Maneater Page 3
I gently place him into a new clean cage with fresh water and lock the door.
Then I discard the old bedding, and spray disinfectant while wiping it out, leaving it clean and fresh for the next occupant. I wash and scrub my hands using the antibacterial soap; hygiene is extremely important. My dermatitis is a bitch from all the handwashing.
It’s ten thirty, so I head into the kitchen for my morning tea break. The good thing about the reception door is that it has a bell, so we’re notified when customers enter. From memory, I know we don’t have anyone booked in until eleven.
I habitually check my phone for messages, emails, and social media.
I find a text from Dan. I don’t usually give out my number on a one-night stand, and I’m still not sure why I did it. Must have been a feeling.
Kind of ironic as just seeing his name makes me smile.
Dan: Hey, Jemma.
I'll be away this week for work but would love to meet up when I get back.
I’m the queen of no commitment, but I can't help but feel a little rejected.
Is he really going away for work?
I must admit I've used that line before when I wasn't interested in a guy.
I don’t really know him; maybe he has a girlfriend.
There could be plenty of other issues.
Maybe my screaming the other night was a bit much, but hey, at least I didn't have to fake it with him. He was good. Very good.
Or maybe he is telling you the fucking truth, Jemma, my subconscious shouts at me.
He did text you after all; that should be telling you something!
I’m not too good at believing people. I think of the male species as liars until they prove differently.
Oh, well. Plenty more bikes to ride and try before I buy. I make the rules and never do the same guy twice … unless he’s hot.
It’s mostly always a one-night stand.
Thanks for the sex, Dan, looks like you aren’t the man.
I decide not to waste my time on texting him back because no good can come from it. Plus, I’m an independent, secure woman. I don’t need a man in my life … Or do I?
***
After my shift, I drive my sporty hatchback home. I absolutely love driving a manual, changing the gears and feeling in control. To think, I almost couldn’t conquer the clutch when I first learnt to drive. Especially on a damn hill; rolling backwards into another car was always a massive fear of mine.
Roxy has already told me she is getting me an Eastern Creek Raceway voucher for my birthday so I can speed around the racetrack. That gets my groin throbbing; it’s a huge turn-on.
Fast cars. Something is hot about fast cars and the throttle of the engine. I’m sure I have a little too much testosterone; maybe it’s from being around so many males.
But I do love my girl stuff too.
Something is beautiful and sexual about dressing up in a gorgeous dress, fixing your make-up, putting on your best jewellery and sexy heels to make you feel special and hot.
I know guys appreciate it too; it’s a turn-on for them. They don’t want the frumpy tracksuits, greasy hair, yellow unbrushed teeth, and bed socks. Well, maybe after a few years, but in my eyes, a little effort goes a long way.
***
You know I wasn’t always a dirty one-night stand ho …
I had a serious boyfriend once, a lifetime ago, back when I was fourteen. His name was Joshua Stevens. He was my first love; we held hands, kissed, and eventually, he popped my cherry. We had a lot of other firsts together; we spent a full eighteen months as the perfect couple. At least, that’s what I thought …
He was a complete gentleman. He would carry my bag, share his lunch, take me out for dinner—well, if McDonald’s counts. When you’re young, it’s sweet.
For our one-year anniversary, his mum dropped us at a fancy restaurant where we had our first candlelit dinner. Josh had saved for three months to pay for our meals, his mother later told me.
He was very romantic; he would pick me flowers then, as he worked more shifts at the car wash, buy me bouquets and jewellery.
Like I said, things were perfect.
Perfectly flawed.
It would seem that Josh was also your typical horny teenage boy. We were having sex like every second day, and he seemed content with me, no complaints.
I knew his parents were on the verge of splitting up, so I’m guessing his head was all messed up; we never really spoke about it.
But there were no excuses for what he did.
We were at our friend Lisa’s party, all having a couple of drinks—underage, of course, at fifteen.
Josh was wasted. I kept telling him he’d had enough; I couldn’t understand why he was getting so messy and drinking so much.
“You aren’t my wife, Jemma, so stop telling me what to do,” he yelled at me. “I’m never fucking getting married.”
Those harsh words will be forever lodged in my mind.
I couldn’t even answer; I was gobsmacked. I felt like I didn’t know this side of Josh. I couldn’t look at him, so I stormed off.
After thirty minutes of being angry, I went back to check on him. I loved him, and I was concerned he might pass out or worse.
I shouldn’t have bothered caring about him.
It nearly killed me when I found him in a spare room fucking the school slut, Suzie Arnold.
Her smirk made my stomach turn; I’m sure she did it on purpose to rip my heart out.
“You arsehole,” I screamed at him.
I was less wild back then. Now, I would have gone psycho ninja on them both, making sure they paid for what they did.
But fifteen-year-old Jemma was still pretty innocent—or young and dumb.
I cried and ran out of the party, all the way home, where my mum comforted me.
“Shhh, honey, it’s okay. One day, you will find the right boy,” she told me, but I swore to myself I wouldn’t let anyone in again; the excruciating pain in my heart would be too much to bear a second time.
