Brian wasn’t much of a man for computers. It wasn’t that he couldn’t see their usefulness. In times of loneliness or overdue assignments they could be quite helpful. But in the list of priorities he kept pinned to the insides of his eyelids
spend time with computers
did not figure.
Women
did, and
drinking
, and
maintaining
popularity amongst my peers
, and although he rarely admitted it (except when under the influence of one of the other three) he was rather partial to
cooking
too.
Computers had a place in his life, but not a big place. He e-mailed regularly, understood that www. delicious.com was a European cooking site, and
www.deliciouxxx.com
was not, and on occasion used the machine in his little brother’s room to release his inner geek, but that was as far as it went. Never, not even once, had Brian entertained the thought that a computer might change his life. And then it did.
Local
was the word that first caught his eye as he scrolled down his Hotmail inbox, sorting the substance from the spam. Then
Sex
. Then
Free
. There were any number of other messages that might have called him; promises of increased size, greater staying power, thicker hair or easier access to credit, but they were too slick, too automatic, too carefully translated from the original Eastern European dialect to lodge in his brain. Measured against them, the simple modesty of this message screamed out to him. No desperate capitals, no exclamation marks, no promises—just the everyday language his mother might have used, though mercifully the phone number offered was not hers.
Hi, I’m Eileen, and I’m offering free, local
sex. Click me, please.
Brian clicked.
I’m interested in making you happy. Call this
number for a free trial, and if we get along,
well who knows?
Local was important. Local was no awkward Ghanaian call code on the next phone bill. Local was no accent, no barrier to imagination. Local was a girl-next-door fantasy just waiting to be indulged.
Brian dialled.
‘Hello.’ The voice was young and innocent, or that of a fifty-three-year-old with an acting background, saving to take her recently laid off husband for a surprise trip to the Gold Coast. The tingle of the illicit teased his deeper instincts as he leaned back against the bed head and wriggled the phone to a more comfortable position.
‘Yeah, hi, I’m Kieren. I saw your ad on the internet.’
‘Hello, Kieren. What can I do for you?’
‘Well, ah, what are ya wearing?’ It seemed as good a place as any to start. There was a certain ice to be broken first, that was only natural. ‘This isn’t costing me is it?’
‘Only for the call.’
‘Right.’
‘You sound strong to me,’ the sweet voice of commerce continued. ‘I like strong men. Do you have strong hands?’
‘Well yeah, you know. Do some weights and that.’
‘Strong gentle hands I bet.’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
Although to be honest it wasn’t a place Brian was all that comfortable going. This wasn’t about him. This was the sort of experience best enjoyed with the mind and body disconnected. A professional should have known that.
‘Just tell me what you’re wearing.’
‘What would you like me to be wearing, Kieren?’ The voice lowered a touch, as if the pimp at the controls had hit ‘seductive’ on the voice synthesiser.
‘Just tell me.’
‘Well I’m sitting on my bed, and I’m wearing a tank top, without a bra, um it’s white, and it matches my panties. Is this good Kieren?’
Yes was the answer to that question, and No was too, for without warning Brian found himself caught in the grip of the strangest feeling. As much as he tried to access that portion of his mind where the impossible could be believed and the morally untenable happily embraced, somehow it eluded him. And that was strange enough in itself, for it took up a not inconsiderable fraction of his brain, and the neurological pathways leading there were well established.
But there was more. Something in that voice, its closeness, its familiarity, drew his eye down his pathway, past his stained wood letterbox to the suburbs beyond, where surely she now sat, mobile to her ear, financial desperation set down beside her. It wasn’t guilt Brian felt when he thought of her, or even sympathy.
‘Is this good Kieren?’
Leave me out of this
, he wanted to say.
You do
your job, I’ll do mine. If I wanted to chat I’d have
rung Youthline.
‘Yes, yes it’s good.’ Brian was having real doubts now. He had broken the first rule of fantasy. She was real to him, and how could that possibly work? How could he be excited by someone who was real?
‘You sound excited Kieren,’ the terrible, somehow familiar voice continued; and that was so obviously untrue Brian could barely keep the mobile to his ear. A weaker man might have admitted defeat, but Brian came from stronger stock than that.
