The Bavarian Mine
Bar 103 sits smack down on a curved corner, in the prolific shadow of the 125year old Zion’s Church. The terrace is full, with yuppies, posers and local celebrities.
Veronica, there she sits, in the thick of it, laptop opened on the table in front of her, tapping away. She’s a radio news-editor, writing a novel about black men, based solely on her entirely subjective, sexual experiences with black men. Standing now, eyes lit, hugging, ‘the beautiful ones’ pressed hard against me. The smell of bubble bath and seductive perfume, and the secrets of her body an exquisite wine I’m sure, as my nose revels in the long curly black hair.
A diet-gay waiter takes my request – you know, one of those types who’ve been ‘considering’ giving it a try since early childhood and must now weigh the social implications.
Veronica – a talented creature of soft words – is already going on about her last experiences. She’s done it with a jazz singer in his hotel room, and the band came in and tried to rape her after, she says. And she cried ‘stop, stop’ but she didn’t scream really loud because she had it under control, so they stole her money instead, then called her a taxi, after she got the guitar player’s number, for later.
Veronica is very provocative, so I never quite know what to believe. Even now, her strapless yellow top is all about cleavage, but the black twined material resembling a net splayed across her shoulders makes her a scrumptious catch: the conservatism of her Bavarian upbringing has proven itself weak, but has yielded a harvest of dark pleasures.
Diet-gay returns with my cappuccino, smiling, professional, and I will handsomely reward him for such impeccable service, but I wish he’d just go away and make his decision to be happy and get on with his life… his genital impression is rather robust and perilously near my face, with all the bending and leaning over and serving. I know Veronica can’t see it because she’s only interested in black men, otherwise her vision goes dormant. There are no black guys coming here except Nelson for lunch sometimes, and Dick Rules, but they’re not regulars, which allows her a break from her schedule.
She wants me to tell her if she has fallen in love.
“Why else would I feel jealous watching the guy I’m with hit on another woman! So I had to break that off, but it’s more material for my book.”
Veronica is extremely methodical in acquiring her ‘work material’, excitedly elaborating on her most recent exploits with hardly a pause for breath or punctuation.
“He was really nice looking with muscular arms, but I saw that he was shy so I didn’t speak to him in the bar – l followed him in my car instead. Then he stopped by a supermarket and I knew he was going to go in so I parked my car, grabbed a shopping cart and followed him inside.” And she’s touring the aisles picking up a few things she doesn’t need, until she could conveniently pop out from the dairy section with a 2kg block of cheddar in hand, meticulously inspecting the weight and the price. And then it’s like, “oh, hello, didn’t I see you in that bar back there… what’s it called again? Yeah that’s right I shop here too.” On target. And it’s ending with her saying, “I have a great idea” – BLING – “my car is parked outside; why don’t we leave the shopping there and go for a drink! Don’t worry about getting home I’ll drive you too.”
I listen and laugh my soul to tearful satisfaction, a certainty each time I’m privy to her stories, but eventually, as always, the force of her physical attributes take command, and I’m looking at her healthy cheeks, the red lips and the big brown eyes under mascara and long eyelashes, and the ‘twin cities’ down south, and asking myself for the millionth time, would I ever?
The answer is cast in stone: In spite of sexual practices being a normal part of human behaviour, and therefore not to be prejudiced, for me the danger is too great to merit serious consideration: there’re too many miners in that shaft.
Diet-gay waiter is heading our way again.
Excerpt from current manuscript. Not to be reproduced in any form without the author’s consent.