Payback

2017

The penis that was sliding in and out of me belonged to Simon, a forty-seven year old asphalt plant manager.

I'd learned over my thirteen months of promiscuity that men liked it when you remembered their names. When they saw you searching your memory bank for the details, the light in their eyes died a little. Even the married ones wanted to be remembered.

Some seemed to forget that casual was not just a one way street where they were the only ones getting their needs met, which could be rather annoying. Others were the opposite; they were happy, grateful even, that I had chosen them. They'd go out of their way to be courteous, even after they'd climaxed, and this could be even more annoying than the men who didn't care.

Simon, I thought, would fall somewhere in between these two extremes. He was single and had a big, hairy belly and lots of thick, black hair on his head. His hands were rough but he was very gentle with me, very careful. At some point in his life a woman had loved him dearly, beyond all reason. He hadn't told me this, I just knew. Don't ask me how or why, but I did.

His breathing changed as he neared climax. For some, the road to orgasm is a sprint race, but Simon was that kindly marathoner who wanted to hold the hand of their substandard competitor as the two of them crossed the finish line together. He'd being trying to bring me to orgasm for the better part of twenty minutes.

'Helen,' he whispers. 'I'm running into a few problems here, love.'

'It's not a problem for me.'

His dry, cracked lips pressed against my forehead. We were in missionary position, and his belly was almost crushing me, but it was an enjoyable discomfort. There was no mistaking what I was doing, or the fact that the man I was with was not my husband. Angus had had an entirely different style of love-making, and he smelt different; muskier and less... acrid? Was that the word? Yes, I supposed it was.

A groan escaped Simon's lips, then another, and then it was over. I heard him panting with exertion and relief. I ran my hands over his sweaty, hairy back and thought about the woman who had loved him.

Simon kissed me again, his slimy tongue forcing entrance into my mouth. Out of the corner of my eyes I searched for my clothes. The moment he excused himself to go to the bathroom, I'd dress as quickly as I could. Then I'd leave.

That was how things worked these days. I had my routine down pat.

1995

The familiar ache of nicotine addiction reasserted it's presence somewhere around three o'clock on Monday, which was the usual time I took afternoon smoko.

I told my boss, Peter, I'd be back in five minutes and he nodded his assent. I grabbed my book, my cigarettes and lighter, and headed around to the back of the store where my plan was to drink a can of diet Coke, smoke a cigarette, and read as much of my latest book as I could squeeze into ten minutes.

It was cool and grimy at the back of the store, but it was also quiet. We adjoined a motorcycle sales yard and their property was separated from ours by a six foot cyclone wire fence. Often their workers would sit on the opposite side of the fence, where they were hidden from the rest of the yard by a large shed, and sneak a cigarette or two.

They'd nod their head at me in a sign of recognition but we never struck up conversation. Why would we? I was a nineteen year old grunge girl who always had her nose buried in a book. They were rough, tough, motorcycle guys. They were loud and confident and cocky, whereas I was shy and quiet.

I wasn't very good around men. It didn't help that I had no father or brother at home; it was just Mum, my sister Anne, and me. We lived a simple life in a basic three bedroom house in a low income suburb. Mum was a cleaner, Anne worked as a secretary. None of us had gone to university. I'd contemplated it, but Mum had said it was a waste of money and that it wouldn't guarantee me a career, so I'd taken the first job I was offered; print store assistant. It was there that I scanned, copied, embroidered, invoiced and receipted my days away.

I lit my cigarette and took a deep draw as I flicked my novel open. I heard one of the motorcycle yard employees walk behind the shed and I glanced up. It was one of the younger guys, someone maybe a year or two older than me, Aboriginal and with a heavy build and curly brown hair that was sun-bleached blonde at the ends. I didn't know his name, but I knew his face. He'd been a regular behind the shed for the past year, before randomly disappearing a few weeks ago.

'Hi,' he said, approaching the fence. 'Would I be able to borrow your lighter please?'

'Yeah, sure,' I agreed, reaching into my purse.

I quickly found my lighter and passed it through the fence. I waited while he lit his cigarette, watching as he sucked on his Peter Jackson like it was supplying some crucial life force.

'Thanks,' he said, passing it back.

'No worries.' I said, taking a draw on my cigarette as I sat back down on an old milk crate. 'I haven't seen you for a while. I thought you must have left.'

He seemed pleased that I'd noticed his absence.

