In like Flynn
So I met Mbora at a wine bar in Civic. It took me a while to find him, because as usual, it was utterly packed for Friday night drinks. What is it about bloody Canberra public servants? They bloody go home happily at 5 pm on Monday to Thursday. Then Friday night comes, and they transform into chardonnay-sipping fuck monsters.
So everyone’s there in their schmick work suits wielding business cards talking about Beazley’s resuscitation as opposition leader. And then, I spot Mbora in Bonds t-shirt and tight jeans looking quite…. er, hot. Seems like others think so too. He’s surrounded by half-drunk fuck monster women with fresh lippy and wandering hands. Then - bless his cotton socks - he spots me and gives me a big wave and shrugs off the other women. Hah! And he strides over to me. Mbora leans over, gives me a kiss on the cheek (mmmm… smells nice) and says embarrassed, “Sorry about them. They seemed to want to impress me with how much they know about Kenya”. And he laughs an embarrassed laugh.
Fuck fuck fuck. I had gone out at lunch time yesterday to Dymocks book store to look through the SBS World Guide for Kenya. I had memorised the name of the president, the major cities, recent historic events…. And… also discovered that Kenya is on the east coast of Africa and not the west coast as I had previous thought. I had the first hour of conversation all planned out. Starting with what Mbora thought of impact of tribalism on contemporary Kenyan politics. And then moving on to the linguistic idiosyncrasies of Kiswahili. But damnation, clearly Kenya-chat won’t impress him.
So there I am standing like a roo caught in the headlights. Brain grappling for topics to chat about. Beazley? No. Australian Open? Er…. I don’t even know what’s happening. Tsunami? Getting desperate.
“What are you drinking?”, Mbora drags me by my elbow. Phew! Of course! That’s what I will talk about! “Er, shiraz”, I say, “just something from WA will do”. Mbora disappears into the bar crowd.
By the time he returns, I had decided on the safest topic of conversation to start off with is the standard “Tell me about what you do” (modified into “So tell me what your PhD is actually about”). A good friend a while back told me that men LOVE talking about themselves. The way to a man’s heart is NOT through his stomach. Bull-fucking-shit. Not now in the age of the takeaway dinner! It is through allowing him to feel like a Big Man. And nothing like talking about themselves for the Big Man reaffirmation. Men fall for it all the time.
“So tell me what your PhD is actually about, Mbora”, I say once we had settled into a firm sipping holding pattern. “Oh, it’s bullshit really. Monetary policy in Kenya. Very dry. I would rather talk about your trousers. They are a very interesting cut. Where did you get them from?”. “What? You really want to talk about my pants?”, I say, looking down at my flares. Yes, they are an interesting cut, but…. panic. Maybe he is gay.
He smiles. Slightly sheepish. “Okay, it’s not really about your trousers. It was … er… my inexpert way of saying that I like your arse”.
Hah! In like Flynn.
* * * * *
But sigh. Night was interrupted by appearance of mutual friends. But Mbora and I agreed to meet up tonight for ‘dinner’ at his place. *bounce bounce*
In preparation for tonight’s events, I have purchased:
1. Vibrating condoms. Never tried them before, but will give it a go.
2. Ordinary condoms. Just in case the vibrating condoms are dodgy. Could not find any female condoms even though I visited four chemists.
3. Spray-on tan. My tan does not cover my tits and arse. In light of Mbora’s comment on my arse, I am expecting it to come under intense scrutiny. Spray-on tan should disguise my bottom’s tofu-like colour.
4. G-strings. Not a favourite of mine, as I feel like I am getting a permanent wedgy. But these are not ordinary times. I am in my thirties now.
So everyone’s there in their schmick work suits wielding business cards talking about Beazley’s resuscitation as opposition leader. And then, I spot Mbora in Bonds t-shirt and tight jeans looking quite…. er, hot. Seems like others think so too. He’s surrounded by half-drunk fuck monster women with fresh lippy and wandering hands. Then - bless his cotton socks - he spots me and gives me a big wave and shrugs off the other women. Hah! And he strides over to me. Mbora leans over, gives me a kiss on the cheek (mmmm… smells nice) and says embarrassed, “Sorry about them. They seemed to want to impress me with how much they know about Kenya”. And he laughs an embarrassed laugh.
Fuck fuck fuck. I had gone out at lunch time yesterday to Dymocks book store to look through the SBS World Guide for Kenya. I had memorised the name of the president, the major cities, recent historic events…. And… also discovered that Kenya is on the east coast of Africa and not the west coast as I had previous thought. I had the first hour of conversation all planned out. Starting with what Mbora thought of impact of tribalism on contemporary Kenyan politics. And then moving on to the linguistic idiosyncrasies of Kiswahili. But damnation, clearly Kenya-chat won’t impress him.
So there I am standing like a roo caught in the headlights. Brain grappling for topics to chat about. Beazley? No. Australian Open? Er…. I don’t even know what’s happening. Tsunami? Getting desperate.
“What are you drinking?”, Mbora drags me by my elbow. Phew! Of course! That’s what I will talk about! “Er, shiraz”, I say, “just something from WA will do”. Mbora disappears into the bar crowd.
By the time he returns, I had decided on the safest topic of conversation to start off with is the standard “Tell me about what you do” (modified into “So tell me what your PhD is actually about”). A good friend a while back told me that men LOVE talking about themselves. The way to a man’s heart is NOT through his stomach. Bull-fucking-shit. Not now in the age of the takeaway dinner! It is through allowing him to feel like a Big Man. And nothing like talking about themselves for the Big Man reaffirmation. Men fall for it all the time.
“So tell me what your PhD is actually about, Mbora”, I say once we had settled into a firm sipping holding pattern. “Oh, it’s bullshit really. Monetary policy in Kenya. Very dry. I would rather talk about your trousers. They are a very interesting cut. Where did you get them from?”. “What? You really want to talk about my pants?”, I say, looking down at my flares. Yes, they are an interesting cut, but…. panic. Maybe he is gay.
He smiles. Slightly sheepish. “Okay, it’s not really about your trousers. It was … er… my inexpert way of saying that I like your arse”.
Hah! In like Flynn.
* * * * *
But sigh. Night was interrupted by appearance of mutual friends. But Mbora and I agreed to meet up tonight for ‘dinner’ at his place. *bounce bounce*
In preparation for tonight’s events, I have purchased:
1. Vibrating condoms. Never tried them before, but will give it a go.
2. Ordinary condoms. Just in case the vibrating condoms are dodgy. Could not find any female condoms even though I visited four chemists.
3. Spray-on tan. My tan does not cover my tits and arse. In light of Mbora’s comment on my arse, I am expecting it to come under intense scrutiny. Spray-on tan should disguise my bottom’s tofu-like colour.
4. G-strings. Not a favourite of mine, as I feel like I am getting a permanent wedgy. But these are not ordinary times. I am in my thirties now.