4 comments/ 18867 views/ 3 favorites My Goddesses: A Memoir of the 70s By: Selwyn Part I September 14,1977 Davi Bekke In June of 1975, I was in graduate school in California, partway through a three-year course of studies in environmental science. As I was preparing to assemble my field work into a paper and oral presentation that would earn my degree, my personal, non-academic, life became...... interesting and wonderful. I use the word 'wonderful' here not so much to convey that it was just one hell of a great time, but to barely hint at the sense of wonder I felt being caught up in events and situations that were beyond my experience, control, or ability to analyze; and me the notorious analyzer of the unknown and uncertain. Who once boasted in a moment of intoxication that the three words no one would ever hear him say were: "I don't know". Always an opinion, often right - sometimes wrong; but never in doubt. That year, the second of my marriage to the blond and lovely Cherie, two things happened that forever changed my life; my view of myself of a male and you as women - of whatever sexual persuasion. The most significant, I suppose, was that our friend Kayla returned to the west coast from the Women's Studies Center, in upstate New York. Affiliated with NYU-Stony Brook, the WSC is an institute of nurturing for lesbian women with writing ambitions. Kayla 'emigrated' there after a disastrous affair with a man I didn't know; a drag racer, beer drinker, and girlie calendar guy. It's only now that I am beginning to learn the ways in which he hurt her, and I accept that they would be enough to forever ruin lovemaking, sex, or any contact with members of the male half of society. He was cruel to her from the time she told him that she'd had sex with women, and liked it. Since she'd asked him to help her achieve an orgasm before mentioning her Sapphic experiences, I suspect that his manhood was threatened: Women ALWAYS had powerful - usually multiple - orgasms with him, he told her. Later he made her the butt of a particularly offensive prank at the raceway. A dyke joke with a cruel point, meant to shame her publicly. I couldn't believe Kayla had spent even a night with a jerk like that, but she had a history of painful and incomprehensible choices where men were concerned. Anyway, Kayla left U.C.L.A., Los Angeles, and Gary; not in that order, but that's the order I learned about her flight across country. A year at the Women's Studies Center, a couple of months in Northampton Massachusetts at Smith College, and one day Kayla called from Eugene, Oregon, with an exciting tale about her gypsy wandering across the United States, into my childhood and ancestral homeland in Oregon on her way to see her former lover who was here, married to another friend: me. So, the background here is that my wife and I were being asked to make up the spare bed, or make a place in our bed for Kayla to visit. The latter was what I heard, or hoped I'd heard. And I thought this is GREAT! The expectation of the fulfillment of every American male's most heated, most masturbatory fantasy. Maybe if I can prevent myself from becoming overexcited, something wonderful might actually come off. Something I didn't know then: BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR. My wife and Kayla - and me. A kind of theoretical fantasy. While I liked Kayla a lot as a dear and intimate friend, I'd never slept with her, touched her other than just affectionately, or actually fantasized about her sexually. And I had not once believed I'd missed something. Honest. Besides, as a lesbian, I guess I assumed she was off-limits, for practical purposes. My interest in Kayla as a potential bed partner heated considerably, though, when she told me that she was driving down to see us; hoped to be close; to stay a while. I thought she meant close with Cherie. I'm open-minded, but I'm not going to let my wife Cherie's childhood best girlfriend - and former lover - sleep with Cherie alone, without me. Not because I'd be jealous, but because I'd be afraid of missing something. The other of the two big things that happened that year: our accidental discovery of a women's commune near our house. We blundered upon it attempting a shortcut back from our favorite Feather River swimming hole, off on a side road from the cutoff, up in the blue oak and grassland about ten miles out of town. They had a small farm; really just a huge garden, nicely maintained. Also some goats, a couple of broken down pickup trucks, an assortment of small cars with license plates from all over the U.S., and lots of women. Only women. No men. When we pulled in unannounced, somewhat lost, some of the women were out working in the garden. They weren't that friendly to me, but warmed up to Cherie immediately. She is bright blond, 5' 8" or so, of a willowy build. Clear blue eyes and a thick, glossy mane of loosely curly blond hair give one the impression of a post-pubescent angel. Her walk is eye-catching; a swaying gait that emphasizes her long legs, and draws one's eye to her hips. She's beautiful, sexy, and soulful. Those qualities caught my eyes initially, but her artistry, kindness, compassion, and commitment to helping others - her simple goodness - were the catch for me. I still love her; same love. Anyway, we visited at the commune, which was called the Retreat, had a cup of weak tea, admired the goats and the corn, then took our leave. We decided on the way home that they were nice people; interesting; that we'd try to become friendly with them. Two days later, driving most of the way in one night, Kayla arrived at our house in the forest above town. Cherie squealed when she saw Kayla's car pull into our driveway. They hugged, and Kayla and I hugged. I held her at arms' length just to look at her for a moment. I hadn't seen her in a year, and she was both thinner and paler than I remembered her. Like Cherie, a Swedish princess, but taller; straight blond hair, a clear peach complexion. Still with the smile that lit up a room, a hall, or a heart. Large and limpid frank gray eyes. A charming little downy place on each cheekbone where her hair stopped at the temples. Her hair longer than before. A soft and low-pitched voice and a wonderful laugh: a delightful chortle. Still the luxurious long body, but her younger softness gone; in its place a spare and lean beauty. Kayla is stunning. That night, we cooked, we drank wine. I played the guitar. Kayla regaled us with tales of her life and travels. After we'd drunk most of two bottles of wine, she came to the part about her conversion - or reversion - to lesbian love and sexuality. She read some of her poetry; love odes to a woman she'd parted from to come west. They were pretty