by Kris Pearson
And heaps of other perverse and puzzling things Bobbie just found mind-boggling. For instance—the rope-and-photo people. The hot-wire man and the pretty underwear. The cream cheese. All that oil. And how could anyone do that with a filing cabinet and colored marker pens?
What she really needed was a man to experiment with. It was all very well reading other people’s descriptions, but she needed to do it herself. Often, and lots of different ways. Because surely that would give her real inspiration?
So who could she recruit? Men were thin on the ground when you were a bookish lab technician, closeted away at a Horticultural Research Institute behind forbidding high hedges and security doors. Her dark brown eyes roved around the writers.
Meg was a widow—no husband to borrow.
Her son was a tall good looking boy, but far too young.
Liz was divorced, and her ex-husband sounded like No Fun At All and he had a mistress, anyway.
There was mild mannered Ian, who was at least available, but how much would he know about sex? Not much, Bobbie felt. She needed a man of the world. Someone who knew sensual little tricks she could incorporate into her writing. Someone confident, and without morals or hang-ups.
Vi’s son could be suitable—but he lived in Australia and was probably at least fifty.
Eloise had a husband. Johnno. He might be bored enough with his drama queen wife to give Bobbie a whirl. But she’d met his really nice daughter now. Mmmm...maybe not.
Romy often mentioned her lovely man. But they had a lot of children, so he was obviously far too fertile. A baby was the last thing Bobbie needed, so he sounded like rather a risk—not to mention fond of Romy.
There were several other women who attended the Romance Writers’ meetings less frequently. She didn’t know too much about their men-folk.
And that left Nurse Mandy, still rabbiting on about the lonely nursing sister and the dreamboat doctor. Mandy had married a commercial fisherman so he was almost never available. But, Bobbie speculated, that might not be a problem.
For one thing, Mandy didn’t sound madly in love with him, so it wouldn’t really be stealing. Mandy had admitted to having a lover of her own. Peter—who worked at the hospital, doing scientific things with dead bodies.
And the husband might be desperate for sex if he was away at sea a lot with Mandy otherwise occupied. Max Nicholson, his name was. Bobbie wondered what he was like.
Heading for forty, with rough fishy hands.
She wrinkled her nose at the thought. But that made him old enough to know a thing or two, young enough to be fit and virile, and not always hanging about being a nuisance. Things could be worse.
Slowly she invented him. A muscular body because of all his hard work at sea. A thick strong neck she could scrape with her fingernails. Dark brown hair just starting to gray at the temples. Eyes as green as the ocean. (All right then—rough fishy hands. But nice tanned arms, too.) A pirate’s slashing smile.
They could dally on the foredeck of his boat. There would be coils of ropes, and piles of net. He could arrange the net into a makeshift bed, and the ropes might be handy for bondage.
They would consummate their love in the clean salty evening air, miles from shore where they couldn’t be seen. She quite liked the idea of that. At least no-one would catch them at it and make problems with Mandy.
“Salmon sandwich?” Meg asked, handing around plates. “Or does fish count as meat as far as you’re concerned?” She proffered the sandwiches along with Vi’s sinful pikelets.
Bobbie gulped and chose a salmon sandwich by mistake.
CHAPTER 8 - BEN AND THE SILVER MAC
He was used enough to his mother’s friends to hover on the edges. Most times he listened from his adjacent bedroom, keeping the door wide open in case they started talking about something really juicy. Privately he called them The Bonk Squad. However he looked at it, sex seemed to be the main focus of their writing.
The historical novels drove him mad. The language sounded weird, and everyone behaved so properly. Except for Eloise’s people. He’d eavesdropped, enthralled, as the stable boy fucked the Duchess, and she’d urged him on with a whip.
Liz was his favorite. She wrote modern stuff where husbands and wives split up, and the wife went looking for new partners in bars and at parties.
And often went to bed with them to make her ex-husband jealous, because she always told him about the new boyfriend when he came to collect their kids at the weekend.
