SIGMUND FREUD
I dream I am nude hiking in New Zealand and wake up early, relieved to find I am not. This is particularly the case since it was raining in my dream (as it does a lot in Glenorchy) and very cold. I wonder what this dream signifies. No doubt it is linked to Daniel.
My mind drifts. If I was nude hiking with Daniel, well, we probably wouldn’t be hiking; we would be finding a cosy hut and getting warm beneath the covers. A mountain hut would be very sexy — the cold air, the warm bodies, the isolation… A long breath escapes me.
As I try to go back to sleep I have a fantastic idea, possibly related to the nude hiking. I will ditch poetry and become an erotic writer. Why haven’t I thought of this before? This could be the answer to my financial difficulties. Sex sells! If I can write poetry, surely I can write erotica. How hard can it be?
I am so excited about this plan that I jump out of bed and, what is more, skip my normal morning self-loathing routine. Live dangerously, Edie! Instead, I get straight to work.
First, I seek guidance from the internet on how to write about sex, transcribing helpful points into my notebook.
Points to consider when writing about sex:
Never mention the penis or vagina;
Never use euphemisms for these parts of the body;
Tell it like it is, not how it is in porn movies;
Less is more — don’t take the reader all the way;
Be subtle — cut to the morning after;
Choose whether to be erotic or convincing, it is impossible to be both;
Choose whether to be practical or metaphorical in your descriptions, that is, the dark waves and white horses school versus the throbbing cock and dripping cunt school; A dash of humour can be good;
Don’t cut to the chase too quickly, build the tension; and The difference between erotica and porn is the emotion.
Several of these points seem contradictory — how do you avoid mentioning the ‘p’ or ‘v’ words, but not use euphemisms? How do you tell it like it is and still be subtle? I don’t let this faze me. I am too excited by the potential of this new venture.
I pause for just a moment, seeking erotic inspiration, then, opening a new page on my computer, I plunge straight into it like a wild horse jumping a gate. My fingers race across the keyboard, leaving a trail of sweat behind them. Strangely, despite the mountain hut fantasy, I find myself in a laboratory…
Edaline peered through the microscope, carefully tracing the mandibles of the crab larva that lay, delicately exposed, before her. Its feathery legs reminded her of the curling golden hairs on the back of Professor Brown’s strong, brown hands.
Wisps of chemistry had been drifting between the Professor and Edaline for some months now. Along with the formalin and cleaning wax, the subtle aroma of attraction had established its place in the laboratory. Edaline felt it each morning as she walked in the door — a charge that made her stomach leap like a randy salmon migrating upstream through grizzly bear-infested waters.
‘That’s a particularly fine pair of plumose hairs,’ said a melodious baritone voice behind her.
Edaline swivelled in her ergonomic chair, her heart beating a light staccato drum roll on her ribcage. She shifted her shoulders back, accentuating the cleavage she had, so daringly, exposed today in a low-cut black T-shirt.
The Professor’s gaze was on her drawing. His white lab coat looked thrilling against his suntanned face and vivid blue eyes that gleamed behind his wire-rimmed glasses. He bent closer and Edaline caught a whiff of sweat. She gasped, her nipples hardening, and leaned further over the lab bench, her breasts hovering above the drawing. ‘Do you like them?’ Her voice was low, seductive, throaty.
The Professor nodded, still studying the drawing. ‘The mandibular palpus is rather accentuated.’ He thrust his hands in the pockets of his khaki shorts, rocking back on his heels.
Edaline’s nostrils flared like a horse at the end of a hard gallop. His meaning couldn’t be clearer. ‘Professor,’ she ran her tongue over her lips, leaving a glistening trail, ‘would you like to take a look down the microscope?’
I lift my hands from the keyboard and stretch my fingers. Something occurs to me. I have forgotten to fill in my pain chart. I flip to the front of the notebook. Tuesday: 45 days. Pain level…
I consider that. My chest isn’t aching. Today the pain has moved to the bottom of my throat. This is new. I wonder if it is an improvement. With a sense of satisfaction I title my spare column Location. It is lucky I planned for expansion.
It’s strange, this broken heart thing. The Romans had it right: when Cupid fires his arrow, it can really hurt. On reflection, I decide the throat pain is an improvement. Eight. My best day yet. This erotic writing must be good for me.
My eyes wander back over my writing. My cheeks burn and I can hardly bear to read it, but, on the other hand, it’s been so much fun. And I think it might actually be okay. Pretty sexy really. But why am I writing about Professor Brownlow? It is extremely inappropriate and rather alarming. What will people think when they find out this is what’s in my head? I couldn’t bear it.
