Tom had been putting aside $250 from his fortnightly pay packet over a two month period. He figured $1000 should just about cover it: his last hurrah. One afternoon/evening/night of debauchery. Living it up, trying everything he'd always meant to try.


The last hurrah. Before settling down and really doing the serious stuff.
That stuff: getting married to Kirralyn in a month's time; being there when she had their baby in three month's time; putting the deposit down on a house A.S.A.P. - as soon as they could both agree on a house.

He'd already selected the date for the last hurrah - Wednesday July 11. He had even made a booking at a hotel - a place in the centre of Kings Cross. He'd viewed it on the Internet. It looked classy. Nothing downmarket, not for the last hurrah.

The list of debauchery: room service food, drinking, drugs, and a prostitute.

Tom had experienced room service food before. Always with Kirralyn. They loved it. He also liked a drink - usually down the pub on a Friday afternoon after work. With the boys. The usual crowd. His mates.

Tom had never tried drugs. A couple of his mates had. They'd used marijuana, amphetamines, even cocaine (or so they said). Tom hadn't even smoked marijuana back at school. Back then he knew people who did smoke it, but he'd been too scared to touch it - thanks to all the anti-drug propaganda from his teachers and his parents.

Now he wanted to try marijuana. Just once. That's all. Get stoned, have a giggle.
Then there was the prostitute. He'd never been with one. In fact he'd only ever been with one girl apart from Kirralyn. Tom had never had a blow job. Kirralyn refused to perform that “act” (as she called it) on him.

He wanted one now. And he'd get one - from a professional. He didn't even think of it as cheating because he wouldn't actually be fucking, would he?

Kings Cross: debauchery capital of Sydney, of Australia. Drug and sex HOTSPOT. Tom had lived in Sydney all his life, but he'd only ever been to the Cross once. In the daytime, when the place was dead. He'd seen no drug dealers, no sex workers. Just ordinary people. But that was years ago.

Now things were different. Tom read the newspapers, he watched the current affairs shows on the TV. He knew about the place: drugs everywhere, sex everywhere. You walk down the main drag and they'd virtually shove it in your face.

So to Kings Cross Tom would go. For the last hurrah.

Wednesday morning, 8.40 a.m. Tom has his overnight bag packed. He has on suit and tie.


“I'll miss you,” Kirralyn says, kissing him on the lips. “We'll miss you.” She places Tom's right hand on her protruding belly. “Kiss our baby good bye.”

Tom kneels down and kisses her tummy. “Bye bye little baby,” he sing-songs.
“I wish you didn't have to go.”

“I know,” Tom says. “But I do. This is an important client. He's insisting on a face-to-face, he likes to meet the people he's going to work with. And Derrick insisted I go.”

“Because you're the best,” Kirralyn says. Tom smiles. She has this unwavering faith in him. “You are going to be the best father in the world,” she says. “And husband.”

“You bet,” he says, and makes a concerted effort to look her in the eye.

A horn blasts outside. It's his taxi.

“See you tomorrow night then,” she says, kissing him on the cheek.

“You bet,” he says. “Love you.” And he's out the front door. She watches the taxi driver place his suitcase in the boot of the car. Then Tom's in the taxi and they're off.

“The airport, right?” says the driver.

“Change of plan,” Tom says. “The Cross.”

“The Cross?” says the driver, frowning, then raising his eyebrows, smiling. “Bit early, isn't it?”

Tom takes offence. “What do you mean? I'm going to work.”

“Whatever,” says the driver, turning his attention to the traffic.

Forty-five minutes later the taxi pulls up at the Gazebo hotel. Tom pays the driver - no tip. He takes his bag to reception. Tells the receptionist he has a booking.

“Check in isn't until 2 p.m., sir.”

“Oh,” says Tom. He hadn't thought about this. “Can I leave my suitcase here until then?”

“Certainly sir.”

He looks around the lobby. It looks classy. A nice place. He nods and leaves. Walks out the front door, into Fitzroy Gardens. Sees the used syringes. The police station. The police presence. The bums. The alkies. Tom walks onto Darlinghurst road - the main drag.

The sun is out. It's quiet. He walks towards William street, checking out the brothel fronts, the sex shops. All closed up now.

Tom walks back. Sees the famous Bourbon and Beefsteak bar. Goes in. Thinks about having a beer. But he orders coffee. Gets out his mobile. Calls the office. Gets Janice, the secretary: “Janice, it's Tom.”

