Something Red, Something Blue

I told him I was the workplace health and safety manager for a prominent retailer. It wasn't very interesting, I explained. Boring, really. There wasn't much going on in my life that was in any way remarkable, I finished apologetically.

'You're wearing a dress the size of a handkerchief -- not that I'm complaining,' McGrath teased. 'And last time I saw you, you were tipsy on a weekday afternoon, so I refuse to believe you're boring.'

'Complete anomalies,' I argued, picking up my glass of water. 'You're mistaking an unusual series of departures from my normal behaviour as a sign that I'm actually intriguing. I admire your optimism, and if I could, I'd continue the charade, but the truth is, I'm a forty-two year old spinster with a nine to five job, and a small, two bedroom flat in an unremarkable neighbourhood.'

He stared at me thoughtfully for what seemed like the longest period of time. I tried not to squirm, instead focussing on the minor details of his appearance. He was greyer than I remembered; there were patches of lighter hair around his temple and an odd, almost entirely grey, spot behind his left ear. He was clean shaven but I could tell by the early beginnings of stubble that his facial hair, left to grow, would no longer be dark.

Handsome? No, not if I was being honest. I doubted he'd ever been conventionally good-looking, but he was pleasant to look at, and he smelt of Imperial Leather soap, which was what my father had used for his entire, adult life. I still remember the tiny little stickers that came on the top of the soap. They'd start lifting off the cake after it's third or fourth use, and I used to peel them off and stick them to the walls of the shower. Mum always blamed Dad, and Dad always covered for me.

Eventually, McGrath spoke.

'There are a lot of people who live in this town who weren't born here,' he said. 'People who find the freedom to be who they couldn't be at home.'

'Are you asking if I prefer women?' I asked, trying to make light of what I sensed was a very personal statement.

'No, I'd never ask that of someone wearing a dress like yours,' McGrath replied matter-of-factly. 'You're definitely straight. My guess is that when you're away from home, you turn into who you want to be. Not what you're forced to be.'

'I hope you're not charging for that psychoanalysis,' Bonnie remarked drily.

McGrath laughed guiltily. He hadn't been analysing me; he'd been flirting. Even I, accustomed as I was to being ignored by men, recognised that. It was unusual that I'd caught a man's attention, but given I was the only under-sixty, heterosexual, single woman in the area, perhaps it wasn't so much a matter of being a glittering star but being his only prospect.

A waitress came by and started delivering entrees. I'd ordered an entrée for the for the first course, and another for the second, with a cheese platter for dessert. I loved cheese. Cheese, beer, potato chips, salami, all of the horrible, salty, fatty foods that men typically prefer featured regularly in my diet.

My first entrée was scallops, and my second was a bresaola salad with radish and beetroot. I was in heaven. McGrath, meanwhile, stuck to mini spring rolls as an entrée and steak and chips for his main. He ate with the gusto of a single man who can't cook, while continuing to talk and joke with myself and the lesbians.

I was enjoying myself and the others were, too. We were laughing and drinking and both the girls and McGrath told me the four of us would need to catch up before I returned to Brisbane. We hadn't exchanged phone numbers yet, but I knew we would.

The ladies were telling McGrath he'd have to take me out to their farm so we could eat goats cheese and drink beer when my phone started ringing. I reached into my bag to see who it was that was calling, fully expecting it just to be my parents, and instead saw it was the company CEO. That wasn't good, that wasn't good at all.

I excused myself and went outside to take the call. As anticipated, the CEO wasn't calling for shits and giggles, but to tell me a staff member had been involved in a freak accident two hours ago. Ours was a large company and one that was mindful to protect it's interests. I needed to get back to my hotel room, log into the company network, and start my investigations.

I was bitterly disappointed. I went back into the restaurant and gave my companions a brief overview, trying to hide my anger and frustration at having been pulled away from an enjoyable evening.

'Surely you can have your dessert first,' McGrath said. 'It'll be coming out any minute.'

'You don't know my employers,' I replied apologetically. 'I'm really sorry.'

'Where are you staying?' McGrath asked.

I told him the name of the hotel.

'I'll get in touch,' he said. 'You look anxious. I shouldn't have asked you to stay for dessert. I hope everything gets sorted quickly.'

'Me too,' I agreed.

