That night as we got ready for bed, Melissa put on a PETA, anti-McDonald’s T-shirt, a picture of the skinned head of a cow that said “Want Fries with That?” And there was a sticker on it, faded by numerous washings but still clinging on, of an evil Ronald McDonald with a bloody knife and the words “Your unhappy meal is ready. McCruelty to go.”
“Oh my God, Melissa,” I said, staring at the horrible picture. “That shirt is okay to sleep in when you’re alone, but Christ, I can’t fall asleep next to that.” I was wearing my tasteful Clash “I’m So Bored with the USA” T-shirt.
Melissa pulled the shirt over her head, exchanging it for one of my old ACT UP T-shirts that said “Say It!!! / Women Get AIDS / ACT UP” in black letters. I’d started keeping my clothes in her bedroom. “I suppose you can tell it’s been a while since I’ve really slept with someone,” Melissa said a little self-consciously as she stood beside the bed.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Why do you ask?”
“A lot’s been happening so fast lately—between us, the war. I worry about you.”
“You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Christ, let someone worry about you. Let me take care of you.”
“Amanda, I don’t need to be taken care of. What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m not over you being raped,” I said, unable to meet her eyes. “I know it’s stupid, but I feel bad I wasn’t there to stop it. Or at least to help you afterwards. I can’t bear it, thinking of you all alone in a kind of pain I cannot even fathom. I feel guilty you went through it instead of me.”
“Why? Would you be able to handle it better than I did?” Melissa snapped.
“Are you angry?”
“Well, the subject pisses me off. I don’t need to deal with your guilt. That’s your own thing, innit?”
“I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me.”
“Kid,” she said more softly, “I can be pissed off at you. It doesn’t mean anything. I feel bad you had to deal with your psychiatric shite as well, you know. That isn’t a pleasant thought either. But I can’t make it not have happened. I can only love you now.”
I blurted out, “But what about Rwanda?”
“What? For fuck’s sake, the genocide? What’s that got to do with it?”
“Remember how the United States kept calling it ‘acts of genocide’ instead of ‘genocide’ so we could pretend we weren’t morally responsible to stop it? Remember how the whole world turned away and let everybody die? Remember how the surviving women were raped and infected with HIV? And what about rape in the Democratic Republic of the Congo? What about the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia?”
“Jesus, love.” Melissa looked concerned. “Where’s this coming from?”
“In 1994 I was completely obsessed with finishing my degree. When Rwanda happened, I wasn’t even aware of it. I did nothing. All I did about Bosnia was cry. I’m doing nothing about the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and now there’s genocide in Sudan. And I’m Jewish. Every Passover we think about the holocaust and say, never again. It could just as easily have been me born a Tutsi at the wrong time in Rwanda.”
“But it wasn’t. I don’t know what you can do about that.” Melissa sat next to me on the bed. “Is this what’s going on in your head all the time? You went from my being raped to Rwanda in about thirty seconds.”
“It’s how my mind works,” I said. “Don’t you see the connections?”
Melissa paused. “I do.”
“Welcome to the wonderful world of OCD. Or at least my OCD. Like many people with this illness, I am of above-average intelligence, feel an exaggerated sense of moral responsibly, and have a heightened concern with social justice. I’m responsible for everything that happens. Didn’t I tell you that?”
“Yes, but I didn’t understand the intensity of that aspect of it. Is that what keeps you awake at night?”
“You sound like a doctor,” I said tetchily.
“I am your doctor.” Melissa rearranged the pillows to make me more comfortable. “And your friend. And your—never mind, I don’t know what I am. Have you ever gone higher on your Prozac?”
“I can’t go higher on the Prozac. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with seeing the connections between everything. You can’t medicate away social responsibility. It’s not right.”
“No, but it’s a problem if it stops you from functioning or sleeping. If you truly think you are the world’s conscience, no wonder you can’t sleep. And why not take more Prozac when you’re feeling this anxious?”
I was embarrassed. “Because if I take a larger dose I can’t—oh God, I can’t believe we are having this conversation.”
