THERE’S a girl. Someone special you want to impress, but the problem is she’s easily distracted.
“Stay away from her”, a mutual friend warned while we held each other up, too drunk to stand except with each other. “She’ll hurt you.”
And I said; “My mind agrees with you, but the heart doesn’t care.”
The mind usually wins these battles. And it probably will again this time.
I like writing these stories because somehow women make the best muses. I like to look at them more than I like to touch. I need to gaze at a mascara lined, wide eyed beauty with wild hair and an athletic curvy figure like a Nullarbor Nymph, a woman for one night to change my world with what she does and says, more than I would want a relationship.
I hadn’t met many of these for a while, but I finally met one to rival Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
It was the after-party of the Dirt n Dust triathlon in Outback Queensland, April. Hundreds had gathered from the stations, businesses, nearby communities. A great excuse to get pissed listening to a band cover Rolling Stones.
I was there, taking photographs for a newspaper like some awkward Peter Parker. There was a girl I knew there, Jaimee, and I was so relieved to have a friend to talk to. She bought me a drink and while away her friend groped my butt.
The friend’s name was Julie (her name wasn’t really Julie but I’d be a fool to share it). Julie was sitting next to a friend I assumed was her boyfriend. I took their photos and they went dancing in the wind and dust, and I braved the mosh to take more photographs of more drunken people.
“Come back,” Julie said, “and drink with us.” I promised I would, flattered some stranger thought my butt was beautiful enough to grope. I was back once I locked the camera in my car. We drank for ages to The Doors and I Can’t Get No Satisfaction and I accidentally pocket dialed a local mayor even though I had no phone reception.
And it seemed to impress the girl. “Here’s my number,” she said, putting it in my phone.
“Why do I need this?” I said, “I have no reception.”
“You idiot,” the boy she was with said. “This girl is giving you her number.”
“Oh,” I said, “but I might accidentally drunk dial you.”
“I’d love it if you did,” she said and grabbed my arm and led me away.
We left the mosh and walked to the house of a friend of hers. We sat on the patio drinking. I was staying in a small motel room by myself with a spare bed.
I was wondering if I should go back to it when Jaimee arrived – a bit grouchy and tired. I felt a little guilty but I didn’t know why. We sat another half hour and I was having a friendly argument with Julie’s guy friend.
“I’m going to have to find somewhere to sleep,” Jaimee said, just when I was thinking I should offer my spare bed to someone – hoping Julie would be first to accept.
“Have my spare bed,” I said, and she said “really?” and I said “yes you might as well” and we left five minutes later.
“Please,” I said when we were under our blankets in the dark. “Please do me a favour and let Julie know nothing funny happened between us.”
It wasn’t the last time Jaimee and I were to share an enclosed space with each other. Last weekend I woke with a hangover in a tent with Jaimee and Julie lying next to me.
Julie was wearing a hot dog onesie. It’s another story. One I’d tell soon if we get enough blog post likes.