Vicky Scholtz Taking the scenic route through Fine Art, teaching, NGOs and the Health Sector, Vicki arrived at UCT eight years ago, where she is currently masquerading as an IT Manager. She writes in a futile attempt to keep her brain cells alive.

Take-out

Vicky Scholtz

Luke always knew he had to do it. He was simply responding to some compulsion from deep within himself; he had no choice, really. Music was his life. Though of course he had to earn a living like anyone else, and nobody makes enough money from their music to live on these days, with even the vinyl stardom of the past a saccharine memory. Rather, today’s music “stars” were corporate presences, multi-media empires assaulting the senses with computer-generated special effects and carefully researched designer images. To Luke, that was selling out. Where was the music in all of that? Sure, he reckoned, if he’d slept with the right people, he could also have been “big”. But what the hell, Carol thought him big enough. And glancing down at his skin-tight jeans, he thought she was certainly right about that!

Every Wednesday, Luke loaded his guitar in the boot and drove his middle-aged Chevrolet down to the run-down pub that hosted the weekly local music evening. Luke was a regular in the first-come, first-served line-up, and was always warmly greeted by the Wednesday regulars. Usually there would be a couple of girls hanging around afterward, too wasted to remember their own names, that he’d help out by taking them home. In the morning he’d wake them when he got ready for work, dropping them off somewhere along the way. The meaninglessness of engaging them in sex had become increasingly clear to Luke with time — they were too far-gone to remember, and he was too uninterested to notice. In the end he stopped doing it, though their presence on his spare mattress in the morning maintained the pretense, and his image remained untarnished.

Carol never went down to the pub on Wednesdays — Carol’s first priority was her work, and Luke had accepted this at the outset. Weekends she would spend at his place, adding the feminine touches that made the Wednesday night girls realise they should keep their mouths shut on Thursday mornings. Carol would fill his fridge and cupboards with food, his vases with flowers, his townhouse with light. She’d make the bed, send him off to the laundry with the washing sorted into piles by colour, fabric and weight, while preparing enough meals to last Luke through the week.

Luke, meanwhile, would dump all his laundry in a single Speed Queen and stare over the top of his thoughtfully-packed Thomas Pynchon at the washing swirling round and round, hypnotising him through his hangover.

On his return he was always berated for not separating darks from whites, and cotton from nylon, and for leaving several items behind in the dryer. Carol would cluck and scold, rolling her eyes about another ruined shirt, another lost sock, another shrunk sweater, making a mental note to stop at Hilton Weiner one lunchtime. Carol had bought clothes for Luke so often (in fact, all of his clothes had been bought by Carol) that she knew his size with greater certainty than her own, which was subject to extreme volatility depending on stress levels, hormone levels, frustration levels.

Which was, according to Luke anyway, the problem with Carol. She was fat. He allowed her to care for him, cook for him, clean for him and couple with him, but formal acknowledgement of A Relationship, or even an attempt at monogamy, was out of the question. Carol was fat, and Luke knew that a fat girlfriend wouldn’t smooth his path to superstardom. And Carol seemed to be getting rather moody rather often of late — as if something wasn’t quite right, somehow. He knew she feared her approaching thirtieth birthday, was woken for work by her biological rather than her alarm clock, and was under the traditional pressure from her extended family to “settle down”. And he knew that Carol wanted to settle down with him — in fact, even considered herself settled, albeit for less.

Luke picked idly at his guitar and found his fingers repeating a rhythm, a sequence of chords. His eyes strayed to Carol’s abandoned cellular phone on the counter, and he began to match rhymes together with his rhythm inside his head. “A mobile phone  … won’t leave you alone  …”

Carol came out of the kitchen. “Clapton!” she announced with a pleased expression. “Why don’t you play the whole thing, instead of just that one bit?” Luke froze. He recognised with a cramped feeling that she was right — his fingers had wandered across a sequence of chords from Layla, without his noticing. He put down his guitar abruptly and stood up. “What’s for lunch?” he asked distractedly, “Or are you it?” Carol rolled her eyes dramatically and walked over to answer her cellphone, which was irritatingly beeping the Lone Ranger theme. She slipped through the sliding door to take the call outside, leaving Luke staring at his guitar. Clapton — Clapton! How could he have slipped into such an adolescent cliché without noticing? Dull, boring, predictable  … as if he should turn his talent to focus on delivering perfectly mimicked covers of teenage favourites! Hurt, outraged, offended, Luke wasn’t sure how to feel, or in what order, but his pride in his originality was hurt.

