I missed out on camps, discos and sports carnivals; instead, doing competitions, recitals and solos. My sister, Rebecca, entered competitions too, but those were different; modelling contests and beauty pageants. Her talent was being beautiful, which I thought was bullshit, because being beautiful isn’t something one works hard to get. She was just born with that face. What kind of talent is that? I was jealous of her face because it seemed to win people over straight away, while I had to work hard to get people to notice me. People only noticed me when I did something extraordinary which was only when I was the best.
7
The bass player arrives at my door after nine. Hair uncombed. Shirt collar flapped up.
For a moment, I am distracted by his height, which is impressive; he is almost as tall as Noah.
‘Hey.’
‘Hi.’
Although he’s been here before, he is shy, like it is his first time.
We retreat to my bedroom and fuck the way most people fuck. Grope around the usual places. Undress. Missionary. We assume our positions like seasoned actors on stage. Hands here. Mouth there. Legs at this angle, neck twisting.
In the morning, he uses more tongue, less fingers. We devise a way of telling each other what we like by squeezing the other’s hand when they’re doing something that feels especially good. I feel an orgasm coming while he glides the tip of his tongue along the side of my clitoris, but then the sensation, like a sustained pinch, disappears when he stops and thrusts his penis inside me. I am reluctant to ask him to go back down.
The following weekend he comes over and we fuck for three whole minutes. He rolls off my body then falls asleep almost immediately. I feel that old disappointment cave over my chest, the loneliness trapping me in some state of unfulfilled despair. I listen to his muted snores and stare out the window at the grey sky. There’s always a piece of steel in my chest. My life will never be enough. The hunger rises when things start to settle. And then I crave the attention of men. It feels more powerful to be desired than to desire. There’s safety in being wanted. No risk in being the desired. The last time I wanted something, I blew up the lives of two other people.
At the next recording session for the band’s album, I learn that the bass player has gone away on tour. He doesn’t get in touch.
A new sound technician catches my eye. He tells me I have great vibrato.
Noah overhears this and smirks. ‘Geordie, get a grip mate.’
He comes over and seizes my hand, tells me to stay clear.
‘Stay clear of who?’ I ask.
‘Geordie. He’s a serial fucker.’
‘But so am I.’
A faint warmth swims up into my chest. Noah’s warning feels strangely proprietorial.
‘Just don’t go there.’
My father used to express contempt for any boy who showed interest in me. The few times he showed interest in me.
I squeeze Noah’s arm. ‘I know how to look after myself.’
Geordie sends me a Facebook message the next day. His profile picture has him posing all smiles next to two black kids.
Two nights later, he takes me out for drinks and we return to my place.
Inside, he puts his hand on my waist as naturally as a hand to a wall.
‘I need to use the bathroom,’ I say, bolting down the hallway.
‘Can I join you?’
‘I need to do a shit.’
Perhaps it was a mistake to bring home a boy with a name like Geordie.
In the bathroom, I fix my hair and squirt coconut cream onto my legs.
On the couch, he is combing his moustache with a plastic comb. He brushes it three, four times. He makes me listen to his samples on his phone. I nod, pretend to care.
‘You don’t do this often, do you?’ he asks.
In the bedroom, his skinny jeans are tight and hard to strip. When he takes his shirt off, I am disappointed. His shoulders had looked broader with layers on.
‘Do you know what would make me come?’ he whispers hoarsely, pushing me against the bedroom door.
‘What?’
‘Seeing you come.’
He moves his face down level with my opening, frames himself, ears cupped by my inner thighs. He breathes, inhale, exhale, puffs of air. He talks at my vagina.
‘Am I driving you wild?’
I don’t even ask myself if I’m enjoying it. I just move my body, the way I’ve learned to move it; choreography inherited from somebody else. I moan. I slither like a performer.
We fuck in a total of two positions. Afterwards, I hold my breath to hear his breathing. I want to conjure up these men whenever I need, to draw them to bed, even though I never really like what they do.
In the morning, I offer him breakfast. He declines. Relief explodes inside my head.
I see him again on the first weekend of March. The tracks for the album are put into place and everyone heads home in their cars. This time, he gets in his car with somebody else and waves as he drives by. At home, I pull out my laptop and watch a girl in a blue school uniform being thrashed by her stepfather. Then his four friends. They’re large and old and white. They’re circling her small body on a rug in the middle of a room. I last a few minutes before reaching that tired, empty euphoria. I need those images. Moving body parts on the screen. It has to be violent. It has to be quick. I can’t separate the girl’s suffering from her pleasure. I don’t know if she’s crying from pain or pleasure. I’ve always reached for violence. The more violent, the better. The man needs to be much older. He needs to be in control.
I take a shower. Clean again. I think about the stepfather and the old white men. The small female body. Abandonment. Complicity. Love.
8
There are six categories of men. Within each category lie subcategories. The categories are arranged according to race: white (the plainest, yet most desirable, the default); Asian; black; Hispanic; Jewish; other. Subcategories include: big; small; northern European; southern states; alpha; beta; borderline; chapstick.
I created this taxonomy of men when I was living in Wayne, New Jersey, a deadbeat suburb of fifty-five thousand, three and a half hours’ drive from the centre of the universe.
In the two years my father and I lived there, he gave me all the relationship advice he thought I’d need: ‘Find somebody who likes you more than you like them’, and ‘Don’t be too easy. Men don’t like easy girls.’
At the time, I was seventeen and sleeping with three different boys, none of whom knew about the others. My father knew nothing of them either. My mother would call once in a while from Sydney. I never told her about that part of my life, though I suspect she knew I was not innocent.
After my breakdown, I delighted in the assortment of penises available to me. Having spent time in cities like London, Berlin, New York and Amsterdam, I was surprised by what I found. A feast of flesh. Chalked-up sneakers. Spit on the pavements. In many ways, I was still a little girl, charting my progress with the same diligence and precociousness as I’d recorded my violin practice. In the absence of acclaim for my musicianship, getting a boy into bed was as fulfilling and joyful as any other accomplishment.
I kept a journal called In the Land of Dicks where I would record the date, time and location of each conquest. I gave each boy a score out of ten for the following:
Length (circumcised Y/N?)