Heller's Regret

by JD Nixon

  “I’m pretty unforgettable,” he said with shameless immodesty.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you were a virgin, being a man of your . . . er . . . maturity.”

  “I’ve been married six times, and I might as well have been a virgin through four of them. The other two wives were saucy little madams if I do say so, but that’s all in the past. I’m a born again virgin now.”

  “Born again? Really? How interesting.”

  “I’ve heard some of these older broads can be pretty desperate after years of not having the pleasure of an experienced gentleman in their boudoir.”

  I shuddered to myself at the picture this conjured up in my brain. No amount of brain bleach would ever make that go away.

  “Um, I don’t want to criticise, but do you think it’s quite ethical to go to a virgins’ conference hoping to score?”

  He waggled his overgrown snowy eyebrows. “Ah, that’s my secret, hot stuff. Do you see any other guys here doing the same thing? Of course you don’t! Nothing here but virgin men as far as the eye can see. Women don’t want that,” his scorn quickly turning into a hacking cough fit that had me looking around for a respirator. “They want real men – a man who knows what he’s doing, who isn’t afraid to pick a woman up and carry her to his bedroom before taking her to heaven with his irresistible seduction techniques.”

  Dear Lord. I suddenly felt queasy, scrunching my eyes tight. Curse this too vivid imagination of mine. Him staggering from side to side, wheezing as he tried to carry any woman to his bedroom would probably end up with her in hospital and him in the morgue.

  “You okay, Chalmers?” asked Farrell.

  The Old Dude spun to glare at him. “Who’s this wally when he’s at home?”

  “He’s my partner.”

  “What happened to the other guy? That dumb-haired wimp too scared to kick anyone in the goolies? A good, swift kick in the goolies would sort out a lot of problems in this world, if you ask me.”

  “We didn’t ask you,” Farrell interrupted his incipient rant.

  “You’re pretty rude for a wally,” Old Dude sniffed. “Worried I’m going to outclass you with the virgins, Muscles?”

  “Is this guy for real?” Farrell asked me.

  “Don’t talk about me like I’m not here. My hearing’s perfect. Probably better than yours with all that muscle in your skull blocking your ears. I should teach you a lesson by kicking you in the goolies.”

  “Enough with the goolies already,” I said, exasperated. “I can’t believe you’re still so obsessed with them.” I glanced at his ticket with perfunctory attention, just wanting to get rid of him. I nodded towards the door with my head. “Go on. In you go. And I don’t want you to cause any trouble or try to kick anyone in the goolies. And leave the virgins alone.”

  “Geez, who died and left you in charge, party pooper?” he muttered to himself. He hitched up his sagging pants that were nearly as old as him and had come and gone in fashion at least ten times since they were stitched together about a century ago. He sauntered through the door with all the confidence of a stud a quarter of his age.

  “Watch out, ladies,” I smiled at Farrell. “Great-Grandpa’s on the loose and looking for lurve.”

  “Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head. “He’s half my size and threatened to kick me in the goolies. He’s like some toothless chihuahua threatening to bite a dinosaur. Do you know him?”

  “I met him in a previous assignment. He’s a crafty old bastard.”

  A melodic dinging warned everyone that the conference was about to begin. We herded a few stragglers inside. Farrell decided to stay outside for thirty minutes to catch any latecomers while I went inside, closing the doors behind me.

  The hall was full. As the trio ascended the stage to the lectern, the chair scraping, low hum of conversation and mobile phone ringing gradually quieted. The first fifteen minutes was spent on welcoming attendees and general housekeeping, including explaining the program for the day.

  My eyes roamed the hall, picking out Old Dude, who’d somehow managed to surround himself with middle-aged women. I really would have to keep a close eye on him.

  The age range of the virgins surprised me, from young teenagers to quite elderly people. From a quick scan, there also seemed to be a balanced representation of women and men present. It appeared this was an equal opportunity movement.

