Fuck The Pope But Use A Condom

A con man will stop at nothing to become the moral voice of his generation. by Johann Naudé

A Dirty Discovery

George pauses to look up at the large black-and-white photograph of his former tenant: Dixon Thompson recreating Rodin’s The Thinker, chin on fist, gazing ahead with exaggerated gravitas.

George narrows his eyes, tilts his head, and purses his lips. Then: “Plonker.”

“George!”

“Sorry, Marge. I know we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but I sure didn’t like the man. He was a plonker, plain and simple.”

His wife sighs. “I know …”

The apartment still smells faintly of incense and … something George would rather not think about. He wrinkles his nose and packs the last stack of books into a cardboard box. Margaret moves to the bedside table and opens the drawer.

She gasps and covers her mouth.

George rushes over. Inside: a purple vibrator, handcuffs, lube, and an ungodly amount of condoms.

He shakes his head. “Throw it in the trash.”

He returns to the desk and opens the top drawer. A manila envelope sits inside, a handwritten note attached. He frowns, then calls over his shoulder, “Marge, come have a look at this.”

She joins him. He holds up the note, and she reads it aloud: “Boy oh boy, you’re really not supposed to be here, are you? I suggest you close the drawer and leg it, because I swear to god, if I catch you now, I’ll rip out your trachea like a weed and toss it to the winds.”

She gives George a wide-eyed look, then continues: “If I’m dead, on the other hand, please be so kind as to get this package to my agent. Details inside. Thanks! Dixon, 29/06/2010.”

George opens the envelope and slides out a manuscript.

The title page reads: “FUCK THE POPE BUT USE A CONDOM (or A MAN OF NO ORDINARY CALIBER if publishers are pussies) by Dixon Thompson.”

Margaret makes the sign of the cross.

George turns the page and begins to read.

The Curse of the Conman

Misunderstood. That’s what I feel. Not due to any negligence or incompetence on my part. No, no. Of that, I can’t be convicted. After all, I am a master of communication. I makes no mistakes. See what I did there? Funny as well.

I’ve been misunderstood because I intended to be misunderstood. I valiantly plumbed the depths of my self-interest and took the necessary steps to keep the results a secret.

But it comes at a cost, this double life, because a man—and I’m just a man, albeit an extraordinary one—longs to be understood, to be seen for who he truly is. It’s the curse of the conman: he can claim many things, but credit isn’t one of them.

He doesn’t like seeing simpletons like Levi Stavropoulos describe him as “comically ignorant” (the irony!) or a “kind of accidental Moses”—or even just how the populace, in general, considers him a mere normal, upstanding biped, as necessary as cultivating this image might be.

He craves, at the very least, the solace of knowing that his secrets won’t go with him to the grave, that when he expels his final breath and a facade of respectability has lost its use, humanity will discover who they had really been dealing with.

And that, dear friends, is why I am expelling this ink: to set the record straight, to tell you the true story of how my celebrated debut play came to be, so that hopefully, on one fine Capetonian morning, as hadedas pass overhead, screeching like the Devil’s choir, Levi Stavropoulos will choke on his toast.

It makes the notion of my demise slightly more palatable.

Vixens & Third Wheels

Our story truly begins on a Friday evening back in January, when Cape Town was still up to its eyebrows in summer. There I was, ensconced in the damp belly of The Elephant In The Room with two fellow hacks, James and Heinrich.

As the full moon raised its tangerine face above the ominous silhouette of Devil’s Peak, their beer-soaked brains somehow got bogged down in the subject of self-deception.

“I’m telling you,” insisted James, “Pol Pot, Hitler, Mao—all of these guys thought of themselves as heroes! Not as mad or cruel. If they had, we wouldn’t be talking about them right now. They would’ve been duds, like actors who can’t get it out of their heads that they’re acting. It’s precisely because they thought they were good that they could be so bad. It’s precisely because they could fool themselves that they could fool others.”

“What about someone like Ted Bundy?” said Heinrich. “Have you seen his interviews? He knew exactly what he was up to. Didn’t change a thing. He just kept killing and loved himself for it.”

