Wendy: “Don't you know what a kiss is?”
Peter: “I shall know when you give me one.”
For those of you who’ve never experienced a Brazilian wax or gone to Hollywood down under, you’ll never understand the battle between awkward ceiling staring and womb curdling pain that goes on in that little dry walled room. It had been 2 months since my last visit and my regular go to gal wasn’t there. I like her. She swears a lot and talks smack about boys. Nomsa asks me what I want... how do I tell her without sounding like a total skank that I want to sport something that has mass market appeal? I don’t wanna look like a 12 year old or a porn star; I want something classy... somewhere in between the two. I make the mistake of looking directly up and rehashing the events of the night before. Carly, you will never do this hung-over again. Never.
I met Peter a few months ago through work and he’d asked me round for a night of cocktails at his posse in Sandton. Shortly after arriving, having touched up my roots, agonized over the perfect casual-I’m-not-trying-too-hard outfit and the impulse purchase of some Stimerol (just in case) I realized I was in fact not on a date but a frate. What is a frate you ask? A frate is a date with a friend/s. Carly you will never assume anything ever again. Never.
This is where I met The Lost Boys... a group of guys from a world far, far away from my own. I was completely out of my comfort zone surrounded by a bunch of fun and interesting people with stable existences and jobs that escaped the realm of the arts. These were the boys my mom wished I’d bring home. These were the boys that thought I was weird in high school (before weird was the new cool). I look at Peter and smile as he sips his wine responsibly. So this is what it’s like on the other side, I think.
Later that week I got to thinking about what it might be like to be with someone normal. Usually normal is my dating kryptonite. I’ve always been drawn to dark horses, the unstable, the off centre, the SPCA specials, the musicians, the wounded hearts, the emotionally unavailable, the financially incapable. Fucked up was my normal. And here I was, in a place I never thought I’d be, surrounded by the most unboring and rather fantastic normal bunch of bachelors.
Peter and The Lost Boys invited me round to Neverland again the following week and after a night out on the town I found myself not wanting to leave. So I didn’t. The last time I’d shared a bed with a straight friend of the opposite sex was at age 11... and even he tried to cop a feel. I woke up next to Peter in one of his shirts half disappointed that he hadn’t tried to get me out of it. Ok, three quarters. That’d never happened before, but I guess being newly single means doing things you never thought you’d do. Even if they’re the right things. And you want them to be the wrong things.
Wouldn’t it be great if figuring it all out was as easy as handing over a thimble and calling it a kiss?
It’s these very ponderings that lead to the series of unfortunate events that followed in my wax appointment. Apparently terms like “landing strip”; “cricket pitch” and “subtle but sexy” are lost on Nomsa who only wants to get the job and her 200 bucks outta the way while I lie like a spatchcock chicken on the table. She tells me she’s done and leaves the room for me to get dressed. A Cream Sober is in order as I am apparently about to enter phase 2 of late onset hangover when I look down at the work of “art” she has given me. It’s like I’m looking down at Charlie Chaplin. It’s official. I’m never going to have sex again. Ever.
I am, however, planning many more trips to Neverland. Where the company is fantastic and Peter serves a great Cosmo.