Cookie Cutter Orgasm

I wake to two hairy balls thrusting in my face. Ginger. Fluffy. Meticulously clean. Monkey’s balls. My cat, you filthy bastards. He’s mid-grooming session on my head. Monkey — whose sense of timing is impeccable as it is deeply malicious — is in full preening mode, tail high, purring like a revving engine with something to prove. “For the love of Christ,” I groan, trying to peel him off, but he clings — claws lightly kneading my cheek as if tenderising me for later. “Why now? Why when I’m trying to sleep?” But the room answers for him. Light beams through the curtains in thin, invasive strands — quiet, merciless, impossible to ignore. Morning. And worse — Mat’s side of the bed is empty. I go still. That’s not just unusual. That’s downright unnatural. Mat doesn’t do mornings — not willingly, not without coercion, caffeine, or a cold bucket of ice water to the face. Something is wrong. I prise Monkey off my face and dump him onto the bed. He glares at me, betrayed, wounded. I head downstairs. Mat stands at the front door, speaking in hushed, conspiratorial whispers — the kind that suggest either a hostage exchange or a suspiciously discounted kidney. I pause halfway down the stairs, straining to hear, but the words blur — just the low murmur of something I’m not meant to catch. So naturally, I do the only reasonable thing. I turn and bolt back upstairs — lobbing subtlety out the window — and plant myself there like a binocular-wielding nosy bastard. A man I don’t recognise waves goodbye, sprinting back to his van. There’s writing on the side — some sort of slogan — but before I can read it, the engine roars and he’s gone, swallowed by the road. “Dammit.” At breakfast, I try again. Light tone. Casual. Like I haven’t just been lurking in the upstairs window like a neighbourhood watchdog. “Who was that man earlier?” Mat looks up, chewing. “What man?” I watch him carefully. He blinks. Swallows. Shrugs, unbothered. Hmm. Right then. So I’m seeing phantom delivery men now. Brilliant. I consider pushing it — digging in, applying pressure — but the moment slides away, and my brain simply lets it go, already bored of its own paranoia. Town is loud. Alive. Slightly off-kilter. Just enough to claw at my spine. Phoebe meets me, already buzzing with a manic energy that suggests she’s chugged an irresponsible amount of caffeine. “Come on,” she says, grabbing my arm. “I’ll get you bargains.” My eyes light up. I love a bargain. I trust a bargain. I can’t resist a bargain. She drags me into Superdrug, leading me straight to the clearance section like she knows every inch of it too well. I pause. “…This?” A Lego cactus. A lipstick that looks like it's worn a hundred pairs of lips. Something in a packet that looks like it might once have been a face mask, but has worn too many faces and seems emotionally spent. “Hidden gems,” Phoebe insists. Then — A screen flickers to life. And there she is. Courteney Cox. (Monica from F.R.I.E.N.D’s for those of you living under a rock… or who missed the entire 90s.) Smiling like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Introducing—” she begins, holding up — No. Surely not. “A revolutionary product designed to give you multiple orgasms in one sitting.” I choke on my own modesty, cheeks aflame. “Phoebe—” “You definitely need this,” she says, already pressing something into my hand. I look down. A cookie cutter. “…Explain.” “Only £8.99,” she shrugs. “Worth a go, right?” I turn it over in my hand; it glints — innocent, deceptive, entirely unconvincing. Multiple orgasms. From… this? A tool more commonly associated with biscuits than… buffing the muff. Frankly, at this stage, I’d try a haunted spoon if it promised results. “Fine,” I mutter, dropping it into the basket. “But if this goes wrong, I’m suing her. Personally.” Courteney smiles on the screen, unbothered, untouchable, and faintly smug about it. On the way out, I spot my mum. And immediately wish I hadn’t. She’s in the middle of what can only be described as a dance-off with a stranger. Not a casual jig, not a polite sway. A full-blown, deeply serious dance battle. “Don’t you—” echoes from nowhere. “—forget about me—” They move in perfect sync. Arms slicing the air. Feet tapping in eerie unison. Faces locked in concentration like its life or death, and the music is just background. Then — The music cuts. Instantly. They freeze. Statue still, breath held, eyes vacant. It’s horrifying. “Mum?” I call. Nothing. I step closer. Wave my hand directly in front of her face. Nothing. Not