Bella closed her eyes, flicked her tongue out and gasped, ‘Take me,’ interrupted by another chuckle, ‘all the way to Z. You can do it big boy.’
‘One-eyed monster, one-eyed wonder weasel, percy, pork sword, quiver bone…’
‘You used the “q”. My God, you are clever, Martin.’
‘ROD! Schlong, stick shift, tallywhacker, third leg, thumper, tool, trouser snake, wedding tackle and…yogurt gun.’
‘Z. Take me to Z.’
Martin simulated sleep ‘Zzzzz’ for a few seconds, before grinning at Bella.
‘I digressed. You had fantasies, I think you said?’
‘Ever since that lecture by Sue Garling I’ve been convinced that I should become an immunologist.’
‘But you dropped out of the science course after only six months?’
‘Six months of education is better than none.’
‘You said you actually didn’t go to uni often.’
‘Say three months experience then. Sue’s lecture inspired me. It’s clear that immunology is the future. I’ve spent most of yesterday reading about immunology. And look at Sue. On the cover of Woman’s Day. Lecturing in all the most exotic countries of the world.’
‘I imagine she also spends time in the laboratory. Getting down and dirty.’
‘So I was lying there, thinking of immunology, when I felt…’
‘Don’t say “willy”.’
‘Your friend then. Against my…’
‘Axe wound, bat cave, cigar box, dragons’ lair…’
‘You’re doing it again!’
Martin slowed somewhat, ‘rumpled slit skin…’
‘My yoni,’ stated Bella. ‘Thinking of basic immunological principles, I wondered whether my resistance to you at that moment was an immune response.’
‘Are you saying that you viewed my…aah…willy, or worse, me, as a foreign object?’
‘It was only a fantasy but it felt so real.’
‘And you viewed me as some sort of antigen?’
‘I fell in love with T cells yesterday. Imagine their ability to be able to recognise antigens bound to those complexy things.’
‘The Major Histocompatability Complexes?’
‘Exactly. Isn’t immunology so rich? But, as yet, no one knows how T cells make their decisions. I’d like to find out and become famous.’
‘Returning if I might to histocompatibility – and here’s to compatibility indeed – do you think we’re compatible?’
‘Of course, Martin.’
‘But if you see me as a foreign object is that not saying something about our relationship?’
‘I’m going to change the topic, Martin.’ She smiled winsomely. ‘Tell me about your day, Martin. Yesterday, I guess.’
‘I’m not sure that I will be changing the willy topic.’
‘You had a dick of a day?’
‘Absolutely and a day of the dick. A young man came to the surgery complaining that his dick had been up for nearly two days.’
‘Every man’s fantasy. Viagra?’
‘No. Reaction to cocaine. Poor bastard was in agony.’
‘That’s amazing. You were able to help him I’m sure?’
‘Priapism is a medical emergency. We sent him straight to hospital.’
‘Where some door bitch nurse asked him what the problem is in front of everyone in casualty and he instantly shrivelled with embarrassment? Problem solved.’
‘If only. No, you have to aspirate the blood and give injections. Sometimes put a shunt in.’
‘Oooohhh.’ Bella yawned. ‘I can feel the tablet kicking in. Would you ring and wake me up at nineish? I’ll be just a tad late to work.’
Martin muttered, ‘Of course.’ And to himself, ‘A bloody satyr satire.’ He put the eyeshade on the bedside table, turned on his back and again focused on the ceiling. A view he suspected would hold for the next perfume-free hours before he would put his skates on. It was a rare moment of insight in his current mood.
WATCHING THE WALLABIES ON THE WEDNESDAY
Martin arrived at the penthouse just after seven, his energy levels modestly lowered by a two-hour run. He had rung Bella in the morning and discussed dinner options. He purred pleasure when she recommended they eat in, and asked if she wouldn’t mind taking the marinated duck out of the freezer. The Wallabies were playing a mid-week game in Melbourne and the match was being televised. Martin could think of few more pleasing scenarios for the evening, already choosing which bottle of Shiraz to select (anticipating aromas of blackberries, cherry and spice), overconfident about the Wallabies’ chances and imaging Bella later sprawled on their bed. Game on. Wallabies win. Evening of sin. The games they play in heaven, he mused, imagining Bella’s slow undressing, picturing her perfect body in a somewhat disembodied way, and sketching a scenario as how the two of them might make lust – making love being too prudish a description in relation to Bella. He felt alive and invincible.
