Weekend Wrap

An old friend of mine Melody once said to me, “You know, these situations you get yourself into... you do realise they aren’t normal, don’t you? You say, “Oh, these things happen to everyone,” but they don't. They only happen to you.”

This is one of those stories.

It’s a long ‘un.

My band played Saturday night. It was our first gig in nine months, and although we were a bit underdone and nervous, it went off perfectly. There was a big crowd and the dancing started from the first song. Awesome gig, we were rockstars.

But, as with every gig we do, there were adventures. Girl adventures. This story has four girls in it.

1. Suicide Girl
2. Mormon
3. Miss Flatmate
4. Horse

We have a new band member, Fanboy. He’s been our biggest fan for years, and has come to just about every gig and over the years we became friends with him, good friends, and indeed, we also adopted his extended group of friends (which in turn lead me to people like Miss Artist my sometimes lover that Melba doesn’t approve of, and Artemis). He was always part of our stage show anyway, in that he danced like a friendly maniac right up the front, but he also happens to be a talented musician and so we have added him to our line-up (we’re now 8 piece).

A few months ago, I hooked Fanboy up with my neighbour The Mermaid and they had some sex. I told him afterwards that he owed me sex. He happens to be very handsome and has strings of women chasing him, and I demanded he fix one of them up with me to return the favour. I was happy to bottom feed... to accept his rejects. He has a long trail of broken hearts. He’s a lady-killer. So anyway, he gave it much thought, and came up with an old lover of his that he has remained friends with – Suicide Girl. She was actually a real Suicide Girl and to this day works in the porn industry (soft-porn... in admin). But, she’s also a farm girl originally, and you all know I have a thing for farm girls.

So, we met about half an hour before the gig, and Fanboy had certainly chosen well for me. She was attractive, had some sexy pirate tatts, was fast-talking and fast-thinking, witty, shared a ciggy with me and we hit it off perfectly. After about twenty minutes of chat, this was said:

Me: Well, I have to go because we’re on soon.

SG: Before you go... you do know that Fanboy has, you know, planned to set us up?

Me: Yes. The plan is that we were to meet briefly tonight, then report back to him during the week, and if we both like each other, he’ll give out the mobile numbers and we can take it from there.

SG: Yes. So, what will you report?

Me: That I really like you, and would like to take you on a date. So, just warning you, that’s the message Fanboy will get, so a date offer will come, probably midweek.

SG: Well, I’m just warning you, that the answer will be yes.

Me: Wow. Cool.

SG: Yeah, I’m happy with this. So, umm, do I have to go to him now and ask permission to kiss you?

Me: That’s probably the rule, but we could bend the rules and cut out the middle man.

SG: Good. So, wanna kiss?

Me: Alright then.

(Insert snog).

I then left to do the gig, feeling fantastic. I really liked her, and got a snog, and the promise of a date. I liked her so much I was already trying to work out how to tell my Mum my new girlfriend was in the porn industry.

Anyway, she was going to hang around for the gig, but then had to go to some party a bit later, so, that was where it was supposed to be left.

She danced a bit during the gig, and we made eyes.

After the gig, I did all the catchup stuff with friends that had come, as well as meeting new fans and all that took about an hour. So it was about two and a half hours since I had kissed her, when Fanboy came up to me and said, “Hey, Suicide Girl decided not to go to the party. She wanted to hang out here with you instead because she really liked you, but I haven’t seen her for half an hour. Have you seen her?”

“No,” I said, all excited that she was still at the pub, “But I’ll go look.”

I found her. In a dark corner of a little booth. Straddling a guy. His hand was up her skirt. I looked closer. I knew the guy. A doofus called Doofus who is friends with a chick called Miss Flatmate (soon to be introduced).

I stormed back to Fanboy and yelled, “She’s having fucking sex with Doofus in that booth. What sort of fucking skank have you set me up with? Fail, Fanboy, fail!”

“What the fuck?” he yelled, and ran into the booth and gave her what for. She was drunk. Doofus was drunk. Fanboy made them leave the pub and told her that she had let me and him down. Exeunt Suicide Girl.

Fanboy was hugely apologetic and started talking about some other girl he’d set me up and he was apologising over and over but I was not impressed. I was yelling at him for showing poor judgement.

Enter Miss Flatmate.

Miss Flatmate is Miss Artist’s flatmate, and although they were childhood friends they are now arch enemies. They hate each other. Though Miss Artist is my sometimes lover, I stay out of their disputes because over the years I’ve gotten to know Miss Flatmate pretty well and I like her. And she’s hot. She’s a dancer.

