The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine

by Krissy Kneen

  What would it be like to arouse a man? What would happen if that shimmying dance, those slow tasselled circles, were performed for a naked man? She knew what a penis looked like. She had seen them on statues, in paintings. Once she had even thought she saw her father’s when his towel slipped. She felt a stirring in her own flesh, but in reality she could not put the image of a flash of pink in her father’s hairy crotch together with the sleeping figure beside her. It would be so easy to lift the sheet and see how he was made. Instead she pulled her knees up towards her stomach, her hands fisted against her cheek.

  She looked at his face, a lesser intrusion. His lashes, thick and dark as if mascaraed. A small shimmer of moisture around his eyelids, perhaps the alcohol sweating out of him. Holly could see every fine pore in his skin and the thick ruddy hair sprouting from it. She imagined that if she looked without blinking for a long time she could track the growth of his beard.

  She did lift the sheet then, but did not look under it. Instead she settled in beside him. He shifted a little and she thought he might wake but he stilled again, a smile shifting suddenly onto his lips and then away. What was he thinking? Was he sensing her flesh beside him? Dreaming of a time when they would share a bed as husband and wife?

  Holly reached out gently and touched the tip of her finger to his lip. He did not stir. His immobility made her bold. She stroked his lip, soft but edged by the coarse hairs of his beard; let her finger dip in between the lips and touch the edge of his tongue. Their kisses were always dry, close-lipped. She was surprised to find his tongue so damp inside his mouth.

  She remembered a wayward girl at school who liked her boyfriend to slip his tongue between her other lips, the ones between the pale softness of her thighs. The bad girl said she made sure those lips were stripped of all hair when her boyfriend visited. She said it was like kissing, and Holly had imagined exactly how. Her lips would be closed to him at first, dry, soft, unyielding. Then he would kiss with more passion and the girl’s lips would respond, parting a little at first as if about to speak. His tongue would push inside her then, as if searching for hers. Gently at first, and then with more force. Her lips would be wet by now but there was no tongue inside to meet his and the more he pushed his in, searching all the soft wet hollows, the more she might wish she had a tongue in there to respond.

  Holly withdrew her finger from Jack’s mouth. Would he wake if she moved to rest those other lips of hers against his? She imagined it would feel like setting a fire in her belly and slowly waiting for it to consume her, hollow her out, leaving nothing but a charred and gorgeous shell. Even now, looking at Jack’s mouth, parted, dry, soft, she found there was a slow warmth gestating deep inside her. She touched Jack’s cheek, pinched it. His eyelids twitched but he didn’t wake. She wriggled up the bed, the fall of her silk dress like a lovely caress on her skin. She lifted her skirt. If Jack had been awake he would have seen her pubic hair, thick and wiry, sprouting out from below her suspenders. He would have seen the lace silk tops of her stockings clinging to her thighs. All of this lit from within by that embarrassing ghostly glow. Her hands were shaking a little but there was no one awake to see, and so, emboldened, she edged forward on her knees until her hips were perfectly aligned with the upward turn of his face.

  ‘This is how I’m made.’ She whispered and pulled the hair up to give his closed eyes a view of her second lips. She knew they would be faintly outlined by the light of her desire. The same pale but vivid glow that glow-worms make on the roof of a cave. She wished her lips were smooth and hairless, like the wayward girl’s. She wished that they were lightless pink, instead of ectoplasmic blue. But she was here now, and there was hair and she glowed, and she would have to be content with herself as she was.

  If his eyes were open he would see her pubic mound and the flat expanse of her stomach, the watery fall of silk about her naked hips. Holly steadied herself on the bedhead and pulled herself up to crouch over him, her nakedness hovering above his chest. Then it was just a small resettling of her weight, her knees coming to rest on either side of his head, her thighs tipping forward and she positioned the little lips above his slightly parted mouth.

  ‘A kiss.’ She whispered, and placed the kiss on its mark. She waited there, expecting that furnace to ignite, waiting for the rush of heat. Jack breathed out through his nose and the jet of air disturbed the hair at the apex, the rustle of a summer breeze through neatly cut grass. She felt the warmth of it, and somewhere, in the middle of the forest, an echo of response. She waited with her breath held, her chest full of anticipation. There was nothing, but the tender press of his lips against hers, a little heat, a little stirring perhaps, but nothing more. The kiss felt as chaste as his wakeful kisses. There was nothing of his desire in it. She felt the harsh scratch of his new beard on the softest places. An irritation, nothing more.

  Holly quickly climbed off, lay down beside Jack and pulled the sheet up over herself as if to hide the evidence of what she had done. She touched his cheek and turned his head to face her. His lips were still slightly parted, only now glistening a little with a slick wetness, as if he had put gloss on them. Glow-in-the-dark gloss, but even this pale light had already begun to fade. She slid her hand under the sheet and touched her own lips and found them equally slick.

