The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine (3 page)

‘You're not going to take your clothes off?'

‘No,' he said. ‘Not in public. You know I can't.'

‘Can't?' Her fingers had found their way into the crevice between the buttons. ‘Or
won't?'

Craig did not answer. Instead Holly heard a low moan as Tess began to pop one button
after another. She could see the renewed vigour of him, the swelling pushing his
underpants out and up through his fly. The girl bobbed forward, lowered her head.
Holly couldn't tell if she was sucking him through the fabric or if there was some
kind of opening to slip his penis through. All she could see was the bobbing of Tess's
head as she moved her mouth up and down.

Distracted, Craig let his lover lift his shirt, not all the way up but far enough
so that Holly could see the pale swell of skin, the dark covering of hair across
the curve of his stomach. He was a large boy and there were stretchmarks etching
his flesh like wounds, shining silvery in the moonlight. Strangely, these marks aroused
her even more. She imagined her tongue tracing the lines as a finger might pick out
a path on a map. She would reach the underhang of the belly and her tongue would
poke up into the folds of flesh there as if she were exploring the cleft between
buttocks or the smooth overhang of her own breasts. She wanted to see this boy, Craig,
this man she had never even met, she wanted to see him naked. The little glimpse
of his flesh left her hungry for more.

Holly was leaning forward, watching the slow creep of Tess's hands as she stretched
his fly wide and pushed the jeans back from his thick hips. She was aroused despite
herself and, watching the scene unfolding in front of her, she allowed her breath
to become heavy. She shifted restlessly, knowing that the slipperiness between her
legs would be a beacon. If she were
naked they might use her to warn ships away from
treacherous rocks. It was only her dress that saved her from beaming her lust to
everyone at the party.

A movement at the top of the stairs distracted her. Three girls, women now but she
still remembered them as children. Her friends. Together they were a froth of long
hair curling like yellow silk ribbons, pale faces perfectly made up. Each of their
exquisitely proportioned bodies draped in water-colour pink, blue, green. They were
a Monet canvas glowing beneath a soft tangle of fairy lights. They descended the
stairs and god, they really were fascinating to watch, each with a dress of a different
pastel hue, coral pink, pale anemone green. The dresses floated gently with their
delicate steps, their skin shone. Their hair brushed to a frenzy of light static.
It seemed as if they were descending through water into the murky depths.

In a few more steps they would see the lovers, Tess's tight little breasts, Craig's
stretched and swelling stomach. She knew suddenly how her friends would see the couple,
their imperfect bodies, their daggy clothes. Their unforgivably unchaste behaviour.
She knew her friends wouldn't find the scene exciting, as she did. They would stand
in judgment, laughing at the mismatched pair, picking the scene apart later with
not even a nod to the eroticism of the moment. Holly felt suddenly protective of
the couple.

She stood, knowing that her quick movement would attract their attention. She stepped
forward into the night and heard the frantic churning of the water as Tess slipped
up and out, scrambling to pull her light frock over her damp shoulders. Holly waved
to her friends and they skipped lightly down the stairs. She could smell their sweetness
before they reached her,
just too light to be cloying, and she merged with them,
her own perfume sticky sweet. She belonged in their soft, powdered embrace.

When the girls were seven years old they had all bought rings from a bubblegum machine.
The rings were bright and smelled chemical sweet. Holly could still remember the
taste of her finger, sugary, as she sucked it. They called themselves Charlie's Angels
although there were too many of them. They held their rings together, four little
arms, raised in a pledge.
We belong to Charlie,
their loyalty captured by an imaginary
man. Years later they replaced the plastic rings with silver ones.
True love waits
.
A pledge to yet more imaginary men. Their future husbands.

Now the Angels handed her champagne in a plastic flute. When they clicked their glasses
together it was the same plastic clicking sound that their angel rings had made.
She belonged to them. Holly glanced back at the shimmering surface of the pool. Her
own sex would be just like any other now. The phosphorescence of her desire never
lasted, but still, she felt this one terrible secret separated her from her friends.

