Odyssey In A Teacup

by Paula Houseman

  ‘Oeuf! Just keep your pawpaw covered up. Pest!’

  Noonie was not the only pet name for genitalia that I was exposed to. In my family, a vagina was a pawpaw, and a penis was a fawkey. I didn’t question this. But I questioned Sylvia when one of her friends got pregnant. I was nine at the time.

  ‘How do you get pregnant?’

  Sylvia wasn’t comfortable talking about it but obviously, she knew I’d be asking sooner or later, because she pulled out a sex education book from the bottom drawer of her dresser and gave it to me to read.

  The book talked about the way a baby is made from a union of a tiny part of the mother and a tiny part of the father. When I discussed this with Ralph, he reacted pretty strongly.

  ‘You’re wrong!’ He indignantly pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. ‘The father’s part is not a tiny part.’

  Geez. Only nine years old and already prickly about the size of his organ. Like I said, Ralph was a visionary. But neither of us knew that this tiny father part referred to sperm (we didn’t even know what sperm was). And although I can’t remember the name of the author, it’s highly unlikely a man wrote that book; otherwise, even the size of a sperm would have been blown out of proportion. Here’s the thing, though. Relative to six feet of height and two hundred pounds of mass, a pecker is a piddling, teensy-weensy part of a man. Miniscule. Lilliputian.

  The book also talked about how a baby grows in the uterus, which it likened to a balloon with a little opening at the bottom, and how, when the baby’s fully-grown, it pushes headfirst through the opening to the outside. Vagina didn’t rate a mention. It was called the tunnel between the balloon’s opening and the outside. I also don’t recall seeing the words vulva, penis or testicles. But compared to winkie and wee-wee, which is what Maxi heard at home, and Vette’s mum’s diddly-doo and noonie, fawkey and pawpaw sounded authentic to the four of us (and as Ralph and I were kin, Norma referred to them the same way that Sylvia did). I found out the truth a year later from a girl I shared a hospital room with when I had my appendix out. I quizzed Sylvia when she took me home.

  ‘How did you come up with the names fawkey and pawpaw?’

  She bristled uncomfortably. ‘My mother called them that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oeuf! Does it matter? Pest! Ask her.’ Sound advice if only the woman hadn’t been dead for the last twenty years. And so, I was left to speculate.

  It took me a few years of speculation, a lot more information about sex, and much discussion with Ralph, Maxi and Vette about this to come up with a plausible explanation. It may well have been that my grandmother, Ruby went to the local market one day, saw a cross-sectioned pawpaw in amongst the fruit display and thought, oui, il resemble un peu à la papaye (yep, it looks a bit like a pawpaw). This presumes that Ruby actually checked out her own pawpaw. She probably then stopped eating the fruit because she suddenly realised it was a wee bit too close to home. And since the apple doesn’t fall far from tree, if Sylvia’s puritanical mindset and her tendency to manipulate are an indication of her upbringing, then it’s a safe bet that Ruby would have knowingly served pawpaw to her own husband (my grandfather, Jacob). Her accompanying thoughts? Voici le cunnilingus tu continue à vouloir effectuer sur moi, mon chéri (here's the cunnilingus you keep wanting to perform on me, darling). This might be a bit of a stretch because back then, a bloke would be more predisposed to plunging and thrusting than diving in headfirst. Still, eating pawpaw was probably the closest thing to sex Jacob was going to get.

  I imagine the seeds of fawkey go back a lot further.

  At the beginning of my fourth year in high school, I was learning about ancient Greece in history class. Greek mythology was a very large component of this because my teacher had a passion for it. His name was Zero Kosta ... poor bastard. For me, it was bad enough being a mistake, but this man must have truly felt like he was worth nothing from the get-go. Suddenly, my name didn’t seem so bad.

  I think Mr Kosta had first-hand knowledge of ancient times because he looked like he was raised from the crypt. He was cadaverous. Painfully thin, he had sunken cheeks in a narrow, ashen face, greyish teeth, and his hands were gnarled and shook a lot. But he was a mine of information and probably one of the best teachers I’ve ever had because he made the subject interesting. And although history in general wasn’t my favourite course, I devoured the classic tales. They fascinated me. Maybe it was because my existence felt like a Greek tragedy. But as Mr Kosta told us, our lives were just ancient myths cloaked in the modern attire of defences and pretences (the ancients didn’t give a crap what the neighbours thought).

