Coming of Age

Paul Nicholson was chubby, greying and unfit. At 33 he had had little luck with women and, in short, had retired early from the game, thrown in the towel, and now perpetually sat on the sidelines. He watched his obese friend date attractive young women. He looked on as another friend attracted the girl who would eventually become his wife by igniting a blue flame that issued from his backside. He observed with his keen intellect and rationalised his single status saying that, unlike lesser mammals, his life could be sustained without surrendering to animal instincts.

In general, he liked women and related to them quite easily. However, he was greatly threatened by any personal interest a woman might show in him. He had the fear of intimacy. He was uneasy about receiving a warm birthday greeting. A fond kiss was answered by a granite cheek.

He worked tirelessly at his job and this acted as an effective subterfuge to any advances a woman might make. His job involved coaching boys in the game of chess. There was continual touring, setting up a myriad of competitions and opportunities, maintaining a consistent programme at the school, networking with institutions, and so on. His workload exceeded sixty hours a week and in his spare time he played trombone in a swing band.

In the autumn of his 32nd year, it so happened that a couple of women appeared in Paul's life. He was introduced to Bernadette and her colleague Miranda at an intrastate competition. Both lived in the same city as him, worked in the same suburb, and were employed in a related area. So at a suitably private moment and with a belly full of beer he made a vague reference to his availability at evenings. For her part, Bernadette was interested in this advance but being a reflective person she was slow to respond. And so began a game of to and fro between two shy people making clumsy attempts towards a friendship.

Bernadette was a personality in recess. She was a cave dweller who ventured to the outer world only as a necessity for survival and who retreated from its perceived antagonism into her private quarters.

Miranda, was not so burdened. She possessed the skill, if it can be classed as such, of violating the psychological hymens of others when in mixed company. It was a carnal instinct, rather vampirish in nature, and yet accepted as part of her thespian flamboyance. For all his insecurities about women, Paul was surprised that he found Miranda's personality refreshing, not threatening. He fancied it was a type he could toy with safely: she was, he understood, happily married. Moreover, Miranda, like Paul, had grown up amongst the leafy privileges of Sydney's lower North Shore.

On an evening in the deep of winter Paul saw Bernadette at a public play-off that he had organized. She approached him at the end of the proceedings when he was alone and packing up gear. He had never seen her so agreeable or forward in her attitude. Even though his habitual nervous tics around women were playing for all they were worth they were suspended in the gelatinous air that surrounded them. Taking a leap into the unknown Paul suggested driving her home to show her a new software programme he had acquired.

As soon as Bernadette entered the interior of the car Paul felt the air in the cabin thicken with a kind of seminal ether. The atmosphere lightened over the course of the trip and once at her flat he could sense her easing into his presence. He found himself becoming guarded, trying to formalize his manner, drawing invisible boundaries of where he finished and she started. It was after all very late and at the end of another overworked day. He made moves to leave and began packing up.

"We should ... play," he offered.

"What should we play, Paul?" Bernadette asked suggestively.

"Chess," he nervously replied, with a hint of irritation. As they were exchanging phone numbers Paul decided to put her number straight into his cell phone. Paul stood in her foyer as he pecked away at the keypad. Bernadette suddenly snatched the phone from him, cut the light in the hall, leaving the LED torching the area between them. Any moment now and they would be plunged into darkness. Bernadette was laughing softly. Paul was facing a nervous meltdown. Then the mobile lamp cut out.

"Your hand," she said quietly, and he felt her hand touch his forearm. His heart was thundering.

"I'll show you where I've put your phone." She put her palm gently in Paul's left hand and guided both their hands into his left side-pocket. She moved in slowly and as deep as the pocket would allow and then slowly withdrew her hand leaving Paul's alone in there. Somehow she had inserted the phone into his pocket. Bernadette walked back to the lounge room, turned on a soft red lamp, and returned smiling.

"Goodnight Paul," she said, and kissed him on the cheek for what seemed like a full minute. Paul froze into a solid block of ice. All his receptors shut down. Bernadette finally withdrew to allow him to take leave of her. He paused, then gallantly turned, leaving a boyish smile hanging.

