Firstly, this blog should be read as "It’s pronounced nuc-ular (Part 2)". The reason why I chose that quote as a title will become apparent for those who read on.
Second: a small post script to Part 1. We can argue the garbled semantics of nuclear into the middle of next week; it was merely an illustration. The dearth of American intelligence highlights itself again, which in itself begs another question, but it doesn’t warrant asking, because I already know the answer.
So, some exposition before getting to the headline act… My ex’s office, last Friday afternoon.
"Is that it?"
"Come for a drink tonight."
I can’t for the life of me tell you why I said yes. Was it something dodgy that I ate for lunch? Jedi mind trick? Was my id going Freudian? Was I blinded by her ample décolletage? Whatever the reason, it was too late for back-pedalling. She had her quarry, and we both knew it.
"Apartment, 6.30"
Great! You invite me out for a drink, to which I foolishly agree, and then tell me that the venue is a bar that I have never walked out alone! There’s only one conclusion here, and it ain’t pretty.
I leave with a sheaf of new contracts to conveyance and a head that’s swimming. Now, my ex’s office and mine are barely 100 yards apart, but it takes a good 5 minutes for me to walk back. The Apartment is within walking distance of our offices. It’s quiet, intimate even. Perfect venue if quiet seduction is your method.
My memory harks back to March 2006, the first time around. We’d met about six months previous and danced around one another. Meeting her was my ‘Honey Rider’ moment. Yeah, OK, it was not quite coming out of the surf in a white bikini and walking up a beach of the purest white sand with me obscured in the palms, "just looking" but she was the most beautiful thing in the world. She’s the button-cute 20-year-old receptionist for the realtor opposite and I’m the 24-year-old fresh-faced graduate, and I’m Mrs Robinson. How’s that for role reversal!
She’s a tearaway and a flirt at the best of times, so mixing her personality with copious amounts of alcohol is not a good idea. On this March night, we went out (as friends) I could just sense she was headed for disaster, chatting up these 2 guys. She needed an escape route, I stepped in. I took her home and put her to bed. It turned out to be a stroke of genius: two weeks later, one of them was fronting court, applying for bail on charges of possession with intent to supply, weapons charges and affray.
Fast forward a couple of hours to 401 Little Bourke Street. An old mate from uni, Terry, is the doorman. We have a quick chat, because I’m something of a regular, and Terry informs me that my ex is waiting for me in the back corner. So it’s down the stairs and across the floor. Sure enough, my ex is perched on an ottoman in the back corner. She stands with a demure smile and gives me a peck on the cheek. Her breath is laced with peppermint and vodka, a telltale sign she has a) been smoking and b) had a couple. She’s taken the liberty of ordering me a starter. And another. And another. Followed by a double scotch and soda.
"Miss {her surname}, you’re trying to seduce me."
She smiles before kissing me fully. She guides my left hand around her right hip. Before I know it, she’s slipped herself into my lap. She leans in close and whispers.
"F&@% yeah!"
Inexplicably, I had the famous Lady Astor / Winston Churchill exchange in my head. Not that it did much for me; I was already past turned on.
Fast forward again: her place.
The door’s barely unlocked and clothes are torn and strewn in ravenous passion. I’m pretty sure there was a gasp as she … became reacquainted. Pushing me back onto the bed, she went about having her way.
On toes and bounce, bounce, ALL the way down (nice and slow), wriggle, grind, repeat. You get it.
She was relentless. Then … the Earth stopped turning. She’d done it before, but not like this.
Where the f&@% did you learn that!
Breathless, she quips "That’s what you get for being MIA 6 months. Again?"
It’s a redundant question. I’m not going anywhere. She’s impaled herself on me, and I’m wedged between the (soggy) sheets and her hips. Extrication is going to be a process. Nothing for it, she starts over. Next thing I know, it’s morning and I am waking to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.
Second: a small post script to Part 1. We can argue the garbled semantics of nuclear into the middle of next week; it was merely an illustration. The dearth of American intelligence highlights itself again, which in itself begs another question, but it doesn’t warrant asking, because I already know the answer.
So, some exposition before getting to the headline act… My ex’s office, last Friday afternoon.
"Is that it?"
"Come for a drink tonight."
I can’t for the life of me tell you why I said yes. Was it something dodgy that I ate for lunch? Jedi mind trick? Was my id going Freudian? Was I blinded by her ample décolletage? Whatever the reason, it was too late for back-pedalling. She had her quarry, and we both knew it.
"Apartment, 6.30"
Great! You invite me out for a drink, to which I foolishly agree, and then tell me that the venue is a bar that I have never walked out alone! There’s only one conclusion here, and it ain’t pretty.
I leave with a sheaf of new contracts to conveyance and a head that’s swimming. Now, my ex’s office and mine are barely 100 yards apart, but it takes a good 5 minutes for me to walk back. The Apartment is within walking distance of our offices. It’s quiet, intimate even. Perfect venue if quiet seduction is your method.
My memory harks back to March 2006, the first time around. We’d met about six months previous and danced around one another. Meeting her was my ‘Honey Rider’ moment. Yeah, OK, it was not quite coming out of the surf in a white bikini and walking up a beach of the purest white sand with me obscured in the palms, "just looking" but she was the most beautiful thing in the world. She’s the button-cute 20-year-old receptionist for the realtor opposite and I’m the 24-year-old fresh-faced graduate, and I’m Mrs Robinson. How’s that for role reversal!
She’s a tearaway and a flirt at the best of times, so mixing her personality with copious amounts of alcohol is not a good idea. On this March night, we went out (as friends) I could just sense she was headed for disaster, chatting up these 2 guys. She needed an escape route, I stepped in. I took her home and put her to bed. It turned out to be a stroke of genius: two weeks later, one of them was fronting court, applying for bail on charges of possession with intent to supply, weapons charges and affray.
Fast forward a couple of hours to 401 Little Bourke Street. An old mate from uni, Terry, is the doorman. We have a quick chat, because I’m something of a regular, and Terry informs me that my ex is waiting for me in the back corner. So it’s down the stairs and across the floor. Sure enough, my ex is perched on an ottoman in the back corner. She stands with a demure smile and gives me a peck on the cheek. Her breath is laced with peppermint and vodka, a telltale sign she has a) been smoking and b) had a couple. She’s taken the liberty of ordering me a starter. And another. And another. Followed by a double scotch and soda.
"Miss {her surname}, you’re trying to seduce me."
She smiles before kissing me fully. She guides my left hand around her right hip. Before I know it, she’s slipped herself into my lap. She leans in close and whispers.
"F&@% yeah!"
Inexplicably, I had the famous Lady Astor / Winston Churchill exchange in my head. Not that it did much for me; I was already past turned on.
Fast forward again: her place.
The door’s barely unlocked and clothes are torn and strewn in ravenous passion. I’m pretty sure there was a gasp as she … became reacquainted. Pushing me back onto the bed, she went about having her way.
On toes and bounce, bounce, ALL the way down (nice and slow), wriggle, grind, repeat. You get it.
She was relentless. Then … the Earth stopped turning. She’d done it before, but not like this.
Where the f&@% did you learn that!
Breathless, she quips "That’s what you get for being MIA 6 months. Again?"
It’s a redundant question. I’m not going anywhere. She’s impaled herself on me, and I’m wedged between the (soggy) sheets and her hips. Extrication is going to be a process. Nothing for it, she starts over. Next thing I know, it’s morning and I am waking to the smell of freshly brewed coffee.