THE INTERNATIONAL ROOT LIST
'The what?'
'The International Root List.'
Tom and I were in a cheap workers' café in Barcelona. Tom was an Australian who'd wound up in Gibraltar looking for work. We'd experienced the hell that was working for Krona, cleaning out the bottoms of ships in dry dock. When the work had run out I'd decided to head up to Sweden to find a woman, my woman – the one made for me, the one I’d been destined to meet ever since my mother and father had made me. Tom was heading across to Greece, Turkey, Asia. Heading home overland. We'd decided to hook up as far as Barcelona.
Earlier that day Tom had taken me along to a peep show – my first. You walked into a curtained cubicle and dropped a one hundred peseta coin into a slot. A metal shutter slid up on a window to reveal a small hexagonal room. On all six walls of the room there were two-way mirrors with the same sliding mechanisms. Upon a low divan in the centre of the room a well-proportioned young woman, with brown bobbed hair and high cheekbones, lay spread-eagled. As the divan slowly revolved the young woman, with eyes closed, splayed herself, caressed herself, and slowly writhed about. I kept thinking: Why is such a pretty girl doing this for a living? and It must be very boring for her. The 'peep' lasted about a minute before the shutter slowly but forcefully came down to cut off the view. A view not so much erotic, as hypnotic; an unabashed display of the female form. It was fascinating. I'd had about three goes before Tom came and got me and we went to find lunch.
'Maybe it's just an Aussie thing,' he said, 'Bedding different nationalities.'
'I'm after a Swede,' I said.
'But you've had all the different Brits, right? Welsh, Scots, Irish, English. You've done all those, right?'
I started to whine, but he didn't want to hear about it, just said: 'There's a lot less mystery to it than you think, mate.'
'What about you?' I said quickly. 'How many different "roots" have you had?'
'Well, the one I’m most proud of was in Israel. Army chick. Well there were three of them in this jeep and I was hitching through the desert – been on a kibbutz and needed a break, bit of a look-see. Anyway, these three army chicks, weaponed up and everything – pistols, rifles, submachine gun mounted in the back of the jeep – when they stopped I thought I was fucked, mate. Thought I must have wandered into a military zone or something. Luckily they spoke a bit of English so I got stuck in there. Bit of the old Aussie charm. Goes a long way I can tell ya. I reckoned a chance like this doesn't come along every day. Three Jewish army chicks, on their own turf, probably bored out of their minds, thoughts turn to sex… and there… I… am. Out of the blue. A fuckin’ mirage, mate! Answer to all their prayers.
'You had sex with them all!'
'No, mate. Just the one. Not the prettiest of the bunch I'll admit, but she was ace in the sack. Think they must teach them some tricks in training, hey? You know, spy stuff: how to screw a bloke so well he'll tell ya anything. Racked up some right good points on the old scorecard for that one I can tell ya. Though I'd've got more if she'd not spoke English, obviously.'
'And if you'd shagged all three.'
'Yeah, obviously.'
'How about a Muslim woman?' I asked. 'Managed one of those yet? Or a Tibetan?'
'No, mate. Don't get funny.'
'And foreign prostitutes? Are they allowed?'
'Nah. Look…See…,' Tom looked round to catch the waiter's eye, waggled an empty bottle of beer, '…Two more cervezas please, waiter? … Jeez, I've got a thirst on me. Look. We've all got to pay for it in one way or another – beers, wine, dinner, listening to their stories – all that, but not like that! I've never paid for it like that in me life, mate. Never will neither. Anyway, it’d go against the spirit of the thing.'
The waiter arrived with our beers.
Next day we split up. Tom bound for Greece ("and those Aegean beaudies") and I for Sweden. When I'd told him why I was headed there Tom had said: 'For every beautiful woman in the world there's a bloke who got tired of her. Beauty is one thing, personality another. As for the ability to remain content with the one you're with till death us do part… fuck knows, mate.'
'The International Root List.'
Tom and I were in a cheap workers' café in Barcelona. Tom was an Australian who'd wound up in Gibraltar looking for work. We'd experienced the hell that was working for Krona, cleaning out the bottoms of ships in dry dock. When the work had run out I'd decided to head up to Sweden to find a woman, my woman – the one made for me, the one I’d been destined to meet ever since my mother and father had made me. Tom was heading across to Greece, Turkey, Asia. Heading home overland. We'd decided to hook up as far as Barcelona.
Earlier that day Tom had taken me along to a peep show – my first. You walked into a curtained cubicle and dropped a one hundred peseta coin into a slot. A metal shutter slid up on a window to reveal a small hexagonal room. On all six walls of the room there were two-way mirrors with the same sliding mechanisms. Upon a low divan in the centre of the room a well-proportioned young woman, with brown bobbed hair and high cheekbones, lay spread-eagled. As the divan slowly revolved the young woman, with eyes closed, splayed herself, caressed herself, and slowly writhed about. I kept thinking: Why is such a pretty girl doing this for a living? and It must be very boring for her. The 'peep' lasted about a minute before the shutter slowly but forcefully came down to cut off the view. A view not so much erotic, as hypnotic; an unabashed display of the female form. It was fascinating. I'd had about three goes before Tom came and got me and we went to find lunch.
'Maybe it's just an Aussie thing,' he said, 'Bedding different nationalities.'
'I'm after a Swede,' I said.
'But you've had all the different Brits, right? Welsh, Scots, Irish, English. You've done all those, right?'
I started to whine, but he didn't want to hear about it, just said: 'There's a lot less mystery to it than you think, mate.'
'What about you?' I said quickly. 'How many different "roots" have you had?'
'Well, the one I’m most proud of was in Israel. Army chick. Well there were three of them in this jeep and I was hitching through the desert – been on a kibbutz and needed a break, bit of a look-see. Anyway, these three army chicks, weaponed up and everything – pistols, rifles, submachine gun mounted in the back of the jeep – when they stopped I thought I was fucked, mate. Thought I must have wandered into a military zone or something. Luckily they spoke a bit of English so I got stuck in there. Bit of the old Aussie charm. Goes a long way I can tell ya. I reckoned a chance like this doesn't come along every day. Three Jewish army chicks, on their own turf, probably bored out of their minds, thoughts turn to sex… and there… I… am. Out of the blue. A fuckin’ mirage, mate! Answer to all their prayers.
'You had sex with them all!'
'No, mate. Just the one. Not the prettiest of the bunch I'll admit, but she was ace in the sack. Think they must teach them some tricks in training, hey? You know, spy stuff: how to screw a bloke so well he'll tell ya anything. Racked up some right good points on the old scorecard for that one I can tell ya. Though I'd've got more if she'd not spoke English, obviously.'
'And if you'd shagged all three.'
'Yeah, obviously.'
'How about a Muslim woman?' I asked. 'Managed one of those yet? Or a Tibetan?'
'No, mate. Don't get funny.'
'And foreign prostitutes? Are they allowed?'
'Nah. Look…See…,' Tom looked round to catch the waiter's eye, waggled an empty bottle of beer, '…Two more cervezas please, waiter? … Jeez, I've got a thirst on me. Look. We've all got to pay for it in one way or another – beers, wine, dinner, listening to their stories – all that, but not like that! I've never paid for it like that in me life, mate. Never will neither. Anyway, it’d go against the spirit of the thing.'
The waiter arrived with our beers.
Next day we split up. Tom bound for Greece ("and those Aegean beaudies") and I for Sweden. When I'd told him why I was headed there Tom had said: 'For every beautiful woman in the world there's a bloke who got tired of her. Beauty is one thing, personality another. As for the ability to remain content with the one you're with till death us do part… fuck knows, mate.'