Not Meeting Mr Right by Anita Heiss

wrong with this one? He hasn't
stopped talking to you all night. He's obviously
interested.' She was scrubbing at the baking dish in the
kitchen sink.
    'There was one little thing that bothered me.'
    'Only one?' She was being sarcastic, but it was a fair
question, I suppose – she knew about my long list of
expectations.
    'What do you think it means when a guy touches
himself a lot?'
    'Touches himself where?' she asked as she rinsed
the good crystal glasses that couldn't go into the
dishwasher.
    'You know, down there.' I pointed to my groin.
    'What do you mean? He exposed himself? When?
I'll kill him!' She turned off the taps and grabbed a tea
towel, violently drying her hands.
    'No, calm down, he didn't do anything that dramatic.
I just noticed he touched himself ... a lot. It's weird.'
    'It's boys, Alice, they do it all the time. Have to adjust
themselves, you know. Get short'n'curlies caught under
their bags.' Dannie was sounding like Peta and it really
didn't suit her at all.
    'You're disgusting sometimes, Dannie. A simple "It's
normal" would have sufficed.' Just then, George came
in for the coffees.
    'Philip suggested we all do a bridge climb sometime,
what do you reckon?'
    'No way. I'm frightened of heights, but you fellas go.'
It would be difficult for Philip to grip the rail and his
dick at the same time, I thought. Nup, Mr Dick Fiddler
was not in the running at all.

twelve
Mr Committaphobe
    Liza didn't know much about Tufu, she said, except
that he was gentle and shy and was interested in
meeting some people locally. He'd only just moved to
Coogee to play football and didn't have many friends.
She'd met him at a fundraiser organised by the ALS. He
was a friend of one of her clients: the only reason she
wasn't going out with him on a date herself. 'Conflict
of interest, Alice. But I'm happy for you to go out with
him.'He sounded perfect, too good to be true. Tufu lived
in Coogee like me; he was thirty, single, employed,
gorgeous and brown. Samoan brown. It was a little odd
that he was single; there are nine single women to every
straight bloke in Sydney, so he'd either not been looking
or not trying at all. Or perhaps he was just waiting for
Ms Right. I chose to believe the latter.
    Liza had given him my number instantly, telling
him I was a Blackfella who lived round the corner and
could introduce him to some of the local Indigenous
community. He called within the week and invited me
to his 'tiny and not always tidy little flat on Beach Street'.
He had the sexiest voice I'd ever heard and I couldn't
wait to meet him. I felt like I was on a hat-trick; he was
single, he was brown, he lived almost next door. Mr
Right might also have been Mr Right-Under-My-Nose.
    I rocked up at Tufu's flat at dusk, hoping he was
cooking me a Samoan feast. There was a pile of rubbish
stashed in the hallway outside his door. Empty chip
packets, pizza boxes and a pile of newspapers and
comics in the corner next to a box of empty wine bottles.
All the signs of singledom. It wasn't a very good look.
He hadn't gone to much effort to impress his potential
Ms Right. Did he need a man to take out the garbage,
just like me? Maybe he'd been too busy. I knocked on
the door.
    'Hi Alice, come in.' Our eyes locked momentarily at
the threshold, then I followed him into his crowded flat.
The walls were covered in family photos and actions
shots of him playing rugby.
    'Coogee Wombats,' he said, assuming I was going to
ask him the name of the team. I didn't let on that I'd
spent many of my younger days hanging out at the local
Rugby Club and knew the green and white uniform
well, even if I didn't necessarily appreciate the game.
    Tufu stood there in a lava-lava, his huge, muscly
thighs hidden underneath. I looked from him standing
in front of me to the photo of him in full flight in the
green and white jersey, trying to make the link between
the two. Pacific reggae played on the small radio as I did
a very discreet scan of the room and saw his