Nikki Gemmell’s Threesome: The Bride Stripped Bare, With the Body, I Take You

by Gemmell, Nikki

  But you, outside, on your back.

  Seared by wonder, made silly by it.

  Lesson 33

  You cannot dawdle away a whole forenoon

  You are achingly alone, no anchor, no sense of belonging, of who you really are. But alone, you are learning what you can do with your body, your instrument, coaxing it into technicolour life.

  Lune has stolen two Penthouses from the pile under her brother’s bed; she slips you one.

  Lune has bribed her older sister with a year’s worth of pedicures and manicures; she buys you each a vibrator.

  You squirrel your booty home.

  Your hot breathlessness as you open the magazine, as you stare at the pictures. As you devour the letters to the editor at the front, the stories that transform you into something else. In the bathroom, while your stepmother is on her weekly supermarket shop, you slip out the vibrator and turn it over and over and wonder where to begin. Turn it on, turn it off, again, and hold it close, spread-eagled on the cold tiles, terrified she’ll come back.

  You work out an orgasm for yourself. You’re confused by the female physiology. It doesn’t make sense, all the nerve endings are on the outside and not the inside where they should be, shouldn’t they, what’s going on? You wonder if it’s just you; if you’re built wrong.

  But the clit.

  The power lying dormant in it. What it can transform you into. The first time where you have completely, utterly let go.

  Jolted into life. Combusted, with light.

  Lesson 34

  One may see many a young woman who has, outwardly speaking, ‘everything she can possibly want’, absolutely withering in the atmosphere of a loveless home

  In school holidays, at home, your days are spent as far as possible from your stepmother. She has won, there is nothing left of your mother or yourself; she completely, triumphantly owns her tiny life. A baby still hasn’t come and you had hoped, once, that would make her soften towards her stepdaughter, but it only seems to harden the pushing away: you the constant reminder of your mother’s victory over her.

  But beyond Anne, in the bush – your world – it doesn’t matter; you don’t need any of it.

  You stride with relief through the dry flick of grasshoppers in long grass bristling with sound, through congregations of cockatoos snowing the paddocks and watch them lifting like clouds from the trees and you are strong in it, so strong, vividly alone and filled up with air and light; your hair matted, your soles permanently toughened.

  Remembering the child you once were. Marinated by light.

  At school, among the other girls, you are riddled with awkwardness. At having to join them, be one of them, and you will never belong, they all know that but here you are different, you are your true self. Balloon girl, zippy with happiness, flying on your Peddly, firm, confident; it is your default mode whenever you are back in your world.

  At sunset the golden light washes like a mist over the land and then the sun dips behind a hill and the glow is snuffed out, so sudden, and the night chill is there; you gaze from your verandah at the spill of stars and the watching moon and the sky running away and then move to your bed and your hand slips between your legs and the vividness begins, in your head, the technicolour movies, every night, to lull you to sleep: people watching you – fresh, prized, wanted; an entirely different world to this; a house of beauty and abundance, of books and talk and laughter and warmth; men, many of them; your legs parted, on your back, your fast breathing, your hot wet.

  All that you have, the only power that you have, lies in your body. You are fourteen, you have no other power in your life.

  At night, alone, in command, confident; the open wound of your life forgotten, the rawness that can only be sutured by love, the necessary verb.

  To rescue.

  To combust.

  III

  ‘In this one small thing at least it seems I am wiser – that I do not think I know what I do not know’

  Socrates

  Lesson 35

  Tenderly reared young ladies

  The art room.

  A new teacher. Mr Cooper.

  A man.

  Extremely rare in this place. He is one of a series where visiting artists run workshops in the school, explaining what they do; he is collected by the parents of Sophia Smegg, the richest girl in the class. He is young. A painter, apparently, a good one – his work has already been hung in the Archibald Prize.

  His trousers have worn, grubby knees and paint splatters; a red sock peeps from the toe of a sneaker. He has made no concession to being in this place of constraint.

  You are riveted. You are not the only one. You can taste the alertness in the air. And as the entire class of fourteen year olds gaze at this new specimen in their midst, something happens to his trousers. They grow. They stick out. At the crotch. It is excruciating, it is fascinating, it is appalling. Every girl in the class knows what it is. Every girl in the class cannot take their eyes from it. The entire phalanx of girls is silent, spellbound. Mr Cooper’s face reddens, he has barely begun his talk. He falls silent.

  He excuses himself.

  Mr Cooper does not come back.

  He has left the school, it is understood.

  The next artist is a porcelain painter, a woman of seventy-six.

  None of you know what happened after Mr Cooper left the room. You suspect he exited so rapidly because of deep embarrassment; couldn’t face any of you again and you are intrigued by that, the blushing, mortification, vulnerability.

  So. Mr Cooper. Gone from your life. And you will never forget. The power in you, in all of you. That collectively you could do this to him.