Miss Flatmate said, “What’s all the yelling?” and I said, “Your mate Doofus was sexing up a girl that I’m supposed to be going on a date with next week!”

She explained that Doofus was very drunk and that he was throwing himself at every woman there, including her, and that made me feel even worse, because Doofus was acting all drunk and sleazy and Suicide Girl had thought, “Yeah righto, I’ll have a piece of that.” Tramp.

“Don’t feel so bad,” said Miss Flatmate, “I’ve had a hell few weeks with men. I’m over it. In fact, I don’t even like being here at this pub. I’m going home.”

“You’ve had no luck with men, and I’ve had no luck with women. How about I crash in your bed tonight?” I said in jest, because of course it was jest – she’s my sometimes lover’s flatmate and enemy.

“Yeah sure,” she said laughing, “I’ll leave the door open.”

The she went.

Fanboy returned to me. He had with him his date for the night, Leggy. Leggy seemed nice. It was their first real date and she was doing her best to impress his bandmates. She said to me, “We’re going to Cherry Bar later on, when the pub closes. I have a friend. She kinda looks like a horse. She has a long face. But don’t let that put you off, because she’s hot. And, she likes men in suits. I’m pretty sure she’ll go for it.”

“A horse, ay?” I said, “Well, as long as Horse doesn’t get my hopes up then start sexing with some other guy two hours later... sure, I’ll meet her.”

It was midnight.

The pub had turned into an 80’s bogan rock nightclub and everyone was dancing and having fun. The pub was still packed.

At about 1am, a man and his girlfriend approached. They introduced themselves, congratulated me on the band’s performance and made chit-chat. Then they exposed the real reason for their visit to me.

“We have a friend, and she had told us about your band. She really likes your band, but has never met any of you, and she was a bit nervous about coming up to speak to you, so we’re going behind her back. Will you come and say hello?”

“Is she single?” I asked, rather rudely.

“She sure is,” he said, smiling, because obviously that’s where it was headed, “And cute.”

And so I went and met the friend, and she was pretty cute. A shorty, but nice eyes and face, and wonderful cleavage which was on prominent display. 31 years old. We got chatting. And, because I was a little drunk (and so was she) the conversation very quickly got into things. I have this habit of asking big questions when I meet strangers. I’m no good at chit-chat. I’m likely to ask their name, and then the next question is something like, “Do you fear death?”, or, as was the case here, “Did you have a happy childhood?” For some reason , people always answer me these probing questions. This girl was no exception. She grew up in Melbourne in a strict Mormon family, and did indeed have some qualms about her upbringing. She said she was the ‘black sheep’ of the family, and has not followed through with her Mormonism, but, she did concede that it’s hard to de-program oneself if one is brought up a certain way, and she still had Mormon ‘traits’. Alcohol was clearly not one of them though, and we had a couple of drinks, and next thing I know we’re snogging.

We danced and snogged, plus occasionally returned to our respective camps, then met up again and snogged some more.

3am came, and the pub was shut. Fanboy and Leggy said to me, “Well, are you coming with us? Horse is at Cherry or Pony, not sure, but we’re heading that way. Are you coming, or are you staying with the Mormon?”

I put it to Mormon. She said, “Let’s go around the corner and kiss some more so I can think about it.”

We went around the corner, down a dark street and found a bench. We sat and kissed, but because there was nobody else around, it got a bit ‘R’ Rated. Nothing was undone or unzipped, but hands were pressed against fabric in strategic positions. Sex was on its way.

“Righto,” she said, “I’m inviting you back to my house. I live just around the corner.”

I said goodbye to Fanboy and Leggy. Fanboy apologised again for the Suicide Girl disaster, and off they went.

I walked with Mormon back to her house.

We got in her house.

Then... it got WEIRD.

She said, “I’m going to freshen up in the bathroom, and get out of this costume. Please, wait for me in the loungeroom,” and she pointed me that way.

I got in there. It was attached to the kitchen.

On the walls were posters. Band posters. My band’s posters, dating back a while. Not other bands... just mine.

My band is not famous, at all. We are respected within our genre, but the genre is small. There’s only five or so bands in Melbourne that do what we do, and we’re the oldest of them all. We have a handful of fans and we know them all by name. We put on great shows, but release awful recordings. We all have day jobs and won’t be giving them up. As far as I knew, nobody, you know, collected our things.

I was sitting there thinking, “Well, this is kind of weird. Spooky. But, well, she seems harmless. Maybe she’s just shy. Look on the Brightside... she’s a fan of the band, and now she has the lead singer in her house. Oh, there just has to be sex.”

She came back out, freshened, in a singlet that revealed more of her ample bosom. She sat next to me.

