A message to me from March 2007:
I have a lot of stories. But I am 21. Too young for such stories perhaps? Or at least too young for the number that I possess. I spent some time with a very rich, rather lovely man last week. He is 60 years old. He called me a baby. He held my arm and got me a Jack Daniels and shook his head and said, you're just a baby. And I wanted him.
It would have been so easy to. He owns the hotel and bar that we drink at. I could have held his arm and he could have walked me through the bar, the restaurant, out a side door to the courtyard, past the pool and into his room. But that night, it didn't happen. Which is not to say that it won't sometime soon.
In January of 2008 there was one more mention of that night:
i looked below at what i'd written earlier this year. i wrote about the hotel owner that i wanted to fuck me. i spent my birthday with him a couple of weeks ago. we sat in a dark corner of the bar and talked. the drinks kept coming while we talked about affairs and money and our knees and hands grazed each others. my boyfriend was outside smoking and drinking, and if he hadn't been there i think i would have found it hard to resist going to his room.
However did that play out? Over the years the girl who wrote that message hinted that she did in fact sleep with the older man who'd bought her the drink. He may or may not have owned the hotel where the bar was, and five or six years later the girl may or may not have slept with his grown son, too. And who was the 'boyfriend' she was supposedly with. He appears nowhere else in her emails. Loose ends there, threads and random mentions that go nowhere.
And this one, from February 2007:
i am vaguely drunk. a friend and i have been sitting in my kitchen all night drinking beer, talking about men and writing lists. i feel slighly fuzzy, although not as bad as last night. it's only midnight, an early night for me to be heading to bed. not that i'm entirely sure that's what i'm going to do. i have a feeling i am going to leave the house, without changing my clothes, and see who is at the Angus. i want jim to be there. i've known him since i was 19. he is so familiar yet always exciting. he will probably have gone home by now. he will be too drunk to pick me up so he will walk to meet me. and we'll go back to his place and have a few more drinks and he will fuck me and i never know if it's him i'm thinking of or if it's mike.
So many loose threads there, too. I know what the Angus was--- a hotel bar that was her regular hangout, someplace close to where she was living while at university, someplace maybe halfway between her rented student's house and where she'd grown up. Jim? I have no clue. There was another Jim in her past, a "high-functioning alcoholic" she knew and had a disastrous affair with when she was 16 or 17. This post-19 Jim is someone new. Mike? Absolutely no clue. And..."not as bad as last night"? My friend was a party girl in her teens and early twenties, but I've no real idea as to how often she was out drinking while at university, and while I know her tastes--- Maker's, Jack Daniels, tequila shots ---I have no idea how many people she went home with. Or how her men broke down between the older men she always sighed over and the undergraduate boys she'd meet at parties.
One more passing mention of someone:
did i tell you about the gorgeous maori boy i'm fucking? he's tall, with short dark hair & lovely brown eyes, light brown-gold skin... he works at the doggy day care place max goes to, so he picks him up & drops him off every day... he was dropping max home one day, and i was sitting in the garden drinking a beer. we started talking, and he showed he how he has taught max to play dead. max was his last drop-off for the day, so i asked him to stay for a drink... and he stayed the night.
That mention was from March 2013. Max was (and still is) her much-loved golden retriever, and he'd still have been a puppy in those days. The Maori boy was never mentioned again, though her message makes me think he was in her bed more than once.
And then this, from January 2014:
Last night, smashing jack Daniels, riding a rough bogan boy so damn hard, kissing his neck tattoo & thinking is this how I live now?
I got dragged to drinks at an apartment in the city by a friend who wanted to score some eccies. I was seriously not in the mood, but I know how it is when you need to score, and figured I'd go along for a little bit. We got buzzed up to the apartment floor, and as soon as I walked in I got a really great vibe. This was a seriously expensive apartment, huge, with a great view over the city and waterfront. There were heaps of people there...this bogan boy from up the line was doing the rounds of the room...I think he had some other stuff besides eccies, I wasn't paying too much attention. My friend paid for her eccies and we left. We'd just gotten into the lift when he came out of the apartment and called out 'Hey darlin', come for a drink with me?' We ended up at an irish pub, doing shots of jager & jack daniels. He took me back to his hotel room, and we did a few lines. I felt really hot, so just took my top off, kicked off my ballet flats and sat on the floor looking at him, topless, legs wide open. I can still picture the exact look in his eyes as he fell to his knees and grabbed my anlkes, lifting my skirt, then pulling my legs as far apart as they would go. He went down on me until I came twice, hard. I took his cock out of his jeans and started sucking him there on my knees. He came hard in my mouth, I swallowed most of it but some came spilling out my mouth and running down my chin. I wiped it with my finger then licked it clean. I could tell he loved that. We had a few more JDs, sitting naked facing each other on the floor, until he said if he didn't fuck me soon he was going to explode. I pulled him onto the bed and rode him hard, my cunt almost aching from it. He came deep inside me, his teeth around my nipple. He wanted me to stay the night, said he needed more. I shook my head, pulled my top & skirt back on, kissed him on the lips & cock and went to leave. He told me to wait, and gave me a hundy bag, and $50 for a taxi. He wrote his number on my upper thigh, and told me he'd hook me up anytime he was in Wellington.
Again, one single story. Did she ever say that he'd come back into town and given her a couple of more bags of weed or MDMA? I can't recall. No names, no details, and maybe no second act to the play.
Threads that hang loose from stories, pages missing at the end of the book--- stories I'll never get to really know or analyze. And...these days...stories whose believability I'll never be able to really assess.
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