A HUNGER OF HER OWN

01THE WEIGHT

At 7:18 on a Tuesday evening, I let my stomach out on the train.

I thought, if I ever told anyone about that night, I’d start with the oil. Or my tongue on my wrist. Definitely the bedroom floor. I wouldn’t have guessed it began between two stations, while somebody’s umbrella leaked onto my shoe and I realised I’d been holding my stomach in since breakfast.

So I stopped. My waistband pressed back. I felt my belly move under my coat. Nobody looked up. A boy carried on watching football without headphones. The woman beside me kept eating almonds from a little plastic tub. The train did not derail because a thirty-eight-year-old woman had allowed her body to take up its actual amount of room.

I nearly laughed, which would have made me look unhinged, so I stared at an advert for laser eye surgery instead.

You know the thing I mean, though. The tiny tightening we do without deciding to do it. Stomach in. Shoulders back. Knees together. Face pleasant. Voice light enough to be ignored but not cold enough to be called difficult.

I am very good at that voice. I had used it all day. In the morning meeting, when Martin repeated my idea ten minutes after I said it and everybody suddenly found it fascinating. At lunch, when someone asked if I could quickly have a look at something that took forty-five minutes. At four, when I was nominated to take notes because I was “so organised.”

At six, the same colleague who had sent me eleven messages marked urgent told me I looked tired.

I laughed.

Of course I fucking laughed.

My phone vibrated against my hip as I came out of the station. The office chat. My mother. A man I stopped seeing three months ago who now communicated entirely through question marks. He had sent two this time. Growth.

I walked home in the rain and left every message unanswered.

The glass door to my building gave me a quick look at myself before I went in. Wet hair. Mascara under one eye. Mouth set in a hard line now that there was nobody around to find it unfriendly.

I looked tired because I was tired. For once, I left it alone.

Inside, my keys missed the blue bowl and slid under the table. I kicked off my shoes, silenced my phone and shoved it into the hall drawer beneath the takeaway menus. The drawer stuck halfway. I hit it with my hip until it closed.

Very serene. Very feminine.

My flat looked exactly as I had left it. Yesterday’s mug in the sink, book facedown on the sofa, one sock under the coffee table. I love my home, but I am not one of those women who somehow has eucalyptus hanging in the shower. I had a damp bathmat and half a toilet roll.

I ate bread, cheddar and an apple at the counter. I took out a plate, then wondered who I was performing domestic order for and put the bread straight on the wood.

There were crumbs everywhere. Good.

In the bathroom, I caught myself doing it again. Chin up, stomach in, one shoulder tilted slightly because I know which side of my face I prefer. It happened before I had properly looked at myself.

I watched the performance arrive.

Then I let my stomach go.

My belly pushed against the open waistband of my trousers. My breasts dropped a little under my blouse. I took a breath deep enough to move the fabric at my waist. The exhale shook.

Anger sat low in my chest. Nothing I could throw a plate at. More the slow, stupid fury of realising I had spent years being uncomfortable without anybody even needing to ask.

I tried to remember when it started. Maybe my mother smoothing a dress over my stomach when I was fourteen. Maybe changing for PE. Maybe a man saying, “You look amazing from this angle,” and me understanding every angle he had left out.

I could not find the first time. I unfastened my trousers. A red line curved below my navel. Another sat beneath my bra. My socks had left two neat rings around my ankles. My clothes had been taking notes.

I ran a finger along the mark at my waist. The skin followed for a second, then sank back.

i had been good
all day
the useful kind of good
the quiet kind
the kind that leaves teeth marks
on the inside

02CONTROL LOST

I went to the cupboard for a hair tie. I came back with SXEY Control Lost.

The hair ties were in a chipped saucer behind the cotton pads. The oil stood beside a bottle of painkillers, where I had placed it three weeks earlier after trying one drop and deciding I needed a better occasion.

Maybe I had imagined a date. I definitely imagined a dress I did not own and lighting kinder than my bathroom bulb.

I had bought it at half past midnight after a man asked what I liked in bed and then interrupted the answer. I lay awake afterwards, still wearing one earring, scrolling on my phone. Control Lost came up on the SXEY site and made me laugh. The name hit a nerve, so I ordered it.

