Eva Mazza - Sex, Lies & Stellenbosch

“It will do you good to be alone.”

Grateful, she entered Claudia’s apartment laden with shopping bags. The apartment was as tasteful as Jen had imagined. An enormous window boasted a breathtaking view of the Atlantic Ocean. A few boats were visible in the distance, their lights twinkling through the rain. A passage led off from the left of the entrance hall to a separate studio for houseguests and on the right, an open plan Moroccan style kitchen, tiled in mosaic with brass fixtures. The kitchen led into a dining room furnished with a round marble table surrounded by a mix of upholstered dining room chairs.

In the lounge, two roomy velvet sofas spilled over with cushions. A large gold ottoman, laden with coffee table books, was placed at the opposite end of the room. The wall separating the room from the bedroom area was covered with framed pictures of Claudia and her family and friends. Jen noticed a picture of a much younger Claudia on her wedding day, standing next to a handsome young man. Daniel. He was robust, blond and tall.

Judging by the landmarks of canals, gondolas and Greek tavernas it was evident that she was well travelled. There were several photos of her kissing, dancing closely and standing together in front of the Eiffel Tower with a man Jen assumed must be Leonard. Jen chided herself for having imagined Leonard as a white Jewish man just because of his name and because Claudia herself was Jewish.

There was a picture of him on what Jen knew for certain as the unmistakable black beach of Santorini’s Paradisos. Leonard had one of the most beautifully shaped, chiselled bodies she had seen on a man this side of forty. His board shorts hung just under his hipbones and she had to stop herself from staring too long. Lucky girl, Claudia.

She helped herself to a vodka tonic from the bar in the corner of the lounge and sat on the couch facing the Atlantic. Her phone beeped another message which she chose to ignore. She wanted time out from everyone. It had been a long day. Anyway, she wasn’t obliged to speak to anyone, especially not John. This new sense of emancipation gave her courage and she WhatsApped Myron before she could change her mind. “Where do you live? Do you feel like catching up this evening? I’m staying at Claudia’s and I can pop over if you’re not busy.”

She decided to shower. She wasn’t going to sit at her phone waiting for a reply. His answer would determine the evening’s outcome. She stripped and threw her used clothes in one of her packets. A real bag lady I’ve become! She lingered in the shower, allowing the water to cleanse her. When she was done, she checked her phone.

A missed call from John. More importantly, Myron had texted the address and directions to his house in Llandudno and a short “would love to see you” . She jotted the address down in her notebook and switched off her phone, deciding to leave it behind. Tonight, she was unreachable.

She moisturised her body and carefully dried her hair. After getting into her new underwear, she admired herself in the mirror. What are you expecting to do tonight, you vixen? She turned around to check her derrière. Not the best bottom, Ms Pearce. She wore her new wrap dress she’d bought that evening and applied a little mascara and eyeliner. She took one final look at herself. Her dress plunged at the neckline, nipped her waist and opened to show a hint of thigh as she walked. Very unsubtle, she concluded. She dabbed on perfume and left the apartment with a palpitating heart.

Myron’s home in the upmarket suburb practically hung over a cliff. It seemed to be constructed entirely from glass. Jen wondered what the hell she thought she was doing as she rang the doorbell. She had had another vodka tonic before leaving, the effects of which seemed to be wearing off fast.

Before she could retreat, Myron had opened the door and his friendly welcome put her at ease.

She burst out, “I lied!”

“You did?” Myron responded, still standing in the open doorway.

“Before I make a complete ass of myself, I need to ask if you’re gay?”

He laughed, “I’m Greek, single and have immaculate taste.”

Jen’s shoulders sagged. Maybe it was too good to be true. How could he have possibly been straight?

“Okay, then I didn’t lie. It is what I said it was: a catch-up,” she said as she stepped over the threshold and took in her surroundings. This is definitely a gay man’s abode. It was impeccably furnished with modern, industrial elements enhancing the structure of glass, stark concrete and iron beams running from ceiling to floor. Items were placed for impact rather than practicality and there were numerous paintings and artworks◦– three pieces unmistakably by Madi Phala, renowned for his ‘herd boy’ theme.

“A Dylan Lewis bowl! I’ve always hoped that one day I’d have one on display in my home. Pity my bag is so tiny,” she joked.

Myron leaned against the front door and watched her take in the vastness of the place. She could hear a grin in his voice as he said, “I’m not gay, Jen. You are so presumptuous. I am a single man who hired an interior designer who was given carte blanche as I have no fucking idea about interiors and I’m too bloody busy to care.”

“Ohhhh. Then I’ll have to go back to my introductory confession. I did lie.” She walked towards him, close enough to feel his body’s warmth.

“Mmmm, well, ’fess up. What’s the lie?” he teased as he closed the door.

“I didn’t come to catch up. I came to pick up where we left off at school.”

“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” She could tell he was trying to play the innocent.

“No,” she said, as she moved her body even closer. Pressing her groin up against his, she could feel him stir. “I really don’t want to know anything about you, Myron. I just want to… What’s the word my kids used to use? Hook up with you. Bag you.”

“I think the word you are looking for is ‘shag’.”

“I think shag is less explicit than what I had in mind, but let’s go with that. Are you okay to be used and abused?” She hardly recognised her seductive voice.

“Jen, that’s what every man dreads: an easy lay.”

They both smiled, and Jen leaned in to kiss him, feeling that familiar urge: the forgotten lust of youth. She never imagined she could ever feel this way again. After a time, she pulled away. “I think your hand was here when we were last together,” she said as she placed his hand on her breast.

He cupped it, and her nipple rose. “Where was my other hand?” he asked, feigning innocence.

“I don’t know, Myron, I honestly can’t remember,” she said hoarsely, aware of the intense stirring in her loins. “What I do remember is that my arms were around you. Like this.”

She placed her arms around his shoulders, clasping her hands behind his neck, and, pouting, said, “Sadly, I’m not that innocent any more, and I was thinking of placing one hand here.” She touched his groin. He sucked in air as her hand pressed harder against him. She lowered herself, her face in line with his crotch, as she unbuttoned his jeans and slid his zip down, excruciatingly slowly. She wasn’t as slow with his jocks. There was a need to unveil him. He was hard, yes, and very well endowed.

Myron leaned back against the door and closed his eyes as she nuzzled him. “I see you have very little to be embarrassed about,” she murmured. He smiled, his eyes still shut. “Before I go any further, does your ‘member’ have a name?”

“What?” Myron asked, his eyes now wide open and looking down at her quizzically.

As if she were speaking into a microphone at an information kiosk, she repeated more clearly, “Do you have a name for your dick? Do I address him by name?”