Howgirl’s guide to getting your pants off on the first date
I feel like Tarzan the first time he set foot in civilisation. Or even Mighty Joe Young (yes, the gorilla – but that may just be because of my lack of waxing up on the station). I’ve finally made it to town after last weeks debacle and all of a sudden I am faced with the perplexing chaos of traffic, pedestrians, other humans. It’s all a bit much. To top it off, I am challenged by another ‘thing’ deemed foreign on a station – dates. Not the delicious fibre packed fruity kind, I’m talking the kind of dates involving awkward silences, hard-to-eat-and-stay-sexy meals, the quick duck to the loo to plan your escape route…the whole shebang.
Introducing date number one. We’ll call him ‘Sven’. Sven is a nice guy. Sven has smooth pick up lines and brings me bales of hay instead of flowers when he picks me up for our first date. Well played Sven, well played. He tells me I look beautiful without sounding creepy. He drives a ute, despite being a city boy. He has a dog. So far, so good.
He tells me to bring my bathers, just in case. No worries I fane. I’m actually a little chuffed with the opportunity to show off my outback tan (which could just be ridiculous amounts of red dirt ingrained in to my skin, but from a distance it looks really good). We eat lunch, laugh a lot, discuss aliens without even a hint of rank weirdness oozing from my pores, and stay for dessert. I turn my phone on silent and tuck it away in my purse, resolving that this is one date my phone-a-friend’s embellished emergencies needn’t interrupt. This is a good sign.
We take the coastal road home. Sucking in the salty sea breeze is like hugging an old friend after suffocating on outback dust for the past four months. I admire the waves, their violent crashing against the sand, the strength of their drag back to the sea. Then the car starts to slow, the indicator ticks like a timebomb, and as I turn to Sven I see his eyes are lit up like a little boy at Christmas. He pulls the ute in to an empty parking lot, turns the engine off and pulls a weathered towel off the back seat. The colour drains from my sunkissed smile. Is this a good time to mention that I can’t swim? Like seriously can’t swim, to the point of having The Boss fish me out of his swimming pool by my elbow, and I wasn’t even half way to the deep end yet.
Forget lounging like a brazillian model on the stark white sand – all of a sudden Sven’s water prowess appears, the surf board I never noticed on the back of the ute is tucked under his arm (so that’s why he has a ute!) and he’s legging it to the waves (yes, the violent ones) shouting to me to come on in. I titter nervously at the foamy shore. He paddles out like a fish, gliding effortlessly over the bouncing swell. I try and fan my hair out against the breeze each time he turns around, praying I look more like a Pantene model than I do Cousin It. Stupidity gets the better of me, and I sashay a little further in to the water, just to get my feet wet.
Before I can conjure another neck cracking hair flick the undercurrent grasps my ankles, dragging them through the sand, then with a mighty swoop the current has me pulled under and gagging for breath. My eyes sting without enough time to close them and salty water rushes through my nose. My back is scratched along the sea floor, before I’m propelled in to a series of underwater somersaults. A firm round thing smacks me in the cheek, then the other, and then I realise that it’s my bikini top floating around my chin, threatening to strangle me if I dare do anything about it. I then realise that the coil around my ankle that I assumed was seaweed is actually my bikini bottoms. Choking for air, I just have to let them, and my dignity, be washed away by the smarmy sea.
After what feels like an eternity in a tumble dryer the swell spits me out on the shore, head first, upside down, bare bum in the air, wearing my bikini top like a necklace. Of course, I am also very far away from the towels. And covered in so much sand I now have a gritty blond mono-brow. I take a moment to breathe in fresh air and cough out all the salt water and sand boogers. My view of the water is upside down and flanked by my thighs, but I’m too mortified to appreciate that at least my thighs aren’t blocking my view. Of Sven. Gaping in shock as he gently rocks in the waves. He paddles to the sand in seconds and comes running over. I assume the foetal position to preserve my womanhood, before he throws his towel over me. I use it like a cape to wrap my entire self in, prop my head between my knees and try to cool the burning in my cheeks. Sven is awkwardly silent. He tried patting my back, but it felt a little patronising and made me want fly kick him…if I had pants on.
“Let’s go hey?” he suggests, after what seems like an eternity of silence. He looks at me, imploringly. My death stare tells him I’ll meet him at the car. Once he’s out of sight I sort out my bikini top and wrap the towel around my waist as a makeshift skirt, and trudge up to the car park. He drives me home. I can’t make eye contact. Or move for that matter, as every gesture I make leaves a trail of sand. At my front gate I leap out of the cab and let myself in. Is ute is still idling. I hope he doesn’t expect to be invited in. I hear his window wind down. Before he can say anything I close the latch on the gate. “Thanks for everything Sven!” I chortle. “I’m just going to have a shower and get organised for my totally hecticafternoon. I’ll call you later!”
I’m already bounding up the steps to the front door, careful not to trip over and embarrass myself further. I slam the door shut behind me, finding solace in the empty house. As the water gushes from the showerhead the floor pools with sand. It drains from every orifice, even the corners of my eyes. I won’t see Sven again. Even with my pants on. Time to whip out the calendar and count the days til I can get back to the safety of the station – a place far from any hint of water, where I can pull a man just by changing a tyre and even just a lick of mascara makes me feel as dolled up as a Disney princess.
This article has been contributed anonymously under the pen name “Howgirl Cowgirl”.