As it’s you. The squashed pear blushed.
How dangerously intoxicating is one small sign that we are chosen. How much we all want to be special, singled out, preferred, by someone we wish would love us.
Ms Martin moved the paint tin, and stood aside.
‘Go in. Mind the paint. Sit yourself down. I’d better finish this or it’ll dry patchy.’
A little apron of stone flags no more than a metre wide was separated from the pavement by a low brick wall. You came through the front door directly into the front room. I went inside with eyes agog.
Ms Martin’s house was one of those two-up, two-down terrace houses built for the families of manual workers somewhere around the 1920s and often now done up by middle-class singles. The rooms were small and square with a staircase between the front room and the back kitchen. A bathroom had been added on behind the kitchen sometime in the 1950s and beyond that was a narrow garden divided from its neighbours by high wooden fences. Ms Martin’s garden was all lawn. An old crab-apple tree leaned against the end fence, where there was a gate into a back lane. A wooden garden table and two chairs were in the shade of the tree.
I suppose you could say the house was furnished in the minimalist style. Ms Martin called it ‘essentialist’. I knew from the way she was at school that she couldn’t bear clutter and, she told me later, when I found out about the rest of the house, that she wanted cleaning to occupy as little time as possible, not out of laziness but because she had more to do
males, as you have noticed, Will, enjoying it as you do when I play with your nipples and lick them. In fact, you only have to observe older men in summer, when they insist on wearing totally inappropriate clothing such as tight T-shirts or, even worse, go topless, yuk yuk, that many of them have bigger and certainly flabbier boobs than many women.) It might also interest you to know that it was Mr Linnaeus who gave human beings the name homo sapiens, which means ‘man of wisdom’. This seems to me to be erroneous, as it excludes half the human race. I suppose he thought that women are not wise, though all the evidence suggests exactly the opposite is true, and therefore it would be better to call us femina sapiens, seeing that men have a female gene in their biological make-up, whereas women have only female genes.
The sex job. I needn’t go into this here. You already know as much about it as me.
Breasts are the only part of the female anatomy that combines both roles.
Men are so fascinated by papilla because every man wants to be sexually excited and satisfied and also wants to be mothered and coddled and pampered as if he were still a child (which most of them are, to judge by their behaviour). But they do not usually want both of these at the same time. Which is why, in my opinion, so many of them who are married have girlfriends or go to prostitutes. Being men, and therefore incapable of thinking of two different things and doing two different things at the same time, the only way they can handle their basic animal desires is to have one woman to mother them and one for sex. I have noticed this tendency in Dad, who uses Doris like a mother, to look after him, and dates tarty types for fun and sex.
I discussed this subject with Ms M. today. She pointed out that obsession with the sexual attraction of breasts is a feature of developed Westernised cultures, whereas in most African
with her time than move dust about. ‘Whenever I’m cleaning,’ she said, ‘I can’t help thinking of how much time it’s taking away from reading.’
The front room had a blond-wood floor with a dark blue scatter rug in the middle. A dark blue squashy-comfortable two-seater sofa was on one side of the fireplace against the wall opposite the window, a thin-stemmed reading lamp angled by its side. On the other side of the fireplace was one of those Scandinavian wood-and-leather lounger chairs you can alter from alert sit-up-and-beg to lie-back day-bed. It also had its own adjustable reading lamp sitting on a small table. The alcoves on either side of the chimney were fitted with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, painted white, which were chock-full of books. In the corner behind the chair was a large-screen tv with DVD and sound system underneath.
I could see why the chavs hadn’t been able to find out what the room was like. The window was veiled by a Venetian blind that I soon learned Ms Martin kept closed whenever she was out or wasn’t using the room.
The walls were painted sand-yellow, the woodwork brilliant white. There were two pictures with plain wood frames.
‘Ms Martin? What’s this picture on the wall opposite the fireplace?’
‘A print of a Bridget Riley abstract.’
‘Lovely colours and pattern.’
‘Glad you approve.’
It was above an old dark-oak chest on which was a bowl of fruit.
