Soul Journal

Occasionally I work in a co-shared office space, renting a desk in a space with other creative professionals. It’s usually for a few months at a time, and I love the scope of personalities that it allows me to encounter. Human beings are interesting creatures.

The warehouse-turned industrial studio-space shares a laneway with a collection of little cafes and restaurants, some perky and bright, where the takeaway coffee cup crowds come to stand and sip, and the others draw you in with their dim lighting and intimate atmospheres. I am drawn mostly to Rook, the little place at the end of the lane. The tables are clustered across to levels, and the mezzanine allows you to sit in sunshine in front of the two storey windows as you eat your favourite pumpkin gnocchi. There’s that, and there is Diede, the Italian bartender.

Diede embodies everything a lustful woman would want in a windowshop version of a man. Strong, swarthy and sporting a thick accent, he looks me over appraisingly, nodding approvingly at my figure, each time I visit. Many solo orgasms have featured him in a leading role, and I almost don’t want to push the friendship as the fantasy version is pretty bloody good.

But then, one day, we do.

It’s Thursday, and I have felt the afternoon slow since around 2pm. At 3:30pm, I decide to reward myself for my productive output (that I achieved in the morning), pack up my laptop, and head down to Rook.

Diede is leaning against the counter, chatting to the chef in Italian, and they both turn to me as I approach.
“Un tavolo per uno per favour” My Italian is limited but I flutter my eyelashes and I know that they approve.
“Of course” Diede is wearing his standard white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow. His muscular arms flex as he leans on the bar, and I can see a tattoo peeking from beneath his collar.

“Affamato?”
I nod, thinking yes, you look delectable.
He winks, and I sense an air of naughtiness nipping at his heels.

He saunters slowly towards me, the shelves of spirits glittering in the low light behind him. He pauses, and I see his eyes flick around the quiet restaurant.

His eyes meet mine and he nods his head towards the kitchen and curls two fingers in a beckon.
This is new.

I slip around behind the bar, and he leads me past the desert station and out to the back of house. The chef has his back to us as we enter the fridge.

Inside, he turns to a crate marked Sydney Rock Oysters. He digs around before pulling two out.  They look murky and ethereal, born of somewhere dark and secret. He discards the debris around the outside and pulls a blunt knife out of his pocket.  He wedges it in, twists his wrist and it opens. I am impressed by his smooth dexterity, and enjoy the way his bicep curls as squeezes lemon over the flesh. He takes a step closer and hands me the shell. “take it quickly”.

My tongue anticipates the briny slickness of it, and it stays on my tongue long enough for me to feel the sensual body. I chew it twice before swallowing. It feels like a thrilling secret has crossed my palate, and my senses are overwhelmed by the zesty sea flavour.

I realise I had closed my eyes to savour the moment, and open them to see him drinking me in.
“Amazing”.
He opens the second shell and his square jaw tilts, welcoming.  I watch his jaw muscles, and the way his lips purse gently as he swallows. There is a mysteriousness that shrouds the ritual of eating natural Oysters. I feel as though we have bathed in a private rock pool, and the only evidence that remains is the taste of the sea on our tongues. His dark eyes absorb my presence, and I shiver involuntarily at the cold.  I shift my weight in my heels, parting my legs slightly, the skirt of my dress tightening as it stretches across my thighs.

I watch his lips as he steps in to me, one arm reaching and pulling me forward. He tastes of heat and salt, his tongue gently probing mine as he pulls me into him. His chest is solid, and his frame all-enveloping as I feel myself melt against him.
Yes.