by Wendy Harmer
‘For me? I could explain why, but . . .’
‘But?’
Claire wanted the bubble of fantasy to keep floating. She batted the conversation back up into the air with her fingertips.
‘But I’m really not going to . . . Oh, I just remembered. No watches. I hate it when a man wears a watch to bed. I always feel like he’s got things to do and he’s just made an appointment for sex. That’s unless it’s a diver’s watch.’ Claire couldn’t resist the joke.
Connor caught her mood. ‘So, no watch . . . but black socks are OK?’
She laughed. Oh God! When was she actually going to get her hands on him? The tension propelled Claire up off the couch and had her pacing the floor.
Connor felt the frustration too. She could hear it in his voice.
‘When are we going to do this? It’s nine more days until I get back to Sydney. Can we wait that long?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I’m lying here and wishing I had that bare split peach of yours in front of me now.’ Claire found this image deeply erotic and imagined her naked flesh slick with juice.
He continued, ‘That’s a geisha hairstyle, by the way, the split peach. Did you know that? The hair is split in half with a piece of red silk in the middle. So a man walking behind her will think of sex. Did you read that book?’
‘Memoirs of a Geisha? Yes, I did. The way they prepared themselves was amazing. So I suppose in the scheme of things having hot wax poured on me isn’t too much to ask.’
‘And there’s my tattoo . . .’
‘Do you really mind?’
Connor exhaled, ‘I hope you’ll make it worth my while.’
‘Oh, I will. I definitely will.’
After she had hung up the phone Claire lay back on the couch.
She conjured up the image of a darkened room lined with polished wooden panels. A white-faced geisha lay on her back on a tatami mat. Her ornate gold and black silk kimono embroidered with purple irises was open to her waist. In the half-light the young woman’s skin glowed ghostly pale. Claire undid the tie on her own robe and felt the cool air from the open doorway blow over her thighs.
The rice paper door silently slid open and three faceless men entered. The girl did not move. One man set down a bowl of water, a towel and a razor. Its sharp edge glinted in the light of a lantern. Two of the men sat either side of the young woman and took hold of her legs. They ran their hands over the smooth cool skin of her calves and up her thighs. Soon their fingers were probing the dark triangle of hair.
Claire’s own fingers guided theirs as they found the fleshy lips and parted them. They murmured with approval as the slash of moist redness was exposed to the cool air.
The third man kneeled between the girl’s open legs and he put the sharp razor to her skin. She said nothing. All that could be heard was the splash of water as the razor dipped into the bowl again and again.
With a nod the man signalled that the girl should be turned over. They lay her on her belly and threw the heavy layers of fabric over her head so she could not see, she could not hear. She could only feel their hands as they positioned her. They drew her knees up under her and pushed her head down, her white face and red mouth were pressed hard into the floor. Again they took hold of her inner thighs and drew them apart so she was open to their gaze. The man finished his work with the razor and wiped her with a towel.
The men brought the lantern close to her skin and looked to see if their work was done. They ran their hands over her to feel that all was perfectly bare and perfectly smooth.
Claire was the first to dip her fingers into the wetness and the three men followed her lead. Many fingers found their way into the well of moisture. Then a tongue licked the length of the glistening slit. Another tongue. Then a third.
The girl’s legs began to tremble. The men took this as a sign to stop and sit back on their haunches. She could feel their hot breath on her naked cold white buttocks. They watched as the trembling subsided and the girl was still once more.
Then, with a nod to his companions, one man crawled between her legs. He leaned over her and fumbled beneath the heavy silk to find the girl’s small breasts. His hands squeezed the soft flesh and pulled hard on her nipples. Then his hips drew back and with one thrust he was inside her. He grunted with the force of this movement. He was still for a moment and then, just as quickly, he withdrew. This is how they proceeded. They took turns. One man. One thrust at a time.
And each time the girl shuddered, they stopped. Claire’s fingers stopped too. Time ceased as the men slid in and out of her until she could bear it no more. There was a muffled moan as a wave of unbearable sensation rippled up her legs and collapsed them from under her.
