“Do I?”
“Yeah. Are you a light sleeper?”
“Maybe.”
“Definitely.”
“I think I want to go outside.”
“Outside?”
“Yeah.”
“Into the rain?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok?”
“Do you want to come?”
“Umm. Not really? I’m not sure. What are you going to do out there?”
“Be . . . in the rain.”
“Right. Umm.”
“It’s ok. You keep sleeping. I’ll be back.”
54.
The rain is getting heavier, and I can’t get down the stairs fast enough. He hasn’t followed me, and I get it. No guy has ever followed me into the rain. They’ve always kept watching the basketball on TV, or they’ve gone back to sleep, because it’s “too much” and I’m being a “freak.” Dancing in the rain doesn’t “make sense” and it doesn’t have a specific “outcome.” Well, it does, it’s just that the physical outcome tends to involve being wet, and cold, and needing to go inside, and get warm, and have a shower, and maybe have a cup of tea, which is part of what I like about it.
Porkchop is already sitting at the bottom of the stairs in anticipation, and when he saw me he flopped onto his back and started squirming and rolling around on the marble in excitement.
I’m glad I left the kitchen door open. Now I can just throw the kimono off, and fly out, into the rain. Wow. There are some seriously big, cold drops smashing against my skin. They’re so tropical and uncompromising. I’m getting waves of chills. I have to consciously, like, relax the muscles in my neck and jaw and arms.
I really want to go down onto the lawn, although he might not be able to find me if he needs me? Oh, well. He could probably see me from the veranda. I’m going to go and lie down on the grass and roll in the mud. Fuck me. I lie on this lawn every day and it always feels different. The rain is pounding me into it, deeper and deeper, and the earth is moving, and I don’t know how I’m going to clean myself up without making a mess all over the house. Oh, well.
“Oi!”
“Oh!”
“Do you need a towel?”
“Umm, not right now?”
“Where are the towels?”
“What?”
“Where are the towels? I’ll put one out here! On the deck!”
“Ok? The towels are in the bathroom! Downstairs! Kind of behind the kitchen!”
“Ok!”
I wonder what he’s going to do once he has finished the task that he has created for himself.
“Here it is!”
“What?”
“I’ve put it here!”
“Ok?”
“It’s gotten so heavy!”
“What?”
“The rain!”
“Yeah!”
“Yeah!”
“It’s gotten so heavy!”
“I know!”
“What are you doing?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Umm!”
“Do you want to come down?”
“I don’t know!”
“Ok!”
“Should I?”
“I don’t know!”
“Fuck it! I’m coming down!”
“Really! Shit!”
“Yes! Really!”
“Look at you! Tearing off those pesky clothes!”
“Rahh!”
“Rahh!”
“Whoa! It’s so slippery! Shit! Almost fucking died just then!”
“Look.”
“You’re really getting into it.”
“It feels amazing. It’s so good for your skin.”
“Fuck! That does feel good. It’s so long since I’ve . . . felt mud. I’m not sure I’ve ever been able to, like, roll in it. Not even as a kid, I don’t think?”
“What?”
“I love the mud!”
“I know!”
His body is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. He’s looking at me now and a switch has gone off, or on, or something. I know that look. Yet it’s also a new look, because it’s coming from him. The rain suits him.
He just lay down next to me and put his hand on my stomach and he’s pressing it. Now it’s on my heart and wrapping itself around my neck. He’s brushed hair off my face, and everything is turning to mud and water. His hand is moving back down to my thighs, and he’s squeezing them, and his body is close enough to my body for me to be able to feel that he’s hard. I’m so happy not to be speaking. His dick is so insistent. I laughed and he didn’t hear, I don’t think, which is probably for the best.
He’s holding my tits with both hands, and kissing them, and sucking my nipples. Not with any teeth, though, which is nice. I hate it when the teeth come into play too soon and shock me out of feeling safe, and sensual, and soft. It’s just his lips and tongue. I’ve put my hands on his chest, and the hair is coarse, and curly, and tangled. He’s like a big, wet love heart. Such narrow hips! I didn’t realize how narrow his hips were. I just squeezed his bum. It’s so tense! There’s so much tightness in his bum. His shoulders have become all shiny, and slippery, and sinewy. I can taste bits of dirt in my mouth, and they’re crunchy.
I don’t want to have sex and I think he knows that. His hand is on my face, and I’ve taken his thumb into my mouth. Oh, his body, and his dick, and the fucking rain, and sucking on his fucking thumb. I’m going to close my eyes. Oh, no. His hand just went to my vagina. I clenched my thighs and he got the message and retreated. This is enough. This is . . . so much.
His eyes are tiny and squinty under the weight of the rain. His hair is falling in front of his face, and I want to kiss. I want to be in contact with everything that is precious about being a human being. There’s no hiding behind a kiss. During a really good kiss, there are no power struggles. It’s making out with humanness. It’s heaven on earth. It’s eyes open, and closed, and lips, and breath, and flesh, and stubble. Hopefully not enough to enter into rash territory. Just enough to be conscious of the fact that, yes, hair grows on this person’s face and, yes, he shaves it occasionally, and the last time he might have done so was about a week to ten days ago.