'I went to the states and did Route 66,' he said.

I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about it.

'Was it fun?' I asked politely.

I didn't have much success with men, and that question probably summed up why. The overly formal tone of my voice and the inane question did nothing to suggest I was a fun person to be with, but my companion was sufficiently excited about his recent trip to launch into a jumbled dialogue, and as he spoke, I nodded and smiled, until my cigarette was finished, my break was well and truly over, and I was due back in the store.

'Sounds great,' I said, standing up. 'I, uh, I should be getting back to work.'

'Oh yeah. I just kept rabbiting on, didn't I? Sorry. Hey, we should catch up some time and I'll show you the photos. They're getting developed right now. What if I see you next week and we organise something?'

'You don't have to if you don't want to,' I replied.

'I'd love to show you.'

'Okay, well, that sounds good,' I said. 'I, um... I should get back to work.'

I went inside, relieved to be away from him and yet finding myself missing the sound of his voice. He wasn't handsome, and he wasn't the sort of man I would ever have dreamt of dating, but he had a nice smile and he hadn't seemed to notice or care that I was awkward and staid.

The following day, as I took my lunch out the back to smoke, a couple of guys from the motorcycle yard were sneaking a quick fag behind the shed. When they saw me they started sniggering and joking amongst themselves, careful not to let me overhear.

I glanced down at my outfit, wondering if I had toilet paper stuck to my shoe or a button undone on my shirt, but everything seemed in order. Perplexed, I sat down, lit a cigarette and tried to read my book, but the words blurred beneath my eyes and I had to force myself to turn pages periodically to keep up the charade.

Eventually the two men finished their smokes and left. I was confused. I thought deeply about why they might be laughing at me, but after reaching no conclusion other than that I was clearly ugly and they found me a source of fun, I ate my lunch, had another cigarette, and returned to work.

My self esteem was terrible at that point. I had very small white teeth, which were out of proportion to the rest of my face, a big nose and a weak chin, and I was convinced I looked horrendous. I wasn't fat, but at sixty-two kilos and standing five foot eight, I was convinced I was overweight. No man, I decided, would ever find me attractive. I'd slept with two of them, just to see what the fuss was about, but the second had told everyone I was 'an ugly mole who puts out to get a man', so I wasn't very keen to sleep with a third.

Wednesday passed without incident but Thursday saw me again getting pointed to and joked about as I had my morning cigarette. For all of my insecurities around men, I still had a tipping point, and I'd just reached it.

'Is there some joke I'm missing?' I asked coldly.

Neither of the motorcyclists responded, they just sniggered and guffawed again before sauntering back to their jobs. I was seething with rage. Fine, I was ugly. Sure, I couldn't talk to men. But what right did they have to continually laugh and joke about me?

I went back to work in a cross mood. I planted a smile on my face and pretended to everyone that I was my usual, cheerful self, but inside I was fuming. When the motorcyclist who had borrowed my lighter came in just before lunch, I gave my boss a silly excuse and headed out to the back room so I wouldn't have to speak to him. If he needed some photocopying done then Peter could speak to him.

I was trying to pretend I was doing something with a printer when Peter walked in.

'There's a fellow here who wants to speak to you,' he said.

'Is it the fat guy with the tattoos who works at Suzuki?'

'Yes, that's the one.' Peter frowned, concerned. 'Would you like me to tell him to go away? You don't seem very happy.'

'No, no, I'll speak to him,' I said. 'It's something private, though. Do you mind if I speak to him out the front of the store?'

'Is everything alright, Helen?'

'Yes, yes,' I replied hurriedly, not wanting to give him the details. I liked my job, and Peter was a reasonable boss. 'I'll take the time off my lunch break.'

'Don't you worry about that, you're always here on time and you always stay back when I need you. Take as long as you want.'

I went out the front of the store. My visitor smiled at me, showing a mouthful of perfect teeth.

'Come outside,' I instructed him brusquely.

We went outside and stood in the weak morning sunshine. I was shaking with rage, presuming that he'd come here to embarrass me, or join in the joke he was having with his workmates.

'I got my photos back,' he said.

'Okay,' I replied non-committedly, folding my arms across my chest and waiting for him to continue.

'I thought you might want to see them sometime,' he continued. 'Are you doing anything on Friday night?'

It occurred to me that this was a set-up. His workmates were laughing at me because their friend was planning on asking me on a date and standing me up.