The image of a red lacquer bowl of peaches was in Claire’s mind as she smothered her face in the cushions and sighed with pleasure.
Friday
The Birthday Party
‘A Brazilian? What? You’re not going to, are you?’ Meg’s mouth fell open with amazement and crumbs spilled from her lips.
They were in Meg’s dining room, which had thankfully escaped the mother-in-law makeover. Afternoon sun streamed in through the windows, turning the walls the colour of vintage cheddar cheese. Claire was thinking of cheese because that’s what Meg was devouring. Two rounds of toasted cheese sandwiches. Meg had taken the news that she was pregnant as the flagfall for an eating marathon.
‘Well, I asked him to get a tattoo,’ said Claire, who was on her second coffee.
‘You didn’t! So you two are really into this then?’ Meg mumbled through two full fat cheeks which made her look like a groundhog.
‘Yeah, I suppose we are.’
‘He’s got the best of it,’ said Meg. ‘I’ve only ever had half a leg waxed. That was enough for me. I ran screaming from the place. Although I did once do the old shaving routine. The itching when it all grew back was—’
‘It can’t be that much worse than having your bikini line done. And I do that.’ Claire was trying to sound positive.
‘Oh yes it can! Jesus, imagine doing that for a living. Imagine training to be a beautician and thinking you’re going to be giving gorgeous aromatherapy facials and you end up ripping the hair off—’
‘Stop! Stop it!’ Claire squealed.
‘Hey, by the way. You know Maria, Tony’s sister-in-law?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She told me that she and Angelo both went and had Brazilians—’
‘No! Angelo got one? Jesus, that would look gross. I reckon a man’s pubic hair is a necessity. Like a false beard on a wanted criminal. I mean, the whole male genital area—it’s not a good look. The hair’s got to be doing them a favour.’
‘That’s what I reckon. Anyway she says it was weird. They felt like Barbie and Ken trying to have sex.’
Meg and Claire fell about laughing.
‘Anyway, all the gay blokes do it,’ Meg went on. ‘They call it a back, crack and sack wax. Sounds hideously painful.’
‘Forget it. I like a man with hair. Everywhere. I like the way you get that concentrated smell of him. I don’t even mind a man with back hair. Ben had back hair. It was like snuggling up to a flokati rug in the winter.’
‘You’re nuts. Truly. I’m always hunting Tony into the shower.’
‘Really? I love smelling Charlie’s armpits. It’s all those pheromones . . . so sexy. Which reminds me. I’ve got to tell Connor not to wash off all his smell.’
Meg narrowed her eyes. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Claire,’ she said, as if she was ever anything but, ‘I hate the way that bloke’s name is coming into your conversations. In the same sentence with Charlie. If you fuck it up with Charlie, truly . . .’
‘I won’t, I won’t.’ Claire sipped her coffee and refolded her table napkin.
‘So when’s all this going to happen?’ said Meg.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I only ask because you’ll have to time your foray into the House of Wax.
You don’t want a nasty red rash and you don’t want stubble. Ever had a beard rash after a night of passion? Pubic stubble could actually remove Mr Surfie Boy’s entire facial features, and if I remember how gorgeous he is . . . that would be a crime against humanity.’
Meg smiled and Claire smiled back. Claire reached for her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.
‘Thanks, Meg. I know this is hard for you. And I want you to know I appreciate you letting me tell you about it. I’d go mad if I didn’t have you.’
‘You’re already mad!’
Claire was saved from further interrogation by the sound of a high-pitched wail coming from the back deck.
‘Yours or mine?’ asked Meg.
‘Definitely yours.’
Meg pushed back her chair with a sigh and trudged out to referee, administer first aid or fetch and carry, whatever was required. She was back after a moment.
‘Just did a head transplant. Swapped Action Man with Cool Shoppin’ Barbie. Max is always teasing Sophia. It’s driving me up the wall.’
‘Are you sure it’s OK to leave Maddie here tonight? You’ll have five of them hurtling around . . .’
