by Foster, Zoe
‘Is there anything else I can tell you to ease your mind about my brothel-tripping adventure?’
I shook my head and moved in for another kiss. His breath was sweet, lolly-like. He kissed me deeply, gently pulling me even closer, gracefully lifting me up onto his lap, my legs falling carelessly either side of him as he leaned back against the sofa’s arm. As I kissed him back, I wrapped my legs around his torso. I could feel eighty-five per cent of my arse crack poking out of my jeans. I did not readjust.
His kisses became more intense; I pushed my hips closer towards him, so that I was almost straddling him, my hands travelling up to his hair, grabbing handfuls of it as our mouths swayed from side to side. His hands began wandering up under my top and onto my skin, massaging the small of my back. Within a few moments, he had masterfully unhooked my bra and gently started to lift my thin T-shirt. There was no mistaking where this was heading.
I pulled back from his lips and looked him in the eyes, slightly out of breath, my face flushed.
‘Um, should we, maybe …?’ I looked towards his bedroom. I wasn’t about to do the deed, for the first time, on his sofa. Aside from the fact that there were enormous glass windows and 894 down-lights spotlighting us, if we kept going the way we were, there’d be an awkward moment where I would have to ask about protection and he would have to scamper off to the bedroom, leaving me on the sofa, alone and naked. I preferred to avoid this moment.
Josh looked up at me with a devilish glint in his eye, his hair tousled, his olive skin showing faint traces of rosiness. ‘You’re right.’
He wrapped my legs around him and, steadying himself with one arm on the back of the sofa, stood up. He grabbed my bum with both hands and kissed me on the lips as he navigated his way around the coffee table and our leftover pad thai.
‘Oooh, so strong,’ I purred, gazing into his eyes as he began to walk towards the bedroom – which, knowing him, would be perfectly neat, with the bed made and not only no dirty clothes on the floor, but clean ones in neat stacks (‘casual’, ‘training’, ‘going out’) on the ottoman. He laid me carefully on the bed, ripped off his hoodie and reached over to click on the bedside lamp. Instantly the dark room basked in a soft, romantic glow. Gosh he was good.
Now in just a white T-shirt and his jeans, he delicately arranged himself back on top of me, and began kissing my smiling lips into submission, stroking my hair and neck, his fingers soft, his kisses and breath soft, but something very not-soft pressing against my thigh. Not wanting to seem too forward, I decided to let him make the first proper move – the pants-off move. It was the first time and he was doing such a splendid job so far, why take over?
His hands moved down to undo my jeans. Again, his moves were like that of a well-oiled machine. I could view this quality in one of two ways: either he’d been with lots of women, or I was simply in for a wonderful time. I decided on the latter, not dwelling on the fact that these two options were not mutually exclusive.
Within one smooth, impassioned minute, Josh had expertly removed both our jeans, and my top and bra (which, thankfully, was a sexy little yellow-and-pink one I’d bought on the weekend and was already quite fond of, as opposed to the flesh-toned ‘sensible’ ones I usually wore). I lifted his T-shirt, pulling it up bit by bit, neither of us wanting to break the kissing for the few seconds it would take to get it over his head. And then it was skin on skin, two underpanted little things kissing fervently, trying to do everything slowly but wanting so badly to speed up and get to the Main Event. Sensing, from the way my back was arching up into him, that he was on the right track, he slid one hand down into my knickers, feeling instantly how ready I was for him.
‘Take them off,’ I whispered, unable to wait any longer. He did as he was told, following his hands down with his lips, kissing my chest and stomach on the way.
‘Wait!’ I said suddenly, remembering my brain, which appeared to have slipped out for a touch of shopping, leaving my groin in charge. ‘You’ve got a … thing, right?’
He smiled and murmured a muffled ‘of course’ without taking his lips from mine. Then he leaned over me to his bedside drawer and pulled out the small foil packet. I wasn’t sure I liked how available it was.