‘We lost you.' Jennifer reached out to stroke her shoulder. Holly glanced past them
to where there was nothing but damp footprints marking the rocks beside the pool.
The lovers had fled. She was glad despite the little wave of disappointment that
rushed through her. She still felt heady from the voyeuristic encounter; her fingers
tingled.

‘I was just getting some air.'

Jennifer squeezed her shoulders fondly. ‘We can swim later,' she said slyly. ‘We
can swim in our underwear. We've all got our good underwear on, right?'

The girls all nodded, golden hair floating in the warm night breeze. They could hear
the deep bass thud of the music. Jennifer kicked her shoes off and began to sway.
She held out her hands, and gripped Holly's. She twirled her out and Holly's blue
skirt kicked up like the body of a jellyfish, her dark hair fanning out around her
face. She heard a clear whistle of admiration and stepped away from Jennifer, glancing
up to the balcony above them. Jack was staring down at her, admiring.

He was terribly handsome, his chiselled face framed by the warm glow of his red hair
and beard. He grinned and she imagined the tickle of his beard on the soft skin
between her legs. She closed her eyes. She was feeling a little dizzy. She felt herself
sway and Jennifer quickly steadied her, one arm around her shoulders for support.
Holly knew her nipples must be visible, erect under the delicate silk of her dress.
She crossed her arms over her chest.

‘You are such a lightweight,' Jennifer grinned. ‘Three champagnes…'

‘I should probably go home.'

Jennifer looked at her Chanel watch, pink sapphires glinting under the fairy lights.
‘Oh my god. It is almost morning.'

‘Your carriage awaits you, ma'am.'

Jack was beside her, his elbow angled towards her. Holly took hold of it. He was
strong and steady. She remembered the sight of Craig's soft silvered flesh. There
was really no comparison, and yet when they walked past his damp footprints, Holly
could feel the dampness between her legs, the tingling of her reignited desire.

Holly sank into the soft leather of Jack's passenger seat. She toyed with the ring
on her finger, spinning it in slow circles as
he eased the car out of the driveway.
She glanced nervously at Jack's lap, remembering the bulge in Craig's jeans, the
swell of his desire. It would be so easy to lower her head into his lap as Tess had
done. She rested her cheek against the cold glass of the passenger window.

True love waits.

She closed her eyes and let Jack swing the car around the suburban streets, the movement
of it like a cradle rocking her to sleep. She dreamed of a pool, a girl, a boy, a
head bobbing up and down, up and down.

Jack touched her gently on the arm and Holly flinched.

‘Your chariot has arrived, princess.'

She waited till Jack walked around to her side and opened the door. The sky was pink-tinged,
a pre-dawn glow. He helped her clamber out of the car and she hugged him, pressing
the taut buds of her nipples against his chest. When she tilted her face up he leaned
down to kiss her. Holly closed her eyes, opened her mouth. Jack pulled away.

‘Woah, tiger!' He held her at arm's distance. For a moment it seemed to her that
he was afraid. He stepped away from her somewhat warily. ‘One too many champagnes?'

Holly nodded, chastised. ‘Thanks for the lift.'

He smiled and patted her on the shoulder. ‘No problem princess. Sleep tight. I'll
meet you at mine tomorrow night?'

‘Oh. That's right. Valentine's Day.' As if she might have forgotten. ‘Where are you
taking me?'

‘A secret. Someplace nice. Wear a pretty dress.' He laughed. ‘You always do.'

She stood at her door and watched his car speed off and around the corner. Red like
his beard, long and sleek as his
body. He was right to push her away. She shouldn't
have been so forward. Her open-mouthed kiss spoke of sex. She remembered the lovers,
Tess and Craig, and heard a sound, a deep, guttural animal growl. She glanced around,
startled, before she realised that the sound had come from her own throat.

True love waits. She shut the door quietly behind her and crept up the thick carpet
of the staircase to her room. The growl again, a little louder. She dropped heavily
to her bed and pulled her silk skirt up to her waist. The glow of her vulva was brighter
than the waning moon. She pressed the palm of her hand against herself. The strange
phosphorescence of her desire stained her fingers. She imagined Jack's lap where
Craig's had been, her own head replacing Tess's. Her inner thighs were damp and shining.
She heard the call of a morning bird, a strange sad song ever repeated. If the bird
glanced through her window now he would see the sunrise reflected in the V of her
crotch.

