Thwack.
A sharp sting cracks across my face.I jerk sideways, hand flying to my cheek.One of the tights has snapped loose and, in its final act of betrayal, slapped me across the face, leaving my eyes watering.
‘Oh fuck!’Mr Would-You-Tie-Me-Up sits up, his face torn in anguish as he wrestles with the fact that he’s climaxing while I’m frozen, having been assaulted by my own activewear.When his breaths even out, he tries to pull my hand away from my face.‘Hey?Are you okay?’He tries to swallow a laugh, but it leaks out anyway, bubbling like champagne gone flat.
I lower my hand and try to blink back the stray tears, mulling over my life choices.
TWO
‘Get fucked.’
The man waiting for his takeaway coffee throws a scandalised glare at Abbey, who’s perched outside One Fine Cup like she owns the entire footpath.She’s leaning against the whitewashed wall of the café, legs stretched out in front of her, short black hair tucked neatly behind both ears as she takes a sip of her iced latte.Her expression is a blend of disbelief and second-hand horror as I rehash last night’s saga with Mr Lululemon.
‘Wait – did you even finish?’she asks.
‘No.’I sigh into my flat white.‘He bailed right after getting me an ice pack from the freezer.’I tilt my chin and gesture to the faint pink bruise blossoming under my right eye.Not life-threatening, but visible.‘Fabric didn’t break the skin, so it earns a nine out of ten.Super comfy, great stretch.Would not recommend for bondage unless you’re into surprise slapstick.’
Abbey’s wide brown eyes squint at the mark.‘Such a shame.Wasn’t this the one you said looked like a young Hugh Grant?’
I nod, caffeine-deprived and morally defeated.‘Sometimes I want a guy who’s into regular, no-frills, still incredibly satisfying vanilla sex.Is that too much to ask?’
‘Ah.’Abbey hums knowingly.‘You’re in search of the elusive dependable dick.’
There’s an offended scoff from behind us.I glance over to find the same man – mid-sixties, salmon-coloured boat shoes,The Australiantucked under one arm – now frowning as though we’re personally responsible for the death of polite society.
Abbey doesn’t even blink.‘Not to be confused with limp dick.That’s a cousin.But only by marriage.A dick-in-law, if you will.’
I smile.‘Naturally.’
‘I mean,’ she says, slurping the last of her drink, ‘what’s not to love?’She holds up her fingers, ticking them off.‘Consistent.’
I nod.‘We love a scheduled king.’
‘Gets the job done.’
Another nod.
‘Spends more than two seconds on foreplay.’
The man is full-on staring now.To him, we may as well have walked into the café and yelled ‘Anal beads!’for sport.
Abbey continues, oblivious.‘Knows where the clit is and what to do with it.’She glances up.‘I’d argue that part is critical.’
The barista calls out for a strong short black.Nothing happens.Salmon Shoes is too busy looking appalled.
‘And finally,’ Abbey says, holding up one last finger, ‘can multitask.’
The barista tries again, louder this time.The man finally jolts into action, snatches the coffee and hurries off in a flurry of moral panic.But not before throwing me and Abbey one last look – the kind that blames us for the Australia Day debate and why his son came out as non-binary last week.
I sip my flat white and place it gently on our makeshift table – an overturned milk crate with a sheet of plywood balanced on top.Like I said, I live in the broké part of town.
‘Seriously, where are these men?Or am I destined to be dead andburied under a pile of Friday night Tinder dates and half-priced cocktails?’
Abbey snorts.‘I told you.They’re elusive in the way that unicorns – or a tampon ad that doesn’t involve women in white jeans riding horses – are elusive.’
I groan.‘Actually, I’m pretty sure the last one I found was that influencer guy from Avalon.’
Abbey snaps her fingers.‘Yes!The one who said, “My parents live in Avalon, but I live in the moment.”’
