SUBURBS
Part II
by Baba Ganoosh
Word Count: 1500
The Story So Far: After meeting his girlfriend, Amanda, at the local shopping mall, our narrator hopes to indulge in one of his favourite pastimes: finding an empty house and engaging in some 'human contact'. This seems unlikely when when he and Amanda run into Amanda's barber (cut-throat wielding) husband, Joe. Our two lovers brush Joe off however, and find themselves a suitable two storey concrete house... (to read part one of Suburbs, see Issue 6, via our archive section)
...I break in. I only learnt how to do an old fashioned B&E through our naughty sexual endeavours. I have been getting better at it all the time.
I enter through the back and let Amanda in through the front. We explore. There are hideous plaster fittings, vomit patterned carpet and dead-ugly European furniture. To my great surprise and delight this house has a well stocked bar in its grotesquely decorated lounge room. It is beyond the red velvet lounge that an inviting display of booze beacons me. I offer Amanda a drink.
'What have you got, Mr. Barman?' she says Sizing up the collection of bottles, I reply: 'I have bourbon, red wine, vodka, brandy, beer and beer.' Amanda scrutinises the array of bottles for herself and gaze settles on an unmarked bottle of clear liquid.
'What's that?' she asks. I take the bottle down from the self and open it. It smells like cleaning solvent and metho mixed together but I'm not sure. 'I think its Grappa,' I say.
'Well that looks and sounds fine, give me a quadruple' 'You know it's pretty strong, I've seen a friend in hospital over this shit' 'Well, I think I'm up to it,' she says without a trace of proper drunkenness. I oblige her and myself. We drink.
We wonderfully and naturally venture towards the bedroom of the house. The bed is a four poster, attired in a bright red bed spread. There is a photo on the bed side table of a dark hair woman cuddling a dark haired man with a silly beard. They look at us neutrally as if they couldn't care less about our little home invasion exercise.
We lie down drunk and silly. Then bed trampolining seems like a good idea so we do. This is good pissed fun. Romp the bed, stomp the bed, jump the bed - soon hump the bed.
Amanda stops jumping suddenly and looks quite pale. I guess all the jumping up and down is proving too much for her head. She lies back on the bed. I stop my bouncing frivolity and join her.
She looks at me, says, 'I'm not feeling so well' 'It must be the Grappa, I told you it's strong stuff' 'No, but I feel really unwell, my stomach wants to meet the outside world'
I start feeling not-so-well myself. My ulcer is showing me special pain and my head is swooning all too much.
'Perhaps we should have a rest,' I suggest. 'I really think I'm going to hurl' is the reply.
And Amanda does.
She vomits with great force. An explosive gush covers most of my upper body and too much of the bed. The experience of being doused with stomach acid and partially digested food gunk makes me queasy myself. It is a belief of mine that all vomit contains carrot in it. Although I would like to, I've never seen carrot free vomit. In accordance with this observation, there is an abundance of carrot in Amanda's diabolical stomach soup.
I want to offer Amanda some comfort, as is the implicit demand made upon people who witness their friends vomit. But I cannot. I am too sick myself. I don't like whole vomiting experience. I am especially disturbed having witnessed Amanda's little display.
With the sickness rising up from my belly, I reciprocate Amanda's technicolour communique and spray scotch soaked chicken all over her (surprisingly enough sans carrot). She is obviously repulsed in turn and gives me a second helping of her flavour. This wicked little vomiting fit ends after a number of minutes and the room is thoroughly oppressed by a thick vomit stench.
I feel much better after this little digestive catharsis and lie back nursing my well worked stomach muscles.
Amanda rolls over, looks at me. 'Do you want to contact?' she manages with in a burnt oesophagus rasp.
I have had all types of human contact but I've never had it covered in vomit. I enjoy all types of experience but my libido is circumvented by the stench and the chunks.
Ignoring her tender: 'I think I'll just have a shower.'
There is an ensuite which I make use of. I wash the encrusted vomit from my body. I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around my lower half. I peruse the assortment of drugs, potions and personal hygiene products in the glass veneered cabinet above the towel hanger.
I spot some Valium and take two on the spot.