Twenty minutes later I was back in my room. I kicked off my shoes and pulled off my red dress. The outfit was sexy, but it wasn't in any way comfortable and at any rate, if I was asked to Skype the CEO -- and I probably would be -- I didn't want him seeing me in that sort of outfit.

Fortunately, CCTV video of the workplace incident was available and clear. I checked through the video recording, read the incident report, reviewed the employee's training records, compared them to our safety standards, and called each of the two witnesses for a chat. Within an hour I came to the only possible conclusion -- sheer bad luck. One employee had moved a carton that they were unaware was leaking. The injured employee had slipped on a patch of clear, sticky fluid and gone flying.

The CEO called me seconds before I was due to call him, to advise that the staff member had been checked over by the hospital and diagnosed with soft tissue damage. He'd have a few days off work, but there were no permanent injuries.

All in all, it was as good an outcome as we could have hoped for, and knowing that none of our systems had failed meant that there would be no repercussions for any employees. The CEO thanked me for dealing with the matter so promptly and told me to take another day's leave in lieu of my time that night.

After the call ended, when the adrenalin had faded and I no longer had to worry about someone being badly hurt, or anyone's job being called into question, I shut down my laptop and buried my head in my hands. I felt exhausted.

There was a knock at the door. I padded over and opened it. There, on the other side, was McGrath, holding a plastic-wrapped paper plate.

'Your cheese plate,' he said.

'Oh gosh, thank-you,' I said, taking it. 'I...'

I was about to invite him in, but was interrupted by my phone ringing.

McGrath gave me a slight nod. 'Well, sounds like you're still busy. Have a good night.'

I nodded. 'Thanks. Really. I appreciate it.'

I wanted to ask him for his number, and for Bonnie and Xanthe's, but I figured if he wasn't forthcoming with it, they'd probably had second thoughts about catching up with me. Besides, my phone ringing seemed to have deterred McGrath from hanging around, and he was already half way down the hallway.

