Lola sipped her Manhattan and eyed Alec from Accounts Receivable. She’d never expected to run into him at Coffeelandia’s Movember speed-date and auction fundraiser. And never in a million years would she have dreamed she’d max out her credit card to buy him for the night. But she was glad she had. Ever since he’d grown that wild stallion of a moustache of his for Movember she'd been stalking him around the office on the thinnest of pretexts.
No longer a baby-faced, bean-stroking accountant, Alec had been transformed by the furry new contours of his face. Combined with his hipster undercut, and the dark promise of his unfathomable gaze, his gleaming black moustache was an invitation to sin. Not that Lola needed an invitation. The old Alec had been nice, a nice bore, but now he was a swaggering, gloriously handsome, be-moustached bastard, and he was all hers for one night. Her fingers itched to trace the trim lawn of his mo where it hugged his lean cheeks, drawing her eyes again and again to things she’d never noticed before—the sensual thrust of his square jaw, the firm mouth curled at the corners. She’d always had a hankering for hard-hearted bastards with big moustaches and even bigger…hands.
Plus the combination of midnight hair married with deep blue eyes and a luxuriant mo was one she’d never been able to resist. Not that she was the sort of girl to try to resist. Why would she want to? She’d met her fair share of well-groomed coptaches and trimmed pornstaches, but Alec’s mo was so taut in its definition, so sublimely sculpted it almost quivered. And her insides certainly did. His was the sort of moustache a girl could lose herself in, could stroke all day long and still not be satisfied. The sort of moustache that might make a girl do or say anything just to run her fingers over it once.
Her gaze shifted for a second to his eyes. What did he think about all day, this mo-tease? He talked a lot about finance, but she knew better. A man capable of growing a mo like that didn’t occupy his mind all day long with mere numbers. No, she would bet there was more on his mind than the company accounts.
He smiled, looked her right in the eye and ran a slow hand over his mo, fingertips lingering on the corners. She bit her lip. Oh to stroke his mo-hood, to feel its virile bite. Then the hand was gone, in its place a thin-lipped smirk.
He was such a mo-tease. “Alec, I hope you’re not one of those jerks who gets women hot for your mo and then shaves it off in December.”
His breathy protest only fanned her ire. “Don’t ‘Lola’ me. If you knew how many times I’ve fallen for the moustache of my dreams, only to see it disappear in December.”
He frowned. “Surely you fall in love with the man rather than the moustache.”
She raised her chin. “I don’t see why I should have to choose between the two, Alec. Do you?”
He frowned. Then a sly smile curled his lips. “Perhaps we could come to an agreement.”
She loved agreements. The dirty kind, at least. “And that would be?”
“Well, you’ve always had a certain reputation, Lola.” At her look he swallowed. “And I mean that in a positive way.”
“If you teach me everything you know about seduction, I’ll keep the mo.”
She gave a low whistle and fanned herself with one hand. “Everything? Lordy, Alec, that could take years. And it would have to be very hands-on training. Are you sure?”
“I am.” He met her gaze.
“It’s a hard life, one without reward, remorse or regret. A path will be placed before you. The choice is yours alone.” She frowned. “Oh, hang on, that’s Jedi training. Forget what I said. My place or yours?”
Gwendolyn Smallnipple, Professional Stroker of Fluffy Things tottered into the bar, double checking her phone to make sure that... yes... this was the annual Coffeelandia Movember Charity Auction and Speed Date. Sigh.
She didn’t know why she’d agreed to come along tonight. After all, she stroked moustaches professionally all day every day, telling her hipster and gruff burly bear clients how masculine and fuzzy they were. And she got paid for that. So why had she agreed to her friend Clara Brattwurst’s pushy insistence she turn up? Clara said there’d be someone there that she couldn’t possibly miss meeting. Someone who’d be a once in a lifetime introduction.