‘And the one above the sofa?’
‘A portrait of Iris Murdoch by Tom Phillips. Also a print. Can’t afford originals as good as that. Wish I could.’
‘Who’s Iris Murdoch?’
She chuckled. A tic of hers. She always chuckled like that when you asked a question about something she thought you should know and she wanted to teach you.
and Asian and Chinese cultures they are not sexualised in this way. In those cultures women often walk around topless and their clothes do not emphasise the breasts in the way our women’s clothes often do and our men like them to. (For example, you, Will, are always pleased when I wear something tight that reveals the shape of my breasts and you especially like them to show the points of my nipples.) But, Ms M. added, it is a fact that everybody everywhere in the world loves breasts. Babies, children, men, and women. Breasts are best. Breasts are the top of the body pops. Breasts feed our bodies when we are babies and feed our fantasies and our desires when we are grown up. Breasts are beautiful.
Part Two: On me and my breasts
I suppose it’s because they are so important that we females are always worried about our breasts and whether they are right, which we never think they are. Even women who have the most beautiful breasts anyone can imagine still think they are not good enough. I hated having small breasts until you came along and kept telling me how beautiful they are and how much you like them and how they are exactly what you want. This has made me think better of them and even to begin to like them myself. I have certainly started to make my peace with my breasts and to make a feature of them in the way I dress. I did this at first because I knew it pleased you, now I do it because it pleases me as well.
I don’t remember thinking much about breasts when I was a child. The first time I really thought about them, as far as my own were concerned, was when I was about eleven and sleeping over with Pauline Hitchins, who was my best friend at the time. We were sitting in the bath together and I noticed she was growing breasts, which I certainly was not. I think we talked about it but I can’t remember what we said. Pauline
‘Novelist. One of the best of the twentieth century.’
‘Should I read her?’
‘Um – Probably not yet. I’ve only recently started to appreciate her properly myself. You could try The Nice and the Good and see how you get on. I’ll lend you a copy.’
But what took my eye more than anything was a round wooden plaque about 35 cms in diameter. Too hard to describe so I’ve drawn it for you:
‘And above the fireplace?’
‘Ah! That’s for me to know and you to find out. Like it?’
‘Yes – I think so.’
‘Don’t sound too sure.’
‘Never seen anything like it before.’
‘No, I don’t expect you have.’ She peeked round the door, wearing her encouraging-teacher smile. ‘Have a go.’
I sighed. Another test. ‘Well … it’s round.’
She went on with her painting.
‘And there’s a cross shape. But not a church kind of cross.’
‘Go on.’
‘Some shapes cut into the wood. One is like an arrow. One is like a spiky capital B, I suppose. One is like a capital N and one is like a capital K. They all point outwards from
the centre. O, and another like an arrow head.’
‘Good.’
‘There are some little bars coming out of the arms of the cross. I think each segment is a different kind of wood.’
allowed me to touch hers, which I thought were a pretty shape. I was of course envious that she had started and I had not. I vaguely felt this was a failure on my part: my body was letting me down. I also remember it coming over me (it wasn’t really a thought, but an intuition) that she was going to be popular with the boys, not because she was beautiful, but because she had that thing which I already knew boys liked, which I also knew I did not have – a kind of sexual energy, but I couldn’t have named it then. (Dad calls it the ‘X’ factor.) As you know, my intuitive prophecy turned out to be correct. Pauline and I broke up as best friends because I couldn’t keep up with her conquests and didn’t like myself for trying to.
In fact, it wasn’t long after our bath-time epiphany that my own breasts started to show. They were little budding bumps, which I observed with urgent interest. There is a family photo of me wearing a blue and white bathing costume and the budding is visible, not yet needing support, they are just quietly there, not making an exhibition of themselves. I must say, I always wished my boobs were bigger but never felt embarrassed by them, as some girls are by theirs. They walk around slightly bent forward and clutching their shoulders together across their chests, so to speak, in an effort to hide them.