‘And I’d better get used to it.’
‘So,’ asked Claire, ‘how are you feeling about the baby?’
Claire looked on enviously as Meg reached for more cheese toast, stuffed her mouth full and kept talking. ‘You know the funny thing is that when I was a teenager I thought that by the age of fifty I would have grown-up kids, a dead husband and I’d be setting off on a Women’s Weekly World Discovery Tour. Instead I’ll be standing at the front gate of the school waiting for my kid to come out of kindy.’
‘Yeah, it’s bizarre,’ Claire nodded. ‘Remember when you thought fifty was really, really ancient?’
Meg did remember. ‘I guess that in the old days women in their fifties had to adjust to having grown-up kids and being empty-nesters. We’ll be lucky to have them out of the house when we’re seventy!’
‘Yeah. I know where I’ll be spending my fifties. Driving Madeline to basketball practice. In between having hot flushes and boiling up Chinese herbs.’
‘Yeah,’ sighed Meg, ‘there’s a whole new world waiting for us, I suppose.’
‘I was thinking how weird it is being a woman.’ Claire was in philosopher mode. ‘I mean, you’re going along innocently and then the curtains go up on the whole world of menstruation. Pads, tampons, period pain, ovulation pain. And then, when you have a baby, there’s this whole new world of maternity bras and cracked nipples. You cope with all that. And then you discover this whole other planet of hot flushes and hormone replacement. In the meantime men’s bodies just grow hair and then lose it, and that’s it!’
‘Yeah, you’re right,’ Meg smiled. ‘I remember when I found out that your breasts could produce milk just by thinking about the baby. I still haven’t got over that. I mean, you’re going along with this perfectly nice bosom and then you discover that what you’ve actually got in your bra is a Fisher and Paykel Smart Fridge!’
She made Claire laugh and kept going: ‘Imagine if men suddenly found out their penis could do all this extra stuff! It would be like them driving around in their favourite car and then one day discovering: whoa, look—the top goes down!’
‘So here you are,’ said Claire. ‘You should be like me, staring down the barrel of menopause, and instead you’re going to be plunged back into a bucket of soaking baby singlets. How do you feel about it all?’
‘I dunno. Numb really. I still haven’t told Tony, so it’s like it’s not happening.’
‘Except you’re eating for two—maybe three by the look of your plate!’
‘Don’t, don’t!’ shrieked Meg. ‘Going back into the world of twins would kill me!’
‘So when are you going to tell him?’
‘I’m waiting for the moment of maximum impact.’
Claire shook her head in disbelief. How could Meg keep the secret? It was like one of those TV sitcoms where the couple are at dinner and he says: ‘So I’ve sold my motorbike and bought a sports car.’ And she says: ‘Does it have room for a baby capsule in the back?’ And he says: ‘Are you saying . . . ?’ And she says: ‘Yes, I am saying—you’re gonna be a daddy.’ And then they both hug each other and the whole restaurant breaks into spontaneous applause.
It wasn’t like that with Charlie. He had the books; he had the thermometer, the charts and a collection of multicoloured pens. He had wanted a baby as much as Claire had and was leaving nothing to chance. He would spend his evenings propped up in bed reading books on fertility, determined to take the voodoo out of the whole process. ‘You’re thirty-nine, so I reckon we’ve got a three-day window of opportunity each month,’ he declared.
Claire had heard of women missing an opportunity for conception because their husband was away on business or watching the footy on those vital days. But not her Charlie! There he was, front and centre, dick in hand and ready to weave his magic. When Claire was a day late with her period, Charlie had consulted his charts and announced, ‘Darling, you’re pregnant.’ So much for a surprise sitcom moment!
Now it was Meg’s turn to interrogate Claire. ‘So how’s your uterus then?’
‘Jeez, Meg! That’s a question you’d never hear on Parky!’ Claire used the salt-shaker as a microphone: ‘So, Julia Roberts . . . tell us about your uterus.’