Never start a job you’re not prepared to finish,
as his good dad said (when it suited him) and dammit, Dad was right. What’s more, hanging up meant letting go of the voice on the other end, and the sorry truth was, it had a hold on him.
So Brian closed his eyes and tried hard to concentrate. What was that she was saying now? Was that a television he could hear in the background?
‘I’m taking my top off now, Kieren. Can you hear that?’
He could, and he could imagine it too, but it didn’t make him feel excited at all, not the way he would have liked. It made him feel distant, and, in the strangest way imaginable, dirty.
‘Um, yes, wait, just wait a sec,’ Brian pleaded, knowing how pathetic he must sound but seeing no other option.
‘Is there something wrong?’
‘I’m just, I’m just not ready. Say something else.’
‘What?’
‘Something that hasn’t got anything to do with sex. Just tell me something about yourself. Tell me what you like. Tell me about your hobbies.’
‘I don’t think I should do that,’ the voice replied, after the shortest of hesitations.
‘Why not?’
‘That’s not really how it works. That would be dangerous.’
‘You can trust me.’
‘No I can’t. I bet you haven’t even told me your real name.’
‘I will, if you agree to meet me.’ He didn’t know why he had said that. Something was driving him on, something he didn’t understand.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t do that. Come on, let’s just forget about it and go back to talking dirty.’
‘I’ll pay,’ Brian tried.
‘Look, I think it’s best I hang up now,’ the voice told him.
‘No, don’t—’ but Brian’s plea was interrupted by a second voice on the other end of the phone, somewhere in the background.
‘Juliet? What are you doing?’
‘I’m on the phone.’
‘Yes, but you said you’d—’
‘Sorry.’
The phone went dead, and a very startled Brian tried to make sense of the swirling confusion inside his head. That voice, that other voice, he recognised it, but where from? He frantically searched his brain. The answer came to him with a thud, the sort of shock that could send nascent love and uncertain excitement hurrying back down the same black hole where earlier arousal had retreated.
But as he lay there, the phone still in his hand, his heartbeat easing back to a canter, a new and dreadful truth dawned upon him. Juliet. He had a name now, and more. Juliet-friend-of-Malcolm. Malcolm, that little prick from the party, with his smartarse questions and perverted research. How hard could it be to track her down? The excitement of that thought now took hold of Brian’s brain, in the remarkable absence of the obvious question. Why? Why would he want to?
And the reason the question wasn’t asked was the reason so many queries go unproposed. Brian, although he was in no position to recognise the condition, was in the grip of the first stage of that thing we call love. A whole new form of attraction. Deep, unseen, disturbing. At that very moment the reverberations began, harmonising from cell to cell, sending their message of love unseen through the blood, stiffening the sinews and clouding the brain. And Brian was defenceless against the invasion. All he could do was be aware of the strange new thoughts floating through his head. Maybe this had been a lucky break.
Malcolm didn’t believe in luck. He preferred to believe in Mathematics. With Mathematics it was a fairly simple matter to show that life’s cosmic coincidences, rather than being shaped by strange and mystical undercurrents, were in fact the simple and inevitable consequence of random pattern generation. In a world of over six billion people, the day when some of them weren’t winning lotteries, seeing visions, or having premonitions, that would be the day to look for a divine explanation.
So when Charlotte rang out of the blue and explained (rather awkwardly Malcolm thought, for such an attractive woman) she would like to contribute to his research, he did not thank the gods for their intervention. Rather he accepted it as just one of those things that had to happen somewhere, at some time, to somebody; and he did so with a satisfied shrug and the faint stirring of an erection.
Not believing in luck meant more than just meeting the unexpected with a knowing smile. It meant being prepared; because if luck wasn’t going to do it for you, you had to look after yourself. So Malcolm bathed twice, then showered for good measure. He shaved, although it was barely necessary, sprayed deodorant, put on his very best clothes, which he had spent fifteen minutes ironing, then gave a further half hour to the biggest decision of all: whether to conduct the interview in the bedroom or the lounge. (The bedroom, with its superior acoustics, eventually won through.)