My mind flashes back to my dream. Was nude hiking a portent? Will I be exposed, cold, naked and ashamed with the rain pouring down? Maybe I can publish under a pseudonym. I have one ready as it happens, having recently played that game where you give yourself a name based on your first pet and the first street you ever lived in — Sooty Beaumont.
The name has a certain ring to it. I imagine Sooty Beaumont is a raven-haired beauty who writes in a red satin dress with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. She has a roster of lovers who bring her exotic and carefully selected gifts. In return, she delights them with her sexual prowess. Yes, Sooty Beaumont is a name to work magic with.
I place my fingers on the keyboard again. I am reaching the sharp edge of the sex scene. I now have some tough decisions to make. Convincing or erotic? Metaphorical or practical? Show the reader what is happening or cut to Professor Brown putting his lab coat back on and Edaline adjusting her low-cut T-shirt? Just when I am on a roll, my old enemy, self-doubt, seems about to make a reappearance.
Luckily the phone rings. It is Sally. ‘How are your tips for self-improvement going?’
I scan the back of my notebook. Deer sausages. Don’t ring Daniel. How to write about sex… Consult Sally. ‘What sort of improvements do you think I should be making?’
‘You could start by getting out more. How are you ever going to meet guys if you never talk to anyone?’
I don’t tell her about my new crush, Professor Brownlow. I know what she would tell me — Get real, he’s married, Edie. And I know she’d be right. Professor Brownlow is my dirty little secret. ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’m going to talk to people more.’
Sally is so shocked I have listened to her she doesn’t speak. This is a first.
‘I’ve been reading a book about conquering shyness. It says I need to speak to a stranger every day to build up my confidence.’
‘Where are you going to find the strangers?’
I hadn’t considered that. Sally has a good point. Darling Head is a town of five thousand people, and I am at least on nodding acquaintance with most of them. This is not to say they are friends, and, in fact, many of them don’t actually nod, but I know they know who I am.
The nice part about living in Darling Head, as opposed to Sydney, is that you do know who you are dealing with. I sometimes think our town is like the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’. On the twelfth day of Christmas, Darling Head sent to me:
Twelve trained baristas,
Eleven school teachers,
Ten sporty nurses,
Nine well-dressed lawyers,
Eight pretty hairdressers,
Seven fashion retailers,
Six surfing doctors,
Five real estate agents,
Four surfboard shapers,
Three drug dealers,
Two millionaire developers,
And a milkman in a white van.
To be honest, you don’t normally see that many lawyers and I think there might be more than three drug dealers, but you get the picture. In our town, no one is anonymous. ‘I think I can classify anyone who is not a friend or a relative as a stranger,’ I say. This leaves a field of approximately 4997.
‘Okay, but you have to choose them randomly, Edie. You can’t just wait for a friendly looking one.’
Sally knows me too well.
‘You have to speak to the fifth stranger you see or something like that.’
I murmur assent, but there’s no way I’m going to be speaking to the guy with the goatee who once accused me of pushing in, in the supermarket queue. Then there’s that woman in the newsagent who suspected me of swapping the price tags on the boxes of crayons and the owner of the surf shop who never gives me a local’s discount even though I was born in this town.
‘Edie.’ Sally’s voice is stern.
‘Okay, okay, the fifth stranger. So, what are you going to do with yourself now you’re back in town?’
‘I’m kicking around a few ideas. Something psychology-related maybe. I’ve got out my old uni notes. There’s some really good stuff in there. You should see this essay on Freud I wrote in first year.’
‘Cool. Let me know what you come up with.’
‘What’s your opinion on penis envy?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Have you ever wished you had one?’
I consider this for a few moments. ‘There was one time I drank too much before getting on a train with no toilet. It would have been handy then.’
‘Mmm, true, but apart from the practicality angle… I think Freud had that one wrong. Why would you want something that just…’
‘Dangles?’
‘Exactly. Some female psychologists thought that he suffered from womb envy.’
‘So, who won the argument?’
‘I’m not sure; I missed the second Anatomy is Destiny class — had a hot date the night before.’
‘Speaking of penis envy.’
‘That’s not envy, it’s desire. So,’ Sally gives a deep and meaningful pause, ‘what are you up to at the moment? Apart from crab larvae, I mean.’
This question seems particularly probing, coming as it does on the heels of the penis topic. But I don’t want to talk about my new project. The erotic writing is beyond private. Even thinking about it makes my heart beat faster. ‘This and that,’ I murmur.
‘Mmm.’ Sally must be still thinking about penis envy as she lets me get away with this.
After Sally hangs up, I try to return to my writing but the erotic moment is gone.
As I have had such a successful morning, I decide to give myself a break and open the book by Murakami which Professor Brownlow gave me.