'Is this what passes as fun for you jackasses?' I demanded.

The motorcyclist's brown eyes narrowed. 'What are you talking about?'

'Well, you're obviously trying to set me up,' I snapped. 'Your workmates have been laughing at me all week. Every time I go out to have a smoke they start snickering and carrying on like a pack of fucking hyenas.'

'Why would they laugh at you?' he asked, baffled.

'I don't know! Why would I?' I demanded angrily. 'Go away. Seriously, fuck off. Find someone else to make fun of.'

'Hey, calm down,' he requested, grabbing my arm. He stared earnestly at me. 'I don't know why they're laughing, but it's probably not at you. They're just idiots.'

I stared at him, trying to figure out if he was a world class actor, or if he was telling the truth.

'Are you lying to me?' I asked.

'No, fuck no,' he exclaimed. 'I'll sort them out when I go back to work. They won't laugh at you again, I promise.'

It occurred to me that he wasn't lying, he was telling the truth. He genuinely didn't know that his workmates had been taking the piss out of me for the past couple of days.

'No, don't,' I replied restlessly, guiltily. 'I don't want to make trouble for you. I'm sorry. I thought it had something to do with you.'

'No, never, I swear to you.'

'Okay, well, um, I'm sorry for getting angry at you.'

'It's okay,' he said. 'So, uh, do you want to go out on Friday night?'

I felt so guilty for falsely accusing him, I said 'yes' rather than my stock standard 'you don't have to' or 'don't worry about it'. I always spoke to men as if I were sparing them the misery of my company, but on this occasion I felt that knocking him back would be worse than accepting, so I broke with my tradition.

The motorcyclist seemed infinitely relieved by my answer.

'Should I pick you up at six?' he asked.

'Sure. I'll go inside and write down my address for you,' I said.

I headed inside the print store for a pen and paper. I took them both outside before Peter had a chance to question what I was doing, held the paper up against a metal support beam, and started to write down my details.

The pen soon stopped working as the ink flowed away from the ballpoint, so I knelt down and rested the paper on my knee. I scribbled with the pen to get the ink flowing and instead jabbed a hole in the paper.

'Ah, fuck this,' I swore irritably, just as the pen miraculously starting working again. 'Okay, never mind, it's working.'

I wrote down my address and home phone number.

'Here,' I said. 'Um, I'll see you tomorrow night?'

'Yeah,' he said. 'What's your name?'

'Helen,' I said. 'What's your name?'

'Philip, but everyone calls me Didge.'

'Didge?'

'Yeah, 'Didge' as in 'Indigenous'.'

'I'm not calling you that! Oh my God.' I exclaimed. 'Aren't you offended?'

'Nah,' he said with an easy grin. 'I hate 'Philip'. Even my Mum hates it. It was Dad's idea, but even he now reckons it doesn't suit me. They call me Angus. That's my middle name. Everyone else calls me Didge. Take your pick.'

'Angus,' I said.

He smiled again, amused at the offence I'd taken to his nickname. 'I'll see you tomorrow night. And don't you worry about my workmates. I'll sort them out.'

2017

I used to marvel at women who would shrug when asked how many men they'd had. They couldn't remember, and the lack of a definitive figure didn't seem to faze them.

How, I wondered, did any woman manage to rack up such an incredible number of lovers? Did they enjoy being sluts? I would look at random men off the street, imagine having sex with them, and shudder.

I definitely wouldn't have contemplated sleeping with a married man. I thought the women who seduced these men were just as bad the men themselves. They were selfish, horrible homewreckers.

It was only since my husband's murder that my outlook changed. I felt no guilt, no fear, no anger about the men. But to be fair, I didn't feel much, really, and perhaps that was why I was doing what I was doing. Sex was... something. Something to make me feel less alone. The consequences, for either myself or for them, were irrelevant.

1995

'He's fat,' my mother declared, eyeing Angus from behind the lace curtain.

Anne pushed her aside to inspect my date. 'Yep,' she agreed. 'Helen, he's kind of gross.'

'Too fat, too young,' Mum agreed. 'And scruffy.'

I stiffened at the criticism. Mum had been single for the ten years since she got sick of my father and told him to move out of the family home. I rarely saw my Dad. He'd found a new family, a new wife, and had new children with her.