  To kick off the conference, the keynote speaker was a guy called Griffin, who spent longer on his hair than his arguments. A charismatic man, he headed a large church and was often in the news. His church undertook a lot of school-based preaching on the benefits of chastity pledges. He was quite a controversial person, roundly criticised for his conservative views on gender roles. In his spiels, he gave greater emphasis to the importance of girls protecting their virginity in order to maintain their ‘purity’ for marriage. Critics argued this virtually gave boys the green light to screw around with the ‘bad’ girls before settling down with the ‘good’ ones.

  Hearing him reiterate all that rubbish turned me off wanting to listen to any further speakers. Satisfied that everyone was engrossed in his bombastic message, I slipped outside to Farrell.

  “Bored already?”

  “Annoyed already. But I did learn that I’m a bad girl for not defending my virginity so I could gift it to my imaginary husband on our imaginary wedding night.”

  “A lot of men prefer bad girls.”

  “Lucky for me or I’d never get a date.”

  He teased me with that subtle hint of a smile again. Farrell was positively rolling on the floor with mirth today.

  “Ever been with a virgin?” I asked him.

  “Nah. What about you?”

  “Never. I’m not sure I’d enjoy sleeping with a guy who wasn’t personally experienced in inserting thingamajig A into slot B with confidence.”

  “It’s not really something you forget once you’ve done it.”

  “Guess not. Do you think virgins look different to people like you and me?”

  “No,” he said in surprise. “Why would they?”

  “I dunno. Being carnal should make a difference in how someone looks, don’t you think?”

  “No. Does learning to ride a bike change how someone looks?”

  “Of course it does. You’re on a bike. You instantly look different.”

  “It’s impossible to argue with you.”

  “Because my arguments are unassailable?” I smiled.

  “Nope. Because your logic is so twisted and convoluted, it’s like arguing with a sack full of snakes and just about as rewarding.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, Hugh.”

  “It wasn’t meant as one.”

  “You gotta grab what you can when you can.”

  “Chalmers, that ought to be your motto.”

  Chapter 25

  The day plodded on, interminable slow. By the end, Farrell and I took turns yawning, stretching and jogging on the spot to relieve the physical pressure of standing for most of the day.

  The Old Dude trudged away dejectedly, not hoodwinking any of the ladies the previous day. But you didn’t get to be a middle-aged female virgin without being a good judge of character, especially of a man’s. None of those ladies was buying what he was selling. He’d have to rely on more than his questionable charm to convince any of them to abandon their long-held beliefs.

  When the last attendee had left, the organisers locked the doors to the hall for the evening. I helped them clean up and restock the refreshment tables in anticipation of tomorrow’s morning rush, placing a large cloth over each table when we’d finished. Farrell helped Tom straighten up the chairs and dispose of the rubbish.

  “Such an enlightening, empowering day,” gushed Miriam, her face glowing with happiness. Harriet nodded so forcefully her head nearly fell off her shoulders.

  Farrell nudged me in the direction of the stairs to the carpark, eager to leave. The trio of organisers had parked on the other
side of the building. Tom’s arm hung around his wife’s shoulders as they walked in the opposite direction to us, Harriet shadowing them. I wondered idly if they wound her head up each night, ready to bobble around the next day.

  At the Warehouse, Farrell and I also parted ways for the evening.

  “I’ve had enough virgins for the day. I’m going to deliberately dream of sexy people tonight,” I decided, unclipping my seatbelt, visions of a naked Heller already tantalisingly forming in my mind.

  “You’ll probably end up dreaming of old goolie guy instead.”

  “Aw, Hugh, don’t wish that on me, or I’ll be forced to hope you’ll dream of Mrs Burwood romping in your bed.”

  “Not going to happen. All my dream spots are fully booked out by someone else. I’ll see you at eight sharp in the morning again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Clive waylaid me outside the security section, wanting to know how the day went.

  I shrugged, yawning. “It was okay. Nothing exciting happened. They’re not exactly a bunch of bruisers looking for trouble.”