When it arrived, I tried one drop on my wrist. I loved it enough to feel self-conscious. Wearing it to work seemed absurd. So did wearing it to buy washing-up liquid. Most evenings I was in an old T-shirt watching strangers knock through kitchen walls. Where exactly was this version of me supposed to go? So I saved it.

This is what women do, isn’t it? Save the good underwear. Save the expensive candle. Save the body oil for a body we imagine we will have later.

Well, it was Tuesday and I had cheddar under my thumbnail. Later had not shown up.

I unscrewed the lid and lifted the pipette. The bottle was small and cool in my hand. A clear bead swelled at the glass tip, held there for a second, then dropped onto the inside of my wrist.

It travelled in a slow, shining line towards my palm. I turned my hand to watch it choose its path, then caught it with my thumb.

The scent was incredible: warm, ripe and intimate. I tried to separate the pear from the fig and could not. Together they smelled richer than either note, close to my skin but impossible to ignore. I kept bringing my wrist back to my face. To myself, apparently.

I rubbed my thumb over my pulse and breathed in again. My thighs pressed together before I noticed. “Oh,” I said. It was the first thing I had said out loud since coming home.

I squeezed another drop from the pipette because I wanted to watch it move. It landed higher this time, round and glossy, then thinned into a bright trail as it slid over the tendons of my wrist. It caught the lamplight. I let it get almost to my palm before spreading it with my thumb. Alone in my bedroom, blushing at my own hand. Ridiculous.

I turned off the overhead light and left the lamp on. Then I wandered around pretending I had things to do. I moved a glass to the kitchen. Picked up a cardigan. Put it on a chair. Decided I hated it on the chair and threw it back on the floor. The bottle stayed in my hand.

When I sat down again, the oil had disappeared into my skin. The smell had changed with the warmth of my wrist. I lifted it to my face.

And then, without planning it, I licked my arm.

Just a quick flick of my tongue at first. The oil had no taste. My tongue picked up warm skin and a little salt. That was all.

I stared at my wrist. “Obviously,” I said. Then I licked it again.

Slowly this time. I felt the little hairs bend beneath my tongue. My pulse touched my lower lip. A hum slipped out of me before I knew I was making it.

I know how this sounds. Stay with me.

I have kissed other bodies with confidence. I know shoulders, backs, thighs. I know what a change in breathing means. I know how to use my mouth when the skin belongs to somebody else.

My own arm made me shy. That annoyed me, so I closed my lips around the soft flesh above my wrist and sucked.

Heat gathered beneath my mouth. I let my teeth touch, barely felt it, then bit harder.

The bite made my stomach clench. My knees opened on the edge of the bed. I released my arm and looked at the half-moons my teeth had left behind.

They were already fading, so I bit higher.

wrist
mouth
salt
this is silly
this is mine
do it again

03HUNGER

My blouse suddenly felt unbearable. Damp at the back, tight across my chest, buttons all the way to the throat because apparently I had dressed that morning as a highly employable nun.

I tried to pull it over my head without undoing the rest. It caught on my ear. For several seconds I was topless, blind and trapped in pale blue fabric. I swore so loudly I startled myself. When I finally got free, my hair stood up on one side and I was laughing too hard to feel sexy. Then my breasts moved with the laughter and that did feel sexy.

The bra clasp refused to open. Of course it did. Nothing says wild female liberation like pinching your own back fat while muttering, “Come on, you little bastard.” Third try, the hooks came apart. My breasts dropped into their own weight and I held them immediately.

I could not see them properly in the low light. It did not matter. They were warm and heavy in my hands. I lifted them, squeezed, let them slide through my palms. My thumbs brushed my nipples and they tightened.

A thin little sound escaped me. I tried it again, louder this time, because nobody was there to make me swallow it.

Control Lost was on the bedside table. One drop at the base of my throat. I spread it over my collarbones. Another between my breasts, where it ran lower before I caught it. Another on my stomach, just above the red line from my trousers.

