It's Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake Read online

  This all feels very out of character. I’m not someone who participates in sexual revolutions. I’m a blusher—my cheeks go bright pink at the mention of promiscuity. It took me years before I could maintain eye contact with, well, anyone. I’ve never been able to sleep in the nude. I get embarrassed easily, and the idea of possibly being caught out naked in the middle of the night is enough to give me anxiety. I religiously take a probiotic, and I always wee after sex because I’ve been told it’s good for me. I don’t like answering the phone. I have monthly subscriptions to things I never use because the only way you can cancel them is via a phone call. I once considered using the service that deaf and hard of hearing people use where someone else makes their phone calls for them, but then the fact that I was even considering that made me feel like a terrible person, and I had a panic attack and donated two hundred dollars to the Guide Dog Association. Which quickly prompted another panic attack, because I realised guide dogs have nothing to do with deafness, and I felt awful for being so insensitive to the disability community. I can easily spiral like this. I watch those documentaries about animals and sugar and empathy and the chemicals in plastics and manifesting your desires and I get sucked in and vow that I’m going to change my life and be better, but within hours I’m sucking up caffeinated, sugar-stacked beverages through a plastic straw, eating a donut and using all of my supposed power to manifest a car park close to the entrance of the shops because I don’t want to walk too far. I am all for wild ambition but it’s just not me. Not really.

  I ponder all of this while in the car driving the ninety-minute round trip to buy brownies from Jess’s cousin’s brownie bakery because that feels like the right thing to do. I stare a little too intently at her when she asks me for my order, and after she takes it I add, ‘I think you’re amazing. All of this…’ I look around the shop, feeling quite emotional about her achievements, which I now feel deeply invested in. ‘It’s so impressive. Inspiring, even.’

  Jess’s cousin looks confused by my gushing and says, ‘Oh, thanks?’ I leave immediately.

  Then, when I’m back on my couch eating from the box of the four brownies, having just about convinced myself the whole thing is a fucking joke that I will never, ever share with anyone, ever, I find Ben. The dance-floor drug dealer from my early twenties. Ben still lives locally, and he seems to be single, and relatively normal. It looks like he travels a bit, and he’s bought a really nice house that he’s renovating. I wonder if him getting a message from me out of the blue is weird and I worry about what he’ll think. My stomach sloshes with giddy nerves and I talk to myself as I pace around my lounge room.

  Just message him. You have nothing to lose. What’s the worst thing that could happen? He says no. You can deal with a no. Just message him, Noni. Do it.

  So I do.

  4

  ‘Shit, ay, Nons. It’s been years.’ Ben has a crew cut, a loud voice and giant arm muscles. He hugs me a little too hard.

  ‘Yeah,’ is all I manage to get out before he starts talking over the top of me.

  ‘Yeah I was surprised when you messaged, like, holy shit is this chick going to tell me I’ve got some ten-year-old kid or something.’

  ‘What? No.’ I shake my head.

  ‘Was a joke.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We never fucked,’ he says. ‘Or did we? Can’t really ’member, ay? Wild fuckin times back then, yeah?’

  ‘We didn’t, no.’ I shake my head. ‘It’d be a miracle child, that’s for sure,’ I joke. ‘Like Jesus.’ Fucking hell. I finish my wine in one gulp.

  ‘Oh, shit, you religious now? I’m not really into that stuff, ay.’

  ‘Into what?’

  ‘The bible and that.’

  ‘Oh.’ I laugh. ‘No, it was a joke—the kid, you said there was a kid. Don’t worry.’

  OH MY GOD. WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?! This is painful. Maybe he’s just nervous. It’s been a long time. Surely we’ll find a rhythm and it’ll be fine. I remind myself of the plan. He’s handsome. All square jaw and big shoulders, like a rugby player. He has stubble the same length as his shaved head, and I stare at the uneven outline that frames his forehead and face. You can do this, Noni. You can have sex. No strings attached. The Plan. The List. Yes.

  ‘Another one?’ he asks, looking at my empty glass.

  I nod. ‘Gin.’