I love it when kisses twist and turn like this one. We’re a winding path, reading each other’s minds, and chasing each other’s faces. There are no knots. We’re coming undone. His hands are kissing the sides of my face, and neck, and hair, and the length of my arms, and he’s lifting up my lower back, and the lips of my vagina are swelling every time the length of his body presses against mine.
Not having sex can be so sexy. Now I’m curious about what it would feel like to have his hands in, and on, my vagina. I’m wondering about what it would be like to have his mouth on my vagina, and his penis inside of it, and our stomachs pressing together, and our thighs crushing at all different angles, and his hands grabbing and clenching at my arse cheeks, and at my stomach, and at my hips, and at my waist, and up, and down, and on top, and on the bottom, and all around, and everything. His lips are so full and plump, which is surprising. They don’t look as sumptuous as they feel.
Now I’m remembering this hot-yoga class I went to where the instructor walked around the room as we were doing downward dog and kept repeating, “It’s magic, it’s magic,” with a heavy Russian accent. “It’s magic, it’s magic.”
I’m so glad we didn’t kiss until it was right to kiss. Like, at the point when we couldn’t not kiss. We’ve gotten into such a rhythm. It’s become so relaxing.
He just poked his tongue into my mouth, and I poked mine back. He smiled, and I know that he did, because I felt his teeth. I’ve just wrapped my hand around his dick, and squeezed it. He moved his thighs slightly apart, so I put one hand around his balls, and tugged them. They’re
perfect, and the weight of his thighs is so comforting.
I don’t want to go any further. I don’t want his dick inside of me. There’s so much stimulation and nourishment already occurring. A dick in my vagina would subtract from that somehow. It would pierce the moment, rather than add to it. I’m a process, not an object, you know? Don’t just shove things in me. A man’s energy stays inside a woman’s body for up to a year, so. You know. It’s not something to be taken lightly.
My hand has fallen into quite a fluid and intuitive movement around his penis. I’m barely thinking about it. It’s at a bit of a strange angle. Although, I think that it must be putting pressure on all of the most tender and sensitive parts, because he’s quivering and losing concentration on the kissing. I’m crying, although the rain would conceal that from him.
I’ve often cried during sex. One guy was really into having rough intercourse, and my body would involuntarily weep at its commencement. Like, before I even had time to realize what was happening, I was wailing.
One night he was fucking me from behind and it seemed to be more sensual and sensitive than usual, and I remember noticing this, and feeling surprised and relieved, and then he thrust his penis into my arsehole, and I shrieked, and jolted forward, and I was shaking for hours afterward.
I mean, a dick is not a gun. It’s not a machine. It’s flesh. It’s relatively harmless. Yet the sense of intrusion, and invasion, was palpable. My arsehole ached for days and my mind reeled around the incident for years. He said that he felt terrible, and that I was clearly just “less confident” and “less experienced” in the bedroom than he was.
I’ve released my hand slightly and his forehead is now resting against mine. Maybe he sensed that I was crying? I’m not sure.
Another boyfriend hated it when I cried with joy during sex because he couldn’t do the same. It made him feel less divine, and upon realizing that I was crying, and that I loved him, he’d roll over, sigh, stand up, put on a T-shirt, and walk out of the room.
The rain is easing. I wonder if he wants to orgasm? He’s still hard. I might just tickle his penis a bit with my fingertips as we lie here. Actually, I might rub it all over myself first. It’s pulsating with so much energy and power. Apparently, putting a hard dick on your forehead is one of the best remedies for a headache.
The sky is so bright, and white, and the glare is super-intense. Oh, shit, he’s coming! When the rain comes, so does everything. His stomach is undulating, and his quads are tightening, and his eyes are shut, and his head has turned away, and the veins in his arms and neck have become pronounced, like powerful little rivers. He looks like he’s about to die.
“I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t get to come.”
“Oh, no. Don’t do that.”
“I’m exhausted.”
“Yeah.”
“Is it the middle of the day? Or?”
“It must be the afternoon by now.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Ok.”
“Hmm.”
“I’d . . . better get to my parents’ soon.”
“To help your mum with the Christmas cooking?”
“Yeah.”
“And her famous guac.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to have a shower before you leave or something?”
“Sure, yeah, that’d be good.”
“Ok.”
“The sun’s coming out.”
“Hmm.”
I can feel his heartbeat slowing. The dirt is drying and caking to my body. My skin feels like it’s pulling at itself. He only brought one towel out onto the veranda and now I’m having déjà vu. Fuck. I’m looking over and seeing Porkchop sitting at the door and it’s not the first time. It’s not the first time, nor is it the only time, or the last time. This has happened many, many times, and it will continue to happen again, and again, over and over, into infinity.
