"One minute we were fully clothed, chaste, and filled with longing, the next it was done. Thank you, she said": a short story by Emma Sidnam
On a map, I mark an X for the houses of all the people I’ve slept with. It goes without saying that I avoid those houses. The map, which is a large poster behind my bed, is pockmarked with crosses, with the scars of my Friday nights. The Xs are red, and the map looks alike to how I imagine planners after wars mark possible hidden bombs. That’s what it feels like. I pace carefully around the crosses, trying not to raise up the swelling regrets, the memories of the dead.
There aren’t many suburbs I feel comfortable in anymore, there aren’t enough streets in my town.
. . .
Last Friday, like almost every Friday I got ‘lucky’. At least in the dark, she was a stunner – all colourless eyes that seemingly glued me in place. Her eyes found mine over the rim of a glass, and I held them until we were next to each other. My hands found her waist and moved from there. My lips were at her ear: Want to get out of here? Her lips answered affirmative.
Later, she was a spirit with long hair. She moved around and over me, warm and alive, a shadow, light. We didn’t talk much but we still made a lot of noise. I felt bad for her flatmates. Afterwards, as we lay in the stillness, I felt exhausted. I could already feel the regret and shame sinking down my body.
. . .
It always has to be in the dark. In the dark a stranger can tell me You look good and I can almost believe it. In the light, I can still see faded scratch marks, pale bruises against my airways. They stand out on my skin, which is a puritanical, sickly white. To me, they’re repulsive. My body is my map, and I am a marked man.
. . .
Sometimes I dream of having my heart broken. At least it will mean I’ve fallen in love.
. . .
I wish I could stop. I say this to a homeless man in the park, a man I slump past on my way home from work. When he first settled in the park, the commuters grumbled. Their path was no longer unobstructed, even though the form of obstruction was just a man. They were bitter that their evergreen-laden park was no longer pure of people. And, to an extent, this man sparked an evolution. The park was full of tall, bent trees, benches, and soon it was also full of the homeless. Mostly men. Men always get in the way, and that includes me.
I started talking to Jake one day when work finished early, so I was on the commuter’s path before the usual rush of footfall. I was bored, and slightly sad, so I thought a conversation with a stranger would help me, the same way I always use strangers to help me.
I hadn’t anticipated that Jake would become an insightful presence in my life. Soon, 5:15 was our time of day. We would sit in the shadows and talk.
. . .
Why don’t you just stop then? Jake was a decisive person. Thirty-five and washed up on employment, two failed marriages already in his rear-view mirror, he existed with an easy rapport. Once, he told me that every time he’s about to do something, he takes one second to question whether it will bring him joy. Happiness is the meaning of life, he’d said. If you’re not happy, what’s the point? There’s no god, no purpose. We’re alone here and we just need to live as best we can.
I had a few thoughts on that.
. . .
It was the moments before the end when it felt most worth it. The moments when I could stop thinking, focus on sensation. My body never got tired of sensation, even though I associated it with so much else. My body was an easy master to please, and, anyway, I didn’t really know what else to do with myself.
One night, there was music playing. He chose it, I didn’t mind it. The whole affair was slower than usual, he didn’t want to rush anything. How strange that this something, this mere friction-heavy action could be afforded actual intimacy. It had lost that for me long ago. Fast and out was my strategy – as little conversation as possible. But he was tall and dark and confident with his hands. He anchored me in the moment, seemed to want the whole thing to be special.
We’d met at a friend’s party, moving easily from kitchen to couch to his apartment – talking the whole time. I guess he could have interpreted the conversation as a ‘connection’, but I didn’t believe in instant connections. What people commonly misinterpret for connection is simply rapport, similar interest, physical attraction. All of those things are easy to find once you know where to look. I couldn’t seem to stop looking.
His name was Liam.
. . .
