Minna

I leant into his chest. 'How old were you when you first slept with a man?' I asked.

'I, uh, seventeen,' he said. 'That came out of nowhere. Why do you ask?'

'I don't know,' I replied honestly. 'Just curious about when everything started for you.'

He rubbed my arm distractedly and kissed the top of my head. 'I'm sorry for everything.'

'You're still sleeping with men, aren't you?' I asked. My voice was more demanding this time. He'd given me the most information I'd gotten out of him in months, and I wanted to keep pressing for details. I wanted to know who he was sleeping with, and when and where. I wanted to know what his lover did for a living, and if he was married. I had so many questions, but Jon again clammed up and didn't respond.

'No, don't stay quiet,' I spat, my anger rising to the surface. 'Every time I try and talk to you about this, you treat me like I can't possibly understand. You say you're sorry, but I never have a chance to talk or to ask questions.'

'Because you never should have found out,' he said quietly.

'Let me guess; I wouldn't be able to understand.'

'No, actually, you wouldn't,' he agreed. He pulled me tight. 'Come on, we just had a really nice time. I feel like I'm getting my wife back. Don't talk about this crap. It has nothing to do with you, and never will.'

I felt like I was living with a stranger.

~~~~~~

Over the next two weeks both Jon and I prepared for my trip. I didn't ask him about the men and he didn't tell me. Big fucking surprise there, right? He was never going to give up the details. It was a part of his life that was closed off from me.

All the same, he hounded me for details about my trip. He wanted to know where I was going, for how long, and why. I gave only vague answers, angry that he would sleep with strange men and tell me I had no right to the details, while feeling entitled to every last snippet of information about my life, and my trip, a trip I wouldn't even be taking if he'd managed to keep his dick in his pants.

And in the midst of it all, we fucked like rabbits. It was as if a drought had been broken. Even when I got my period he was undeterred. He'd drag me off to the laundry and shove his cock in my mouth, and I'd masturbate in a toilet cubicle at lunch and text him a photo of my pussy-slicked fingers. We both seemed insatiable.

My final day at work before my holidays was a Thursday. I got up at the crack of dawn on Friday and spent the morning shopping, cooking, washing and cleaning.

Jon took me out to lunch and after we'd eaten, when we were sitting the carpark, we jerked him off.

'I'm going to miss you,' he said. 'When are you leaving?'

'I'll be gone before you get home from work.'

Jon mulled that over. In his hands were a wad of dirty, sticky tissues that we'd used to clean up his cum.

'Are you coming back?' he asked. 'I know you told me and the kids that you were, but honestly, are you coming back home?'

'Yep. For whatever stupid reason, I still love you.'

He leant over and kissed me. Relief was etched all over his face. 'I love you too, Min. I hope you have a wonderful time. Don't spend a minute worrying about us, and do whatever you bloody well want. Enjoy your time away. We won't call you, and don't you call us, not unless it's an emergency. Just take the break you need.'

To be quite honest, I didn't expect to enjoy myself, but I forced a smile and promised him that I would.

~~~~~~~~~~~

After three days I was bored witless. It was never like this when I was with Jon. We'd laugh and joke and explore together, and even things that were mundane became exciting. We once went on a week long holiday, without the kids, with the sole aim of having our photos taken with as many 'big things' as possible. Rocks, trucks, prawns, fruit... It was all fair game.

I'd had no real idea as to where I'd end up. I was currently in Newcastle and it was February, which in Australia means that it's hot. The old terrace houses were beautiful and the beach was an amazing contrast of white sand and blue seas, with the big cargo ships in the distance. It was a nice place to go, but I would have preferred to share it with my husband. We'd been here before, back when the kids were young, but all I could remember of that holiday was the beach and the horrible sunburn we'd got when the cheap sunscreen we'd bought had failed to do it's job.

I was staying in a cheap motel and after a day at the beach, I went back to my room and read for a while. It was only three or four o'clock in the afternoon. I had a nap, a shower, and went out to buy dinner. The streets of Newcastle seem to shift from 'gentrified' to 'terrifying' without any real warning, so I drove to a local restaurant and back, then took my dinner into my room to eat.