And so broke the dawn of Paul Nicholson's sexual coming of age.

2.

The journey home was endless and he longed to be back in his flat so he could relieve himself. This was overwhelming: she was a woman clearly interested in him, who was involved in a similar job, whose mind was similarly constructed. A woman who inhabited the same territory as he did, an intense and not unattractive woman putting it out for him. He couldn't objectify a woman like this. She was already in his pocket. All he could do was to stay remote and he would be safe.

So when she began a mild campaign of tentative advances he was mentally prepared and fended her off with polite indecision. She soon abandoned the effort. Bernadette had perceived Paul as a near perfect and quirky match for her, but his obtuseness, his peculiar take on friendship and his commitment to guarding his heart so closely, had forced her to formally resign from him as a project. She still had a space reserved for him in the carpark of her heart ; but in her less generous moments she would call it a disabled access car space.

Meanwhile, Paul began noticing a change in his outlook. It was lighter, sunnier, even dreamy. An attitude of sweet hopefulness kept returning to him. It reminded him of his university years. He was actually starting to feel a little happy about nothing at all. He bought a new car: a sports model, red. His life was in a different gear.

Three months later Paul saw Bernadette again in a work situation. Much had happened since the mobile phone incident. He had had a successful overseas business trip. His position within the international organization had moved ahead. He noticed that Bernadette had also moved on. She had changed from a comfortably plump woman with a quiet compliant demeanour to an edgier person whose physical shape was pared down to reveal distinct female contours.

It was also interesting that she had raised her concentration level in the game and was now a serious player to be contended with. Strangely, there was not even a hint of acknowledgement from either party of their previous intimacy. Indeed the absence of such an admission seemed to weigh heavily between them as they acted out their roles as consummate professionals.

Bernadette's colleague, Miranda, had also undergone a transformation. Far from the boozy wildcat of six months hence, she was now a demure, deferring, homemaker wife, who frequently made very public references to "my husband." Paul still enjoyed her company. She was cute and girlish and was running at a low energy level.

He was, frankly, a little disturbed by the high level of intensity that was emanating from Bernadette. Her restless society was unnerving. There was something volcanic about her that he found intriguing but disconcerting. He was also bothered that Bernadette reminded him of his mother, an austere and accomplished woman who didn't suffer fools. When he first met Bernadette she was easy company, but now she seemed a major handful, if only hypothetically, because she avoided him, remained aloof and avoided eye contact.

Paul was confused. It was reason enough to not get involved with women, he thought, they are so fickle, they drag you asunder with their liquid interiors and drown your dreams. Paul erected another fire wall in his heart. It was yet one more chink of armour that comprised fortress Paul.

Around this time he had a resonating dream which haunted him for several days. He dreamt that he was about eight years old with his mother inside a small weatherboard church in the Hunter Valley. There was a stained glass window and the sun was streaming through it. His mother called him to stand in front of the windows and receive a sunbath of colour.

This was significant because Paul had been diagnosed with colour blindness when he was five years old. As he was looking down at his bare legs and arms flecked with a spectrum of colours which he would never see in his waking state he heard fast arpeggiated sweeps from a zither which seemed to rise out of the kaleidoscope. He was captivated. Then he was aware that he was an adult again and the music was gold, sparkling and wet, and he was kissing a woman's nipples and her mouth was moist and he was kissing her lips, and it was Bernadette.

He woke up. He was bewildered the whole day. He absentmindedly left his mobile phone on the roof of his car and drove off. By the time he realised his mistake, he was watching a truck drive over it, demolishing everything including its SIM card.

That evening he was scheduled to take part in a public play-off. He knew Bernadette would be there and throughout the day he had an uneasy anxiety. It was like a constantly rising level of adrenaline draining into his bloodstream. Over the long drive to the venue his breathing had become shallow. Bernadette was the first person to greet him. She offered him a friendly smile but he could barely speak without his voice trembling so he pretended to laugh a reply but what came out was a choke of emotion which, of course, really settled his nerves.