  You feel too much, think too much; the intensity of the fantasies, every night before sleep. The Penthouses, at home on weekends, for when you are alone, vividly alone; you cannot look too much, it is unbearable, the intensity. And it is not the pictures of the men that excite you, intrigue you, it is the women; the men look terrifying, you cannot deal with that bit, but at night, every night, to lull you into sleep, the movie begins in your head. You are fourteen, you are not meant to know any of this. You are intrigued by your body, the concentration of what’s between your legs, the potency of it, the way it changes its viscosity, its dynamism – what is it for? Your hand, in wonder, exploring.

  Your life hasn’t begun yet. When will it? You are aching for it to start.

  Lesson 36

  Would it raise the value of men’s labour to depreciate ours? Or advantage them to keep us, forcibly, in idleness, ignorance, and incapacity? I trow not.

  You have a fascination with artists, creators, thinkers; people who express and reveal and articulate. Because you come from a world that resolutely does not and as you get older the exclusion from family and home and hearth – the lack of explanation, the silence – only gets worse.

  Your father walks into your verandah room one Saturday and almost steps on a canvas flung across the room, a self-portrait screaming its paint, and murmurs, ‘Sometimes I wonder what I’ve raised.’ Serious, befuddled, fearful. Of the female with a voice in his midst.

  In your early twenties you will say to him, ‘You know, Dad, some time I’d like to write a book.’ And he will respond, swiftly, ‘Waste of time, that,’ and never sway from his thinking and the distance will grow even wider between you. The two Chinas joined at the hip, once, bush mates – and that chasm will only be broached when you become a parent yourself; put in your proper place. Normalised. To your father, come good at last. And by then the writing dream will have long gone because you have always taken heed of what your father says; he is that ingrained in you, you have wanted to please him that much.

  But at fourteen, you crave difference. So, the obsession with artists, creators, thinkers, the opposite of anything you have known in your life. All that: an escape. A world where people communicate honestly and openly; touch, laugh, cherish, seize life, sizzling like luminous fireflies in the dark; feel deeply and passionatel
y, yes, yes, all that.

  Lesson 37

  Whatsoever ye do, do it heartily

  Friday afternoon. Central Station. You have just bought your train ticket to get you home for the weekend; you are walking across the concourse.

  Ahead. Mr Cooper.

  You, in your school uniform.

  He glances at you, blushes. You are one of those girls he never wants to see again in his life; the whole school is laughing about it, at him. It is a split second, a moment. You could walk straight past him, not look.

  You walk up to him.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Not knowing why that comes out, all you can think of is his reddening face, the vulnerability, the sweetness in it. It makes him oddly approachable.

  ‘Yes,’ he stammers, bewildered. ‘Were you …?’

  ‘Do you live near here?’ Blurting it out, covering up his awkwardness.

  ‘Yes, my studio’s across the road.’

  ‘A real, live studio?’ Your eyes sparkle. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yes,’ he laughs. ‘It’s disgustingly messy, I’m sure it’d disappoint you.’

  ‘No!’ In the presence of a man you are blushing, changing, becoming something else. Losing the sharp flint; have you ever been like this?

  ‘Come and have a look.’

  You nod, barely knowing why or what you are getting yourself into, words won’t come, you’ve lost your voice, your heart is thumping, you walk beside him, your insides flipping. If only the other girls in your class could see you now. Something, someone, has taken over your body, your talk. Your curiosity has emboldened you; yes, the experiment will start here, now. You have to do this, you need to know.

  ‘You don’t have somewhere to go, do you?’ he says at the entrance of his scruffy building.

  ‘My train’s delayed. Trackwork. I’ve got an hour to kill.’

  The lie slips out, it surprises you, the ease of it. And the impertinence of your voice, your boldness – the collector, the archivist, with a task to complete.

  ‘My parents don’t like me hanging around Central alone.’ A pause. ‘I don’t like it.’

  Your desire for friendship, companionship, someone, anyone, is insatiable; your desire, too, to have something, one thing, over all those girls in your class, over their ease and smoothness and confidence, their sense of entitlement. You can’t wait to tell Lune. She’ll be so proud of you. An artist, the coolness of that. The artist. Yours.

  It is beginning.

  And you are following this man from the railway concourse because of something else that has recently crept into your life. The possibility of aloneness, all through your days. You feel you could be very good at being alone and it frightens you; needs arresting.

  Lesson 38

  Easy, pleasant and beautiful as it is to obey, development of character is not complete when the person is fitted only to obey

  His studio is in a warehouse, a proper one, whose second floor is reached by a scuffed and clanking goods lift. You say nothing as you are lifted high, high, but you are breathing tremulous, fast, clutching the straps of your backpack. Not looking, biting your lip, scarcely believing you are doing this. Trying not to show him anything of the great churning within you. He is wearing jeans and t-shirt, he looks different, a student himself. He shares the space with three other people, it is a hot Friday afternoon, they are out.

  He gives you some lemonade. Lemonade! You are not allowed it at home.

  You sit at the table, he accidently brushes your leg as he sits, you pretend not to notice, breathe shallow. You look around. Tacked on the wall are various postcards from galleries, and photographs, black and white and colour. Your eye rests on a print of a painting, a woman naked, the artist looking straight up her legs.

  The meticulous detail.

