The Lesbian Sex-Room Saga - Part 2

After the rather unfortunate father-causing-me-to-run-out-into-the-street-and-scream incident, the Flatmate and I spent an enjoyable evening scouring Google for suitable images - luckily without the aid of my stepmum. I rather suspect that Google censors search results, but even so, we managed to find a few gems. (Wikipedia was surprisingly helpful as well. Too helpful. My mind is forever sullied.)

The next day I went to the uni library to print off the photos. As soon as I entered the library I scouted around for the most inconspicuous computer possible. I wanted to be far, far away from prying eyes. There's just something not right about printing naughty pictures in a library. To my discomfort the only computer available was one in full view right in the centre of the room. Never mind, I thought. If anyone asked, I was an art student doing a project that just happened to feature copulating females.

I decided to do a trial run and print only one photo off to start with. This turned out to be a smart move because the printing system had been recently changed and for the life of me I couldn't figure out how to use it. After struggling unsuccessfully for several minutes with the fandangled new swipe card system, I gave in and asked the librarian for help.

(Because for some reason it's easier to ask a librarian to help you print porn than it is to ask a shop assistant to help you out of a dress you inadvertantly got stuck in.)

A few seconds effort was all it took for the librarian to get the printer working. Her eyes bulged slightly as an A3 photo of a woman clad only in conveniently-tied black rope slid out of the printer, but she graciously refrained from commenting. I did my best to appear nonchalant and not blush.

I successfully printed off the other photos - about fifteen in all - and brought them home and left them on the Flatmate's bed for her to arrange while I went to work.

The next portion of the story is only hearsay; but tell it I must, and I apologise in advance for any inaccuracies that may ensue.

It was not easy for the Flatmate to complete her task. For one, staring at naked women is most definitely not one of her favourite occupations. For another, my parents were at home; which would not normally be a problem as ordinarily she could just shut the door and not be disturbed.

But there was a factor she had not considered: rugby.

Now, my stepmum is an insane rugby fanatic. She is one of those trying people who insist on vocalising every exciting moment of a game. Shrieks, gasps, and cries of "GO! GO!" split the eardrums of any people unfortunate enough to be in her presence. She has caused my father - a former rugby referee - to claim that he does not enjoy watching rugby, simply so he has an excuse not to be in the same room as her during a match.

It so happened that there was a rugby game on that evening. And my stepmum, typically, was watching it alone.

But either she could not contain the ardent glee that rugby brings her, or perhaps she thought she would try and initiate a foreigner into the Kiwi cultural rugby bliss, because in addition to screaming at the top of her lungs she would also run down the hallway to the Flatmate's bedroom and inform her of every event that occured in the game.

This was frustrating for the Flatmate, not merely because she didn't give two hoots about the rugby, but because she had all the lesbian images spread out on her bed as she figured out the best visual arrangement. As soon as she heard my stepmum begin to stir - heralded by a long, piercing shriek - she had to rush furiously to turn every photo over before my stepmum made it to the room. As it is approximately a three-second dash from lounge to bedroom, she had very little time assume an air of decency. The fact that I'd accidentally printed some of the pictures double-sided did not help.

It was a tense evening; but she endured, and at last the pictures were displayed on the wall in their full, graphic glory.

A few hours later her sister arrived from the airport. It really irks me that I couldn't be there to see her reaction; but I was told her eyes widened and she muttered the Hindi version of, "Oh my." The Flatmate congratulated herself; her sister was very, very shocked and even slightly horrified. Did she feel guilty about ruining the innocence of her beloved sister? No! She felt triumphant! Our scheme had succeeded, despite the many odds and obstacles!

Alas, she had underestimated my father's innate desire to be overly-helpful.

After unloading all of the Flatmate's Sister's luggage from the car, he then tried to carry it into the bedroom - now unashamedly a lesbian sex room. The Flatmate resorted to desperate measures as she attempted to waylay him at the door. She somehow convinced my dad to simply bring the suitcases into the house while she shifted them into the bedroom.

This task done, the Flatmate made the foolish, insane mistake of letting my father out of her sight for the shortest of moments. Dad, no longer needed in his role of suitcase-carrier, immediately tried to find something else useful to do. It was a bitterly cold night, he thought. The Flatmate and the New Flatmate were from a tropical country; doubtless they were suffering from winter's chill. He very kindly decided to try to create the conditions described in the old saying, a warm welcome.

I can visualise it so clearly. I can imagine my father walking into the bedroom, joy and goodwill beaming from his soul. He goes over to the heater and switches it on. Her turns to leave – and sees a sight a godly man ought never to see.

His heart would have frozen over. His eyes would have quickly shot away from the ghastly sight of naked women pleasuring each other. His brow would furrow and the corners of his mouth turn down into the bushy depths of his beard. He would have stood still a moment as he meditated on the depravity of modern society.

And then he would have left as fast as he possibly could.

He ran into the Flatmate in the hallway just outside the sex room. They stared awkwardly at each other.

My father cleared his throat. “Um... I just turned the heater in your room on.”
The Flatmate desperately thought of something to say. “Thank you,” she said at last. “That's very kind of you.”

And they turned and walked away from each other, as though they had wordlessly made a pact never to speak of it again.

The Saga continues in Part Three! If the Hobbit can do it, then dammit, so can I.