Food Sex

Food Sex

“Faye is staying with friends tonight, grab some food and come over,” says Philip in a jovial tone so unlike his recent ultimatums about when and why I am permitted to call or see him. House renovations, and a hovering spouse both negated intimate opportunities.

“Do you like Mexican food?”

“Never tried. Now might be your chance, surprise me.”

Chili con Queso, Guacamole, corn chips and Wild Peach Cooler later I gaze upward at edges of Dr. Philip Benner’s mansion under construction. Wondering if I should obey an impulse to climb a half constructed side wall of mismatched, re-cycled bricks, insect like. Or commit a sin of visibility by rapping on stained glass flanking his original Marri timber front door.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let me in.” I shout up. Shit! My words will get back-fence tongues wagging.

A steel ladder descends from a half constructed jutting concrete platform. Thereby granting permission for my ascent. From this lowly point geometric structures loom skyward, unroofed, as if limbs of a black widow spider web spun around original house frames. Out from these conventional timbers reach balconies resembling snub nosed high diving platforms of my youth. Beattie Park Aquatic center, mecca for rite of passage tower jump dares. If stealth enough, you might catch glances up board shorts of reclining men sleeping, doused with coconut oil attempting to get a dark west coast tan.

Philips’s renovation in-progress are connected but not part of original brick and tile structures. Any un-built abysses are curtained behind blue tarps; spaces of dangerous nothing, traversed via worker’s scaffold walkways; where my feet barely touched after spending our first night together. Now Philip’s wall of fortification, or as he calls it, fornication, rises.

Glass sections, don’t appear to be windows, yet let in views of a huge Jacaranda heavily dressed in mauve, littering tiny purple trumpets, as if petals thrown in a God’s path. I read somewhere over east a whole rural town celebrates these blooms as a festival.

“Would you like a hand, or can you manage?” Philip’s thickened New Zealander vowels descend, as I climb.

“Can you take the food?”

“I’ll put it inside for a minute.”

Once I’ve completed ladder climbing, Philip returns carrying a paint tin and two brushes, one a slender landscape artist’s specimen, another a wide house painter’s weapon.

“I’ll just finish this, before it dries.” He focuses on a new door, almost painted, “what do you think of the color?”

As if my opinion might actually matter.

I stare down and tones like Jacaranda flowers, only with a generous touch of grey. These hues remind of paint my ex-husband used preparing a baby’s room. Except those walls never seen by a child. Even though daubed with childish, non-gender specific purple, much prettier than this bland nowhere color. I’m trying to form some sort of affirmation.

“It’s called Mine Shaft.” He proffers up a color chart moniker.

Color of his shaft? Where do those paint tone moniker writers get their ideas? Shift these word into a more German use, like – Mein… Mein Kampt: Third Reich. To color a door? Shut out, extinguish a nation of Jews. Mein Kampf; My Struggle, is this to be his struggle?

Philip is using a darker hue to extenuate grooves between panels; something murky for tiny timber joints spaces, highlighting or rather deepening, like shadows of kohl. These shadowy tones are working in opposition to lighted areas like ripples in beach sand, only regimented. I wonder if this two-tone is meant to emulate moon beams, or sunlight penetrating oceanic depths, what monsters lurk behind Philip’s castle doors?

Here am I thinking, bringing food and drinks in a simple, lay a table, eat, enjoy company, and exchange a few intimacies situation, why am I tripping off on color evoked flights of fancy?

“You think it is too busy…” Not really uttered as a question, but rather, he sounds like a repeat of someone else’s observations.

Rather than offer an - if you say so or whatever you think; rattling around in my head, because these sound like a compliant wife’s words, I remain silent. Feeling as if a child overwhelmed. Embodying Maria in a Von Trapp mansion. Anyway; I’d like Philip to define ‘busy,’ in terms of inanimate objects; tell me how can a color, or a door, be busy?

Waiting with feet dangling over a worker’s boot dusted balcony edge, I can take in a fairy land. Carpeted city lights, Perth, dubbed - The City of Lights, by John Glen in Friendship 7, blinking below. I recognize land marks in downhill suburbs encroaching on Darling escarpment. I remember, adolescent experiences peering at similar views, “…quick park and pash up at the lookout?” Back then an avenue of darkness formed a barrier between outer suburbs and these hills. Now cancers of twinkling suburban lights creep so close almost possible to touch. Descending planes on flight paths resemble insects returning to a nest.

Having finished home decorating Philip finally sets up our food. On an old sewing machine table, painted plum-pink, further adorned with a port glass vase and a small red geranium as table garnish. Finally, he stands back, hands on hips, groin in my direction, just before I can morph into a hungry spite.

