Revue

by K. M. Golland

  “Can you not swallow and chew in my ear, you feral pig?”

  “Shut up! Deal with it. I’m eating a Tim Tam, and Tim Tams trump whiney friends.”

  “Really? I’ll remember that when you need an emergency bail-me-out-of-this-date phone call. I’d like to see a Tim Tam do that for you.” Pouring some milk into my coffee, I gave it a stir. “Isn’t it a bit early for Tim Tams? It’s like 7:00am over there, right?”

  “Right. And no, it’s not. It’s never too early for Tim Tams.”

  I shook my head and smiled. “Remind me again why you aren’t the size of a house?”

  “Because. I. Go. To. The. Gym,” she said, pointedly. “You should try it some time.”

  “I don’t need to. I watch what I eat. If I don’t consume any of the crap that you put in your mouth, then I don’t have to exercise.”

  Em scoffed and crunched down on her Tim Tam again. “Whatever. You’re just a wimp,” she mumbled. “Argh … shit!”

  “What?”

  “I dropped some down my top. Crap! These fuckers melt real quick!”

  Smiling, I sipped my coffee. “Well, best you perform Operation Tim Tam Extraction while I go shower and get ready.”

  “Get ready? Why? Where are you going?”

  “Down to the beach. I’m going to play with the new camera and configure it like Nelly.”

  Em groaned. “Do you ever stop? And just so you know, naming your cameras is really lame.”

  “Stop what?” I asked, resting the rim of the cup against my lip. I knew exactly what she was getting at. She was always on my case. “And my cameras are my babies. My little mechanical loves.”

  “BOB is my mechanical love.”

  “Okaaay, that’s my cue to go.”

  “Do you ever stop working? It’s Sunday. Leave the camera alone and read a book or something.”

  “Photographing scenery isn’t work to me. You know that. It’s capturing a beautiful moment in time, preserving that moment and sharing it for all to see. It’s far from work.”

  “You know what I mean, Cori. At least take a book and sit for a while.”

  “Okay. I’ll take a damn book and read if that’s what you want.”

  “It is! Help yourself to any in my room. They’re in alphabetical order and organised into genre. Just like a library.”

  The corners of my mouth lifted into a smile. Of course her books were methodically organised. Em was a neat freak. “Alright. When are you coming home? Will I see you before I go on tour?”

  “Yes. I’ll be home tomorrow, which reminds me, you need to pick me up from the airport. I’ll text you the flight details later,” she explained, crunching on another Tim Tam.

  “No worries. Safe flight, hon. See you tomorrow.”

  Performing a kiss sound at the phone, she said “thanks” and hung up.

  “Right,” I said to myself, sculling the last of my coffee and scooping up my camera. “Shower first, then let’s test this new baby out.”

  ***

  Em and I lived in St Kilda. We loved it and had decided to move to the beachside town shortly after completing university. We were graduates of the Victorian College of the Arts, her of a bachelor degree in Fine Arts (Music Theatre) and I, a bachelor degree in Fine Arts (Visual Art).

  St Kilda, with its scenic beauty, aptly known as the art hub of Melbourne, sated our love for the culture that was our life. I revelled in the surrounding setting: the water sunsets, the Edwardian and Victorian architecture, and the linear lines of the many piers that stretched out into the water like elegant fingers.

  Bringing my camera to my eye, I peered through the viewfinder and adjusted my lens and angle of view, capturing the disintegrating yet majestic Brooks Jetty. Just like an aging human, it too was physically withering away—tragically beautiful, yet strong and prominent in among such youthful surroundings. I imagined what it would’ve looked like when it was first built, and how much fun it would’ve been for the local children to leap from and into the water during the height of summer.

  Adjusting the zoom of my lens, I took a few more photos and assessed them. They looked good. Nelly’s replacement would certainly do the trick. Excellent!

  To me, my camera was like a guitarist’s guitar, a racing car driver’s vehicle, and a chef’s knife. Without it, I’d feel completely naked and useless. Nelly had been a good little friend. But she was gone now. I had Nigel, or perhaps Nina, instead. Hmm … Nigel or Nina?