Carol stepped back into the room and started busily gathering her things. “There’s a crisis at work,” she said over her shoulder as she headed up the stairs. “I’ll give you a call from there once I know how long I’ll be.”

Luke paused in his analysis of his feelings. “What about lunch?” he asked.

“I’ve set the timer; it’ll be done in another &nbs;… ten or so minutes, just take it out. I can’t wait; I’ll get some takeaways along the way. Oh, if you want cream with the dessert, you’ll have to get some — you left the container out and it’s gone off.” Carol kissed his unshaven cheek, picked up her bag and left. Luke stared at the closed door and then slowly turned, picked up his guitar and started strumming idly.

Woken from his reverie by the shrill insistence of the timer he went through to the kitchen. Opening the oven door he was overcome by the rich, indulgent aroma which revealed Carol’s second passion after her work — her cooking. Luke licked his scalded fingers as the lid clattered onto the oven rack. Blinking through the sudden rush of steam he could make out that lunch was some Provençal casserole or other which would leave him bloated and lethargic for the rest of the day. Gingerly using the oven gloves this time he replaced the lid and peeked into the other dish, where a chiffon pie beckoned temptingly. He remembered Carol’s warning about the cream and headed for the corner café.

Pulling off his motorbike helmet and dark glasses Luke waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Over in the corner the regular beeping of the arcade game machines revealed the absence of the usual pack of boys — presumably home for lunch — and Luke strolled over to see if anyone had broken his Pacman record. Instead of Pacman the machines now displayed digital kids using stylised martial arts to decimate big, mean opponents wielding all manner of weapons. Even Luke’s delusions of mediocrity did not rise to this level of self-aggrandisement, and he turned toward the fridge.

The woman perched on the edge of the fridge examining the listed contents of the various brands of Bulgarian yoghurt was dressed in cut-off denims and a string vest that was baggy enough to reveal her bralessness. Despite her short spiky hair she wasn’t wearing jewellery in every orifice (natural or induced) or on every digit. In fact, the only visible adornment was a bruise on her collarbone the shape of which suggested teeth. Luke reached across for the cream, smiling apologetically as he did so, for despite her bare feet, he was wary of a well-aimed kick to his strategic bits lest he should inadvertently brush some off-limits piece of her obstructive body. She ignored him. Luke took the cream, fumbled in his leather jacket for his wallet, and walked to the counter. At which point he noticed the sell-by date on the container and spun back toward the fridge. Straight into her.

Finding himself staring straight into piercing brown eyes, he registered her height. He was used, with Carol, to the superiority afforded by a couple of extra inches, and found himself disconcerted to be faced with a woman on equal terms. Luke stood without moving. The woman, completely devoid of expression, said flatly: “If you’re coming back to invite me to your bed, you’d better swap that for some fresh cream. Or better still, something less toxic, like this.” She held up a carton of plain yoghurt. Luke could not believe his cool as he plucked the carton from her hand, placed the cream on the shelf among the sugar, and spun back toward the counter. He paid, put on his helmet, and walked toward his bike. She was already on the back. “I’ll let you drive this time,” she said patronisingly, “seeing that I don’t know the way.”

Arriving home, Luke walked ahead into the kitchen and put the carton into the fridge. The woman, following her nose, walked over to the oven and peered inside. Her nose wrinkled in obvious distaste and she reached up to the top of the fridge and took the motorbike keys. Luke stood frozen as he heard her roar off on his motorbike, and slowly became aware of the blinking of the light on his answering machine. He pressed the button and heard Carol’s resigned voice telling him that the problem was likely to take all day to sort out; she may not even be back for supper; she’d call later, but to go ahead as if she wasn’t going to be around.

Luke felt smug — that was, after all, what he was doing— he didn’t need her permission, but now he had it anyway. He shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over the back of a chair.