As nights went this one was memorable because it was the final get-together of a chess club that had been meeting for a decade, and it heralded the beginning of a new association to take its place. It was a night of slightly sour undercurrents because some of the old members had conspired with younger, less experienced members to form the new club. Paul was one of the younger members and Bernadette was an old clubber who was not continuing in the new association due to its shift in direction.

Given this, Paul was impressed that Bernadette was sporting a calm and positive mood. She has every reason to be churlish, he thought. She presented the former president with an album of club memorabilia spanning the past ten years that she had collected and compiled into a leather bound folio. It was impressive and the gift had the effect of subduing tensions that were just beneath the surface. Then the champagne began to flow.

For the first time in months, Bernadette sat down and struck up a simple conversation with Paul. He opened his body to her: his hands were clasped behind his head, his chest and belly were freely exposed. Paul was enjoying the experience of something he had only ever read about: a pheremonal exchange. A pleasant current humming between two people.

At this exquisitely delicate moment, Miranda interposed physically and verbally. Positioning herself between Bernadette and Paul, she began offering Paul some free time at her home office to a build a website for the new chess club. He sensed that Bernadette was feeling the sting of this female to female combat. He thought he saw Bernadette's pallor turn a shade of green, perhaps she was blushing. He couldn't trust his green-skewed protanomaly colour spectrum condition; either way her face was red, or green.

Paul refused Miranda's offer on account of his work commitments but she insisted with the manner of a spoilt child. It was a very public offer and strangely provocative on several fronts. Firstly, she had no interest in chess - her area was public relations; and she was still on her IT training wheels. Secondly, her approach was overtly personal and it was placed defiantly between Paul and Bernadette. It seemed the champagne was warping already fraught emotions and letting odd, rampant behaviours range freely. Then Bernadette rattled a skeleton.

"I was appalled at the state of the last club's accounts, Paul. Thankfully, you were eventually able to clear up the mess you'd made," Bernadette blurted out as the night lurched on. Now that Paul had virtually supplanted Bernadette's role in the new club, he was feeling magnanimous.

"Thank you for being polite enough at the time to not mention the scramble that was the accounts of the last club treasury of which I was responsible," he publicly announced.

"So this is John Howard's Australia, where politeness is the New Black! Forget about spontaneity and originality. Politeness and Creativity make unhappy bed fellows, Paul," she shot back.

And so the night continued with old and new club members firing parting shot after parting shot with that peculiar Australian quality of insulting someone with great camaraderie.

Love slipped away for two people that night.

The carpark was the final act. Just as Paul had finished loading his new red car Miranda approached him.

"Love the colour, darling, let me see the interior. Mmm, black leather, you devil. Very cushy." Paul felt self conscious.

"So, I'm going to be in your suburb on Wednesdays, I can show you the ropes on building the website. I can pop over to your place. An hour, max. here, take my card."

She stood in the doorway of the driver's side where Paul was seated. His eyes were level with her abdomen. While she spoke to him she moved her hips and her hands tousled her hair and skirt. There was a constant movement, and rustling and jangling. Paul was polite and non-committal but he was acutely aware of this woman's advances. He felt himself go hard and he straightened his left leg. Miranda smiled cheekily and bent down into the cabin of the car. He could smell the perfume on her neck and chest. She put her hand on the top of his right leg.

"Oh, and your good friend Lachlan tells me the landline number that you keep a secret is listed in the White Pages," she said playfully. "Along with your address." Paul was cornered, he was in a confined space and he had an erection.

"Don't believe everything Lachlan says," he managed to choke out in a pretend laugh.

"We'll see about that," and she moved in closer and kissed him on the lips, moving her hand over to his left leg, and briefly brushing his stiff member.

She withdrew, much to Paul's relief. He laughed again in this choked fashion and attempted to start the car without his car keys, fumbling for them and making a rushed goodbye.

