“I understand. I understand,” he said. Then he turned and left, pulling at his lip, looking at the ground.
“Wait!” I shouted.
He stopped without looking around.
“More like in a temple. Like in a Tantric temple.” He turned his head to speak to me over his shoulder.
“You know Tantra?”
“I went to an exhibit in a museum. I went twice actually.” It was a few seconds before he walked off again.
I was so excited by what I was proposing that I swam for longer than usual again. It wasn’t until I got in the elevator to go back home that I felt like the complete idiot I was. The headline behind my eyes read: SUPER-SIZED WHITE WOMAN OFFERS EDUCATION AND INSPIRATION TO INDIAN ELECTRICIAN, under which hung the tag line:
And then the doorbell rings. This time I’m not at all prepared that it’s him; I’m sure I look just like his pal Mr Flappy when I open the door.
“Okay,” he says.
“Okay?”
He nods.
A beatific image forms itself in my head, and I know what to do. “Follow me,” I tell him, and lead him to the bathroom.
My bathroom is small, but pretty. You enter through narrow double doors and are facing the sink and mirror. Next to the sink is the toilet. If you sit on the toilet, you are facing the shower, which has two walls of tile and two walls of Plexiglas. I ask the painter to wait outside the door until I’m ready, and close the doors behind me.
Once I’ve stripped off my swimsuit, I brush out my wet hair so that it hangs down my back, and feel the need to adorn myself. I remember the Tantric statues at the Smithsonian-not only for their buxom figures, their hips cocked to rock against their consorts, and their peaceful, joyful eyes-
but also for the detail of their accessories. They were garlanded, with strings of beads or flowers which rested on the upper slopes of their breasts and hung around their rounded bellies, below the navel and above the yoni. I’ve never in my life seen stone breathe so forcefully.
I start putting on my jewellery, all of it. All my rings, all my bracelets, all my necklaces, pearls, Swarovski, gold and silver chains, and a long, green, beaded belt which I tie around my hips, the feel of which excites me more than a hand could right then.
I step into the shower, then tell him he can come in.
The painter sees where I am and comes to stand in front of the toilet, just a few feet from me. I’m a little nervous, but before I turn on the water, I remember what I teach all my clients about delivering their presentation with confidence and commitment. I look him straight in the eye, surprised to see that this is where he is staring at me as well. I hold up my hands so that he will focus on them, then lay them on my neck and glide them down my body, over my breasts and belly, just as I would have if I’d been allowed to touch the museum sculptures I desired so much.
When I turn the water on, I keep it tepid so that the Plexiglas won’t steam up and obscure me. The cool water assures that my nipples will stay erect and my breasts rounded. I soap myself luxuriously but naturally, thinking more of my own pleasure than of his, teaching him about women, about women alone. Then I take the showerhead off its hook to rinse myself. I pull my left leg up and press my knee against the wall, opening myself completely for view. For the first time in my life, I’m convinced beyond any doubt that my pussy is something sacred, something to be adored, worthy of sculpture and ceremony.
The painter thinks so as well. He sits on the toilet seat and opens his trousers, untangling his hard-on from his flimsy boxer shorts and letting his cock stand on view, like a statue, like me, before starting to stroke himself.
He watches as I move the showerhead all over my head and body. I want to touch myself as well, but I don’t. The sculptures don’t, so I don’t. They just look healthy and contented, so I am too.
The painter’s climax is a quiet event. I know that when I experience the pleasure of climax, my face shows pain. Ecstasy as excruciation. But his face remains calm, and his eyes stay on my body.
Whatever he feels when he comes, I certainly feel released from something.
While he cleans himself up, I turn off the shower and stand inside it, the light sparkling on the wet links and crystals, until he is finished. He fastens his trousers again, and stands in front of me with the clear door between us.
“Thank you,” he says seriously, just like a student would, and leaves.
Once I’m dry and wrapped in my towel, I go out to the living room, but he’s gone.
I don’t expect to see the painter again, and I don’t mind. He turned out to be a should-be-there thing. Like the screw. It’s an aberration, but it’s useful. I can put up a new picture whenever I want.
BODY DRAFTS
Rachel Loh, Singapore
After removing her bra, Michelle slowly slipped off her more reluctant panties, then stood there holding both. She looked over at Dr Narain sheepishly, the underwear dangling from her hand.
“Anywhere,” Narain said with a generous shrug. “Just throw them over there.”
Michelle turned and tossed first the bra, then the panties onto a tawny brown plush chair squeezed next to the bedroom dresser. She then turned back to Dr Narain, arms folded lengthwise across her front, as if to attempting to cover her breasts and crotch-though very little of either was covered.
“It’s more comfortable here than in my office, isn’t it?” said Dr Narain.
“Not as cold, I think.” A knowing smile filtered in. “In any sense.”
“Yes,” Michelle giggled. “It is much more comfortable here. Very much.” She laughed again, then let her arms fall to her sides. After all, this was hardly the first time Narain had seen her naked body. The only difference was that this time they were in the doctor’s bedroom, not the office. After exchanging conspiratorial smiles with Narain, Michelle folded her arms behind her back, shifted her feet, threw her head back and posed, showing off her work- in-progress body.
Narain beamed, stepped forward and started caressing the edges of that delicate Chinese face, finally streaming skilled fingers through the patient’s hair. “Admiring your work?” Michelle asked with a nervous smile.
“Admiring your beauty,” Narain replied, with a more confident smile.
Michelle closed her eyes and leaned her head back further, allowing Narain to caress her more easily. She did, indeed, feel comfortable in the hands of this doctor. From that very first time she stepped into the office and saw Narain, she felt surprisingly at ease, glad that she had taken her friend Tania’s advice and sought out this particular specialist.
Michelle had been going to Dr Narain for just over a year now. She had started with botox treatments, then went on to collagen infusions, before moving up to minor surgery to give her the double eyelid that all affluent Asian women seem required to sport these days. Only recently had she decided to ask Narain about more radical procedures: body sculpting, breast enlargement, vaginal tightening. Though still anxious about this next stage, she was nonetheless determined to press ahead with it.
Narain had moved from stroking Michelle’s hair and face and was now skimming the tips of well-trained fingers across the patient’s neck. “Yes, you can use a little bit of work here. Don’t worry, we’ll get these lines gone completely. Very simple. We can do it next week at the office, if you like.”
“Botox?” Michelle asked. Narain gave another generous, reassuring smile, along with a shake of the head. “No, that won’t work here. What we’re looking at is just a short deep laser treatment. Fifteen minutes, tops, for this lovely neck of yours. And no down time really.”
Michelle nodded, just as Narain started grazing fingers lightly over her shoulders, before slowly easing them
