I love being loved by a man. I want to wake up, and look into the eyes of my chosen captor, and hug him throughout the day, and care for him as I would myself, no matter how much it hurts, because if I can do that—and if he and I can rise to the task of the healing that is called for through our union—surely, we can save the world.
So I relish in being his sweet, delicate, porcelain little buttercup, right up until I’m his fleshy, naughty, juicy, fierce and succulent little sugar tit because, yes, it is one or the other, and it takes a lot of work for a guy to appreciate that the woman in front of him is all of these things, and more, and that there’s an infinite number of experiences to be had in the relationship that he has with her.
Nevertheless, I worry that by choosing to ride the waves of this process with one man, I must ride it with all men. The world that we live in can’t seem to handle my picking and choosing the attention that I receive, or who I receive it from. Communications between the sexes would become too complex and too unpredictable for the Neanderthals and philistines among us. So I must pray on a daily basis that my heart and my body are kept safe, despite the odds, and through it all, always.
Oh. An intense urge for physical contact just washed over me like a hot flush. My cheeks are burning. Although not enough for him to notice I don’t think. I’m looking at the arch of his shoulders, and the way that they curve around and slope into his arms and around into his hands like a rainbow. I want them wrapped around me. I want to be squeezed, and I want to stop thinking and talking.
I want to put my forehead against his and to shut my eyes. I want to smell his neck and underarms. I want to sense their heat and their wet pulsating against my nose and face. I want to feel the consistency of his skin in different places: where it’s soft, where it’s coarse, where it’s rough, where it’s taut, where it’s hairy, and vein-y, and bony, and muscly, and smooth, and hard. I like his thumb. I want it in my mouth. It’s a hitchhiker’s thumb. It’s bent, and quite elegant. I want it running all over me, up and down, up and down. Then I want my stomach against his stomach and I want to breathe him in, before feeling the weight of him, and falling asleep, and then waking up.
“So. What now?”
“I don’t know.”
“My mate must have left ages ago.”
“Do you live together? Or do you still live with your parents?”
“No, thank fuck. I don’t live with him and I don’t live with my parents. I love him, I just couldn’t live with him. I’m in a share house with this couple. They’re super-chill. We have totally different schedules. What about you?”
“I’ve been living in the same place for a while. On my own.”
“Really?”
“Yep. With Porkchop.”
“Porkchop.”
“He’s a cat. A ginger cat.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Toorak.”
“You’re alone in . . . Toorak?”
“Yes.”
“Come on.”
“What?”
“That’s pretty unusual.”
“Is it?”
“Are you in a unit?”
“No.”
“Townhouse?”
“No.”
“Fuck me.”
“What?”
“A girl living on her own in a house in . . . Toorak?”
“A woman. With a cat.”
“A woman with a cat. Sorry.”
“So?”
“It’s like the wealthiest suburb in the city. Except from, I don’t know. Albert Park, maybe?”
“Which suburb did you grow up in? Wait, let me guess.”
“Ok.”
“Armadale?”
“Close. Malvern.”
“See. Your roots aren’t that far from where mine are.”
“How did you end up in Toorak?”
“Life, the universe.”
“Right. What’re you doing for Christmas?”
“The usual.”
“What’s that? Family?”
“Yeah. Just . . . at home. You?”
“I’m visiting my parents for the night. Although, I might drive home after lunch if I can be bothered. I dunno. I usually help Mum with some of the cooking on Christmas Eve. So. I’ll be doing that tomorrow.”
“What does she cook?”
“Everything. I’ve always wanted her to get everyone to bring a plate and she always refuses. She orders whole salmons, and scallops, and crabs, and makes all of these epic salads and, of course, her famous guacamole.”
“I love guacamole.”
“Who doesn’t. Hers is epic. It has chili, and garlic, and coriander, and red onion, and salt, and pepper, and lemon. I basically stay the night to get my fill of that fucking guac.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm.”
“So do you feel like going for a walk or something?”
“A walk.”
“Yeah? It’s a nice night.”
“It is. Ok.”
“I’ll just go take a leak. You’ll be here?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Sweet.”
“Hey?”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“What!”
“It’s ok! I’ll be right back.”
42.
I don’t quite know how I’m going to manage this. High-heeled shoes are a blockade between me and my life. I hope he doesn’t mind my going barefoot for our walk.
So-called women’s fashion is completely orientated around restriction and restructuring. It’s all very flattering, and fashionable, and desirable, right up until it isn’t, which is usually around the time when we want to dance, or lie down, or inhale deeply, or make love, or take a shit, or eat something. I’m not surprised that so many women are drawn to pantsuits, and hoodies, and stretchy exercise gear, and “boyfriend jeans,” and “tees,” because it’s either that or being tied up.
