Eat Me (24 page)

‘And what are you two talking about?' Camilla laughed as she moored her bag on the back of a third chair and, shuffling off her own coat, settled elegantly into the seat, each long slender limb automatically finding its most aesthetically appropriate position. ‘Before I forget, copies of the latest issue for you both.' She hauled out two copies of
Pose
out of her bag and handed them over.

‘Cool,' Jody cooed, flipping through the pages. She stopped at one and, screwing up her face in an expression of disgust, pointed at one of the pictures. ‘I can't believe that style's coming back in! God, I was so pleased to see it go the last time.'

‘Never mind,' Camilla shrugged. ‘It'll be gone by the next season. And then a year or two later, if I know you, you'll be scouring the op shops for one.'

‘I'm not that much of a fashion victim, am I?' Jody looked horrified.

Camilla cocked one perfectly tweezed eyebrow and gave Jody's outfit the once over. ‘I don't know, darling. You tell me.'

‘Takes one to know one,' Jody replied, giving Camilla's new blonde crew-cut the once-over.

They were still laughing when the waiter set their coffees in front of them. ‘I'm really a musician, you know,' he explained unprompted to Jody, lowering heavy eyelids over black bedroom eyes and rolling his ‘r's on ‘really'. Jody smiled wanly at him.

‘I wish he hadn't said that,' she whispered when he retreated to the counter. ‘I mean, you can fantasise about them being artists or whatever, but they shouldn't just tell you like that. Spoils the mystery.'

‘Speaking of mysteries.' Ellen tapped her copy of
Eat Me
, which she'd placed on the table, and which they'd all managed to avoid eyeballing up until then.

The others pulled faces. ‘How could she have done that to us?' Jody moaned. ‘I mean, really, it's not like she even made much of an attempt to disguise our identities.'

‘The disguise is so thin,' Camilla concurred, ‘it could be Kate Moss.'

‘Hold on a tick,' Ellen cautioned. ‘Are we absolutely sure it was her? After all, she tells us she's still looking for a publisher. And the name on the book is Dick Pulse, not Philippa Berry. The biographical note reveals almost nothing, just that he's a Sydney writer.'

‘Yes, but, isn't it pretty obvious?' Jody protested. ‘Tell me you don't see yourself in Helen. And us in Julia and Chantal. And, of course, there's Pippa herself, totally cognito. Anyway, if you hadn't been disturbed by all these ‘coincidences' too, we wouldn't be sitting here.'

‘Absolutely true. But let's think about it. Would Philippa represent me as that confused, ideologically speaking? I mean, I don't feel that confused. I don't think I come off as that confused to others. Personally, I don't see any contradiction between being a feminist and a sentient human being, full of irrational and unpredictable desires and whims. But then again, maybe that's why I teach literature, not women's studies as such. And I've certainly never deflowered a student. Mike, who had orange, not green pigtails, turned out to be gay, remember? I'm Jewish, not Catholic. And,' Ellen sounded a bit huffy now, ‘I never, ever wear beige.'

‘And I'm a vegetarian. I would never eat duck,' Jody pouted. ‘What really gets me, though is that Josh, “Jake”, whatever his name is, slept with Philippa too.'

‘Jody, darling, didn't I warn you that slacker gigolo was bad news?' Camilla shook her head. ‘What I can't work out is, how did she know about my jumping up and down in my office when I got the promotion? I'm sure no one saw. How embarrassing. Not to mention dragging that miserable Trent skeleton out of the closet. I thought I'd exorcised him from my life around the same time I chucked out all those goth togs. And I don't think Jonathan would have been highly amused by Trent/Bram lizarding across our bed to perform the technicolour yawn. Bloody hell. Where does she get these tawdry ideas?'

‘That's just it! ‘ cried Ellen. ‘I don't think it was Philippa. Look, you know her writing teacher, Richard?'

‘Do you think she really did it with him on her ergonomic stool?' Jody giggled.

‘Maybe,' Camilla said. ‘Maybe not. But I think I see what Ellen's getting at. Perhaps, darling, Pippa's been pipped to the post.'

‘What?' Jody didn't get it.

‘Consider the facts,' Camilla said. ‘As far as we know, he's the only one who's seen the whole manuscript, right?'

‘Yeah, but...' Jody demurred.

‘But what?' Ellen cut in. ‘He's supposed to be writing women's erotica too, remember? Philippa told us that ages ago.'