graphic, and I became a little aroused. But I was driving up to the northern mountains the following day to examine a plant collection in the hands of a retired Forest Service employee who has stories about a meadow full of Darlingtonia - insectivorous pitcher plants - on the west flank of the Eddys. I wanted that information both for personal reasons, and to investigate as a study of a relict population for my work. It was important to get an early start. Kayla had drunk more than she liked and was sleepy, and Cherie suggested that we go to bed. Which we did, without any embarrassment or squeamishness on anyone's part. It became obvious while Kayla was unpacking her toothbrush that she was in no shape for an exercise in fulfilling her part of a male fantasy, and I was tired, too. So we went to bed, in our bed, me in the middle, Cherie naked with her head cradled on my shoulder, my arm around her sexy, soft body. Kayla undressed in our room while the lamp was still on, and climbed in wearing a just a t-shirt, not cuddled up to me, but close and warm. I had a good look at her; she was very white, and slim. Elegant and beautiful. I wasn't going to sleep without at least a token attempt at some affection, and I guess I still entertained a hope that something sexy might be salvaged from the night. I kissed Cherie, and brushed a finger across her nipple, which often aroused at least a sigh, and another kiss, followed by more exploration of now-familiar but still extremely exciting terrainae feminae. No go, though. Cherie was not going to be made love to by me while her childhood friend was in the bed alongside me. So she leaned across me to kiss Kayla goodnight, and to tell her how happy we were to have her with us. Kayla put her arms around Cherie's back, and they held one another closely, across me. A very intimate embrace; I could feel it. I was reminded from that hug that they were the oldest of friends. Also that they had been lovers, and knew one another's bodies, voices, thoughts, secrets and silences as well or better than I did. Sleep overcame me pretty quickly. I was aware of being between two centers of warmth in the night, and Kayla's scent, her hair, her soft breathing, and her length were part of my sleep. I awakened once in the night with my leg over hers, and my hand on her stomach underneath her t-shirt. I also felt Cherie's pubic hair and mound pressed against my backside; her soft breathing on my neck. Surrounded by feminine warmth, I slept well. I did NOT want to get out of bed in the morning, but I had to. Cherie also got up to have coffee with me. I ate, kissed her, went in and kissed the still-sleeping Kayla, and drove off for my weekend in Mt Shasta. You're already thinking that I came home to find Cherie and Kayla in bed together, their faces and hands daubed with one another's sweet juices, a couple of empty wine bottles, the bedcovers twisted into knots from their lovemaking. You see toys of various colors and shapes scattered around the bed, still glistening with flavored body oils and natural secretions. But you'd be wrong, at least this time. Actually, I arrived home to find Cherie in the bath and Kayla nowhere. After shedding my clothes and getting into the bath with my lady, we exercised our affection for one another in the Tantra fashion, facing each other, eyes open and looking into one another's, only our genitals connected. The object was to prolong the moment of "The Clouds and Rain" beyond just having a simultaneous orgasm, which we'd found to be not that difficult. The G-Spot and all. Our lovemaking had gotten pretty expert, I guess you could say. It was always joyful, and each encounter seemed more intimate and loving than the one before. We studied the Kama Sutra, bought and used scented and flavored oils, admitted to no thing we were unwilling to try. I even endured a Yogic self-improvement course, learning to pleasurably divert my own orgasm until Cherie was also ready, so our combined peak would be near-infinitely prolonged. It worked, too. Sometimes our coming together was almost painful, and once I had been alarmed when I just kept coming and coming and coming, until it felt as though ALL my juices: semen, blood, brain stem fluids, saliva, urine, lymph, neural liquids, and eyeball gelatin would be expelled, then my viscera extruded, my organs liquified and ejaculated. I remember anxiously touching my prostate gland after that, just making sure it hadn't burst, or melted down. The most special thing about making love with Cherie has been the intimacy, the knowledge we have of each other. That's why our lovemaking often ends in tears and whispered endearments. It's intense, the feeling that we generate together. Sometimes I feel that I am shooting my soul into her, and she has told me that she feels herself opened and impaled; physically and emotionally. After a few weeks with us, Kayla sometimes in our bed, sometimes sleeping in the other bedroom, the immediate prospect of a sexual payoff had waned, although Cherie and I sometimes made love somewhat self-consciously with Kayla next to us. I know it's not a tribute to anything about me to admit that I had at least one ulterior motive for liking to have Kayla in our household. She's a shitty cook: I have no great love for seaweed, tofu, or brown rice. But her company is gracious; she's an extremely gentle person; sensitive, generous, artistic; sometimes moody, but always kind and sweet. Affectionate without clinging or neediness. When Kayla loves, she loves completely and without reservation. Hugging her is like hugging a warm cloud; her long body molds and melts against yours. She is beautiful, innocent, sweet, and lovely. And I believed that we all wanted to make love together; we just didn't yet know how to initiate it the first time. She applied for a post at the university, was offered a teaching assistance in women's literature immediately. Not a lot of money, but enough to pay her way and keep her old Volvo running, and then some. We introduced Kayla at the Retreat. It seemed her natural element, and a few of the women began to show up at our house fairly often. Women came to stay with Kayla in the spare bedroom, and they weren't shy about their sexuality. Only two of them stayed around for more than a month, and both of them; Sarah, and ultimately Saliyeh, became part of our family, beloved and intimate. We're still dear friends and soulmates, and always will be, I hope. And then late on a Friday afternoon maybe a month and a half after Kayla arrived, I drove in, noted both Kayla's Volvo and our Honda sedan in our drive. Inside, I dropped my briefcase and racquetball gear down on the sofa in the living room. Went to the bathroom, came out, heard faint muffled sounds