stuck in my tooth.

A short story.

Stuck in my tooth is the weight of your palm against my cheek, my mouth held open for inspection. A rotten tooth here, exposed gums there. It’s a cave only you are likely to explore and so I let you because you know best. Know that I hate toothaches, the pulsing tenderness of flesh in my mouth, the grinding of teeth I keep up to scratch that itch. God it’s so fucking itchy. Or—no, is itchy the word? the same sentiment is wilted around you, and I keep a vial of your essence in my underwear drawer. My mother thinks I’m to bewitch you, she says “oh leave that poor man alone! He’s just your dentist. Don’t make it odd.”

I laugh, cup my hands to cover my mouth as though she’ll see the truth between my teeth. The truth is that you started this. You came up to me, shining 32 bulbs in my eyes I couldn’t help but be blinded by your beauty. I’ve never called a man beautiful before but I think you fit the bill. You took my hand gently and led me into this private room, a chair like the pullout couch my father’s ghost still dents. You worked in my mouth like a man on a mission and I felt sensitive to the touch. I felt your fingers prob in softly and for a perverse moment I wish the gloves were off. I wish you applied the pressure I’ve needed all this time, the right amount of pressing necessary to dull the ache. No such luck. You peeled the gloves off and I looked at your hands, bare, probably tastes like rubber, the weight of them still hanging on my lips. I drooled onto my hand and wiped it before you turned and blinded me once again.

The walk home was as long as it was an intentionally languid stroll around your office, where I could see you in the window but you couldn’t see me. It had only been twenty two minutes and you already had a new patient. I wondered if it’s a woman but it wouldn’t upset me if it was. I’m very understanding, I would do the work to understand you.

When I got home I locked myself in the bathroom and stuck my hand in my mouth, exactly where your fingers were. I drooled freely into the sink and a little on my shirt. I closed my eyes, moaning as I remember the fullness of your hand in my mouth. I touched myself as I recounted the feeling, the heat, the pressure. I imagined biting down on thick skin with my corroded tooth. I cum, unceremoniously, into my underwear.

The next time I saw you, you told me to rinse my mouth with water after every meal. It was an instruction, one I took delight in obeying. After my oatmeal, I rinsed. After my chicken salad, I rinsed, After my bowl of cereal, I rinsed. The process is monotonous and special in that fact. I make an effort these days to chew haphazardly, only to have food stuck in my teeth. I smile when, after my dinner of milk and cookies, there is a crumb lodged firmly in my cavity.

In rinsing I am reminded of you, of your care, how you prescribe to me remedies with a firm, lectured tone. I yearn for it, for the control that comes with your touch. The weight in my mouth is always a painful reminder that I cannot have you just yet.

I use my savings to book a root canal. I ask the lady at the front desk if you are available to do it, she says no. I’m insistent that it needs to be you, that I’m deathly afraid of dentists, and you have shown me comfort. The woman looks conflicted, perhaps confused as to why I, a grown woman, need so badly to be coddled. My mother looks at me the same way when it comes to you. She sees the dependance as a generational dance sewn into the fabric of our family. But she has never once tried to stop me. She loves me too much. The lady gives in, says that you are only available for removals. I pay immediately.

I’ve watched these tooth removal videos enough that I commit the steps to memory. Anaesthesia, drill the cavity in half, pull until it gives. In its simplest terms it seemed an easy procedure, no need to be scared. With you there I would have less of a reason to be scared, knowing your softness, your kindness.

I sometimes drag my tongue across the hole where a healthy tooth should be. When I do this I miss you the most, hoping to rupture the blood clot. You be mad at me for doing that, wouldn’t you? I don’t know if I could stand you hating me.

I have the tooth removal booked for today at twelve. I wake up at seven and prep myself. I gather my hair several times before dropping it. You’d like it like that, I think. I pick an outfit that shows my skin, dimpled and darkened with bruises I don’t remember getting. I think I was born bruised. My socks are still wet, I didn’t dry them early enough. I walk to the dentist with my satchel full to the brim with books I think you’d like. Science fiction, horror, action, self help. I add a romance book as well, just in case you surprise me.

In the waiting room I read the romance book and wait for my name to be called. When it is I temper my excitement. Social cues are easy enough to catch when everyone looks at you like you’re crazy.

In the room, you ask me to breathe with you. Seven seconds in. Seven seconds out. I ask why seven, and your mouth splits open in a grin. I hope you’ll drool on me.

“My mum counts to seven. I’ve just never questioned it.”

She’s alive, ever-present. I don’t see her as a threat, in fact I see her as a challenge. I need to prove to you that I’m worthy.

Your assistant injects something into the inside of my right cheek and I squirm. My eyes sting at pain, the pressure slowly building as my nerves give way.

I sit in silence and watch the both of you gather tools. Clamps, sharp metals, gauze. I stare at the gauze like it is a piece of meat. I need to bite down on something.

Your hand enters my mouth and a certain dread fills me. You’re searching me, so intimately. Did I brush my teeth properly this morning? Does my mouth smell?

You speak low and warn me of the forthcoming pressure as you split my tooth in half. I laugh, surprised, overwhelmed. The metal grates against enamel, breaking open something solid in my mouth. What a sacred place, explored only by those you love.

The grating subsides, then comes the tugging. A warm, shuddering bliss as the itch in my nerves rejoice. I have dreamt of this for a year. Yanking the tooth from its root like ripping off dead skin, the pulsing flesh underneath. I am still laughing because this is so strange and so delightful. The tooth is out after a minute of pulling and you ask me if I want to take a look. A small cream coloured lump is covered in blood in a tray to the side. I forget that I bleed sometimes.

The gauze fills the toothless space and I am at peace. The assistant says a bunch of words amounting to ‘further pain” and ‘call us if you have any questions or issues”. You nod along, and I wonder how many women you’ve searched like this.

Doesn’t matter. The softness I feel in this moment triumphs over my suspicions. I float off the chair and down the stairs. The lady at the front desk is staring at me with concern but I read it as love. She knows what we share. Soon enough you will know too.