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It’s Easter lunch. Your extended family gather around the trestle-tables, opinions spilling from their lips. That’s our catalyst, of sorts. But your story began long before you sat down on the fold-out chair next to your younger cousin, Amy. It started back in high school, when your P.E. teacher—with the fluffy blonde hair who exclusively wore tight-fitting velour tracksuits—started to talk about sex. A nervous hush engulfed your classroom. She informed you about the neighbouring boy’s school, how you girls would soon fawn over them, how this was natural, to proceed with caution. The giggles grew louder, but you weren’t laughing. You had no interest in talking to boys—and to say they were attractive? That was absurd. You knew you were misplaced but knew better than to bring it up. Constantly Googling “how to tell if you’re a lesbian?” despite knowing you felt the same about girls as you did boys. You laughed along when people said how amazing Channing Tatum was, and pretended your love for Chris Hemsworth wasn’t due to him starring in a Marvel film.
You realised the profound awkwardness at watching sex scenes wasn’t to do with your parents on the nearby couch. Most of the time, you could ignore it. But the disconnect would pop up every time a sexy woman beckoned you into the advertisement, every time a friend would boast about having sex, every time someone called you a virgin.
Amy whispers something that makes you almost drop the special Easter chicken (nine dollars from Coles) and tongs into the gravy boat.
“I’ve done it, Red. The V card is gone.”
She’s excited. You’re uncertain how to respond. You don’t get why it’s news, or why she’s telling you, but nod anyway, even throwing in an “Oh! Wow!” for decoration.
“You’re next. You’re the last one. The only one here who is still a”—she drops her voice an octave—“virgin.”
Your face goes red—the reason for your nickname. Glancing around the table, everyone is in deep conversation. Your mother is talking to her brother, Tom. They resemble chattering birds. Your grandad is nodding along to whatever your brother Chris is saying. Your father is also part of that conversation but looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else. Grace, your sister, and your youngest cousin, Cherry, are in deep discussion about mountain goats. Aunty Millie isn’t talking to anyone. She’s staring directly at you. It always seems like her life goal is to make your life difficult. Your face burns.
“Aw, little Red,” Aunty Millie calls across the table, directing everyone’s eyes towards you. “What did Amy say?”
You look to Amy, hoping she’ll throw you a bone.
“I was just telling her I lost my virginity,” she says.
“Oh!” Grace chirps. “Congratulations! It’s about bloody time!”
“Thanks!” Amy smiles in that vaguely condescending way. “Red’s only red, because I asked her when she’s planning on losing hers.”
You want to vomit.
“We’re thinking she’s a lost cause. She’s nearly twenty-three and virgining all over the place,” your mother says.
“Come on Mum,” Chris, says with a snort. “She’s the youngest of the three of us. It’s not her fault we set the precedent for losing it at fifteen!”
The whole table erupts into hearty laughter.
Your face is approximately two degrees hotter than the sun. “There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin. Jesus’ mum was a virgin, and aren’t we here celebrating Jesus today?”
Your family may as well have been replaced by a pack of hyenas, they’re cackling so loud.
Feeling your life expectancy dropping exponentially, it’s almost a relief when the younger-and-no-longer-virginal Amy says, “Wait . . . are you a lesbian, Red?”
When you don’t answer immediately, Chris assures you there’s nothing wrong with being a lesbian. He has friends who are lesbians. You’re almost comforted until he says: “But those girls are at it like rabbits. Such stamina. You’ll be able to lose it that way, too, Red. No biggie.”
“I’m a virgin. I don’t care about sex. It’s not the end of the fucking world!” You shovel peas and chicken into your mouth before you say anything else, and Grandad somehow diverts the conversation to plastic bags. He gives you the trademark wink he saves, special, for when he helps you out.
When the hubbub of chatter reignites, Amy whispers, “It’ll happen for you one of these days,” her voice still tinged with the superior flavour of an “experienced woman.”
“If it does, I’ll make sure not to tell you.” The words come out more bitter than intended. You don’t apologise.
“Prude,” Amy mutters, but you hear it. It stings.