Maybe this was my problem, I thought to myself. I should have sat at the restaurant and eaten my dinner there. There were other customers chatting to each other, so why had I kept myself aloof? I was so accustomed to relying on my husband and children that I'd lost the art of small talk.

I finished my dinner. At the back of my room was a small courtyard with a plastic table and chairs. There was nothing to divide it from adjoining courtyards; the whole area was quite open plan, and as I put my plastic container and fork in the bin, I realised one of my neighbours was sitting outside his room.

I brushed my teeth, checked my hair, then went and cautiously slipped outside. I thought I might be able to make some small talk, and get some of the human interaction I'd been so desperately craving.

I gazed to my left and saw a man in his mid-thirties sprawled out on a plastic chair. He was in pressed slacks and a polo shirt, and from his slick haircut and cleanly shaved face, I guessed that he was a travelling sales representative. I remembered when my husband used to look that way.

The man glanced up in shock. That's when I realised he had one hand holding his phone, and the other down his pants. He'd been sitting out the back jerking off and watching porn on his phone.

Oh Minna, you stupid goose, I chastised myself. You want to talk to a stranger and he wants to beat one out. For whatever reason – and looking back, I can't tell you what on earth it was that compelled me – I took a seat and remarked 'it's a nice night, isn't it?'

'It is,' the sales rep remarked, pulling his hand from his pants and readjusting them.

I nodded my head in the direction of his crotch. 'Don't stop on my account.'

'I...' the man trailed off. 'I didn't realise there was anyone in your apartment. There's no one staying in the one on the other side.'

'Oh, don't worry about it,' I said. 'As I said, don't stop on my account.'

The man licked his lips nervously. 'How much do you want to see?'

'As much as you're wiling to show,' I replied, before I could stop myself. 'I don't want sex, you understand. I just want to watch you.'

His gaze dropped to my breasts. 'You look like you've got a nice set on you,' he said. 'Wanna get them out?'

I glanced around. There was nobody else at the motel. I reached under my shirt, unclipped my bra, and wiggled out of it without removing my shirt. I placed my bra on the plastic table, then lifted my shirt and showed him my boobs.

'Nice,' he said, stroking his cock. 'Gonna tell me where your husband is?'

I stared at my hand. Of course. I had my wedding rings on.

'Brisbane,' I said.

'Does he know you get up to this sort of thing when you're away?'

I didn't like the tone of his voice. I put my shirt back down.

'Show me,' he demanded. 'Don't pull your shirt down. You started this, and if you don't finish it, I'll track that husband of yours down and let him know how you behave when you're not around.'

'Go fuck yourself,' I spat, picking up my bra and going inside.

How did Jon do this sort of shit with strangers? How was it appealing? Sexy? That had just felt grotty and horrible. I wanted to go back outside and smack the sales rep in the face.

I wondered if he was serious; if he'd really try and track down Jon. I peered out the front of the motel. His car was parked next to mine, but while mine bore no identifying marks, his was a company vehicle.

An hour later I was still angry. I didn't want to stay here anymore. I packed up my bags, took my keys to reception and checked out.