During high school, I reached an age where a number of my friends were either getting into relationships or having sex. I remember listening to my friends’ tales – told with excitement and uninhibited pride – with distaste. It seemed so strange to me, how this small movement, a coming together of physical parts, could be viewed with such elevation. It’s not that I wasn’t interested – I felt the physical pull that any teenager feels. But I also wanted it to be special.
. . .
As a child, I would lie awake, wondering why I was alive. It just didn’t make sense to me, that humans could simply exist with no rhyme or reason. We’re here to help others, said my Dad. We’re here to love one another, said my Mum. I wasn’t sure of either – if we were here to help others, wouldn’t more people do that? If we were here to love one another, why was my Uncle Robert, an unmarried and unpleasant millionaire, so happy with his lot? My Aunt Tonya left her wife to pursue a life of free-spirited travelling, adventure. Life’s too short to be tied down, she told me, a hyper-active eight-year-old. At the time, I just agreed.
. . .
My first time was with a girl named Isobel. Her ancestors were from Brazil, and she had golden limbs and a warm smile. I was enamoured by her, and I asked her to go to the movies with me. At the time, I felt that I needed a girlfriend, that a girlfriend would make me feel more complete. Isobel seemed a safe option – pretty, and smart, and, for whatever reason, interested in me. I played football and was part of the percussion section in the school orchestra. I had good grades but wasn’t a standout student by any stretch. I was already tall and broad-shouldered, but I was insecure about my skin which wouldn’t tan.
. . .
Our conversations were always a little stilted, but I don’t think either of us really minded. We rubbed along, and people seemed to think I was cooler for having a girlfriend. I still didn’t feel ready for our physical relationship to progress. I was insecure about getting naked, and I didn’t really expect Isobel to remain in my life. But she wanted it. One day we were watching movies on her couch which became making out on her couch and my body felt like it was moving faster than my mind could. One minute we were fully clothed, chaste, and filled with longing, the next it was done. Thank you, she said. She kissed me, slowly. I didn’t say anything, but I felt like the actual moment didn’t live up to the hype.
It got better, as we got better – that year or so we stayed together. After she left me, and I shrugged it off, I went to a club with some friends. What you need, they told me, hands digging into my shoulders, is a rebound. And that’s what I got, and that first time with a new body, it felt enlivening. For a moment there, I loved it, I wanted more of it.
So, I went out there and found more. And more.
. . .
How was last weekend? It was a cold Monday and Jake and I had his blankets over our knees, our hands warmed by the takeaway coffee I’d bought. The same, I said. It’s getting worse. He looked concerned. How so?
It was my mother’s birthday on Friday night, and I couldn’t even stay long enough for her to cut the cake, I said. What kind of guy can’t even stay for cake?
. . .
A few weeks back, I had a meeting and the client turned out to be an old friend. She looked so different I almost didn’t recognise her, but she recognised me. Is that really you? she said, and I had to look at her hard, look beneath the expensive pantsuit and haircut, the glasses and lipstick to realise that it was Maya. That we went to school together. That we were once close.
Maya had been my one religious friend and I used to ask her questions because I found religion fascinating. I thought it was both perplexing and beautiful that she, like millions of people, could give their lives to something they couldn’t see. She was Christian, and she tried to explain the difference between the Christian God and all other gods. It’s because Jesus died on the cross, she said. Why did he do that? I was genuinely curious as to why anybody would willingly let themselves be crucified. Because he loved us, even though we were sinners. I didn’t doubt that I was a sinner. But I wasn’t really sure what I believed in. I hated thinking about death because I wasn’t sure what came after.
At the meeting, we talked fast so we could use time at the end to catch up on our lives. She was happy. Married. Had travelled all over the globe, had a house and plans for the future. Had stayed attached to her faith and even led a youth group on Friday nights. What about you though? Tell me about you, she said, and she seemed genuinely interested in the answer. Oh, you know, I’m just getting along.
. . .
There have been a few occasions when I saw a one-night stand again. The first time, he was walking down the road and we locked eyes. My first thought, regretfully, was that he was better-looking in the dark. My second thought was that I wasn’t one to judge appearances, considering how I felt about myself.
