The Adventures of Holly White and the Incredible Sex Machine (5 page)

Holly reached out gently and touched the tip of her finger to his lip. He did not
stir. His immobility made her bold. She stroked his lip, soft but edged by the coarse
hairs of his beard; let her finger dip in between the lips and touch the edge of
his tongue. Their kisses were always dry, close-lipped. She was surprised to find
his tongue so damp inside his mouth.

She remembered a wayward girl at school who liked her boyfriend to slip his tongue
between her other lips, the ones between the pale softness of her thighs. The bad
girl said she made sure those lips were stripped of all hair when her boyfriend
visited. She said it was like kissing, and Holly had
imagined exactly how. Her lips
would be closed to him at first, dry, soft, unyielding. Then he would kiss with more
passion and the girl's lips would respond, parting a little at first as if about
to speak. His tongue would push inside her then, as if searching for hers. Gently
at first, and then with more force. Her lips would be wet by now but there was no
tongue inside to meet his and the more he pushed his in, searching all the soft wet
hollows, the more she might wish she had a tongue in there to respond.

Holly withdrew her finger from Jack's mouth. Would he wake if she moved to rest those
other lips of hers against his? She imagined it would feel like setting a fire in
her belly and slowly waiting for it to consume her, hollow her out, leaving nothing
but a charred and gorgeous shell. Even now, looking at Jack's mouth, parted, dry,
soft, she found there was a slow warmth gestating deep inside her. She touched Jack's
cheek, pinched it. His eyelids twitched but he didn't wake. She wriggled up the bed,
the fall of her silk dress like a lovely caress on her skin. She lifted her skirt.
If Jack had been awake he would have seen her pubic hair, thick and wiry, sprouting
out from below her suspenders. He would have seen the lace silk tops of her stockings
clinging to her thighs. All of this lit from within by that embarrassing ghostly
glow. Her hands were shaking a little but there was no one awake to see, and so,
emboldened, she edged forward on her knees until her hips were perfectly aligned
with the upward turn of his face.

‘This is how I'm made.' She whispered and pulled the hair up to give his closed eyes
a view of her second lips. She knew they would be faintly outlined by the light of
her desire. The same pale but vivid glow that glow-worms make on the roof of
a cave.
She wished her lips were smooth and hairless, like the wayward girl's. She wished
that they were lightless pink, instead of ectoplasmic blue. But she was here now,
and there was hair and she glowed, and she would have to be content with herself
as she was.

If his eyes were open he would see her pubic mound and the flat expanse of her stomach,
the watery fall of silk about her naked hips. Holly steadied herself on the bedhead
and pulled herself up to crouch over him, her nakedness hovering above his chest.
Then it was just a small resettling of her weight, her knees coming to rest on either
side of his head, her thighs tipping forward and she positioned the little lips above
his slightly parted mouth.

‘A kiss.' She whispered, and placed the kiss on its mark. She waited there, expecting
that furnace to ignite, waiting for the rush of heat. Jack breathed out through his
nose and the jet of air disturbed the hair at the apex, the rustle of a summer breeze
through neatly cut grass. She felt the warmth of it, and somewhere, in the middle
of the forest, an echo of response. She waited with her breath held, her chest full
of anticipation. There was nothing, but the tender press of his lips against hers,
a little heat, a little stirring perhaps, but nothing more. The kiss felt as chaste
as his wakeful kisses. There was nothing of his desire in it. She felt the harsh
scratch of his new beard on the softest places. An irritation, nothing more.

Holly quickly climbed off, lay down beside Jack and pulled the sheet up over herself
as if to hide the evidence of what she had done. She touched his cheek and turned
his head to face her. His lips were still slightly parted, only now glistening a
little with a slick wetness, as if he had put gloss on them.
Glow-in-the-dark gloss,
but even this pale light had already begun to fade. She slid her hand under the sheet
and touched her own lips and found them equally slick.