  As I pondered the name for my new Nikon, my phone sounded an incoming text message. I pulled it out of my camera bag to find Josh’s name on the screen. Ugh, what now?

  Josh: I hope your new camera is as good as your old one.

  Huffing and rolling my eyes—because I was not happy he now had my mobile number—I replied.

  Cori: Yes, it’s fine. Consider yourself lucky.

  Josh: I’m glad, and I don’t need luck.

  Cocky prick! I shook my head and went to place my phone back in my bag when it sounded again.

  Josh: I am sorry. I hope you realise that.

  Funnily enough, I believed him.

  Cori: I do.

  Josh: Good, because I don’t want you to hate me.

  Cori: Josh, I don’t hate anybody. Hate is a powerful word.

  Josh: It’s just a word, same as love.

  Just a word? Same as love? Is he for real? Shaking my head again, I stared at the phone. In all honesty, I didn’t know how to respond, nor understand why he was telling me this.

  Josh: Stop shaking your head.

  You look like a dog after its bath.

  How fucking rude!

  Cori: Did you just call me a dog?

  Josh: Dogs are cute.

  I shook my head again. I couldn’t help it; the guy confounded me.

  Josh: You did it again.

  Cori: What?

  Josh: Shook your head.

  Furrowing my brow at how he could possibly know I was shaking my head, realisation dawned at the exact moment Josh sat down beside me. Shit! Not again.

  “So … wanna fuck like a dog, too?”

  “Excuse me?” I exclaimed, stunned by his nerve, not to mention the fact he was now sharing my personal space.

  “Do. You. Wanna. Fuck. Like. A. Do—”

  “I heard you the first time, Josh.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “No! I can’t believe you. God, you’re so bloody inappropriate.”

  He laughed and handed me an ice cream, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. And I, being the stupid and gobsmacked idiot that I was, accepted it … as if that was the most natural thing in the world to do, too. What the hell is wrong with me?

  His tongue darted from his mouth and licked the dairy goodness in his hand. “You’re a prude,” he mumbled, swallowing. “Didn’t peg you for a prude.” He licked again before nodding toward mine. “It’s gonna drip.”

  Quickly rotating my cone, I caught the ruby red droplet with my tongue before it slid off and landed on my top. “I’m not a prude,” I said in defence before eagerly licking some more—it was really nice. “Mmm … this is good! What flavour is it?”

  “Blood Orange.”

  “Wow! Where’d you get it from?”

  “Tony’s Gelato Hut.” He twisted around and pointed to the small building across the road.

  “Huh … I’ve never been there. I tend to go to the Boardwalk Ice Creamery, instead.”

  Josh scrunched his nose in disgust. “Never been there, never will.”

  “It’s good! They have a huge selection of flavours, and—”

  “Don’t care,” he interrupted. “It’s Tony’s or nothing.”

  I laughed, all of a sudden aware of our ridiculous conversation and how strange it was that he was beside me, eating ice cream. “What are you doing here?”

  He shrugged. “Working out. Well, I was working out. I’m not anymore.”

  A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his tattoo-covered, muscular chest, an
d his sweat-stained shorts hugged the sculpted contours of his thighs. I wanted to hug them too. Those thighs looked totally huggable. Fuck the stars, he has a fine body. My cheeks flushed, heating and no doubt turning pink.

  “You want to wrap your lips around my cock, don’t you?” he asked with a low tone.

  My eyes snapped to meet his.

  “Go ahead,” he continued. “I’d like to know what the back of your throat feels like.”

  Staring at him for what seemed like an eternity, I went from completely blown away by how bold and disgustingly crude he was, to being offended and ready to kick him in the balls again, to then knowing exactly what he was doing—his conceited, high-arched eyebrow and devilish smirk, obvious giveaways.

  “I know what you’re doing, Josh. It’s not going to work. I’m not taking your salty, slimy bait. You’re disgusting and you have absolutely no tact.”

  He chuckled. “My salty, slimy bait, huh?”