She looked around, trying to spot this amazing person but no, all she could see was Clara chatting up some weedy guy whose face looked smoother than a Vaselined baby’s bottom. She grimaced at that. Bad taste? Probably. She was really going to have to finish that correspondence course on metaphors and similes she’d signed up to.
Clara waved her over, her expression intensely gleeful and Gwendoline felt the first inkling of worry. She checked out the weedy guy again. He didn’t even have eyebrow hair! What was that called again? Appalacia... no that was a mountain range. Nohairinessitis? Probably.
“Gwendoline! You have to meet Barry!” Clara said the minute she got into earshot. Clara had obviously finished that exclamation mark night course she’d signed up to last year.
“Hello Barry.” Gwendolyn forced a smile. Now that she was closer, she realized the man had a completely forgettable face. It was almost like his features were designed to be boring on purpose.
Barry smiled but didn’t say anything. Gwendoline frowned before raising an eyebrow at Clara.
“Barry! Show Gwendoline why I wanted you two to meet!” Clara gave Gwendoline a grin wider than a sideways whale’s vagina. (She really needed to finish that correspondence course.)
Gwendoline sighed. She really should be home watching Twin Peaks. “Okay. Barry please show me. Where’s your mo? This is Movember isn’t it?”
And that’s when Barry pulled down his pants, turned around and exhibited the most majestically groomed bottom fluff to ever grace a gentleman’s posterior. Choirs sung, birds tweeted and Gwendoline was pretty sure Cupid flew head-first into a brick wall.
Needless to say Gwendoline was as smitten as a baby seal facing down a fur trader with a quota. She maxed out her credit card on the auction, bundled up Barry and took him home.
Wayne Shawn hadn’t been in Coffeelandia in months. Not since the night he’d exited those very doors with an incredibly sexy woman with a Russian-sounding name. He couldn’t remember her name but he could remember what she’d been wearing — a pink PVC catsuit — and he could remember everything she’d done to him that night.
Enough to make an international cricket superstar blush.
He was here because his teammate asked him to come. Ever since he’d relayed what had happened when he met the cat-suited Ruski, Titch Monson had been nagging him to go to Coffeelandia. Titch didn’t even drink coffee. He said it put him off his stroke.
Wayne and Titch pushed through the café doors just after 11pm. The place was hopping. The dude with the French accent, Armand something-or-other, had a smile wider than a Pakistani umpire’s interpretation of LBW on a spinning wicket.
“Mr Shawn, it eez so trulee vonderful to see you again. Vee have missed you here! And you have brought wiz you, a friend?”
“This is Titch,” Wayne said, not attempting any further introduction.
“Mr Titch, velcome to our leetle establishment. Now come, come, zis way, I have a table for you here.”
France’s original poncy poodle led them to a booth in the corner. Titch sat and looked about, no doubt listening for the sound of PVC creaking on a hot body, or say, about ten hot bodies, all of them moving his way.
“Zere is just one thing more, Mr Shawn,” Armand said. “You will need one of zeez.”
Holy snapping square cut over the fence, Wayne thought, as Armand waved something hairy toward his face. A lesser man would have flinched but Wayne was well used to having hairy things waved in his face, and he was also well practiced at ducking out of harm’s way whilst keeping his eye on the ball.
“You must wear zis, Mr Shawn. Is Movember, remember?”
“Oh, sorry Armand, I forgot.” Wayne took the hairy swatch and stuck it to his upper lip, wishing they had one in blonde.
“Zis is much better, Mr Shawn,” Armand said, clapping his hands. Then he turned his attention to Titch, who’d been watching all this with the type of chuckle that would have put a vibration through a stone Buddah.
What Armand did next wiped the smile from Titch’s face. He leaned across the booth and stroked Titch’s moustache. Titch was an old hand at Movember, plus he got all superstitious about what he’d cultivated above his lip and was unlikely to shave the damn thing till well after Christmas. Or at least till after the test series.