  Holly leaned forward. Pressed her lips to Jack’s. Allowed her tongue to slip out and lick. Salt, alcohol, a subtle briny taste and, faintly, the sharp tang of electrical smoke. She pushed her tongue inside. Jack barely moved. His mouth softened a little and her tongue slipped in and under the row of teeth. She pulled away. He closed his mouth but did not wake. She saw his tongue slip out and taste her on his lips. She saw his neck move as if swallowing. She quickly leaned towards his face, slipped her hand into her dress, remembering the bright blue sequined tassel of the burlesque dancer. Her nipple was tight. It tingled as she pushed it towards his lips. He took it into his mouth. He sucked once, twice, a twitch of a smile and she pulled her breast away from him and slipped it once more inside the low-cut neckline of her silken dress. What dreams had she brought him? Why now the little smile, back for a second and gone again just as swiftly? He would not wake. He was falling back into that deep sleep of the dead, his chest rising higher, dropping lower, emptying itself of breath.

  Holly took the edge of the sheet and lifted it. She looked. She let her own chest rise and fall more completely as she took in the sight of him.

  When she let the sheet fall back again, the tiny soft curl of a penis remained etched into her vision as if burnt there by a light aimed directly at her retina. She lifted her finger to the corner of her eye and caught the bead of moisture gathering. She didn’t even feel the sadness that must have wrung this single teardrop from her. She reached out with her finger and held the tear against the lips of her sleeping boyfriend. The water dripped from her and disappeared into the soft opening of his mouth. When it was gone there was no evidence of it ever having existed. She touched her face again and found that her fingers came away dry. She touched her own lips, those other lips, down between her legs, but here too the moisture had gone.

  Holly slipped out from under the sheet and pushed her feet into her high-heeled shoes. She looked back. The sleeping figure looked undisturbed. She worried at the silver ring on her finger. No one knew what she had done here. No one would ever know. She crept back to the door and closed it behind her.

&nbs
p; Downstairs his mother raised an eyebrow and Holly shook her head.

  ‘I’m sorry dear. You look so lovely in that pretty blue dress. What a miserable Valentine’s Day.’

  Holly smiled a little. The fernlike curve of the penis was still there when she closed her eyes.

  ‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I’m tired anyway.’

  The house was dark. Holly kicked her shoes off at the door. Her stockinged feet were a little sore already. She lifted one and balanced against the wall as she picked out the nylon mesh from between her toes. She could feel the silk of her dress slipping against the bare skin beneath. It felt ridiculous now. When she left home she had been excited, creamed and perfumed, enjoying the slip of silk against her bare hips.

  Now she had the memory of Jack’s body, heavy under the sheet, dead to the world, dead to her, the little death of his penis curled in the hair between his legs like a newborn possum. The darkness suited her mood. She left the light off and found her way towards the couch, feeling her way past the overstuffed leather chairs, and flopped down into it, pulling her feet up under the slippery cold of her dress. She closed her eyes and light exploded behind her lids. It was as if the act of closing them had illuminated the world. She blinked. The overhead light was on and Holly felt disoriented. She glanced towards the front door but there was no one there.

  The man sat in the soft hug of the couch opposite. He had been there the whole time, sitting in the dark, watching her silently. The thought made her uncomfortable but not unpleasantly so. She had never seen this man before but he seemed so at home in her lounge room that she could not feel afraid. And he had been watching her as she had watched Jack. There was a nice symmetry to that.

  He was clean-shaven, perhaps as old as her father, but taller, with a strong jaw and a thick shock of hair swept to messy hillocks as if he had just run his fingers through it. He was wearing a suit, carelessly crumpled; his long legs were elegantly crossed. The trousers, riding up, revealed mismatched socks, one black, one checked. He followed the direction of her gaze and uncrossed his legs pointedly, smiling, a little amused.

  Holly smoothed the silk of her skirt over her tucked-up knees. Could he tell she was not wearing underwear? His smile seemed knowing. He sat grinning in her lounge room as if he knew everything she had been doing all day, from the morning of flowers to the slow tasselled striptease to the evening with its particular flavour of sadness and arousal.

  As if to underline his omnipotence he leaned back, picked up the glass of scotch that sweated beside him on the end table and tipped it, listening to the ice cubes tinkling against each other.

  ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Holly.’ He looked up at her over the thick edge of the tumbler.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. Of course he would know her name. He must be one of her parents’ lawyer friends. They would have mentioned her. She shifted uncomfortably, slipping her feet out from under her, setting them on the floor, aware suddenly that she was not wearing her shoes. No shoes and no underwear. She felt practically naked and when he looked her up and down her silk dress might as well have been a second skin. She folded her arms over her chest and felt the skin prickle. She hoped that her nipples were safely hidden behind her arms. She glanced up towards the stairs. Surely her parents must still be home. It was early. If things had gone to plan she and Jack would be just arriving at the restaurant now.

  ‘You look all dressed up, Holly. No place to go?’