“An exception to the rule. And can you imagine if he’d thought his behavior was for the greater good? That it was ordained by god? Don’t pull your face like that!” James snatched up a peanut and flicked it at Heinrich, striking him on the forehead. “It happens! Some of the greatest atroc—”

I was only vaguely listening to these exchanges—I may even have misremembered some of the finer points—and I’ll tell you why. My mind was elsewhere, and not just at any old place, but with the face and form of a red-hot bird by the name of Yvonne.

We met two days earlier and hit it off—not quite like flint and steel—but nicely, quite nicely. She had recently arrived from Amsterdam, here to study for a few months, and was sipping an ice-cold caipirinha when I approached her and turned on the old roguish charm.

We kissed, but it was brief and, to my consternation, preceded and followed by giggling, which has a way of unsettling a man and making him unsure of what’s what.

Consequently, when I texted her earlier that Friday and heard nothing for hours, I became quite the gloomy little boy. It seemed as if, after all, she wasn’t that into me.

Now, don’t get the wrong idea. I am no moper. No, sir. When I don’t hear back from a bird—an occurrence so rare it’s practically a statistical anomaly—I simply phone up another. I am a man with options. But see, this Yvonne, she was a special one. A heart-stopper of note. Long, caramelized legs, blue eyes, flaxen hair, frisky butt. You get the picture.

Accordingly, by the time the conversation at the table turned to Ted Bundy, I quite frankly couldn’t give a fuck. The whole thing seemed positively meaningless to me. But it was also at this juncture that my fortunes changed.

As the peanut came to a standstill in front of me, my phone lit up. She had texted back: “Hey! Sorry for the late reply. I’m at Crazy Joe’s. Come say hello! :)”

The effect was most remarkable. My spine whipped straight, zinging like a guitar string, and the corners of my mouth stretched into such remote regions of my enviable face that James paused mid-sentence to inquire into the state of my mental health. Such is the power of a beautiful woman, my friend. It’s terrifying, really.

Ten minutes later, after a jaunty jog up Long Street, dodging and weaving my way through its mishmash of hookers, pushers, hobos, and drunks, I located her at Crazy Joe’s main bar.

I was mesmerized. She wore a ruby-red dress, ending several suggestive inches above the knee, and seemed to be enclosed in a kind of divine aureole, setting her apart from her mediocre Irish pub surroundings.

Unfortunately, and to my immediate misgivings—for I had ample experience of the generally bitter, spiteful nature of third wheels—the same pudgy, sullen-looking appendage who had disfigured Cape Town’s club scene two days earlier was next to her. Annette was the name.

She saw me first and exhibited just the slightest facial contraction of loathing and displeasure before turning to Yvonne to inform her of my arrival.

Conceive my joy, dear reader, when, merely minutes removed from feeling as if our time was up, this Dutch tulip, upon seeing me, launched herself into my arms and, casting her eyes upward in the most devilish fashion, squeezed my caboose. I mean, after receiving her text, I took it as confirmation that she craved me in the animal way, but I didn’t expect this. Not so early at least. And it only got better …

She continued fondling my David-like ass as I ordered drinks—in my merriment, I even ordered one for Annette—and when we received them, she grabbed my hand and, without so much as a glance at the sidekick, dragged me through the crowd to a corner booth in the adjoining room. There, she let go of my hand and grabbed my cock. Looking at me giddily, she held onto it a moment longer, then relinquished it and started giving it the old genie-in-a-bottle.

Feeling that an eye for an eye was in order, I reached over and, sliding my hand up between her gleaming, honey-glazed thighs, grabbed her monkey. She gasped and gained an inch or two in height, then lunged at and latched onto my lips, sucking at me like a Death Eater for a few seconds before disengaging with a loud smack, her lips curling into a lecherous smile as she drew away.

I smiled back and, after lingering in the maelstrom of our hot, steamy breath for a few moments, we re-engaged. But then, just as our lips touched, there was a sudden and considerable upheaval in our seat—someone sizable had plopped down beside me. What’s more, this person proceeded to tap me on the shoulder.

