Quiver

One day, Elsa invited me over to her apartment, an elegant unit overlooking Woolloomooloo Bay. There were three erotic Chinese prints on the wall. The first was of an older, Buddha-like man sitting behind a beautiful young girl, plump, with childlike features. He had her legs spread far apart, as if of

fering her up to the world. Her reddened sex was detailed in tiny brush strokes, the lips curling like a budding peony. Both had innocent smiles of intense pleasure.

The second was of the same couple, only in this print the man had curved his body over her; he was still smiling, with two spots of red in his cheeks. She had taken his penis into her mouth, while he was delicately inserting his tongue into her. He looked as if he was consuming a rare delicacy. As I stared, I was convinced that I could detect a trembling in her plump, parted thighs as if she was on the brink of orgasm.

“I’m a collector of erotica,” Elsa smiled. “Straight or gay, doesn’t affect the value of the prints. I’ve made quite a bit of money this way, buying up and selling again. I sell to anyone: galleries, private collectors, concert halls—.”

She handed me a drink, settling down on the couch. “So tell me, how long has Humphrey been your lover?”

I smiled slowly. If Elsa wasn’t going to have me, she was determined to have me vicariously. She wanted to know how we made love, how often and in what positions. It was as if she was trying to develop a palette of what I found sexually stimulating. So I told her about the time we went to the country.

We’d been swimming down at the ocean that day with a group of friends. I remember being sandwiched against Humphrey in the car on the trip back. The heat of the sun was beating in through the car window, the warmth of my burnt skin prickling under my T-shirt. The sensation of his thigh against mine and the secrecy of our love affair excited me greatly, but he deliberately withheld himself as he sat beside me in silence. Suddenly, he told the driver to stop and let us out right there, in the middle of the bush. The car screeched to a halt. Our friends were used to Humphrey’s eccentricity. Smiling but without comment they drove off, leaving us standing by the side of the road. Anticipation made my heart into a drum.

“Walk,” Humphrey’s tone was different, commanding. I had never heard him sound so aggressive. It excited me, yet I was almost afraid. I started to walk in front of him through the bushes. I could feel his eyes touching me, slipping their way into my sex. Everywhere around me seemed to reflect my hunger, my wetness for him. The wattle’s faint but sticky scent, the hovering bees probing the blooms, the constant droning of the insects—all seemed to stream back into my body, ripening it. I stumbled and half turned.

“Don’t look at me.” His voice jerked me back to reality. We arrived at a small clearing. A large water tower shot up through the trees, the silver tank catching the light of the sun.

“Up against the tower,” Humphrey ordered. I obeyed him and leaned against the corrugated surface.

He came up behind me, and roughly parted my thighs with his knee, forcing me to spread my legs. He pulled down my jeans, and sank to the grass. Parting me I could feel the soft wetness of his tongue as he probed me gently, his nails sinking into my cheeks. The contrast between the gentleness of his tongue and the sharpness of his nails was intense. He stood and slipped his cock between my legs, rubbing the shaft across my clit then drawing it up against my asshole. He reached around and slipped a finger into my cunt, then touched my clit. Suddenly he thrust into me. I thought he would split me. My face was pushed up against the hot tin, the size of him filling me, as he plunged over and over. We came together, loudly, as above us a kookaburra burst into hysterical laughter.

“A little pain mixed in with the pleasure is always a good thing.” Elsa grinned, dipping her finger into her vodka and sucking it reflectively.

Humphrey had started to follow Elsa through the streets in his old white van. Her phone would ring in the middle of the night; he’d listen to her voice, just for a second, before hanging up. She knew it was him from the splattering inhalation of breath, and she was sure he was masturbating. She told me, with a certain mixture of pity and repulsion, that he had been seen standing for hours in the bookstore she worked in, just looking through the magazines.

Elsa watched me carefully for a reaction. I knew she was searching for a sign that I was still deeply involved. I kept my face and voice completely neutral, although inwardly the very mention of Humphrey’s name sent shock waves through my body, my heart pounding to the point of nausea. The more she rejected him, the more he wanted her. For a man who’d had every woman he’d ever desired, rejection was proving to be the greatest thrill of all.

By this time, although I knew I had lost him completely, I couldn’t exorcise his scent. I would masturbate and be left with the smell of him on my fingers. I couldn’t look at other men. I began to hate him, and my desire for revenge became overwhelming.

Elsa decided to commission Humphrey, and insisted that I act as a go-between. She had given him free range of material and medium but wanted the subject to be herself. Humphrey’s face lit up in anticipation. He was almost salivating. It was a pathetic sight.

* * *

We meet outside his studio, a large Victorian warehouse. Humphrey occupies the top floor, which he has converted into an open white space. White silk hangs over the bay windows, giving a radiance to the light that shines through them. He has defined the studio as a sacred place.

Elsa presses the buzzer. Humphrey’s voice sounds tentative over the intercom—I have never heard him sound so uncertain. I start to feel a little more powerful. As we go up in the lift, Elsa hugs me and tells me to relax.

But Humphrey’s face falls when he sees me standing behind Elsa. He leads us into the main part of the studio. A canvas is set up on an easel, and an old bed swathed in sheets stands in the center of the room.

“I want something that represents physical decay. Death and the maiden—know what I mean, Elsa?” He turns to her, avoiding my eyes completely. Elsa smiles slowly, like a sphinx.

“I know exactly what you mean.” She picks up a piece of white chalk and draws a large circle around the easel and his palette.

“Stand in there.”

“What?”

“I choose the conditions and I want you to stand in there.”

Humphrey steps inside the circle.

“You’re not allowed to step outside, understand?” He nods slowly and picks up his paintbrush. Elsa leads me over to the bed.

“Take your clothes off.” I begin to move toward the bathroom, but she grabs my arm. Hard.

“Here. Take your clothes off here.” She undoes the top button of my shirt and sits on the bed to watch. I begin to strip. At first shyly, but, feeling the other two watching me, I begin to take on the persona of a performer, unbuttoning my shirt slowly, then the skirt and finally throwing off my tights. I stop at my bra and underpants. Elsa stubs out her cigarette.

“Those too.”