February 19, 2003 @ 12:15 a.m.
My not so dirty weekend

It was the undirtiest dirty weekend of my life.

On Friday night after we'd both finished work, Stu and I made our way down the Bass Coast to Kilcunda, a tiny little not-really-a-town where the parents of my friend Deirdre own a beach house they'd generously offered to lend us for the weekend.

I'd worked until 7pm at the library, and then we'd driven down after stopping at a supermarket for provisions. By the time we got there, it was nearly 9pm and the last of the daylight savings light was fading fast. We drove past the street the house was on once. We drove past the house itself twice. Once we actually found the house, however, things went pretty smoothly. We settled in and ate a late snack in lieu of dinner.
I'd been revving myself up all day imagining scenes of debauchery, and I'd packed as much of my Sexual Deviant's Kit in my bag as would fit whilst still allowing essentials like clothes, two bags of toiletries and four pairs of shoes (One day when I have the chance, I'm going to sit down and figure out exactly where along the line I became such a fucking girly girl). Despite all that other swag, there was still plenty of the kit there. I followed Stuart to the bedroom where we eagerly disrobed and promptly proceeded to...fall asleep. Well, not right away - we both read for a little bit first. I remember thinking just before I fell asleep "oh well, plenty of time for sex tomorrow and Sunday!".

Ha. Hahaha.

Saturday began late with a leisurely breakfast and more reading time. I cracked open Conversations in a Brothel: Men Tell Why They Do It, which was never intended to get me in the mood, but did have the somewhat unromantic effect of making suddenly scream "I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE WHAT FUCKING PIGS SOME MEN ARE" at random moments. It's an interesting read; I recommend you track it down if you're at all interested in the sex industry. It's relatively recent and may even be in your local public library - I found the copy I read at work.

However, it's not really a work that makes you go "and now I would like to have sex with a man. Because men are good people!" So I grumbled my way through it for a while until I became a little less reactionary, and I'd read some interviews with guys who had positive things to say about prostitutes, so I was feeling a little less like going on a castration rampage.

The afternoon wore on and we'd still not even set foot near the beach. This was in part because the weather, which had been searingly hot during the week, had cooled down considerably over the weekend. The first time in my life I had actually wanted a sunny, warm weekend, I had been denied it. Maybe I'll take up God. It seems to work for some people.

We eventually went down to the beach and spent some more time reading. I'd wanted to swim but the beach we'd gone to was rather rocky so I changed my mind. Rocks are my second biggest beach hate after seaweed (don't ask). I tried to convince myself that having a bit of a paddle in the shallows and then reading in my swimsuit was almost the same as having a swim, but deep down, I didn't really believe me. It was pleasant though, and I managed to con a backrub out of Stu. One thing I've noticed in my post-pubescent years is that taking my top off tends to almost guarantee me whatever I want. I think all girls should be told this at puberty, along with "aim for the testicles and don't stop kicking until he faints".

Dinner was a pub meal we waited over an hour to receive (the theory was formed that the cook was blind and one-armed). During that time we were able to have deeply philosophical conversations such as "hey look, there's a plane!" "Where? I don't see it.", and see drunken and disorderly people get kicked out by the tough-talking barmaid.

Then it was back to the house for...more sleep! A pattern was starting to emerge. We were both so tired from the working week that we got worn out on the weekend just doing nothing. This is not good at all. Someone should tell us these things; it should be something brought up by Occupational Health and Safetly people! It should be dealt with by WorkCover! They could even come up with a catchy slogan for it, something like "Warning: the daily grind may prevent you from having the other, more enjoyable form of grind."

But I digress. I finally got the dirty part put into my weekend on rainy Sunday afternoon, which involved a rather hilarious moment where a wall was splashed with a substance never intended to be put on walls. It was somewhat of a relief to finally have dirty parts, although it still counted as the least dirty weekend ever. It (the weekend, as well as the dirty bit) was good, however.

To add to the amusingly shambolic feel of the whole thing, Stuart had bought me a Valentine's present, but had completely forgotten about it until Sunday. It's the thought that counts, even if the person who's doing the thinking is somewhat forgetful. It's nice though - a voucher for a fancypants massage. A boyfriend who'll pay other people to touch you is something of a keeper, I think. Especially because I have such magnetism that usually we have to pay people to go away and stop touching me.

Wait. Sorry, I think I got that last bit confused. Usually it's them paying me to go away and quit it with the touching. Yeah, that's it. "And take your singing ice-cream cone with you!"

And that, children, is What I Did On My Two Days Off From Dealing With the Great Literate Unwashed.

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