Holly leaned forward. Pressed her lips to Jack's. Allowed her tongue to slip out
and lick. Salt, alcohol, a subtle briny taste and, faintly, the sharp tang of electrical
smoke. She pushed her tongue inside. Jack barely moved. His mouth softened a little
and her tongue slipped in and under the row of teeth. She pulled away. He closed
his mouth but did not wake. She saw his tongue slip out and taste her on his lips.
She saw his neck move as if swallowing. She quickly leaned towards his face, slipped
her hand into her dress, remembering the bright blue sequined tassel of the burlesque
dancer. Her nipple was tight. It tingled as she pushed it towards his lips. He took
it into his mouth. He sucked once, twice, a twitch of a smile and she pulled her
breast away from him and slipped it once more inside the low-cut neckline of her
silken dress. What dreams had she brought him? Why now the little smile, back for
a second and gone again just as swiftly? He would not wake. He was falling back into
that deep sleep of the dead, his chest rising higher, dropping lower, emptying itself
of breath.

Holly took the edge of the sheet and lifted it. She looked. She let her own chest
rise and fall more completely as she took in the sight of him.

When she let the sheet fall back again, the tiny soft curl of a penis remained etched
into her vision as if burnt there by a light aimed directly at her retina. She lifted
her finger to the corner of her eye and caught the bead of moisture gathering. She
didn't even feel the sadness that must have wrung this single teardrop from her.
She reached out with her finger and held the
tear against the lips of her sleeping
boyfriend. The water dripped from her and disappeared into the soft opening of his
mouth. When it was gone there was no evidence of it ever having existed. She touched
her face again and found that her fingers came away dry. She touched her own lips,
those other lips, down between her legs, but here too the moisture had gone.

Holly slipped out from under the sheet and pushed her feet into her high-heeled shoes.
She looked back. The sleeping figure looked undisturbed. She worried at the silver
ring on her finger. No one knew what she had done here. No one would ever know. She
crept back to the door and closed it behind her.

Downstairs his mother raised an eyebrow and Holly shook her head.

‘I'm sorry dear. You look so lovely in that pretty blue dress. What a miserable Valentine's
Day.'

Holly smiled a little. The fernlike curve of the penis was still there when she closed
her eyes.

‘It's OK,' she said. ‘I'm tired anyway.'

The house was dark. Holly kicked her shoes off at the door. Her stockinged feet were
a little sore already. She lifted one and balanced against the wall as she picked
out the nylon mesh from between her toes. She could feel the silk of her dress slipping
against the bare skin beneath. It felt ridiculous now. When she left home she had
been excited, creamed and perfumed, enjoying the slip of silk against her bare hips.

Now she had the memory of Jack's body, heavy under the sheet, dead to the world,
dead to her, the little death of his penis curled in the hair between his legs like
a newborn possum. The darkness suited her mood. She left the light off and found
her
way towards the couch, feeling her way past the overstuffed leather chairs, and
flopped down into it, pulling her feet up under the slippery cold of her dress. She
closed her eyes and light exploded behind her lids. It was as if the act of closing
them had illuminated the world. She blinked. The overhead light was on and Holly
felt disoriented. She glanced towards the front door but there was no one there.

The man sat in the soft hug of the couch opposite. He had been there the whole time,
sitting in the dark, watching her silently. The thought made her uncomfortable but
not unpleasantly so. She had never seen this man before but he seemed so at home
in her lounge room that she could not feel afraid. And he had been watching her as
she had watched Jack. There was a nice symmetry to that.

He was clean-shaven, perhaps as old as her father, but taller, with a strong jaw
and a thick shock of hair swept to messy hillocks as if he had just run his fingers
through it. He was wearing a suit, carelessly crumpled; his long legs were elegantly
crossed. The trousers, riding up, revealed mismatched socks, one black, one checked.
He followed the direction of her gaze and uncrossed his legs pointedly, smiling,
a little amused.

Holly smoothed the silk of her skirt over her tucked-up knees. Could he tell she
was not wearing underwear? His smile seemed knowing. He sat grinning in her lounge
room as if he knew everything she had been doing all day, from the morning of flowers
to the slow tasselled striptease to the evening with its particular flavour of sadness
and arousal.