“Tom, how are you feeling?”

“A little crook still. Just thought I'd call in to remind you.”

“Remind me?”

“That I wouldn't be in.”

“I know. You said so yesterday. You said you were sick.”

“Well I still am. Just thought I'd let you know. Could you let Derrick know?”

“I already have, Tom.”

“Oh. Good.” Pause.

“Take it easy, Tom. Get better soon.”

“I'll try.”

“And don't do anything I wouldn't do.” She hangs up. And Tom goes paranoid: does she know what I'm doing? Here in the Cross, counting down the hours until debauchery time? No. Don't do anything I wouldn't do. It's just something people say. It's something his mother used to say. There is no hidden meaning there.

Tom picks up a newspaper. Orders another coffee. Drinks it. Reads. Then it's nearly midday. He decides to walk a bit more. Down Darlinghurst road towards Potts Point. Onto Macleay street, then left to Woolloomooloo Bay. It's a beautiful day. Sunny. Great day for a walk. By the water. He thinks that Kirralyn would like this. He thinks about what she might be doing right now - maybe the washing? Preparing lunch? He thinks about calling her, but decides not to. He decides that he will bring her here. Maybe in a few weeks' time. Not to the Cross, but down here, to Potts Point. For a walk. A stroll in the sun.

He walks back. Sweating a little now. It's nearly 1 p.m. He decides on lunch. Back to the Bourbon and Beefsteak. Orders a steak - rare. And a schooner of New to go with that. And another. Feeling a little light-headed. Feeling relaxed now. Thinking that it's nearly check-in time.

He eats. Drinks. Pays the bill, then wanders back through Fitzroy Gardens. A bum begs for change. Tom gives him a five dollar note.

It's 1.50 p.m. Tom walks through to reception. Registers. Gets his bag. Takes the lift up to the fifth floor, to his room. He opens up. And is taken aback by the room. He'd expected luxury. This is not luxury. This is a very average kind of motel room. Very 70s in its décor. Nice view, though - of the bums and junkies in Fitzroy Gardens, and the new police station. Great.

He tries turning the TV on with the remote. Only it doesn't work. He calls reception. They tell him they'll send somebody up. While he waits he inspects the mini-bar. Grabs a beer. A Crown. Opens up his suitcase. Finishes the beer. Waiting. He cracks open another Crown. And is halfway through it when there's a knock on the door. He opens up. A man in overalls comes in. The man speaks little English. Tom shows him the remote and says: “Not working.” The man tries to operate it. To no avail. He shakes it. Nothing. So he tries turning the TV on manually. He succeeds. “There,” says the man, smiling at the screen. “Works.”

And then he's gone. Leaving Tom in awe. Leaving Tom pissed that the remote has not been fixed. Another mouthful of beer. Mellowed by the beer. Deciding against an abusive call to reception. Who needs a remote anyway? He wasn't planning on watching TV tonight.

Tom takes a shower. Gets back into his clothes. Decides to go downstairs to the hotel bar. It looked okay - a hell of a lot nicer than his room.

He takes the lift down, walks in, grabs a seat at the bar. He's the only customer. He decides on a Heineken - lash out on an imported beer. It tastes okay, but nothing special. He watches the giant TV screen. A soap opera is on, sound down. Muzak plays through hidden speakers. Tom orders a Stella Artois next. Again, okay, but nothing special.

Tom wishes he had brought something to read. A newspaper is no good - he's read today's. Maybe a book. But he realises nobody reads a book on an afternoon/evening of debauchery.

He gets up. Takes a piss in the Gents. Looks at his watch: 3.30 p.m. Decides to try Darlinghurst road again. Mid-afternoon: surely he should be able to find sex and/or drugs.

Back through Fitzroy Gardens. The bum he gave the five dollars to has a longneck of VB in his hand now. He winks at Tom. Tom ignores him.

Tom wanders. Notices that the sex shops are open now. He walks in to one, confronted by books and paraphernalia. But he's looking for a live woman, not pictures and objects. He walks in and out of four such places, hoping that maybe there will be a prostitute nearby. Tom looks around. He sees nobody that looks like a prostitute.

He walks to the train station. Walks inside. He's heard that drugs are sold in here. He looks around, looking for furtive-looking people that might catch his eye and offer to sell him something.

Nobody.

Back to the Bourbon and Beefsteak. The waitress: “You're back.”

Tom smiles, orders a schooner of New. Sits outside, watching. Bums and office workers. And tourists. Backpackers everywhere now.

