The Bad Girls' Club (9 page)

I thought about the girl in the shop. She hadn
’t laughed when I tried on the skirt. She’d worn heaps of eyeliner and it looked damn good on her too. Maybe the problem wasn’t me. Maybe it was Beth who had the problem. I needed another opinion.

‘
Do you think I look stupid?’ I asked Imogen.

She looked at me, her head on the side, for a moment.
‘Not stupid, but I don’t think it’s you. If you were like some way out goth chick then sure, but you need something more Juliette – light and perky and sweet.’

I scrunched up my face on the way to the toilets. Sweet Juliette. Perky Juliette. Blah. What about badass, butt-kicking, cussing and drinking Juliette? I kicked a table as I walked passed and wished the girl from the shop was in our club. I bet she was a real bad girl.

When I came back out, all freshly scrubbed, Beth grinned at me. I smiled back at her, but she hadn’t won. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask Beth about the fringe issue.

‘
Doesn’t that feel nicer? So, what did everyone think of the makeover?’

‘
Mum loved it. She thinks you’re a genius and wanted to know if you’d do something with her hair too.’

‘
And your boyfriend?’

‘
Oh, he didn’t notice.’

‘
You’re kidding? Is he blind?’

‘
Craig’s like that.’ I shrugged. Craig could be hard to explain to people who weren’t used to him.

‘
Dump him. Get yourself someone who does notice.’

I laughed. Yeah, like I
’d dump Craig. Imogen came back from the bar with a round of drinks.

‘
So, anyway, what’s Beth’s dare?’ I asked her. ‘Have you thought of anything?’

Imogen sat the drinks down on the table then winked at me.

‘Yeah, I’ve thought of something. It’s a bit tame though. I think Beth needs to buy a vibrator.’

Beth shrieked and slapped Imogen on the arm.
‘As if. That’s gross.’

Imogen and I exchanged a look.

‘You are
so
not a bad girl, Beth. Firstly, you get majorly stressed when Jules wears heavy makeup and now you freak out because you have to buy an itty bitty vibrator.’

‘
I am so.’ She screwed up her face in thought. ‘I’ve done heaps of bad stuff. I’ve had a Brazilian wax and I’ve stolen a lipstick and, one time, I gave a guy head in the back of a cab.’

Imogen slid into the booth.

‘Well, buying a vibrator should be a piece o’ cake for you then.’

Beth shook her head.

‘Come on,’ said Imogen. ‘I’ve done it heaps of times.’

Beth looked at her, questioningly.
‘So, how many…’

‘
Not for myself. For gag gifts and hen’s nights. It’s no biggie. Just go into any old sex shop and get yourself one. After all, you reckon you’re the queen of shopping. It’s just like buying a pair of shoes.’ She thought for a minute. ‘Except don’t try it on for size in the store. They frown on that.’

Beth nodded.
‘OK, I’ll do it.’ She seemed to give in a little too easily. There had to be a catch. And I thought I knew what that catch was.

‘
We want the receipt,’ I told her. ‘It’s got to be from an honest to God sex shop, not from the internet. You have to have face to face, eye to eye contact.’

Beth sighed.
‘Damn you.’

I
’d had the week from hell at work. My boss, Bob, had gone ga-ga, and I think they’d shipped him off to some kind of rest home, so everyone decided it was OK to slack off. Like we don’t still have deadlines. Naturally, I ended up doing
everything
.

All I wanted was an early night. I
’d been craving that magical moment when my head hit the pillow but, as soon as I crawled into bed, the phone rang.

It was Imogen.

‘You done it?’ she asked. ‘You got the vibrator?’

‘
Of course.’ Well, it wasn’t totally a lie. I’d thought about it. I’d almost done it. I was planning to do it. Tomorrow.

‘
Goodo. So, you don’t mind if we move the meeting forward to tomorrow then?’

Shit. Damn.
‘I guess not.’

‘
You
have
bought it, haven’t you?’

‘
Yeah, of course. I said I did, didn’t I? Anyway, how’s the scratch healing?’

‘
Oh, it’s almost gone.’

After she hung up, I tried to get back to sleep but ended up staring at the ceiling. Stupid dare. I hugged my pillow. I
’d do it at lunchtime.

Five minutes later, I jumped out of bed and pulled on my clothes. I couldn
’t take that
thing
back to the office after lunch. And what if someone saw me? I’d do it now. I needed to get milk anyway.

I drove to the shopping strip and parked out front of the shop, lurid neon beaming into my car – hopefully not bright enough for anyone to recognise me. The street looked quiet but, the minute I got out of the car, you could bet everyone I
’ve ever known since kindergarten would have some legitimate excuse for shopping in Cromwell Street at 9.30 at night.

All I had to do was get out of the car and dash into the shop. Too easy. Just get out of the car. I opened the door and eased myself out. I walked to the shop. I walked past the shop. I kept on walking right into the 7-Eleven. Well, I did need milk.

