Payback

'Do you like kids?' I asked him.

'Yeah, sure,' he agreed. 'I'd like to have some one day.'

'Me too.'

'But first I want to do a trip around Australia on my bike. I started doing it two years ago but had to stop in Darwin because I got pneumonia.'

'That was inconvenient,' I said.

'It was.'

'Did you bring your photos from the US trip with you tonight?'

'Nah, I was going to, but I didn't want to bore you.'

'Oh, you could have bought them. I've never been overseas, so it would've been cool.'

'Maybe another time?'

'Yeah, sounds great.'

We smiled at each other. My heart thudded a bit as I realised just how cute he was, how great his smile was. With any other man I would have felt nervous or awkward or been bored in his company, but the more time I spent with Angus, the more I liked him.

I think he liked me, too.

'I'm sorry about my workmates,' he added. 'They won't laugh at you anymore. I sorted that out.'

'Oh, thanks,' I replied. 'Why was it they were laughing, anyway? What did I do?'

Angus was embarrassed. 'It was kinda my fault. I told them you'd noticed I'd gone away.'

I stared at him expectantly, waiting for further clarity.

'And I told them that I figured you must like me or something, and asked what they thought,' he added. 'They reckoned you were off your rocker, but if you'd noticed I wasn't there, chances were good you'd say 'yes'.'

Angus and his workmates couldn't have been more wrong, but it seemed impolite to point this out, particularly because he was proving himself to be exactly the nice sort of man I didn't think existed, so I forced a smile.

'I'm not off my rocker,' I replied.

He gave me a pleased, half-smile. He had excellent teeth, the sort of teeth that Aboriginal people often have and white people rarely do. The more I looked at him, more I liked what I was seeing.

After we'd had dinner he asked if I wanted to go to the movies but I was on junior wages and the cost of a ticket and popcorn, combined with the price of dinner, was a little too high for me to bear. Money wasn't so much of an issue to Angus. He was twenty-three and a qualified motorcycle mechanic and while it was far from the best paid of trades, he earned significantly more than me.

'Let's go for a ride,' I suggested. 'Can you try me out on a freeway?'

Angus tried to bite back a smile.

'What?' I asked.

He shook his head. 'Nothing.'

'No, it's something,' I argued. 'What did I say wrong?'

'Nothing,' he mumbled. 'It just sounded kind of dirty.'

'Can you...' I started repeating out loud my sentence. 'Oh. Yes, I suppose it does.'

He grabbed my hand and used it to pull me close. His mouth hovered just inches from mine for a few seconds before he kissed me for the first time.

'I shouldn't laugh at you,' he said. 'You just sound so proper at times. Very posh.'

I blushed red. 'Sorry.'

'And you always apologise,' he added. 'Why?'

'I don't know. I don't want to annoy anyone.'

He gave me a funny look, before tugging on my hand and leading me towards the carpark. 'I know somewhere we can go.'

He took me to the Gold Coast. It was a journey that required a lot of night time, highway driving, but with little leaning required, I felt more comfortable. I held onto his waist and thought about how I should offer him sex, without which I felt he would find the date disastrous and a waste of his time.

Angus parked at Surfers Paradise and we went for a walk along the beach. There were other people around, but he didn't seem to notice or care as we walked hand in hand, chatting and laughing. I wanted to kiss him, and would stop him every so often, but he'd always pull away after a minute or two. The amount of time he'd spend kissing me would decrease each session, and after the fourth time it happened, I started to wonder if I was perhaps reading more into things than he was.

'Do you want to take me back home?' I asked.

'Are you ready to go back?'

'No, no, I just thought you must be getting a bit sick of me because you just stopped us kissing.'

He kissed the top of my head. 'I'd love to keep kissing you, but I can't. I'm starting to get hard.'

I stared at him blankly.

'You know,' he grimaced. 'Down there. Didn't you feel it?'

'No,' I admitted.

In hindsight it probably isn't the best thing to say to a man, as it tends to imply his penis isn't large enough to be felt, but Angus wasn't offended. He half-jogged up to the top of beach, dragging me with him. I'd already noticed he'd do that a lot; hold my hand and take me wherever he felt we needed to go, as if saying 'let's go here' wasn't sufficient.