In a matter of seconds it was on, and it was on. I melted into him, the hit of pleasure travelling through me like a rush of adrenalin. He kissed my neck, my breasts, my lips, and I kissed him back deeply, taking my legs up to wrap around his lower back, gently guiding his pace with my ankles. Everything about this act seemed uncannily familiar – his body on top of mine, and the firmness of his muscular arms, stomach, thighs – as though we’d been doing this for years. And at the same time, it was an entirely new, glorious experience.
He looked me in the eyes; I looked back through my hair, which was strewn across my face, the pillow, my chest, and had to close my eyes. It was too intense. I’d never made eye contact during sex before; I didn’t know why, I just hadn’t felt connected enough to any of my boyfriends to be able to do so. Yet here I was with Josh, doing it the first time. Who was this man?
Keen to play and enticed to try new positions, I gently pushed up on his chest and made a tiny move to roll over. Sensing my desire, he smiled and pulled himself up to allow me to shift positions. As I rolled to my right, half-foetal, preparing to get up on all fours, he followed quickly – a little too quickly. One second he was above me, looking down onto my back, and the next I felt his weight shift to my right and his hand slide off my damp back. Then there was the sound of skin smacking floorboards.
Peering over the edge of the bed, I saw a very naked, very at-attention, very tangled Josh trying to clamber quickly back up. I couldn’t help it; I exploded into laughter, burying my face in the pillow to stop the noise from filling the room. I heard him start to laugh too; it began self-consciously, slowly, but built up quickly to a full belly laugh. He collapsed on top of me, his chest pressed onto my back, and we both guffawed hysterically, the sweat and heat of our bodies merging, the idea of continuing what we had been doing just moments earlier now absurd.
‘So, do you want a boyfriend?’ he asked, panting ever so slightly and struggling to catch his breath after laughing so hard. ‘A really hot, super-experienced Casanova-type who’s a total hero in the sack and would never fall off the bed in the middle of the first time with a girl he really liked?’
I laughed, flipping over to lie underneath him, smiling, grateful that we had been able to laugh at the situation and diffuse any potential awkwardness.
‘Yes,’ I said, kissing him on the lips, ‘I think that I do.’
ROUND 25
Bare-faced vs War Paint
Making new friendships was so much harder and more awkward now than at primary school, where the same sandwich spread was enough to ensure a lifelong bond and Best Friend necklace charms. But at least I was being invited to things now, like the party tonight for Steph’s boyfriend, Mitch. I figured I was able to call Steph a friend by now. We’d taken the unspoken step of ensuring we sat next to each other at games, and I was grateful; it was much easier to walk into that box knowing I had someone to look out for and talk to. I wanted her number so that I could text her before the games to see if she would be going out afterwards – so that I could plan my outfit – but I was still too shy. It was ludicrous!
Paola was my favourite WAG. I felt lucky to be her friend, as though she were some kind of celebrity and she’d chosen me to join her on stage for a duet. I wasn’t the only one: anywhere we went people were drawn to her, like drunk moths ambling towards a shining light. She was always kind, as well as glamorous, and she radiated fun. And funniness – most of the time unintentionally. But unfortunately, she was about as likely to attend functions or extracurricular activities as an orang-utan was to see a burlesque show. It wasn’t, she said, that she didn’t like wasting her weekends watching football so much as she would rather sip on pesticide than spend any more time on football than was absolutely necessary.
I s
topped daydreaming and looked down at my ‘workbench’, which, being the only desk space in our apartment, was a mess of metals, beads, wood, semiprecious stones and Col’s ‘For Rent’ brochures. The photo of her on the back was always worth another look: she had straight, hairspray-soaked hair, bright red lipstick, a sludge-brown jacket that even Godfrey would be able to see was unflattering, and a painted-on smile that suggested she had just spied a reflection of herself. I found it endlessly amusing.
I checked the time; where the hell was she? She’d texted to say she was staying at Holly’s last night but it was now 4.30 p.m. and no sign of her. It occurred to me that she was never around any more – always with Holly, or ‘out’ and tetchy about the details. Thankfully, Dave was so small she usually took him with her, otherwise the poor boy would have starved by now.