The door opened and the woman walked in, dropped the keys on the fridge and started up the stairs. Luke gave it a few minutes, then followed casually. He stopped in the doorway of his bedroom and started. The sheets, duvet, and all pillows but one had been pulled off the bed and dumped in a heap on the floor. The single pillow lay in the middle of the bed. The woman was nowhere to be seen. On the bedside table — Carol’s side, he noted with alarm — the book, lamp and tissue box had similarly been swept onto the floor, and a styrofoam takeaway container placed there instead, together with a small plastic squeeze bottle.

Rushing across the room to investigate possible damage to the fallen bed lamp, Luke stumbled over the heap of bed linen and felt arms emerge from the pile and pull him down. Wrestling him to the ground, the woman heaved herself on top of him and ripped open his shirt. Buttons flew across the room, others tore loose, and Luke thought for a panicked second of Carol’s reaction. But only for a second before a white-hot flash of pain focused his mind. “Me,” the woman announced simply, releasing his throbbing nipple from between her lupine teeth. Luke shrugged his arms out of the remains of his shirt, struggling against her weight to sit up. She offered no resistance, and stood up to allow him to take off his chinos, shoes and socks.

She eyed his flaccid penis derisively, and stood challengingly, hands on her hips, still clothed as fully as she had been in the café. “Me,” she repeated, and he approached her nervously. His trembling hands stroked the straps of her vest along her collarbone, registering her brief flinch as he moved across the bruise, and the concomitant tightening of her nipples. Clearing her shoulders, the straps caressed her arms downward, dragging her baggy vest to the floor. The torso their departure revealed was tanned, lean and clearly aroused, despite the slightly cynical expression on the woman’s face. Luke could feel his penis stirring. Swallowing, he shifted his gaze to her face, where he fervently searched for traces of approval. A slight smile curled around the corner of her lips, and he quickly averted his eyes.

Her breasts were smaller than Carol’s, Luke noted, but firmer. The nipples stared out like bloodshot eyes, compelling him to continue. He fumbled with the button on her shorts, finally getting it open, and tugged the zip down. He peeled back the denim from her hips, noting the absence here, too, of undergarments, and the trace of dampness in the crotch. The woman stepped out of the shorts and lay diagonally on the bed, the pillow under the small of her back. Her body formed an imposing arch, with her diaphragm at the apex. With a slow movement, she reached for the squeeze bottle and popped open the cap. Luke watched with increasing anxiety as she started to drip pungent soya sauced into her navel, which soon overflowed into a tantalising stream meandering across her smooth belly.

Luke’s life flashed before his eyes as he quickly dived forward just in time to prevent it dripping onto the pillow. Using his tongue he licked frantically, then more leisurely, at the tart brown liquid, following its trail back up her flank, to her navel, where he drank deeply as the drips became a stream, splattering his hair, his cheeks, his blinking eyelashes, on the hurried way down. Looking up briefly he noticed a secondary stream finding its way downward, edging toward her pubic hair. Luke’s tongue followed cautiously. Suddenly he felt his head being pushed down roughly between her thighs. “Me!” insisted the woman, and Luke obediently shut his eyes and inhaled her warm wetness.

The woman’s legs clamped tightly shut around Luke’s head, obstructing his breathing, as his tongue lapped at her pulsating wet vulva. He felt his fingers dig into her strong thighs as he struggled to prise them apart, gasping for air, his ears ringing from the pressure. In desperation he sank his teeth into soft flesh, and bit hard. With a sharp intake of breath, the woman relaxed her vice-like grasp of his head, her pubis bucking up and down as she writhed in the obvious throes of pleasure. Encouraged, Luke licked, sucked, nuzzled and nibbled, thrusting with his tongue, his nose, his entire face, into engorged red flesh, shining hot with desire. He could feel his own need burning at the base of his belly, rubbing against the coarseness of the unsheeted mattress.

His eyes burned as a wave of sharp brown soya sauce rushed down, focussing his attention once more on the woman. Like pigs at a feeding trough, Luke abandoned any attempt at delicacy, and went at it without inhibition. Soya sauce mingled with the salty wetness of arousal, the taste stifling his senses and closing the back of his throat as Luke used hands, tongue, mouth, to staunch the flow. It continued unabated, though it was some time before Luke registered that the composition was different. The squeeze bottle long emptied, the gushing juices were now entirely human in origin, as the woman climaxed again and again. The ringing in Luke’s ears finally dropped, and he registered with alarm what a noise the woman was making in her enjoyment. Too bad, he admitted resignedly, there was nothing to be done now.