I come out of the bathroom to suggest Amanda have a shower and some numbing Valium. She is asleep.
I start feeling little horny now that I'm cleaner and effectively alone. There is definitely something arousing about being alone in a strange house.
I walk into the hallway, take the towel off and lie on the cold tiles. I masturbate. Human contact is far better than self contact but self contact is still pretty good. I do this for a while until I have achieved my explosive goal - I come all over my stomach.
The Valium begins to kick in over the top of my alcohol blur and I drift off, naked and soiled in the hallway. I have no reason to remain conscious.
Sometime later I wake to hear a knock on the door. My buttocks are cold and purple. My head is sore and dizzy. My stomach is attempting revolt again.
The knocks ask for somebody called, 'Mandy. 'Mandy come out ear' I, in my Valium spiked coma reply, 'go away I'm sleeping'.
Bad mistake.
The knocking intensifies and culminates in banging, which is a terrifying harbinger to me, even in my Valium fog. 'Mandy you whore, get out ear or I'll fuckin kill ya,' the knocker says like a true knocker. I figure he must be the bearded guy in the photograph near the now vomit splattered bed. I conjure up all my energy and get ready for flight mode. I wrap myself in towel once again.
I run into where Amanda is passed out. I shake her. I try and try to wake her. She is dead. Dead drunk. I slap her firmly on the cheek. She grunts.
'We have to get up, somebody's here. We've gotta go,' I attempt. 'Wassssya doin?' she responds with genuine drunken interest. I ignore her queries regarding my doings and pick her up and place her over my shoulder. The Amanda/vomit amalgam splats like shit-smeared gladwrap on my naked back. We really do have to get out of here. The banging intensifies and becomes pounding. I'm scarred - my stomach relays the fear by asking my ulcer to pay rent, my ulcer replying 'fuck you.'
I carry Amanda out the back door, not so steady on my feet. I hear the Mandy-seeker release an angry declaration of disdain from out the front. 'You fucking cunts,' he says. 'You fucking rotten cunts,' he elaborates.
Not wishing to acquaint myself with this loud door knocker, I decide that it is best to retreat over the back fence.
I am running, Amanda uttering garbled phrases of grief. She's still pretty sick. I negotiate a hideous concrete water feature, a cement mixer and a Hill's Hoist. I make the fence line. I throw Amanda over the fence. I think about soiled sheets, carrot soiled sheets. This guy's still screaming about cunts and such.
I jump over the fence and lie next to Amanda who now opts for a more complete consciousness. We are sitting in tanned bark. 'Where are we?' she asks. I reply with a kiss, an inappropriate kiss. She smiles and smells. I touch her.
The histrionic door-knocker comes into the backyard and swears about some 'bitch' who he thinks screwing around on him. Amanda notices for the first time that I am half naked and smiles - a subtle declaration of yet-to-be announced human contact.
She tugs aggressively at my meagre towel covering and reveals my lower half to the outside world, her smile intensifies. She sucks me. I enjoy her contact.
I moan a little. I think of her lips and her lipstick, her perfect lips and my stick.
I worry about making too much noise. I moan again and think better of the worry. I have decided that moaning is good. Eyes closed: I hear slurps and sucks, her greedy hunger is pleasing me. I feel tingles.
Over the fence and zeroing in: 'is that you manda?' It clicks for me: mandy = Amanda. My Amanda, Joe's Amanda. It's Joe the too scary barber. I am scarred like shit but Amanda continues her downstairs meal which mitigates my panic. I am nearly ready to explode but my stomach's playing war games again.
Footsteps are approaching but so is sexual explosion and nausea. I cannot move away from Amanda's lips and she seems to have not a care in the world.
I freeze, stomach finally revolts and glorifies Amanda with bile splash. Joe pops his head over the fence to see vomit splattered Amanda sucking furiously at my contactable. I come with him watching and Amanda swallowing.
I am lateral thinking. Cover story: 'she's lost her chewing gum in my crotch.' Cover story No. 2: 'I've got a Headache and she's sucking my dick Joe!'
The terrible cut throat appears.
I manage, 'It's just a bit of human contact, Joe.'
