Miss Coromandel: The Second Part

I must admit that I am somewhat perplexed at the extra traffic that has been coming to my blog since I posted the first part of my Miss Coromandel story. Comments have emerged from a range of sources: David Farrar suggested I was trying to compete with Cathy Odgers on the outrageous dating front; Cathy contends that she’s much more polite than I; and some randomly pompous pinko commies that have no lives outside of their blogs have, in all of their envy, claimed that the kind of world that I inhabit does not exist.

I don’t think it’s too extreme to purport that whether I actually exist is akin to whether God exists. It is an act of faith to believe in God; if you have seen evidence of God’s work, then you are more likely to believe in Him. By the same token, those who know and have seen people like me have faith that I exist. I guess the fundamental point in all of this—and it’s a subtle theological point—is that like God, I don’t fucking care whether you believe I exist. If you don’t have faith, then you’re not in the elite circle, and you’re not sharing the joys and privileges of being in that circle. The difference between my circle, and God’s circle, is that mine is full of hot, easy chicks who will do anything to associate with a guy as cool as me.

It begs the question, really. If the pinko commie hordes who have never experienced being cool don’t believe that coolness exists, why do they obsess with the question?

But this isn’t story isn’t about them. It’s about me and Miss Coromandel.

In the last episode, I reported that Miss Coromandel left my apartment forty dollars wealthier, without having performed any sexual favours of the evening. The rest of that morning passed relatively uneventfully, except for the arrival of a very hot booty-call, whose name I do not remember, although she did have a talent for performing a certain bodily function with considerable expertise, which is a story on its own, and not directly related to Miss Coromandel.

On the Tuesday of that week, I got a call at the office from Miss Coromandel. She asked me if I’d like to see her again that week. I responded that regretfully, I was out of town on business for the rest of the week. She asked about Friday night.

“Friday I’m going to visit my sister,” I answered.

I don’t have a sister. I never have. If I did have one, I don’t think I’d be on sufficiently good terms with her to make social calls. Even if I did make social calls, I certainly wouldn’t be blowing away my whole fucking Friday night by going to see the stupid bitch when I could be shagging hot chicks. The real motive was that I had a hot date planned that Friday.

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said. “Why are you going to see her?”

“Because, ummm, she’s just had a baby boy, and there’s a family gathering. His name’s Adam.” This was particularly creative, I thought. In the space of less than a minute, I had created both Man and Woman. It was no wonder that chicks think I’m a fucking God, and that the ones who don’t are as ugly as literal sin. But I thought I’d roll with it: “And since Sunday is the Seventh Day, that’s my day of rest.”

Miss Coromandel rang off after a few more moments of prattle, and I resumed my work.

Friday arrived quickly. Hot Date turns up at my place for pre-dinner drinks. She drinks gin. I have a rather fullish bottle of Bombay Sapphire remaining from the previous week’s party, which through some holy intervention was not consumed by either of the comatose drunks before they passed out.

Within thirty minutes of some very stiff drinks, Hot Date and I are well on our way to getting boozed. Conversation isn’t entirely stimulating, but that’s not even a secondary consideration, given how hot she is. As the Bombay begins to repudiate its own bottle, as it were, she’s becoming an even more exquisite species. She’s into me, thinks I’m amusing, and before long, pre-dinner drinks has turned into pre-dinner sex.

It is my opinion that pre-dinner sex has many benefits. It is invariably better than end-of-night sex, because there is always the risk that at the end of the night, one of the parties will be so exhausted through a combination of booze and simply staying awake, that staying awake is no longer possible. Pre-dinner, neither of the parties have been sapped of their day-time energy. Dinner is much more relaxing. No more point in being nervous, because you’ve already fucked the chick opposite you. And if you need a break between sessions, then dinner is the perfect interlude. I’m not the nervous type anyway, but strongly recommend the practice. Hot sex with Hot Date is the ultimate icebreaker.

So off we tread to dinner, which is cheaper on account of not having to fork out for expensive shite that would in non-post-shagging circumstances have been intended merely to impress Hot Date. And what do you think a guy does, once he’s already fucked Hot Date and taken her to dinner?

Yes indeed. He takes her to a karaoke bar.

The usual bar line-up greets me at the door, with the barman giving that knowing grin that this is yet another outstandingly tidy specimen of the female species accompanying me inside, and I order my regular and a gin. A table is cleared for me, and I sit down and start suggesting songs for Hot Date.

Hot Date is not absolutely keen to sing solo, which is fine, as singing, and music for that matter, defeats the entire purpose of karaoke. I’m a wee way through my third drink by the time I am aware that somebody is hovering behind me.

“That’s not your fucking sister,” bleats the somebody.

I turn and recognize the somebody. I figure at this point that I have got myself entangled in what is commonly known as an “awkward situation”. Let it be said, not being a person famed for his tact and empathy, awkward situations tend to come my way often. I am well used to them. I have developed management strategies to deal with them. Albeit without tact and empathy.