  Mr Zero Kosta was worth plenty to me. He had a highly developed sense of humour (with a name and looks like that, you’d have to). I regarded him as my mentor. Life, he said, is a tragicomedy. This perspective kind of explained the idiocy I had to deal with daily; it made it tolerable. And I think the ancient part of my brain was plump and full like Mr Kosta’s because I was also attracted to the origin of things.

  As for the origin of fawkey as a pet name for penis, in ancient myth, Phorkys was the sea-god that presided over the hidden dangers of the deep. Combine Sylvia’s fear of the hidden dangers of the vagina with man’s tendency to worship his penis and hang its helmet in the deep, then it wasn’t a real stretch to understand that herein lies the root of fawkey.

  It also wasn’t a real stretch to get the twofold meaning behind Sylvia’s ‘just keep your pawpaw covered up’. This says:

  ) Do not put out.

  ) It is not a pretty sight (and so said the mirror).

  Sylvia had been trying to cunningly steer me towards converting that uninhibited fanny-celebration of childhood into the fanny-shame that takes hold in adolescence, and plagues us in adulthood. She was like a humungous, externalised, personified hymen.

  ‘Sylvia obviously didn’t pay much attention during biology,’ said Ralph when we were discussing her prudish attitude one day. ‘A beaver’s very social, you know. Its natural habitat is outdoors. And it likes to gnaw on wood.’

  Ralph’s droll take on things suggested he also had a strong connection to that cobwebby primeval part of his brain. And it helped defuse many situations for me. At sixteen, though, my beaver wasn’t quite ready to come outside. Nor were Maxi and Vette’s. But there was no shortage of dates for any of us as we moved through adolescence and became increasingly easy on the eye (or so we kept being told).

  Vette has porcelain skin, black corkscrew curls, green eyes and lush Betty Boop lips. She has an old-world look about her, like she’s just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. Although small-breasted and a smidge over five foot four (half an inch taller than me), she has a fat arse. Of course, we don’t really know if the heroines of these romance novels had fat arses because their bustles would have hidden them. Our fashion trends didn’t.

  One Sunday afternoon when the relatives were at my place, the four of us were sitting with the caterpillars in that little park near Ralph’s place. We were all lost in thought for a bit as we watched Vette drawing well rounded ‘Ws’ like so—(_)(_)—in the dirt with a stick. She suddenly rubbed them out with her hand and looked up at Maxi and me.

  ‘I wish I had a bum like you two.’

  Christ, I’m so glad I don’t have one like yours!

  Neither Maxi nor I responded. Ralph did, though, distracting me from my shame over this unkind thought. ‘Hmm ... having a big caboose is not such a bad thing, you kno—’

  ‘Good one, schmuck! She didn’t say anything about having a big bum, did she?’ Maxi leaped to Vette’s defence very quickly, maybe as a means of mitigating thoughts as unholy as mine.

  ‘No. I, er, I, er just meant it has its advantages. It can provide good leverage during sex. When you decide to start fornicating, I mean.’

  Fornicating? Ralph—working class upbringing; upper-class diction.

  ‘How would you know? Are you holding out on us? Have you started ... “fornicating”?’

  ‘No
t yet. I read it in a Playboy magazine. simon keeps a stash of them under his bed.’

  ‘And you look at Playboy for the articles?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes. I like to think I’m deeper than your average male.’

  ‘Uh-huh, and reading Playboy articles is a real indicator of that!’ said Maxi.

  We girls laughed. Ralph didn’t.

  ‘Hey, I’m trying to help you. You girls want to know more about sex; I’m just imparting a general male view that I’ve read about on the ins and outs of, yes, fornicating, so you won’t feel completely at a loss when some guy tries to penetrate more than your mind for the first time!’

  Ralph’s sensitivity meant he was always more comfortable in female company. His views were diverse—from incredibly stupid to incredibly insightful, and more often than not, eccentric.

  Vette’s views could be a little too rigid. We girls were caught up in the fairy tale with its handsome prince and happily-ever-after, but Vette was so totally lost in it, she couldn’t read between the lines. She dated lots of guys, but pulled the plug early in the piece on a few potential relationships because the guys did, well, annoying human stuff.