We’re going to have to share the towel. I might run inside and get my own. He only grabbed a mini-sized one from the bathroom for some reason, so our ability to hold each other inside of it is distinctly limited. Although, he seems a bit distant, anyway. He probably needs space, which I can understand. Ejaculation takes a lot out of a guy. I almost feel bad about it. The idea of it seems pleasurable, and in the moment it can seem like a release, and then they lose so much life force.
Now his body is attempting to recover and muster up some energy again. I wonder if he ejaculates regularly, or how long it’s been since he last did. Some men come all of the time, and others look like if they came too much, or too regularly, they’d keel over and be unable to function.
“I’m just going to go inside and get another towel.”
“Oh, ok, sorry?”
“That’s ok. I’ll just be a sec.”
“I’ll follow you.”
“Ok.”
“Hey? What’s in there?”
“Oh. That’s my parents’ bedroom.”
“The door was open, I didn’t mean to—”
“The wind must’ve opened it.”
“Oh.”
“Did you . . . ”
“No, no.”
“I can show you, if you want?”
“No. Truly.”
“It’s fine. Come in.”
“Is this . . . how they left it?”
“Yeah.”
“Holy shit.”
“There’s a chair just behind you.”
“Ok, thanks. Umm. Fuck, sorry, I got dirt on it!”
“Sorry. Go and get yourself a towel or whatever?”
“Ok. Are you going to be all right if I leave you in here for a sec?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Ok.”
55.
Oh, no. This can’t be good. He’s literally sitting in my parents’ bedroom, naked, covered in dirt. I hope I don’t faint. Once, after a third date, I was so overcome with receiving focused, positive attention from someone else that I swooned on the bathroom floor in the middle of the night. I went to the toilet, looked in the mirror, and woke up on the tiles with huge, bleeding scratches across my back from where I had hit the edge of the cabinet as I plummeted downward.
“So, why is it . . . like this? Why is their room still like this?”
“Umm. Well. I emptied most of the house when they died. I burned a lot of stuff, and I gave a lot to charity and to different archives. The only rooms I’ve left the same are this one and Dad’s writing room. All of the others are empty, or I’ve turned them into spaces that have new meaning for me. The Christmas presents I get for myself each year fill the rooms with new things. This door is usually shut. So. Yeah.”
“Fuck.”
“Hmm.”
“The bedside clock is broken?”
“Yeah.”
“Death is . . . weird.”
“Hmm.”
“The way people just . . . vanish. And, like, leave shit behind. It’s creepy.”
“I know. I often think about it in terms of aliens. Like, we appear on this planet, and then we just . . . disappear. Poof. We can’t be explained. It’s funny how we wonder about whether or not aliens exist and, you know. All we need to do is look in the mirror. Like, hello. Here we are.”
“Trippy.”
“Hmm.”
“Can I see some other rooms?”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Now?”
“Yeah. Is that ok?”
“Umm.”
“Not all of them, or anything. Just . . . one that might . . . I don’t know. Leave with me a different impression. This one is . . . intense.�
�
“Ok.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I know the one. Follow me.”
56.
I’m going to take him into the room behind the living room. The doorway to it is concealed by the Christmas tree. Although, no one has ever really noticed the door before. They’ve never had the sense that they’re missing out on anything. Usually, after encountering the rose garden, and the altar, and the fountain, people are sufficiently inundated and ready to leave. Or they just want to watch TV, and lie by the pool, and get food delivered.
No one has ever seen my parents’ bedroom, either. Nor have they ever rolled around in the mud or the rain with me. Given that, I feel compelled to offer him access to the room behind the living room, if he wants it. I had it built the first Christmas after Mum and Dad died. It takes quite a bit to maintain, and I suspect that’s why I had it constructed. It provided a very wholesome distraction.
The room itself is heavily insulated and it emulates the tropical climate of North Queensland. I go in there almost every morning and water down all of the plants, and check the temperature, and make adjustments if necessary. In the summer it’s easier to keep at about eighty-five degrees, because it’s so hot outside. Then, each night, I let it cool down a bit. Not too much. The humidity is always around sixty to seventy percent.
All four walls of the room—and the floor and the door—are painted yellow. The ceiling is made of thick glass. The room is filled with hot-pink Pentas plants, and bright-orange Ixora flowers, and fluffy Melicopes, and Euodia trees. There are some voluptuous ice-cream bean trees and pagoda plants, too, and the mistletoe is going cray-cray right now. As are the figs. I must remember to pick some. Figs are very sexy. There are also quite a few juicy little white mulberries emerging, and the leaves of the basswood are at their darkest and deepest green. It’s actually the perfect time for him to be seeing the room.
“I didn’t notice that door?”
“No.”
“Is Porkchop allowed in?”
“Ah, no. Off you go, mate. Ok. So. You might get a shock at first. Umm. There’s nothing in here that can harm you, ok?”
“Ok?”