I rubbed the last of the drop into my stomach and put the bottle beside my knee.

At my throat, every breath seemed to lift the scent. Between my breasts, the warmth came quickly. On my belly, the drop stayed cool long enough for me to follow it in circles with my palm.

I gathered my stomach in both hands.

Usually, when I touch that part of me, I am checking. Has it got bigger? Can I hide it in this dress? Should I stand differently?

This time I squeezed it because I liked the feel of it pushing between my fingers.

A thought about calories tried to enter the room. I told it to fuck off.

My fingers dug into my sides. Something low and rough moved up through my chest.

A growl. Yes, an actual growl. I would love to make this sound cooler than it was. It was not cool. It started too high, cracked in the middle and ended in a cough.

I laughed, took a breath and tried again.

The second one came from lower down. I felt it in my throat, my chest, my belly. My hips rolled. Stiffly at first. My right hip clicked, but I carried on.

My trousers were still open. I shoved them over my hips, stepped on one leg and nearly went down. I pulled off my knickers with far more aggression than they deserved. Then I was naked in the middle of my ordinary flat: mug in the sink, wet coat on the chair, phone vibrating once in the hall drawer. Me, oily and making animal noises at half past eight. Honestly, I have had worse Tuesdays.

I put my hands on my hips and squeezed. Hard enough that my thumbs hurt. I kept pulling at myself, greedy for more skin than I could hold.

The scent rose from my throat. I tipped my head back and hummed. The note wobbled. I let it.

you don’t have to sound pretty
you are not singing for anyone
let the note crack
let your body answer

04THE FLOOR

I took Control Lost into the kitchen and pushed the table towards the wall. One leg scraped over the boards with a noise my downstairs neighbour absolutely hates.

“Sorry,” I whispered. I stood there for a second, naked, apologising to the floor. Then I laughed and pushed the table farther.

I bent my knees and shifted from foot to foot. For the first few seconds it looked like the warm-up to a dreadful workout video. I kept going until my hips loosened into a circle.

My wrist passed my face and I followed the scent with my mouth. Tongue along the inside of my forearm. Teeth around the same arm. My body jerked towards the bite instead of away.

I raked my nails down my upper arm. Four pink lines appeared. Across my ribs next, harder.

A cry came out of me. The room went quiet afterwards. For half a second I nearly clamped my mouth shut. Instead I made the sound again. It cracked into a laugh, then a hum, then the growl I had been practising in the bedroom.

I grabbed my hips. Bit my shoulder. Scratched my ribs. Smelled oil, sweat and the rain still damp in my hair.

It was sweaty and clumsy and I liked it more for that.

I thought of a man who once called me soft and then recommended his gym. Another who loved my stomach but only when I was lying flat. A doctor who mentioned my weight before asking where it hurt.

Their hands were not on me, but I could feel the old instructions anyway. Suck in. Turn slightly. Not that angle. Be sexy, but do not look like you are trying.

I dropped into a crouch and put one hand on the floor. Dust stuck to my palm. My left knee complained. My hair went into my mouth.

This is where a better writer might tell you I became a goddess. I did not.

I crawled.

Slowly at first. Back rounded, then arched. Knees apart. Hips to my heels, then forward over my hands. My breasts swung. My skin stuck slightly where the backs of my thighs met my calves.

I felt ridiculous. I was grinning anyway. I crawled to the other side of the room and back.

I pressed my cheek to my forearm and breathed in the oil. Control Lost. The name made me snort. The floor dug into my knee. Sweat cooled down my back. My pulse knocked against the arm under my mouth. I stayed there until the boards hurt.

I reached for the bottle from the floor. Two drops between my palms. I rubbed them behind my knees, then up the backs of my thighs. My thumbs worked into muscle that ached from sitting all day. My fingers gathered the softer flesh above it.

I kept rubbing until I was upright. Another drop went onto my hip. I spread it over the curve, then along the front of my thigh. The glass clicked when I set it down.

My palms moved up the insides of my legs. Slowly. The scent came with them, warming as I got higher.

I stopped before my vulva. Every muscle between my legs pulled tight.