‘No, no, not Parky. Think of me as Barbara Walters,’ and here Meg’s voice dropped two octaves, she leaned forward and turned her sincerity dial up to eleven. ‘So, Claire . . . stay with that feeling . . . for a moment . . . and tell me . . . how do you feel . . . if you’re honest . . . underneath it all . . . in your heart of hearts . . . really?’
Claire chuckled appreciatively and confessed. ‘Well, you know my periods have gone AWOL. That’s to be expected, I suppose. They reckon you know when you’ve had your menopause—when it’s twelve months since your last period. So it’s all retrospective. You never get to know which one’s the last. I think that’s so unfair.
‘I know you can take the pill and choose not to have a period at all, but I like getting mine. It’s like having your own calendar so you always sort of know where you’re up to. You’re either bleeding or your breasts are sore because you’re ovulating. It’s like the tide washing in and out. It just makes me feel sad that it’s not going to be there anymore. What happens now? Do I turn into a pond or something?
‘And sometimes I get so teary. I couldn’t find my car on Monday and I thought I was having a nervous breakdown. Did I tell you I was lying in bed the other night and my toes and fingers felt incredibly hot?
‘But you know, on balance I feel fine. My hair’s still shiny. I’ve still got a waist. It’s early days, I guess.’
Meg nodded sympathetically, but she didn’t know that her Barbara Walters technique had not gotten anywhere near the truth. Claire didn’t want to admit, even to her best friend, that in reality she felt like a woman possessed.
A newspaper article about a female condition called ‘persistent arousal syndrome’ had caught her eye just this morning. This syndrome, recently identified by sexologists, left its victims in a permanent helpless haze of throbbing sexual desire. ‘My 800 Orgasms a Day are Sheer Hell.’ That was the title of an article written by a 52-year-old journalist who had outed herself in a South African newspaper. She wrote about having a ‘persistent sexual itch’ she couldn’t scratch. Then there was the woman who lost her job because she was in the toilets at work masturbating twelve times a day. She’d even had to attend to the odd emergency in the car.
In the car! Claire thought of her own emergency with a flush of embarrassment. While she didn’t think she had a condition which any professional could put a name to, Claire could sympathise. She thought the name of her condition was probably Connor Deprivation Syndrome. She just couldn’t stop thinking about him.
Later that afternoon Claire was still thinking about him in the shower. She scrutinised her naked bo
dy through the steamy patches on the full-length mirror. Her soapy hands circled over her stomach and down until they came across the ridge of her caesarean scar. Charlie was the only man who had ever seen it. He loved the ridge, intersected by vertical highways of shiny stretchmarks. He had licked and kissed the length of it even though Claire had protested and tried to push him away. Would it be a turn-off for someone else? That ‘someone else’ being Connor? And then there was the coppery bush below that. She tried to imagine herself without it.
As she was towelling herself dry Charlie barged into the bathroom with the comfort and full entitlement of a married man. Even after seven years Claire had not got used to him doing this.
‘Close the door, you’re letting the cold air in,’ she whinged. This was actually code for ‘Get out. This is my private space’.
Charlie closed the door and went about his shaving, which was always, for some reason, accompanied by tuneless whistling.
Claire always found a way to intrude on this annoying, pointless ritual. She now did it unconsciously. He started whistling, she started talking.
‘Hey, honey . . .’ This was said in a light and breezy fashion, as if she had just thought of it. ‘What would you think if I went and got a Brazilian?’
‘A what?’ Charlie paused, razor in hand.
‘A Brazilian. You know—everything waxed. What would you think?’
Charlie resumed scraping his face. ‘I would assume that either you were having an affair, or that you were trying to turn me into a paedophile.’
‘A paedophile?’ Claire stopped towelling.
‘Well, yeah. I mean, grown women have pubic hair, don’t they? Last time I looked they did anyway.’
‘But everyone says it’s unbelievably sexy.’
‘Who’s everyone? Have you been talking to Courtney Love’s pubic hair stylist? Get real, Claire. NO. Don’t do it.’ And with that Charlie opened the door, sucking all the warm comforting steam from the room, and slammed it behind him.