He finishes his schooner and leaves. Walks back down the road. And this time sees two of them, dressed in short, tight skirts. Tops revealing cleavage. Too much makeup.

They see him. One smiles. She winks. He approaches. “Looking for a date?” she says.

Tom suddenly feels exposed. He feels eyes on him, all the passers by seeing him negotiating with a street whore. People seeing him and thinking this is one desperate loser, paying for somebody like this. She's probably a junkie. She's probably got AIDs.

“Ah … no,” says Tom, and walks away.

“Seventy bucks,” she says. And he nearly stops, nearly turns around. But he resists. He keeps walking. Feeling stupid. Feeling lonely. Back to the hotel. Taking the lift up. Wanting desperately to talk to Kirralyn now. But instead looking at the room service menu. Ordering a club sandwich and half a bottle of wine.

Turning the TV on. Manually. A game show plays - one that Kirralyn likes. He wonders if she's watching it now.
The meal arrives. A waiter wheels it in. He smiles at Tom. “You all alone?” he asks.

Tom nods, his eyes still focused on the game show.

“You want company?”

And with that Tom's attention focuses on the waiter. “What do you mean?”

The man produces a card for an escort agency. Pink. With a silhouetted picture of a naked woman on it. “Nice girls. Clean girls. They come to you.”

Tom nods. “Thank you.”

The waiter smiles. “You want anything else?”

Tom looks at him. “Like what?”

“You tell me.”

“Drugs,” says Tom, smiling as he says it, wanting it to sound like a joke - just in case.

“What drugs?”

“Marijuana,” Tom says, still smiling - actually grinning now - and feeling very stupid.

“How much you want?” says the waiter. Tom has no idea. The waiter waits for a response. He doesn't get one, so he helps Tom out: “Just for you? For tonight?”

“Yes,” says Tom.

The waiter nods. “I'll get you some good stuff. You give me one hundred dollars.” He puts his hand out. Tom reluctantly hands over two fifty dollar notes. “I'll be back,” the waiter says.

Tom looks at the escort agency card. His hand is sweaty.

An hour passes. The waiter returns. He hands Tom a baggie containing what looks like tobacco. Enough for the equivalent of two rollies, or so Tom figures (he attempted smoking cigarettes at school but never really got into it). Tom places the baggie in his suitcase. He looks at the escort agency card. Looks at the telephone number. Moves to the phone. And he dials.

The woman on the other end of the line welcomes him. She asks him his name. He only gives his first name. She asks him what sort of girl he would like. He says blonde - it's the first thing that comes to mind. “With big breasts,” he adds. Then realises he's going for the stereotype. But what the hell. He gives the name of the hotel and the room number. “She'll be there in half an hour,” he is told.

There is a knock twenty-five minutes later. Tom opens up. A blonde with big breasts stands before him. She is quite beautiful. “I'm Amber,” she says. Tom can't look her in the eye. He invites her in.

She enters, puts her handbag down on the bed. “Business first,” she says. “It's five hundred dollars. That's a flat rate, for as long as it takes.”
Tom hadn't expected to pay this kind of money. But he goes to his wallet. He hands over $500. She smiles, tucks the money into her handbag.

“Let's party,” she says, and begins removing clothes.

Tom watches. Reveling in the perfection of her body. Going hard quickly.

She faces him, naked except for panties. “What would you like?”

“Um,” he says, “a, um, blow job.”

She smiles. Gets down on her knees. Slowly removes his trousers. Then his boxers. “Ooh,” she says, looking at his penis. “He's very angry. And sooo big.” Tom thinking that this is a line she's taken from a porno movie, surely.

And just when he is sure she will begin, she reaches for her handbag and takes out a condom and rubber gloves.

“What …?” begins Tom.

“Just for safety,” she says. “We don't want to catch anything, do we?” We?

She puts the rubber gloves on her hands, then places the condom on his penis.

He can just feel her hands through the dual layer of rubber.

Then her head is down there, working away, bobbing and sucking.

Tom tries to relax. And enjoy. But he barely feels it. He realises he is maybe a little drunk. And all this rubber, all this protection, it's all so … desensitising. And what's with her fake moaning? Like sucking on a condom would be even remotely pleasurable.

She works on and on. Tom lets her. He even pretends he's enjoying it all. He moans now and then and thrusts his hips up. Hoping he won't fart. Keeping one in.

She stops for a bit and just hand jobs him. “Are you close?” she purrs.