  “Trouble usually goes looking for you.”

  “Yeah, yeah, so you keep saying.”

  “Don’t forget, eight sharp in the morning.”

  “How could I forget when everyone keeps reminding me?” I grumped at him. “I do own a watch, you know.”

  Niq almost jumped on me when I reached my flat. He followed me inside, chatting to me non-stop as I cooked dinner, pinching some of the food off my plate, though he assured me he’d already eaten a huge evening meal. I had to shoo him out in the end so I could shower and drop into bed.

  It only felt like a second since I closed my eyes when my alarm sounded. Grumbling, I had a quick shower, changed into a fresh uniform, chucking the old one I’d abandoned on the bathroom floor last night into my overflowing laundry hamper. Note to self: do some washing tonight – just what I needed after a long day at work.

  I enjoyed a more leisurely breakfast, eating while I watched the morning news. One channel covered the latest air disaster; another the economic forecast for the country; and a third the capture of five members of a terrorist cell, the accompanying video showing a bullet-riddled house in a quiet neighbourhood in some country town. Finding all those options far too depressing to share with my boiled egg and toast, I switched off the TV.

  I made sure I was down in the security section promptly at five to eight. Farrell and I almost pushed another team out of the way to snare the last of the newer 4WDs, smugly enduring their rude finger gestures when they were forced to take a lesser vehicle.

  “You’re a competitive man, Hugh.”

  “I like driving a nice car, and this one is all class. A real pleasure to drive.”

  “Heller wouldn’t buy something tacky or second rate. Totally not his style.”

  “It’s all right for him. He’s got the money to do that. The rest of us have to put up with what we can afford.”

  “Been there, done that.”

  “Not lately.”

  “No, I guess not.” Heller looked after me well.

  The Old Dude was one of the first arrivals that morning.

  “Didn’t get lucky yesterday, hey? Guess those virgins are more than capable of picking a wolf amongst the lambs,” I smiled.

  “I just have to find the right one. A woman who’s wavering in her faith. She’s more likely to come to this conference as a way of confirming she’s made the right decision. But deep in her heart, she’s yearning for a real man to sweep her off her feet.” And drop her on the floor when his hip seizes up, I thought. “And there’s one now. Look out, beautiful, here comes the man of your dreams.” One woman’s dreams equal another’s nightmares.

  He moseyed over to a woman in her late fifties standing by herself with a cup of tea in one hand and a conference program in the other. She rolled her eyes while reading the offerings for today as if she’d seen and heard it all before. She looked up in surprise when the Old Dude approached her, but soon they were laughing and conversing like old friends.

  “Well, blow me, look at him go,” I said to Farrell in wonder. “You should ask him for some pick-up tricks.”

  “I’m not that desperate.”

  “So why am I seeing that graffiti all over town saying, Call me for a good time, please, pretty please, with your phone number and initials?”

  “Don’t push it, Chalmers.”

  “You’re no fun today.”

  “Good. That’s the way I like it. So stop yapping and get back to work.”

  “Ooh, did that order come with a supersized serve of grumpiness for free?”

  “See what I’m doing now? I’m ignoring you. I’m finding it very gratifying.”

  “Someone got out of bed the wrong way this morning.”

  He stayed true to his word and didn’t answer me.

  A loud burst of what sounded eerily similar to the noise an enraged chimp made echoed around the foyer, alarming everyone. Instinctively, I looked around for an escapee from the zoo. But the horrible sound came from the lady being chatted up by the Old Dude. She made the blood-chilling noise again, and I think it was laughter. Aghast, the Old Dude stared at her, stepping back a pace. She quickly covered the distance between them, moving even closer to him, her hand clenching his arm so he couldn’t escape without biting her fingers off.