Liz’s wives were vicious; they cut up suits, stole girlfriends’ contraceptive pills, and spray-painted rude messages on their ex-husbands’ expensive cars. Ben listened with a mixture of respect and disbelief to some of the things they did to get even.
But today he had a new distraction, far cooler than Liz’s wives. A flesh-and-blood girl named Tigger. With wicked dreads. And she’d read part of her novel from the screen of a super-slim silver Mac. He’d give anything to possess one the same.
So he’d strolled out of his room and started the electric kettle boiling just a little earlier than Meg would have. And pretended he wasn’t looking at either the girl or her laptop. While inspecting them both minutely.
Tigger gave him a secret little grin from her nearby chair and he nodded, blushing.
“Awesome,” he whispered, looking at the machine with undisguised longing.
“Got it in London,” she murmured, not wanting to interrupt Romy who was being helpful to Meg.
Jeez—that makes it twice as good.
“Have you just, like, bought it?”
She indicated he should crouch beside her. He folded his tall body down, wishing he had better jeans on. Tigger turned the computer on her lap so he could inspect it. He ran an envious hand along its silver flank and hovered over the keys.
The kettle switched itself off with a sharp click just as no-one was saying anything. Meg rose to attend to tea and coffee, and there was general stretching and relaxing.
While the others claimed drinks to go with the food, Ben and Tigger slipped into his nearby bedroom. Muscle-bound All Blacks and hard-hitting cricketers sneered at them from big shiny posters on the walls.
And although it was obviously necessary to sit side by side on the bed to put the Mac through its paces, it was not compulsory for Tigger to press her breast against his arm, or for Ben to lean so close her hair tickled his ear.
He took a brave breath. “I liked your story.”
“Some writing’s real fun. All you need is two names...?” She looked at him as though seeking them.
“Michael and Jess,” he suggested, choosing school friends.
“What’s he like?”
“Red hair. Freckles. Plays the trumpet.”
Tigger gave him a gruesome look. “Not ideal hero material.” Her fingers danced.
Michael strode across the stage of the darkened theatre. He pushed impatient fingers through his luxuriant mane of auburn hair.
“Damn the woman!” he growled. Jess had promised to be at tonight’s concert. He’d reserved a prime seat in the front row for her.
Ben grinned. “Cool.”
“What does she look like?”
“Skinny. Really short black hair. Pierced eyebrow.”
“Hmmm. Okay—”
But every time he’d raked his dark eyes across the audience, her seat remained empty. He heaved a sigh. His naked sweat-sheened chest rose and fell.
“Naked?” Ben squawked.
“I’ve made him a rock star. He gets his shirt off for the girls. Tanned skin. No freckles and no trumpet—sorry.”
Jess watched him from the shadows. What a glorious animal he was. Untamed and unashamed. How could she hope to compete for a man like this? She ran a thin hand through her spiky dark hair, and then over her slender hip. She’d not dared to take her place in the audience tonight, although she’d enjoyed his music from a secret spot backstage. All the other women had yards of flowing blonde hair and bounteous breasts bursting from their low-c
ut necklines. How could she compete?
“Bounteous?”
“Boob jobs,” Tigger sneered. “Men like them big, don’t they?”
Ben held his breath and moved his arm very slightly against Tigger’s small high breast. The corners of her mouth curved up a little, but she kept her eyes averted and her fingers on the keyboard.
“You were wonderful,” Jess called from the shadows.
Michael glanced around the empty auditorium. “So you were here after all?”
Was his voice tinged with relief? Had he really wanted her there? But why? His whole dazzling future stretched before him—money, adoration, popularity.
Jess knew she was talented herself—a cutting-edge graphic artist. But his was a public profession. And hers was a private pursuit. They were poles apart, and his touring would rip them away from each other.