The tip of his tongue rubbed rawly against the tip of her clitoris, while his teeth sank slowly into the shaft. His fingers felt the frantic spasms at the base of her vagina that signalled another orgasm, and he drove with his fist into the dark, sodden opening. Her writhing form swallowed his fist, wrist, forearm hungrily, and Luke found tears coursing down his cheeks at his relief as his inhibitions relaxed. His distant memories of sex as something more than the missionary position slowly returned. Carol’s reliable conservatism, and the collective inebriation of the groupies, always made anything else impossible, and Luke had slowly been forced to curtail his repertoire. Now, however, the possibilities were limitless, and as his tears washed the traces of soya sauce from his eyes, Luke tested the bounds of his imagination.

A sudden knee in his ribs put paid to all that. Exhausted from her pleasuring, the woman drew herself slowly away from Luke and propped herself against the headboard. “Where’s the yoghurt?” The enquiry came out as a demand, and Luke staggered downstairs to fetch it. He ignored the blinking of the answering machine and stumbled up the stairs, flinging his tired but hungry body next to her.

The woman ripped open the carton and poured the contents into her mouth, drinking with the same urgency as she had earlier demanded gratification. She stopped and seemed to notice Luke for the first time in ages. “Lie on your back,” she instructed, and he obediently rolled over. His hopeful penis bounced to attention. Dipping her finger in the remaining yoghurt, the woman traced an intricate design on Luke’s hairy chest, rounded stomach and tensed thighs. She reached for the styrofoam container and as she opened it, Luke saw that it contained sushi. Luke’s hunger for sex vied with his hunger for food, and he waited to see what would happen next.

The woman suddenly leapt up and flung open Luke’s cupboard. She selected a number of his silk ties, tastefully selected by Carol, and tied them together in a long rope. She made a slipknot at one end, and indicated that Luke should put his hands together. She slipped the loop over his wrists and pulled gently until his movement was restricted. Then she lifted the rope up, pulling his hands over his head, and ran it over the headboard and under the bed. Luke watched her firm, tight buttocks with hardening anticipation as she wriggled under the bed, anchoring his bonds, before emerging at the foot of the bed and fastening his feet.

Unable to move, his body throbbed keenly as she arranged the sushi on his chest, belly, thighs, supplementing the yoghurt patterns. She watched his bobbing penis with the patronising fondness with which grandparents listen to their grandchildren’s latest achievements, leaning forward and rubbing it between her breasts. Luke groaned with burning lust.

The woman returned to her work of art, and began to eat it slowly, tormentingly, off his inflamed body. Luke struggled against his bonds as the woman’s lips, tongue, teeth teased and tantalised him agonisingly. He yearned for release, but she stopped just short each time he came close, each time bringing him closer than he thought possible, but denying him that final pleasure.

She got up and picked up her shorts. From the pocket she drew a familiar silver package. Tearing it open with her savage teeth, she tossed the wrapper onto the floor and approached him. She placed the condom onto his waiting penis, but withdrew it before unrolling it. She turned to the styrofoam container and dipped her finger inside. Luke watched as she applied the bitter-smelling green paste to the glistening head of his penis, mixing it with the drops of moisture that appeared. She placed the condom on the palm of her hand, and with a deft movement, applied it to his penis, unravelling it in one swift and practised movement. Luke was harder than he’d ever felt before, his engorged penis begging for release, his wrists and ankles chafed by the tightness of his silken bonds.

“Do you have honey?” the woman asked. Luke nodded, his throat too constricted to speak, and the woman walked slowly downstairs. Luke heard her fumble with her backpack and curse softly.

He heard the jingling of keys, the opening of the door, and the roar of the motorbike engine leap to life before it died away in the distance. The green paste’s burning was now becoming painful rather than exciting, and Luke watched his erection slowly shrivel. His efforts to free himself only tightened his bonds, and he could see his feet turning a worrying shade of blue. Luke lay back sulkily &3151; she might have given him at least one orgasm before going off to fetch whatever it was she felt she needed. His grumpiness gave way to panic as he realised she’d been gone a while and showed no signs of returning. The sky outside darkened by degree as Luke awaited the inevitable arrival, long though it was in coming, of Carol.

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