Naturally, I had to unplug from Yvonne to deal with the issue at hand. Some things a man can ignore, but being tapped on the shoulder by a large primate while making out with a prized female is not one of them. Such a cavalier attitude, while no doubt attractive and debonair, can land you an early funeral.

I turned to face the intruder with a grim expression. As I did so, I expected to come up against the pockmarked features of a bouncer. I mean, it wouldn’t have been the first time that one of these uglies put the kibosh on one of my sexual acts. But how wrong I was … And believe me, I wish I wasn’t, for what slid into view, dear reader, made the notion of a six-foot gorilla in black polyester seem like child’s play.

My Dark Night of the Soul … Hookers (?)

About two months earlier, also on a Friday night, if memory serves me right, I became acquainted with a German girl by the name of Heidi. Sounds innocent enough, no? But don’t be fooled! Don’t make the easy error of picturing a barefoot, benevolent lass frolicking in the Alps. Instead, think Irma Grese. Think Nazism. Think of the worst that’s rolled off Germany’s schizophrenic assembly line. Picture, if you will, a big-boned blonde with mad, fanatical eyes and Jägermeister dripping from her chin, because it was precisely this manner of creature that descended on me and, with very little by way of preamble, ordered me to go home with her.

Obviously, I had my reservations—there was patently something wrong with the girl, but I also thought she’d be down for anal, which I happened to be curious about at the time. Accordingly, I shrugged my shoulders and told her to lead the way.

When we reached her place, she behaved not unlike how most women do in my presence: like helpless animals. To paint the picture more vividly, she struck at the seat of my pants like a desperate lioness at the ass of a gazelle and yanked and yanked to get it down.

I’d be lying if I said this didn’t turn me on—it did—so, in keeping with the tone of events, I drove her face-first onto the bed and, after hastily slipping on a condom, gave it to her from behind with the vigor of a caveman. In the vagina, I should probably add. The anal, I imagined, was yet to come.

As it turned out, it wouldn’t, because, well, there’s no easy way of saying this, not even twenty seconds later, I was on the verge of spurting. An incredible turn of events, really, because, well, not only had this never happened to me before—or since, I might add—but, as a rule, I tended to punch at the other end of the spectrum, meaning girls only ever complained about my endurance to the extent that it chafed them. I kid you not. Sometimes they begged me to stop, too hurt to continue. Casualties of a sexual war, bloodied by a relentless, indefatigable machine-gun fire of 10-inch rounds.

On this night, however, for whatever inexplicable reason, the tide came in early, and it sent me into a real tizzy. I mean, I might not have liked this girl very much, but I sure as hell didn’t want her to think of me as a quick shot. Who knew who she might tell? Charlie Jett became known as “The One-Minute Steak” after a girl tattled on him. I wouldn’t have it.

Incredibly, in the nick of time, it occurred to me that if I were to cum very silently, fill my balloon without a grunt or a peep, then perhaps, just perhaps, this mishap might escape her notice.

I proceeded accordingly, and it went down without a hitch. When I started to spew, I not only remained as quiet as a mouse but also took great care not to ease up on the throttle, as lesser men are apt to do at this point.

From what I could tell, she was none the wiser.

Then, as the heavenly mists cleared from my eyes, an escape route appeared: I reduced my pumps to just under 180 per minute—to impart the idea that a measure of doubt had crept into my mind—and moments later, fell out of her with a loud moan.

“Nooo! Nooo!” I wailed. “I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t do it.”

“You can’t do what?” came the confused voice from behind me.

“I can’t do it. I can’t, I can’t. I have … a guurlfriend.”

She tried her best to convince me that it didn’t matter, but it was to no avail. I pulled up my pants and, after making sure I had all of my belongings, left.

Now, two months later, having not seen this girl since, I found her huffing and puffing next to me like a wounded buffalo—a thing to be wary of, if you’re unfamiliar with the psychology of wounded buffaloes.

Thinking that I should strike a friendly note, I opened negotiations with a “Hey, you! How are—”

“Is that her?” she cut in, glaring at Yvonne. “Is that the girlfriend?”