When we were at the top of the beach, halfway up and over a sand dune, he began to kiss me again. This time he didn't stop after a minute or two, he just kept going and going. He was enthusiastic, to say the least. I began to feel like a toy. Powerless, defenceless. It wasn't bad, because I wasn't scared of him and I would have sex with him here and now if he wanted it, but it certainly occurred to me that this was a man who could easily force himself on me if that was what he desired.

Then, without warning, Angus grabbed my hand and pressed it against his erection. 'Feel it?'

'Yes.'

'That's why I can't keep kissing you.' He said. Then, as if a thought had occurred to him, a frown creased his forehead. 'Are you a virgin?'

'No.' I shook my head. 'You?'

He laughed at the question. I didn't know it then but there had been quite a few girls before me. Black girls, white girls, Australian, American, Canadian, British and Kiwi. The sort of girls who liked confident guys on fast bikes, or men with Aussie accents, or who wanted to piss off their parents by bringing a black guy home.

'No,' he replied. 'Hey, I still live at home, but maybe next weekend we could book a motel room for the night?'

My face lit up with delight that he liked me and wanted to see me again. Angus misinterpreted my reaction and laughed.

'You look keen,' he teased me.

I blushed a deep red. 'Sorry.'

'Stop,' he said, shaking me slightly. 'Saying sorry! I like you, but it's seriously driving me fucking crazy.'

~~~~~~~~

2017

It was another Saturday night. It had been two weeks since I slept with Simon and I wanted a man, any man.

I was no longer nervous or unsure around men. It seemed incredible that I was once so shy and awkward that I could never stop apologising. I guess something happens to women as we get older; we realise the power we have. We become more comfortable saying 'no', and more comfortable saying 'yes'. Yes, fuck me. Yes, suck on my breasts. No, I no longer worry about the unusual amount of pebbling on my areola, and if you do, that's just too bad, because I can easily find another man who likes my tits just as they are.

It was best not to dress like a slut if you're out to pick up. That old adage about picking one body part to show off and keeping the rest modest? It worked. My boobs were my best feature, and they were easy enough to display without making it seem obvious, so I dressed in slim fit jeans, low heels that were comfortable to walk in, and a wine coloured wrap top that formed a 'v' at my cleavage line.

When I picked up a man while wearing this top, the first thing they'd do when we were alone in a hotel room or back at their house was run their finger down my cleavage line. Then they'd pull the stretchy material down and out, trying to get to my breasts. They'd claw at my bra, digging my tits free of the cups, as if they were a child digging for treasure or an infant searching for a feed.

It never failed to surprise me how much men like tits. To me they're nothing but fatty deposits on my chest, inconvenient at times -- when exercising or when I want to sleep on my stomach -- but guys seemingly couldn't get enough of them. They'd fondle, grasp, pinch, suck, kiss. Some wanted to rub their penis between them. I didn't think my chest was that great; my areola, as I said, were less than perfect, and I didn't have implants so there was a natural amount of sag, but the men tended to go absolutely nuts over them.

I lived in Logan, but I varied the places I went to to pick up men. I didn't meet them online. That seems rather heartless, and even I, a confirmed slut, couldn't sink to those levels. Yet. Instead, I met them at pubs and clubs.

The pub I went to that night was one near Ipswich. According to it's website it was a large, quiet pub that served great meals and catered to families, and it's website was correct. There were indeed many, happy families there, eating cheap meals as their children screeched and yelled in the playground.

Inside, in the public bar, it was significantly quieter. There were two men drinking at the bar; one a grumpy looking alcoholic in his sixties, the other a man in his early thirties with a schooner of beer and a newspaper.

It had been years since I'd seen anyone read a newspaper. I took a seat near to the young man, asked the bartender for a vodka and orange, and tried to see which paper it was the young man was reading.

He caught me staring and glanced up. 'What section would you like?'

'No, no section,' I replied. 'I was just thinking it's been years since I've seen anyone read a newspaper.'

He smiled at me, a nice smile, nothing leering or gross. He had smooth, light golden skin, hazel eyes and a Jude Law hairline and seemed a quiet, nondescript type of man. Just another bloke who would rather pass his evening at the pub than home, wherever and whatever home might be.

'I prefer newspapers because I can't be tempted to comment,' he explained. 'Facebook gets me every time. Every. Single. Time.'

'Facebook is dangerous,' I agreed. 'I have to avoid the comments sections. You know what drives me crazy? People who comment without having read the article.'

'Or read the article and entirely misinterpret it to suit their own agenda,' he added.

'Yes! Or they read left-wing politicians' pages and complain about lefties, or read steak restaurant reviews and complain about animal cruelty and how sheep and cows have feelings and social structures,' I agreed.

He smiled again. Unlike me he was more sedate, controlled. Whereas my voice was excitable, his was still very quiet and restrained.

'Exactly,' he said. 'I've got two kids; I've patted more sheep and goats and cattle in the past ten years than I've eaten in my life. I know they have social structures and feelings. I just don't care. Nor do I care who people vote for. They have their pick, and I have mine.'

I stole a glance at his hand and saw no wedding ring. His nails were short but not entirely clean; there was dark grease wedged under them. They made me think of Angus, whose nails had also never been clean, and who had carried with him the scent of petrol and oil and degreaser. The sweet scent of WD40 was still ingrained in my memory.

'I'm a single father,' my companion explained, following my gaze. 'My girlfriend left five years' ago. She decided she preferred Islander men.'

He was trying to be droll and dry, but there was a tightness to his face and a forced cheerfulness to his voice that betrayed him.

'You might struggle to meet that criteria,' I agreed.

'She moved to Christchurch with him. She left the kids with me. That's what I'm grateful for, even if it makes life a bit harder.' He turned his attention to the newspaper and yanked a few sections free. 'I should stop talking. Here you go. Lifestyle and Real Estate.'