“You’ve got to make it really difficult for them to get together,” Tigger explained, leaning a fraction closer. “Otherwise there’s really no story.” She heaved a deep sigh, causing her breast to rise and fall against Ben’s arm.
He swallowed. The heroes in Meg’s writing always acted without thought for the consequences. He should probably do the same. Did he dare? Suddenly he found he was watching his right hand as it rose to touch Tigger’s perky left nipple.
“Oh!”
“Sorry.” He snatched his hand away, furious with himself.
“No, it’s fine,” she said, capturing it and replacing it. “I was trying to see if I could turn you on.
“Me?” he asked, in honest confusion, hand against warm breast, cock at full stretch.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Not really. Not currently.”
Not often, never properly.
“That’s okay then.”
No, it’s not—I really, really want one. “Why?”
“I wouldn’t want to poach. I got back from the UK last week. Just for a holiday to see Mom and Dad. I’m at a bit of a loose end...” She let the suggestion settle between them.
Ben’s eyes roved frantically around his bedroom. No items of school uniform were on display, thank God.
An Older Woman. Every boy’s dream. Someone who would teach him what to do. But he was far too proud to appear needy or unsophisticated.
“Well, it’s Saturday night,” he said, with as much nonchalance as he could manage. “Movie?” (Would Meg let him have the Toyota. Oh, puh-leese, Mom.)
CHAPTER 9 - LIZ AND ASSORTED BODY HAIR
She watched him through half closed eyes. What a mess. Was he salvageable? He might be an interesting project.
She picked up the plates of muesli slice and chocolate biscuits, and undulated across the room. Her mother had seen the possibilities of her daughter’s tall slim build and invested in deportment and grooming lessons in case a career on the catwalk was possible.
Liz had never been interested—she’d become a legal secretary, married an up-and-coming solicitor, and produced Brett and Rosie with surprising speed. But the purposeful walk always resurfaced when she was on the prowl.
“Ian?” she asked, proffering the plates. Predictably he chose the muesli slice.
“I’ve been looking at you this afternoon, and you’re not making the most of yourself.” She added a small smile to soften any possible pain.
He grinned back and pushed his hair out of his eyes with a big hand.
“No-one to make the effort for,” he said with a self-effacing shrug.
“But,” she persisted, “if you made the effort, there might be. Someone to make the effort for, if you see what I mean. Chicken and egg—which came first, and all that?”
Liz widened her smile. She had no way of knowing her pointed pixie face, exotically made-up eyes, and welter of hair had just transported him back onto the heaving ship, or that he was making a heroic attempt to squash his fantasy and pay attention.
“You need re-styling,” she said. “A make-over.”
She circled around him. He looked a bit stunned but hadn’t reacted with distress.
He simply stood frozen, sipping his tea, maybe embarrassed, but mostly managing to hide it.
“You’re nice and tall, anyway. Do you have a body under those god-awful baggy clothes?”
He shrugged. “Not really—I’m pretty thin. Strong, though. I lift a lot of stuff at work. Bags of fertilizer. Rocks for landscaping.”
“It’s called lean, Ian, not thin. Lean. It’s the best thing you can be.” She narrowed her eyes. “Roll up one of your sleeves.”
He looked around like a cornered rat, but the other writers were paying them no attention. With noticeable reluctance, he unbuttoned one of his green shirt cuffs and pushed the sleeve up his arm.
“Jeez!” she yelped. “You’re the palest man in the world, Ian. I thought you worked outside a lot?”
He yanked his sleeve back down and fumbled with the fastening. Liz reached over without fuss and re-buttoned the cuff as though he was Brett’s age.
“Heroes aren’t pale,” she explained. “Heroines are pale, but heroes are always tanned or swarthy or golden skinned or something like that. You need a suntan for starters. Your hands are okay.”
He shook his head. “Can’t risk it, Liz. I work outside a hell of a lot, but I’m always careful to cover up. Hole in the ozone layer... skin cancer... occupational hazard in my job. That’s how Dad went—Melanoma.”