As soon as Grace starts collecting empty plates, you slip past everyone in the dining room, cross the hallway, and shut yourself in your bedroom. The carpet itches your feet. Running a hand along the bedside table and grabbing your phone, you take a seat on the bed. You want to scream or cry or die, but it’s too hard to choose which.
As usual, Google’s recommendation to fix an inactive sex drive involves eating a balanced diet, taking antidepressants, and masturbation.
It doesn’t have any suggestions for how to make your family get off your back about something that doesn’t impact them. Google can’t explain how to be okay with the way you are—it can’t even explain the way you are without trying to force medical treatments down your throat. You’re tired of stressing over that Mayo Clinic article which labelled you with Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder.
Someone knocks at the door, and you hope it’s Amy. Maybe coming to apologise for the public humiliation. Or wanting an apology for snapping at her. You want it to be Amy from months ago, virginity intact. Amy who used to stay up late with you and deconstruct romantic comedy tropes. Amy who didn’t think having sex entitled her to a superiority complex. Amy who cared and didn’t make you feel alone.
The door opens. It isn’t Amy. It’s Grandad. He leans against the doorframe. He’s in the same checkered suit-vest and trousers he always wears—you and your cousins used to think he was like a cartoon character, with one outfit only.
“Alright, Red?” Your name always sounds safest on his tongue.
“Can you tell me another story, Grandad?” You scoot over on the bed to make space for him. “The last one about Vasilisa and Baba-Yaga got me through this week.”
He straightens his back and smiles. “You’re the only one who still cares for my stories.”
You shrug. “You tell them like they’re real.”
Shutting the door, he sits on the bed. Even sitting, he’s tall. His moustache is in line with your eyebrows. “Red, I think it’s time you heard about the old Bundeena Quest.”
You squint up at him. “A quest?”
“When I was young, there used to be a grand tradition. Every kid from Cronulla knew about it,” he says. “On your eighteenth birthday, your friends would come together. As a group, you’d cross the river and head to Bundeena. The stories started before the ferry, back when you had to paddle across Port Hacking in dinghies, but it took on a life of its own once you could board the Curranulla. Once you’d get there, you’d find the special entrance and hike into the national park. There was a magical track to follow, and at the end, you’d find a little house.”
“Was it a witch’s house?”
“It was the house of Grandmother Love.”
You roll your eyes and he taps you on the nose with a finger, like he did when you were a child.
“She’d tell your future. If you were to marry or divorce. She predicted your grandmother and I would meet in a supermarket. She knew we’d have a marvellous life, with two annoying children, and love each other until the end . . . Grandmother Love never was wrong . . .” He pauses a moment for reflection. “Back then, over sixty years ago, Grandmother Love knew my brother would end up with his husband. Their relationship was illegal for decades, yet she knew they’d be happy together.”
How wonderful, you think, to love one person for your whole life. How wonderful to never be alone because you’re different.
“The Bundeena Quest died out years ago—they built a road into Bundeena, and the mystery vanished. Your parents’ generation don’t believe in anything magical . . . But I know you do, Red.”
“You think I should go on this quest?”
“If you try, if you believe, if you trust, you will find the answer. Magic is everywhere, if you know where to look . . . But don’t go alone—it’s dangerous. Take Amy.”
You think about Amy’s smug expression over lunch and about finding out who you truly are. You think you have nothing to lose.
“I’m gonna go.”
“My little Red,” he says. “It’s time you found a little bit of magic.”
***
Nodding thanks to the crew member at the exit, you step over the gap between ferry and port. Following the crowd of towel-holding tourists up to the concrete walkway, you glimpse the street sign Grandad mentioned, and turn left down the empty stretch of road.
You walk at a considerable pace, mesmerised by the glamourous houses, and the snapshots of luminescent water between rooftops. You soon reach the end of the street, where a sign points to Jibbon beach, and half-climb half stumble down the sandy embankment to get to it.
The national park entrance is marked by two grand and blackened eucalypts, resembling what Grandad explained. As instructed, you pull a box of matches from your pocket and light one, placing it in the space between the trees. The sandy ground is littered with dozens of singed matches.
When the fire goes out, you say, “Woman of the woods. Godmother. Grandmother Love. Guide my feet to the future I seek. Bring me to your cottage door.” You strike a second match, lay it between the trees. The flame goes out and you take a deep breath.