I took the large, rough, sheets of paper. The Courier Mail.

'Thank-you,' I said.

My companion returned his attention to his newspaper. I leafed through the real estate while intermittently gazing at him. Men are curious creatures, they all have a story to tell, but some of them are more eager to tell it than others.

Despite having married an indigenous man, I've never understood using race as a basis on which to consider a potential partner. That might sound odd but I grew up in a very multicultural area and I've always been accustomed to seeing a variety of faces. I know other people are different. Some men go crazy about Asian women, and a good number of white women only want black or Islander men. Very few seem to want an Aboriginal one, but the black Americans and Papua New Guineans, and Maori and Samoan men were deemed prized assets. But not me. To me, it wasn't really an issue.

I thought about how awful it would be to be left because of your race. Really, that was terrible, wasn't it? Mum had been furious about Angus, and not all of his relatives were thrilled with me, but the two of us had steadfastly stuck together.

We finished our drinks almost in unison and the bartender come over and asked us if either of us wanted another.

I gestured for my companion to order first.

'Another schooner of Gold, thanks,' he told the bartender.

'Sure,' the bartender agreed. 'And what would you like?'

'A lime and soda, please,' I requested.

The bartender made our drinks. We each got out our money to pay, but before I could hand the bartender the money, the newspaper man shook his head at me and said he'd take care of it.

I nodded my head slightly at my companion. 'Thank-you.'

'No worries,' he said.

He took his change and returned to reading the business section. I sipped my lime and soda and read about cosmetic procedures. I've been tempted in the past to get things nipped and tucked and filled, but I find cosmetic surgery often makes women look slightly better for five or so years, before suddenly making them look significantly worse.

'Would you like the sport section?' he asked.

'That might be a good idea,' I replied. 'Otherwise I'll start planning all the cosmetic surgery I want, and I can't afford to get the whole lot done, so half of my body and face would be young and tight and the rest would be left as is.'

'I better give you the sports section.'

'Thanks.'

He held out his hand. 'My name's Ciaran.'

'Helen.'

Ciaran handed me the sport section. 'Are you waiting for someone?'

'No, I'm single and it's quiet at home,' I lied.

'Quiet is hard to deal with,' he agreed. 'I can't deal with quiet, either. That's why I'm here, too.'

I wondered where his children were.

Ciaran noted my confusion and explained. 'I work FIFO,' he said. 'Fourteen on, ten off. My children live with my parents in my house. Whenever I'm home my father fills my days with jobs. Every single second my kids are at school, he has work planned for me. Gardening. Painting. Taking him and Mum here, there and everywhere. Helping out their friends. I just want a few minutes to myself, a few hours not to be at anyone's beck and call, so I lie to my parents about my rosters. They think I'm fifteen on, nine off but my secret is that I spend my first day of leave at a hotel. I just stop.'

'But then it gets quiet,' I guessed.

He nodded. 'Exactly.'

I reached over and touched his hand. 'Are you a mechanic?'

'Close. Diesel fitter.' He shrugged ruefully as he inspected his nails. 'I can never get them clean. Never. I work with a bloke who scrubs up perfectly, not a drop on him, but I always look dirty.'

'No girlfriend? Boyfriend?'

'No and absolutely no.' He bowed his head and laughed quietly. When he met my gaze again, his eyes were alight and he was smiling. 'I have no time for a girlfriend.'

'Well, you have one free night every few weeks,' I teased. 'What's holding you back? Surely you don't go to the hotel just to sleep and have a bit of R&R?'

It was intended to be a joke, but from the mortified expression that suddenly creased his face and turned it a bright shade of red, there was indeed something else going on in his hotel room during his first night back in Brisbane. Something involving a woman, and not of the usual kind.

'Oh my God, ignore me,' I apologised. 'I should have put two and two together. I wasn't intending to judge you.'

Ciaran shook his head slightly and returned his attention back to his newspaper. I grimaced and cringed at the sport section, wondering if I should say something else or just get up and go, but just when I'd decided on 'leave', he started to speak.

'You're right,' he said suddenly. 'There was a woman. Not quite a prostitute, though, but near enough. Anyway, she moved down to South. She'd been studying at university as a mature aged student, and she got a job in Melbourne and left. I found a replacement, but my replacement didn't like me, and I didn't like her. It wasn't the job she was doing I disliked, it was her and the feeling was mutual. I cancelled this afternoon at the last moment and she told me I still had to pay the full fee, and I didn't even care.'

I pondered his revelation.

'Did you used to have conversations with the first woman?' I asked.

'I did.'

'It wasn't just... whatever it was. It was company,' I guessed.

He nodded his head. 'You understand.'

'I think so. I'm single these days and I do things I'd once never dreamed of doing, but it's about company and sex and feeling someone beside you.'

Ciaran seemed infinitely relieved. 'You definitely understand.'

'I'm there myself,' I admitted. 'Only, being a woman, I don't need to pay for it.'

We fell silent again.

'Well, if you want to get paid for it in future...' he said, in a joking voice but with an expression on his face that suggested he might not simply be teasing me.

I laughed at the idea. 'I can't imagine that. I don't doubt it's probably an intriguing profession, I just can't imagine the logistics of it.'

He folded his newspaper. 'Well,' he said, confirming my suspicions that his offer wasn't an idle one. 'If you'd like to come back to my room, I'll show you. And of course I'd compensate you, not just act out the rest of it and not pay you.'

I blushed and laughed. 'What if I didn't feel like I needed to be compensated?'

'Then maybe you could just take my money and buy yourself something nice? Consider it a gift?'

The bartender approached us again and we had to temporarily stop talking. He asked us if we wanted another drink and we both shook our heads.

After he left, I turned to Ciaran.

'Sure,' I replied quickly. 'Let's finish our drinks and go.'