from our bedroom (I was by then accustomed to hearing "noises" from Kayla's bedroom, and was not discouraged from sitting in the doorway talking to Kayla and whomever her squeeze was at the time even if the occupants were obviously "occupied"). Two bodies on our bed, both female, both familiar; both naked. Cherie, with her back to me at the door, cloud of curly blond locks propped up by one elbow, facing Kayla. Whose slightly caught-in-the-cookiejar glance at me over Cherie's shoulder was both shy, and, well, seductive. They've been making love, or are about to. My heart jumped into my throat. This wasn't what I'd envisioned in my male fantasy. It's already out of control (MY control, obviously). I'm sure I blushed, and I know I muttered "Oh, sorry", because Kayla told me later that's what I said. I went back to the bathroom, lowered the toilet seat, and sat wondering what to do. It seemed a little studied and artificial to just go outside and split firewood nonchalantly, and besides, the mountain of unsplit wood was right outside our bedroom windows. A walk was always good, or a trail ride on my BSA motocrosser, but I wanted to be near home. Maybe I should just go into my music study and play guitar. Low volume so I can hear what's going on in.....momentarily, though, Cherie is kneeling beside me with her hand on my forearm and head against my shoulder, and her scent, mingled with the scent of Kayla on her, is so intoxicating that I just breathe and hug her as she whispers that it would be nice for them if I come in, undress and lie down with them. She apologizes for surprising me, and says Kayla is sorry, too - which strikes a false note; I don't believe Kayla is at all sorry; she's the one to whom I'd said this morning when I expected to be home, and I was within ten minutes of that time. She knew. It sounds pathetic, but Cherie led me into our bedroom, and started me getting my clothes off. Kayla lay naked, sprawled on the bed in an attitude of complete comfort and relaxation, like a contented long white cat. She smiled shyly at me and asked in a small voice if I wanted to "get into" two Swedish beauties like them, and I said lamely "Well, sure, I'd like to oblige a couple of horny blonds, but you know? I'm really tired.", and we all giggled nervously. At least, I was a little nervous. But I lay down beside them; kissed first Cherie, then Kayla, and it was NICE immediately. We began to explore one another's bodies; gently, slowly, affectionately, hesitantly at first; then with increasing passion and arousal. Thighs opened, genitals began to beg to be touched; kissed. From those first kisses, my memories are a kaleidoscope of intertwined arms and legs; kissing, licking, touching, stroking. I smile now as I remember thinking in one part of my brain while all this is going on: "This CAN'T be happening to ME!". At one point, Kayla kneels behind me, reaching around and holding the shaft of my hard erect penis; teasing Cherie's clitoris with it; using it like a vibrator or toy. Kayla knows exactly what she's doing to Cherie, too. She knows how hard to press; in which direction to circle; when to leave Cherie's clit alone for a moment to push me into her vagina. I feel huge (I'm not), swollen to at least thrice my ordinary size, and proud. Proud of Cherie's obvious high arousal; proud that with my right hand I am reaching around behind me to explore Kayla's wet, swollen and satiny pussy - as I gently squeeze her clit with thumb and forefinger, she grips me hard, moans softly against my back, and pushes herself onto my fingers. We are all at the very brink of orgasm; trembling and breathing hard. I feel myself pulsing and dribbling, and a couple of times both women have to pull away to prevent themselves going off like skyrockets. We are prolonging the inevitable denouement; at one point, I look down at myself as Kayla circles and nudges Cherie's swollen clitoris. The sight of me, glistening and ripe-plum purple, rubbing over my wife's engorged pink, satiny vagina almost does me. I have to beg Kayla: "Oh, God, please STOP". Another frame in a jumbled sequence: I am poised above Kayla, not touching her except that my erection is at the very opening of her vagina, just inside her. Her eyes are closed and her body rigid; she is tensed on the brink of some cataclysm of her own; I was sure she'd balk at this from a man's touch, but she is beyond herself, completely in the grip of her own body, trembling on the brink. And Cherie is at my side, with her soft hand and clever fingers gently kneading Kayla's clitoris with clove oil; kissing her lips and nipples. She's watching, playing Kayla's body like a virtuoso. And most erotic of all; Cherie, obviously also highly aroused, is stroking my back and whispering to me, encouraging me to go into Kayla all the way; whispering to Kayla, in her horny baby voice, how beautiful she is, how soft, wet, and swollen K's little pussy, how ready. "Ooh, Kale, do you want Davi to make you come? Oh baby, you're SOOOOO wet and ready. Can you feel that? - how hard and hot he is? Do you like me touching you? You're both soooo ready. I love your little baby; she's so sweet; she wants to come so badly. You're ready to come, aren't you, baby? It's okay; you can let go, Kale; we love you, we're holding you". It drives both of us wild: at the instant that Kayla expels a moaning breath as her clitoris ignites her entire body, I groan and lower myself onto and into her completely, her hot, silky, spongy grip that just holds me and won't let me go, or retreat, or do anything but just burst. Cherie and I each take one of her erect nipples, to suck and flick with our tongues. I hear my own AAAAHHH, and Kayla is panting convulsively. Her slim abdomen and hips heave upward, her thighs tighten hard against me, and finally, her hands pushing against my chest, she is KEENING. Then she raises her head to my breast as deep, almost painful spasms clutch us both. No longer fighting, her arms enfold me tightly, convulsively; her entire body locks to mine to impale herself; have me deeper. After that, both Kayla and I take over Cherie's body, and Cherie, flushed and on the utter brink for at least an hour anyway, comes to an instant, searing climax in her lovely way; holding herself open for us with her fingers, the side of her face pressed into a pillow; her little cries muffled as her body, like a coiled spring suddenly released, nearly leaps off the bed. Kayla's head is against mine as we each suck on one of Cherie's nipples. My Goddesses: A Memoir of the 70s Oh, it was so very beautiful. I have died and finally gone to the heaven I don't deserve. Then we sleep; so young, so innocent, so contented; in the waning, warm light of a California afternoon. Asleep