The lovely, slightly more Rubenesque (her words) VPS got back into town last night, so there were drinks consume at The Gutter with Indy.
Rubenesque? Hardly. VPS still has a waist about the circumference of my left thigh. There may have been a slightly increased BMI over the last time I saw her in Sydney in June, but it was hardly noticable and hardly surprising given the panini and cappuccini (or is that panino and cappuccino?) lifestyle of the increasingly broad-arsed Aussies these days. She laughs a lot more easily I note, is not so hooded in her dark thoughts of rebellion perhaps.
As usual, when bloggers meet, the conversation quickly veered irredeemably from the sacred to the profane and VPS was on-form, continually teasing E@L with hints of inexplicable physical attraction and suggestions of unseemly possibilities and the likliehood of unlikely inevitabilties... if you catch my drift...
But teasing is teasing so I had to lay down the law, rather than lay her down... This had been going on all night, first at Wala Wala (beers), then at El Patio (margeritas and fajitas), and we were now at Harry's Bar by OT (JD-dietcoke), watching the lady-boys mince their way across the road.
"Listen, VPS. I'm not kidding around now. No, I am not going to shag you, OK? You'll just have to get over it, all right?"
But this altrusitic, moralistic (she has a boyfriend and wouldn't cheat) fatalistic (it was never going to happen) stance didn't stop me from mumbling something as VPS sashayed off to the loo, as she did now, still laughing at this line of mine, in those shoo-oort jeans-shorts, with those long legs, with that well-filled tank-top saying "Guess". Guess what? - real or fake?*
"What did you just say?" asked Indy. "Stop mumbling."
"I said, 'I'd fuck that.' "
"That's what I thought you said, you sleasy bastard! You've been saying that every time you see her pert little arse. You're not so innocent..."
What can I say, I am merely yet another testosterone-based-lifeform: I chat with a majorly cute girl, she flirts with me, and everything nice or appropriate or polite goes out the window as the blood drains to the little brain, that true ruler of a man's world.
Between the book-ends of the (relatively) innocent bliss of childhood and the (occasionaly) docile wisdom of old-age, is all that mad mucking and fucking about of adolescence and adult-hood when hormones run rampant whether we admit it or not (recognise it or not, believe it or not) and we forget what it is like to rest easy.
The primal urges pull - it's just sex, it's fine. The sophisticated conscience pushes - it's exploitation, it's not fine.
I failed to rest easy last night, though I didn't venture into OT and I went home alone.
The previous night I dropped into Brix, the high-class hooker nightspot under the Hyatt. Immediately I felt that familar melancholy churning in my gut, like dread, like repulsion.
I sat a table by myself, under the watchful eye of several aging but pretty (and prettified) whores, replied to an earlier SMS from Spike and got a quick reply.
He was trying to be good. I was trying to be bad. He seemed to be succeeding, I wasn't.
The ageing but pretty whores saw me finish off my $25 "free" house-pour G&T, saw me look around the bar one last time (I wonder what expression they read on my face), saw me leave alone.
OTHER MONKEYS SAID
And to think the lovely pert little VPS gets to tease you tonight and for the next few days as well...
Why do I always type "form" when I mean "from", and "form" when I mean "from"? Sorry, I meant - "from" when I mean "form".
i popped my head in the OT harry's that night. somehow i must have missed a bunch of sexy aussies... ;)
We were on the balcony outside. "Sexy aussie", unless you're talking Elle MacPherson, is pretty much an oxymoron. Hang on, or is it a tautology?