  “Yeah.” I gave him a sarcastic grin as I bit the edge of my cone. “So don’t even bother.”

  Josh pointed to his chest. “So you’re saying you don’t want to fuck me and run your hands and tongue over this?”

  I glimpsed at the perfection that were his muscles and the ink that decorated his left shoulder and bicep. “N … no, I don’t,” I answered, my stutter unpersuasive.

  “I think you do.”

  Licking my ice cream again, I allowed myself a quick moment for composure. “Look, I’ll admit that you’re very nice to look at. Of course you are. You have to be. You’re a male revue performer. But that doesn’t mean I want to jump into bed with you.”

  “Who said anything about a bed, sweetheart? I can fuck you free-standing.”

  The very thought of that set off my clit alarm clock and awoke my pussy. Meow!

  “You can also fuck yourself free-standing,” I retorted, shifting in my seat and ignoring the buzzing between my legs. “Unlike you, I prefer one sexual partner, to give myself to someone who appreciates me and only me. You? You give yourself more than Santa gives presents.”

  Josh bit the end of his ice cream cone. “Santa isn’t real.”

  “You are really annoying,” I blurted out, frustrated by everything about him, especially the biting of the end of his ice cream cone. That shit pissed me off. There was no logical reason to do that other than to be fucking annoying.

  He peered up into the end of his cone, and I willed a drip to land in his eye.

  My willing failed.

  There was no drip. Damn.

  “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” he said, taking another bite. “That’s why you don’t want to fuck me like all the others do.”

  Oh my God! “That’s it! We’re done.” Standing up, I brushed the sand off my shorts with my free hand. “I’m out of here.”

  “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, sweetheart. At one point you have to eventually say goodbye to your virtue. Might as well be now … with me.”

  “I’m not a virgin, Josh. I’ve fucked before … many times. And stop calling me sweetheart.” I bent over and picked up my camera bag, slinging it over my shoulder. “And why am I even explaining myself to you?”

  “You’re hot when you’re bitchy,” he mumbled, shoving the rest of his ice cream into his mouth and wiping his hands together theatrically.

  “Screw you.”

  “See? I knew you wanted to.”

  Growling, I turned and walked away, angry with myself for taking his salty, slimy bait.

  “Next time you growl,” he called out, “you’ll be doing it with my cock between your legs.”

  I noticed the jaw of an elderly lady who was seated on a nearby park bench fall open, her eyes darting from Josh to me, me to Josh. Her reaction was warranted, so I raised my hand and flipped him the bird without even looking back.

  He chuckled. “See you on Wednesday.”

  ***

  Hump day arrived quickly; in fact, it was so quick that I hadn’t even planned what I would be packing until the night before, which was right after I’d hit the local bar with Em.

  Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.

  My head was still feeling the effects of an espresso martini marathon, and I was desperately trying to make sure I’d accounted for everything on my checklist.

  “Did you pack your vibrator?” Em asked from her upside-down, legs-up-against-the-wall position on my bed.

  I looked at her, flustered. “What?”

  “Your vibrator. Did you pack it?”

  “No!”

  “Why not?”

  “I won’t need it.”

  She gave me the thumbs up. “That’s my girl.”

  I shook me head at her. “No, I’ll be too busy for any of that.”

  “Corinne,” Em said, her tone playfully condescending, “there’s nothing better after a gruelling day of work than to have multiple orgasms. Now, as we all know, most guys aren’t capable of giving us MOs and, just quietly, they really should fucking teach that shit in high school Sex Ed. But,” she sighed, disappointedly, “they don’t, and because it’s a skill possessed by the unicorns of the world, we need to have with us—at all times—a BOB. So please, for me, pack your fucking vibrator.”

  Wearing superiority like a designer suit, I kept my eyes on her while wrenching open my bedside table drawer, reaching in, pulling out my BOB, and dropping it in my suitcase. “Happy?”

  “Uh-huh, as will you be.”

  I rolled my eyes and continued to hurriedly check things off my list. “Toothbrush, contraceptive pill, razor … my iPod!”

  “Did you update your playlists?”

  My face screwed in disappointment. “No. I forgot.”

