Fifty Shades of…er, Braddon
by The Editor
It was simply too good not to reproduce here. So, with apologies to the original author, we have altered the text slightly to reflect the local scene.
I first met Kane in the queue for Lonsdale Street Roasters. With his beard and tattered mustard sweater, I couldn’t tell if he was a hipster or homeless, but that excited me. Then I saw his limited edition Ray-Bans hanging off his ripped jeans and knew.
He was a few people in front when an argument broke out between him and the staff. “This is ridiculous,” he yelled in an angry, passionate voice, “how could you?” I assumed they’d short-changed him or run out of soy and linseed loaves (they always goes so quick!), but the issue burned far hotter.
“This isn’t single origin coffee!” he screamed at the weeping counter chick. I was outraged and couldn’t believe it. How could she do this?
Kane stormed out and so did I, breathless, my pulse racing. He saw me follow and locked onto the wild, fervent look in my eyes and knew. He took my hand and led me down an alley to a little hole-in-the-wall café that would satisfy our desire. Actually, the first alley was just an alley – he’d got mixed up – but the second revealed our little single-origin oasis. We sat on milk crates and drank macchiatos. They were strong and exotic, if a little overpriced, but I Instagrammed them anyway.
High on caffeine and lust, he kissed me forcefully against the glass of the Tax Office and didn’t even care who noticed. It felt so good I almost dropped my newly bought Frankie mag.
We got drunk on cocktails served in old soup tins at Honkytonks. Feeling brave, I told him I’d been bad and wanted him to punish me. He took my iPhone and deleted my Twitter account. I felt so powerless and vulnerable – and free.
Even later when I tried to check-in as he went down on me in Garema Place, he slapped the phone out of my hand. So wild! As I reached climax, I arched my back, whimpered and almost knocked my tacos off the table.
I thought I’d be sated, but our appetite was endless. He took me during happy hour at Knightsbridge and again against the boarded up doors of The Gypsy Bar, where he used to play gigs with his experimental post-garage band. A bum asked us for a ciggie but we didn’t even notice. We tried to get into Playground but got denied so settled for a quickie in the toilets at The Phoenix while a drunk vomited in the trough.
Hours later – raw, ragged and spent – we shared New York Pizza with doe eyes. The night had been so brazen, so dangerously dirty, I didn’t even care when he confessed he lived in Lyons. I just wouldn’t tell my friends that part.
As he left, I called out and told him I’d find him on Facebook. He simply said he wasn’t on it and walked into the night.
To be honest, it’s better written than the real thing.