  ‘He scratched his balls in front of me. Like a dog.’ She whispered this last bit. It was a deal-breaker for Vette in a very promising six-week-long relationship with Anthony.

  ‘So what? As long as he doesn’t lick ‘em.’ Maxi was the most pragmatic of the three of us.

  Vette’s father died when she was only two. Because her mother never remarried and didn’t even date (she worked long hours), Vette had no male role model when she was growing up. Her mum was also a stickler for good manners, so Vette didn’t really get to witness primitive male behaviour from her brother or anyone else. Unlike me. The only time Joe didn’t openly go at his knackers was when Vette and Maxi slept over.

  ‘I don’t recall the handsome prince scratching his nuts in any of the fairy tales I grew up with!’

  ‘Of course not. But fairy tales also don’t tell you the damsel in distress could turn into a bloated, hissy, snarly bitch once a month.’

  ‘A woman’s irrational behaviour doesn’t need to be mentioned. It’s a given. It’s justifiable because we’re at the mercy of our hormones. An itchy scrotum might be organic but it’s not caused by a hormonal imbalance. So there’s no excuse!’

  Easy to say if you don’t have balls.

  Vette dated a procession of guys: Harry, Danny, Sam, Ari, David, Alan, Greg, Eric, Leslie, Adam, Derek, Michael, Martin, Benjy, Richard, Dennis, Roger, Raymond, Peter, Carl, Brian, Phillip, Eddy, and Teddy. Then came Henry.

  At twenty-seven, Henry was ten years older than Vette. He was her counterpart in almost every way. A good-looking guy, Henry was short, small-breasted, had green eyes, thick lips and black frizzy hair. If she were the heroine of a romance novel, Henry would have been her hero (except without the fat arse). They seemed so right for each other.

  ‘I’m gonna go all the way with him tonight,’ she announced after three weeks of dating.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit soon?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, but I’m at risk of dying a virgin!’ Since Anthony, she hadn’t dated anyone for more than two weeks.

  She would be the first of the four of us to surrender her virginity. Ralph and Maxi spent that night at my place and we couldn’t wait for Vette’s call the next morning. Instead, she turned up looking forlorn.

  ‘He was happy, but it was so disappointing.’

  Maxi and I hugged her, but Ralph stood there pensively, rubbing the sparse bristles on his chin while he looked skyward for about ten seconds. This was his contemplative look.

  ‘Hmm ... ’ (Ralph hmmed a lot—had from an early age). He was weighing up all the information and formulating his thoughts. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ He dashed off and he returned half an hour later with a library book under his arm. The local library was just around the corner and Ralph had borrowing rights; he’d given my address when he applied for a library card.

  ‘What have you got?’ I asked. He held it up.

  ‘Human Sexual Response by William H. Masters and Virginia E. Johnson. Turns out women can blow too.’

  The four of us sat on the floor of my bedroom with Sylvia’s homemade pound cake and cups of Bushells coffee as we pored over the pages in the book.

  ‘We should have stayed at my place last night,’ said Maxi.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You know ... sex and drugs.’

  She had a point. We’d be sitting on the floor of her bedroom with hash cookies and cups of Irish coffee. Even though there was a large bar in my house in between the L-shaped dining room and lounge, and it was chock-full of assorted bottles of alcohol, neither Joe nor Sylvia drank. The bar was purpose-built, but as a room divider and showpiece; the bottles stacked four deep in the bar all remained unopened, including the Irish whiskey.

  The location and refreshments were irrelevant, though, as we learned about the four stages of physiological response to sexual stimulation: the excitement phase, plateau phase, orgasmic phase and resolution phase. Just reading it brought all four of us to the excitement phase, but Ralph had no doubt reached the plateau phase. I heard him moan almost imperceptibly as he leaned across my bed, grabbed my pillow and perched it on his lap. Maxi, Vette and I smiled at each other conspiratorially.

  ‘What?’ Ralph caught us out.

  ‘Why d’you need my pillow?’

  ‘To rest the book on.’

  ‘What ... to prop it up, hey ... Pinocchio?’ Maxi couldn’t resist.

  Ralph blushed; we laughed. But I had to sleep with that pillow. Please God, don’t let him reach the orgasmic phase.

