just_a_girl Read Online Free Page B

air into the chest. So I only got a C+for CPR.
    Mum says I have to be careful now that I’m in year 9. Because men will start looking at me in a new way. Fuckadoodle, they’ve been looking at me like that for years. Especially when I eat Chupa Chups on the train.
    Mum has these weird ideas about what turns a guy on. She told me never to wear black and red together. Because that makes you look like a slut. Hello! Guess what colours are in this year. She doesn’t like my low riders. But she’s given up on that one. She hates when I wear eyeliner. On the inside rim of my eyes. And pointy white boots are completely out.
    But those men are only looking. I don’t see how it’s a big deal. If a guy grabbed me it’d be different. We did a self-defence course at school. We learnt to go straight for jabs in the eyes. Bash the nose and up under the chin. A fast kick into the balls. And then run and scream as loud as possible. Aim to do it without thinking. The most important thing is to catch them off guard.
    It all seemed so easy when we did it into thin air. But if a guy comes up behind you in the dark. And he’s got a loaded gun. Or a taxi driver tries to grope you. In the front seat when you’re still a bit drunk. It’s hard to know what I’d do. In porn films the women always say no. Then moan and writhe and say yes. And end up loving it. Or I’ve heard it’s best to go along with it. So you don’t get killed at the end.
    When we watch porn on Davo’s computer it’s like he’s stoned. I don’t feel like I’m even in the room. He likes girl on girl action. Actually I like it better too. Or boys on boys. But Davo won’t watch that. When it’s a guy and a girl it’s so mechanical. Like they’re putting together Ikea furniture.
    There’s a guy I’ve seen on the train. I love to look at him. He’s a bit different to all the others. Because he never looks back at me. I think he’s Japanese or something.
    Mum told me never to trust a man. Who doesn’t look you in the eye. So you can’t win with her. They either look too much or not enough. But a lot of sleazes give you heaps of eye contact.
    I think the guy on the train is the shy type. He’s always reading the same book. It looks like thousands of pages. With a cool black and white photo on the cover. Of a man leaping into space. As if he’s falling off the edge of the world.

TADASHI
    His head surfaced through the angelic flaps of arms and legs in the water. He swam to the edge of the pool, resting. Around him, the bodies shifted, distorted, Baconesque slivers through soft-hued light. He framed thigh, nipple, gentle curls, the groove of a lower back. A tattoo coiled like a tail into soft folds. Dark round lamps shone like pregnant bellies. It was like he was invisible, merged into the tiles of the bathhouse. The light seemed to flow from inside the women themselves as they danced shy, delicate steps across the slippery floor into the water. Having discarded their white gowns at the entrance, onto coat hangers, they clutched small towels as a last refuge. But a sign above said NO TOWELS; they had no choice. The first timers glimpsed around and tiptoed, hoping to blend in to the mural of nymphs on the wall, covering their breasts with their hands, then got into the water quickly, no eye contact. The regulars couldn’t wait: chests out, swanning, appraising the new clientele with a half-smile.
    By the mirror, a woman sat astride a blue chair washing herself. She slowly rinsed her hair, using a plastic jug, before entering the bubbles, feet-first, shooting a jet of ginseng and spirits into the room. Women sat in the pool at right angles, glancing at each other gently, not quite touching. They watched their toes then closed their eyes.
    Surrounded by bare women, he felt completely insulated. The rare beauty of bellies and breasts, the scars and scratches, marked a woman’s language of childhood and childbirth, accidents, self-harm. Couples shared tattoos on