I wasn’t embarrassed by mine but I was sometimes upset because of them being small when most of the other girls of my age had bigger ones. I would cry about it in bed at night. There was one occasion, for example, which I prefer to forget, when I was thirteen and fancied a boy so much that I screwed my courage to the sticking place – with a lot of persuasion from my friends, I might add – and asked him if he would like to go to a movie with me. I still feel bruised by the memory of the look of horror that came over his face as he stared at my nearly flat chest and said, ‘No thanks!’ as if I had just suggested he drink poison. That my friends
‘Very good. So?’
‘It’s like some kind of puzzle. Or a message maybe. It’s also like an ancient shield.’
‘You’re doing well.’
‘O, I dunno! I’ve had enough of exams.’
‘Is this an exam?’
‘Feels like it.’
‘Sorry. Once a teacher …’
‘Won’t you tell me?’
‘Not today.’
She stood back to survey her handiwork.
‘There. The door will have to stay ajar till it dries.’ Then: ‘Damn! Forgot the number. There’s a small tin of paint on the kitchen table, a screwdriver, and a small paintbrush. Could you fetch them?’
The kitchen had a red tiled floor, a scrubbed wood table big enough to seat four at a pinch, and the usual equipment. The stairs going up to the next floor formed an alcove. Almost hidden because it was on the wall under the alcove was a poster-picture, one of the famous portraits that might be of Shakespeare, the Chandos portrait in fact, which makes him look a bit like a brigand with a gold ring in his ear.
I took the paint, screwdriver and brush to Ms Martin, who flipped the lid off, loaded her brush and painted the number 5 holly-berry red.
‘There. Finished.’
She gathered up her things in the old sheet she’d placed under the door to catch any drips, and carried the bundle into the kitchen, saying, ‘I’ll just clean up. Be with you in a minute.’
When she returned, she’d changed into a short summer dress, with a pretty halter neck, bare-shouldered, bare-legged and bare-footed. She had (has, I should say, because she still does) gorgeous legs of which we were all envious. She was carrying slices of apple on a plate.
were observing the scene only made the outcome more crushing. It was incidents such as this that made me cautious of boys, which gave me my reputation as stand-offish and snobbish.
By then I was wearing a bra, and I should tell you about bras because buying my first was a Big Event, which I had looked forward to for ages. I suppose I felt that wearing a bra meant I was becoming a woman and that my breasts were big enough to require support. I thought bras were pretty and liked their different shapes and varieties. I loved the little straps and the way you could adjust them, and the little hooks at the back, and the little decorative bows you can have on them. I felt there was definitely something very sexy about a bra. I remember coming out of the shop where Doris took me to be fitted, clutching the bag with pure delight (better than anything at Christmas) as if there was something magic inside it. For days afterwards I spent hours gazing in the mirror, wearing only my new bra, viewing myself from every angle, swivelling my head so that I could see the back of my bra and the straps going over my shoulders. I liked the feel of it under my clothes. I liked it showing slightly so that everyone would know I was wearing one. I liked the firmness and shape it gave me, the slight pointedness under a tight top.
During the next couple of years my breasts grew to the size they are now, and bras lost their appeal, because they can be a nuisance and wearing them can even be painful at times. They dig in underneath and make my boobs ache, especially during my periods. And in hot weather, they cause sweat.
Also, I don’t really need them. As you know, my breasts stand up by themselves without support. I love going without a bra. I like the feeling when I wear only a loose jumper, no bra or T-shirt or anything else, as we go for a walk or for a meal. I like the feeling of the fabric of my jumper rubbing
‘The smell of paint gets everywhere. Like to go into the garden?’
We settled ourselves in the chairs by the table under the tree. I chose the one facing the house.
‘Have some apple. Granny Smith’s.’
I took a slice and crunched into it. Wonderfully crisp and juicy and refreshing and cool. We smiled our pleasure across the table at each other.
I remember thinking how quiet it was, even though we were so near the centre of town. And no one else around in any of the neighbouring gardens. I suppose everyone must have gone out for the evening.
‘Now,’ Ms M. said when we’d eaten the apple. ‘What’s upsetting you?’
Her question was like a draught of air that makes you shiver all over.