You cross the threshold.
Twigs crunch helplessly beneath your feet as you follow the leafy path. Nothing is a match for your Doc Martens, but prickly ferns snarl and scratch at your bare legs. The sun slips further behind the branches with each step. Tree trunks change from eucalypt grey to a darker brown. Ferns become more shrub-like, with deep, peculiar shades of green . . . fairy tale green. You try to ignore it, keeping your feet steady on the path—but was it normal for leaf-litter to turn into a trail of blooming April violets?
You slide over a mossy rock and steady yourself by the trunk of a pine tree. Perhaps the lush scenery was enough to fuel Grandad’s wild imagination. Magic isn’t real, you scoff while dense green shrubs emerge with every step, forcing you to stay on the path. Grandad is an old romantic.
You stop. A few metres ahead, the shrubbery quivers. You know it isn’t a gust of wind as much as you want it to be.
Branches snap inside the bush. Your heart is a drumroll.
A furry snout pushes its way out of the glossy leaves. The nostrils flare in your direction. An enormous, clawed paw follows, and another. The creature emerges from the bush, and soon you stand face to face with a large, yellow-eyed wolf.
“Fuck.”
The famous last word that would make any parent proud.
“Language.” The wolf has a deep male voice.
You all but faint from shock. “Y-y-you can speak?”
“Y–y-yes I can.” The wolf bares its teeth or smiles—it’s hard to tell.
“I’m having a mid-life crisis at twenty-two,” you say, running a hand through your hair.
“What brings you here?”
It’s not wise to engage a wolf in conversation, but, of course, you do anyway. The wolf nods the whole way through your entire awkward and embarrassing life story. When you finish, it stands on its hind legs. “I can look like any man you desire.”
You blink. “I just said I don’t desire anyone.”
“You mentioned Channing Tatum.”
“Yeah, but—ugh!”
The wolf convulses. A dozen golf-ball-sized lumps sprout underneath its fur, making a squelching noise as they move under its skin. The wolf howls in agony. Eyes shut tight, you clench your teeth at the dreadful sound.
“Little Red, I’m everything you’ve been searching for.” A heavy American accent coerces your eyes open.
Your jaw hangs open when you glance at the creature—no, at Channing Tatum.
“I can help,” says the wolf in Channing’s skin.
You’re reminded of your teenage obsession. He’s more handsome than you gave him credit for. Maybe you are straight and have simply lacked opportunity. You’re aware of the heat in your cheeks, of him closing in. Your heart threatens to break your ribs.
The wolf-man grabs your hand and places it on his chest. “Come on, you’re straight. You’re just repressed. Let me help. Lose your virginity. Get your family off your back.”
“I . . .”
He puts his hand on your waist. Tongue thick in your mouth, you’re rooted to the spot. “Won’t it feel so good to know for sure?” The Channing-wolf’s eyes glow yellow.
“No,” you say, stepping back. “I don’t want to.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to have sex with you.” It’s a struggle to get the words out. “It doesn’t matter who you look like. I can’t—no, I don’t want to.”
“Fucking pricktease!” the creature shouts in a warped voice.
Breath catching in your chest, you back into a tree that wasn’t there a moment ago.
The man’s skin sprouts black fur in his anger. He keels over onto his hands and knees, turning back into the animal he is. “You filthy fucking lesbian.”
You’re frozen in panic. “I— I—”
The wolf bounds toward you. His heavy paws hit your chest. Your back scrapes hard against the tree bark. You can’t breathe. “Take this as a warning.” His snout is inches away, his breath hot and putrid. Claws sink into your skin.
You remember cutting off your fingertip with the kitchen knife. You remember a schoolboy who slapped you when you refused to go on a date with him. You remember how your best friend called you a dyke and stopped speaking to you.
“Never lead a man on or you’ll regret it.” He retracts his claws and his black tail follows his enormous body off the path and back into the shrubbery.
You sink down onto the floor of violets. The chest scratches burn or throb, but you can’t tell which. Your hands shake as they trace the lines. You’re a lesbian. Looking down, there are holes in your shirt but no blood. You’re exhausted. You wish you’d known you were a lesbian sooner.