I’d begun to feel like a nagging housewife, asking her to check in and tell me where she was, or when she’d be home. It was my small-town mentality: in my mind, cities were flush with sexual deviants and serial killers, and I needed to know she was okay at all times. Col, on the other hand, was used to the big city and the lack of Hollywood-style abductions; it would take a news bulletin before she worried about my whereabouts.
As I twisted a small section of silver into a curl, I wondered again whether she’d started seeing someone and was keeping it from me. I couldn’t imagine why she wouldn’t tell me, especially since I was so pro her finding a new guy. Suddenly I lifted my head. I was going to have a snoop around her room. Yes! That’s what little sisters did; it was in our terms of employment.
I pushed open her bedroom door. Her huge Balinese-style bed and matching dresser consumed most of the space. There were clothes strewn everywhere, making me want to retreat and forget about poking around – all too hard. I sighed and walked around the bed to her bedside table. I picked up a few papers, lifted some clothes off the floor, and noticed nothing.
I was about to walk out the door when something bright green in Col’s laundry basket caught my eye. I went over and picked it out. I knew what it was and what it meant even before I’d straightened it out: it was The T-shirt. Bright green save for a white image – of a rabbit trying to mount a pony – on the front. Eric used to wear it all the time, just because Col hated it so much. The only reason I knew about it was because he’d worn it to a family barbecue back home once when he and Col had stayed for the weekend. Eric had thought that wearing his ‘animal love’ T-shirt in a house of animal-lovers was hilarious.
Col was seeing Eric again.
That explained so much: the secrecy, the lies, the weekend absences … She was seeing Eric again and was so ashamed that she was hiding it from me. And probably everyone else, too. God, Mum would lose her shit if she found out. She haaaated Eric for what he did to her First Child to (Almost) Wed. Mum had been looking forward to one of us getting married since we’d landed on the delivery table.
Shaking my head in confusion, and wondering how I was going to broach this with Col, I put the T-shirt back and walked into my room. It would have to wait for now; I had to get moving, as Josh was picking me up in a cab at 6.30 for the party and, as usual, I had no idea what I should wear. I had a feeling the girls would all be very dressed up: flippy little dresses and heels and hair and tanned legs. But then part of me wondered whether, if I were to turn up like that, they would all be in jeans. In my defence, I did spend a moment grateful that the biggest dramas in my life concerned hemlines and self-tan, as opposed to war, cancer, survival.
Like a recipe from an obscure French provincial cookbook, my preparation was an intricate process requiring many steps and combining numerous ingredients, some – such as deep-red nail polish – that I had little experience with. But, like trying to create your first chocolate soufflé for a dinner party that was already forty-five minutes behind schedule and $82 over budget, when better to try new things out?
I applied a light self-tanner, which morphed me from clean-toilet-bowl white to slightly-dirty-bathroom-sink ivory; painstakingly ghd’d my hair pin-straight; and ironed a dress from the shop, which I’d decided to wear with my new wood-coloured heels.
As I stood in front of the mirror, it suddenly dawned on me that I was dressed purely for the benefit of the male eye. It was a shocking realisation. I used to scorn girls who tailored their whole look to make perving on them as effortless and luxurious as possible – and yet, here I was doing it. My entire outfit today, from my toes to my eyeliner, had been orchestrated to appeal to the gaze of the opposite sex; in my previous life, I dressed for myself – or, more accurately, for other women.
If I was brutally honest, it wasn’t just Josh that I was dressing for; some part of me wanted the other Bulls boys to approve, to mutter amongst themselves that ‘Fox’s girl is hot’, so that Josh felt like he was with a good-enough girl, and didn’t think he needed to upgrade to a model or a TV presenter or a Tess Clifton. Deep down I wanted to feel that I was attractive enough to be his girlfriend; sadly, the only way I seemed to think I could do that was to dress in a way that vociferously announced that I had breasts, legs and lots of hair – the cornerstones of every Attractive Woman.
I thought I had more self-confidence than that, but clearly I had been labouring under an illusion. In a pre-Fox era, when I was single, or with Jeremy, a Saturday-night party would’ve called for a shift dress or a vintage flowing number. But now? Now I felt compelled to wear something tight, something new, something that announced I was worthy of dating A Footballer.