Kafka on the Shore is described on the back cover as a ‘metaphysical mind-bending mystery’. This is not a genre I am familiar with. After an hour of reading I realise my assessment of Professor Brownlow as having hidden depths was correct, but didn’t go far enough. If he is into metaphysical cat mysteries his depths are not just hidden, but also uncharted, eccentric and mysterious.
This is deeply, deeply sexy. I sigh as I think about Professor Brownlow and his short shorts, his hidden depths…
Little does Professor Brownlow know that by lending me this book he has set in train a course of events with which I am rather familiar. But then, if it hadn’t been the book it would have been something else.
Strangely, my crush on Professor Brownlow does little to diminish the symptoms of my broken heart. Infatuation and love are two very different things. I still love Daniel, but Professor Brownlow is very, very sexy. And now that he has lent me a book, there is no telling what will happen. Cupid’s chemistry lab is hard at work.
Before I know it my fingers are racing across the keyboard again.
‘Are you interested in metaphysics?’ asked Professor Brown. As he leant down to look in the microscope, his hard shoulder brushed against Edaline’s soft one.
She jumped, as though a high-voltage shock had zapped between them. ‘M-m-metaphysics?’ What was metaphysics? She should know, but her brain could think of nothing but the smell of Professor Brown’s sweat, the touch of his crisp, clean, lab coat against her arm. She caught a glimpse of his stomach through the gap between his shirt buttons. What would it feel like to run her hand across those dark hairs? To press her lips to that sweetly hollowed navel? To slip the tip of her tongue inside? Her mouth tingled at the thought.
Professor Brown lifted his head from the microscope. Edaline felt his warm breath on her nose. It smelt like oranges and chocolate, like puppies and milk, like freshly mown grass. It smelt like…desire.
‘The nature of the soul,’ he said.
‘Oh.’ Edaline looked into his eyes. They were the blue of an autumn sea, with specks of seaweed green.
His pearl-black pupils fixed on her and a thrill ran through Edaline. Danger lurked in those depths.
She felt he was looking into her, not at her. That he saw not just her face or body, but her spirit, her…soul. ‘Yes,’ she breathed. ‘I’m interested in metaphysics.’ Her hand reached out and touched the side of his face; that delicious angle of smooth-shaved jaw.
His hand grasped hers, drew it to his mouth. He pressed his lips to her moist and quivering palm.
Edaline could have sworn he’d branded her, his lips were so hot. She gasped with a voluptuous pain.
‘Some philosophers believe free will is an illusion,’ he said.
‘Do you?’ She sighed, clenching her thighs.
‘Right now, I do,’ said Professor Brown. His thumb — an electric eel — stroked her palm.
Edaline stood, pushing away her ergonomic chair. It rolled backwards and fell to the ground, the wheels spinning like a metaphor for her heart. Then she did what she had always wanted to do, from the first moment she had seen Professor Brown. She pinched his cheek.
It was even more thrilling than she had expected. His skin was warm, pliable and had a slightly sandpapery texture. Standing on tiptoe, she pressed her hungry lips against his. Only for a moment. Professor Brown was a meal she wanted to eat slowly. ‘Now I can die happy,’ she whispered.
Behind Professor Brown’s fogged-up glasses, his eyes glinted like the sea on a misty day.
‘Sorry, you were saying?’ said Edaline.
‘There’s nothing I can do to stop me wanting you,’ said Professor Brown. His mouth pressed against hers — burning, searing. His rapacious tongue felt its way into her mouth, met its partner, exchanged gluttonous caresses…
I fling myself back on the bed. It’s exhausting stuff, this erotic writing. Exhausting and yet, I can barely admit it to myself, thrilling. Writing about sex when you haven’t had any for almost two months gets rather…overwhelming. And I haven’t even got to the crux of it yet. Still, I, or rather, Sooty, is making progress — my characters are kissing.
I hear Dad coming back from work and decide to leave it there for today. I title the file Crab sex and save it. As I turn off my computer I imagine Sooty grinding her cigarette into her ashtray, checking her roster to see which lover to expect today. Will it be Marc, bringing gifts of French perfume, Sergei bearing vodka or Antonio, her secret favourite, who holds soft Italian cheeses to her lips? Mmm, yes, Antonio today…
Dad looks up as I come down the stairs. He is starting a new home-renovation project. At the moment this involves pulling the lining off the lounge-room ceiling. Dad is never content unless he has a renovation project in progress. The bigger the project, the more content it makes him. In the last few years he has built a new deck outside, added a new bedroom, fixed skylights in almost every room and retiled the bathrooms. This is in addition to the usual ongoing house maintenance.
Dad pauses in his exertions, a sheet of plywood half removed, and gives me his well-known Dad-look. It is a look that a duck might give to a swan which has just hatched out underneath it — a mixture of confusion and affection. ‘You’re a bit flushed, Eddie. Are you okay?’ he asks.
