Yearning (10 page)

‘I knew,’ he said.

Relief flooded through her, making her weak.

‘I love your letters. They’re beautiful.’

Reassured, she relaxed a little. She was aware of a thrilling rawness in her vagina and her thighs were sticking together as her juices dried. All these wonderful new sensations. She felt so small against his magnificent maleness. She reached up tentatively to stroke his neatly trimmed beard. Grown man bones, grown man hair, grown man skin. He was superb, perfect.

After a time she looked up at him again. His eyes were sleepy in the dim light. My boyfriend, she thought, a
spasm of joy jolting through her. I have a boyfriend and he has beautiful eyes.

‘I wish I could crawl in behind your eyes and see what you see,’ she whispered.

Smiling, he shifted so he could see her face. ‘Why? What do you think I see?’ he asked.

She paused a moment. ‘Me.’

She said it simply, dropping her gaze to his chest where she twisted his hairs around nail-bitten fingers. He held her a little more closely as he gazed out of the window. She waited for him to talk to her, as he had in the shower, but he remained quiet. A cool finger of self-consciousness needled inside her chest. Beside him she felt so young. He seemed so wise and confident with the world. He could so easily dismiss her.

But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled her to him and her gratitude was a balm, soothing her raw and thudding heart.

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine.

The Song of Solomon

She wished she could be as beautiful as Snow White. She imagined the delight of looking in the mirror to see a face everyone could love looking back at her. She wanted a voice so sweet it brought birds to her outstretched fingers, just like in the book. Then maybe her aunt wouldn’t keep reminding her, ‘A girl born with her father’s looks is destined for a plain life.’

She stood in front of the mirror, holding a picture of Snow White up to her face. She wanted to find some likeness, something similar between them, but the longer she looked the uglier she felt. Freckles, a pointy chin, crazy red hair – Snow White had none of them. To look like Snow White she’d have to chop her head off.

Gran was the only one who thought she was beautiful. When Gran said it she sounded like she really meant it. ‘My beautiful darling,’ Gran would say, ‘dance for
me? Like a beautiful princess?’ As she pirouetted in her pyjamas to Tchaichovsky she pretended she was as graceful and lovely as Snow White, and Gran nodded approvingly from her armchair.

At bedtime Gran read to her, anything she wanted, not like her mother who was always too busy to read.

‘
Snow White
.
Snow White
!’ she demanded.

‘
Snow White
again? But we read it every time. Don’t you want something else?’

‘No, Gran, please!’

The warmth of the old voice wrapped around her like a blanket as she devoured the pictures. She adored the drawings of the little cottage with its tiny cups and plates, and saw how much the dwarves loved their kind princess. She wriggled her toes against the crisp cold of the sheets, waiting for the bed to warm up. Her baggy singlet and worn flannel pyjamas were no match for the hard country winter. Her chilblains burned against the hot water bottle and she scratched them furiously.

‘Darling, don’t,’ murmured Gran. ‘You’ll make them bleed.’

She snuggled against the coarse woollen cardigan, inhaling the smell of Velvet soap and hairspray. As they approached the end of the book, her heart began to pound. It was all she could do not to rush ahead and look.

‘The dwarves knelt by the glass coffin and wept until winter turned to spring . . . ’

Gran turned the page and there he was – Prince Charming. The little girl took the handsome figure in, drawn tall and manly, riding a powerful white stallion. He wore a tight red vest over his broad chest and his brown
boots reached up to thick thighs barely hidden by a royal blue cape. Square-jawed and raven-haired, his image gave her goosebumps. She stared at him open mouthed.

‘ . . . with true love’s kiss . . . and they lived happily ever after.’

The story finished with Snow White and her prince disappearing into their golden-lit castle of clouds and she burrowed down under the heavy blankets, wondering about that kiss. Imagine a kiss powerful enough to wake Snow White from her deathly sleep and make her fall in love. What would a kiss like that feel like? Imagine feeling so loved by a kiss that you were lifted away from death?

She knew she wanted to be a princess when she grew up and marry a handsome prince, right after they shared true love’s kiss.

‘There aren’t very many princes in the world, you know,’ said her mother.