  The sound of her name on his lips was slightly invasive, as if he had touched her in passing or pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

  ‘I…’ It was rude not to answer him but for all she knew he was some robber caught in the very act. ‘Are my parents here?’ she asked him.

  He smiled and seemed unlikely to answer her at all. Then, as if to save her from embarrassment, the light on the stairs clicked on and she heard the sound of her mother’s shoes descending.

  Her father was close behind, one hand measuring the shimmy of her hips as she took each stair. Such an intimate gesture, one that should be reserved for a moment of privacy. It surprised her that they would touch like this with their friend there on the couch. Holly’s mother stopped halfway down the stairs, staring at her as if she was someone risen from the grave.

  Her father stumbled. ‘Evelyn?’ He laughed, his hands slipping around her waist and up to hold the small pert globes of her breasts which heaved up, threatening to spill out of her strapless dress. Her mother pulled his hands down, affectionate but firm.

  ‘Darling?’ she said and her father bent to peer down into the living room.

  ‘Holly?’ He squeezed past his wife, taking the stairs two at a time till he was close enough to make out the shape of his daughter sitting stiff-backed on the couch.

  ‘Dad.’

  She stood then, and so did their guest. A gesture of gentlemanly sympathy.

  ‘I thought you were out to dinner with Jack?’

  Holly looked to the man in the suit then back at her father. If they had been alone she might have let herself dissolve into tears. Now she just shrugged.

  ‘Change of plan,’ she told him. Her mother made it to the bottom of the staircase, a little flustered. She patted at her hair, which was still impeccably styled. ‘Oh darling, that’s terrible. You’ve met Michael?’

  Holly felt herself blushing and looked away.

  ‘All alone then on Valentine’s Day? Perhaps, Evelyn, your daughter should come out with us?’

  ‘Michael!’ Her mother’s voice was like a little slap, sharp and strident with a hint of flirtatiousness. Holly had never seen her parents behave this way. Her father was fidgety. Not knowing exactly what he should do with his hands. Her mother seemed startled and concerned for Holly. Michael was the most comfortable of them, handsome and at ease, a little smile playing at his lips. He seemed to be quite enjoying the interchange.

  ‘Ah no,’ he said. ‘A pretty young girl like Holly would be bored in the company of us old folk, I suppose.’ He looked at her then, a lingering stare that travelled the length of her, alighting gently on every patch of exposed skin. So penetrating a gaze that Holly wondered if the probing fingers of that look had uncovered the secret undress beneath her skirt. She smoothed the silk down at her thighs again and sank back into the soft lounge and folded her hands into her lap.

  ‘I’ll watch a movie,’ she said, avoiding his eyes, staring instead at her nails. The perfect polish was chipped, she ran her thumb over the blemish and frowned. She would watch a movie, that was the tragedy of it. A young woman at the peak of her beauty sitting alone at home watching a romance and fixing the polish on her nails.

  When she looked up he was staring at her ring finger, the word waits clearly written on the band. The rest was hidden but he grinned at her, as if they shared some wicked secret.

  Her mother turned to go. ‘If you’re sure you’ll be all right then, sweetheart, we should get going. We’re late already.’

  Michael tipped his glass to his lips and swallowed the last of his scotch. He set the glass down on the coffee table and walked quickly towards her parents.

  ‘You’ll be all right sweetheart?’

  Holly nodded.

  ‘Maybe you should call Jennif
er,’ her father said. ‘Have a sleepover.’

  A sleepover. As if she were still ten years old. She looked towards Michael to see if he was amused by this childish image but he had already turned towards the door, one of his hands resting gently on her mother’s hip in a gesture that seemed halfway between inappropriately intimate and politely affectionate. When the door closed behind them. Holly felt herself relax immediately. She hadn’t realised how tense she had been. She slipped off the couch and picked up Michael’s glass, the ice still tinkling in the bottom of it.

  She filled it with scotch; overfilled it, perhaps, because some of the ice had melted. Holly held the glass up and peered at the edge of it. There was a partial fingerprint. She placed her own finger over it. Her hand where Michael’s hand had been. A smudge at the rim. She put it to her mouth, tipped the glass and let the liquid settle on her tongue. This is what it would be like to kiss someone like him, someone as old as her parents, but not at all parental. Someone who could see right through her clothing, through her skin and muscle, right down to the bones of her.

  She was no better than that bad girl from high school. Her friends would be ashamed. Jack would be ashamed. She took another big sip from the glass, her mouth on the lip-print, now more hers than his. She grimaced. Harsh. Biting, but with a strangely warm finish that sat nicely in her stomach and, oddly, pulsed a little. It felt as if she had swallowed someone else’s live and beating heart.

  She opened her eyes and closed them again immediately. Her mouth felt sticky as she ran her tongue around the furry inside of her teeth. She was being picked up, by a huge bird, it felt like. She was flying, but not on the strength of her own wings.