  He looked over his shoulder at me, as if begging me to free him, but I just smiled and waved my fingers at him. Served him right. If a person were to go looking for a very desperate virgin, they’d have to suffer the consequences of that virgin’s needy hunger. And this woman appeared to have moved on from desperate to frenzied. She had a man in her grip and she wasn’t going to let him go, no matter what. After all, we’ve all heard that old saying, a man in your bed is worth two on the street, or something like that.

  The dinging brought a rush of people to the door and I lost sight of the Old Dude and his new sweetie in the distraction of ticket inspecting. When I glimpsed them again, she was offering their tickets to Farrell for scrutiny. Ms Lusty had control of both tickets, the Old Dude pale and dazed, not knowing how he’d got to this point so quickly with her. I wondered if she’d make him show her his Elvis moves tonight, an unfortunate thought leading to more salacious and nauseating scenarios in my mind.

  “You okay?” asked Farrell, checking me out. “You look a little green.”

  “I just thought of something that disagreed with me.”

  “Indigestion of the brain?”

  “Something like that.”

  He confirmed the time on his watch. “It’s about to start soon. Do you want to go inside while I wait for any dawdlers?”

  Tom and Miriam repeated the housekeeping and safety information, in case any attendee had suffered an attack of amnesia overnight. They were ably supported in this noble task by good old reliable Bobbly-Head. I wondered what it would take to make Harriet say something – a fire in the building? Tom and Miriam catching fire? Her own pants on fire?

  The first quarter of the day was taken up with personal testimonies from life-long virgins and born agains, a group of people with vastly differing skills in public speaking. I quickly grew bored of listening to endless stories about visits from angels sent by (insert preferred god of choice) to declare that person’s virginity now belonged to (preferred god of choice). It sounded supremely unfair to me not to have any say in the decision.

  I would have been more interested in hearing stories from people visited by such angels forced to regretfully advise them they were too late because they’d already donated their virginity to the spotty teen sitting in front of them in their history class. Or people who said they weren’t interested – thanks very much anyway for taking the time to drop in, angel – suggesting that perhaps the heavenly visitor might like to extend the offer to whiny Gidget next door who was always moaning about not having a boyfriend.

  And why was it always angels who delivered the momentous news? Why not a regular mail pe
rson popping in your mailbox a package from your favourite deity containing a letter and a chastity belt? Or a courier, not even bothering to check if you were at home, carelessly throwing the message on your front porch, where any of the neighbourhood scamps could steal it? Then you’d never find out about it and would go on your merry way through life shagging everything you could get your hands on, blissfully unaware of your intended higher calling to purity.

  I spotted poor Old Dude eyeing the door to freedom with great longing. Ms Lusty, not one of the world’s shyest creatures, draped herself all over him to the disapproval of many of the virgins around them. Nobody liked PDAs at the best of times, but they were rather inappropriate at a virgins’ conference. It would be incredibly difficult to concentrate on resisting temptation when the lady sitting next to you was jamming her tongue deep in a man’s ear. Or maybe that made it easier to resist temptation, considering the couple in question.

  The last person visited by an angel rounded up their long, boring story and the room broke for morning tea. Farrell and I had to hasten out of the way to avoid being crushed by the crowds fighting politely to get through the doors for a coffee or a pee in the limited time provided.

  “Geez,” I complained to him afterwards. “I was nearly trampled to death then.”

  “Don’t you know never to get between a conference attendee and a cup of coffee?” he asked. “Haven’t you ever been to a conference?”

  “Me? Nah. Who’d waste money sending me to a conference? Have you been to any?”

  “Yep. Heller’s sent me to a couple on security management.”

  “Really? He must be grooming you for greater things.” I was a bit peeved. Heller had never sent me to a conference.

  “I wouldn’t say no to a promotion at Heller’s.”

  “What would you like to be there? There aren’t many vacancies,” I said, though I believed the men were sorted into senior and junior staff and paid accordingly. By now, Farrell would have made senior officer.

  “Rumbles is retiring at the end of the year. Being Clive’s second-in-charge would suit me very nicely.”