1
One minute.
That’s all we have.
More than that’s foreplay, a waste of time.
This is my new theory.
The first bite of a greasy burger, drag of a cigarette, sip of a cold beer. After that, the pleasure wanes.
The best part of sex is penetration.
Not everyone agrees. Actually, no-one does. Most people quibble about the time frame – that it should be called one second, or two minutes.
Pedants.
My ex made a cruel (and possibly inaccurate) comment about my sexual performance.
They’re all missing the concept.
Most of our thrills, what excites us, takes place in a short time frame.
Unaffordable mortgages, long-term relationships, self-development courses …
They’re distractions.
We should be focusing on short-term thrills instead.
You might think I’m shallow, I may not be bald and wearing a kaftan, but I’m onto something.
I don’t know what, exactly, but I want my groupies.
One minute.
The clock is ticking.
2
But what if you’re sceptical?
Step onto my balcony between 9:40 and 10 at night and you’ll usually see my pasty neighbour posing in front of his mirror. He’ll flex his biceps, suck in his gut, check himself out from different angles. Why he does this naked, the window completely open, I’ll never know: maybe he likes neighbours watching; maybe he thinks he’s a stud.
Two windows across, the flicker of his neighbour’s TV dances on a painted-pink wall. You can’t see the image but you can always hear it – they’re fond of home renovation shows.
Step back into my lounge room, past my snarling cat, makeshift milk-crate bookshelf that makes me look stable, through the hallway, past my mould-encrusted bathroom, over the dirty laundry sprawled on my stained bedroom carpet and to the window, and you can peer into another neighbour’s life, if you can call it that, as he’s hunched over his computer at all hours of the day and night, studying or working for god knows what while silhouetted by the dark.
We shouldn’t be trying so hard.
Bookstores are groaning with the weight of self-help books telling us to be better, to be more.
What if the opposite is the case?
I’m going to stop trying to be more, and instead be less.
That might be my forte.
3
The most beautiful woman in the world has stepped outside for a cigarette, leaving me with her friend who’s dressed like Louis XIV. He’s wearing knee-high socks, ruffles and a purple satin outfit that his mother designed and sewed for him.
He’s also telling me he’s sick of his job as a fashion photographer.
“The problem is there are no real celebrities in Sydney,” he says disdainfully. “They’re all B-grade, aren’t they? B-grade celebrities. It’s getting boring.”
I want to kill him.
I tilt my head down until my glass of wine becomes visible through the slits in my black mask, which has restricted my peripheral vision to a highly narrow field. Having already bumped one of the waitresses in tight bodices, dropped blue cheese on the floor and head-butted the wall while looking for the cheese, I’ve learnt to be careful. How Zorro performed feats of derring-do while so visually hampered I’ll never know.
I carefully bring the glass, made from Czech crystal, to my lips in slow motion.
We’re at a masquerade ball in a nightclub so exclusive the public aren’t allowed in. Rock stars, B-grade celebs and gorgeous young things perhaps, but certainly not the hoi polloi. Exceptions, however, are sometimes made for journalists and bloggers, which is why I’m here.
One of the few things I do, other than sleep ten hours a day, fend off my psychotic cat and teach journalism, is write bar reviews and lifestyle stories for a certain newspaper that’s on its last legs – which is why publicists send me invites to parties such as this. Unfortunately they’re shooting themselves in the foot, as once a bar buys me drinks I can no longer write about them – it would look biased if I did – but of course I choose not to let the publicists know this. Quite frankly, by now they should have figured this out for themselves.
You could argue if I were truly ethical I’d ignore the invites but … hell, you ought to see the women at these parties. I never said I was holier-than-thou and I’ve stumbled upon a parallel universe that would never normally let a putz like me in. That’s shallow of me to say and yes, most people here can barely read, but as Keats once said: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty”, and while I don’t know what that means there is a hell of a lot of beauty here.
Besides, the ethics boat sailed from my harbour long ago. Though some lifestyle bloggers and journos genuinely think they’re contributing to society through the written valium they dispense, I realise how meaningless my work is. There’s no doubt the newspaper should be investing what little funds they have left on proper news and investigative features instead of on fluff producers like me – but I’ve got a fat cat to feed and I’m damned if I’m going to argue.
The club’s décor is as nutty as the photographer and aims to make the place look like 18th century Versailles. There are period armoires, chandeliers, 23 carat gold gilded mirrors, a velvet day bed and silk-tented ceilings. It’s hard to say whether this is classy, tacky or decadent. I suspect the distinctions depend on how much you’ve drunk.
The photographer’s stopped talking, leading to a pause that’s even more uncomfortable than the conversation.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask reluctantly.
“I’ll go back to advertising,” he says, eyes glazing. “I started in advertising but after a few years I became bored.” He waves his hands airily. “Now photography isn’t doing it for me anymore so I might go back …”
He stops speaking and stares to one side for longer than is natural. It’s hard to say whether something’s caught his attention or if he’s had a stroke. I’m hoping for the latter and, seeing an opportunity to escape, finish my drink and tell him I’m going to the bathroom. He nods his head slightly.
I was introduced to the photographer by Chrissie, the club’s PR manager, who asked him to take my photo (I’m probably E-grade in his books). After the first two shots, however, the most beautiful woman in the world glided into view – it turned out she’s his friend – and he asked us to pose together by staring into each others’ eyes while he took some snaps.
I’d once read about a psychological experiment