Paul had a long drive ahead of him. Down the long stretch of Canterbury Road which in the late hours abandons all pretence of decency as thirteen year old girls wait in doorways and side streets and carparks at traffic lights. Too available, too late, too intense. Somehow he made it home.

And the rosy fingers of dawn played upon Paul Nicholson's sexual coming of age.

3.

After looking into promotional ideas on the internet for the new club Paul organised a fundraiser dinner/competition to help finance a fit out of the new clubhouse. It was a Famous Faces theme night. As club secretary his job was to order costumes from the fancy dress hire shop for the committee members to wear. The shop would deliver them on the Friday afternoon and the committee would pick and choose as they arrived early to set up tables for the evening.

As usual, Paul was snowed under with work and was the last to arrive. The last remaining costume was the Dolly Parton. As with most of the humiliations Life had dealt him, he resigned himself. He would cop it sweet. He would wear what he saw as the green sequined frock that came with latex bodice inserts. He would quietly inflate them alone in the men's room. He would mumble inaudibly under the guffaws of the President and Treasurer when they discovered him, and he would simply ask to be zipped up at the back. This was within his sphere of tolerance. He would reason that it was an in-house event to be attended exclusively by families and friends of club members.

He carefully secured the curly wig with its stench of stale hair lacquer to his head. He fitted the mercilessly high stilettos which came with one-size-fits-all elasticised straps. He attached the big hoop earrings, glued on the false eyelashes using the enclosed instructions and fastened the 12-diamante-wide dog collar.

Finally, he applied the lipstick labelled "Cheeky Cherry" and what looked like green eye shadow. It took Paul a good half an hour to get ready and by the time he had finished all the members and guests had arrived. There was no escaping a massive entrance, he thought, but he reassured himself that it was going to be an insiders' night.

What Paul didn't know is that the President had been in touch with Miranda to engage her PR skills to increase club membership by targeting a wider demographic. He had invited her to be part of the evening to get an idea of the current membership.

The room was about half full as Paul walked out into the games room. There was a momentary hush as he minced his way across the floorboards and headed straight for the bar. Fortunately, a surreal atmosphere was present as Ned Kelly chatted with Elvis, Shane Warne with Miss Piggy, and Simpson's Donkey entertained George Bush Jr. What a relief, thought Paul, and ordered a scotch and coke. You can count on chess players to be cool, he muttered to himself.

"I could learn a few things from you about accessorising my wardrobe," Paul heard a familiar female voice say. Miranda seemed to spin around from out of nowhere and into Paul's immediate space. After a momentary disappearance into a black hole Paul emerged with a forced, "Hi!" Miranda was wearing a Chrissie Amphlett outfit: a short school tunic of box pleats, black stockings and suspenders. Her hair was in side plaits. It was going to be an interesting if long night, thought Paul.

"Oh," said Paul, "what are you doing here?"

"Your illustrious President asked me to come along as part of the PR contract. You know, to get a feel for the new membership" Miranda said with a wry smile. Paul was overcome with nervousness and scuttled off, bewildered, and attended to the games, raffle tickets and general networking.

When the lucky door prize was being drawn Paul looked for the President to present it but couldn't find him so he improvised an impression in falsetto of "Joelene." Fortunately he was amongst friends. Amidst the warm applause he noticed through the glass doors at the rear of the hall that Miranda was coming out of the President's office adjusting her hair and laughing. The President was behind her. Paul was stung with jealousy.

"What PR contract?" he asked himself as he undressed at the end of the night, removed the false eyelashes, and inspected the chafings the dress had made on his underarms and nipples. "And why the hell do women habitually do this to themselves?" he raged on privately. "Is it for our benefit or to remind themselves constantly of their body parts? Women are baser creatures than us, absolutely."

When Paul came out of the men's room there were still a few stragglers about. Miranda was at the bar and she looked, even from behind, like she'd had too much to drink. Not to be outdone by the President's advances earlier in the night, Paul took a deep breath, and approached her and said, "The Divinyls were a great Australian pub band. I remember seeing them when I was still in high school."