I’m pretty sure I wore this outfit tonight because I wanted to seem more approachable and non-threatening. By subscribing to some of the tropes of uncomfortable fashion, I am better able to blend in. It’s like camouflage. Or at least that’s how I justify it to myself.
A friend of mine who always become inflamed after eating wheat, and dairy, and sugar once went to an addiction workshop where they were serving scones with jam, and cream, and fresh black coffee at the breaks. She thought, “Well, I’m here, and I want to fit in, and seem approachable,” so she decided to eat a scone with the lot. As she did, a woman came up to her and complimented her skin, and asked about what she did to care for it, and how it had become so dewy. The irony being that her skin’s dewiness was due in large part to not eating scones with jam and cream on a regular basis.
However, my friend might have seemed more inaccessible and unrelatable if she had been eating, say, one of her usual seaweed snacks that she’d brought from home, and sipping a chamomile tea with oat milk out of a thermos—and that woman probably wouldn’t have approached her.
So, my wearing lipstick, and high heels, and spandex indicates a desire to belong and to connect. It says, “Hey, I don’t feel entirely good about myself and I don’t mind looking a bit silly and being in a bit of pain in order to be accepted; maybe we can be friends.”
One year I went to the Melbourne Cup with a group of girls from school, and I didn’t know how to dress comfortably and fit in at the same time. I wanted to bond through the gambling and through studying the form guide, and they all wanted to bond through preparing for the day rather than any of the activities occurring on the day itself. It was all about planning the outfits, and makeup, and practicing walking in high heels, and pitching in to pay for copious amounts of champagne and canapés.
Anxiety and physical discomfort were the main event. They were t
reated as inherent aspects of the occasion, and of the lead-up to the occasion. I mean, of course we were going to be hobbling, and drunk, and undernourished. Of course, we were going to get fake tans, and tailor-made fascinators, and shove chicken filets into our bras, and stick double-sided tape along the edges of our garments, and buy strappy stilettos in the hopes of a sunny day, and hard soil, which, of course, you never, ever get at the Melbourne Cup.
The cruelty that’s inflicted upon the racehorses didn’t get a mention in the lead-up, either. I didn’t expect it. A multi-million-dollar horse broke its leg halfway through one of the races and was killed behind a vanity screen right there on the track where it had fallen. Apparently, the moment was cut out of the telecast and not one commentator mentioned it as the race continued to stream live to the nation.
Years later I reflected on the experience with a boyfriend as we were driving somewhere, and I wondered what I would choose to wear if I were ever forced to go again, and he said, “You women, you’re all the same. It’s all about what you’re going to wear,” and then he put his hand on my leg and went, “It’s ok, I won’t judge you. I’ll support you if you want to go to the races and do all of the girly things.”
I asked him to pull the car over. I undid my seatbelt and turned to face him. He kept his hands on the wheel, and the car running. I said, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. And that’s not what you say to me. I hear that you want to care for and support me. However, if you’re truly going to do that, that is not what you say. You say that you cherish who I am, and the person that I have become, and the extent of the struggles that I’ve been through in relation to my gender, and to my body, and to my womanhood, and to the community. You say that you support me in participating or not participating in these strange, barbaric, cult-y rituals, which I have become susceptible to in the past, because I have wanted to belong at the expense of my sanity, and well-being. You say that you appreciate the level of detachment I’ve been able to cultivate in relation to something so contentious, and cruel, given the pain I clearly carry around inclusion, and exclusion, and having friends. You say that you’re proud of me, and of who I am, and of the person that I’ve become, and am becoming. You say that you honor me, and all of the choices that I make, and am going to make. Then you emphasize that you’re incredibly proud to be with a woman who thinks, and feels, and explores things to such great depths, and with such discernment and compassion.”
He laughed, squeezed my thigh, and growled.
43.
Shall we?”
“Sure.”
“Is there anyone you need to say good-bye to?”
“No.”
“Me neither, I don’t think. Which way?”
“Left?”
“Sure. Can you smell that?”
“Jasmine.”
“Yeah. It feels like it’s going to rain.”
“I know, I’ve been hoping for that all day.”
“Hmm.”
“I’m going to take my shoes off.”
“I was wondering how you’d go in those?”
“Not so good.”
“Yeah.”
“Can you see a bin anywhere?”
“I’ll keep an eye out.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s a possum!”
“It looks like a baby.”
“I never get over seeing those. The bats are pretty freaky, though.”
“Melbourne is Transylvania.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s so quiet.”
“I’ve almost gotten used to the haze.”
“I know. It’s amazing how readily we can adapt to . . . tragedy.”
“Hmm.”
