Bird of Paradise

I feel thoroughly embarrassed... and somewhat uncomfortable, and I notice my hand is trembling as I carefully place the cup and saucer on the bedside table. I know ought to get up but I don't want to confront him in the bathroom, the faint strains of his singing filter into the hotel bedroom through the bathroom door; I imagine he's happy with his nights work. Why doesn't he have the good manners to leave, give me some breathing space, we can sort out this mess later. It occurs to me I could do just that, quickly dress and leave, and I've half a mind to leap from the bed, but then again this is my room and I'm damned if I'm going to be driven out because of last nights indiscretions, and in any case I'd promised myself a 'pampering day', a session in the hotel spa and a massage, some shopping, a personal reward for all of my hard work. He's bound to be leaving soon, he'll need to go to work. I pull the duvet tightly under my chin and sit up in the bed surveying the room, wishing he'd get a move on with whatever it is he's doing in there.

The room offers evidence of the duplicity of our supposed professional relationship, clothes left where they fell, a half full bottle of champagne, two scarcely touched glasses shimmering golden in the sunlight streaming through the window... and the damned flowers, a bouquet ofStretlizia, commonly called Bird of Paradise for the erect and obvious brightly coloured bloom resembling the crest feathers of the exotic bird. The bouquet is unceremoniously standing on the side table in the sanitary waste bin from the bathroom; it was the only 'vase' to hand. The flowers had been a very clever choice, flattering to a degree, and a display of intelligence stirred with guile marking his obvious intent and impossible to ignore if one has knowledge of my work and the motivating forces in my life. Daffodils would have missed the mark by a country mile. It bothered me that he clearly understood this... and it irritated me that I, just as clearly, fell for his cheap trick.

I listen to the faint sounds of other people's lives, of people moving in the hotel corridor outside my room and their passage alerts in me another disturbing thought, how long before our escapade becomes common knowledge to our work and professional colleagues. I usually have no interest in other people's lives or in the gossip, rumour and intrigue of relationships and courtships and lovers that seem to fill the daily hours of my co-workers. I can but imagine the glee with which this 'news' will be received and my memory jumps almost thirty years to the undying shame and betrayal as the tale of the taking of my virginity spread across the university campus like a hot summer breeze. It was easy for me to imagine the expressions of my work colleagues, feigned shock hastily followed by mirth. It would be news enough that I'd even slept with a man, let alone a colleague... a colleague fifteen years the junior to me.

The ramification of the difference in our ages and the now obvious silence from the bathroom herald renewed anxiety; he'll open the bathroom door momentarily and walk into this room. I pull the duvet tighter hiding the sun freckled wrinkles on my upper chest, my weatherworn skin, a chimera rendered real with the dawn. My confidence ebbs to join our clothes unceremoniously pooled upon the floor; it is far too late to realise I should have dressed.

- - - - - - - - - -

I'd given my lecture yesterday to the Royal Horticultural Society and received the acclaim of my peers for the long awaited re-creation of theKewensis hybrid ofStretlizia; though in truth none of us really know if theKewensis I've re-created is identical to the one last seen almost a century ago, but it has been my life work and the plaudits were both deserved and welcomed. Only a fool or someone with deep understanding would give me Bird of Paradise as a gift. The flowers were on the bed when I returned to my room, pinned with a simple note, 'Congratulations! You are triumphant. Dinner?' They were not the finest of specimens,Reginae, a common species typically sold by florists, and these were distinctly past their best. My initial irritation became replaced by curiosity in the elation of my success. The gesture intrigued me and I called the room number on the card foolishly intent on making amends for the summary rejection I'd given him three years previously.

Last evening his eyes stripped away my legendary inhibition, overwhelming me, shedding the nagging doubts instilled from childhood and puberty, revealing my desire. His hot breath inflaming my skin, lips plumped bruised from kissing, my heart wildly beating, pumping blood, engorging tissue. My nipples rigid snagged, suckled, sending lightning bolts through my body, blanking out all reason other than the need to be touched. I felt the cold wall against my back, I'd retreated until I could only surrender... wanted to surrender; I remember twisting his hair in my fingers, looking down on the top of his head as he pried with lips and tongue and opened me, separating the petals of my sex. And when he'd wetted me and entered me I could taste myself on his lips, smell my sex on his breath and I shuddered uncontrollably, legs gripping his hips, biting his shoulder to stifle my pleasure, my bottom pounding the wall with each impaling thrust. My eyes had been fixed on theStretlizia, petals sprung back; we are both opened to the core, willing to receive. His timing was perfect.