I smile. ‘Busy day.’
After dinner, Rochelle and I do the washing up while Dad divides his attention between renovations and a documentary titled Great Explorers. Tonight it features Captain Cook. At one point the host mentions that he had five sons and one daughter, Elizabeth.
‘I wouldn’t mind meeting her,’ I say.
‘Who?’ Rochelle has her back to the television, putting glasses away. She is wearing her work clothes: a white polo shirt and khaki mid-calf pants that hug her slim thighs. Rochelle is one of those nurses who care for people in their homes. I bet she knocks the socks off her male clients.
‘Elizabeth Cook.’
‘I’ve never heard of her.’
‘Exactly. We might have shared interests.’
Rochelle gives me a quizzical look.
‘Two of a kind.’ I hang my tea towel on the rack. ‘Unknown children of legends.’
‘Who? Oh.’ Rochelle’s eyes flicker to Dad. She steps closer and gives me some extended eye contact. ‘So, how are you going? Really?’
‘Daniel-wise?’ A geyser of sadness gushes up as I say his name.
She nods.
I shrug. ‘So so. But really, it was a miracle we lasted as long as we did.’
She cocks her head. ‘Why’s that?’
I hardly know where to start. ‘Daniel is…’ Daniel is confident, capable, organised, switched on and socially responsible. He flosses his teeth, exercises, recycles religiously and keeps up to date on current affairs. He was captain of his school and won numerous awards at university. He keeps a large range of herbs and spices in his kitchen with which he produces creative, nutritious, multicultural meals. Daniel once showed me a picture of his school formal. He looked distinguished in his three-piece suit and, I suspect, was escorting the hottest girl in the school, though he was too modest to say so.
I try again. ‘I am…’ I shuffled through high school, lurching from one social gaffe to the next, then blundered my way through an undistinguished degree. I think the recipe book 4 Ingredients may be overdoing it. Pasta with cheese on is the extent of my culinary abilities. I have destroyed all pictures of my school formal, but I can’t destroy the memories. My dress, which I had chosen with such high expectations, turned out to be transparent when back lit. All photos of the evening highlight the not terribly fetching flesh-coloured big knickers and sports bra I wore underneath it. If only I’d had a mother to advise me, this might not have happened.
I open and shut my mouth. ‘We were different.’
‘Roch, give me a hand with this, will you?’ Dad gestures at a piece of wood that seems about to decapitate him.
Thus ends our intimate chat.
Later that night, my mind turns back to Sunday afternoons with Daniel. In bed, as in all things, Daniel was a high achiever. He would never, ever come before me. This was a point of honour. I appreciated this at the time, but now I wonder if he didn’t desire me enough to let go. What a funny, strange, mysteriously wonderful thing sex is. I miss it. I miss having Daniel hold me tight.
My self-control is worse at night. Those tricksy urges sneak up on me while my defences are down. Before I know it, Daniel’s number is on my screen and I am pressing the call button. This time he answers.
‘You’ve got to stop calling me, Edie.’
His gentle voice only makes it worse. If he was mean I’d get over him quicker. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to.’
‘Are you looking after my tree? It needs regular watering, you know.’
I look over at the bonsai. Daniel’s tree is decidedly unwell. Its formerly glossy green leaves have a dull hue. It is missing Daniel too. ‘I don’t have your tree.’ We’ve had this conversation before.
‘If you say so.’ His tone is neutral, but I sense he is wondering how he stayed with me as long as he did.
I didn’t realise how attached to his tree Daniel was until I took it. I am now too afraid to admit that I have it. He only has circumstantial evidence against me. ‘I just needed to ask you something,’ I say.
He sighs and I imagine his face; the way he looks when he’s had a difficult day in court. ‘What?’
‘What was it about the rain in Glenorchy?’
‘Huh?’
He has no idea what I’m talking about. I am astounded. It’s as though Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca forgot the words to ‘As Time Goes By’, the song which signified his love for Ilsa. Then he never would have said Play it again, Sam. My whole relationship with Daniel was based on this huge romantic moment — a moment he has completely forgotten.
‘Edie?’ he says. ‘I need to—’
‘It rains a lot in Glenorchy.’ I enunciate each word, hoping to jog his memory.
‘I’m sorry, Edie, I’ve got stuff to do, a big case tomorrow…’
‘When we met, you said you were attracted to me from the moment I said, “It rains a lot in Glenorchy”.’
‘Did I? I must have thought you were talking about climate change.’
I nod. That makes sense. A giggle explodes out of my nose, followed by a sob.
‘What?’ says Daniel.
But I can’t explain the sheer absurdity of a relationship based on a misconception so huge. I press end.
In the middle of the night I remember that I didn’t ask him about the sausages.