Bella rose from the couch and, holding a wine glass in one hand, embraced him, pressing her parapet breasts to his chest.
‘Ah,’ smiled Martin. ‘Nothing like a bit of frottage to end the working day.’
Martin’s remark had haughty overtones. Bella pulled back slightly bewildered.
‘My apologies. I’m not quite whimsied out.’ He hugged her briefly and pulled her towards him again. ‘And my apologies for not asking about your day. Pray tell.’
‘Jim and I exceeded our week’s target by mid-arvo. The market’s absolutely red hot, Martin.’
‘Congratulations indeed.’
‘So we celebrated with a bottle of Moët.’
Martin smiled to himself. The Moët celebration appeared to occur most days whether the agency had been successful or not. His mood dimmed slightly as he became aware that there was no duck smell wafting from the kitchen. He noted several new sticky notes on the dining room table. ‘I suspect you are nevertheless planning a career change?’
Bella’s voice tinkled. ‘You are amazing, Martin. Really a ball-gazer. Yes, I’ve decided against being a scientist. Pursue your passion is what everyone recommends. I’ve long been interested in women’s rights. So I’ve decided to become a social researcher for gender justice.’
‘A gender defender vendor. Sounds wonderful.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘So you’ll do a sociology degree?’
Bella appeared not to detect the slight patronising element to his question. ‘I haven’t the time. I’ll get a job as a research assistant, establish links with political scientists, join a feminist network, and within a year or two I can be working at the interface of law and politics. Or for a politician if that’s where the action is.’
‘You always amaze me, Bella. And knowing you, I don’t doubt you’ll pull it off.’ Again failing to identify any roasting duck smells, Martin asked coolly, ‘Ah, on the subject of women’s rights…’
‘I know, Martin. A client rang just as I was walking into the kitchen. I had to leave straight away. Don’t worry. I’ve ordered pizza. Sit down and I’ll get you a wine.’
He sat on the lounge in front of the TV, already claiming the best vantage position for the match. Bella handed him his wine in a glass somewhat smaller than hers and sat next to him, snuggling up briefly before sitting back to look at him intensely as she discussed her career plans. Martin was ostensibly supportive but edgy, settling somewhat when the pizzas arrived ten minutes before the rugby started. Martin – always somewhat uncomfortable about how to eat pizza – collected plates and cutlery. He sought to ensure they each had equal shares, removed the flowers he had brought over previous days to leave a clear view of the television screen, and moved the Shiraz bottle out of his line of sight. The pre-game briefings were predictable, allowing him to keep the television volume down and listen to Bella.
After two slices of pizza and finishing her wine, Bella wriggled closer to him. She spoke huskily. ‘You are such a supportive person, Martin. So intelligent. So much more intelligent than me, but ever
supportive. Sometimes I just don’t know how to thank you.’ She placed her right hand on his thigh. It rested there for at least a minute, certainly longer than the commercial, before rubbing his thigh, backwards and forwards, inching towards his groin. Martin’s penis slowly and then rapidly engorged and was rubbing against his zipper. Ache, pain and cramping all combined.
Bella smiled. ‘I think it wants to come up for air,’ she purred. She slid down his zipper and Martin’s penis surfaced with a meerkat howdy-do to the world attitude. Martin observed an increase in his breathing rate and a dry throat. He looked at the television. The match was about to start. He looked at Bella, who was looking down at his congested member. She grasped his friend and was slowly pumping, as if she might inflate him further.
The kick-off had occurred but the ball has been spilled by a Wallaby and a maul had formed. Bella pumped more forcefully. Martin suspected that she had observed him glancing at the television. He smiled at her as he returned to the job in hand. Her hand. She slowed, removed her hand, and allowed his penis to twang lonesome in the air. She smiled.
