And we’re off, babes.
Last week the glorious Grit Guilders voted for things to devolve into an orgy at Pascoe’s dinner party and to boot the Train Driver from the possible friend careers.
So, brace for the dinner party.
Here we go…
CHAPTER TWO
Raucous laughter fills Pascoe's unit as I take in the eclectic group gathered around her dining table. My eyes flit from one fascinating person to the next, marvelling at how Pascoe always manages to curate the most intriguing mix of people.
“Darlings, you simply must try this rosemary-infused gin,” purrs Ophelia, their long, long silver-grey hair gleaming in the candlelight as they pass me a delicate crystal goblet they’ve just pulled from their giant quilted Mary Poppins like magical bag. "It pairs divinely with existential dread, which if you’re lucky, I shall recite for you all when I indulge in the right amount of these." I’ve hung out with Ophelia before and discovered she is particularly famous in poetry circles. I looked up their work as I loved the prospect of inviting them to school to speak with my students, but there were far too many ‘cunts’ and metaphors about the clitoris for the P&F’s liking. To be fair I wish the P &F Association at school had a firmer no cunts policy with some it’s members, and some of my colleagues for that matter.
I take a sip, savouring the herbal notes as I watch Zed, who I’ve never met, but have heard so much about because Pascoe has an enormous crush on him, effortlessly balance his chair on two legs, his sculpted abs on full display. The scent of patchouli wafts over as he grins at me. He works for the circus as an acrobat and is only back in Brisbane for a short visit before jetting off again. Him and Pascoe intensely sext whenever he’s away. She’s sent me screenshots of the smut he pens her, and his contorted nudes (with his consent) and I can barely look at him without blushing.
"So, Lulu, has Pascoe roped you into being a test subject for my study yet?" Gretel asks with a wink.
I nearly choke on my gin. "Oh, um, not yet," I stammer, feeling my cheeks flush. Gretel is a neuroscientist who is currently studying the brain and orgasms.
Another guest, Greg, lets out a deep chuckle, the vibrant flower tattoos adorning his bald head seeming to dance in the dim lighting. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Gretel's research is a lot more fun than it sounds." Greg looks like a vintage strong man from a circus, his entire body is covered in old school traditional tattoos that he’s covered over with large, thick black, illustrated flowers. He’s in a pair of overalls and a neckerchief with no shirt underneath, so I know his tattoos cover his entire muscular body. His energy is so confident it makes him intimidating in a deeply curious way. He’s a butcher, which Pascoe tells me is the horniest job of them all. I’d scoffed when she’d told me this as she literally writes about sex, reads about sex, and cracks cat-o’-nine tails over men’s balls while the rest of us normies must stare at passive aggressive Comic Sans laminated signs about dish washing fairies. Pascoe shook her head very confidently saying, “You’ll see.” And now that I can feel Greg’s eyes on my body every time I say anything I can see what Pascoe means. Except that I can’t actually see because I can’t make eye contact with him, but I can feel what she means.
As the conversation flows so naturally over dinner, I marvel at how effortlessly everyone interacts. Pascoe tosses her head back in laughter at one of Ophelia's bawdy tales of her life on a seventies commune, utterly uninhibited. God, why can't I be more like her? I wonder, taking another hefty swig of gin. Like all of them. So fearless, so open to new experiences, so confident in how utterly horny they all are. Meanwhile, I'm sitting here feeling like a sheltered Nun among these worldly, fascinating people. As they launch into a spirited debate about the merits of various sexual positions, I feel like I am woefully out of my depth. I drain the last of my gin and stand up gathering the dirty dessert plates. I may not be able to hold my own with these people, or with the Kama Sutra, but I am a master at washing up.
***
As I place the final spoon into the dishwasher, which I stacked with expert precision, grateful for the moments reprieve Pascoe's voice rings out.
"Alright, darlings! Let’s play a game. Time for Never Have I Ever! If you’ve not partaken you must drink so make them good as I want to get sloshed." My stomach drops. Oh god, not this game. “Lu! The cleaning can wait! Bring more champagne.”
“Yes! Lu!” Ophelia bellows, “It’s sure to get filthy in here.”
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