“Can you see the moon?”
“No. There’s a bin.”
“Great.”
“Wait, what? You’re throwing those out?”
“I’ve had enough.”
“Ok?”
“It’s nice to feel the ground. Oh, my arches. Just give me a second.”
“Are you going to be ok barefoot?”
“Are you going to be ok with me being barefoot?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
“Glass, shit, sticks, rocks, piss, shards. Fucking syringes. I don’t know.”
“It’s just that I’d rather be free at this point, you know?”
“Not really.”
“We can keep going now.”
“There’s a cat.”
“Oh, what a cutie.”
“You don’t often see white cats.”
“No.”
“What do they mean? Or symbolize? Or whatever?”
“Death, probably.”
“What?”
“Or wealth, maybe. I can’t remember.”
“Here, puss, puss. Its eyes are different colors, too, I think?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not mad on cats.”
“Why not?”
“They’re too picky. Dogs are more . . . unconditional.”
“Right.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“You’re a Leo.”
“Hmm. Why do you love cats so much?”
“I don’t ‘love cats.’ I live with a cat that I love. If I met a dog whose soul journey happily coincided with mine, then that would be synchronistic, and destined, and perfect, and I would be open to that. However, until then, I’m a woman who lives with a cat. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Her name is ‘Ceridwen.’”
“It’s keh-rihd-wehn. The C is more like a K: it’s Celtic. Ceridwen is the goddess of, like, rebirth and fertility and transformation. She’s the goddess of the white moon.”
“Right.”
“Sorry. I just corrected your pronunciation.”
“That’s ok. Does doing that come from your parents?”
“I don’t know?”
“It definitely does.”
“Whatever.”
“That must be tough.”
“What would you know about the toughness of that?”
“One of my best mates in high school’s parents were always correcting him when he spoke. His dad was in the family business and his mum was an academic. They’d correct Max and his sister’s grammar over the dinner table. She barely spoke, surprise, surprise. They even corrected me one time when I was over there.
“They also had this really intense need to be greeted all of the time. It was always, hi, Dad! Kiss, hug. Hi, Mum! Kiss, hug. Bye, Dad! Kiss, hug. Bye, Mum! Kiss, hug. There was even a running commentary while we were in the house: Just going to watch TV, Dad! Just going out into the garden, Mum! It was exhausting.
“One time we didn’t say hello to his dad when we got back to the house after school, and we just ran up to Max’s room because we were laughing about something, or rushing, I don’t know, and his dad came in five minutes later and goes, ‘Max. May I have a word with you? In . . . the study?’ The study was his dad’s private space and it was totally off-limits. Max only ever went in there when ‘having a word’ was called for. I could hear his dad yelling at him through the wall. ‘Who do you think you are, mate? Whose house do you think that this is? You too good to say hello to your old man now?’ I felt so embarrassed for him. We never talked about it. His parents seemed so loving in so many ways. They had art all over the house, and cars, and they played tennis. They were always having interesting people around. There were heaps of books, and his mum made these spelt muffins every day. Then we just turned into really different people. I think he designs skate gear now. So, yeah. If you had to go through anything like that, it must have sucked.”
“I don’t know. I also don’t know any different.”
“
True.”
“She really likes you.”
“Yeah.”
“Off she goes.”
“Bye, Ceridwen!”
“Her work here is done.”
“Yeah. Oh, there’s some courtyard housing. You know, apparently, the reason why this style of architecture died out is because of cars. An apartment block with parking spaces at the bottom became more of a priority. Like, more of a priority than nature and space just for the sake of nature and space.”
“That’s so depressing. Nature and space are so important. It’s amazing to think that it can . . . lose its value.”
“I know. People see cars as more valuable now. The next style of apartment block that came into fashion was literally called the dingbat.”
“No?”
“Yeah. We’ll probably see one or ten of those. They’ve got garages at the bottom.”
“Ok.”
“Which way do we go now?”
“Straight.”
“You know this area pretty well?”
“No. I just feel like going this way.”
“Ok.”
“Do you live on the north side now?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah. I associate the south side with my parents and with high school. So. Compared to that, the northside is amazing.”
“Why are you still living in Melbourne?”
“No idea, really. I traveled a bit, with Chloe. That girl from the café. We went to South America and Southeast Asia. I also went to the US with my family when I was a teenager to visit relatives. One time I went skiing in New Zealand with a friend and his extended family, and it was beautiful. Intense, though. It was with his entire family at their lodge-cabin-thing. I haven’t been to Europe, so. Who knows? What about you? Why are you still here?”
“It’s just . . . where I am.”
“Yeah.”
“I’d love to go to Egypt. I just don’t want to fly anywhere. I don’t like flying.”