I could do it. I could walk in there. But first I had to get rid of the milk. You can’t go into a sex shop with milk, can you? That would look really weird and kinky.

I took a deep breath. The sooner I did this, the sooner I could get back to bed.

I pushed through the black louvre doors and stepped inside the store. It was easier than I imagined. No screaming alarms declaring my presence in the world of sleaze. No filthy old men in trench coats ready to sell me into the white slave trade. No sex shop police on the hotline to my mother.

I took another step and a buzzer shrieked. I jumped. It was only the door. A guy in a grease-stained singlet sat behind the counter flicking ash on the floor as he flipped through a magazine. God, I wish I
’d been more organised. I could have gone somewhere upmarket instead of this den of sleaze. He just sneered at me anyway. Sneered at me as if he thought I wasn’t going to buy anything. Like I was some uptight little prude here on a dare. I’d show him.

The inside of the store was so brightly lit. You would think they could have some mood lighting, for God sake. The florescent lights made it about as sexy as a pap smear. And it smelt like a weird mix of cheap plastic and dirty sex. Imagine the Barbie Dream House, post-Barbie-and-Ken-and-Skipper-and-GI Joe-orgy, that
’s kind of what it smelt like but with an underlying odour of corn chips.

I looked cautiously around. Just some shelves with boxes and a rack of magazines and – ick – do people really do that?
Hardcore Sandwich Sluts
. Seriously, two at once! If my butt were that big, I’d lay off the sandwiches, and definitely wouldn’t be displaying it on the cover of a magazine.

They had quite a display of rubber dolls. Oh my God. They were disgusting. Big, gaping, red-ringed mouths. Piggy doll eyes covered in bright blue eye shadow and nylon yellow hair. You
’d think they could make them look less slutty.

I found the vibrators displayed on the back wall. Who knew they made so many models? What was the difference anyway? I didn
’t know what I wanted. Well, I did. I wanted to get the hell out of there.

The first lot were knobbly and bumpy. They looked a bit too hardcore for me. I wasn
’t sure that I liked knobbles and bumps. Then there were the realistic models with veins and balls and stuff. How stupid. As if veins and balls weren’t bad enough in real life.

The next section was in all the colours of the sex toy rainbow. Pity the sex toy rainbow went from bilious to garish. Glitter – now that was classy – and I couldn
’t really see the point of the glow-in-the-dark model.

There was the range that looked like deadly weapons – spiky and grinding. More like torture devices than fun toys. Designed for someone a bit more robust than me, I think.

The Extreme SkankMachine – huge. Enormous. Monstrous. Just as I reached out to take a closer look, the door buzzed. I dropped the box; crash onto the floor.

A guy walked in, scowling at me then dropping his gaze as he passed. I guess eye contact is a big no-no in the sex shop. He went through a door at the back marked
‘Video Lounge’. OK. I wasn’t going to think about that.

The next lot of vibrators were tiny. What was the point? Oh. Clitoral stimulators. I got it. I wondered if they counted as part of the dare or if I had to buy an actual vibrator. There were bees and butterflies and dolphins and bears. Sex toys shaped like animals – that was just wrong. Then there was the Rubber Duckie. Just like a regular bath toy but with batteries. Even weirder. Gave a new meaning to that song though.

These different models were so confusing. I wondered if maybe I’d been looking for too long, like a freaky amount of too long. I needed to get something plain and get out of there.

The door buzzed again but I kept my calm. I peered out the corner of my eyes at the new customer – a scruffy old man mooching around the magazines.

Any of these vibrators would do. I grabbed a yellow one. That’d do. No way, $79.00 – far too much to lay out for a dare. Maybe the black one? Except that came with some scary accessories. Maybe… Damn, damn.

‘
Whatcha doing?’

I jumped around, ready to explain everything, but he was talking to the other guy. That guy sure looked dodgy, hunched over like he was hiding something while his dirty tracky pants drooped down to show a couple of inches of butt crack.

‘What?’ The scruffy vagrant looked up, like a dog being kicked awake from a pleasant nap.

‘
You heard me,’ Mr Singlet-and-Cigarette-Ash said, emphasising his words by poking the glowing end of his cigarette in the air. ‘Put it back or I’ll phone the cops.’

‘
I don’t have nothin’, the vagrant replied but he turned away from the counter.

‘
I saw you. You took something off the shelf. Now put it back. Fuckin’ put it back. Now.’

The vagrant just grunted.
‘Wot? Wot?’

I grabbed the closest vibrator and took it to the counter, avoiding
those
magazines and
those
DVDs and the skanky lingerie in nasty, nasty polyester.

Mr Singlet-and-Cigarette-Ash looked up, his eyes stopping at my tits.
‘Nice beginner’s model,’ he said as I handed him my money. What? Did he think I’d be back for a trade up? I don’t think so. Then he turned back to the vagrant.

‘
OK, I’m getting the cops.’ He pressed a buzzer and sneered at the old man.