  With all we discovered, when Vette left three hours later, she felt hopeful. She told Henry everything she’d learned, and he tried to please her but it didn’t happen for her. Vette was despondent. Turns out Henry had located her bean and worked it, but he was a man-child. It was like being on a road trip with a six-year-old who keeps asking every thirty seconds, ‘Are we there yet?’ Makes relaxation a real bitch.

  Vette had a few more short relationships over the next couple of years, and then she entertained the idea of becoming a Jubu (a Jewish Buddhist). Strange. She wasn’t into organised religion any more than Maxi, Ralph and I were.

  ‘Why?’ Maxi asked.

  ‘Because men irritate me.’

  ‘You can always become a lesbian. No study required for tha—’

  Ralph interrupted Maxi. ‘You do know that in Buddhist philosophy, a woman can only reach enlightenment on her deathbed if she becomes a man?’

  ‘I know.’

  I was confused. ‘Er ... why would you wanna become a man if they annoy you?’

  ‘Because this way I get my own dick to play with.’

  We all laughed, but we were shocked to hear this from Vette.

  ‘That’s more the sort of thing I would say!’ said Maxi.

  Ralph and I nodded in agreement and then he said, ‘Hmm ... looks like we have penis envy.’

  ‘We? You’ve already got one, you idiot!’ Maxi never held back. At five foot three (half an inch shorter than me), she might be small, but she sure could pack a wicked wallop.

  Maxi is slim, and with her creamy skin, ample heaving bosom, piercing blue eyes, chestnut hair and pretty, heart-shaped face, just like Vette, she also looks like she’s stepped out of a historical romance novel. But of the bodice ripper variety, with a swashbuckler cover. Maxi was too much for Sylvia’s prissiness.

  ‘That one, hmph! She’s a “nice” girl. A bad influence.’ Sylvia was an authority. And a logician. ‘Yvette? She is a “good” girl. Quiet; polite.’

  What ... so she can’t possibly put out? Well, guess what; she already has. Ha!

  Sylvia’s low opinion of Maxi took a further dive when my intrepid friend posed topless for a football magazine. The picture appeared in its centre-page spread. In the early seventies, that was very daring, and the sort of thing a Jewish girl just didn’t do. No way. What would
the neighbours think? Still, Vette and I envied Maxi, but Sylvia was incensed. When Maxi dropped round just after the footy magazine was published and in circulation, Sylvia wouldn’t even acknowledge her. After Maxi left, Sylvia barged into my room and let loose with a verbal onslaught.

  ‘That floozy! That strumpet! That putana is not welcome in this house!’

  Hell, I’m not even welcome in this house, and I live here!

  ‘Pth-Pth-Pth.’ Sylvia made a spitting sound, the kind you make when you’re trying to spit out hairs. She looked over her left shoulder as she did this. It was some superstitious crap about spitting on the devil (and it was always over the left; Lucifer must be a southpaw). She then stormed out. But a couple of minutes later I heard her fumbling around in the lounge room and striking a match. Ah yes, she was burning incense to ward off the evil spirit. Still not enough for her. She flew back into my room. This time, she brought in a turquoise blue glass ‘evil eye’ bead——suspended on a thin chain, which she hung on the door of my wardrobe. It was added insurance for Greeks. But wait ... we weren’t Greek, although, because of my sense of this ancient lineage, it made me feel like Cyclops was stalking me. Still, Sylvia was covering all the bases. I now heard her banging pots and pans in the kitchen.

  Shit! I’d studied Macbeth in my last year of high school. Smatterings of the incantation of the three witches came back to me: newt’s eye, frog’s toe, dog’s tongue, leg of a lizard, and wing of an owlet, all boiling and bubbling in a hell-broth. I expected Sylvia to zip back in on her invisible broomstick and force me to drink a vile potion with eyeball ice cubes. Quadruple indemnity? I’d plead with her; tell her there was no need. Any desire I might have had to bare my breasts in a football magazine evaporated, just like that. Pfft. Amazing stuff! Her pagan rituals were working.

  Maxi’s exploit made her the topic of juicy gossip in the Jewish community, but even though this audacious act would keep coming back to haunt her, she mostly kept running her own race. And despite her wild ways, she remained a ‘good’ girl. Until she started dating Ralph.