It was nine o'clock at night. Time to hit the road.

~~~~~~~

I arrived in Sydney a little after midnight, and found a room in a nice hotel. It was a few steps up from the motel in Newcastle, and I felt safe within these sanitised walls. There were no sales reps to chat to. No nobody really.

I was woken the next morning by a phone call from Aaron.

'You have to come back home,' he pleaded. 'Dad lost his shit last night.'

I sat up and rubbed my head. 'Why did your father lose his temper?' I asked.

'Because the dinner he made was crap and...'

'...Aaron,' I interrupted. 'Give him a break. He's trying. If you're really unhappy, how about you make dinner?'

'I can't,' Aaron whined. 'Mum, please come back.'

In the background I could hear Jon speaking to Aaron. The phone was put down, and I could hear a muffled conversation taking place in the background. After a few minutes the phone was picked up, but it wasn't Aaron I was now speaking to, but my husband.

'I'm sorry about that, Min,' he said. 'I'll talk to Aaron and make sure he knows not to bother you.'

'Is everything alright?'

'Everything's fine,' he replied tersely. 'Enjoy your holiday.'

'But is everything...'

'...everything's fine,' he interrupted. 'Go. Enjoy your break. I'll sort out the kids. I love you.'

'I love you too.'

He hung up the phone before I could say anything else. I wondered if perhaps I should go home and sort out whatever dramas were unfolding. Obviously things weren't all smooth sailing, were they?

In the end, I didn't really make a decision. I could have stayed in Sydney for a few days, but I've never really loved the place. I don't hate it, but I don't love it, either. I got in my car and drove North, aiming to stop off at Brisbane if I felt it necessary, but somehow, two days later, it didn't seem imperative. Plus, I wanted to keep driving. I wanted to go to Cape Tribulation.

I went right up to the Cape, and then headed back down the Coast. I talked to people; tourists, married couples, fellow travellers. I took photos. I bought souvenirs for Jon and the kids, and I bought loose, casual clothes for myself whenever I ran out of clothes and couldn't be fucked finding a laundromat.

When I reached Rockhampton, I stopped. I was a day's drive out of Brisbane, but only nine days into my holiday. I had five days left to myself. So why not stop here, why not pause for a bit and enjoy a new town?

There were several hotels but most seemed to cater to sales representatives, and with my Newcastle experience still fresh on my mind, I instead chose to stay at a holiday park. It made me think of holidays when the kids were young, just as the bull statue I'd spotted at the entrance of Rockhampton had made me think of my 'big things' holiday with Jon. The kids would have loved this holiday park, and my husband and I would certainly have stopped to take a photo of the bull had we journeyed through Rocky on that particular holiday.

With all of the logic of a woman, I decided I wanted a photo of the bull to show Jon. This posed a little bit or a problem because the statue was in the middle of a roundabout on the main road but that alone wasn't enough to deter me. I drove as near as I could get, parked, then dodged traffic until I was in the centre of the island. I snapped a few happy photos of the bull, several focussing on it's nuts, then went back to my car.

I'm not going to lie; I was grateful to be getting back into air conditioning. Rockhampton in the middle of summer is a hell of a hot place. How the heck did the original cattle cope with the heat? Did some poor, unlucky bovines get plucked from the English countryside and transported to tropical Queensland? Or had there been some adjustment time factored in?

I thought I might do a bit of research on the topic while I ate dinner. I found a local pub and ordered a meal from the bistro, but just when my meal was chosen and paid for, an exceptionally annoying couple walked in and stood behind me.

You know those people whose voices and conversation topics just grate you? Those people whose politics and life opinions are a mile away from yours, and who talk very loudly and confidently on matters they know nothing about? Yes, those people. Two of those people joined sat down at an adjoining table in the bistro and tried to engage me in talk about the local Aboriginal population.

I excused myself, picked up my plate, and tried to figure out where to go.

In 1965 Merle Thornton and Rosalie Bognor chained themselves to the public bar of the Regatta Hotel and refused to move unless they were served a drink. Until that point, public bars were the denizens of men only. Their protest resulted in women being granted the right to drink in public bars, and Merle and Rosalie became feminist icons.

I've always felt that it must've been some kind of symbolic battle, because what woman in her right mind wants to drink in a public bar? Stuff that, the men are welcome to that little den of iniquity all to themselves. But given the choice between discussing Rocky's indigenous population and the public bar, that night I decided to take my chances with the latter.

I asked the bartender if she minded if I sat at the bar and ate my dinner.

'No, no, love, make yourself at home,' she said. 'Do you want a drink to go with that?'

'Could I trouble you for a CC and dry?'

'Sure.'

The bartender made me my drink, then left me to eat my dinner in peace and quiet. I slowly chewed my overcooked roast and listened to the banter of the other patrons.