‘Chapter Nine to be specific,' Camilla nodded. ‘I mean, in fictional terms.'

‘So, don't you get it?' Ellen pushed on. ‘Philippa wasn't letting us see any more of the manuscript possibly because she was so obviously basing so much of it on us. To give her the benefit of a doubt, let's assume she was going to rework the material as she went, making it more fictional. But she was also showing her early drafts to Richard, who basically just ripped off the material, and elaborated on it. Dick Pulse—Richard. Get it? She was feeding off our experiences, and he was feeding off her writing. “Eat me”, indeed! Isn't it as plain as day?'

‘Do you think Philippa has seen it yet?' Jody wondered. ‘If your theory is right, and she's been ripped off that badly, she should be spitting snakes.'

‘The other thing, of course, is that it's just a little, uh, tame, don't you think?' Camilla poked the tip of her tsurros into her latte and then fellated the long pastry for Jody and Ellen's benefit. The Spanish waiter immediately shifted the focus of his attention from Jody to Camilla.

‘Yes, Madonna,' giggled Ellen. ‘Seriously. Maybe that's our fault. Philippa should find some friends with raging sex lives if she's going to get most of her material from them. My sex life is totally Australian—long periods of severe drought followed by flash floods.'

‘And I've been with Jonathan for two years now. All very predictable, really. Nothing much to draw from me.'

Jody laughed. ‘Well, at least I'm keeping up my end of things. She—he—Dick Pulse got that right. I do wish, however, that I didn't have such an unerring instinct for finding the wombats among men.'

‘Wombats?' Ellen looked puzzled.

‘Yeah, you know, the kind that eats roots and leaves.'

‘Old joke,' commented Camilla. ‘And,' she added kindly, ‘just as fresh as the day it was born. But to get back to what I was saying about it all being, well, rather weak. Like take the scene where Helen deflowers Marc. If I were going to write a deflowering fantasy, it would have to be a bit more out there.'

‘Definitely,' Jody concurred.

‘Like what?' asked Ellen curiously.

‘Oh, say,' Camilla inhaled and blew a smoke ring as she pondered the issue, ‘I'd do all three of the boys in that really young rock group Tinstool—all at once and on stage.'

‘You think they're virgins? Can someone really be a rock star and a virgin in this day and age?' Ellen sounded incredulous.

‘Assuming. They're only fourteen or something. But you see my point, though, don't you?'

‘I suppose so,' Ellen considered. ‘But what sort of sexual fantasies were you thinking of, Jody?'

‘Here's one of my favourites,' Jody offered. ‘You travel to the American West. You're someplace where they've still got cowboys. You're on a horse—horses are so sexy, and this is the sexiest one of all, a big creamy palomino called, oh, Shilo or something—and you're galloping over the proverbial plain.'

‘I hope you're not wearing an equestrian helmet, darling,' Camilla interjected. ‘I know it's dangerous but your hair should be flowing free.'

‘Of course,' Jody reassured her. ‘You don't have to wear helmets in fantasies.'

‘Yes,' Ellen agreed. ‘That's exactly why they're so wonderful. No one gets hurt. But we're interrupting. Do go on.'

‘You're in moleskins and you've got a red-checked shirt on with a cute little bandanna around your neck. In the distance, over by some amazing rock formations like the ones in
Thelma and Louise
, you spot him. At first, all you see is a cloud of dust, and you hear the pounding of hooves, and before you know it, this man is galloping right next to you on a huge Appaloosa. Even at this speed, you can see that he's got cheekbones to die for. He looks like one of those models in that issue of
Vogue for Men
when they did that special on the cowboy look. You know, designer stubble, piercing baby blues, tousled hair, square shoulders, leather chaps, nothing but a g-string underneath.'

‘Ouch,' said Ellen. ‘Isn't he going to get saddle-sore?'

‘Ellen, didn't you just say no one gets hurt in fantasies? He's bare-arsed, and that's that. Anyway, he leans over and says, “Goin' my way?” and you say, “Sure thing, cowboy. Show me your way.”'

‘You are such a tart, darling,' Camilla said admiringly.

‘So he lifts his cowboy hat into the air, goes “Yee-ha!” and leads you and Shilo, at a full gallop, to this gorgeous little sheltered watering hole. You dismount and ground-tie the horses. You feed and brush them down while he builds a fire. Shilo gently nuzzles your neck, licking off the sweat, and his horse, whose name is Buck (“so that he don't”), snuffles your arse and fanny. The smell of the carrot sticks that you keep there as a special treat is driving him wild.'

