When Paul’s face
appeared, hovering anxiously at her hospital window, Jessica was very annoyed
with her mother.
‘That
poor boy. Look at him. He loves you.’
‘Send
him away, mum.’
‘I
can’t understand it,’ said Susan.
There
was no easy way to explain her rejection of Paul, the father of her unborn
child - who loved her - to her mother. It was all tied up in orgasms.
Whenever Jessica
visualised her orgasms (as she often did, subconsciously, and usually at the
moment of their occurrence), she thought in colour. Each one was a mass of pink
and red, like the glow in front of your eyes when you close them and turn your
face up to the sun. As she drew close to the edge, a tiny white circle of light
would appear in the blush. In order to achieve the fleeting stabs of pleasure that
were the top prize of each frantic endeavour, it was necessary to touch
the light at exactly the right moment, with the correct amount of pressure; in
doing so, the spot would grow brighter, more focussed, and eventually split the
rosy haze.
When she met Paul,
Jessica had made the unpleasant discovery that it was possible to have an
orgasm that was devoid of any pleasurable sensation whatsoever. Paul never touched
the white light – never came close - but sometimes, when he was especially
diligent in his efforts to stimulate her, Jessica would go suddenly
numb; the orgasm had come and gone without announcing itself, and the little white
spot would pale and fade as soon as it had appeared. No screams. No light. No
relief.
There wasn’t much worse.
The
unbearable frustration of it all aside, Jessica was squeamish, and the thought
of these phantom climaxes made her uneasy. When she slipped on her underwear soon afterwards - as she always did with Paul - she could not bear the feeling
of the thin net material against her. The skin that covered her engorged clitoris felt thin, stretched to the point of translucency. She would be spent for at
least three hours, and yet had been robbed of the heady dose of dopamine and
the pleasant smarting sensation that accompanied her real, blinding orgasms, which had only ever been achieved when she
was alone. When she went for a pee after sex with Paul, there was always a twinge,
at exactly the spot he should have hit. By pushing harder, she somehow hoped to
trigger the lost throes. Eventually, she’d give up, pissing out yet another
near miss.
At length, after Paul had
been dispatched, Jessica’s baby fell out of her. He was vividly coloured: red and yellow and
blue, but quiet. Jessica, delirious and exhausted, giggled up at her mother as
a doctor whisked him away.
‘Start
as you mean to go on.’
Susan
stared down at her daughter tremulously.
‘What
do you mean?’
‘Another
night owl. Sorry mum.’
Jessica slipped out of consciousness
for a moment. When she woke, she cat-called the midwife in her lairy Friday
night voice.
‘Let
me have him! I don’t care about the slime.’
Looks
were exchanged. Pros and cons weighed up in seconds. This happened sometimes.
They were used to it.
Eventually, the tiny
purple body was placed gravely into Jessica’s arms. She held him happily for a
moment, before her head rolled back, and she fell into a deep sleep. Susan
caught the baby just in time. She threw up bile into the bedside sink as she
imagined his head bruising, or not bruising. She wasn’t sure if you could still
bruise when your heart had stopped.
In her dream, Jessica is
about twelve, on holiday with her mother and sister. She lolls around on a
jetty, jutting out from the sand to kiss a glittering pink sea. She is bored and too hot, in her
mother’s huge white pants. She jumps into the water, and cuts her foot on a
stone. It's sore, but there is something pleasant about the way the blood
feels, flowing freely from the puncture in her heel. Lots of it. Enough that the
water around her foot feels warm. Her head feels warm, too. She has never
fainted before. She wonders if you can faint
in water. Her mother and sister’s voices bleat down at her. She leans her head
back, and lets her hair billow around, like the blood. As consciousness drains
from her, she pictures herself in a film, camera below her, picking up the
beautiful colours of her mermaid body.
When
she wakes up, she is being held aloft by strong arms. They lay her down onto a
terracotta floor. It is porous and warm, as though it’s been sucking in the sun
all day. When she opens her eyes, they are met with the steady, calm stare of a
man. Above his head, the sun splits a rosy cloud. She smiles, and stretches her arms up to him. She feels that if she is
taken away from him, away from the terracotta, she will be cold, and unable to
warm up again. She feels a woman’s hand on her face; it is too thin and
feminine for this moment. She brushes it away. The man reaches down, and places his own hands
on her temples, and holds them there. No one, not her mother, could ever protect
her like this man.
She gurgles happily, and
rolls over on the terracotta, so that her cheek can rest against it. The tiles
become spherical; she wraps her arms and legs around them. The dream landscape
shifts; she is older, back in her hospital bed. She clutches the terracotta
sphere to her stomach. It changes; becomes skin. Her skin. Her bump. The man who
pulled her from the Spanish water stands over her.
‘I’m all
sweaty,’ she says, holding her arms up to him. She likes the way she sounds
when she says it. He puts his hands on either side of her head, at her temples,
and holds them there.