“Uh—oh—oh no,” I said, remembering that I was supposed to have a girlfriend. “No, we,”—I turned my voice down and drew closer, hoping to keep Yvonne out of the loop—“we broke up last week.”

She snorted violently, blasting me back by a foot.

“Do you really think I believed that story? Do you really think I fell for it?”

“I—I don’t know. You don’t have to believe it. But that’s the truth.”

She shook her head.

“I knew something was off. I just knew it.”

“I don’t really know what to say.”

She jumped up.

“I just came here to tell you that. I couldn’t help myself. I’m going now.”

She stomped off.

“Jeepers,” I said, turning back to Yvonne. Much to my relief, she seemed to be taking the thing in her stride.

“Who was that?” she asked eagerly.

“Just some girl,” I said, feathering my fingers down her jaw. “She’s struggling to get over me.” And before she could probe the matter further, I plugged her lips. She made a few half-hearted mumbling sounds but quieted down soon enough.

Peace and prosperity would not be ours for long. Not even a minute later, the angelic sound of a female chant reached my ears. I extricated my face from her freshly washed hair to investigate.

Much to my surprise and delight, the girls were … looking at me! chanting at me! smiling at me! I couldn’t quite decipher the words—the band had just hit the chorus of “Sweet Caroline”—but to show them that I was a fun guy and open to group sex, I cracked a dazzling smile and mouthed along.

I also mirrored their chosen gesticulation: a raised pinkie.

The scene rapidly dissolved into a hellish nightmare when, moments later, I realized the girl on the far left was Heidi. The words of the chant suddenly became clear: “Small peeeenis! Small peeeenis! Small peeeenis!”

Dear readers, I was just about to get up and extract Caesar Augustus when it dawned on me that Yvonne might not yet have deciphered this slander. If so, she’d still be looking favorably upon me—perhaps even more so now, with so many women seemingly having the hots for me.

So, I played it cool. I stuck to the status quo: kept mouthing, kept smiling, kept pinkying. I kept it all up until the ensemble had bundled through the door and up to the piano lounge in a fit of giggles. Then I turned back to her, shaking my head with a shy, modest smile—the look of a man slightly embarrassed by his own magnetism.

She wasn’t having any of it. She slapped my arm and said, “Okay, tell me now! Who’s that girl? And what did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything to her!”

“She didn’t seem to think so.”

“As I told you, she’s struggling to get over me. We hooked up once, and now she’s acting all crazy.”

“Hmm …”

“What?”

“How often do you do this?”

“What?”

“Hook up with girls.”

I chuckled.

“Not often.”

“You do! You’re such a liar!”

“No, really, I don’t.”

“Yeah, yeah …”

“Kiss me,” I said, leaning in. She pushed me away. “No! I barely know you.”

“Get to know me, then!” I opened my arms like Jesus. “I’m an open book.”

She sat up excitedly.

“Okay, tell me about your talents.”

“My talents? Ah, well, let me see now.” I slumped forward like Rodin’s The Thinker. I sat like this for a few seconds, pondering her question, then sighed and straightened. “My only talent, I regret to say, is false modesty.”

She nearly spat out her drink.

“Hold it in, lady!” I said, rubbing her back.

She took a few seconds to contain herself, then said, “But didn’t you say you’re a writer? I recall you saying something like that.” And as she said it, a feverish, hungry light flared in her eyes. The implication was clear: she had the hots for writers.

Feeling not a little chuffed, then, I said, “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Impressive.”

Shrugging sluggishly, like a sunbathing dog after being asked who’s a good boy, I said, “Ah, you know, what can I say?”

“What do you write about?”

“Cricket, mainly.”

“Cricket?” She looked confused. Then the light of understanding went on and, to my stark horror, girlish amusement entered her features. “The sport?”

I flinched. She had pronounced “sport” like a squeaky toy.

“Yes,” I muttered, eyeing her resentfully, “but I’m also working on other stuff—more serious stuff—on the side. The cricket is just to pay the bills, really.”

“So you want to be a serious writer?”

“What do you mean do I ‘want’ to be a serious writer?!” I blasted out. “I am a serious writer! Cricket is Big Business!”