even a blink. Then — The music resumes. And she comes back to life. Mid-move. Same rhythm. Same intensity. Copying the stranger exactly. Step. Turn. Point. Clap. Stop. Music cuts. Freeze. Music resumes. Dance. Pause. Dance. Pause. Like someone’s hitting play and pause on reality itself. I should be embarrassed. I am embarrassed. But then — I look again. Really look. And she’s… radiant. Utterly, bizarrely joyful. No thought. No hesitation. No self-awareness. Just movement. Then stillness. Then movement again. Like she’s found some secret rhythm the rest of us missed. I feel something soften in my chest. Then tighten again just as quickly. I leave her there. Mid-step. Mid-pause. Suspended in her own strange little loop of joy. Home should be safe, predictable, mine — something that holds its shape no matter what the day outside decides to become. So when I walk in and see Peter — dead for four years — sitting at my table in the same boat shoes, no socks, as if he never left… I’m a little bemused. My father-in-law. Sitting there like death was nothing more than a brief, inconvenient voyage he’s casually returned from. It’s not the resurrection that gets me. It’s the fact that he’s drinking out of my cup. My cup. My favourite cup. His lips on it. Something inside me snaps so cleanly it’s almost elegant. I storm over, ripping it from his hands mid-sip. “What do you think you’re doing?” I bark. Mat looks horrified. “Amanda—it’s only a—” “Say it,” I snap. “Go on. Say it’s only a cup.” Because it never is, is it? “It’s not only a cup,” I continue, voice rising. “It’s mine. And I don’t want other people’s germs on it.” Peter looks… wounded, emotionally flattened by my crockery-based rage. “It’s useless now!” I cry. And before anyone can stop me — I throw it. It smashes. Shards explode across the wall, raining down in tiny, perfect fragments. And — Oh, that feels good. I grab a plate. “Put that down,” Mat warns. “You’ve lost your fucking mind.” Smash. Better. Another — I reach for something soft. Warm. Moving. Monkey. I freeze. “…Right. No. That's where I draw the line.” I place Monkey gently on the floor. He stares at me, utterly betrayed. And then — I crumble. Big, ugly, heaving sobs — the kind that drags everything up with them, not just what’s happening now. Right there. In front of everyone. Living and dead. “What am I doing?” I choke. “Where did that come from?” And then — A thought cuts through. Sharp. Absurd. The cookie cutter. I run upstairs, carrier bag swinging mischieviously at my side. I tear the box open. Courteney beams up at me — mid-orgasm, mid-bliss. A woman who clearly doesn’t need to smash plates to feel alive. I pull the cutter out. Turn it over. Still just… a cookie cutter. “Want some help?” Mat asks from the doorway. “I’ve no idea how to use it,” I admit. “There’s not even a manual.” He studies it, stroking his chin like this is a puzzle, a challenge, a calling. “Lie down.” I do. Stiff. Tense. He presses it against my cheek. Jabs. Pain flares — sharp, immediate. “How does that feel?” “Like you’re attacking me with budget baking equipment.” He presses harder. “Now?” “Ow! Bloody ouch—Mat!” Again. Deeper. Pain — Then something shifts. It blooms. Then — Releases. Pain. Release. Pain. Release. A strange, rhythmic pulse. “OooOOooo—” I groan, completely against my will. A cookie cutter. Of all things. Mat starts laughing. “You know that van?” he says between breaths. “…Yeah?” “It was a delivery.” “…Right.” “Bulk buy cookie cutters.” He collapses onto the bed, howling with laughter. Later, everything is quiet. Still. Normal again. Or pretending to be. I sit with the cutter in my hand. Turn it slowly. And it clicks. Not the object. The pattern. The pressure. The build. The release. My mum — Dance. Pause. Dance. Pause. That tiny, perfect gap — where everything stops long enough to breathe. Me — Hold. Hold. Hold — Too long. Always too long. Then — Smash. Break. Cry. Release. It’s the same rhythm. Just… messier. Because maybe that’s it. Maybe we all carry it differently. Some of us dance until the world lets us stop. Some of us hold it in until something shatters. Pain. Release. Dance. Pause. The same pulse. Over and over. I turn the cutter in my hand. Not a solution. Not a miracle. Just a shape. A reminder. That something in me — Doesn’t know how to pause. Only how to hold… And hold… And hold… Until breaking becomes the only way out. Because maybe that’s all release truly is — Not peace. Not resolution. But that brief, perfect moment — right after the pressure gives way.