‘I was just thinking how naïve I once was. Would you believe I used to think that there had to be a bone in there?’
Martin looked at his penis, still erect but now out of circulation, providing a wandering lonely as a cloud Wordsworth allusion for Martin. He placed her hand back on his friend. She pumped for ten seconds and then said, slightly childlike, ‘And if there is no bone why do people talk about boning? I’ve long wondered how willies…tally whackers…get up and stay up. It’s not something you can ask anyone. But, you being a doctor, Martin, and so intelligent, makes it easy. Engorged blood, someone told me?’
Martin spoke didactically, obliging but keen to not become too distracted. ‘Increased blood flow in from the arteries and restricted exit by the veins, all mediated by nitrous oxide.’ He looked down. Almost a complete detumescence.
‘Nitrous oxide? Bella laughed. ‘Isn’t that a gas!’
‘Boom boom.’ Martin was nonplussed at how quickly he had shrunk, with his wrinkled, withering willie – yes, willie – wriggling back into its nest. He wagged his finger at his once proud member. A bad career move, you prick. And the Wallabies were down too, seven nil, so early in the match.
Bella stood up, pulling the long sleeves of her dress down further. ‘I’m going to bed. I hope you’ll attend to me after the game.’
Martin judged that the evening was now running to plan and his optimism moved into Panglossian territory. He poured himself another glass of wine and focused on the rugby. It was possibly only a minute later when the electricity blackout hit. Martin swore, picked the bottle up and headed to Bella’s bedroom, and smiled wryly. At least the duck would be defrosted for tomorrow.
THE INS AND OUTS OF A RELATIONSHIP
The week went extraordinarily fast for Martin. He would sleep lightly for three to four hours, slide gently out of Bella’s bed without waking her and go for a long run before showering, dressing and leaving the penthouse. He would drive to an all night cafe, banter with the barista and have his breakfast – including at least two cups of coffee – while scanning two or three morning newspapers. And drive home to take Captain for a brief run, feed him, and then write lengthy responses to Sarah’s emails, which indicated she was uninspired by the conference but enjoying London. Martin’s Wednesday email was an exemplar.
Dear Garlands ah nine – Sarah in England, of course – but we will indeed and in reality have been separated for a period of nine days. So long indeed that you truly do deserve to be covered in nine garlands as you triumphantly re-enter Australia – terra nullius as so inferred by the British who claimed the land as uninhabited and unsettled. The invaders professed and finessed noblesse as they repressed, compressed and supressed the invaded who were distressed and oppressed by the ingressed to acquiesce, and who then called it progress and success. Nonetheless, came the Mabo finesse which might better now be called the Maboriginal Decision. But I digress. And today is Wednesday. A day already long started. I ran to the sounds of silence, east to west at the start. And someone, let me call him, Bill, and I believe him to be a talk back radio man as they all have four-letter Christian names, was preparing by airing his vocals before crowing his cock at dawn by running west to east. And as we ran, did we know that we, we two, we too were destined to pass each other by? For me to say ‘hi wise guy’, but for him to deny to speechify a reply but then, and I qualify, perhaps he was shy and I should not vilify. And so we all start from one part or other and may pass like strangers or stranglers in the night, perhaps to never meet or perhaps to become acquaintances, comrades, friends or bosom friends. Life is all serendipity, isn’t it Sar. Princely.
This first paragraph was the shortest of the three in Martin’s email. But perhaps the most disclosive.
Sarah would judge that it was Martin seeking to be bright, to reassure her that the depression had not returned. She would read his words but would not read through them.
By eight he would be at the practice, enthusiastic about the day. He would jolly the secretaries and, with a sense of anticipatory pleasure, commence the consultations. As ever, he was engaging, involved and caring. But he decided that he could practise at a higher level by operating from an earlier hypothesis that each patient had a central core of wholeness and goodness. From now on it was his job, his mission, to access that core. It required respecting the unique individuality of each patient and their biographical journey, and effecting loving kindness, which meant being there for the patient – physically, emotionally and spiritually – and being highly attentive to the clues they provided to their existential status. While he had always sought to diagnose the patient’s current condition and understand their life narrative, he now weighted the latter more. His old patients had long admired his attributes but many observed a change, and appreciated it. They left the consultation with hope and as if they had received a benediction.