I don't know how it started... we were talking, then he kissed me. We missed dinner. And now? All of the old and familiar doubts cloud my thinking. Was I simply a conquest, a canteen wager between the lads? He could surely not be seriously interested in me, not at my age.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Puritanism was drummed into me through childhood and adolescence. My parents, Catholic with a large 'C', never discussed sex other than in cautionary tales of shame and dishonour. My father and brothers did their best to dissuade boyfriends, I stopped dating once it became obvious I was to be 'chaperoned' on every occasion and bided my time until university when I at last was able to give free reign to my curiosity only to have it dispelled by a wholly unsatisfactory and distasteful single sexual encounter; I had no desire to repeat the experience. Work beckoned, I became a plant geneticist and have spent the last twenty odd years mating plants, creating new and stronger species through a process of cross fertilisation.

In the quiet cul-de-sacs of my mind I liken my career to 'fucking with plants', you see, I'm not entirely without a sense of humour despite external appearances. I grew to be tall for a girl, willowy, short chestnut hair and no breasts to speak of, the effect renders me slightly androgynous to strangers particularly if they are approaching me from behind. I've lost count of the times when a visitor seeking information has come up behind me in the greenhouse at the Gardens with the phrase 'excuse me Sir'. It is not that I'm unfeminine, I deliberately 'dress down' more comfortable in jeans and tee shirt than a skirt and blouse, wearing a dress for yesterday's presentation was very definitely an exception. I know they have nicknames for me at work, 'coir' is one, it's a planting medium - one part grit and one part bark – an in-house joke, it's more or less in character, at least the one that I choose to reveal. I prefer not to become embroiled in the familiarity of friendship, my loving is restricted to my plants; my babies in the propagation room receive all of my attention.

We have worked as colleagues for five years, different departments, his research field isnymphaea – Water Lily's – he's developing, with some success, commercial strains for Northern European latitudes. We've been out socially on a couple of occasions, mostly on work-orientated junkets, celebrating someone's success, or a baby, or promotion, the form of occasion where failing to attend would be regarded as out-and-out rude. He once clumsily attempted to ask me to dinner, it was three years ago; he came into the greenhouse and asked me what I was doing that night, could he buy me dinner. He chose a bad day. My longed forKewensis had flowered with flawed coloring. My mood was like thunder, I told him where he could take himself. When he left I sat at my bench and cried, partly frustration with the plant and the remainder anger at myself for dismissing him so contemptibly. That is why he raised my curiosity last night, he'd waited three years, waited until I'd proven my ambition, he'd understood what was important to me.

I'd started over with the failed plant, it was one of many raised from seed, the first to flower and I hoped some of the others might yet reveal what I sought, but starting over would occupy my mind, keep me busy and away from prying eyes and the canteen gossip of my latest failure. Plants were safer, they might fail you, you might fail them, but they couldn't talk about it.

It was weeks before he visited me again though we saw one another in the normal course of the day and on my occasional brief forays to the canteen. I'm not sure how I might have reacted if he'd pressed his case, but he didn't, and he left me idly speculating. He'd stirred notions long since buried. Sex. What was that about? Ridiculous! My working life revolved around sex – plant reproduction – yet my personal life was a sex free zone. It was as if my body and mind had long since mutually agreed to coexist without sex. My body performed the only function I required of it, that is to get me to work and back home, and in return I kept it clean, fed it and exercised it. Even my periods virtually stopped in my mid-thirties, I can only imagine my body decided periods were simply not worth the effort or diversion of resources. That one violent encounter at university laid the foundation for a wall constructed to avoid further sexual humiliation. I share no intimacy with my body; I scarcely look at myself, and never 'touch' myself. I have no desire... and yet, when I see him taking his long strides across the lawn toward the Water Lily House I can't avoid thinking what harm it would do to have supper with him. I lacked the courage then to make amends and whilst part of me wanted to be taken out, wanted to be treated as a woman, the greater part counseled caution, he was a boy compared with me, someone who could stoke the fires of my discontent and snatch away the dreams I scarcely care to acknowledge; infinitely safer to bury myself in my work.