I ran to my phone and answered. It was a goddamn telemarketer.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Swearing was my bad, guilty habit, and that night I did a lot of it. Exhaustion, frustration and disappointment combined to form a storm of tears and I lay on my bed and wept. It might sound silly. Hell, it probably was. But I'd been having a good time, a really good time, and it seemed cruel that my nice night out had to be ruined.

~~~~~~~~~

I spent Sunday ambling around town. Not much was open and not much was happening. In the end, I bought a book and sat by the hotel pool and read.

One of the staff members was wiping down the deck chairs and he nattered happily to me as he worked. He was somewhere in his thirties and gay as bloody Christmas. As he talked, I marvelled at the number of people in this town who weren't straight, and the surprising number of people who were chatty and friendly. He told me about the beaches they 'only tell the tourists they like' about, and I promised to go and visit some tomorrow morning.

I'd only pledged to visit the beaches to keep the peace, but when I found myself awake at the ungodly hour of five am on Monday morning, I decided to get in my hire car and check out one of the places he'd recommended.

It was a short, quiet drive out of town. The air was already hot and I kept the windows up and air-con on as I drove along the highway. Backpackers were in a field digging up what I only knew was taro because the shuttle bus driver had told me on my last trip up here that that was what the plant was. Taro, sweet potato, mangoes, bananas and dragonfruit were grown here and taken to Brisbane, for the Asian and South Pacific communities.

As I drove I passed a cassava processing plant. That was another crop grown here, another industry. Cassava flour is gluten free, the shuttle driver had told us. The mill was growing, turning over more and more product each year. An odd little enterprise, but one which kept the unemployment rate down. Behind the mill was a small soil and bark manufacturing plant which was run by a sixty year old couple and their daughter. I knew all about this town, courtesy of the bus driver.

I could see beaches over the side of the road but I wasn't quite sure how to access them. I'd been advised 'by foot' but I'd been expecting to see some sort of carpark or tracks, and there seemed to be neither. At one point I decided just to pull over, have a look around, and see what I found.

It was perhaps half past five in the morning and I was wearing a casual outfit consisting of slip on canvas shoes, shorts, singlet and hat. I applied a good amount of sunscreen, found my water bottle and phone, then walked along the verge until I saw an informal track, invisible from the road but noticeable when you were up close. I trekked through the grass, beneath a canopy of trees and away from the road, not really caring if I found the beach or just saw some of the native scenery.

After perhaps ten or fifteen minutes I rounded a corner and found a path leading to a small beach. At this time of year the North Queensland waters were home to Irukandji jellyfish. To avoid being stung you can swim within the designated nets on popular beaches, or wear a stinger suit, which is a full body Lycra outfit that covers everything except for your face. I had a stinger suit but it was back at the hotel. I hadn't planned on swimming that morning, just on going for a walk. That was just as well because this wasn't a beach with a netted area.

There was a solitary swimmer down by the water. Male. He was getting out of the water and I watched him walk over the white sand in his wet, glistening suit. When he reached his towel he looked around, undertaking a cursory search for other people. For a second he'd surely seen me but judging from what he did next, he hadn't.

The swimmer casually unzipped his suit and peeled it off. Normally the suits are worn over bathers -- or perhaps that was just the tourist thing to do -- but this man was naked beneath.

I should have turned away. He believed he was alone; he was too casual and unaffected about what he was doing for this to be some unwanted sexual show, but this was the first nude man I'd seen in a very long time and I couldn't tear my eyes away. He was middle aged and carrying a bit of extra weight, and he was quite hairy, but he had good arms and big heavy balls, over which his flaccid penis rested. I stared gormlessly, taking it all in as he dried himself off.

He wrapped the towel around his waist, picked up his stinger suit, and walked towards where I was standing. McGrath. It was McGrath. His hair was wet, he hadn't yet shaved and he was wearing only a towel but it didn't prevent me from recognising him.

He stopped in his tracks when he saw me. He recognised me, and I could see his brain ticking over as he tried to assess what and how much I'd seen. Then, with quiet determination, he started walking quickly towards me. I knew he'd be either embarrassed or angry, and I waited to see which it was.

It took him perhaps twenty seconds to reach me. I was about to apologise but before I could speak, he did.

'I'm sorry,' he apologised gruffly. 'I didn't realise anyone was here. Nobody normally comes here, particularly not at this time of day.'

I shook my head, refusing to accept his apology. I'd watched him. The proper thing to do would have been to turn away and give him some privacy, but I'd been captivated. A naked man. A normal, naked man on a beach, and not one who wanted to shock or horrify a woman, but one who had simply been changing out of a swim suit for the drive home.

My gaze dropped to his chest. Whorls of dark hairs were interspersed with grey ones, and he had a scar on his stomach, a thick, keloid scar. The urge to touch him, to trace my fingers over the scar, and to loosen the towel around his waist was indescribable.

McGrath didn't not notice me staring, but he misinterpreted the emotion. He slipped past me and up the path, towards the road, his wet Lycra suit swinging from one hand.

It took me a couple of seconds to realise I had to chase after him and apologise.

'McGrath,' I called out. 'I'm sorry. I shouldn't have looked. I just... didn't know what to do.'

He kept walking away, his back to me, but he held his hands up in surrender. 'I understand. It must've been horrendous,' he said, his voice thick with embarrassment as he tried to make a joke out of an awkward situation. 'Normally I prefer to buy women a few drinks first, so they're mentally prepared to see me naked.'

I've always been the sort to laugh in uncomfortable situations, and a stray giggle escaped me.

'You weren't that bad,' I assured him. 'It was just unexpected. I've never seen a naked man on a beach before. Not even in France, when I was young and stupid and sun-baked topless because everyone else was doing it.'

McGrath stopped in his tracks. He turned around and squinted at me. His gaze dropped momentarily to my chest, which wasn't in any way remarkable. I had a small frame and small breasts with pale, flat nipples.

I crossed my arms over my chest self consciously.

'Going topless was also an aberration,' I explained. 'I don't do it anymore. I only did it twice, anyway. The point I was making is that I've also been naked on a beach, so if women can do it... really...'

'...Jodie...' McGrath said. 'Jodie...'

'Sorry,' I apologised. 'I sort of just froze and couldn't look away.'

'No, no, I should have made sure nobody was around,' he argued. 'I'm just used to being on my own.'

'Do you go swimming here often?'

He nodded. 'I drive here a couple of mornings a week. If I'm spending a day sitting in an office, I like to get some sort of movement in beforehand.' He gave me a wry smile. 'I'm getting old. The body's breaking down.'

'I understand. I think I do every exercise class imaginable back home. Zumba. Spin. Women's circuit.'

We stared at each other for a couple of seconds before simultaneously breaking into laughter. It was mutual embarrassment mixed with joint amusement at the preposterousness of the situation.

'Well,' McGrath said. 'I suppose the only decent thing to do is to ask you out to dinner. What are you doing tonight?'

I smiled. 'Going to dinner with you.'