You have to keep going.
***
The forest darkens. Tree trunks are thicker than before. The path is so narrow that your elbows scrape trees as you pass. It smells like mouldy earth after rain. Dewy violets squeak against your Docs with each step. Your only company is the sound of your breath.
Realising you haven’t checked your phone all day and have no idea what time it is, you pull it from your bag, only to find the battery dead. You’re lighter with the knowledge that you’re a lesbian, and upon arriving at the cottage, you’ll find out who the love of your life is, and you’ll settle down, finally happy—not the family’s virginal failure!
The thrill of this thought nearly makes you miss the glowing orange eyes further down the path.
“Hi there,” you call out, more confident than anyone should be when talking to a wolf. The newfound lesbian status has resulted in high spirits. “Are you alright?”
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the wolf calls out. “A friend told me you slighted him.”
“I didn’t mean to—honestly. I’m a lesbian, see? He wasn’t really my type.”
The wolf skulks over, revealing paler fur than the last you’d encountered, it’s almost beige. “I know. That’s why I came. I want to help. I can be any woman you want me to be. Just say the word.”
You think about female celebrities, but aren’t really attracted to any of them. “Say the word and what?”
“I will release you from your burden of virginity. Your family will be proud. You’ll be able to tell your cousin every saucy detail . . .”
Your skin crawls as though you’ve stood on an anthill. “I don’t know. Surprise me.”
The wolf arches its lean back until it cracks. Beige fur bubbles down into pale skin. Pointed toes and slender legs emerge from the wolf’s hind legs. As it stretches out, the rest of the body reforms. She shakes her arms with vigour before offering a sultry gaze.
The wolf is Jennifer Lawrence. “My performance in The Hunger Games was remarkable,’ she explains. “My performance with you, however, will be even more so.” Jennifer-wolf bites her lip and pulls you close to her body, whispering, “What do you want?”
A cold shiver runs down the length of your spine. You try to say the words “I want you”, but they don’t come out. All you want is to be normal.
You begin to cry. “Not this . . . I don’t want this . . .”
The she-wolf pushes you away from her and snarls.
“How could you not want me? I try to help and this is what I get?” She spits venom as tears roll dumbly down your face. “Not straight? Not a lesbian? You’re broken.”
You didn’t see her transform, but know it must have happened when she scratches you across the stomach. Shutting your eyes to the pain, in that moment, you hope she’ll gobble you up and finish the job.
Crying harder now, your chest feels as though a wolf is sitting on it. You wish you weren’t born a broken, sexless person. You wish you could be fixed. You wish you were anything other than what you are.
Wiping away tears and forcing a smile, you think about how great it will feel to learn the truth—whatever it is. Amy called you a prude, and you can’t wait to explain that you’re not, that there is an answer.
Ignoring the pain of your injured stomach, you stand. Grandad said to believe. You believe in what you know: you aren’t straight, aren’t gay, and the path of blossoming purple violets is strewn with wolves. The trail stretches out towards home, but you turn away. Kicking through the suffocating shrubbery, you leave the path for good. You’re making your own way to the old lady’s house. Maybe the trust Grandad spoke of was about trusting yourself.
***
Hanging vines wrap their tendrils around your shoulders, trying to guide you back to the path, but you push past them. Fallen branches block the way, but your Doc Martens stamp over them. There’s nothing that can keep you from getting to the house, to Grandmother Love, to answers.
You come to an enormous collapsed tree. Even on its side, its trunk is almost thicker than you are tall. The bark is mottled and scaly. Perfect to grip your shoes into. You grab a nearby vine, pulling it taut. The pressure holds you upright as you put one foot on the trunk. Hoisting yourself up one side, you turn around on the top to lower yourself back down.
The vine snaps. Your knees take the brunt when you hit the ground, landing in a pile of rocks.
Your knees throb. They’re imbedded with gravel. They’re bleeding. Splinters of bark poke from your arms. You get that hollow feeling when you’re being watched.
Shuffling around, you’re surprised to see a cottage that wasn’t there a moment ago. It has mossy walls of piled grey stone, a sprawling straw roof, and an old timber door, complete with smoking chimney.