  ‘Ooh, fancy.’ He smiles and I try to smile in a way that doesn’t give away my trepidation.

  Ben and I awkwardly navigate our way through two more drinks, catching up on over ten years of our very separate lives. After we cover humorous memories and mutual acquaintances, he finally asks me about myself.

  ‘So, what do you do with yourself?’

  ‘I’m a teacher.’

  ‘Teacher. Shit. Good holidays, teaching. I thought about teaching but…I hate kids.’ He starts laughing hysterically.

  ‘Mmm. What about you?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m between things at the moment. Was out on the mines for a bit, made some money and invested it into some pretty slick opportunities.’ He raises his eyebrows at me like I’m meant to be impressed.

  How did I ever find this man attractive? Ecstasy. Ecstasy is the answer. But still. We baffle our way through another round of drinks while he tells me about trips he’s taken, shows me photos of him standing with drugged-out tigers, dressed in beer-logo singlets and smiling in war memorials, and I am floored. For many reasons. Mostly because his life still resembles the one we had when we were twenty-three: pills, drinking, dancing, casual work. Was he always this racist?

  There is an awkward pause. I know I should try to fill it but I don’t know what to say. I stare at Ben’s stubbly chin and two thoughts collide in my brain at once:

  1. At least he’s handsome; the sex might not be that bad.

  And…

  2. We have zero chemistry.

  ‘You’re really beautiful, you know that?’ he says.

  ‘Oh, wow. Thank you,’ I mutter, flattered. Ben attaches himself to my neck. I grab his shoulders to stop myself falling off the chair.

  ‘Good, huh?’ He smiles sloppily.

  Before I answer his mouth collides with my mouth and I kiss him back. He’s a good kisser. I remember that about him. But we don’t really sync. It’s like our preferred paces no longer match. It’s fine, but not great. I pull away.

  ‘Wanna come back to mine?’ he asks.

  Say no, Noni. Say no. ‘Sure,’ I reply.

  He gets two beers out of his fridge, bumping the lids on the edge of his table. I drink mine quickly, looking around Ben’s place. There’s a stack of rum-and-coke cans piled high in a pyramid in the corner of the room, a football flag pinned to the wall and cat hair all over his carpet. Clumps of cat hair. I sit on the couch and watch him as he fiddles with his speaker and phone.

  ‘I’ve made this killer fucking playlist,’ he says.

  ‘Great.’ I smile, drinking large glugs of beer. Loud rock music blares and he turns, smiling, and does the devil horn hand gesture. Leave, Noni. Just leave. You don’t have to go through with this. He sits next to me, smiling, then grabs my face in his large hand and kisses me. We struggle to find a rhythm sitting next to each other, and so I move to straddle him, thinking that will help, but his thighs are wide, and so are mine, and I can’t quite get comfortable on his lap. I hold his face in my hands, trying to take control of the kiss, trying to show him what I like, and he gets the message because it starts to get better. He wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me into him, and I feel good, turned on, even.

  He pulls back. ‘Want to go to my room?’

  ‘Sure.’

  There’s a pile of dirty high-vis shirts on the floor and no sheet on his bed. He lies down, patting the mattress twice to indicate for me to join him. I lie down and he kisses me, running his fingers lightly up the side of my stomach and ribs, and it feels nice. He kisses my neck. See? This will be fine. You were just overreacting. You were nervous. This is fin
e. This is good. But then Ben jumps up. ‘I’m going to get naked now,’ he says, standing at the side of the bed and I stare at him. Really? That’s weird. What’s he doing? Surely we could undress each other. But fine. Okay. I awkwardly undress myself and stare at him as he kneels over me on the bed, naked.

  ‘Can I go down on you?’ he asks.

  ‘Um. Sure. Yeah. Okay.’ At least he asked, I guess. At least he’s into going down on girls. But then he attacks my entire vulva with his whole tongue and the sensation makes my eyes bulge. I grab his head, attempting to steer. But he takes this to mean he’s doing a good job and begins a more targeted approach. He manages to find my clitoris and I moan. Good. This is good. Good work, Ben. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing. But he’s not there for longer than thirty seconds before he changes tack completely and starts licking quick and fast, before he shakes his head like a dog with a chew toy. I push his head back, trying not to laugh at the sensation and at his audacity. I pull him towards me, as this needs to end, immediately.