I reasoned that maybe I had changed because whenever I was out with Josh, people scrutinised me. And I knew what they wanted to see – or thought they should see – because the WAGs generously offered that information, gratis, every time I saw them. First they noticed Josh, and then (other women especially) their eyes would slide up and down me like a stripper working the pole: slowly and with intention. Almost like they wanted me to see them weighing me up. Like I was supposed to see. It was as though they were silently saying, ‘Look, if you’re gonna go round calling yourself Josh Fox’s girlfriend, then you’re going to be constantly inspected. It’s part of the job, sugar. We don’t like the fact you get to be his girlfriend, and we’d like to let you know it. So deal. Life could be worse: you could be not Josh Fox’s girlfriend.’
Despite its insignificance in the big scheme of things, this scrutiny had quite an effect on me. Bare-faced was no longer an option, heels seemed necessary even for a Sunday-afternoon movie, and when I knew the other players or girlfriends were going to be around, my appearance effort soared from mono through to stereo with 360-degree surround sound and subwoofers. It was a fine art, looking ‘pretty’ and ‘hot’ without looking like you’d put in any kind of effort. Col was equally baffled and amused by Jean 2.0. But the other girlfriends had set the standard. Actually, they were worse. Or maybe that should be better, I couldn’t tell.
When we’d had to pick up the boys from the airport last Sunday at 8.30 a.m., I’d popped on some ‘dress’ gym pants, trainers and a little singlet. Tinted moisturiser, lip gloss and a messy ponytail and I was off in Mary, thinking of nothing more than the prospect of a full day with Josh. But the other girls – most notably Melinda and Morgan, but even Steph – were heeled, jeaned and fully made-up. Massive Chanel and Dior sunglasses, and plenty of chatting in the pick-up zone – which meant tottering from one player’s BMW to another’s Audi – ensured that everyone noticed their efforts. And all before 9 a.m. on the Sabbath. It was a bloody circus.
Well, I thought, as I applied the finishing touches to my eye makeup and sprayed on some fragrance: hand me a spangly lycra leotard and swing me that trapeze.
ROUND 26
Groupies vs Jealousy
Josh paid the driver as Bones and I got out of the cab. I was around thirteen drinks behind the boys, but I was drunk by anyone’s standards. Secretly I loved that it was just the three of us and that we’d left the rest of the party back at Mitch’s. It seemed that within the football circle, it was i
mpossible to do anything or make any decision unless twelve people were involved, so Bones had made an executive decision for us to bail and find fun elsewhere.
Bones was a fascinating beast. He’d suddenly decided we were to be best friends. I wondered whether Josh had had words, or whether he’d realised that I wasn’t a Tess clone and didn’t need a personality lobotomy.
I wasn’t completely naive: I knew that Bones wanting to leave Mitch’s translated to him wanting to find a piece of arse for the night. But I went along with it anyway. Steph was obviously staying at the party she had organised, and Paola and Jimmy promised to meet us later. They were lying.
‘Yeeeew! Tonight’s gonna be off – the – hook!’ Bones kicked a Coke can that had jovially placed itself right near his foot, and shrugged his jacket back onto his shoulders. ‘Hope you brought some Canadian currency, Real Deal, ’cos you just might end up in another country tomorrow morning.’
I laughed, shaking my head. Real Deal was Bones’s nickname for me, which I loved. It was affectionate and, most importantly, it implied that he thought I was a good girl. Which implied that he liked me. Which implied that he would be telling Josh I was a keeper. All the girlfriends were keen for Bones’s approval. They knew he had far too much sway over the boys when it came to keeping or kicking a girl. They also knew he was the kind of guy who would whisper in your fiancé’s ear to sleep with the stripper on his bucks’ night.
‘Have a good night, mate. Cheers.’ Josh finished paying the driver and came around the back of the cab.
‘Oi, Bones, what’s the guy’s name who runs this joint again? Greek guy. Funny bastard.’
‘Debbie.’
I laughed as I reapplied my lip gloss. Josh came in and swung his hand under my ribs, pulling me in for a kiss. He was 400 per cent more affectionate when he was drunk. I revelled in it.