Me: I see you have our band posters.
Morm: Yes, I like them.
Me: How long have you been coming to see us play?
Morm: My first show was the launch of the second album.
Me: That was eight years ago.
Morm: Yes.
Me: And you’ve been coming to see us ever since?
Morm: Off and on, depending on where I am. But always as often as possible.
Me: Umm, have we met?
Morm: No.

I sat there, dumbfounded, then thought, ah what the fuck, and started groping. She groped back... a little, but I could sense something had changed. She said, “You liked my cleavage?”

“Sure did,” I said.

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Done what?”

“Displayed my cleavage in public. I always cover them up. Always. Tonight was the first night ever.”

I thought (but didn’t say), “Yeah, and look: You picked up the lead singer of your favourite band.”

We kissed some more, but she was becoming distant. I could feel it. I decided to rev things up a bit and started fumbling with her pants and top, but she stopped me. I am a gentleman in these situations.

I said, “Look, I’m not sure what’s happening. This whole night is weird. Umm. Please, don’t feel compelled to have me here. I obviously want to be here, and what’s more, I want to start taking off your clothes, because you’re hot, and really nice, and intelligent. But, I’m not going to pressure you into anything. If you’re more comfortable with me leaving, just tell me, and I won’t begrudge you. My car and all my stuff is at The Violinist’s house, and it’s also walking distance. I have a couch for the night there.”

She didn’t answer, but instead started kissing me again. I kind of rolled on top, but gently. I went for the pants again, and she said, “Umm...” and I knew that was not a good ‘Umm’ and so I rolled off. I took a breath. She looked concerned. She then said, “I’m really, really conflicted.” And I thought all of a sudden, “Maybe she has a boyfriend, and he’s overseas or something.” She clearly fancied me, and she did invite me back, but something was stopping her.

Then she said, “I don’t do this. I’ve never done this.”

Then it hit me.

Mormon traits.

Oh my God.

I held her, and said, “I understand.”

I stood up.

I fixed my clothes.

I said, “It’s best I go now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m sorry, too,” I said.

I gave her another cuddle, and then I was out the front door, about ten seconds after my erection was out the front door.

By now it was 4:15am.

The poor girl. But, there was no point me staying. I was in a state.

Being in such a state, I got my second wind and tried calling Fanboy. I figured I’d go meet Horse, but it was going to voicemail (unbeknownst to me at the time, his battery had gone flat).

It dawned on me that I wouldn’t be going into the city. Too much time had past. They could be anywhere. There was nothing left to do but to walk to Violinist’s house (about a 25 minute walk).

So there I was, a 40 year old man, walking by myself through the back streets of inner-city Melbourne at 4.30am. Tired, lonely, sexually frustrated beyond belief. A wretch in a 3 piece. I got to the Violinist’s.

I texted Fanboy, just in case. I said: “It didn’t work out with the Mornon. I’m at the violinist’s. Bring me the Horse!”

There was no reply.

I collapsed on the couch (which was covered in cat hair) and fell asleep, in my suit.

**

At 11am Sunday, Fanboy texted me. Here is the text:

“Got this message from Suicide Girl. Had to forward it to you. Fw: Girl meets boy. Girl likes boy. Girl kisses boy. Boy disappears. Girl meets new boy. Takes boy home. Boy pukes all over girl. Girl made a terrible mistake.”

I don’t believe in kamma, but I do believe in amazing coincidence. Doofus spewed on her. Good.

I spoke to Fanboy, and he was apologising even more. “I’m so upset with her,” he said, “And I’m really sorry she did that to you. I can’t explain it. It’s not like her. Anyway, I spoke to her, she feels terrible, and wants your mobile number. Can I give it to her?”

I said yes.

Sure enough, a text came in later... “Hi, it’s Suicide Girl. I feel terrible about last night. Please call me.”

I texted back and said, “I’ll call you during the week.”

I have to think about it. See, even though she did that, she did get spewed on... and was I any better? I went with the first pair of boobs that approached me. And, well, Suicide Girl is not my girlfriend. Why did she have to be monogamous to me after we just met? Is agreeing to a date the next week implying that you can’t pick up anyone else before that date? And, well, we did get along well. Really well. And she was a beautiful kisser. Oh, what to do? Do I go on a date?

But, in finishing, here’s the punchline.

Miss Flatmate called me in the afternoon.

“I just woke up,” she said.

“Oh cool, that’s a good sleep!” I said.

There was silence. I was waiting for her to speak. She called me, the onus is on her to explain the nature of the call.

“What happened to you?” she said.

“What?” I said.

More silence.

“I left the door open,” she said.

What’s that term Ramon uses?

Ah yes.

Love gumby.