“Oh yeah,” he says.

She gets back to it, using her hand more than her mouth now. And then, at long last, he does come. Briefly and without much ado.

She doesn't notice. She keeps bobbing and sucking and pulling. Tom places his hands on her shoulders. She moves back reflexively. “What?” she says, looking a little scared/worried.

“It's over,” says Tom. “I came.”

She gets up. Removes the gloves. Places them in a nearby rubbish bin. Then starts dressing. “Was it good?” she says.

“Yes,” says Tom, standing up and going to the bathroom. Removing the condom. Cleaning himself up.

When he returns she is dressed. “Well … thanks,” she says. “I guess I'll be going.”

Tom nods. She turns and leaves. End of story. End of very brief encounter.

It's not even 7 p.m. and the sex side of the debauchery is over.

Tom turns on the TV. He wonders what next. He grabs another beer from the mini-bar. A VB. He drinks. Watches the start of a sitcom repeat. And then remembers the marijuana. He takes it from the suitcase. Decides that watching a sitcom stoned is the way to go.

Only he has no bong. Or anything to roll the drug in.

Papers. Cigarette papers. He needs these.

Tom dresses and rushes down to the lobby. Buys some cigarette papers. And matches. Then it's back upstairs.

He rolls a joint. Lights up. And inhales deeply, just like he's seen people do in the movies. He really holds it in. Then coughs. Really coughs. Thinks he's nearly choking, actually.

He waits. Nothing. He inhales again. Not coughing this time. Then he's sure he's feeling something. He's sure he feels kind of light-headed. Floating, he thinks.

He keeps inhaling, holding it in, then letting it out. No breaks. One puff after another until the whole joint is smoked. Then he rolls another. The second and last one. A really biiig one. One to really send him sky high.

He lights up and does the inhaling/exhaling thing.

Ten minutes pass. He finishes up. Walks around the room. Laughing. Giddy. Weak in the knees. Telling himself this is great, he's having a good time. Saying it out loud. Realising that he just feels drunk and not much more. Knowing deep down that the waiter gypped him, that this cannot be real marijuana. It smelt like tobacco, maybe with a little bit of grass thrown in. But barely enough to take him anywhere. No, this is just a good old alcohol high. Nothing particularly special.

He lies down on the bed. Cracks open another beer. Then he starts on the little bottles of scotch. Two of them. Then one of the bourbons. He's so drunk he simply passes out.

He wakes at 7 a.m. with one bad hangover. He tries to get up. Can't. Goes back to sleep. Wakes again at 9 a.m. Realises he should be at work. He calls Janice. “I'm still ill,” he says.


“You sound it,” she says.

“I am,” he says. “But I'll be in tomorrow. I promise.”

“Don't rush it,” she says. “Take your time and get better.”

He goes to the bathroom. Drinks a lot of water. Then back to bed and asleep.
The phone rings just after 11 a.m. He is scared to pick it up, thinking it might be Janice, or his boss Derrick, or worse still, Kirralyn. But how could it be? He picks up the phone. “Reception calling, sir. It's checkout time.”
“Can you give me half an hour?”

“Certainly sir.”

And half an hour later Tom is showered and shaved and checking out. Paying his bill. Alone on the street with his suitcase.

He wants to go home. To Kirralyn. To their bed. To sleep. To be in her arms. But he realises he can't. Not like this. And not so early in the day. She wouldn't expect him home this early.

So he drags his case through Fitzroy Gardens to the Bourbon and Beefsteak. Has a beer and a shot of whisky. Feeling a little better now. Then bacon and eggs and sausages and coffee. Lots of coffee.

He feels a lot better now. It's just gone 1 p.m. Tom wonders what he can do now. Maybe a movie? But with a suitcase in hand?

He thinks about it. He leaves the Bourbon and Beefsteak. He sees a taxi. He hails it.

“Where to?” says the driver.

“Home,” says Tom.

“And where would that be, mate?”

Tom gives the address. He closes his eyes and falls into a half sleep.

He's woken by the driver: “We're there, mate, wakey wakey.”

Tom stretches, pays the driver off. Gets out, grabs his suitcase, and walks up the garden path. Feeling seedy, but happy. Happy to be coming home, happy to be coming home to Kirralyn, to their life together, to their future, to their baby, to everything that's good. Wanting it all very badly, wanting it all extremely badly. He knocks on the front door and waits - waits in anticipation for the rest of his life to finally begin.

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