GenusStretlizia is one of a handful of plant species fertilized by birds, Sunbirds in their native Australia. TheStretlizia is protandrous, it cannot self-propagate, the Sunbird performs the task with the minimum of fuss alighting on the bract and hopping onto the blue arrowhead where two lateral petals enclose five pollen-laden stamen. The Sunbird holds the arrowhead against the bract and opens the petal sheath with his beak, stepping inside to reach nectar that flows from a vulva like gland at the base of the arrowhead. The stamen release their pollen coating the bird's breast and feet and when the bird moves to the next flower his pollen-dusted breast brushes and fertilizes the style - a central stamen blocking access to the nectar - and the pollination cycle is complete. I do the trick using a sable haired artists paintbrush. The fertilized plant develops a bright orange head the size of a small hen's egg, not a small hen, a small egg, each seed head can hold sixty or more seeds, when the case splits the seeds are revealed covered in oil the perfume of which attracts a different bird from the Finch family whose digestive tract fails to consume anything but the oil. The seed is defecated and new plants eventually grow. They can take anything up to seven years to flower in the wild; in our controlled climate propagation room we can coax them to flower in the second or third year. I suppose I know more about the technicalities of sex than most people but my field of reference is too small to be of any consequence outside of a few professional colleagues. Twenty-four hours ago I'd never have dreamed of having my knowledge drawn so explicitly into focus.

The trick I use to open the sheath is to squeeze the arrowhead between finger and thumb at its base, the blue petals which form the sheath separate and the action coaxes the vulva like orifice to ooze it's sweet nectar at the petal base. The plant mechanics that make the vulva secrete its fluid are little understood. It is not required knowledge for the task I perform, just a device to attract the Sunbird. I've heard male colleagues describe the appearance as closer to the sex organ of a woman than a plant, I really wouldn't know about that. I apply the sable brush in turn to the stamen and the style, and move on to the next flower cross-pollinating as I go. One has to use a variety of plants, pollination is rarely successful if restricted to a single family ofStretlizia; this makes my ambition of re-creating theKewensis hybrid tricky, unwanted genes invariably sully the process producing unwanted colouring. I admit to quite a skill in handling sex organs, miniature ones. Last night I discovered I could handle larger ones and just as easily get them to spew their seed.

The bathroom door opens.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

"Any tea left Ally or have you guzzled it all?"

I wish he wouldn't call me that.

"Please, don't call me Ally."

"Why not? Alexandria wears my tongue out."

He's standing at the end of the bed, a bath towel around his waist. He looks divinely... young; and if he's going to use his tongue like he did last night, he can call me what ever he wants. That's what I should have said, instead...

"Ally sounds too young, it's just not me."

"Rubbish! What's that saying... you're as young as you feel, and you, my dear sweet Ally, feel positively youthful."

Here we go; I feel crest fallen. I've never been anything but honest, except perhaps with myself, and I demand honesty from others, he certainly wasn't being truthful. I found myself thinking in spite of myself 'why doesn't he join me in the bed instead of making stupid jokes, what the hell does he think I'm still in bed for?'

"Tim, I'm old enough to be your Mother. I'm not young."

He had his back to me, pouring tea. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm not bothered, my Mother's older than me and I love her dearly."

I can feel my face colour, my anger rising.

"Don't be flippant!" I snap back, clear in my own mind he was only out for what he can get. "Don't turn around." I say, fully aware of my nakedness, "I'm getting out of bed."

He gives me a couple of seconds - then he turns around. I stand like the proverbial rabbit caught in headlights trying to cover my exposure instead of running to the bathroom. We edge across the room, my legs heavy as if wading through water, his eyes moving up my body, intensely burning, I can feel their passage.

"You know you talk a load of rubbish sometimes. Drop your arms. Let me take a proper look at you."

"No." I reply.