~~~~~~~~~

1995

Angus fucked like a bull in a china shop and ate pussy like he was in a pie-eating contest. I wasn't any better a lover; I avoided positions that I thought were unflattering and gave blow jobs that were hard and rough and rarely made him cum. We both claimed that oral sex was overrated, but the reality was that our skills were sadly below par.

It didn't matter one wit to either of us. I loved him and he loved me. We were the oddest couple. He was fat and Aboriginal and outgoing, and he was crazy about motorbikes, and I was grungy and quiet and white. Everyone loved him, and everyone, much to my consternation, called him 'Didge'. I was the only one who called him Angus.

Four weeks after our first date he took me home to meet his family. We'd just gone to the movies and he announced he wanted to introduce me to his Mum. I clung to him on the back of his motorcycle, more scared than ever, and he took me home.

It was ten o'clock when we arrived and his parents and younger sister were watching the tail end of a movie.

'Angus!' his Mum shrieked when she saw me. 'How many times have I told you to warn me when you're bringing someone around so I can put on a bra?'

His Mum, Auntie Rose, was fat and happy, one of the last of the housewives who didn't work, didn't drive and could bake any sort of treat you wanted. I have vivid memories of her serving up pikelets thickly slathered in butter, with pots of jam and cream on the side, and understanding exactly why it was that my boyfriend was overweight.

Her husband, Graham, had more white blood in him, and always referred to his wife as 'that woman' but treated her like a Queen. One of the first conversations he had with me was about my black hair, which he hated, but he was otherwise very good to me. He just didn't say much to me, really, just acknowledged I was his son's girlfriend and left it at that.