Like he couldn
’t give me my goddamn receipt and let me get out of there. I didn’t intend being an eyewitness to a sex toy shoplifting scandal. I tapped on the counter, whispering
hurry u
p under my breath. Then stopped. That wasn’t good. Wasn’t good at all. It looked like I was desperate to get home with that thing.

I snatched my stuff from the guy and ran from the shop but not before seeing the vagrant remove a pair of edible undies from his track pants and replace them on the shelf. In the safety of the car, I checked out what I had bought. The PleasureMaster 2000 – a nice, plain, smooth, beige model. I could deal with that.

Back home, I couldn’t sleep. And no wonder after that trauma. After a while, I thought I’d better check that I actually had the receipt. I could remember slipping it into my wallet but wanted to make certain. Imagine going through all that and not having the receipt.

When I was sure the receipt was safely in my wallet, I picked up the bag with the vibrator to throw it in the bin but decided it could wait until in the morning. I needed to get back to bed. So much for having an early night.

I wondered if they’d kept the edible undies on the shelf. Imagine wearing edible undies that had been down a derro’s pants. But then I couldn’t even imagine wearing edible undies. Ick. What did a derro want with edible undies anyway?

At least in all the excitement, I
’d managed to pick something relatively simple. Not like that Extreme SkankMachine. That was so massive. I really don’t think anyone would use something like that. It had to be a novelty item. I sure as hell couldn’t picture a guy with a dick that big. They’d pass out every time they got an erection.

I tried to picture what he
’d be like. Scruffy and wild, like Dean Winchester.

Imagine if he was down on his luck and had to turn to housebreaking to supplement his income.

Imagine if it was a hot night, one of those sweltering summer nights, so hot that you can’t sleep, so hot you can’t even stand to have a sheet over you.

I
’m naked; it’s far too hot for even the thinnest slip of clothing. The sheet is so crisp and cool beneath me, the lovely olive green Egyptian cotton sheet that cost a small fortune but was so worth it. I could feel the quality, soft against my skin. A breeze blows through the open window.

He slips into my bedroom while I pretend to be asleep and he watches me. I turn and he moves behind the curtains so I can
’t see him, but I know he’s there. I can smell him, musk and pine needles.

I run my hands over my stomach and I hear him move, like he can
’t stay still. I bring my fingers up to my breasts, circling my nipples and he lets out a moan – low and soft.

I spread my legs open wide so he can see, and I run my finger all the way down. But still I ignore him.

A slit of light shines through a gap in the curtains, falling perfectly between my legs, highlighting the growing wetness. I rub my hand over the smooth flesh, prising my lips apart.

I
’d never get to sleep thinking like that. It had been so long since I’d smelt that man scent, nuzzling my face into a chest of muskiness and sweat and sex. I put my arms around a pillow and hugged it tight against me, but that didn’t help. I needed more.

I wondered what the PleasureMaster would feel like. Maybe I should just use the bloody thing and get back to sleep.

I stumbled into the lounge to find that bag. But no, I couldn’t use it. Only desperate women use vibrators. Or those sex fiend types that couldn’t get enough. Nice girls don’t use them. For god’s sake, I had IKEA furniture and all the Jamie Oliver cookbooks. I didn’t use battery-operated sex toys.

But then again... if I was going to own something like that, what was the harm in testing it out? Might as well get my money
’s worth. Just this once. No one need ever know.

I put the batteries in and turned it on. Nothing happened. Dead as a dodo. Dead as a non-vibrating dodo. Damn, that dodgy sex shop had sold me a dud dildo. What the fuck? I was as horny as hell and the frigging vibrator was limper than Jeremy after a night on the piss. How much further could my sex life fall? Rejected by my own vibrator.

I took out the batteries. Maybe they were flat. I checked them and turned them around the other way. I put the top, or was it the bottom, back on and twisted the end.

Suddenly it started whirring and shaking. Fuck. I dropped it like a pair of vinyl shoes. It fell on the floor and whizzed like crazy. It whizzed its way across the floor and under the couch.

I knelt down and fished it out, twisting and banging it to shut it up. That was better. What if the neighbours heard? I hadn’t thought of that. I could never look them in the eye again if they’d heard me vibrating myself. And the damn thing hummed like an industrial jackhammer. I put on a CD to hide the noise. Some Bruno Mars would do nicely.

Back in bed, I turned the PleasureMaster on and felt it pulsate against my hand. After all that, I wasn
’t even sure if I was still in the mood but...

He watches; he
’s in silhouette but I can see his hand reach into his pants, his cock hard, rubbing himself. I know he wants me, he wants me but he can’t touch me. I open my legs wide so he can see it all.

The vibrator slid between my legs easily, the plastic surprisingly cold inside me. Not like a cock and not like a finger, but a cool hardness against my hot flesh.

Pushing the PleasureMaster inside me, I moved it back and forth, arching my hips, so I could still feel the vibrations on my clit. Mmm, not bad. I turned the dial up higher. Yeah, not bad at all.