‘But I will find one,’ she said looking up, her eyes wide with faith. ‘When I grow up I will have true love’s kiss, just like you did with Daddy.’

Her mother did something funny with her face. ‘Real love isn’t like it is in fairytales. That’s just pretend love.’

‘No, Mummy,’ she insisted, ‘it is real. All the stories say so.’

‘You’re too little to understand now. When you grow up you’ll see what I mean. True love can’t be found in a kiss.’

‘But it is, Mummy.’

‘Darling, it takes a lot more than a kiss to love someone.’

‘Daddy, would you pretend to be my Prince?’

‘No.’ Her father shifted the paper to block her from his sight.

She pulled the corner down and peeped over the top. ‘But Daddy, I’m pretending to be Snow White and I need a prince to kiss me.’

‘Well, you’d better find yourself a prince then.’

‘But I want you to be my prince.’

‘I’m too tired to be your damned prince.’

‘Please, Daddy?’

‘For Christ’s sake, I said no. Go and play outside or something.’

Confused and disappointed she wandered back to her room. As she tied a tea-towel cloak around her cat’s neck she tried to imagine her father on a horse with a cape and a sword. It didn’t seem right. He was big and strong enough, but he wasn’t gentle like a prince should be. Her Uncle Bill was more like a prince. When he was around he picked her up in his strong arms and threw her into the air, cuddling her to the safety of his chest as he caught her. He listened to her stories with eyes that said ‘I’m paying attention’. He didn’t just sit and read the paper and drink beer like her dad.

‘You’re not much good at being a prince,’ she said, lifting the sagging cat onto her bed. ‘You won’t even stand up.’ The cat lay on its back and purred. She scratched its tummy and dreamed of being grown up and meeting her very own story book hero.

*

It was late autumn and watery sunlight seeped through thin layers of cloud. The park was iridescent from a week of rain. Autumn leaves, vivid with old summer sun, fluttered and spun in the breeze. Bored with the boisterous
romping of her cousins, she wandered away from the family picnic to explore the edge of the lake. She dawdled through the bushes, daydreaming. She pretended she was looking for a white horse and a strong hand reaching down to lift her up and ride her away in the wind. She imagined herself a lost princess, wandering in a forest, banished from her home and looking for her rescuer.

She didn’t notice the couple under the willow tree until she was almost upon them. A woman’s soft sighs led her eye to a secluded spot beneath the drooping branches. She ducked behind a cluster of rocks and bushes to watch.

A couple lay entwined, their bodies dappled by shimmering light reflecting off the lake. The woman’s long fingers were tangled in the man’s hair. They were kissing. Her little girl’s mouth dropped open with delight. While she’d never seen it before, she knew that this might be true love’s kiss.

She tried to unravel the lovers, but they were so entangled she couldn’t separate one arm or leg from the other. One of the man’s hands was behind the woman’s head while the other was partially buried in the folds of her hitched skirt. They lay, oblivious to her presence, whispering fleetingly between kisses and utterly absorbed in each other. In the radiant light they were like two gods, golden and enamoured.

As she watched she noticed the muscles in the man’s forearm rippling as he moved his hand between the woman’s legs. She watched, fascinated, as the sounds the woman made seemed to change with his movements. His wrist moved in gentle circles, back and forth, up and down, followed by moments of complete stillness.
The woman’s eyes were half closed, as if she were almost asleep. When they kissed their mouths were wide open, pressing hard into each other’s lips. Unconsciously she copied them, opening her mouth wide and letting the air touch the inside of her cheeks.

The woman began to breathe hard, gasping as though she were out of breath. Her sighs flooded the quiet space around them, rippling against the fronds of the tree. The man was smiling and murmuring in the woman’s ear and the woman started to giggle.

She watched, fascinated, as the woman’s body tensed up and she let out a sharp cry. The sound jolted her and a tiny electric shock zipped up her body from between her legs. She stared at the couple, mystified. The woman was groaning as though she had been hurt, but she didn’t pull away or ask the man to stop.

The little girl’s cheeks flushed hot with unfamiliar pleasure. Confused, she got up to run but tripped on a tree root. Down she tumbled, scraping her arm on a rock. Blood trickled down and she started to cry. The woman sat up and called out to her.