like a litter of kittens entangled in blissful comfort; an arm under a thigh here; a hot wet crotch pressed to someone's hand. A shaven cheek against a breast. Little whimpers and sighs; small twitches as tensed thighs, bellies, arms relax. Deeply and innocently happy, slumbering in warmth and peace. Had you gazed at us lying there in affectionate sleep, you'd have said: how sweet. Kayla is up first as the light softens into dusk; brings in bottles of icy beer. God, good as an orgasm. She is shy, but even in nakedness, glows with warmth and a deep contentment. A look of puzzled surprise down at her own crotch as she feels a copious leakage; she opens her thighs and wipes herself with her fingertips, then closely examines the pearly, sticky fluid. We all giggle at that. I feel so much love for these two women; we love one another. I am extremely happy: satisfied, PROUD, even; a sheik. Feeling Kayla's deep tranquility; OUR contentment, I am also suddenly aware that something has changed. "We" are no longer Cherie and I, and Kayla; I now am loved by two women - we love one another; this was not an isolated incident, or just a coincidence, but PLANNED; a beginning of something, and an end of something. "We" are now three. A high bridge has been crossed, to a new beginning....and something left behind. With that comes also a slight twang of regret, or perhaps a subtle feeling of letdown. Is this what it's all about? Several days later, driving back from a high desert field trip with an open quart of cold beer chilling my crotch and the windows down as hot miles of pine, sage and bitterbrush roll past, I think to myself that it was mostly just grown adolescents playing with each other's bodies: pleasurable, exciting, fairly harmless, and pretty superficial, compared to the intimacy of my coming to orgasm slowly with Cherie alone. The way we hold one another at "the moment"; her generosity; the expert, loving way she teases sobs and begging from me. My patience, love, and fascination as I nudge her gently, insistently, up the slope to the searing climax she experiences. I'd never known anything like it; so far beyond the fumbling, clumsy, usually brief experiences of my youth. We three are fun together, but it's not like just Cherie and I. Such denial I was in: having had Kayla once, there would be no resisting my attraction to her; my fascination with her shy, innocent sexuality; her slim body. Kayla is a smoldering fire; only needing a bit of passion, patience, and love to bring to a bright, hot flame. Some time in the first two months or so of Cherie, Kayla, and I becoming intimate, another thing happened. I haven't shared it with many people because it was weird; twisted might be the right description. One afternoon that summer, a tiny young woman named Rani, who lived at the Retreat, showed up uninvited and unannounced at our house in the woods. I didn't know her well; she had only visited maybe twice before she drove up this one hot afternoon. All I knew about her was that she was tiny and cute, and that she had bragged to us, Kayla Cherie and I, and apparently to the others at the Retreat, that she had a big clitoris. Not freakishly huge, but large. She was funny about it when she told us, and I snickered later; to me it seemed about the dyke equivalent of a guy in guys' company finding some way to boast about the size of his dick. Rani drove in, parked, and got out of her car, and I knew immediately that there was something wrong with her. She was hyperkinetic, giggly, smelled slightly odd, and kept rolling her eyes up when she laughed. And she was laughing a LOT. Hysterically, I thought. After offering her iced tea, which she accepted and took a drink of with an exaggerated sigh of pleasure and a theatrical "Far out!", she told me that she'd taken some really good acid a couple of hours ago, and just had to get out of the Retreat to a more tranquil place. She said she was peaking; she kept touching her nipples and genitals inside of her overalls (standard garb at the Retreat; they rejected fashion, deodorants, perfumes, makeup). I was at home alone, and quite alarmed. Whatever she'd taken, it was way too much for her body size. I still have vivid nightmare memories of buying a blotter in Amsterdam at the Club Paradiso during a Cream concert, taking it, then finding out when I came down three days later that it was a multi-user dose intended for six to eight people. It was a hellish experience; visions out of Dante's Inferno and Hieronymous Bosch paintings. I think I barely lived through it. So now I debated calling a friend of mine who was a physician, but Rani settled into a heady state that was happy and excited, not crazy. She kept staring at me, though; smiling blissfully. She asked me to play guitar; she sobbed when I played Embryonic Journey on a D-28 amplified through a Fender Super Reverb. Loud. I became apprehensive again when she unstrapped her overalls, then pulled her t-shirt over her head in the middle of the music room. Not looking at me, so I didn't immediately believe that I was going to be raped or treated to some bizarre ritual; but there was something spooky about being straight, and coping with a woman who seemed to have a dopey obsession with her own body. It felt wrong, and it's not that I'm an especially moral person or have iron control of my own libido. I just didn't know what she was going to do, and the prospect of maybe having to run her down and tackle her naked in the middle of the main road three hundred yards away was very unsettling. So what happened was that she completely undressed, even though I suggested, trying to sound light and humorous, that she not. She sat down on the futon couch in the room with her legs open, and grinning luridly, told me that she had a "huge clit", and that she wanted ME ("I know you've heard about it!") to see it and touch it. And right then, all I wanted to do was just not look at her, or be in the same room with her, for that matter. If only I'd been out riding, or walking the dog when she drove up; I've never so desperately wished to be somewhere else. God, hell!! Under other circumstances I might have been extremely interested in this - probably wouldn't have hesitated. Her being high, half-hysterical, flushed and slightly odd-smelling took most of the eroticism out of it, and just made me feel completely off-balance. I gently told her that I didn't want to do that; suggested that she might like to take a nap (WEAK!), and went to refill her tea glass. She seemed hurt, and it again occurred to me that I might call Rich to come running with his black bag and a whopping dose of thorazine or whatever they give to people too high on hallucinogens; or that I might call the Retreat and tell