Finally he nipped down to the supermarket and bought himself a 12-pack of spermicide reinforced condoms, two of which he put in his back pocket. Not that he was expecting sex immediately; he would be more than happy with a good interview and an initial canvassing of the subject. In fact, truth be known, any instant request for performance would quite unsettle him, for the sorry fact was that despite all his research to date he was no closer to knowing how to do it. That is to say, he couldn’t be certain (in the exact technical way he liked to be certain) which acts he would be expected to carry out, for how long or in which order. He had downloaded some porn in an attempt to clarify matters but it had been of no more use than footage of a Formula One car race would be of use to someone wishing to learn to drive.
Charlotte arrived early, dressed all in black. Boots, pants beneath some petticoat type thing, crop top, beret and a jacket it was far too warm for.
‘Ah, hi,’ Malcolm started, cursing the stammer he heard in his voice. ‘Um, there’s no one home. Mum’s on night shift, she’s a nurse, and my sister’s at university now.’
He had no idea why he said any of that, and now he was having to consciously drag his eyes up to her face as he spoke. God, this was awful.
‘Um, my bedroom’s this way.’
And now it was worse. For whatever reason, she smiled and said nothing, and even followed as he led her upstairs. He was determined to say nothing more. Then Charlotte matched Malcolm silent pause for silent pause while he showed her where to stand and pretended to busy himself checking the camera set-up. It was as if they were training together for a mime competition. Flooding his mind with technical details, Malcolm found it was just possible to relax.
‘Do you want me to speak directly to the camera?’ Charlotte eventually asked. ‘You know, as if I am addressing the audience, or were you thinking of something more oblique and voyeuristic?’
It was a good question, a clever question, and the possibilities of her intellect made Malcolm’s mouth go dry.
‘Um, straight at the camera please, so a passerby would be forced to stop and listen. Don’t so much talk to them as drag them in. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Oh yes,’ Charlotte replied, with a sudden intensity that only made Malcolm more nervous.
‘Well then, as you know,’ he stammered, breathing deeply in the hope of slowing himself down, but achieving only a new level of light-headedness. ‘I’m mostly interested in finding out about people’s first sexual experiences, so, ah, fire away.’
‘Right, well the thing is I haven’t actually had sex yet, but I know exactly how I want it to be. Would that be useful?’
‘Absolutely.’ And Malcolm nodded so vigorously it hurt.
‘Okay, it happens like this. It’s midsummer, late January, at the hut my family have in the Marlborough Sounds. I’m staying there, with my best friend Mandy, but she’s had to go back early so it’s just me, and the birds and the bush, the beautiful clear water and the setting sun.
‘The hut is at the head of its own private inlet and when I walk down to the water I notice a yacht has come in and moored twenty metres from shore. It’s perfectly still, so the water’s inky and the boat’s reflection reaches across the water.
‘It’s cooler now but I’ve been lying out all afternoon and my skin is still warm with the memory of sun. I’m wearing a bikini, black, new for Christmas, and I wade out into the water. There’s nothing more peaceful than an evening swim, hearing the water break at the surface, feeling it fold back around your body as you move.
‘At first I don’t even see him. The boat is just something to swim to. But then he’s there, right in front of me, sitting on the deck in the day’s last rays, reading a book, an unopened bottle of wine by his side. There’s music too, soft enough that I have to swim right up to the boat to work out what it is. He notices me, and says “hi” before I do. Then he smiles, and it’s the smile that does it.
‘I climb up on board without being asked and he offers me some wine. We sit there together and my skin is dry before the sun disappears. We don’t talk about any of the things strangers talk about, not what our names are or what we’re doing there. Instead he tells me about the book he’s reading and I tell him it was better as a movie.
‘Then somehow the air between us has been pushed aside. Our skin is touching and then he is kissing me. From there on it’s a blur, like being underwater without having to hold your breath. He knows exactly what I want, even before I do, so there’s no leading and no following, just like there’s no beginning and no end. And the most wonderful part of all is the feeling of absolute freedom, out on the deck, alone on the bay, in a moment when the whole world has chosen to look away.