A group of truck drivers were sitting behind me. When Jon had worked in construction he'd frequently told me stories about truck driver's and their antics. He told me the woes of small streets, of low powerlines, and the dangers of getting bogged, about what trucks had access where, and the implications it caused with regards to cost and schedules.

The men's talk bought me back to a happier time in my marriage. It's funny how you can be blissfully unaware of how happy you once were. You don't recognise that there was no strain on your faces, and no petty little arguments, until things turn sour and you start to worry and bicker.

I tried to imagine what life would be like as a truck driver. On the drive up North, and again coming back down, I'd traversed winding roads that were used as delivery routes. Several times I'd inadvertently slowed down, and hadn't noticed until the road suddenly split into two lanes; an overtaking one and a regular one, and I'd noticed the traffic banked up behind me. I'd pull into the slow lane and let the trucks and cars speed past, and when the two lanes merged back into one I'd made a conscious effort to keep travelling at the speed limit.

Even when I kept to the speed limit, trucks would sometimes bank up behind me. Jon had once told me that if you see a semi speeding, you speed right along behind it. Truck drivers always know where the radars are, he told me. They have an open channel on the CB radio and the drivers let each other know when they've spotted one. If they're speeding it's because they know they won't get caught. I didn't know whether that was true or not so I'd kept to the speed limit, and pulled into the slow lane wherever possible to let them overtake.

'Didn't even bother telling me where the bloody dog trailer was bogged,' one of the men laughed. 'He just gave me the keys and said he'd be off to find a new job the next day. Three days he lasted with us. Three fucking days.'

I discreetly turned around to see who was speaking. Whoever it was, he had a good voice, very strong and melodic, and yet bubbling with laughter. It took me a second to spot him. He was maybe fifty years old, with a shaved head and a big bushy beard, and was wearing a blue and yellow work shirt. He was a little bit paunchy, but not terribly overweight, and light golden brown iris, which I noticed when he caught my gaze. His beer glass hovered in front of his lips for just a fraction before I gave him a small smile and abruptly turned around.

The bartender came and picked up my plate.

'Thanks,' I said.

'It's all good, love. I was just chatting to Bruce over in the bistro and he said you were getting hassled by a couple with some very loud opinions. May as well come where it's quiet and eat your meal in peace.'

She was a nice friendly woman. As we chatted, a couple of the truck drivers came up to the bar to order fresh beers. The bartender took their orders and poured their schooners, while I toyed with the straw in my drink.

One of the men at the bar was the bald-headed, bushy-bearded man and I could feel him glancing at me as he handed over his money and waited for his change. Maybe he was trying to figure out what I was doing here. I must have looked out on place in a blue collar public bar, dressed in sandals and a summer dress, with a full face of make-up. It's amazing how much time you have to get ready when you're not worried about work, or cleaning, or your kids or your husband.

In the end, curiosity got the better of him and he asked me if I was waiting for my husband.

'Nope,' I said. 'My husband was a bad boy, so I've left him in Brisbane.'

The bartender gave Beardy his beer. Beardy took a sip.

'What'd your husband do?' he asked, checking my hands for my wedding rings.

There were no wedding rings on my hands. I'd taken them off in Sydney. I can't tell you why. It wasn't a permanent move, but maybe just a protection measure. I didn't want any other men feeling they had a right to judge my behaviour and make a report back to Jon about how I'd conducted myself in his absence.

'Cheated on me,' I said. 'Several times. With men.'

Bushy's mate was in the midst of taking a mouthful of beer, and although he was pretending he wasn't listening into the conversation, he gave himself away when he spat out a mouthful of beer.

I took a sip of my Canadian Club and tried not to let out a nervous giggle. The entire bar had fallen silent. You could have heard a pin drop.

'Fuck me, what a bloody goose,' Beardy remarked.

'More like a rooster,' one of his mates, still sitting at the table, called out. 'A rooster mucking around with another fucking rooster.'

A cock and a cock. A smart one, the one that made the joke. Quick wit, something that Jon always said was appreciated when you were in a shitfull, boring job.

Laughter replaced the silence and a smile tugged at the corner of my lips. Beardy's mate had returned to the table, but Beardy was still standing next to me, and the bartender was directly in front of us.

'So what are you doing in Rocky?' Beardy asked.

'Not much, as of yet,' I said. 'I took a photo of your bull today.'

'Which bull?' he asked.

'There are more than one?'

'There are. There's seven of 'em. Every few years somebody gets the idea that we should take them all down and try and be more cosmopolitan, but beef farming was what this town was built on, so they stay. Besides, one's outside the art gallery, and if that doesn't prove we have culture, what does?'

That gave me an idea. 'Can you tell me where the rest are?' I asked. 'I'd like to take photos of them.'

'I'll take you to see them, if you want.'

I glanced at the bartender.

She nodded. 'Go with Bazza,' she said. 'He's safe as houses.'