them to come get her. That seemed like a shitty thing to do; she might go into hysterics, or get kicked out; I didn't have any idea how they felt about chemical mind expansion. And I liked Rani; genuinely. I didn't want to hurt her. After filling her glass again and weighing the alternatives, I nobly concluded that it would be best to very unemotionally examine her as she wished; maybe she wouldn't remember it later. Maybe I'd get off SCOT-FREE! So I went back, sat next to her and for some stupid reason took off my shirt. I put my hands to her cheeks as gently and kindly as I could; kissed her forehead. She put her head against my chest, and her arms around my neck. I asked her if she really wanted me to touch her, and she nodded. Then, looking me earnestly in the eyes, she took one of my hands in both her tiny ones, and put it squarely on her vulvae. She tucked it in there, squirmed a little and moved my hand to nestle it in. Then she closed her eyes and waited. I don't want to go into a lot of lurid detail here about her body and all; she was tiny; a pixie. Small hard breasts with pink gumdrop nipples; a springy brunette bush with a charming tight little curl protecting her clitoris. Very small, soft-skinned, and fit; she was well-toned; lean and hard under her smooth skin, and tan everywhere. There was a little reddish scar inside her left hip, about even with the top of her pubic hair line. And her eyes: a deep, startling violet color. So, Rani put my hand over her little vagina, and through the curly brush of her tight curls I could feel her clitoral hood and her labia against my palm at the base of my fingers. And because she was hot, damp and opening; despite my resolve, it was like an electric current through my own genitals. An immediate erection, and the horny swallows. She looked into my eyes gravely with her piercing violet ones; and in a sweet loaded voice asked: "Make me wet?". I cursed myself silently for a fool, moron and a simpleton, but I licked the tips of my thumb and fingers; then got to work, one hand on the upper inside of her soft little thigh, the other doing you know what, tenderly and gently as I knew how. She was tiny, except her clitoris. I coaxed her open like a little orchid, which actually required very little encouragement from me. Rani was breathing deeply, her eyes closed, and a mottled flush was creeping up over her breasts and neck. She was aroused already, and becoming more so by the second. Even at this point, I was trying to stay calm and objective (right, moron), not become personally involved, so to speak. Although it was becoming more difficult by the second, I wanted to get through this without losing control; being embarrassed. As I stroked her open, though, and she began to breathe hard, swell, flush, and glisten it became much more difficult. And it didn't help when she moaned, then thrust her pelvis upward and toward me; her abdominal muscles tensed, her eyes tightly closed; little hands on my forearms. (I'm no expert on hallucinogens, but I wonder now whether it really was LSD that she'd taken, or perhaps a designer amphetamine like MDA that seems to directly stimulate the genitals. Her little parts, for want of a more descriptive word, were that sensitive and agonized.) I put my finger inside her to stroke the front of her vagina. My index finger was about all that would fit, I thought. It was when I moved my free hand from the inside of her thigh so I could both massage her clitoris and tease the opening of her vagina that both of us lost it completely. Rani moaned and squirmed against me, and pressed her head into the couch back, panting. I abandoned the hand strategy, and dove tongue-first into her little muff with all guns blazing. In a test of resolve, I surrender early and graciously. I gave Rani my best, most tender and imaginative, and her body blossomed. She was hot: trembling; humping my face; squirming and gasping. I thought she was on the brink of orgasm, so I came up for air, and gently stroked her with my fingertips again. She moaned and writhed as I pulled back the hood of her fat clitoris to make it stand out so I could flick my tongue over it. And it WAS the size of my own ring-finger tip; a smooth and swollen reddish grape, or a small ripe cherry. Not 'hermaphrodite' size; and besides, she was quite feminine in every way. Really cute, and really aroused. No faking that. I looked up at her; the blotchy flush creeping up over her breasts, neck and face. Her eyes were clamped shut, but she wore a faint smile, or just an upturn at the corners of her mouth. I didn't much think about it at the time, but I would wonder later whether I'd just been screwed in some way that a male - a straight male - would not be expected to comprehend. Rani then whispered: "I've never had a man inside me?". Out of sheer perversity, I was tempted to pretend that I had no idea what she was talking about, like: Well, sorry; but I don't have one of those, but it was already begging for freedom: there was a wet spot on my shorts right where the tip of my penis was imprisoned behind canvas cloth. One of those hard, insistent erections that isn't just going to go away by itself if you give it a stern talking-to. Now I get it, but it's TOO LATE. So I dutifully comply; standing to remove my remaining clothing, a pair of shorts. I knelt between her thighs, held myself in my right hand, put my left hand at the apex of her genitals and pushed upward a little to center the sensitive tip of her clitoris at the crest of her pubic arch. I deliberately rubbed the head of my penis up and down over her slipperiness, which made her moan and push out her pelvis again, and I let go of myself, wetted the tip of my thumb on my right hand, and rubbed it over her clit gently. My penis was pointing directly at her; all I had to do to introduce it to her was push forward a bit, so that I was just barely in her. I alternated rubbing the head of my penis over her with deliberate strokes of my wetted thumb. Then I pushed just inside her again, and I could feel Rani's body tensing, either in vaginismus, to reject a hostile invader, or just to steady and gather herself. I couldn't tell, so I gently squeezed her clit with thumb and forefinger, and that did it: she gasped OH!!, and with surprising strength, grabbed my wrists. I put my other palm on her pubic arch and gently pushed upward toward her chest; Rani's abdomen rippled; she groaned from somewhere deep in her chest, and then her tiny body first arched off the couch, then contracted into a hot, panting, throbbing knot; belly and thigh muscles shuddering; toes curled. I tried to push into her farther, but just inside her a couple of inches, she was so restricted and so muscular that I gave