My thighs pressed together so hard it almost hurt. I gripped one leg with both hands and squeezed until my fingertips left pale marks.

Then I bent, licked the skin above my knee and bit the place my mouth had made wet.

The sensation shot up through me. I stood too fast, swayed and caught myself against the wall.

When I looked at the black window, I hardly recognised the woman in it. Wild hair. Mouth open. Bite marks on one arm. Scratches along the ribs. Oil shining at the throat and high on the thighs.

She looked a bit mad. I fancied her.

I stared at the window and actually said, “I’d fuck you.”

Then I laughed so hard I had to grab the wall again. The thought stayed. I kept looking at myself.

bite
scratch
make a mess of the body
you spent all day keeping neat

05ONE INCH

I walked back to the bedroom slowly because I liked feeling my thighs move.

The bottle hung in my hand. My wrist still smelled of the first drop. I put it to my mouth and dragged my tongue over the same skin again. Salt. Warmth. The smell of the oil in my nose.

The hunger came back so quickly I had to sit down. I opened my knees, only a little at first, enough for the cool room to touch the heat between them.

Both hands went to my thighs. My right tightened until five pale marks appeared. I watched the colour return, then bent and put my mouth over one of them.

Tongue first. Teeth next. My hips slid forward on the mattress.

“Yes,” I said. Nobody had asked. That made it better.

I bit higher. My other hand closed around my opposite thigh. My vulva felt swollen, wet, impossible to ignore.

I reached for Control Lost and put one last drop high on my inner thigh. Not on my vulva. Close enough to make the distance feel obscene. I rubbed it into the skin with two fingers.

By then the scent was everywhere: on my wrist, my breasts, in the sweat underneath them, behind my knees. I smelled as if I had been rolling around with myself. Which, I suppose, I had.

I lay back and pulled one knee up. My hair caught beneath my shoulder. I yanked it free and had to rearrange myself, which was not remotely erotic, but there we are.

One hand closed over my breast. I took its full weight, squeezed and rolled the nipple under my thumb. My back lifted. The growl came again, then broke apart into breath.

Mine, I thought. I needed to hear it.

“Mine.”

My own voice sounded strange. Hoarse. I liked it.

I scratched down my stomach, ribs to navel. Four thin lines. My skin jumped beneath my nails. I followed them with my palm.

For a second, lying there, I thought I ought to apologise to my body. I had sucked it in, covered it, criticised it, touched it mainly to check what was wrong.

The apology annoyed me too. Even here. Sorry, sorry, sorry. “No,” I said.

I put my scented wrist beneath my nose, breathed in and licked it again. My other hand moved down the centre of my stomach. Past my navel. Over the fading red line at my waist.

All day that line had meant hold yourself in. My hand crossed it.

My palm rested over my lower belly. Heat pushed up against it. I let my knees fall wider.

If you have ever made yourself wait when every part of you is screaming to be touched, you know how loud a quiet room can become.

My vulva tightened. I could feel how wet I was without reaching it. The wanting had weight now. It pulled low in my stomach and made my thighs shake.

My hand moved down. Stopped. I laughed, breathless and almost desperate. “Come on.” I had no idea whether I meant touch yourself or don’t you dare touch yourself yet.

One hand twisted the sheet. The other hovered above my open vulva, close enough to feel my own heat against my palm.

I wanted my fingers on my clit. I wanted the first touch so badly my hips lifted towards it.

Still I waited. The waiting was doing something to me. I could feel myself getting wetter while my hand did nothing at all. It was filthy. I wanted more of it.

My fingers curled. Then I lowered them.

oil on my wrist, salt on my tongue
bite till the good part has finally begun
mouth at my shoulder, nails down my side
nothing to soften and nothing to hide
oil at my throat and warm on my chest
no need to tidy, no need to be best
growl out the words I swallowed all day
let the good animal have her say
oil on my belly, high on my thigh
knees falling open, no reason why
one hand on my heartbeat, one moving slow
down past the line where I once told it no
heat in my hips, wet at my core
my body wide open and asking for more
I hover there hungry, heat rising below
my palm full of fire with one inch to go
one breath
one inch
and then...