Love is tender, love is soft.
Soapie at Downtown Wangaratta: Part Three
By Anne Margaret Thomas
Recap of Part One:
Miss B, a mature aged art student, has a crush on her oriental art teacher, Mr C. She kisses him in the pub car park after they both attend an A list art opening, at the regional art centre.
Recap of Part Two:
After receiving a vague text message, Miss B waits nervously for the arrival of her oriental Mr Darcy, in a rapidly cleaned house, wearing her very best undergarments.
The wine cooler bag he was carrying, gave the clue to his intentions. How transparent men are, she thought, at least now she could relax and play the role of the coy spinster. Although what she really wanted to do was drag him by the leg into the boudoir and rip his cloths off with her teeth. She became a bit breathless at the very thought.
They sat in the shaded veranda, sipping the cold wine, making false, polite small talk. He had briefly held her hand as she took him on a tour of the chook yards. It felt so nice to have a little affection, after all these years, amongst the crowing of the roosters.
Suddenly with out warning he lunged froward and kissed her. It was a kiss like no other. Not too wet, not too hard, plus, she praised the lords, no tongue. The most beautiful kiss of her life. She had visions of holding up score paddles, 10, 10, 10, and 10, the perfect score. His lips seemed to move all over her mouth with sensual nibbling, enticing the awakening of long forgotten senses.
The kisses continued up the hallway. The way he held the back of her head and gently grabbed handfuls of her hair, made her feel decidedly young and beautiful again. Well until they reached the bedroom where she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Sweet Jesus! The carefully applied soft -peach, nude lipstick was erased and the hair was like a rats nest that had blown out of the ceiling
In the bedroom, Mr C was wearing two gold medals, one for kissing, who knew having your armpits kissed could be so sensual. The other gold for foreplay. My little golden skinned treasure has certainly been around the block a few times she mused. Probably read the Karma Sutra and not just looked at the pictures.
After drawing the curtains to reduce the glare of her lily-white skin and to hide the broken capillaries, she lay back expectantly. He rose above her, his long black curls, falling down around his face. She grabbed hold of his hair (thank God it wasn’t a wig), imitating his moves, as he removed the silky duds. If only he had seen the comfy cotton Big W ‘Budget pack O’ 10 ‘s she was wearing earlier, she thought secretly
Sometimes a world champion figure skater, who is tipped the win Olympic gold, does a perfect routine. Then at the last minute, whilst attempting the triple Lutz, they crash and go sprawling along the ice on their ass, in front of a crowd of millions. Losers. No chance of a medal. Totally fucked it up. Four years of preparation down the gurgler. Sitting on the ice with a sulky face and a broken leg. No one cares…
Anyway getting back to Miss B and the golden boy. As she ran her farm calloused hands down his back, still in the fantasy mode that her hands were perfect and manicured, like Princess Diana’s, who never had to wash the dishes, she made the most disappointing discovery.
Flaccid! No way!
Channelling Samantha from Sex and the City, she became instantly bored. Distracted thoughts were running through her head. Its relatively easy to stuff a frankfurter into a hot dog bun, but try doing that with a deflated balloon, now that’s hard work. But what about him, poor luv, probably feels like the Russian skater. No medals for you. Bringing shame on your family and your country.
Feeling a bit sympathetic, she gave the frankfurter (or at this stage the potential frankfurter) a few shakes of the sauce bottle, and finally the wiener met the burger bun. The sausage played hide and seek. He entered her. Enter the Dragon; oh no that was a kung fu movie. The eagle has landed.
Not long after, she watched the dust settle as his car rapidly disappeared up the driveway, pulled on her old trackies and fed the chooks. Finishing off the last of the chardonnay, she raised a glass and said to the dogs “well here’s cheers to a little bit of love”