Over that week Martin caught up with Dave twice after their morning review of complicated patients. At the first, Dave expressed his delight again that Martin was his ‘cheery old self’. At the second, Dave made a similar comment but added, ‘You have such energy and intensity. Is it the skateboarding I’ve been hearing about? If it is, I’m off to get one.’
After leaving work Martin would head home to walk the dog but mostly he would skate him, having Captain pull him along the streets encouraged by his yelling ‘Mush!’, but erratic as Captain would seek to go in different directions, preferring to follow than lead and tending to stop abruptly at frequent intervals. Martin thought it all a hoot. And then to Bella’s penthouse.
She would be waiting for him most evenings, provocatively dressed and never in the same outfits or lingerie. They would hug each other, with Bella coquettishly whispering tantalising endearments and Martin seeking to lead her straight to the bedroom. But each time, after that first encounter, Bella frustrated his physical needs and left him in a state of yearning, craving and lusting, only alluding to some imminent or approaching consummation. In that aching void of cacoethes she judged that he would find her irresistible and, out of that state, he would declare his true love for her.
And she would slide away from Martin, pour him a wine and ask him to sit beside her on the couch. Each would note some of the events of their day, with Martin somewhat abrupt as a consequence of his frustration. Bella’s day would be themed by issues that had distressed her and engendered states of intolerance and anger. Or issues of uncertainty, especially as to where she might best develop a new career. Whatever the topic, Martin would strain to listen but his high energy levels, impatience and frustration with Bella compromised his capacity to take in the words. Occasionally he would offer advice – ‘let go of fighting reality’, ‘accept’ – but it was his seeming acceptance of her whole person that struck her as most assuasive. She would ask him to stroke her and he would caress her body, and especially her breasts, speaking in a reassuring way.
Ma
rtin, despite his ache to sexually ravage her, would tenaciously hold himself in check, employing a number of strategies to settle his yeastiness. He would think of Sarah or of uncontrolled skating or distract himself by analysing Bella’s prose style. He would have a second, a third, and sometimes many glasses of wine. And when Bella had settled, he would be on his feet, pacing around the living room, adjusting the blinds, examining the book shelves, selecting a radio station and then to the kitchen where he would pour his wine and pour himself into cooking their meal. After dinner, when Martin had mellowed somewhat, Bella would suggest that they have a bath together before going to bed. After slowly undressing in front of Martin she might dance slowly around him, staring coyly but intensely into his eyes, playing with her necklace, licking her lips, flipping her hair and occasionally rubbing her breasts with her ever long-gloved hands. After she climbed into bed Martin would follow her feverishly but, despite Bella allowing fiery and lustful kissing, their bodies to intertwine and her breasts to be caressed, she was unyielding. Even on the Saturday night. Their last night as Sarah was flying into Sydney the next morning. He had decided not to remind Bella, hoping that their fevered pre-coital activity would be consummated that night. And there would be plenty of time tomorrow to thank Bella. It would be over and he had no misgivings.
After a run and shower on the Sunday morning he brought Bella breakfast in bed. Before leaving he would also give her a matching diamond anklet for her other foot, bought online two days before. Bella awoke out of a deep sleep smelling the bacon and the coffee, her hair tousled, and her left breast hanging out of her yellow negligee.
She appeared apprehensive and guarded. ‘This is unusual.’
‘Perhaps I should have thought of it before.’
‘Perhaps?’ Bella sat upright, pulling the sheets up to her chest. ‘You’re leaving, aren’t you?’
Martin spoke quietly, feeling a slight frisson of tension. ‘Sarah flies in this morning. The nine forty-five flight from Singapore. I have to be there to meet her.’
In Two Minds Page 13