THE ROUGH END OF THE GUAVA

A 'guava' is a kind of fruit. For some reason, i always thought it was a small, furry animal. Walked into a deli, saw some apple and guava juice, and was understandably shocked. It's always upsetting when you get your genii so completely wrong.

All that is behind me now. I've been seeing a GMG. A Good Muslim Girl, lives with her parents. People will say that dating a GMG is an excuse to beat myself up. Or off, even. Because a GMG is a tough nut to crack. Sort of the Macadamia of the dating world. A Brazilian: too easy. A GMG that lives at home with her parents? There's a challenge. But you know perseverance works wonders. And it's cheaper than Bollinger, or even Gucci pour homme. Sure, i have my natural charm, plus my good looks, but it's perseverance that always seems to work. Well, either that, or you get arrested for stalking.

So i have been persevering with the GMG, on and off, this nice Turkish girl, and, i don't mind telling you, quite enjoying the challenge. She has that certain i don't know what, that certain ... uncertainty. The French have a name for it. Janice Aqua. But the GMG told me straight, she doesn't fool around. She wants to get married. To whom, she doesn't know, but she knows what she wants. So never for a minute did i seriously imagine that the GMG would crack, change her mind, and decide to fool around.


So it's 12:35 in the morning and i'm at the Sin Absinthe Bar with the Donstar and Scorpion Girl, watching a fashion parade with more Gothik than Cologne Cathedral, marveling at the inventive piercings, make-up, fishnet stockings, lace parasols, zippers in the strangest places, high heel leather boots – and that's just the bouncers. Then i get the call. It's the GMG. She is all on her lonesome at her beachside villa, the one she used to rent out. She told me a few weeks back she couldn't wait to have it back. What am i doing now, right now? she asks. Where am I? She's 'had something', as she puts it. She is high as a kite. Her Highness wants me to come over. Right away. Well, i'm here with a couple of girls, i say. We were going to maybe catch up with Raoul and Safari Bob, at Geisha. Maybe swing bi, take a pill, get up to some mischief. Grab a pill, sure, she says breathlessly, then come over here. You can bring your friends too if you want.

Goodness gracious, i think, it's one extreme to the other with these young Turks. The Sin fashion parade is coming to its leather bound conclusion. I tell the Donstar about the GMG phone call over a couple of Moscow Mules. Do you want to go? she asks. My head says no. My heart says no. My mouth says don't know. I won't burden the Avid Reader with responses from other parts of my anatomy. The Donstar, always on her toes, swiftly divests the Lolly Girl of two of her finest gobstoppers, one red and the other green. She puts them behind her back, then proffers two clenched fists. Oh, no, it's Lolly Tarot. Red we go to Geisha, green you go see the Turk, she says. I choose. It's green. See you later, says the Donstar. Damn. I'm much better at rock, paper, scissors.

The quiet villa is set amongst a group of other quiet villas. It's, like, real quiet. The GMG comes out, and presses her fingers to her full red lips, her dark curls cascading around her face. Shh, she whispers, we have to be quiet. Then she's got this big grin on her face. She beckons, and we slip quietly into the villa. All the lights are on, and it's then i notice the GMG is dressed in a pair of trackydacks and a t-shirt, and is covered in a fine layer of sawdust. There is not a skerrick of furniture in the flat, other than the washing machine. My goodness, i think. She has gone to a lot of trouble to fulfill this particular fantasy. Getting rid of all the furniture! It's obvious! After some frantic and heated foreplay, she wants me to strip off her dirty clothes, throw them in the wash, throw her on top of the machine, spreadeagled, switch it on, and ...

Ah, no. Actually, the GMG wants me to help her renovate her flat. At one thirty on a Saturday night. Sunday morning, even.

After i leave, i text Safari Bob.
"I feel used and dirty."
"Did you get laid?" he asks, in his inimitably forthright style. I send the rueful reply.
"I'm covered in dust. The only screwing i did was when i fixed her cupboard door. It was unhinged and in desperate need of attention. I know how it feels."
Meanwhile, Niki, Safari Bob, Raoul, Donstar and sundries are having whales of times at Geisha Bar. Killer, blue, humpback, sperm – you name it, and they're having it.
Later, i text the Donstar.
"Where you at? What you doing? I feel like bothering you."
"You are bothering me. I'm trying to give head here."
She's listening to records with Safari Bob, so she's probably only half joking. I feel like a farmer with a double barrelled shotgun, who's accidentally shot himself in both feet.

I spend most of Sunday feeling, with some justification, sorry for myself. Poor Art Director. Oh well, tomorrow i see Mayhem, and she always makes me feel better. For some unfathomable reason the poor miscreant believes in me. We will start cutting our hyperstylised doco, The Maestro, on Monday. We have to learn the Final Cut Pro software from scratch.

Next time we'll make an Emo movie. One that cuts itself.


a.d.out.