  He kisses my stomach and looks at me. ‘Was that good?’ He’s so impressed with himself.

  ‘Yes. Yeah.’ I nod. He kisses my mouth and then rolls onto his side, staring at his crotch.

  ‘Oh shit, ay, he’s gone to sleep.’

  I stare at his flaccid penis, and then at his face. ‘That’s okay, I mean, let’s just make out and—’ I can’t think of what to say. ‘Hope for the best,’ is what comes out and I’m instantly mortified.

  ‘You could help him out,’ he says.

  Why is he calling it a him? ‘Oh, really, what—what does he—what do you—like?’ I ask and he grabs my hand and puts it on his dick.

  ‘Touching. Sucking.’ The word sucking makes my vagina want to retract in on itself, but I smile.

  ‘Sure.’ I straddle him, kissing his neck, his chest, biting his nipples. This is good. I like this. I like being in charge. I like making other people feel good. I like the feeling I get when he moans with pleasure. I kiss across his stomach, lightly breathing in the direction of his penis, praying he’ll get hard. I kiss down his thighs, while using one hand to try to pump some fucking life into the situation. I really don’t want to put my mouth anywhere near his penis. It’s been a long time since I’ve been anywhere near a penis. I’m worried I’ve forgotten how. But I quickly realise it’s all relatively straightforward, like riding a bike, or maybe more like pumping up a bike tyre.

  This thought makes me laugh, but thankfully it is covered by Ben moaning, ‘Oh, fuck yeah.’

  I hide my head in his thigh and roll my eyes. Come on, Ben. I use my tongue with the smallest amount of effort and keep my hand doing what it’s doing. Real-life penises aren’t that robust are they? I mean compared to the plastic, vibrating penis-shaped objects I’d enjoyed for a decade. They’re far more veiny than I remember, too. Ugly really.

  When he’s hard he looks at me through squinting eyes and says, ‘You woke him up.’

  ‘Well, I was determined,’ I say. Fucking hell, Noni. ‘Put a condom on,’ I tell him, and he does. With the enthusiastic verve of a teenage boy. I decide that I’ll ride him because then at least this might be over quickly.

  And it is.

  ‘Spose you’re one of those women who like to cuddle, so here,’ he points at his chest and looks at me with a kind of smugness that suggests he thinks he’s mastered the female species.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ I smile, lying my head back on the pillow.

  He yawns and I try desperately to think of something to say, but I come up with nothing, so I point to the door and tiptoe out to the bathroom, picking up my underwear on the way.

  What was that? What is this? I sit on the toilet trying to catch my breath. The plan. The stupid fucking list. The ridiculous notion that this would somehow prove that I’d changed. I’m frozen on the toilet. My mind racing. What are you doing? Should I stay? Do I have to stay? I don’t want to stay. And then loudly and clearly the word leave drowns out everything else. I instantly feel anxious. My heart races. What am I going to say to him? He’ll think I’m weird. I stand up. It doesn’t matter what he thinks of me, the voice says, I don’t owe him anything. Besides, he might prefer it if I leave. Surely. We both knew what this was, didn’t we? My hands feel strange, I open and close them over and over, trying to get the blood to flow. Should I leave? What if no one ever finds me attractive again? And there it is. The honesty stings, but it propels me out of the bathroom, because I’d rather be real with Ben than deal with my own honesty.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘You’re probably really tired, so, I’m gonna go.’ I look around the filthy floor for my clothes.

  ‘Oh really? You don’t wanna—’

  ‘What? I can if you want—if that’s—’ I mumble, but I continue to get dressed.

  ‘Nah, yeah, go. That’s cool. I hate sleeping with other people anyway, so that’s good.’

  ‘Good.’ I get dressed and try to appear casual.