  He catches you looking.

  ‘Courbet. The Origin of the World.’

  A prickly silence. You don’t want to look away, in shock, don’t want to give him that; can feel a familiar tingling, in your belly, between your legs.

  ‘Incredibly bold for way back then.’ A pause. ‘And now.’

  You nod. Blush. The good student, taking in your lesson.

  He stands in front of you. The bulge between his legs has grown again, he is right in front of you.

  ‘Do you want to sit for me?’ he breathes.

  You try to still your breath.

  So, this is it. You close your eyes, nod, can’t speak. Finally you will learn how love happens, touching and cherishing and nourishing and wanting, you, just you; you will learn where love comes from, how it’s snared, yes, this is the beginning of everything.

  You stand, your finger finds the back of the chair, you don’t know what to do next.

  He strokes your cheek. It slips down. Over your neck, chest, breast. Something is taking you over, a vast yes. You are angling up your arms and awkwardly unzipping your school uniform, and now he is helping you, he is undressing you, leading you; reaching behind your back, as if this moment will disappear if he doesn’t hurry, stumbling with the clasp and finally slipping off your small, pale bra then kneeling and holding his face to your skin, your quivering skin and with a great sigh burying himself in you, breathing you in. And staying there, staying.

  Then his fingers. Slowly, slowly, like a daddy longlegs. Working their way into your white cotton panties.

  Spidering inside, to your core, your great warmth; slowly prising your legs apart. You watch him watching, his mouth parted, his breathing. You are intrigued – his face, that you can do this to another person.

  Transform them.

  The power in that, and you have never felt such power in your life as he undresses you until there is nothing left.

  So wet you feel you could crumble with it, now, buckle with his touch. You clutch his hair. Your legs collapse under you. He catches you and lays you on a worn Persian rug on the floor. Stands over you, smiles, assesses. Whips off his t-shirt.

  Picks up a paintbrush.

  Lesson 39

  Would that, instead of educating our young girls with the notion that they are to be wives, or nothing – we could instil into them the principle that, above and before all, they are to be women

  You feel suddenly, brutally, exposed.

  ‘Uh uh,’ he admonishes, as your legs instinctively entwine, shutting you away.

  The rug is threadbare, thin, you can feel the sharpness of the floorboards underneath.

  He unzips his trousers, fast, and you are astonished at the length of his penis, the size of it, it looks so big, it could never fit.

  ‘Are you a virgin?’ he asks.

  Yes, you nod, breathe, biting your lip, can scarcely talk.

  ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘No one must know we’re doing this.’ No talk in his voice, just breath.

  ‘Yes.’ Your face turns away, to the Courbet, so this is what women do, all women, you will learn, it is time.

  ‘I don’t know if I –’ you suddenly blurt, the voice of a child.

  ‘Sssh,’ he says.

  You glance across at his canvases, stacked against walls and on easels, the paint is viscous, tumultuous, raw; among the portraits are some other ones, secret ones, bodies, just bits, never a face; men and women, their genitals in stark, cold, medical close-up. You look and look at those ones and then something cold touches you, playfully, and you start; the paintbrush, it parts your lips, you yelp in shock, it brushes your clit, plays with the entrance of your secret interior, then slithers across your mouth and your taste the tang of it, of you. And he dips the brush inside, gentle but insistent and you gag and he stops, it goes back to your clit and your stomach flips and despite yourself you’re suddenly opening your legs wider, wider, surrendering, arching your back and gasping, suddenly, and there is a great warmth, a tingling, something is taking over you, you are becoming someone else.

  Who opens herself. Who is turned over. Who lifts her buttocks out, high to the sky, wanting, waiting, f
or God knows what, as the tip of the brush plays, explores. Teases and you wince and flop – no, this is going too fast, it’s too unknown. All of it. You twist onto your back, legs clamped.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ he says, matter-of-fact, smiling, placing the paintbrush back in a crammed jar. You look at him, no one has ever said you are beautiful before. A blush roars through your body.

  ‘I really want to paint you.’

  You nod, the good girl, still biting your lip.

  ‘Now,’ he whispers.

  But the spell is broken, you should be getting back, the golden light of late afternoon is slanting too obliquely through the tall, dusty windows and you must hurry to catch the next train, you’ll be just in time for Dad to not be worried if you go now, quick.

  ‘Next Friday,’ you manage to stumble out. ‘Same time.’ Don’t know what you’re saying.

  His fingertip draws a line across the top of your pubis, then slowly, slowly – as your belly rolls under him – his touch, teasing in the crevices and you rise to it you meet it then his finger darts inside, once, with a swift, hard jerk; he hooks you; you tense in shock. The tone, in an instant, has shifted into something else.

  ‘Our secret, remember. No one must ever, ever know about this.’

  You are too young for this, you are not sure, you shouldn’t; you are the good girl. You nod, next Friday, yes.

  Desperate to begin.

  Living. Loving. Life.

  You need this.

  You are on a path now, you cannot turn back.

  Lesson 40

  Let us turn from the dreary, colourless lives of the women who have nothing to do