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“In a New Age meets The Last Picture Show kind of way.” He rolled his words out languidly, a very deliberate vocal mannerism he’d spent hours practicing, convinced it was sexy. And you know what? It was. “I guess that’s why my parents chose the town—that and the surf. My dad was a total gypsy; he used to run organic vegetables down Big Sur from Northern California. My mom had a whole-food café right next to the old twenties movie house that’s still there. They met at a full moon ceremony on the beach. It was lust at first sight. It still is,” he concluded, his eyes telegraphing the clear message that lust at first sight was a family trait.
Flushed, Tigger took another sip of her lukewarm champagne.
“It sounds like an idyllic place to grow up.” To her embarrassment her voice squeaked with nerves—not that he noticed; after all, he was secretly as nervous as she was.
“It’s okay for the first twelve years—after that there’s no edge. And I hate L.A.”
“I guess that’s why you’re in Melbourne—lots of edge here,” she replied, deadpan.
The youth laughed. He liked the irony, and there was a sophistication about this woman that he hadn’t yet encountered in Australia—plus she had great breasts, and he was a breast man. Still is, actually.
“I kinda landed here and liked it. I got involved with a local artists’ co-op—they needed a talent manager, someone who could promote and help show their work.”
“Really? You manage an art gallery?” This time she failed to keep the incredulity out of her voice. She thought he didn’t look old enough to have that kind of responsibility or ambition. He picked up on her patronizing tone immediately.
“It’s a collective. Some of my artists are just graduating and they’re really good. It’s important to get in early while I can sign them.”
And then it happened. They smiled at each other, one of those gloriously spontaneous smiles unrelated to their actual conversation, a kind of mutual unspoken acknowledgement of attraction, the kind that has you soaring through all kinds of impossibilities. Again, Tigger wondered whether she was imagining it. But he, in all the blind courage of his youth, he knew. An instinctive flash of intuition and in that moment he wanted her more than anything.
Unable to maintain the gaze without blushing, Tigger glanced down at his hands: long sculptured fingers, broad palms, and the tips of his fingers slightly blunted and thick. She wondered how they would feel touching her, in her, her mouth, her sex, between her thighs.
“And you?” He interrupted her erotic reverie. She breathed in, reassembling herself.
“I lecture at Sydney University, in the anthropology department. At the beginning I had these illusions of fronting documentaries about ancient tribes, educating the world about the wonders of the indigenous civilizations of the Pacific.” She didn’t know why she was telling him all of this; it just spilled out of her like a confession. Perhaps it was his youth, some unconscious reminder of an enthusiasm for both life and the world that she had once had herself.
“What happened? You didn’t want to pursue it?”
“Financial realities set in—that and the limitations of the Australian market back then. I guess I was before my time.”
“There is no ‘time’; only now.” A philosophy you might think all youths subscribe to, but this one really meant it.
He stood, the full height of him unfolding. In those days he was at least six foot two, and for a moment the seated Tigger was presented with a view of his crotch as he stood directly in front of her. She tried to stop that automatic evaluation of his hidden penis all women succumb to sooner or later—hardwired as it is—feeling as though that would be too exploitative of her. But he felt her gaze and loved it. It felt like a caress, like long cool fingers around his cock.
“Are you going on to the Velvet Glove later?” He looked down at her, not moving, totally aware of his provocative stance.
The Velvet Glove was a bar that a lot of the young artists frequented and Tigger knew Elise planned to take her there.
“I think so.”
“I’ll see you there, then.” His eyes traveled across her shoulders, cleavage, and skirt, a blatant sexual appreciation of her figure.
“Nice blouse, by the way. Vintage, right? Some things just seem to get better with age.” He grinned and then winked before walking away, his hips rolling ever so slightly at the top of his long slim legs. It was another mannerism he’d practiced in front of the mirror—ah, the insecurity of youth! Tigger, trying not to stare after him, reached for another drink.
“He’s yours, for sure.” Elise had magically reappeared beside her.
“Is he?” Tigger groaned faintly, wondering whether she had the emotional stamina for such a sexual adventure.
• • •
The Velvet Glove was at the top end of the city in a narrow 1930s building. It had a small bar and dance floor on ground level with a roof garden on top. Iconic images from the sixties and seventies were projected on the back wall of the dance floor and electronic punk boomed out. Elise led the way through the crowd—mainly young art students and a few businessmen packed into the bar. Perspiration seemed to be steaming up from the young skin of the patrons to drip down the walls, which seemed to be sweating too. Tigger clutched her
bag as she was shoved up tightly against young hot bodies. It was uncomfortable for her—if her personal space was to be invaded she liked the purpose to be clearly delineated, and she found that the promiscuity of such ambiguously close proximity was distressing.
Yet she was impressed with the respect her friend engendered: Elise was greeted like an honorary leader or muse. The young male art students, pretentious in their finery, waved at her, some even abandoning small entourages of fellow intellectuals to push their way over to the artist. Here Elise was queen, shouting introductions over the pounding beat, pointing to Tigger as if she were a trophy. Barely able to hear anyone over the music, Tigger smiled back blankly while surreptitiously scanning the room for Seth. She told me later that was all she could think about. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Surprised by the jolt of disappointment that ran through her like she was some love-struck teenager, Tigger reluctantly followed Elise into a booth by the dance floor. Mike, Elise’s lover, squeezed in beside them. While the two gossiped about the gallery opening and cattily critiqued other artists” work, Tigger took in the various courtships unfurling around her: nearby the awkwardness of a lone bespectacled young girl hovering beside a table reminded her of when she was young, how the hierarchy of what was perceived as “cool” dictated one’s whole outlook—and one’s prospects. Tigger had been lucky; she’d been attractive and in her youth the priorities were different—they hadn’t cared about money or material stability. Back then it had been about experience, cramming in as much as they could and escaping what they perceived as the terrible ennui of living in Melbourne.
The hovering girl, who looked as if she’d just come in from the country, was peering self-consciously from under the long greasy hair hanging over her face. Tigger couldn’t help but feel her anguish and isolation. As she watched the young artist fiddling nervously with the beads around her neck, Tigger noticed a sudden change come over the girl: she lit up as if an attractive man had just entered her orbit. Following her gaze, Tigger saw that Seth now stood framed in the entrance to the bar, the neon light outside making a silhouette of his tall slim figure. Holding her breath, she wondered whether the young girl might be a lover of his, but then he glanced across at Tigger. Her heart leapt like a teenager’s. He nodded and she nodded back, desperate not to appear too eager. Seth then made his way through the crowded dance floor over to the bar. Even surrounded by people pushing to reach the bar he appeared curiously remote, his height and beauty making him stand out. It was almost as if he carried an aura of faint light around those glowering dark features. But I can tell you, he was completely oblivious to the power he held over others, which in retrospect might have been a good thing.