“Okay,” she said, taken aback. “And what did you study? Journalism or …?”

“Why do you just assume I studied something? Why did I have to study something?”

“So … you didn’t study something?”

“No, but believe you me, I’ve paid my dues! I’ve done my homework!”

“Okay.”

“I have!”

And then she burst out, “I believe you! Jeez.”

A little rattled by her response, I turned my vehemence down a notch and just said, “Hmm, okay.”

But it seemed as if I would now be up against it because she turned away to look at the band in the distance and seemed out of it all of a sudden. This only intensified my fear and, you know how it is when you’re chatting to a bird you want to have your way with but she’s not paying any attention to you—you tend to keep chatting. A fatal instinct.

“In any case,” I added hastily, “it was a choice. I didn’t want to be boxed in by the authorities. I mean, look at how they terrorize professors. Can you imagine how they treat fellow students?” I waited for the laugh—I mean, I thought it was good stuff—but didn’t even get so much as a chuckle. So I plowed on: “And remember! Some of the best writers never went to university: George Orwell, Mark Twain, Shakespeare. They—”

As if the deplorable reputation of third wheels couldn’t get any worse, her friend chose that very moment to materialize next to our booth like a fucking leprechaun.

Yvonne got out to confer with her. The friend prattled a bit, Yvonne gave the nod, then came back to me and said, “I have to go.”

I sat up like a meerkat.

“What? Why?”

“Annette’s not feeling well.”

“But—”

“I’m sorry! I’ll see you around.”

And then she left. Just like that.

“Fuck!” I slammed my fist down. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I was furious, absolutely fucking furious. Passers-by eyed me with apprehension; I glared at them in turn. I stewed in this venomous hate for quite some time, cursing under and over my breath, taking messy sips of beer. But then, you know, there comes a time in life when you’re presented with a choice: to be a victim and take up a life of video games and misogyny, or to be a victor.

To do the latter, you can’t merely blame the woman and her accomplice, no matter how objectively rotten their behavior. You also need to take stock of your own actions—or lack thereof. And because I am a man of no ordinary caliber, it took me little time to realize that most of the blame for this painful defeat rested squarely on my broad, muscular shoulders. It was my failure to have written something of note that was the crux of the matter.

If I had been able to tell Yvonne that, instead of arcane articles about Jacques Kallis and Sachin Tendulkar, I authored novels and plays about the most pressing social issues of our time—one of which, perhaps, had won a Pulitzer Prize and was now being adapted into a major motion picture starring Leonardo DiCaprio, Natalie Portman, and a withering Al Pacino—she would’ve reacted less like Lolita in one of her funny moods and more like a star-struck groupie. When her friend surfaced, moaning about wanting to go home, she would’ve told her to get a fucking cab.

Now, this wasn’t the first time I had lamented my failure to have written something “serious”. There had been many a night when, sitting in a dump like Crazy Joe’s, I thought to myself, boy oh boy, you’re wasting your time here. You should be at home, working on a play or a novel—or even a work of non-fiction, provided it was about matters of life and death and not some Mickey Mouse topic. But never before had I been so disgusted with myself that I felt like smashing a beer bottle into my forehead. And it’s because, until now, my failure to act hadn’t really cost me. The worst I ever got was a funny look. But it never became a thing—and I always, always still managed to bring home the gravy.

Tonight, I spilt it.

This rage fired me up like never before. Suddenly, huffing and puffing like Heidi earlier, I was raring to go, ready to put in the work. And thanks to a former half-arsed attempt, I already had a topic in mind: hookers.

Crazy Joe’s was packed with them—I could see four just from my perch—and it once dawned on me that a sincere, compassionate tale about these ladies would be just the kind of thing to shower me with the literary prestige I was after.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know enough about them to just start scribbling away like a prophet. First, I would have to do some research. Approach them and have a little chat. All I really knew was that they hailed from Kalashnikov countries like the DRC and were usually patronized by white foreigners out for a bit of fun before flying back home to the wifey.

