Eat Me Read Free Page A

palm.
    â€˜Glad you’re not a vegetarian, Julia,’ he said after a silence.
    â€˜Why’s that?’ Julia asked.
    â€˜Oh, I dunno. It’s not really vegetarians I’m afraid of so much as vegans. But maybe I shouldn’t tell you. Not now, anyway.’
    â€˜But you’ve got me all curious.’
    â€˜Later.’
    Oh well. She liked the sound of that word, ‘later’. ‘Promise?’
    â€˜Promise.’
    She looked down at his hand now. She often marvelled at hands—all nerve endings and capillaries, sensation and blood. And those of younger men could be so beautiful, so tender and supple. With her fingertip, she explored and tickled. He shivered, almost imperceptibly, and leaned forward. She kissed him over the table and, under the table, caressed his leg with her foot. After a minute, he whispered, a little hoarsely, ‘I have a raging erection.’ She smiled and caught the attention of a passing waiter. ‘Could I’ve the bill please?’ she said.
    Chantal smirked. ‘Lights are on. Anyone at home? Oh, Joo-li-ya!’ She sang out Julia’s name, syllable by syllable, re-re-do.
    Julia’s eyelids flew open and panic shone briefly in her eyes.
    â€˜Well,’ asked Philippa after a significant pause, ‘Did you like my story?’ Suddenly self-conscious, she mumbled, ‘Of course, you don’t have to, you know, say you did if you didn’t.’
    Julia caught a quick shuttle back to Planet Earth. She blinked. ‘Uh, yes, of course I did,’ she stuttered. ‘Put it this way,’ she continued, slowly, recovering her poise. ‘I’ve got the cream. All I need now is another cup of coffee. It was orgasmic.’
    â€˜You’re not faking it?’
    â€˜Fake it? Me? Never.’ Julia smiled charmingly.
    â€˜Now I’m really worried.’ Philippa nibbled at her muffin and frowned. ‘Do you think ‘no animal fat’ means no butter? How can you bake with no butter?’
    Julia scanned the street as she sipped her latte. ‘Hey,’ she alerted the others. ‘Potential victim.’ Taking care not to look too obvious, they turned to look in the direction Julia had indicated, and performed a quick inventory.
    Lightly tanned skin, dishevelled brown hair with big blue eyes half-hidden under dense lashes. Late twenties. White Bonds t-shirt. Lightly muscled, well-defined arms. Black jeans covering but not concealing lean but muscular legs.
    â€˜Clothes horse,’ Helen approved.
    â€˜Maybe, but check out the hooves,’ observed Philippa. ‘Think his farrier’s made a bit of a mistake there.’
    Docs. Not the boots but the shoes. With white socks.
    â€˜Ee-ew,’ said Chantal, turning up her beaked nose, and patting her champagne-blonde beehive. She was terribly pleased with the beehive, a new item on her head’s endlessly revised agenda. It came courtesy of her best male friend and confidante, Alexi, a hairdresser. Alexi and she shared stories, news and views about men. They even gave each other the All Men Are Bastards desk calendar each year. Chantal hoped, what with her natural style and Ab-Fab job with Pulse, Sydney’s bible of style, that she would someday soon become a camp icon. One of her fantasies was to be plucked from the sidelines at the Mardi Gras parade by a float-illa of gorgeous, half-naked men. They would place her on a throne, and thrust and grind and gyrate moistly around her while she waved to the crowds like a prom queen in an American movie, or rather, just a queen. They’d think she was the most divine trannie they’d ever clapped eyes on, even more divine than Terence Stamp in Priscilla. Doing nothing to disillusion them, at the post-parade party she’d gently push some obliging slave over onto his knees. Steadying herself with one hand on his waist, she would bend over invitingly with her arse in the air. A series of