete sheep that squats on a souvenir shop, one of those places selling heaps of eye-glazing generic Australiana like Akubra hats and flyswats in the shape of the map. The merino has little red eyes that light up at night. (The locals say that once it had testicles too, but that they were sawn off—an urban, sorry, rural myth?) There's a restaurant and a service station just next door. I was praying that the service station, which is the biggest in the area, would still be open and a mechanic on duty. It wasn't. I was beginning to panic. Thinking the car was about to blow up, I pulled into the parking lot there anyway.

There was hardly anyone around. They were just shutting down the souvenir shop for the night when I got there, and the last of the staff were locking up, getting into their cars and driving off. I opened the hood and stared in despair at my smoking engine. Do you remember when we vowed that we would learn about our cars so that we would never be intimidated by male mechanics again, and that we could fix them ourselves? I don't think we ever got much beyond changing the tyres. Well, I could've kicked myself for not taking it all more seriously. I was trying not to panic. I was thinking, now that's the fan belt, and those are the spark plugs, and that's the carburettor—isn't that pathetic? You're probably wondering why I didn't just call the NRMA. Well, there's no logical reason at all. I just didn't think of it. I didn't get my PhD in common sense, after all, I got it in film theory. As you know, they are completely unrelated fields. I'm sure it would probably have occurred to me to call them before much more time had passed. As you'll see, fate intervened first.

A huge rig pulled in to the parking lot, and began to circle me. Slowly. My heart jumped into my throat. I was thinking
Thelma and Louise
. I was thinking trouble. The driver stared out the window of his cab at me. I glared back, trying to look fierce and potentially armed.

‘G'day,' he called out, in a friendly tone of voice. ‘Bit of strife with the vehicle?'

I nodded cautiously, still suspicious. He asked if he could help and, before I had time to consider my answer, hopped out.

It was a warm night. He was just wearing a t-shirt and jeans. He was probably in his fifties and, as he bent over the hood, I got a good look at him. I was still thinking along the lines of how I would describe him to the police. His face was suntanned and deeply etched with lines. He had well-defined, thick eyebrows, and attractive blue eyes, from which fanned a bold network of smile lines. He had light brown hair sprinkled with grey. It was cut short and probably for just ten dollars in some country town, you know the look. He didn't seem like a bad sort. I began to relax.

He fetched his toolbox from his truck and set to work. Every so often, he'd look up at me and explain, in his deep rumbly voice and really broad Ocker accent, what he was doing. I wasn't taking in a word of it.

I was noticing how hard the muscles on his arm were, how they rippled and bulged as he fiddled with the engine. His hands were large and callused. Each fingernail was outlined in black, with dirt and engine oil. He had a tattoo on his right arm of a bunch of red roses, and there was a blue and gold oriental dragon on the left. The hair on his arms was thick and blonde, his skin browned and freckled from the sun. The back of his neck had the look of tan leather. He was solid around the waist, which only increased his very manly attractiveness. His legs appeared strong and powerful through his jeans.

There I was, PhD, lecturer in women's studies, big noisy critic of even most educated males as having questionable, not wholly reconstructed attitudes towards gender politics, sort-of wannabe lesbian (we've discussed this, haven't we? how you never quite feel accepted within the hard core of feminist circles if you're not a lesbian?) who in all my thirty-three years have never even slept with a guy who had less than a Master's, and there I was being rescued like a classic damsel in distress by this big brawny bear of a man—and absolutely wetting my pants over him at the same time.

‘Thanks so much for this,' I finally managed to croak. My voice had inexplicably gone all husky.

He grinned. ‘No worries.'

‘See this?' He pointed to something-or-other near the, you know, big bumpy thing in the middle where the spark plugs go. ‘That was where your problem was. She'll be right now.'

‘Mmmm,' I replied, vagueing out. Leaning closer to him, I breathed in his pungent male odour, all sweat and motor oil. My heart was beating. Without really thinking about it, I shifted my position slightly, so that our arms touched, and it was, literally, like a jolt of electricity. A great big shiver ran down my back.