Sunday Afternoon in Orange Grove - 1. Chapter 1

13.30

Nothing of significance ever happens in Orange Grove.

Not the important stuff at any rate. We had just arrived home from church and the ladies were cooking it up in the kitchen. Petra talking loud. Silence. Maybe a whisper. And finally both of them laughing hysterically. You can imagine my curiosity. However, I left the ladies to their own devices in the kitchen and continued to watch rugby on DSTV. South Africa led against Fiji 42 – 3. Fiennes sat beside me on the three piece sofa, leaning forward on the edge of his seat, face twisted into a nervous clump. He jumped around and snapped his fingers and yelled at the top of his voice. Not a delicate voice. A rough, Afrikaans loudhailer. Such intense concentration for such a one-sided game. The crowd roared, he roared. The crowd grumbled, he grumbled. The crowd jumped out of their seats and he did the same. His wife, Petra, was much like him. Boisterous and pompous. I shouldn't think too much of an interesting visit from them, except there was something in the way Fiennes communicated that aroused me.

Sometimes we touched, punching each other playfully each time South Africa scored a try. Glee written into our faces when South Africa won 49 to 6. He took my hand and in his excitement kissed it, then hugged me, and ground his groin into mine. I peeled his clothes from his body with my gaze as he danced around the room proclaiming victory. We must have danced and whooped around too loud. Anne, my wife, stood in the doorway to the TV room and shoo’d us out with a spoon. 'You guys make too much noise. Petra and I can’t hear ourselves cooking, dammit! Now move, both of you. Find something manly to do. We’ll call when lunch is ready. Get out, both of you. Out. Out.’

Anne and I have been married 10 years. She showers me with pleasant surprises and tries hard to keep our relationship as fresh as the day we met, but as much as I know this, I find it difficult to give her more of me. We’re fine with our relatives. We’re fine with our kids, and we’re fine with our material worth. Spiritually, we have yet to find a place. Sexually? We have sex on our anniversary. Once a year. The rest of the time I rely on Mr Palm and his five sons.

14h00

We stumbled downstairs into the garage where I had parked my bike, a black Kawasaki Vulcan1700 Vaquero, four stroke, liquid cooled. Fiennes admired it's delicate, yet dominating lines.

I inserted the keys into the ignition and turned to hear the song only such a machine can make. When I released acceleration, it purred like a comfortable cat.

‘You try.’ I said, climbing off the apparatus.

‘You mean get on?’

I suggested he climb onto the bike and feel her between his legs. Turn the ignition and allow the vibration to surge through his body. Become one with the machine.

'Hmmm, sounds sexy.' He licked his lips.

He climbed on and revved the bike once or twice and smiled up at me. 'Now all I need is a helmet.'

I threw him a helmet and beckoned him to move back.

At first he held onto the strap of the seat, leaving a gap between us, and, when we stopped his groin was pushing against the lower part of my back.

‘Where are we?’ He asked, the view from here took in the jagged edges of the skyline and the black hills that surrounded it.

14h45

‘Orange Ridge. You’ve never been here?’ I said, opening my arms wide to the view.

‘First time. Cool breeze. Wow, that’s some view.’ He smiled, pointing out the road as it twisted between the hills.

‘They’ll soon be closing off this area to the public. So I come here as often as I can.’ I said, 'It's safe. No one comes here.'

‘You a man of solitude?'

‘I like to think.’

‘Thinkers are the dangerous ones. But I don’t think you’re dangerous, are you?’

‘I could be, given the right circumstances.’

He sat on the ground with a rock as his backrest, and pulled me down with him. ‘Sit with me. Let’s talk.’ He stared directly into my eyes and I felt the cut of his gaze. ‘We’re adult here, right.’

‘Yes.’ I said, slowly.

‘We know what we want, right? I know I want you.’

I smiled, and leaned in a little closer as his hand cupped the bulge in my jeans.

16h15

He called me his jerk-off buddy.

‘By the way,’ he said, when we reached home. ‘There’s another friend, he likes it too. I want to invite him to our next game. His name is Wynand. We could have a braai. Garlic bread. Lekker steaks. Make an excuse to get away. Find a safe place. What do you say?’

What do I say?

I say nothing of significance ever happens in Orange Grove.

And then laughed out loud when I realized we were late for lunch.