The door creaks open, beckoning. Shaking with nervous anticipation and taking a deep breath, you walk inside.
In here, it smells like rot. It’s so dark you can hardly see. There’s movement in the corner. You step toward it, but it’s only a rat.
“Hello?” You call out.
The door closes and you spin on your heel. It’s pitch black now. Pulling the matches from your pocket and fumbling, you light one. It sparks and sputters—bright enough to reveal an elderly woman sitting on the edge of a bed.
“I’ve been waiting for you, little Red,” she says.
The match goes out before you can catch her expression. “I was hoping you’d be able to help me.”
“Come here. I wish to see you better.”
You take a step in her direction. “Are there any lights in here?”
“Come, my child.”
Another lit match helps you manoeuvre across the room. Tiny bones litter the floor, and crunch under your shoes. The hairs on your arms stand to attention.
The smell is worse the closer you get to her. The woman grabs your arm with a spindly hand. “Sit down, my dear.”
You oblige, and she releases you. Candles ignite themselves on the four posts of the small bedframe, illuminating the mysterious Grandmother Love. She is so frail and wrinkled that you can hardly believe she’s alive. Her hair is white and brittle, a tuft of fairy floss atop her head.
“Your grandfather sent you . . . I’ve been waiting all day.”
“Sorry—the path was dangerous. I thought it better to go another way. Grandad thought you could help me. I want to know my future.”
“Your future is determined through choice, child.” Her voice is a croak. The smell is unbearable. “There is only one which you must make.”
Your saliva is stickier than toffee. “I didn’t think—um—that it’s a choice kind of situation . . . I want an answer of who I am—what I am? It’s not really to do with sex—gender, I mean gender. It’s everything to do with sex. Um. I want to know how to . . . fix it . . .” You cough, more to give yourself a pause than for necessity in the stench. “Unless . . . Maybe it’s not something to fix . . .”
The woman’s skinny hand grabs your forearm with surprising strength. “This is your choice. This is your answer.”
“What do you mean?”
Her eyes flash red. They seem to grow on her face.
“Your eyes . . . they’re huge.”
“All the better to see you with, my child.” The woman smiles, her canines more prominent than ever.
“What’s wrong with your teeth?” you say, as you realise the woman is not a woman.
Her skin blisters. She pushes you back onto the bed. Fur sprouts across her body. Her eyes, crimson and menacing, stare out at you from the old lady’s face. Her nose elongates into a snout. The wolf growls, inches from you.
You try to move, but the wolf is too heavy. You shove against its chest, but it makes no difference.
“It’s okay.” The wolf licks through your torn shirt, to the cuts on your stomach. It stings.
You want to throw up.
“The choice is made. This will fix you.”
Your heart is pounding. “No!” You push back against the wolf. Trying to push its snout away, it bites down on your palm.
You scream. Blood pours. The wolf stands over you on the bed. There isn’t enough air.
“I’m—not—broken.” Your gasps surprise even you for a second.
The wolf stretches its mouth wide. Saliva drips onto your cheek.
Your mind drifts back to Grandad’s words: try, believe, trust. “Trust me.” You reach for a candle on the bedpost. “I don’t need to be fixed.”
You force the candle into the wolf’s face. It howls. The wolf’s fur catches alight. It yelps in pain. Panting, you push the wolf onto the floor.
You drag yourself from the bed. Wrenching the door open and shutting it behind you, you run.
You stumble over roots; you kick at shrubbery. The wolf’s howl is right behind you. You believed in yourself. The vines don’t try to stop you, now. They tangle in your wake. Grandmother Love’s fake voice screams for your help. You trust yourself.
Your legs protest each movement. It’s hard to breathe. You don’t stop. Sunlight slices the canopy ahead. Twigs and leaves crunch under your feet. Eucalypts move out of your way. Ferns sway, letting you pass. You stumble through the last line of trees and—
You’re on Jibbon beach.
Alone.
Your breathing is louder than the waves on the shore. The forest behind you has changed. There’s nothing lush and green about it anymore. It’s the bush. Greying eucalypts and pines, ferns fighting for space and sun and air.
