Opal Andrews - The chamber of pleasures

Um-hm! I'm wandering again!

I was about to write down what I did after my bath. Well… I stood there and kept staring at myself, and maybe it was an accident or maybe it was deliberate. I had been on my way to bed, after all, and I hadn't even bothered to tie my robe. It fell open.

There I was, staring at myself in the mirror, and… naked!

I… I studied myself. Shamelessly… and shamefully, how clever I am sometimes!… for quite a while.

The pale fringes around my eyes are like… are like… oh come on, Victoria, this is your diary!

The pale fringes around my eyes are like the almost invisible little fringe that hems, but doesn't even cover, the little pink slit right at the bottom of my belly. The hair there is tenderly, curling like silk all around and even on that little pink stripe down the center of the swollen place, the lips. (Silly to call them that; they're not a they, they're an it, and it's turned the wrong way to be a mouth, anyhow!

Rounded, snowy thighs that touch each other all the way down to the knees, and knees with delicate little dimples, and then legs below that that I still think are too calfy. Small feet, that's a blessing; surely my fanny is too much, all round and white and sticky-outy. Just too prominent and round to be decent!

Not much stomach to speak of, on that pale girl in the mirror, just a slight narrow swelling between the cradle formed by the hips, with a shallow, longish navel denting it just in the center.

But both that tummy and its navel are shadowed. Shadowed, by what it is that makes my brassieres so painfully tight and that makes Mother make me wear tight bras anyhow, and loose blouses. Well, tonight I really studied them. It, I mean, my bosom. In two halves. Even and equal and identical, as far as I was able to tell.

They stood there before me, round and very white and solid looking, pushing out from my chest as if they were about to spring free of me, to fly or float about in the air. So buoyant looking. Surging up and out, forward, with each breath I took. They bounced with every little movement I made, jiggling and rippling, sort of like Jell-O when you drop it onto your plate if Jell-O were white.

And with pink, pink tips set in paler pink circles like… well, like silver dollars, I guess, but whoever sees silver dollars any more? (Well, more people than see the preposterously developed halves of my ridiculous bosom, anyhow!) (What a thought!)

They don't droop at all, the breasts I am stuck with for life. They just stand there, jiggling and shaking. Looking like they'd make me float and float, if I were to jump.

I jumped.

They bounced way up, and when they come down it hurt. They dragged at me, and I realized they are HEAVY, and so now I know one good reason to keep on wearing those nasty tight brassieres!

I have a bra on now, under my nightgown as I write this. And I am going to stop. They hurt. They're very tight-feeling, as they are every month – right before The Curse begins. I can feel a little pain right at the tips. They've gotten long again.

Aunt Isobel is coming to visit us! How exciting! And it's been four months since Daddy was laid off; how terrible!

Another date. He tried to kiss me at the door. He'd been a perfect gentleman up to then. But he would have to put his hands on me and try to kiss me, right at the door. For a moment I felt weak, my eyelids heavy, wanting to close, and my stomach fluttered. But I was strong. I reminded myself. I tore away from him and fled inside.

This awful tight bra hurts again.

Aunt Isobel must be about forty, quite thin with jet, JET black hair and too much lipstick, pink. She studied me as if I were in a fair and she was the judge. Then she looked at Daddy and Mother.

"Doesn't look any the worse for that asthma, I'll say that. A fine-looking girl you've raised, George. And you too, Mary, of course." She looked again at me. "Don't let that go to your head, girl," she said, just as clipped-off and abrupt, and she swung her face back to Mother and Daddy. "She'd never suffer from asthma in Denver! And certainly not where I live."

Denver? I suppose not… but how could we go to Denver? Is the work situation… for Daddy… any better out there? And what would we use for money to move? Aunt Isobel has some money, I know that. But that doesn't make it ours!

I don't know if I like her or not. She talks like she has springs on her jaws snapping them shut on each word.

No time! I am not happy, but I am not wholly unhappy either. I just don't know. At least it will be a new experience, and I can understand that it will help Mother and Daddy a lot, the money and all. But I hate to leave.

I am going to Denver with Aunt Isobel. I've just packed. We leave in the morning. I'm going to LIVE there. Her companion and maid and… I don't know. Something like that. Someone to be with her. And of course Mother and Daddy won't have to worry about buying my food and clothing and everything. Aunt Isobel made it very plain that I would be expected to work.

Fine. It will pass the time, particularly if I find that I don't like Denver, or living with her.

I still don't know whether I like her or not, but I suppose I'd better. It's too late to worry about it now!

I admit that I am excited. I've crossed out three words already. It's time to stop. But will I get to sleep?

I don't know if I like Denver or not. I haven't really seen it. It's big, I know that. I've been here a month, though, and have scarcely been out of the house. Aunt Isobel has groceries and everything else sent in. I think she must have a lot more money than we thought. I don't even remember what Uncle William did before he died so young. Some sort of engineer.

And the house! It's big, it's huge. It's enough for ten. There are five bedrooms, for Heaven's sake. And two baths, and a dining room, and a basement, and an attic, and an enormous kitchen and a garage and even servant's quarters, out back, although no one lives there. She says we… we!… have eight acres. It's mostly trees.

Oh, and the other things!

I came out of the tub one night to find my robe gone, although I was sure I'd hung it right there on the wall. Sort of scared, I came out sneakily.

There in my bedroom sat Aunt Isobel! My robe was in her hands, and on her lap lay my brassieres… both of them! I squeaked, covered myself with my hands, and ducked back into the bathroom.

"What I thought," she said. "You're a large-bosomed girl, and probably injuring your health wearing those terrible old cotton bras."

Each of the last two words was said with great vehemence, and I heard ripping sounds. Later I discovered why: she had torn each bra, right through the cups, while she was talking.

"And this robe is a disgrace. And your panties. And this ancient gown! You must understand, Victoria… ridiculous name!… that I cannot have a ragamuffin living with me! Not one of those nasty little no-bra girls in the miniskirts, either, but not a ragamuffin! Now I am leaving this room. I am leaving behind one of my gowns, and you are to sleep in it tonight."

"But…" I started, peeping around the doorjamb.

She stared. Eyes like ice. Hair like midnight. Voice like a sword, cuts right through you. "BUT? But WHAT, Miss?"

I looked at the floor. "But… tomorrow… my underclothes…"

"Worry about tomorrow, Victoria, when tomorrow comes! Now go to bed and don't stir out of this room before eleven A.M.."

"Elev… b…" Oh no, I thought, I won't say "but" again! "Uh, breakfast, Aunt Isobel?"

"You really must try to stop questioning me, Vic… you know I really dislike that name? I shall have to call you something else. What's your other name?"