Chapters (45)
- COVER PAGE
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- DEDICATION
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- CHAPTER 35
- CHAPTER 36
- CHAPTER 37
- CHAPTER 38
- CHAPTER 39
- CHAPTER 40
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- FURTHER READING
It’s weird hearing about Grandma’s desire, but she has never minced words. She has always talked about bodies as though they aren’t a big deal—because of her work, perhaps, because it is a part of everyday life. She talks about sex like she talks about shopping, with no filter. She was the one who told me how babies are made, while we watched a litter of kittens being born in her clinic, and she was the one who told me about menstruation and bought me my first packages of Kotex and Tampax. The boxes gathered dust in the bathroom cabinet for years. On the track and field team we bragged about not having our periods. It was a badge of honour. It meant we could be more like the boys. When my period finally came, when I was seventeen, Grandma didn’t try to console me. She bought me a heating pad for the cramps. She told me not to lie around feeling sorry for myself too long. In any case, my periods never stuck around, and I was pleased when they disappeared again.
I can see, now, how it would have been for Grandma and Roy, and part of me longs for that clarity—that straightforward need. To desire someone without being caught up in what they think of me, of my body, not to always be on the outside looking in.
I’m so busy thinking about how others see me that I forget to see them. When Ash touches me I wonder what he thinks of what he’s touching. Am I too flabby? Can he see the dimples on the backs of my thighs? I am so distracted by these questions I forget to touch him back. Only if I’ve had enough to drink or taken something else can I shut the thoughts down. Two glasses of wine or two Percocet and the inhibition disappears—only to return as regret later.
The last time Ash and I had sex sober was the morning I left, before we drove to San Diego to pick up Grandma. He came into the shower and I shivered beneath a stream of hot. I was going away; I couldn’t say no. I focused on a spot of mould in the grout of the tiles. My ass spread, widened against the glass partition. I gritted my teeth, chin on his shoulder, hoping he would finish soon.