Your shirt is intact. There’s no blood. Perspiration drops from your face.
“Oi!”
Pivoting in the direction of the noise, your breath catches.
“Red! It’s me! Grandad said you’d be here!”
In the distance Amy is running towards you. You could almost cry with relief. You sit on the sand.
“Oi,” Amy says when she’s closer. She’s panting as though she’s been chased through a forest. “Grandad . . . told . . . me to . . . come find . . . you,” she says between pants. “He was mad . . . you came . . . alone. Said . . . it’s dangerous.”
You pat the sand, and she sits. You both stare out at where the river meets the ocean, at the stretch of Cronulla beach across the water. The pine trees look like topiary.
“I wanna say sorry. I lashed out, at Easter. It wasn’t cool. I told you I had sex, and you ‘oh wow’ed me.”
“I didn’t—”
“Oi, I’m talking,” Amy snaps. “I was mad because it was important to me and you didn’t care.”
“I—”
“Shut up, I’m apologising. It wasn’t okay that I threw you to the wolves. I’m sorry.”
“I really don’t like wolves,” you say quietly. Amy’s staring at her feet. You trust, believe, and decide to try.
“Look,” you say. “I don’t want you to think I don’t care about you and your sexing or whatever. It’s not that . . . it makes me so uncomfortable. Like sick to my stomach.”
Amy raises her eyebrows. “That’s weird.”
“This is why I don’t tell you anything!”
“Wait, shit. Sorry. I have no filter.” Amy scratches her head. “So, what, sex is gross to you?”
“I guess?”
“I mean, when you take out all the pleasure-y stuff, like, then it’s pretty gross,” Amy says generously. “Like body parts and juices—”
You make a loud gagging noise and Amy cuts herself off.
“Yeah, that’s like how I see it,” you say. “But I don’t get past how gross it is. Ever.”
The roar of a speedboat catches your attention. You both watch it drive from the river and out into the ocean.
“I didn’t know I knew anyone like that . . .” Amy admits. “But like, if that’s you, that’s you. I’m still here. We just won’t talk about sex. No prob.”
For the first time in your life, some of the weight on your shoulders lifts. Someone’s heard you, they’ve listened. They care.
“Sorry you haven’t felt like you could mention it before,” Amy adds.
“I didn’t think you’d believe me.”
Amy shakes her head, “I trust you to know yourself. I’ll always believe you, Red.”
“Oh.”
Amy squeezes your hand.
“Do you reckon . . . there’s other people out there like me?”
“Well, duh.” Your look is so incredulous that Amy keeps talking. “You’re ace, right? Asexual? There’s a whole community of people—there’s even a literary journal.”
Your eyes have never been so wide. “What?”
“I did a uni assignment on it,” she says, nodding. “Basic gist is that aces don’t experience sexual desire or attraction. But that’s the bottom line. They can still have relationships and get married and stuff. Like, I know our family craps on and on about it, but sex isn’t really the be all and end all.” Amy looks a little smug over knowing more about your potential sexual orientation than you do, but it’s better than her I’ve-had-sex-so-I’m-better-than-you look so you let it slide.
You’re a bit distracted by what she’s saying, anyway.
“Surely you’ve googled it before.” Amy raises her eyebrows.
“Google said I have a disorder!”
“Common misconception,” Amy says smoothly. She stops herself from adding her next nugget of information when she catches sight of your face. “Are you okay?”
You lean against her and let your tears fall. For the first time, it feels cathartic, not hopeless. “I thought I was alone.”
The speedboat crosses back through the mouth of the Port Hacking. A girl on board shrieks with laughter.
“No one is, Red,” Amy says. “They just think they are.”
Resting your head against Amy’s shoulder, your smile. You don’t fully know if you’re asexual or not. You don’t know much more about it than a sentence. You don’t know why you ever doubted Grandad—magic is in all kinds of places, you just need to know where to look.
About the Author:
Lucy Fox is a queer and disabled writer currently living on Dharawal land. She holds a BCA (Honours) in Creative Writing and can be found in Imprint Magazine, Baby Teeth Arts Journal, the Emma Press and on Twitter @LucyFox96.
Northern Queensland. The part of Australia that your mother warned you about.
