"Family Planning"

Pussy's Bow "Family Planning"

From Pussy's Bow

Ever in search of new luxuries, Doc had placed an ad in the Melbourne Star Observer. He wanted a houseboy, but he would have to convince the others that they wanted one too. Friday night was the best time to broach the subject since they generally ate together then, so he bought them all noodles on the way back from the gym.

Juliette’s dining room had a domed ceiling, presided over by an exquisite and utterly unique light fixture. Sixty opaque, hand-blown glass lilies–each containing its own bulb–loomed over the dining table. Dixon, Doc and Dung sat bathed in its light, eating their take-away noodles from American-style boxes. Dixon was reminding them of The Lost Boys and how the noodles turned to worms.

"Yuk," said Dung. "I’m glad we’re not tripping."

Doc just smiled into his food. They’d planned a few quiet drinks at the Duke after dinner but Doc had already added something to the wine.

Dixon stretched his leg out and ran it along Doc’s thigh. Doc felt his sphincter contract–in memory, fear or anticipation, he wasn’t sure. He coughed and took the plunge. "Guys, I think we need someone to look after this house. To cook, clean…"

"Butle and plough," slurped Dix.

"No, I was thinking of someone like a student. You know, someone who needs a place in the city and who can’t afford rent. We’ve got that extra bedroom, he could go in there."

"Oh, so it’s going to be a he, is it?" protested Dung. "As if we don’t have enough resident testosterone already."

"Claudette lives next door and she’s my oldest and best friend. It’s just too complicated for a girl, that’s all," insisted Doc.

Dung peered up disapprovingly from his food, chopsticks aloft. "I see, so by adding a young boy from the country it’s going to be less complicated. HELLO? Doc, your fantasy life is insatiable."

"I’m not the only one in this house with a porn stash. Look, I’m serious, we all work really hard..."

"Speak for yourself," choked Dixon.

"We’re forever eating take-away. House-keeping would be a great way for someone to live in a really nice place. We could pay him something each, or he could get a part-time job, or something."

"I’m not paying him," said Dix at the first mention of further subsidy. "Besides, we all know who’ll be the first to get his money’s worth."

Dung and Dix smirked at each other before simultaneously thrusting their hips in a grossly indecent way.

"It’s arrogant and exploitative," protested Dung mildly.

Dix returned to his noodles. "Well, as long as he doesn’t spend forever in the bathroom–we don’t have an ensuite like the Lord of the Manor."

"Does that mean we can get someone?"

Dung shrugged. "Go on then, you’ll do as you want anyhow." He felt the first flutters of something in his stomach. That was the thrill and the terror of living with Doc, you never knew what he’d concocted.

There was a knock at the door, a tell-tale Claudette rat-ta-tat-tat, which Dixon went to answer. In she swept, hair newly styled and lips aflame.

"It’s frigging freezing and my bloody car won’t star," she pouted. "Do you think I look like Ally McBeal?"

‘More like Elle McFeast in that dress," laughed Doc.

"I’m talking about my hair, you arsehole!" She bashed him on the head.

"If you’re fresh out of booze, Claude, you can just come in and ask for a drinkie, you don’t have to make up stories about the car," said Dixon handing her a glass.

"You want to get rid of that heap. I told you old European cars are nothing but trouble, and mechanics always rip women off. It’s good money after bad," advised Doc in stern, fatherly tones.

"You’re one to talk. What about your Citroen? You’re a doctor–aren’t you supposed to have something reliable so you can deliver babies and enemas and things?"

"Don’t do babies, Claude, you know that."

"I don’t hear him denying the enemas though," added Dung.

"This is nice wine, Doc. What is it?" Claude took a hefty slurp.

"Something French that Dix bought."

"You feeling homesick for the continent, hon?"

"No, it was just cheap. Mind you, I could do with a week on Ibiza right now–depressing bloody Melbourne winters."

"As opposed to the warm, bright, happy English ones you mean?" she teased.

Dixon laughed. "There’s no pleasing the English. I hope you didn’t come in here expecting us to start your car."

"As if. I was only going to drive to the bottle shop anyway. This will do very nicely, thank you." Claude settled herself at the table and smiled into the chalice of red.