I hate New Year. I hate the ironic clamour of Abba singing Happy New Year as yet another vodka-eyed sound engineer tries to pull me towards his chest for a mistletoe moment.
I’ve done the New Year permutations. I’ve been on magic mushrooms spitting at a werewolf moon while day-glo ravers swirl by. I’ve counted down the minutes in my parents’ lounge, drunk on fizzy wine and the sound of cicadas. I’ve watched reruns of Willow and turned in early. I’ve been to hat and shirt parties, snazzy soirees and low-key braais. I’ve eaten Chipniks and worn stupid clothes. I’ve endured faux punks passing out in my cupboard and teenagers drinking brandy out of shoes. I’ve even watched as blasts of fireworks scared birds nesting at Edinburgh Castle. I have danced to Wham.
And at all these parties, I was kissed by people I didn’t want to kiss.
Something had to change.
The day before New Year’s Eve, my husband and I did some shopping. This was not our usual inkopie of cardboard hake, low-fat milk and large-flake oats. This list involved latex and gel and lace and pistons.
He dropped me at the mall where women with tanned chests fought over paté and crudités, while men slopped behind in Christmas bellies. Eventually I found what I was looking for — a quiet lingerie section in a department store, manned by a woman who didn’t know the difference between stockings that require suspenders (much cheaper) and fancy stay-up tights that cost double the price and have a top that feels like washing-up gloves.
Nevertheless, I picked through the sale pile and pulled out a few things. I had no idea G-strings came so small — most of them wouldn’t fit over the freckle on my little toe. I flashed my unfestive credit card. Being a hooker doesn’t always come cheap.
Next, I braved the liquor store and found at least five brands of fizzy, winey stuff that didn’t carry the word ‘sparkling†on their labels. And they cost more than R60. Then I headed to the mall exit to wait for my husband.
He arrived looking triumphant and bearing brown paper bags. The whole way home in the car they sat at my feet like little bombs. Or packed lunch. Or sick bags. Or two anonymous bags from Adult World stashed with a disco-pink vibrator, some edible gel and a rude video. Now which would it be?
‘Aren’t you curious?†he asked later, pointing to the bags lying on the kitchen counter. I was being coy. The closest I had ever been to watching a porn movie was in the Eighties when a deviant at the SABC inserted a clip of steamy stuff during the evening news. I had never worn suspenders and had once owned a prissy dildo called Maud.
Of course I was curious. We had planned this sex fest together and now wasn’t the time to be coy.
I told him to wait in the lounge and I would be back in 10 minutes. Forty minutes later, he banged on the door. ‘Are you alright?†I wasn’t. Crouched over my crotch, I was struggling with four lengths of elastic fitted with clips that only Steven Hawking would be able to master. The suspender belt was also a size too small. It had been on special.
‘Could you come and help me,†I said meekly. ‘I can’t do it.†I could feel my inner sex goddess being replaced by a fumbling frau. But my husband is an empathetic man. Five minutes later, he had hooked up my stockings to the black lacy belt. ‘You look fabulous,†he said, producing a bottle of massage oil and unleashing the vibrator from its packaging.
While he arranged the lighting, I read the operating manual in the various languages. Ano is anus in Spanish.
Then he fired up the dildo. It’s amazing how powerful buzzing latex can be.
At 8pm, when the rest of the suburb was painting marinade on to their chops, we were painting pretty shadow puppets on the bedroom wall. At 9pm, when my parents were watching BBC Prime, wishing they were in England, I was lying back thinking of England while an unattractive Latino porn star with swinging balls pistoned on the TV screen.
At 10pm, we took a break and ate some cheese.
At 11pm, I was on my knees in the lounge performing all manner of favours.
And at 11.45pm, we were fast asleep in bed.
For the first time at New Year, I had been firmly and resolutely, happily kissed.