“Steady on there, mate,” Titch said, as Armand almost followed his questing hand over the table and into Titch’s lap.
“Zis moustache, Mr Titch, it dozzzz things to me… it makes me remember the way Frenchmen used to get zee cricket.”
Shawn decided Titch might need saving, so he leapt in: “Yeah, mate. I remember how Frenchmen get the cricket. Youse fellas turn the bat around and stand with it in front of your knees and try to hit it. We’ve all played French cricket, haven’t we, Titch?”
Titch was about to nod yes – and Wayne could see his eyes ready to roll in his head because he wanted the little French poodle to sod off and show in the PVC cheer squad.
“Oh, Mr Shawn, you so funnee.” Reluctantly, Armand peeled himself from the table and patted Wayne’s arm. Sweet little pats, like being caressed by that Russian-lady’s rubber chicken. (See, he remembered).
“Not French cricket with zee cricket bat. We used to get zee cricket with zee moustache. You wiggle the moustache like zis…”
And bowl Wayne over with a full toss if the little man didn’t start wiggling his upper lip like he wanted to sneeze, cough, and smell his own armpit, all at once.
“What’s that supposed to achieve, Armand?” Wayne asked, genuinely interested, because he loved learning new tricks.
“The French man wiggle his moustache like zis for zee lady” – and he winked – “or for zee man, and they say he get a cricket in his neck.”
“A cricket in his neck?”
“He means a crick in his neck,” Titch said from the booth, sounding bored.
“A crick. Yes, zis is it, a crick in his neck.” Armand patted Wayne’s arm once more, happy with his explanation, and strutted off.
Wayne started working through the anatomical possibilities Armand’s vision of a cricked neck and a moustache presented to him. He thought about it some more then decided it was too hard for a slow bowler to work out, and Titch might know.
He opened his mouth to ask. Just then, he heard the unmistakable creak of PVC and thoughts about Frenchmen with cricked necks went right out of his head.
It was time for a new plan of attack, and he was ready to bowl a maiden over.
Emma Taddick entered the coffee shop her friend had recommended expecting to be able to buy a short black. That’s what coffee shops were for, right? But a short black in a cup or a mug, even a paper takeaway cup, was asking too much for this place.
Coffeelandia was insane. It wasn’t a coffee shop, it was a pick-up joint. Sure, she hadn’t been laid for a while, but was she this desperate?
A slimy looking man with a weird accent and even weirder sense of fashion came up and directed her to a table in the corner where a few others were seated. The men all sported moustaches, the women, thankfully, none.
The men were along one side of the table, the women the other, as if they were being paired up. The man furthest from her had a walrus of a moustache. Being not exactly fond of facial growth, Emma was glad she wasn’t opposite him. She’d be terrified of something alive crawling out of there.
The next man was in the early stages of growth, what she liked to think of as the bum fluff stage. She was glad not to be paired up with him. Bum fluff and a mouth just shouldn’t go together.
The next man was a red head and his moustache was possibly there, if you used a magnifying glass. He kept sweeping his fingers across his upper lip as if he was stroking a fine face fungus…and maybe he was. Who knew what grew on stranger’s skin?
The man opposite her was stunning. Ebony skin, curly hair, smiling expresso eyes, brilliant teeth, and the tiniest Errol Flynn-esque moustache. He was perfect. Just what she was looking for — if she was looking for anyone.
“How are you? I am Josiah.” He spoke as she sat down and she answered automatically.
“I’m Emma. I’m well, thanks. Yourself?”
“I’m very well too. But confused by this shop. I came for a café au lait and it appears you can’t purchase such a thing without sitting at a table and meeting someone.” His voice had the rhythm of the Caribbean and Emma tilted her head as she let the music wash over her.
“I came for a short black and was ushered here.” She looked at him then, and tried to smother the terrible thought that came into her perverted mind. She blurted whatever came into her head. “My friend told me to come here. She said they always have what you most want.” Shit. That was no more sensible!