Anne, fourteen months' my junior, was prettier than me and always had a handsome man on her arm. She was always demanding things of them, too; money, jewellery, attention. I often baulked, horrified, at the way she treated them, imploring her to be nicer, but she'd just shrug and tell me she deserved the best, and Mum would nod her head and agree. 'No point settling for second best' was their mantra.

'I'll see you guys later,' I said, picking up my purse.

'But we want to meet him,' Anne whined.

'Yes,' Mum agreed. 'A real man wouldn't take you on a date without meeting your mother.'

Well, damned if I was letting Angus be subjected to either of them, so I told them not to be silly and ran out the front door before they had a chance to reply.

I met Angus half way up our driveway. He wasn't scruffy at all, not in my eyes. He was dressed in the fashion of the time; baggy jeans and an oversized black and white striped shirt, and he'd shaved and he smelt clean. I'd seen worse, a lot worse, out of men on dates.

My jeans were so tight I'd had to use a coat hanger to do up the zip, and with them I wore fourteen hole cherry Doc Martens and a tight grey shirt. The shirt showed off my bust, which was reasonably large, and the black jeans constrained the extra weight I felt I carried around my hips. My hair was newly dyed pitch black and it stank of Clairol permanent hair colour. All in all I looked not atypical of a teenaged, working class girl who was still digesting Kurt Cobain's untimely passing.

'Hi Helen,' he said. 'Do I need to go in and meet your parents?'

The right thing to do would be to bring him inside, but Mum and Anne had already described him as fat and scruffy, and I didn't want them seeing him in the light and realising he was Aboriginal, because all hell would break lose if they found out, so I shook my head.

'No, it's okay,' I said.

We went out the front, to where he'd parked his motorbike. He handed me a helmet.

'I reckon this should just about fit you. Try it on.'

I pulled it on, smooshing my hair and smearing my make-up in the process. I lifted the visor. 'How do I look?'

'Really nice,' he said encouragingly. 'Ever ridden pillion?'

'Nope.'

'I'll get on first, then you get on behind me. If I lean left, lean left with me. Try to keep your body in line with me. Hold on to me as tight as you want, and if you want me to stop, just tap on my shoulder.'

'Um, okay. Am I going to die tonight?'

Angus laughed. 'No, of course not. What sort of man would I be if I let you die?'

I cautiously climbed on behind him. I tried to sit at the back of the pillion seat, but the seat was tilted down and I couldn't help sliding forward, so that my chest was pressed against his back. He felt warm and smelt good, and I wondered if he'd give me a ride back home at the end of the night, or if I'd have bored him by then, and I'd be left to catch a taxi back. I had money for a taxi, just in case.

He started the engine and took off. The take off was smooth but I hadn't been expecting it to be so quick, and I clutched onto him in fright. Angus noticed my reaction and rode slowly to the end of the street. When we pulled up at a stop sign he turned around, lifted his visor, and asked if I was alright.

I nodded. 'Sorry, it's just a new sensation.'

'Would you rather I take a journey that avoids the highway?' he asked.

'Yes please.'

Instead of going fast in a straight line we took back streets through suburbia, traversing narrow roads and going through roundabout after endless roundabout. Angus stopped at one point and reminded me to lean with him, and I realised I'd be sitting bolt upright like a terrified lump of wood.

'What if I lean too far and we fall over?' I asked.

'It's like a bicycle.'

'I can't ride a bicycle!'

'Then just trust me. I won't let anything happen to you.'

I think I did a little better after that. I didn't quite lean as much as he did, but I did lean a little bit, and he didn't have to stop again.

When we reached the Hyperdome, the shopping mall where we would be having dinner, he helped me remove my helmet and straighten my hair. I bit my fingernails anxiously and apologised profusely for not knowing what to do.

'No worries, you'll pick it up,' he said encouragingly. He grabbed my hand. 'I hope you like Sizzler.'

'I love Sizzler.'

It felt good to have his hand in mine, and he was someone who chatted a lot, which took the pressure off me to make conversation. When he did pause to take breathe, there were always questions and comments I wanted to make and by the time we'd made it to Sizzler I wasn't anywhere near as nervous as I had been.

We agreed to pay for our own meals, and we were led to a small table that was surrounded by families with kids. I didn't mind, I loved kids. Angus didn't seem bothered, either, and when a toddler walked directly into his leg on the way to the buffet, he didn't bat an eyelid he just laughed and helped the girl back to her feet.