~~~~~~~~~

There were two different paths to the beach which is why I hadn't spotted any other cars when I'd parked mine. McGrath had parked his older-style Patrol closer to the beach than mine, and he drove me the five hundred metres up to the road to my vehicle, where he dropped me off. I waved him good-bye.

Twelve hours later, he was at my door.

I have a theory about Australians living on the East Coast. If you start your way up at the bottom and work your way up North, you'll see a slow, steady and noticeable decline in what people consider appropriate formal attire. In Melbourne you can book into a hundred dollar a night joint and your concierge will be immaculately made up. In far North Queensland you can book into a place that costs three times as much and your hosts won't be wearing shoes.

McGrath, mercifully, was wearing shoes. Shoes, shorts and a shirt I should probably be grateful had buttons and a collar. I, on the other hand, was wearing a knee length black dress and heels, and had spent the better part of an hour on my hair and make-up.

'Don't you look nice?' he remarked.

'I, uh, hope so.'

'I was only going to take you to the restaurant up the road. Do you want to pop on a pair of thongs so you don't need to walk in your heels?'

'That would be kind of bogan, wouldn't it?'

'Nah, this is North Queensland. You're good.'

I slipped on some flip flops and carried my heels in my hand. The man who I'd seen naked asked me about my day and told me about his as we walked down the road.

The restaurant was nice and dinner was pleasant. McGrath was great company, the type of man who makes a woman feel grateful of her gender, because otherwise they might miss out on the attention of someone like him. He made me seem interesting, because he managed to extract from me stories and anecdotes that I felt weren't wholly representative of how I was day to day, and I thought it was probably a good thing this was never going to be more than a holiday fling because otherwise he'd soon be sorely disappointed by the routine-driven, repetitive nature of my life.

As we drank post-dinner coffees, the conversation turned back to the beach we'd both visited that morning.

'Have we recovered from the shock yet?' he teased me.

'How do you know I'm not one of those perverted old spinsters who hasn't had sex for years and enjoyed seeing a naked man?'

'I wouldn't believe that sort of tall tale in a million years,' he replied confidently.

'You wouldn't believe I'm perverted?'

'Well....' He trailed off meaningfully. 'I'd be disappointed if you weren't.'

When a man says he wants a perverted woman he might want a woman to dress in latex or whip him, or he might just want one who enjoys sex. I didn't pick McGrath as the type who wanted to wake up the next morning with bruises, but I got the impression a bit of dirtiness didn't go astray. I wondered if he'd be interested in fucking me in the arse while I wore my red dress and balanced against a mirrored wardrobe, leaving handprints all over the glass. I'd already seen his cock, and unless it inflated to ridiculous proportions when hard, I knew I could take him irrespective of what hole he wanted to insert it into.

McGrath raised an eyebrow. 'Do I get any sort of indication? Are you a pervert or a lady?'

'I'm a feminist, McGrath. I'm quite capable of being both. The real question is; can a man be a pervert and a gentleman?'

A dirty great grin appeared on his face. 'I love a feisty woman.'

I blushed and, having reached the end of my ability to banter, finished my coffee. I was aware my companion was watching my intently, and put the cup down and touched my lips self consciously, wondering if my make-up was still in place.

'I've had a great evening,' McGrath said. 'The problem is that I'm not ready for it to end, and I'm not sure it's kosher to try and invite myself into your apartment for the sort of nonsense I'd like to try to get up to. How about we compromise and go for a walk along the beach?'

I appreciated him giving me space, even though I would have invited him into my apartment and my bed without any hesitation.

'That sounds great,' I replied. 'Did you drive into town?'

'No, I walked, but I only live a couple of streets away. We can either walk back to my place or yours and get a car. Which would make you feel more comfortable?'