‘This reminds me,' interrupted Camilla, ‘of my favourite line from
The Sound of Music
.'

‘Which is that?' asked Ellen.

‘You know, close to the beginning, when Sister Maria has gone off to sing that the hills are alive etcetera and the other nuns are looking all over for her. One asks, “Have you tried the barn? You know how much she adores the animals.”'

Jody, who'd taken advantage of the break to sip at her coffee, spluttered with laughter. Wiping her mouth with a tissue proffered by Ellen, she continued. ‘You kiss both of the horses on their soft lips and bury your face in Shilo's thick mane, breathing in the sweet grassy smell of his sweaty neck before joining Buck—that's the cowboy's name too (“cuz I do”)—round the fire. The sun is setting in a rather spectacular manner. As he shifts closer to you, he suddenly jumps up, jutting his firm round buttocks out in your direction and twisting his head round to look down at them.

‘“Doggone nettles,” he says.'

‘I thought no one got hurt?' Ellen objected.

Jody ignored her. ‘“I'll get that,” you say. “Kneel, cowboy.” He does. You lean over, running your hands over the warm, firm, hairless flesh. You kiss each cheek. His arse smells enticingly like saddle leather. You pull out the nettle with your teeth. Your fingers, meanwhile, have worked their way under the strap of the g-string and are pulling it down. His cute little pucker-kiss of an arsehole comes into view, looking for all the world like it's just there for your delectation. You extend your tongue and lick the sweet, tangy little entrance. He groans. Moving your attention down to his balls, which are gigantic (you can't see the rest of his riding tackle yet, but you've got all night, and the next few weeks if necessary), you fondle them and then take the whole saddlebag into your mouth to suck on the balls one at a time. He has come down on all fours by now, and spread his legs apart in the prairie grass, that pert arse pointed high into the clear starry sky.

‘You ease him out of his shirt, so that he's only wearing his chaps, his hat and his boots. You wrangle off your own clothes, till you're dressed just in your boots and bandanna. Reaching for your crop, you straddle his muscular back, which he arches up underneath you. You slide your wet pussy up and down his withers. He arches his neck like a stallion, and you suddenly let the crop down on his rump. He bucks like his name, but you cling on to his mane and it's rodeo time until, exhausted and laughing, he rolls you over underneath him and starts lapping like a thirsty steed at your trough and rubbing your nipples with the flat of his hands like a farrier filing a hoof. By now, of course, you've noticed that he's hung like a—need I say it?'

‘Oh, say it, Jody, say it for us,' cooed Camilla. ‘C'mon darling.'

Jody laughed. ‘Like a HORSE. Satisfied?'

‘I would be,' purred Camilla. ‘Under those circumstances.'

‘Now, where were we? Ah yes, he's moved round so that he's kneeling over your head and his pulsing percy is dangling over your mouth like a pink carrot. You stick your tongue straight up and lick it. You can't really concentrate on giving him good head, though, because he's gentling you right to the edge with his tongue and his fingers and you resolve to make it up to him next round. But you like to have it dangling there, its raw meaty smell, mixed with the horsy, sweaty smell of both your bodies, filling your nostrils. You come suddenly with a shudder and a moan and you feel yourself flooding into his mouth.'

The two men at the next table had given up all pretence of conversation. They couldn't have stood up to leave if they'd wanted to, of course. They were, you might say, inconvenienced.

‘He sucks at you greedily, and keeps you coming till you're begging for mercy. Then he positions himself over you, pulls your legs over his shoulders and asks, “Ready to go for a ride with Buck?” Once you're in the saddle he starts out at a walk, and you're really into the easy, swinging gait of it when he switches to a trot, and that's getting a little exciting, so you're rising in rhythm with his flanks, and you press your legs into his sides and he breaks into a canter, thrusting with a long ONE and short two three, ONE two three, ONE two three, and you're loping along with the wind in your hair and then you urge him into a hand gallop and finally, you're both going flat out. He's bolting now, out of control, and you're into it. You see the fence at the same time and with a great leap, you're over it together, and he's screaming “Wooo-yi” and you're just screaming and when you come too, panting, you're amazed to discover that somehow, you've ended up side saddle and you've lost a boot somewhere along the way. “Oh, cowboy,” you sigh.'