up, and just tried to stroke her clitoris from its base to the swollen tip between my thumb and forefinger as she came hard. I felt my face pucker in that sweet-sour way, a desperate tingle in my groin, and a preliminary pulse. In moments I was jetting what felt like a gallon of scalding juice into and onto her and the couch, and a few moments after that, I eased; completely spent and very deeply disturbed, stupidly watching my goop ooze out of her and onto the futon and floor. An animal watching itself bleed to death could not have looked dumber, or lower on the evolutionary tree than yours truly right then. Rani lay breathing deeply with a glazed look in her half-open violet eyes for a few moments, then put her hands over her breasts and twisted her own nipples. She said "ohmygod" in a drugged, lazy voice. I got up and brought her a towel; the same one, I realized with a guilty start, that I had put under my wife Cherie the previous afternoon when we had experimented outdoors on the yard bench. A couple of leaf fragments still clung to its terry nap, and it had, I saw, some unmistakable stains. I felt pretty shameful for a moment. And then, of course, I cowboyed up: felt worldly and godlike and thoroughly manly. Yeah, that's my job: I gotta service these horny young lesbians. Someone has to do it. (Spit, then shake head slightly; ruefully.) Really miss driving a log truck...(sigh). I took Rani home; she was in no shape to drive, and knew it. She sighed and closed her eyes when she got in my pickup; and I felt a twist of plain guilt and shame; a painful suspicion that I'd just taken advantage of a sweet young woman who was obviously in no condition to say "no", or "yes" or anything else intelligently. I dropped Rani off at the Retreat, visited a few minutes and had a beer with the ladies. They were starting to like me, I guess I was their male mascot. I drove home with the dozen eggs they'd given me. Every mile nearer home, this little pulse of guilt hammered a bit harder. Walking back into the house and checking the couch in my study for telltale signs made me feel like a monster. I took a shower and still felt soiled; obviously this was not going to wash off. I won't pretend that it did not occur to me how rotten this was going to make me look to my wife and Kayla, if they found out. And I had to assume they WOULD find out; the Retreat was a hive of gossip. If I was lucky, Rani wouldn't tell she'd had sex with a man, or would forget about it. Maybe she'd assume it was an hallucination. SHIT! Had I just forced sex on Rani? Raped her? After the Campus Creeper episode of last year, the student newspaper ran a series of essays and editorials on rape, the male-dominated society, and our handy male way of fitting sex taken by force into the fabric of our self-legitimized domination of our sisters. I suppose I, like most men, dislike having that sentiment rammed down my throat by angry women, but I do believe it: if a woman says no, and you touch her anyway, it's rape; a crime against another human being that I rank up there with murder. Even if it's just that she doesn't say no because she's afraid or uncertain, it's rape. If she for some reason CAN'T say no; it's rape. Two willing people have to unmistakably say or act "yes, PLEASE" to legitimize any act of intimacy. And although I regret to say it, because it is such a sweet, complex, and devious dance, I no longer believe in or practice seduction. Truth? I never knew how anyway. Let there be no more games between us, sisters. No more stalking; no more manipulating, no more luring; no more games. I still don't have a clear answer to my own question about whether or not I raped Rani, but those I've risked talking to about this bizarre episode - both men and women - have said "no" emphatically. We were both willing. I'm not nearly so sure about that. I mean, I'm not sure I was willing. Maybe I was raped that day. That's a possibility, and I'm well enough conditioned now not to laugh at that. I reject it for now because there is still a part of me that cannot accept it as possible for a man to be raped, except perhaps by another man. We're so much more muscular than you women, and one can't force even a really slippery-wet vagina onto a flaccid penis. Can't be done. There might be other circumstances, though, and I'll consider them, but not today. The Goddess Part II Davi Bekke I kept quiet about having had sex with little Rani, but it bothered me in a way that I felt ashamed of. I noticed that I was preoccupied with images of her tiny girlish body; her astonishing response to my handling her. Several days later, it became obvious that Cherie and Kayla had heard through the Retreat grapevine that Rani had been to visit me, and what had resulted. They quietly and effectively punished me for a couple of days by shunning my company and glaring at me, like I'd been caught in our dark and mouldy garden shed having sex with the dog. They made love with (I think) exaggerated ecstasy; I was pointedly excluded. God, I felt low. One afternoon when we were all at home except Kayla's friend Sarah (Sarah was also a friend of Rani's), I finally told them about my encounter with Rani in much more circumscribed detail than I've used here. I tried to make myself seem a victim of circumstance; wrong place/wrong time. Cherie shook her head slowly and said "Davi", in the same voice she uses to shame the dog for getting up on the table to eat the butter; she can make me feel awful just looking at me in her gentle, pitying way. Kayla didn't say anything then, but later actually cornered me for details about fucking Rani: her wetness and slickness, how tiny she was, how I touched and licked her, how aroused was I, penetration, orgasm, etc. Embarrassed me. First I thought she was shaming me, too; then I concluded she was hot for Rani. But I'd also felt her presence in bed with Cherie and I night after night; we three made love pretty regularly. I knew her body; her arousal; her orgasm intimately. No secret: Kayla was in a state of chronic arousal. She was developing a strong sex drive, a bold sexual curiosity; and not just about women. My Goddesses: A Memoir of the 70s I have to say, though, that during this time, my life, and I still hope the lives of Cherie, Kayla, and the others became a paradise, a literal Garden of Eden, a place and condition out of time, far from the course of routine life in America at the three-quarter century mark. Pleasure, affection, real love, caring. We had no place for regrets, jealousy, or guilt. Even this short time later, those days - years - are all summer in the vaults of my memory: syrupy golden light thick with motes of diamond dust and drifting spider webs; ripe blackberries; the sun on our tan