Chapter 47
THERE’S THIS ONE THING that happened at the hotel, in those early weeks on the island, and I’ve gone back and forth on whether to tell you about it.
It’s deeply personal, but I think it’s important to talk about for a couple of reasons.
The first is that it changed the way I thought about sex, which changed my relationship with Paul.
And the second is my general sense that we don’t talk nearly enough about female pleasure, so consider this my attempt to tip the scales, or at least balance them.
I was in the bath one day, washing my hair with that ridiculous shower nozzle, when it slipped out of my hands and fell into the water.
I scrambled to gain control of it, worried I’d get water all over the floor, but in the process, the jet stream pushed against my labia.
You can probably guess where this is going, but I couldn’t.
I just froze, let the water continue to pulse where it pleased, then repositioned a little, to see if I could get a better angle.
Soon I had sunk down into the tub and was working that poor nozzle in earnest. Did I know what I was doing?
Not at all. But the pressure felt delightful, like the best parts of sex with Paul.
There was the slow and steady build that left me almost sore with want, but none of the inconveniences that came with trying to satisfy another human being.
Without Paul telling me to go faster or harder, to crawl on top of him or get on all fours, I could just go nice and slow, and that’s exactly what I did because, apparently, I also wasn’t worried about the Excelsior’s water bill.
I don’t know how long I lay there with that shower nozzle planted firmly between my legs.
I do know that eventually, I had to close my eyes, that my breaths grew short and ragged, and that my pelvis started arching up and out of the water, as if I were one of those marionettes back in the stationer’s shop.
I could practically see the string tethering me to the ceiling.
I didn’t know what was coming next, just that something was, and that if I remained perfectly still, whatever it was would find me, shake me by the shoulders, and say, This is the whole point!
When I finally came, I thought I was dying, at least at first. Isn’t it the French who call an orgasm a little death?
That makes complete sense to me now, because there’s that moment when the world goes dark and your body doesn’t feel like it’s yours.
When all you are is a pulsing muscle, curled fingers, a slick center.
I imagine that the letting go, the giving up of control, is a lot like death in its way.
In the bathtub that day, I wept. I couldn’t help it.
The release had felt so good and been so unexpected, and also, I felt like such a dolt for not having figured the whole thing out sooner.
To find that climaxing was an actual physical response, like goose bumps or a sneeze, and not just a general state of arousal—well, it was quite the discovery.