My second encounter was less awkward. We nodded and smiled briefly at each other, acknowledging that although we were strangers, we’d seen each other at our most vulnerable. How strange, to give a stranger such power over your mortality. How easy it would be to stab someone in bed, slipping out the door, never to be seen again.
. . .
Maya gave me her number and we stayed in contact. Do you want to get a coffee? she’d texted, a day after we’d run into each other. Sure I replied, and we made plans for the next day. At the cafe, we talked about all the people we used to know. We ran through names like water: Jack, Kelly, Kieran, Molly, Tom, etc. etc.
They were teachers, doctors, investors, married, divorced, pregnant, depressed, anxious, in and out of rehab. None of us would ever be the same people together again. Out of everyone, I said, you seem to be doing particularly well. To be honest, I’m a mess. She offered a sympathetic smile. I have God, she said. That’s why. And then she asked if I would like to go to church with her family one day and I found myself agreeing.
. . .
As I dressed as nicely as I could – although I didn’t have any nice clothes – I felt my fingers tangling in the buttons of my shirt. There were marks on my chest and my heartbeat was wild and out of beat. I checked my phone, checked the address that Maya had sent me. I didn’t know where it was, so I had to look up the route in my road atlas, imagining myself walking down these streets, arriving at this destination. It was hard to picture.
. . .
I went to church last week, I told Jake one day. He was surprised. I wouldn’t have picked you to believe, he said. I don’t. But I think I want to. Surely allowing some abstract god to become God would trigger some sense of freedom, something more than the serotonin release that could be gained in less than three minutes and was followed so quickly with regret. I was explaining this to Jake who didn’t understand why I always regretted it, why I always returned to it. If you truly regretted it, wouldn’t you stop doing it? That’s what one would think, but truth be told, I think I was addicted.
. . .
The Friday after I went to church, I couldn’t make it work. I hadn’t planned to go out, but someone found my body in town and took it home. In the darkness I skimmed my fingers over her body and tried to feel excited.
. . .
A few weeks later, I asked Maya if I could come again. You’re always welcome, she replied. So, I went, and then again, and then again.
. . .
Shame had no colour. It was the same white as my skin, the darkness of secret orifices, the red of blood, the dark bluish purple of oval bruising. It was a constant presence at the back of my throat, a tight tension, a low keening. It shone out of my pores as I imagined God. When I talked to Him, God, I felt this sense of peace. I felt complete. Oh God, save me.
. . .
My thoughts returned to Liam and I decided to break my own rules and contact him. We went out for breakfast, moving easily from cafe to hill to beach and then the entire day was gone. I felt like I’d known him for a long time. I felt like maybe we’d met before, even though we hadn’t.
Liam, it turned out, believed in God. I always have, he said. Liam was a chemistry teacher, a basketball player, an introvert who finished his texts with xxx. And around him, I felt both the sting of desire and something calmer, something realer. Around him, for the first time, I felt a stirring higher up my body.
. . .
I bought a Bible, placing it next to my bed. I started reading it, one chapter at a time.
. . .
What’s this? Liam was looking at my map. He turned his head around to meet my eyes and I could feel my tracings of shame. Every hand that had enveloped me, every nail that had stabbed me in the back, I could feel them. Oh God. I went to that map and ripped it off the wall with such force that it tore in two.
It’s nothing.
. . .
Later, Liam and I lay naked in bed. He was playing music and the lights were on. He traced words into my shoulder and I tried to guess what they were. XXX. That’s what he wrote on my skin.
"XXX" is taken from the superb anthology A Clear Dawn: New Asian Voices in Aotearoa New Zealand edited by Alison Wong and Paula Morris (Auckland University Press, $50), available in selected bookstores nationwide. Two more stories from A Clear Dawn will appear in the short story series at ReadingRoom over the next fortnight, both illustrated by Mariadelle Gamit.