As if to underline his omnipotence he leaned back, picked up the glass of scotch
that sweated beside him on the end table and tipped it, listening to the ice cubes
tinkling against each other.

‘Happy Valentine's Day, Holly.' He looked up at her over the thick edge of the tumbler.

‘Oh,' she said. Of course he would know her name. He must be one of her parents'
lawyer friends. They would have mentioned her. She shifted uncomfortably, slipping
her feet out from under her, setting them on the floor, aware suddenly that she was
not wearing her shoes. No shoes and no underwear. She felt practically naked and
when he looked her up and down her silk dress might as well have been a second skin.
She folded her arms over her chest and felt the skin prickle. She hoped that her
nipples were safely hidden behind her arms. She glanced up towards the stairs. Surely
her parents must still be home. It was early. If things had gone to plan she and
Jack would be just arriving at the restaurant now.

‘You look all dressed up, Holly. No place to go?'

The sound of her name on his lips was slightly invasive, as if he had touched her
in passing or pushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

‘I…' It was rude not to answer him but for all she knew he was some robber caught
in the very act. ‘Are my parents here?' she asked him.

He smiled and seemed unlikely to answer her at all. Then, as if to save her from
embarrassment, the light on the stairs clicked on and she heard the sound of her
mother's shoes descending.

Her father was close behind, one hand measuring the shimmy of her hips as she took
each stair. Such an intimate gesture, one that should be reserved for a moment of
privacy. It surprised her that they would touch like this with their friend there
on the couch. Holly's mother stopped halfway
down the stairs, staring at her as if
she was someone risen from the grave.

Her father stumbled. ‘Evelyn?' He laughed, his hands slipping around her waist and
up to hold the small pert globes of her breasts which heaved up, threatening to spill
out of her strapless dress. Her mother pulled his hands down, affectionate but firm.

‘Darling?' she said and her father bent to peer down into the living room.

‘Holly?' He squeezed past his wife, taking the stairs two at a time till he was close
enough to make out the shape of his daughter sitting stiff-backed on the couch.

‘Dad.'

She stood then, and so did their guest. A gesture of gentlemanly sympathy.

‘I thought you were out to dinner with Jack?'

Holly looked to the man in the suit then back at her father. If they had been alone
she might have let herself dissolve into tears. Now she just shrugged.

‘Change of plan,' she told him. Her mother made it to the bottom of the staircase,
a little flustered. She patted at her hair, which was still impeccably styled. ‘Oh
darling, that's terrible. You've met Michael?'

Holly felt herself blushing and looked away.

‘All alone then on Valentine's Day? Perhaps, Evelyn, your daughter should come out
with us?'

‘Michael!' Her mother's voice was like a little slap, sharp and strident with a hint
of flirtatiousness. Holly had never seen her parents behave this way. Her father
was fidgety. Not knowing exactly what he should do with his hands. Her mother
seemed
startled and concerned for Holly. Michael was the most comfortable of them, handsome
and at ease, a little smile playing at his lips. He seemed to be quite enjoying the
interchange.

‘Ah no,' he said. ‘A pretty young girl like Holly would be bored in the company of
us old folk, I suppose.' He looked at her then, a lingering stare that travelled
the length of her, alighting gently on every patch of exposed skin. So penetrating
a gaze that Holly wondered if the probing fingers of that look had uncovered the
secret undress beneath her skirt. She smoothed the silk down at her thighs again
and sank back into the soft lounge and folded her hands into her lap.

‘I'll watch a movie,' she said, avoiding his eyes, staring instead at her nails.
The perfect polish was chipped, she ran her thumb over the blemish and frowned. She
would watch a movie, that was the tragedy of it. A young woman at the peak of her
beauty sitting alone at home watching a romance and fixing the polish on her nails.

When she looked up he was staring at her ring finger, the word
waits
clearly written
on the band. The rest was hidden but he grinned at her, as if they shared some wicked
secret.

Her mother turned to go. ‘If you're sure you'll be all right then, sweetheart, we
should get going. We're late already.'