True love waits.

Holly forced herself to remove her fingers from the slippery lips of her vulva. Her
abstinence ring was slick and bright. She was filled up with the torturous dripping
of her own desire, ineluctable. The honey of her longing was leaking from her. Pain,
but pleasure with it. She would wait. Jack was everything she ever wanted. Jack was
handsome, patient, kind. She turned over, pressed her head into her pillow and groaned
in frustration. The currawong hopped closer to her window, peered inside and watched
her frantic panting grow calmer as she plummeted into sleep. He tipped his head and
peered at her with one golden eye as the sun rose up over Clayfield and illuminated
the perfect peach of Holly's naked arse.

The House of the Sleeping Beauties

by
YASUNARI KAWABATA

Holly woke to flowers. She was loved; the flowers proved this to her.

A dozen long-stemmed roses, deep crimson, and a long, white box like a coffin for
a baby. The flowers inside were so perfect she was afraid to touch them. She put
the little flower-coffin down on the kitchen table and lowered her head into it.
No smell at all, and the flowers so perfect that they might be made of wax. She touched
a downy petal, succulent and soft as velvet, and snatched her hand back quickly in
case the petal should bruise under the light press of her fingers.

The card said
Happy Valentine's Day.

Her mother emerged, damp from the shower, the crisp white robe spotted at the shoulder
with drops from her hair. Her father was not far behind her, swooping in from the
corridor like a wild bird, his hands alighting on his wife, fingers like claws,
his other hand gripping her thin waist. The hungry
beak of a mouth biting into her
neck.

Her mother laughed, then pulled away from him, nodding towards Holly with her damp
head. Holly was being spared any hint of passion, for which she was relieved. She
picked the roses roughly from their coffin and wrestled them into a vase. A single
petal fell from one of the perfect flower heads and landed prosaically in the sink.

‘They're beautiful.' Her mother reached out but couldn't bring herself to touch them.
‘You and Jack doing anything for Valentine's Day?'

‘Dinner,' Holly said. ‘He's taking me somewhere special, a surprise.'

‘He's so sweet,' her mother said, tipping her head to one side as if she were admiring
a puppy or a small child. ‘Your father and I are so happy for you.'

‘Don't wait up for us.' Her father winked playfully at her mother. ‘I have a feeling
we might stay out late.'

She didn't want to imagine the passion her parents still shared but it was impossible
not to. They were always touching, holding hands, little kisses exchanged furtively
in the corridor, but if they noticed her watching they would spring apart as if they
had been involved in some illegal activity. When she married Jack she would be treated
to the same simmering life of carnality. Sooner or later it would be hers. She hoped
it would be sooner.

‘You're lucky to have found Mr Right so young,' her mother said, stroking one of
the rose leaves between her fingers.

Holly nodded. Everyone who saw them together knew that this was true.
It would be
hard, being single on Valentine's Day. The streets were awash with romance. Flowers,
chocolates, little packages tied up with red ribbon clutched in the sweaty palms
of teenage boys. Couples kissing in cafés, on park benches, fingers intertwined.
Holly was familiar with the state of being in love, she liked its sweetness. There
was a certain innocence about Valentine's Day, a playground kind of fondness relating
to the heart but not the body.

She walked through a city in love and knew that without Jack she would feel an outcast.

Bookshops displayed their bestselling romance titles in the window, chocolate shops
placed their delights in heart-shaped boxes, florists carried only red flowers, roses,
carnations, tulips, the colour of love.

It was the flash of electric blue that caught her attention. The shop was tiny but
the peephole of a window was decked out for Valentine's Day in blue. Not red for
love or pink for girlish blushes. Bright, stabbing blue. Holly felt a little uneasy.
This was a shop filled with the forbidden accessories of desire—a sequined bra, the
flash of a blue g-string, little cups with tassels, all of them the secret colour
of her own excitement. Holly leaned closer to the window. It was impossible to tell
what the little tasselled circles might be used for but whatever it was, it had the
whiff of sex about it.