young skin. The butterscotch scent of warm ponderosa and sugar pine, and the particular soft wwwwhish of the mountain breeze through their foliage; a lonely sound that arouses in me a kind of sensual ennui. Walks in the forest together; our loyalty to one another. Our genuine love, respect, and care for each other. Laughter, love and lust unabashedly expressed. To the end of my life, I will smile wistfully to remember us laughing, loving and beautiful in the California sun. Swimming. The deep bell-like voice of my Martin guitar in its favorite open tunings: slack-key; D. The clove scent and heat of our love oil. Cherie's cloud of golden hair like a halo and her lovely warm smile; her playfulness. Kayla's sweetness; her soft gray eyes enigmatic as I feel her deep, loving gaze on me during a candlelit dinner for eight. The two women sitting together quietly, braiding one another's hair. Their unselfconscious way of touching one another; hugging. Candles at our swimming hole on hot, still nights; we're high as coons on pot. Glimpses of their silken, wet breasts and thighs by candlelight; the pinnacle of sensuality. My awe and arousal holding them both tenderly when they love and climax together; their fingers and lips wet and sweet, whimpering and clutching one another; their softness after their orgasm. The three of us traveled together: to Mexico in winter; the desert in springtime; Jamaica. Sailing with Doug and Catherine in the San Juans. Sometimes now a third woman: Kayla's Ethiopian friend Saliyeh, or Sarah. When we three are out in public together, we draw stares. Three tall young blond people, two of them stunning women; we must radiate love, intimacy and affection. A good friend of mine at the university asks me in an injured tone if we are all three married, and do I sleep with both those gorgeous women? It's hard to lie. So far as I know, the only people locally who really know are some, perhaps all, of the women at the Retreat, us, and a few friends: Barry and Marta, Rich, Sandra, Doug and Catherine, in Bellingham. I believed we were in love. Believe it now. The dreamy, sensual passage of our perfect blissful lives. Our family life feels completely normal. We usually sleep together now; sometimes making love, sometimes reading to one another or listening to music, sometimes just talking. I sometimes interrupt one or the other in their reading or napping by teasing; fingers or tongue. I've become a cunnilingus obsessive-compulsive. Both Kayla and Cherie have beautiful genitals, which is probably an odd thing to say. Kayla's like a virgin. Left alone, she's closed and snug, like a ripe fuzzy peach with a slight cleft. As she becomes aroused, she opens and glistens; her labia flare outward and engorge. Smooth, soft, wet, hot and wonderfully swollen; her labia part to reveal her vaginal opening; a lustrous pink color like the conch shells on our fireplace mantle. Both women have the softest, silkiest pubic hair; I love just petting the soft fur over their genitals with a fingertip until they become distracted, and their eyes close, the book is put aside, and they sigh or moan a little. Such a cozy little cave, our bedroom is. Often now, though, Kayla is quiet; quieter even than her usual depth. At times, I imagine I feel her eyes on me. She awakens sometimes at night; I feel her get up and tiptoe somewhere. Once I follow her into the kitchen and hug her in the dark as she drinks a glass of white wine. "Kayla, what's wrong?" Her only answer a tiny shake of her head. She will not meet my eyes, but presses her body to me in her trusting way as I hold her there in the dark. She touches my cheek; kisses me; says: "Oh, Davi.... you're sweet". And then there is another day, much later; again summer, when this thing that happens between us turns yet again, into something unplanned but likely inevitable; exhilarating - then catastrophic. Wretchedness and heartbreak beyond anything I've ever known. Like the most awful childhood nightmares come true. I'm taking my morning shower; Cherie is off at work in Redding today. Kayla comes into the bathroom to pee. I glance out, and she's perched naked on the toilet. A clue, our spaghetti pot at her feet, means nothing until a moment later when I hear the toilet flush, which shifts the shower temperature decidedly toward HOT. And as I'm backing away from the scalding spray, I hear first giggles, then open my eyes to see outside the shower curtain two naked women; one quite tall and fair, the other dark as a cup of coffee with a little cream: Kayla and Saliyeh, in naughty girl mode. An instant later I am drenched in icy water and shrieks of delight and triumph. And I am MAD; murderous; when I'm mad, I sometimes go blank for a moment. I rip the shower curtain aside and grab for Saliyeh's lean muscular backside as she neatly flees the bathroom giggling and makes the corner down the hall to Kayla's bedroom, just behind Kayla. They don't slam the door; mistake, I think - might have deterred me. Of course, I charge in and wrestle Kayla onto her queen bed on her back naked and I lie on top of her to keep her from struggling. She doesn't; she is laughing and happy and relaxed. My angry fit is ebbing quickly. I'm holding Kayla's wrists out away from her body pondering my next move, and Saliyeh is sitting beside me giggling; apologizing in her formal colonial English. And a moment later I'm just wet, not angry; wet and happy; a childish pleasure in our loving play with each other. And I think I say something in a gruff voice about finishing something, or solving a riddle, I can't remember now exactly what I said, what I felt, or even what I was thinking, except that my body was beginning to respond to the press of Kayla's breasts and nipples against my bare chest; her thighs apart, her fluffy soft bush tickling my wet crotch; the surprised, vulnerable look in her large gray eyes. I get up, fetch a towel, and come back into their room drying myself ostentatiously around my genitals, until I have most of an erection, which I display. Saliyeh....I don't know. One of the women Kayla has introduced into our loving; she's enthusiastic, assertive, fearless, and utterly free in her body's delight. I think she's not really interested in what's going on here right now; may be an innocent bystander; she sits at the very edge of the bed with the morning light from the window on her satiny mocha back, goose bumps on her breasts, nipples, throat, and arms; tiny droplets of water on her skin. Cleopatra, with Mona Lisa's smile. As still, quiet, and smooth as a sculpture. Watchful. Kayla, her gray eyes wide open, steady, and frank, has rolled toward me, and holds her hand palm out toward me, long fingers extended. I'll remember that