Corn chips, pieces of vegetable, and finally fingers swirl into guacamole and con Queso dips. Plenty of sucking noises, suggestive eye contact, mouthing fingers, and adult food play. Giggle, snort. Amazing what sort of connotations can be issued playing with a celery stick, into dip, chasing tongues over an errant dribble down over fingers and palms. My taste buds congratulate whoever first discovered textures embedded in melted cream cheese, sour cream and spices to form con Questo. I want to smear this body warm mixture over Philips chest.

Instead I take a gulp from green-glass bottle, telling myself to be patient. Unfortunately taste buds are left unrewarded by my beverage choice. Wild Peach Cooler, then brand new arrival into Perth’s grog shops oozed sickly sweetness, washing away any thoughts of drinking juice lovingly extracted from recently plucked, fuzzy, pungent fruits. Real peaches, even brewed into a cider, perfumed with cinnamon, taken from summer orchards, draped in honey, might become a drink full of tantalizing tang and sweet sharpness. This pretend peach smacked of cheap cordial.

“I got a surprise in the mail today. From my sister.” He turns a slim package over, building expectations, as if part of our feast.

“It’s not your birthday?”

“No, but she doesn’t often remember those dates, so sends gifts at what feels, to her, appropriate points.”

Philip says so little about his family, I’m momentarily stunned by this snippet. I dare not ask questions about why no one bothers to write down siblings birthdates, how come he is fascinated with renovating old homes, over fussy with details, has never tried Mexican food, agreed to drink Wild Peach Coolers, or can send his wife out for an evening. I will never ask, nor know relevant answers.

His sister’s gift package contained black paper and a woven silk thread scarf, a tiny book of motivational sayings tucked in between folds. I am intrigued by this black paper, I offer Philip a challenge, “if you wrote a note, no-one will be able to read what’s written.”

“Then I can use it for secret messages to my lover.” He smiles another devastating lop-sided grin.

“I’m running in the fun run tomorrow.” I offer as a new conversation subject. “I know you can’t be there, perhaps you might send me strength down the air waves.”

“Who said I will not be there?”

“What will Faye say?”

“That is my problem.”

“I just thought…”

“Would you like me to come and watch?”

I nod.

“Then I will.” Philip says.

Our love making is disturbed by several things, firstly shrill telephone clangs, Philip ignores this insistence saying, “I am working on important tasks. They will ring back, if needed.”

Just as we settle back into exchanging body fluids. A clap of thunder, and I almost jump away from his embrace. Felt so close I swear table trimmings lifted slightly.

“You are rather unsettled. Relax.”

“Maybe knowing your wife might come home at any moment…”

“I said, she’s my problem. Don’t worry.”

Before any clothing is discarded I hear a small child screaming, in panic. With so many walls missing, fewer barriers amplify street noise. This gasping sound is too traumatic to ignore. Moments later we are both on the street confronted by a blonde curly haired urchin, tears streaming down her face, dragging in deep wheezing sobs. Through spit and snot, almost decipherable words of, “want mummy!”

As I try to wrap this little girl in a comforting embrace, she stiffens. So both of us are down at her level about to ask, where is your mummy?

A neighbor emerges in equal panic. Allowing the little girl to grab at her billowing house coat fabric, “Nana, can’t find mummy.” Coming out in fits and starts colliding with tail ends of sobs.

Philip nudges me aside, “what the hell Shirley?” While he admonishes Shirley, I am fixed with a - I know who you are stare.

“My granddaughter, always some sort of trauma. I love her dearly, but she makes me so tired. I must have nodded off. Before she got my front door open.” Pint sized version of Shirley wraps herself around thin flowing fabric, snuffling into the older woman’s neck space, still trembling in fear. “I apologize. Little Bridgette caused such an uproar.”

I feel Shirley’s assessing stare, loaded with barbs and pretend not to notice. Yet I cringe under her non-verbal accusations. I know I am a trespasser on a married man’s turf. Weight of these sensations propels me toward my car, taking my leave, instead of returning to my lover’s arms, any remnants of our feast, up there behind his renovate processing balconies.

As I wander down the laneway, Philip attempts to guide me back inside. I resist his temptations. Not actions particularly familiar. So I concentrate on shaking my head and rubbing absently at my arms.

“All sorted.” He says, working another lopsided grin, “Shirley is back on duty, a proper supervising grandmother.”

“You do realize she is the same woman who saw me at your city exhibition. Lives right across the road.”

“Whatever I do there will be questions asked. I can handle it.”

As I depart he proffers, “I knew I should put fucking before fucking food.”

I wonder, is that all I am?