‘My dad and Aunt Doris.’
I couldn’t go on.
Ms M. waited.
Taking a deep breath, I tried again.
‘They’ve just told me … They’ve just told me they’ve decided to get married.’
Saying the words was enough to break the dam again. Not blubbing or howling. Only tears leaking from my eyes and touring down my cheeks, and snivels in my nose.
‘And that’s bad news,’ Ms M. said, ‘because—?’
I could only shrug my shoulders.
‘Stay there, I’ll be back in a sec.’
She went into the house. I thought how different she was from the way she was at school. How small and very slim, which I knew of course, yet she seemed so big when she was teaching, as if her body’s slightness was an optical illusion. At school, she was zippy, quick and sharp, like a sprinter. At home, she was serene and composed and moved so much like a ballet dancer I wondered if she’d ever been one.
against them, and knowing there is nothing else between my boobs and the open air.
My breasts represent me in a special and strange way. I feel they protect my heart, standing guard like sentinels. They can be tender and difficult. They can hurt or ache. They can be weak and slack, as if water is sloshing about inside them. But at other times they are firm and stand proud, especially when it is cold. The colder it is, the more prominent the nipples are, and I like that. My breasts often indicate to me the mood I’m in. They are the barometers of my emotional weather. And I love you sucking them because this gives me the most wonderful feeling of calmness and well-being. I feel I am nurturing you and pouring my love into you, and this restores me and makes me feel good and at peace. And I am so glad you love doing this too.
It is the only time when I can do my mothering job and my sex job at the same time, and that you like this combination gives me great pleasure.
In my opinion, after the face, breasts are the most important part of a woman’s anatomy in deciding whether she is beautiful or not. I know mine are not of the first class in the beauty stakes, alas.
Addendum: More facts about breasts
A breast is a gland that produces liquid. The liquid is a kind of sweat. Milk is therefore a very nourishing body fluid. So it is true to say that breasts are two bags of fat.
The tissue of the body out of which breasts are made starts to grow by the fourth week of a baby’s life in the womb. It grows down both sides of the body, like tracks, from the armpits to the groin. It grows in males as well as females. But because of the way hormones work, only females grow breasts. Mammals which have large litters develop many teats along the milk tracks. Animals like us, who only have one or two babies at a time, develop only two breasts.
Animals that walk on all fours usually grow their breasts
I felt hot and awkward. Didn’t have a hanky, wiped the tears away with my fingers and the snivel with the back of my hand. Suddenly, everything felt wrong. I felt wrong. Bothering Ms M. felt wrong. I wondered about saying sorry and leaving, but didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to wander the streets, and had nowhere else to go without having to explain to other people. Also, there was something that kept me there, something comforting.
There are houses that are just other people’s houses, homes that are just other people’s homes. You have no strong feelings about them. Some feel unwelcoming even before you go inside, some are friendly, some are battered, some are elegant, some are untidy, some are too formal for comfort, some are over-heated, some are cold, some are ugly and malign and you can’t get out of them quickly enough. Some houses smell of food, some of dust, some of cats or dogs, some of damp, some of cooking, some are airy and bright with flowers, some are stuffy and full of old breath. The variations are endless. Ms Martin’s was – what? Attractive, yes. Spare to the point of Spartan. Very neat, very tidy, very clean. Small, like her (I was used to quite a bit more space so noticed the difference). Trim, like her. Full of books, like her. Mysterious too – that strange thing on the wall, what was it? – like her. And tranquil. And silent. Not dead silent, not just no noise, absence of sound (she didn’t even have music playing when I arrived or the radio on, as most people do), but a silence that somehow seemed alive. An active silence. (I couldn’t find the way to express it.) Which was a surprise, because at school she talked a lot and would often put on music for us while we worked. Till now, sitting in her garden, I wouldn’t have said she was a quiet person but that was how she was here at home. I could tell this was more her than the person she was at school. And I connected this at once with her mysteriousness. Suddenly, she wasn’t just my teacher, but was something else as well, which I couldn’t at that moment identify.