Frightened, she bolted, back to the known safety of her family. Behind her she could hear a husky voice calling to her and laughing, ‘Hey! Little girl? Are you all right? Hey!’

*

Nine years later she lay on Solomon’s bed watching the muscles in his forearm perform the very same dance. She remembered that autumn day as those same tiny shocks of pleasure spirited their way up from the sweet spot
between her legs to the centre of her chest. Smiling, she heard herself make the same sighing sounds the woman in the park had made and she gave herself over to the same enchantment she had seen in the woman’s face.

In those moments her fear of her own body was overcome by intense pleasure as Solomon opened her up to a new world. He murmured close in her ear and she spread herself out for him, allowing him to take her into that resplendent past of watery green light. As he smiled into her hair a sudden surge of pleasure rocketed through her body and she cried out, the sound echoing off Solomon’s bare bedroom walls.

Because of the savour of thy good ointments thy name is as ointment poured forth, therefore do the virgins love thee.

The Song of Solomon

Every time the holidays approached, Solomon’s anxiety began to build. Boarding school was a far easier territory to negotiate than the wild confusion of home. His parents were eternally preoccupied with their adult lives, his father’s piercing intellect focused on Australian Council of Trade Unions campaigns, while his mother, an erratic and beautiful artist, drifted about their home entertaining all manner of visitors.

Their magnetism was blinding. People surged in and out of their tiny, inner city home like waves, unannounced and uninvited, caught by the powerful undertow of their combined charisma. Solomon had no choice but to be swept up in the impromptu parties that erupted around them. After the structured routine of boarding school, the chaos and the capricious characters that peopled
his home left Solomon feeling constantly nervous and edgy.

He had no idea how to talk to his father, who was always immersed in work: meetings, manifestos and heated debates in front of their struggling gas heater in the crowded lounge room. His mother floated about the house surrounded by a cloud of admirers. There was always someone hanging around, flattering her, lighting a freshly rolled joint while they ogled her cleavage or legs. She’d pull Solomon close to her side and encourage her devotees to flatter him, too. He squirmed as she let them stroke his hair or back while her slender fingers rested at the nape of his neck, holding him there against his will.

‘My very best work of art,’ she crooned, trailing her fingers through his curls. ‘Don’t you agree? My beautiful son, the most beautiful mistake I ever made.’

Her friends would gather around them, leering and making jokes about who would be the one lucky enough to take Solomon’s cherry.

‘Turn him over to me, Alissa.’ Bettina was speaking to his mother without taking her eyes from Solomon’s face. ‘I’ll break him in gently and teach him how to satisfy a woman.’

He shifted a little closer to his mother’s body. He was old enough to be excited by a woman’s interest in him, but young enough to prefer the comfort of his mother. He leaned in to the familiar smell of her patchouli and the softness of her long, black hair.

‘Oh, you greedy thing!’ his mother teased, pushing her friend away. ‘Haven’t you already got her hands full with Richard and Thibault?’

The feel of his mother’s arm reaching around his shoulders, drawing him closer, eased the unsettling excitement in his belly.

‘Those two old dogs?’ Bettina retorted. ‘Not a new trick between them. But Solomon . . . ’ and she reached out to stroke his arm with painted talons. ‘There’s a sweet puppy eager to learn if ever I saw one.’

Alissa smiled at her son indulgently. ‘He’s not ready yet, especially for the likes of you, Bettina. But when he is, it will be with a wise woman who can teach him gently and well. I’ll make sure of it.’

Richard pushed his way through the eager crowd. ‘What could that old trollop teach him? All she does is lie there like a dead starfish staring at the ceiling. What he needs is a man to show him what real pleasure is.’

Bettina scowled at Richard. ‘You!’ she spat. ‘As if a selfish desperate like you has anything to offer. All you care about is satisfying yourself!’ Laughter rumbled around them as Richard tweaked Bettina’s nipple.

Solomon could hear his blood thumping in his ears. This was a grown-up’s game he didn’t understand. He hoped his mother wouldn’t let go of him. She wagged an elegant finger at Richard and Bettina while she smoothed Solomon’s hair.