  ‘I don’t normally fuck fat chicks, but that was good, ay,’ he says with a thoughtful nod.

  I stare at him. ‘What?’

  He looks at me. ‘That was a compliment. Take it as a compliment. I’m saying that was good.’

  ‘That was—’ I pause. He still has the condom on and it’s dangling on his flaccid penis as he talks, which I’m finding incredibly distracting.

  ‘We should do this again, yeah?’

  I sigh loudly, the disbelief and disappointment so thick in my body that it escapes involuntarily. What the fuck am I doing? I’m shocked by my own stupidity, and his too, but mostly my own. ‘You are—nope. This isn’t gonna happen again,’ I say, shaking my head.

  ‘What? Why not?’ He seems genuinely surprised.

  ‘’Cause you have a Southern Cross tattoo,’ I spit and walk out the door.

  ‘What?’ I hear him mumble, but I’ve already grabbed my bag and am slamming his door shut. I march onto the street, weirdly electric, sad and confused. What a fucking idiot. I don’t know whether I mean Ben or me. Maybe both of us. I walk down to the main street as a cab drives past. I hail it and jump straight in.

  I have always been somewhat surprised that people like me. Like that. That people want to have sex with me, are attracted to me. I don’t feel likeable in that way. I have a list, a long list, of the things that I think are wrong with me, and with my body. Why did I just do that? Because it was nice to be wanted. Joan and I were together for so long that a lot of my insecurities got hidden away, in the comfort of a long-term relationship. I thought I’d dealt with it. Changed. Grown up. But turns out I was wrong. Because no one is ever gonna like you again, let alone love you. Joan was a fluke and you fucked that up. You don’t get a chance like that again, Noni. It’s done. You’re going to be alone forever. You’re too fat. Too plain. So, take it while you can get it. You should message Ben and apologise. How dare you leave. How rude. How entitled. You’re lucky he wanted to fuck you. You’re not exciting at all. What’s so special about you? You’re entirely unlikeable. Unfuckable.

  I think I am unfuckable. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. I know these thoughts are stupid, and I’ve done enough therapy to know all about my inner critic. But fuck, it’s brutal. My eyes well.

  ‘You good, love?’ the taxi driver asks, staring at me in the rear-view mirror. I nod. I feel stupid for thinking I could go through with this plan. It’s just not me. What was any of this going to prove? What did I really think was going to happen? It was just one of those Friday night wine ideas that should’ve been thrown in the bin along with the empty bottles. Past Noni didn’t have sex with Ben because, clearly, he’s an asshole. It didn’t happen because it wasn’t meant to happen. I feel like an idiot for thinking diving into my past would change anything about the present.

  I go straight home and stand in the shower, feeling exposed and woozy from the alcohol and the revelations. I’m disappointed. When I left the house I’d felt nervous and excited, like things could change. Like I could be differen
t. Like I could act on whims and be a sexy woman. But I haven’t changed at all. I sit on the floor of the shower and let the water run down my spine, my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. I can’t believe I let that happen.

  I wrap myself in a towel, and glance at my phone. There’s a message from Lindell.

  So? it says.

  I reply quickly. He’s a dickhead. I’m a dickhead. Plan is in the bin. It was a dumb idea. Sorry.

  Sorry? Why are you sorry? Are you okay?

  I lie on my bed. Am I okay? Yeah. I feel disappointed and embarrassed and stupid. But I’m okay. Yes, I reply. I don’t want to explain to Lindell what happened, not yet. I already know what he’ll say. He’ll tell me I’m amazing, and that I should’ve followed my instincts, and then he’ll talk long and pointedly with linguistic flair about what a giant fucking idiot Ben is. I already know all of this, so I don’t need him to tell me. I just want to wallow for a little bit.

  Just disappointed. My life is destined to be boring and predictable, I text. Oh, and sexless.

  It’s probably true, because I’m never doing that again. I’m not going to put myself in that situation again. The three little dots appear, and then disappear, and then appear again. I wait for a long Lindell lecture.

  If you’re unhappy with your boring, predictable, sexless life then do something about it, is all he says.