“I don’t have to be the one prescribing for you,” Melissa said. “You can go to another doctor. It wouldn’t hurt my feelings. It’s what we should have done anyway. I never should have thought—it’s completely wrong.”
“Please don’t say that,” I implored. “I’ll tell you.”
“But ethically—”
“Stop it. You’re the most ethical person I know. Besides, the whole doctor thing, it’s dead sexy, you know?” I waited for her to smile. She didn’t. “I’ve spent enough of my life in the subdued hues of psychiatrists’ waiting rooms.”
“Amanda—”
“If I fall down, you bandage me up. It’s natural. There’s nothing wrong with it. I can tell you anything. And you’re kind. If I go any higher on the Prozac,” I said resolutely, “I can’t—I can’t achieve, I cannot, you know, come.”
“Some ginkgo biloba could help with that,” Melissa said matter-of-factly.
“Really?” I moved over so Melissa could slide into bed next to me.
“Really. And you’re right. Genocide is a good reason for not sleeping. You’re hyperaware of connections. I just get worried about you sometimes.” She kissed my ear softly and whispered, “But sweetie, I don’t want to be your doctor tonight. I want to be your lover. Only I’ve never done this before, and I’m really nervous I’ll fuck it up.”
“Shit,” I said, and we both started laughing, “that’s so romantic.”
Melissa said, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”
“Honey,” I said, “you couldn’t.” And I started singing “Hey Jude” by the Beatles. “‘Hey Jude, don’t be afraid. / You were made to go out and get her.’”
Melissa nuzzled my neck. “That doesn’t help me.”
“‘And don’t you know that it’s just you,’” I whispered, “‘hey Jude, you’ll do, / the movement you need is on your shoulder.’”
“I don’t know what the fuck that means, but ta. Our Paul’s a romantic bugger. He and Linda McCartney have done so much for animal rights. I wish she were still alive.”
“Me, too. Melissa, do you really want to be with me?”
“Yes, very much.” Melissa’s arms went around me, and I rubbed my cheek against her soft sleeve. She kissed my eyelids. “You’ll tell me what you like, if what I’m doing doesn’t feel good to you. And you’ll tell me if you’re not ready.”
I immediately thought of the song “You’re Ready Now” by the Manchester punk band Slaughter and the Dogs. That entire, huge last chorus started resonating in my brain, mocking me:
You’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now / you’re ready now.
Melissa was speaking to me quietly. She helped me off with my T-shirt and massaged my neck and shoulders. I started to calm down. In my head, “You’re Ready Now” got less frantic. Melissa turned me over and massaged my hands and breasts. “You’re Ready Now” began to sound more triumphant and less like a threat. What she was doing was so lovely I felt myself relaxing into her touch. She massaged my legs and feet. When she massaged my inner thighs, I thought I was going to die from pleasure. She slipped off my knickers, and I felt her tongue gently caress me. “You’re ready now” was replaced by “oh my God.” I felt her hands on my nipples. The pleasure intensified. I am now at the hub of the universe.
This felt way more intimate than making love with anybody else ever had. I could really feel her loving me as we made love. I held on tightly to one of Melissa’s hands. “Oh God, Melissa,” I gasped, flushed through with the sweetest feeling. I came and came again. I never did that. I pulled Melissa up beside me. “I need you here,” I said.
Melissa continued to touch me. “You know I love you, don’t you, love?” she whispered, and I moaned, my body responding to her words.
“Jesus, what are you doing? I can’t believe you feel this good. God, Melissa.” Finally I held Melissa’s hand to make her stop. “Oh my God.” I collapsed against her, my whole body throbbing with waves of pleasure. “Okay, okay,” I said, kissing her fingers, “you’ve made your point. Jesus.” I fell against the pillows, letting out a huge breath. “You’re bloody brilliant.”
“Sweetheart,” Melissa murmured. She wrapped her arms around me and held me as tightly as she could.
“That’s it,” I said. “I belong to you. It might not be politically correct to say so, but I do. It’s like really having sex for the first time. Nobody has ever made me feel like that. I love the way you touch me. You’re so tender and sweet.”
“I love the way your body responds to me,” Melissa said.
I started caressing her gently. “Making love with you is like living on God,” I said.