I found it hard to trust guys in general after that and never let anyone get too close. I walked away when it got too serious.
I got what I needed from the guys, and they got what they wanted. So, I figured I didn’t need to cross the line of trusting someone with my heart.
Funny thing is, Joshua Stevens is now an overweight father of four who lives in the same suburb we grew up in, drives a shitty car, is going bald, and from his Facebook profile, he looks like he delivers newspapers.
So glad I got rid of that when I did.
Sometimes the pain we feel when something bad happens can really be a blessing in disguise later on in life.
Live and learn. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
Chapter 3
All the single ladies…
Roxy and I have booked belly dancing classes. We totally nailed it the time we took the pole dancing classes; it sounded like a fun way to get fit and have some laughs, though we seem to laugh when we’re together no matter what.
Tonight, is lesson one. We turn up to the belly dancing school in North Sydney; Roxy is a little nervous, but I’m eager to let loose. I’ve always wondered how good I would be shaking my hips. I’m a natural with my hip thrusts in the bedroom. Oh, and with pole dancing. I have no problems with another type of pole, either.
Roxy is dressed in a casual singlet and flowing skirt while I’m wearing a halter-neck and short ruffled skirt.
Our teacher’s name is Madame Elvina, which is very fitting. She looks glamorous in her purple Bollywood gypsy skirt and black silk and gold-beaded bra with dangly bits. This chick works out!
What a mixed bag of women we have here. There are eight girls in our class from all walks of life—short, tall, skinny, not so skinny, younger, and older. I love to see people taking a chance. You only live once!
“Hey ladies, I’m Madame Elvina, and welcome to belly dance school,” announces the bubbly and Mediterranean hip-swinging teacher.
After a few intros and a warm-up, we are into the first dance. It would seem I’m a fucking natural; perhaps, I’ve found my calling.
“Hip slide first, feet under your hips, and shift your weight from leg to leg. Once you’re in the rhythm, add your hips out further to the side, like this,” Madame Elvina tells us and demonstrates, looking stunning.
“Perfect, now let’s shake it faster to some music!” she screams as she adds music to help with the rhythm. I let loose and shake it, feeling free, vibrant, and happy. Who cares how I look!
After our first lesson, I can feel my muscles aching already, especially my abdominal muscles.
Afterwards at home we sit relaxing on our throne—or fashionista lounge, as Roxy calls it. I think of us more of queens, and we all need a throne.
We are both sipping a glass of red and chatting; seems we can’t stick to not drinking during the week, so I decide it’s time to update my Tinder profile. It’s so much easier with the app these days.
I keep my profile simple and to the point…
Fun and sporty 25-year-old with blonde hair and blue eyes, but don’t think I’m a dumb blonde, far from it …
Not looking for anything serious, must be energetic and intelligent.
Please, if you are looking for a girl to boss around, it’s not me.
If you want a wife, it’s not me.
If you are looking for someone to pay your way, it ain’t me.
Only seriously fun, easy-going, decent guys contact me.
Roxy talked me into joining Tinder. I'm happily single and not actively looking for a relationship. I’m looking for someone to hang with, have fun with, and hold a decent conversation.
It that too much to ask?
I love that I am my own boss in life; I make my own rules, and I have freedom. I can have a girls’ night whenever I want, I don’t need a filter with what I say, I can spend whatever I want on whatever I want, I get to choose the décor for my home, and I get me time, peace, and quiet.
And the toilet seat stays down!
I do know that I’m a little stuck in my ways, for sure.
But in my eyes, relationships should be mutual. I don’t want to change or conform for anyone, and honestly, I wouldn’t ask or expect a guy to do that for me.
24/7 with the same person would give me the heebie-jeebies.
Bland and boring.
I’m saving that for being old and grey.
I’m gonna get my kicks while I’m still young enough to get them.
***
We have started a chart at work, a weekly RAOK system.
Random act of kindness.
It’s all about making a difference and giving back to someone else, a total stranger.
We get to do something kind and unexpected to make someone’s day a little brighter.
I duck into the grocery store on the way home to grab some ingredients for dinner, and I notice the elderly man in front of me has maybe six items and the total comes to sixteen dollars.
“Put his bill on this card,” I announce to the cashier, handing over the Visa so he can’t beat me to it and pay himself.
“No, it’s okay. I have the money,” the man argues, but I ignore him and payWave my card.
“All done, have a great week,” I say to him, smiling.
His smile is wide. “You are a very sweet young lady. Thank you, and God bless.” He squeezes my hand.
I love that I just made his day. It puts me in a great mood for the rest of the night. Last week, I put away the neighbour’s bins, and the week before that, I took a trolley to the return rack in the car park for a lady who was packing groceries into her car.
Small acts that can make another person feel special and take the pressure off them.
***
When I arrive home, it’s just me, so I busy myself cooking up a storm for my bestie.
On the menu tonight is pumpkin and feta salad with chicken breast and covered in bacon and light cheese.
“Honey, I’m home,” Roxy calls as she enters our apartment.
