Page 28 of Sexy as Sin
Fiona laughed. “Tears are a woman’s rain, I always think. Washing the dust off, letting the feelings grow. And whatever men say, they don’t hate seeing them. Or they do, but they love being the one who holds you through it. Satisfies something deep inside them, something they don’t get to do every day. They can’t slay your dragons, maybe, but they can hold you when you cry. Sometimes, they even let you hold them. That’s when you know you’ve got trust.” She smiled, sunny again. “I had a reservoir as well, it seems. Of wise Mum-thoughts for you.”
“Ah,” Willow said. The ache was still there inside, but it wasn’t quite so knotted and hard anymore. She could start peeling off the ends, untangling the strands. “That’s why I came. I think I need some wise Mum-thoughts.”
“About men,” Fiona guessed, and at Willow’s nod, she smiled again. “That’s usually what it is, by the time it makes us cry. I’ll do my best, though I’ve mainly known one, of course, and Colin isn’t exactly average. I have two sons as well, so that’ll help.”
“Who also aren’t average,” Willow said.
“Well, I like to think not,” Fiona said. “But then, an average man isn’t good enough for you, so there you are. Cup of tea while I do my best to dispense wisdom?”
“No. I’d rather weed. Easier to talk.”
Fiona nodded and went for her gloves. “Then I’ll help over here, and you can tell me.” She squatted down to her work again and said, “So. Somebody said something cruel, I’m thinking. Or did something.”
Willow’s hands stilled in the act of pulling out a dandelion. “How do you know that?”
“I realized I haven’t only known one man. Just one awesome one.”
“Right.” Willow steeled herself against the words. “Am I like a man, then? The way I act, the way I am? Am I blokey?” And, yeah, it still hurt.
Fiona laughed, then stopped herself, took a look at Willow’s face, and laughed again. “Sorry, darling, but that’s so stupid, I can’t help myself. Of course not. I have two sons. Trust me. You are not blokey. Nothing like. You’re a woman all the way. But tell me more. In what way are you meant to be blokey? I need a good laugh.”
The jagged, hard-edged knot was unraveling fast now, and Willow was smiling, too. Reluctantly, but she was. Also digging, pulling up weeds by the roots, and tossing them. Pity you couldn’t toss away hurtful words that easily, but maybe you could try. “Ginger hair. Not enough makeup. Too much jolly-hockey-sticks, I reckon, and not enough drama. A better surfer than he is. There, I admitted it. Flat-chested, also. That was mentioned.”
“You are not flat-chested.” Fiona had stopped laughing. “You’re fine-boned and delicate and strong. You’re lovely. Your hair is beautiful, so is your skin, and so is every bit of your gorgeous self. Let’s ring Rafe right now.” She had her phone out of her pocket. “We’ll ask him.”
“Wait,” Willow said. “No. Of course he’ll say I’m beautiful. He’sRafe.”
“He’s a man, though,” Fiona said, “and he works with beautiful women every day. Trust me, my darling. I’ve known heaps of people, and I’ve seen more. You are a perfectly lovely woman. To me, that sounds like a weak man. Asmallman. He called you a man because he wasn’t enough of one not to be intimidated by you.” She eyed Willow with speculation, hesitated, then said, “I’m going out on a limb here and asking,washe a small man?”
“Geez, Auntie.” Willow tried and failed not to turn red. “Do I admit that I know enough to compare?”
“Of course you do. It’s not forty years ago. Although forty years ago wasn’t what you think, either. EvenIknow enough to compare.”
Willow stopped weeding. “You do?”
“Well, of course I do.” Fiona’s tone was a little tart. “Go on and say. It’ll make you feel better.”
“No,” Willow said. “Not a small man, not in that way. But maybe not the strongest one. Maybe a bit of a boy. Bit of a lad.”
“There you are, then. Threatened by your strength and your competence, which means he’s afraid he’s neither. A good man, a strong man, therightman, won’t be, because he’ll have his own. He’ll celebrate what you are. What else is it? He said something worse, to make you cry like that. You’re not one to cry because somebody calls you a ginger. I remember when I had to go to school to collect you after you punched somebody in the stomach for that.”
“I did!” Willow had to smile at the memory. “Eddie Bartholomew. Put a sign on my back, too, written on a piece of tape, so I didn’t notice it until somebody told me.Pull my tits.Wanker.”
Fiona stopped digging again. At this rate, they’d never finish. “He did? You should’ve punched him harder.”
“I was suspended,” Willow pointed out.
“I don’t care. You should’ve done it anyway. So what else did he say? The current wanker?”
“Gordy.” She didn’t want to say this. It hurt to pull it out. This part was still jagged. “Said...” She focused on the flowers, on separating a tender stalk from the strangling weeds. “Said I was too enthusiastic in bed. He called it...” She swallowed. “Pathetic.”
Her aunt jumped up. “Right, then. Right. I’ll punchhimin the stomach.”
“Is that true, though?” Willow had to ask. She had toknow.“Is that a... thing?”
“Again,” her aunt said, calming down enough to start weeding once more, but sounding like she was measuring out her breaths, “I’d call that a man who’s worried about his own performance. What, he wants you to lie there and be grateful for whatever he musters up? Not bloody likely. You make your own pleasure. Youtakeyour own pleasure. I’d like to see how often a man would want to have sex if he couldn’t have an orgasm every time. If it was half the time, or almost none of the time? Bet he’d go off it fast. If he isn’t coming through, you work for it. You tell him. You show him. And if heiscoming through, of course you’ll want to do the same for him. Why wouldn’t you? A man who’s worried because a woman has a good strong sex drive? That’s a man with a problem.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
