the lady garden
The blinds rise with a quiet whirr. Sunlight, clear and true from behind the large, frosted window; this is the best light. Mornings the sun pours in generous and kind. She tugs off her trackpants, keeping her fluffy jumper on, rifles through the cupboard. Her pubes are a dark cluster covering her pubis, expanding out to chocolate legs like a forest breaching its limits and she sighs, smiles; it’s been a while.
A soft finger between the two lips of her vulva, she lowers her hand, notices her wetness. Last night’s dream had been ecstasy again, they chatted until they fell asleep, bright screen lighting up a dark room, and she’d dreamed of breasts as hills, thighs as mountains. Standing over the bathroom bin, she snips with delicate scissors. She’s not afraid of bush, is proud of it even, but prefers ease of access. It’s a sign of encouragement to a partner, she thinks, a beckoning. And she will beckon, tonight, finally.
Wiry black curls fall into the white trash bag below, and she bends her torso, reaching further back, amused by the absurdity of where hair sprouts. What would be acceptable to Elodie? She shakes her head, knows in that delightful all-embracing enthusiasm, her body will be wholeheartedly welcomed. Either way, this ritual of preparation is for her; an act of devotion.
She must not think of Elodie too much, or her fingers will tremble, and she needs a steady hand. As she turns the shower on, each water molecule glitters for a thousandth of a second in pure white light. Her jumper over her head, added to the rumpled pile on the floor, she steps in when it is warm enough, and she is vibrating, whether with anticipation, falling in love, or the beauty of the light, she does not know. Everything sparkles.
Pssht! The shaving cream is a false-male stink, but men’s brands are better for the thick hair between her legs. Her razor strokes are careful and measured, tidying only the edges, careful with the creases of her legs. Should she moisturise? There is coconut oil in the kitchen cupboard. She never knows.
She turns herself towards the light, places one foot on the edge of the tub. Runs her fingers over her freshly groomed vulva; it reminds her of a teenage boy dressed up for prom, nervous, straight-backed. Tentatively proud, quietly quaking.
All this thought of what will happen tonight, all this tender touch, she is swollen, and the warmth is wonderful, she opens her labia to the water. Arches her back. Closes her eyes. Smiles, almost imperceptibly.
Her phone buzzes by the sink, and her eyelids flash open. It will be Elodie, their conversation resuming. Talking about where to meet tonight, finally.
Squeezing lavender and geranium body wash on a loofah, she lathers the fragrant soap to generous suds, and circles it slowly on her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her stomach, the stretchmarks on both. The slippery white is bright against her luscious skin, and she drops the loofah, and uses her open arms to caress her own body, appreciate her shape, swaying her hips, feeling the surge of her own power.
She pushes her pelvis forward, looks down. Pushes two fingers to her lips, opens. Such gorgeous detail in the brightness of sunshine. It really is like a flower, isn’t it, the petals of the lips, the eagerness of unfurling, the pearl of the top of her clit. She imagines the caress of a hot pink tongue, kissing, flicking. Maybe she will ask Elodie what she tastes like.
Fingertip as firebrand, she traces the clitoral hood, the softness of her inner labia, the entrance to her vagina, aching. And returns to her clitoris, to white heat. Oh, tonight, finally.
***
xx
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