Other than this, I knew zilch, didn’t know what varieties of shit went down after they left CJ’s, once these boys had gained the freedom of privacy, but I intended to find out.

Two danced with Aussies, another laughed at the solicitations of an elderly buzzard, and the fourth scanned the dance floor.

I drew a bead on the latter.

I downed the last of my beer, then suavely walked over and slotted in next to her. Following a moment of tactful silence—of the essence on these occasions—I tilted my head towards her and said, “You’re a hooker, right?”

Silence.

“Excuse me?”

“A hooker.” I turned towards her. Then I frowned, for I had expected to see some relief—sexual arousal, even. I mean, compared to the usual iguanas that approached her, I was Don Juan. And yet, for whatever reason, she was beholding me as if I had kicked her cat. All horror and shock.

“No. I’m. Not.”

You can imagine my confusion. I mean, what? What the fuck was she on about? Why would she say that? But then it struck me—she must think I’m a cop! After all, I was nearly half the age of her usual prospect. Obviously, she would be suspicious. So, to put her mind at ease, I patted her arm and said, “Don’t worry, I’m not a cop. I’m a writer. I’m on your side.”

“But I’m not a hooker!”

I winked at her.

“Yes, you are.”

She reached behind her and grabbed hold of her comrade. The comrade promptly appeared.

“This guy thinks I’m a hooker!”

The comrade, who had been eyeing me suspiciously from the outset, blew up, giving her the aspect of an angry drill sergeant.

“What!” She got up in my face. “Are you telling me that when you see a young, beautiful black woman in a tight dress,”—she motioned towards her friend—“you just automatically assume she’s a hooker?”

I gasped.

“Of course not! It’s just that I’ve been coming here for years, and I see you guys—”

“Guys!”

“Sorry, my bad.” I raised my hand in apology. “I meant ladi—”

“You think I’m a hooker as well?”

This tipped me over the edge.

“Of course I do! Can’t you just be honest with me? I’m not here to do you in; I’m here to help you. I want to write a story about you, about what you go through, about what these tourists do to you. I want prostitution to be legalized. I want to be your voice!”

Just as I was getting on a roll, the friend burst into tears and rushed toward the exit. The comrade, after taking a moment to retrieve her jaw from the floor, set off in pursuit. The old man also joined the chase, but not before throwing his arms up and shouting, “What did you do?”

I swiped the air dismissively, then signaled the bartender.

“A Cape Dutch!”

I looked around in disgust. The other whores—or non-whores—were now being squeezed into a sandwich by the Aussies. Through the window, a street boy looked on, transfixed. Next to him, his friend eyed a beautiful woman at a table by the stage, mouthing “I love you” repeatedly, steaming up the glass. She teased him with a smile while digging her nails into her lover’s leg under the table.

Everybody else, except for a few loners having dark thoughts in dark corners, was on their feet, swaying, dancing, drinking, singing, sweating, flirting, smoking, groping, chatting, pushing, forgetting—I felt a tap on my forearm. My pint was sputtering on the counter.

I paid and downed a third of it. When the opening stanza of “Don’t Stop Believin’” made me want to fling the other two-thirds at the vocalist, I made my way back to the adjoining room. How quickly things can change, I pondered sadly as I passed through, eyeing the now-empty booth in which Yvonne had groped me so keenly. Would I see her again?

It was with a lump in my throat that I trudged up the creaky staircase to the piano lounge. Reaching the top, I vaguely hoped I wouldn’t run into Heidi and her ensemble. All I wanted now was a bit of peace, some time to reflect, and based on my previous interaction with these savages, they were sure to prevent that.

Mercifully, Lady Fortuna spared me the ordeal. There were only a dozen or so patrons in the dimly-lit room, all of the quiet, non-chanting sort by the looks of it. It didn’t surprise me, either. The pianist was playing a very slow, very gloomy melody—appropriate for my mood, but hardly the kind of tune to keep a girl like Heidi spellbound.

I collapsed onto a stool by the bar and buried my face in my hands. Fucking hell. This life. How would it all end?

After a few more sombre moments, I swiveled around to get a proper look at the pianist.

I squinted. Could it be? Could it really be him?