“There’s another coffee shop a few blocks away, would you like to share a cab?” The pearly whites flashed.
“I’d love that. I’m dying for a…” She mentally halted her order and substituted, “…coffee.”
Emma left Coffeelandia with Josiah. Not exactly what she came in for, but she had hopes her dry spell might be broken before the night ended.
Mona Monroe entered Coffeelandia unsure as to why she had bothered to come. Moustaches weren’t really her thing. They were itchy and could leave a girl with a sinister gravel rash that a mountain of Vagisil would never ease.
But it was Movember, and seeing as her name was usually shortened to MoMo, she wondered if serendipity was going to play its hand and deliver to her a man who would capture her heart. Besides, all these moustaches would come off at the end of the month, so a furry lip was only temporary.
She cast her eye around the room and spotted Mr Wayne Shawn. He hadn’t shown his face around here for a while, not since he left with the pink PVC catsuit; the one whose camel toe had a bigger cleavage than Dolly Parton.
Their eyes met and he gave her a cocksure smile as his moustache shifted to one side of his mouth. Disturbed, she moved her gaze to a man sitting by himself. His moustache looked as though it belonged on a boy resisting the inevitable pull of puberty. A few stray hairs limped over his lip. It’s what her father would have referred to as ‘bum fluff’ and what her Brazilian waxing therapist would have called ‘nearly due for another appointment.’
The chair opposite Bum Fluff was the only one left available. If she didn’t take it, she’d miss out and have to leave, and she was curious as to what serendipity had in store for her. Besides, apart from the weedy mo, he was quite attractive, in a very ‘mysterious bordering on creepy’ kind of way. She’d certainly dated worse.
‘Hi, my name’s Mona,’ she said. ‘What brings you here tonight?’ Seeing as it’s not dedication to the only requisite of Movember.
‘I just got back from Monte Carlo and heard that this was the place to meet beautiful women, such as yourself,’ he said. His eyes roved over her body and paused on her pout.
Mona nearly fell off her chair in surprise. His voice caressed her like a pair of feather panties. It didn’t match his half-arsed mo at all. It sounded like it belonged to someone the calibre of Mr Wayne Shawn- dripping with male bravado.
‘Monte Carlo, you say?’ The MO reference had not been missed.
‘Yes, Montreal prior to that. But I am originally from Moorabbin.’
Holy shit! Mo Mo Mo! This was serendipity, for sure. She imagined what he would look like without the barely there mo and decided that while he wasn’t exactly hot, he was definitely luke warm. Body temperature at least. Or was that the three Mojitos she’d downed prior to arriving?
‘I am drinking a Mocha latte, would you like one, or perhaps a glass of Moet?’ he said, his bum fluff barely moving above his full, sensuous lips.
‘A Moet would be lovely, thank you.’
Bum fluff ordered her drink from the waiter and then returned his full attention to her.
‘Are you a model?’ he continued. ‘With your molasses coloured hair you really should be on the cover of hair dye packets.’
Mona took off her mohair jacket and draped it across the back of her chair. She leant forward, her loins pulsated at his verbal seduction. Me, a model?
‘Or maybe a movie star with your moss green eyes,’ he said.
She shook her head, almost too breathless to answer. ‘No, I’m a molecular biologist.’
He smiled at her, ‘I’m a M.O - a Medical Officer, so it seems we have something in common,’ he said and then gave a low moan, accompanied by a lip curl that made her forget all about his half arsed mo. ‘Why don’t we leave and go somewhere more intimate?’
Mona didn’t need a medical degree to figure out what he had in mind. She took a moment to steady her racing heart.
‘I’d love to, but...I don’t even know your name yet,’ she said.
‘Morris,’ he said, as he extended his hand to her. ‘Morris Monahan.’
Mona smiled at Morris, and knew for sure that tonight had been most serendipitous indeed.