  “You can take mine. I’ll update yours while you’re gone.”

  “Thanks. Okay, I think I’m done.”

  She performed a backward somersault with the grace of a gymnast and ended up standing on my bed.

  I tutted. “Show off.”

  “Jealous.”

  A pillow just happened to fly through the air and hit her smug face. A pillow that, seconds beforehand, may or may not have been in my possession. “You wish.”

  Truth be told, I was a little jealous of Em. She was gorgeous, with short brown hair, cheekbones to die for and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. She was also incredibly fit, agile, smart, and a talented musician and actress. She was a man’s walking, talking wet dream, and I loved her dearly.

  Jumping from the bed, she wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tight. “Stay safe, have fun, and snap happy.”

  “I will,” I sighed, hugging her back. “And remember, keep the front door locked, and close the windows at night.”

  “Cori, we live on the third floor.”

  “Em, creepers can climb. That’s probably one of the reasons they are called creepers. Just lock up and stay out of trouble. I’ll see you in just over three months’ time.”

  ***

  What am I doing? No, WHY am I doing this? I hate male revue shows. I hate pathetic, self-centred, shallow women. And I hate men who treat those women like trash, even if a good handful of them look and act like it. I just simply hate the whole head-fuck this industry seems to be.

  Standing by the bus, waiting for the driver to load my luggage, I was an unfortunate spectator to Josh and a groupie swapping spit, the sight prompting me to once again ask why the fuck I was doing this. Because you don’t have a choice, Cori. Scenic photography doesn’t generate the income that portraiture does. Damn my brother. Damn him and his stupid dirt bike to Hell.

  “Is this it, love?” the driver asked, taking my suitcase.

  “Yes, it is. Thanks.”

  “No worries. Hop on board and find yourself a seat. We have a non-stop three-and-a-half-hour drive to Albury.”

  I nodded and climbed the steps, happily greeted by Patsy who was seated a few rows from the front. “Corinne! You made it,” she said, standing up and turning to address the others on the bus. “Have you all met Corinne? She’s our new
photographer. Make her feel welcome.”

  I gave everyone a docile wave, spotting Brad as he sprang from his seat at the back of the bus. He made his way down the aisle before draping his arm over my shoulder and nodding toward my camera bag. “Cori, looking good. Glad to see you got your camera fixed.”

  “She didn’t get it fixed. I bought her a new one,” Josh explained, stepping up behind me and stopping just a little too close. His stare found Brad’s draped arm, which made me look at it, too. And all of a sudden, I felt claustrophobic.

  “So you should’ve,” Matt added, standing up and firing Josh an annoyed look. He then leaned over his seat and offered me his hand. “Hi, Corinne, I’m Matt. We didn’t get to properly meet the other night. Sorry ’bout that. Sorry ’bout everything, actually. That night was a bit of a disaster.”

  “Oh.” I shook his hand and smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nice to meet you, Matt. And please, call me Cori.”

  He nodded. “Will do. Before the show tonight, and when you’ve got a second, I’d like to chat to you about some shots we’ll need for a promotional article if that’s okay.”

  “Sure! Not a problem. We’ve got a longish drive ahead of us, so feel free to hit me up during the ride.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Brad scoffed, a fake pout on his face, his grip on my shoulder tightening. “So you invite him to hit you up and not me?”

  “Nice try.” I winked, removed his draped arm, and turned so that I could find a seat.

  “Where you going?”

  “Somewhere I won’t be manhandled.”

  “He’s not a man,” Josh stated, blocking my way and firing Brad a shit-eating grin.

  Not wanting to make a scene, I slid into the empty seat beside where Josh was standing. My comfort levels were already low for feeling like a pinball, bouncing off everyone around me. And it was for this exact reason that I preferred photographing scenery. Scenery couldn’t trap you, overpower you and talk to you … well … verbally, anyway. Scenery could talk; it spoke of beauty and history. People, on the other hand, they never shut up. They also encroach on your personal space, dictate how you should take your picture and then complain about how it turned out. Scenery couldn’t do that.