I'm two steps from the door to the bathroom, but I don't move; my eyes lower to the obvious bulge in the towel around his waist.

"You want me to force you?"

I wasn't sure if he meant his words to be a statement or a question, they confuse me. My mind floods with images of that awful first sexual encounter. No tenderness, just drunken brute force. Does Tim see that in me? I was willing enough last night, but I wasn't easy, I didn't throw myself at him; he had to make all of the running. Am I so transparent?

"You wouldn't dare."

What a stupid thing to say! I know I should take myself to the bathroom, my heart is racing, a jumble of thought tramples upon my instinct and I'm loosing control, no longer certain what I want, what he wants. He decides for both of us, loosening his towel. Exposing himself; his phallus challengingly erect. It is the focus of my attention and once more I'm not aware of moving until I feel the wall again at my back. My eyes remain fixed at his waist, and, as I lower my arms to my side, he smiles.

"Good girl. Now come to bed."

My head silently bawls that's not what I want.

"No." I whisper, scarcely believing myself. "Here. Like last night. Make it real. Last night is a blur. Don't talk, just do what you want, use my body."

He's standing close to me. I can feel his heat, smell his minty breath and yet I don't remember him moving. My body is tense, muscles tightly coiled like springs, though I know I'm shaking, fearful, not of him but of the desires he's unleashed in me. 'Touch me', I mouth, afraid to hear the words out loud.

He doesn't move. He just looks at me, my face, for what seems to be an eternity. I can't read him, I don't have that experience, his face, his eyes, they look so open, and I pass beyond caring the truth of his intention. I want to re-live the feelings of last night, for the sex, yes... for the sex, but also to feel wanted, however fleetingly; I am willing to pay that price.

I stretch out a hand and close it around his phallus, he shuts his eyes, his lips form the merest smile and I realize he wanted me to make the first move, that he needs me to want him. He's mumbling endearments into my neck - foolish nonsense - his lips drawing at my skin, the tip of his tongue scribing patterns, on the apparently sensitive skin behind my ears. He finds a spot that makes me shiver, explores, awaking every fibre in my body. My legs turn to jelly, only the wall and his hands clasping mine keep me upright. His lips move down my shoulder, I'm aflame now at every caress, willing him on, barely believing the undulations emanating from his touch. He moves onto my breast, teasing at a nipple inflamed, swollen, exquisitely painfully. I cradle his head like an infant, whilst he suckles my breast, his tongue playing, my nipple stretched to bursting, stirring my desire, rippling waves of yearning drive all doubt from my brain, I can hear my body scream, the roar of blood in my veins as his mouth continues its blissful assault.

My sex is pulsating, demanding attention. I swear I can feel my labia engorge, blood surging to feed a frenzy of nerve ends awakened from hibernation. I push his head from my breast down to where I need his touch; my fingers replace his lips massaging his saliva across a nipple pinched twixt finger and thumb. I wantonly part my legs waiting for the brand of his tongue. He moves slowly, kissing gently across the span of my stomach sending tremors through my body, I can barely stand. His hands, hot on my thighs, move onto my bottom, bending my hips to meet his mouth. I know if he tongues me I'll orgasm, and I won't be embarrassed, or ashamed. His mouth covers my sex, his tongue parting the folds of skin, penetrating me, teeth grazing against my clitoris. I'm rocking against his mouth his hands cupping my bottom to match my rhythm, pulling me onto his face, fingers prying between my cheeks. It's a shock when he brushes the rim of the tighter hole, my whole body contorts and I move a hand and push him away, but he returns to the spot, his fingers laden with seeping moisture, gently probing, my hand covering his, ready to stop him, until a finger slips into the orifice and the outrage is enough to trigger my orgasm. I thrash wildly against his mouth, wanting to swallow his head, and his hand. I no longer care what he thinks of me. If today is to be all, it will be enough.

We stay like that until my spasms subside and the sound of my secretions against his face ease into my consciousness. Now I felt faintly embarrassed, aware that my vaginal discharge is often thick, astringent. I try to move, to slide down the wall, he holds me in position and stays suppliant, kneeling at my feet, nuzzling my sex, gentle slow licks, each making me shiver.