“I bet he didn’t bother wearing high factor sun block.”
“Don’t suppose they had it when he was a young man. They say your skin gets damaged over years and years of exposure.”
“Careful’s one thing, but you’re being obsessive. There are lots of good specials on offer now summer’s here. The tanning clinic I go to does ten sessions for seventy bucks. That’d improve you out of sight, as long as you don’t overdo it.”
He continued to look doubtful.
“Only seventy bucks, Ian. It’s not much.”
“It’s not the money Liz—that’s not a problem.” He dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “But I don’t like showing how hairy I am.”
Liz had his sleeve way up again in seconds.
“Tense your muscles up,” she instructed. “Hey girls, is that too hairy?” she demanded, keeping a vise-like grip on his wrist. Ian felt his courage shrivel as at least six pairs of eyes focused on his unlovely body.
“Bit pale,” Meg said.
“See,” Liz crowed at him. “You need a suntan.”
Vi looked at him with astonishment. “My husband Brian was much hairier than that, Ian. Although I gather some men are going for the smooth look these days.”
“I met a lovely man last night who shaved his legs,” Meg contributed. Their eyes left Ian and fastened onto her instead. “He’s a serious cycle racer,” she added. “They all do it.”
“For aerodynamics? To go faster?” Romy asked.
“So they don’t get hair caught up in their scabs when they fall off their bikes,” Meg said with all the authority of the newly enlightened. “Anyway, if you weren’t so pale, Ian, you wouldn’t look so hairy. What’s your chest like?”
He made a defensive grab for his shirt-front before anyone else did. “Much the same,” he muttered.
“Ben—come out here a minute,” Meg called.
Ben and Tigger jumped apart and his hand flew away from the breast that he’d been gently stroking through the zebra-striped T-shirt. He’d thought they were well out of sight of the others.
He caught up a large computer magazine and clutched it across the bulging front of his jeans as he rose and tried to saunter out.
“Hold your arm against Ian’s, will you dear?” Meg instructed. “There you are, Ian. You’re not much hairier than Ben, and he’s still only seventeen.”
Ben’s spirits plummeted. He hadn’t wanted Tigger to know that, and couldn’t see how she’d have missed the appalling news.
“Is that it?” he demanded, furious and embarrassed.
“Yes
dear,” Meg said. Ben stumbled back to the bedroom and flopped down beside Tigger again, all hope lost.
“Seventeen?” she asked. “Are you really still seventeen? You’re so tall I thought...?”
“Six-two,” he snapped. “And now you know, that’s the end of things, I suppose.”
“Seventeen,” she murmured.
“Don’t rub it in!”
“A toy-boy,” she whispered, sending him a mischievous glance and raising her eyebrows.
“So what are you going to do about it?” His face flamed. He’d rather be anywhere but here.
“I might...do this,” she said with a small smile, stretching her neck up and capturing his sulky bottom lip between her own. She pulled away so that her mouth slipped slowly and deliciously off his. “I’ll get us some coffee, shall I? Black?”
He nodded, mute, still registering the warm sliding caress of her flesh over his. Sparks flashed and crackled all through his body.
Tigger breezed out amongst the others, sending Ian a cheeky grin. “I like hairy men,” she said. “I’m not hairy, so it seems right that men are. Lions and lionesses for instance...and he’s got the hair. I am so not into waxed chests.”
“I saw a documentary about that recently,” Vi contributed. “And not just chests, either,” she added with a dark expression. She clammed up, and Liz took over.
“You mean the old back, sac and crack? The Bastard had that done for his new girlfriend. I hope it hurt heaps. He never bothered for me.”
“So you do prefer smooth men?” Ian persisted.
“No—I’m just glad he went through some really intense pain as well. Because he insisted I had a Brazilian.”
Beads of sweat popped out across Ian’s forehead. His face flushed a sudden deep pink.
“A what, Liz?” Vi asked.