“Miss Coromandel,” I say, standing as a gentleman should when a hot chick has entered his presence. “I would like you to meet my sister. Sister, this is Miss Coromandel.”

“You’re such a fucking bastard,” Miss Coromandel refrains. “You told me you were going to see your sister with her new baby.”

“And my sister was tired of dealing with all the family and new baby, so I said I’d take her out to sing a song. Is that so wrong?”

The verbal barrage from Miss Coromandel was explicit. Too explicit to place on such a respectable and honourable blog as this. Suffice to say that I was morally appalled that a girl so young would have such a vocabulary. Suffice also to say that I did not expect a young woman who allegedly represented all that was clean and beautiful about the great province of the Coromandel would direct such verbal filth in my direction.

My rescue from this awkward situation came from unexpected quarters. It was Hot Date herself who stood, and slapped Miss Coromandel squarely in the face. Hard. It was extremely erotic. I did my best to stifle a very loud laugh, but did not succeed. Then Hot Date spoke:

“Fuck off, you nasty-mouthed little slut. He’s here with me. Get your shit together, and piss off.”

And so Miss Coromandel turned, with a tear forming in her eye, humiliated, with no response and no more fetid language. Which was a great relief, since my ears hurt when I hear a hot chick swear.

I have never been more proud of womankind for standing up for what she believes in, as I was right then, with Hot Date. If I wasn’t such a philandering bastard, and didn’t get so bored with the one woman so easily, and could afford another divorce in as many years, then I would have married her. Instead I suggested we bail from karaoke and go back to my place and fuck. She agreed to that plan, with the slight amendment that we sing a song first.

The week proceeded uneventfully, until Tuesday. I had been out of town for work—genuinely, this time—and got back to my office and checked my voice messages. Interspersed with calls from clients and associates were three hysterical communications from a voice I now knew far too well. The gist of the messages was: “You’re a bastard, and you’re a fucking bastard, and I fucking hate you. And you're still a bastard.”

This was a new experience for me. I have never had a beauty queen leave obscene messages on my office phone. It was amusing, I admit, but it was the kind of novelty that soon wears off.

Tuesday night, in my apartment, I had retired to the cold chastity of my celibate chamber, and gone to sleep. At 2am, my intercom sounds. I go and see on the video screen that Miss Coromandel was standing downstairs, outside. She did not have the expression on her face of a chick who is sober.

She buzzed the intercom a few more times. I watched for a bit longer, willing on more tantrums and tirades. In time, they came. “I know you’re fucking up there, you fucking bastard. I fucking hate you!”

And then Miss Coromandel turned away. I went back to bed.

The next morning, Miss Coromandel calls me again at work. This time I’m at my desk, and can answer. I pick up the phone: “Yes.”

“You’re a fucking bastard, and I fucking hate you.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you fucking lied to me about going to see your fucking sister, when you were fucking that chick.”

“Yeah, so I lied. So what?”

“You’re a fucking liar,” Miss Coromandel explained.

“Yes, probably,” I say coolly. “And are you calling me from your work now?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Fair enough. Look, I understand that for some reason you’re angry with me. That’s fine. But it’s probably not a good idea to call me and scream down the phone at me while I’m at work. Especially if you’re doing it from your work. I don’t imagine it’s very helpful for the people who are working around you, for them to be able to do their work, is it?”

“I don’t fucking care!” Miss Coromandel answers.

“Right,” I say. “Do not call me at work. Ever. Is that clear?”

“Fine,” Miss Coromandel says. “I won’t, then.”

“Good. So thanks for calling. Bye.”

And would you believe, that to her outstanding credit, which I didn’t think she had, Miss Coromandel never called me back. This stunned me. An irate, scorned, vengeful young woman merely needed to be told never to call back again, and she did precisely that.

The epilogue to this story is brief. I did see her again in town a couple of weeks later. She started screaming at me, as did a group of friends she was with. In the middle of a pub. It was mildly irritating, but quite entertaining. Like the feeling you get when you tease a neighbour’s big dog, except the dog is stuck on the other side of the fence, and all it can do is bark. When they collectively paused for breath, I said loudly:

“Miss Coromandel, why did you bring your ugly friends out tonight? There’s not one of them I’d like to fuck, and that’s saying a lot, because I’m pretty drunk already.” And then I pulled out a pen from my pocket, turned over an oversized beer coaster, and drew on the back, and held it up.

“What the fuck is that?” one of them asked.

I turned it around and inspected my quick handiwork, to make sure it was legible. I had drawn a big circle. Satisfied, I said: “Can’t you fucking read the number zero, you stupid bint? Yes, that’s right. THE EAST GERMAN JUDGE GIVES YOU ALL A FUCKING ZERO!”

And then they all shut up and disappeared.

The final time I saw Miss Coromandel, a couple of months later, she was much more polite and proper. She had calmed down. She was in preparations for the Miss New Zealand title. She insisted that I buy her a drink, and flirted with me as she told me what a bastard I was. I agreed, and very civilly wished her well for her next big pageant.