“Perfect timing, wifey, as dinner is served,” I announce as I plate up the divine-smelling meal.
“God, I love you, husband,” she replies, and we both giggle and devour our home-cooked delicious meal and wine.
Seriously, what would we do without each other?
Roxy is the yin to my yang.
Our friendship is titanium—strong and tough and untouchable.
***
The next morning is Saturday, and we have the charity run for the children’s hospital. We registered a team to raise money for this amazing cause. I have spent a few hours each month volunteering at the children’s hospital. I’m getting softer as I get older and not the hard, emotionless bitch I was earlier in life.
By 7:00 a.m., after two coffees, we are dressed and ready in our running gear and the shirts we had made.
The shirts are plain black with Girl Power in bright pink then I added an outline of silver glitter around each letter just for the extra effect.
“Damn, girl, these are perfect,” Roxy tells me as I show her the finished product. She puts it on over her singlet. I do the same, and we smile at the coolness of the shirts.
“Can’t wait to get pics,” I declare, smiling.
We meet the others near the front of the line. They put on their shirts, all smiling at the result. “These look awesome, Jem. Great job!” Tia gives the thumbs up.
“Let’s stretch. We don’t want any injuries,” I suggest, and we warm up our muscles.
None of us are runners, so we will jog and walk the seven kilometres in the name of charity. We have sponsors for every kilometre we walk.
We aren’t the fittest of girls, but we will do okay. I’m not out to win; I just want to participate.
Roxy and I have programmed a few songs on our iPods for motivation and to keep us going if it gets hard or a little monotonous. It works well, and we start the first few kilometres jogging easily.
“Can we walk for a bit? Don’t want to burn out too quickly,” Roxy suggests, and I nod in agreement as we slow to a brisk walk.
By the end of the seven kilometres, we are knackered, sweating, and breathless.
“Woohoo, girl power!” we shout as we cross the finish line.
We finished somewhere in the middle, a pleasing result, and knowing that I raised $304.00 makes it worth it. Sick kids, especially those with life-threatening illnesses, make my heart hurt. Anything I can do to help, I will.
Chapter 4
Dan
Spellbound
Goddamn, that chick Jemma …
I was transfixed by her body, stunning looks, and that hot as hell feistiness.
I want to devour every inch of her every minute of every day.
Visions of her sucking my cock have me hard as hell, which is totally inappropriate while I'm on a two-hour flight. The seat belt is feeling extremely tight right about now.
I texted her to say I'd be out of town, but she never replied. I know she had fun the other night; I always make sure they come at least twice. Did she give me a fake number?
I swear I'll find her; I have to, though I get the impression she won't be “the relationship type.” I will do my best to persuade her; my guess is orgasm after orgasm might help with influencing her to give me a shot.
That's what I find sexy about “out of the box” women. That blaze and intensity is what makes them unique, keeping me on my toes.
It’s sexy and arousing as hell …
Jemma is provocative, raunchy, and captivating. I’ve never met any other female who has had me so enthralled and bewitched.
I plan to text her again when I’m settled in my hotel room. Sexting while on public transport could end u
p quite embarrassing. From the other night, I get the impression lots of dirty talk and even dirtier messages will be the way to this girl’s heart.
Chapter 5
What do I need a man for?
“Roxy, we have a live one,” I call as a big-arse spider crawls across our kitchen floor.
What the fuck are the bugs and spiders today living on? They are massive and hard to kill.
I hold down the nozzle and forcefully spray the bug spray; of course, the spider keeps moving, so I use more damn spray, and it still doesn’t bloody stop.
Okay, here goes. I press down harder and the spray shoots out a white foam that now covers the eight-legged mutant. Are they on steroids? No wonder Spider-Man is so strong.
“Why does the spider look like it’s been in a heavy snowstorm?” Roxy asked then laughed.
“Looks like somebody went overboard with the spray again.”
“Yep, I totally went overboard, I’ll admit it, yet look at the bastard still crawling,” I declare, scrunching up my face in annoyance.
“It must have thick skin; the spray doesn’t penetrate,” Roxy rationalises.
The fucker is still moving, like half running, so I spray it again. Not one for half measures, I refuse to stop until it dies.
“It’s a goddamn mutant,” I state, watching it intensely for a clue that the spray is actually bloody working.
“Ha-ha, finally I got ya, you eight-legged freak,” I shout as one of his eight legs slips and pokes out frantically, followed by a second and third.
“Surely, there must be a spray out there that can kill in less than seven minutes,” I say, feeling let down by Mortein. “I know the perfect concoction. Remember Justin Oates and his disgusting bad breath back in high school? Now, that shit would be lethal,” I say to Roxy, and we both crack up laughing.
“Next time, just get your shoe and squash it then I don’t have to breathe in the spray and listen to your endless ranting about arachnids,” she adds, mocking me.
I give her the evil eye.
“I’m actually surprised you are okay with killing spiders. They are an animal at the end of the day, aren’t they, Jem?” she questions, knowing my love of furry creatures.