forever. Beckoning? Warning? I am lost. All I think is: investigate this further; sate our lust. I assume it's lust, anyway. Moments later, I have situated myself inside the vector of Kayla's long white slim thighs, my lips near her soft honey-colored bush, and her eyes are already closed, though I'm only breathing hot moist air onto her, and stroking just the tips of the soft fur around her labia and clitoris. I'm humming; not a song - just my happiness. The scent of this woman is simply intoxicating; sweet as a Swedish pine forest, or a fragrant flowerbed buzzing with happy bees on a warm spring day. Gentle probes with the wet tip of my tongue over her labia; her clitoris. I feel her lift her head to look down at me. Kayla's eyes are glowing. Our eyes meet; in hers....a plea? Even now I have no idea what she was feeling, thinking, or asking of me. Some of the participants have told me privately how soft and smooth my tongue is. How smart a tongue. With those women we were intimate with, or might become intimate with, Cherie was frank about the way I loved her; which may be one of the sources of this trouble. Once at a party at the Retreat, a woman I only knew by sight asked me quietly out of nowhere if she could feel my tongue. I'm ashamed of my arrogance: I looked her hard in the eyes and gripped her other hand as she stroked her index finger over it. She nodded slightly, withdrew her hands and backed away without another word; I never spoke with her again. Kayla now reaches down to the junction of my mouth with her body, and delicately, with her long, slim index and middle fingers, opens herself for me. I lick gently; stroke her with wet fingertips: the slopes of her hooded clitoris, the opening of the little sheath, then the little bead itself; swelling and reddening like a berry. My fingertips circle her; she is breathing hard, her abdomen knotted, her neck and upper chest blushing. She moans; turns and reaches for Saliyeh. Saliyeh slides up to Kayla to stroke her abdomen, to brush her own thick raven hair over Kayla's nipples, neck and stomach, my head. Saliyeh kisses the back of my neck; my cheek. She reaches into my groin to squeeze my erection. She kisses my lips lovingly, lingering, tasting Kayla, and breathes "It is Okay" to me, or to Kayla? She gently twists Kayla's nipples with her fingertips at the moment I am touching Kayla's clitoris with my tongue tip and feeling inside her to massage the little place where her smooth wet insides are rippled and thickened. Saliyeh's dark hands against Kayla's smooth white breasts are beautiful; and Kayla's body arches; and she gasps something, a warning again, or a plea. She grasps the sheets with her fine hands; long tendons and muscles in her forearms corded. Her hips arch; her limbs are trembling, every fiber twanging taut and straining; her slim calf and thigh muscles shivering. She pushes herself against my mouth and then shudders; I feel something give way inside of her. Though her thighs are pressed against my temples and ears, I feel and hear her deep groan. As Kayla comes, I suck gently, trying to stay attached as her body heaves. A strangled "Oh, God!" as her fingers twist the sheets; a gasp, a long keening moan; then she is panting; quaking hard. God, do women always have to cry about it? Kayla is lying on her side, tears welling, and I don't understand this, or at all comprehend the depth of her emotion; the ferocity of her body's response to what I believe must be routine for lesbians. Isn't this just play? Stupid me. Now I cannot believe I didn't know immediately, or at least suspect. It probably would not have made a difference. Then I am lying next to her, facing her, holding her - comforting, and Saliyeh, too; kissing Kayla, whispering to her. A moment, and Kayla turns onto her back, with her upper body away from mine; puts her left leg over my hip and her hot palm on my thigh, and presents her still-swollen and very wet vagina to me. I am beyond thought, in lust and want, and I try to gently push in without hurting her. We've been together in varying ways often now (always with Cherie there) and Kayla is not unused to me. Still, my entering her is .... tense for a moment at first. Her body's first response to mine is always a convulsive tightening. Now, as always lately, she relaxes, pulls me toward her, and I am completely inside. I slowly pull out, feeling every slippery ridge and ripple inside of her, to rub my tip over and around her still-red and spongy labia and clitoris, and Kayla has another little orgasm - just a couple of gasps as she thrusts herself onto me. We're in Cherie and Davi's favorite lovemaking position; perfect because it allows both of us control of speed, angle, rhythm, intensity, and depth, and frees my hands to love her, too. Cherie has never had an orgasm without some stimulation by hand or mouth, at least not with me, and she says with no one. I know how to do this with Kayla, too; am practiced at it; expert. I love doing it. For me it's the best, giving this kind of pleasure. This is really special, Kayla and I; and instantly I feel a stab of guilt toward Cherie, which makes me a little defensive; and that sharpens: into power, calculation, and a little cruelty, even. I think that if I'm going to make love with Kayla this way, just us alone, it will probably only be one time, and I want her to remember it. I want it seared into her memory, her body, her soul. So I begin to tease, torment Kayla's body with mine in every way I know; all my Tantric egotistical self working overtime. Fifteen minutes later, not only am I near boiling over myself, but Kayla is trembling in agonized arousal. Thrusting herself hard onto me, allowing me just a brief touch of her with a single fingertip. Every time I touch her she almost crests; her body arches, she gasps and twists away violently and thrusts my hand from her, panting. I vividly remember each tiny wet 'snick' as I press Kayla's swollen little clitoris, then deliberately pull my finger away. A little sound or sensation like a kiss, or a tiny suction cup being released from a wet surface. Her body is shivering, and her breathing is a tormented "ah, ah, ah, aah". Saliyeh has disappeared somewhere. I am bursting, blind and trembling. Kayla is writhing, dangling over a precipice. I suddenly fear merging with this woman, and that is exactly what is happening. Her sweetness, her innocence, her vulnerability are painfully naked; I want to stop this and just hold her; we are both frightened and trembling. With her willingness or without it, her cooperation or without, we have come to a place of no return, beyond all my experience. I am not sure I want what comes next; have not shared it with another woman but Cherie in a long time, or maybe ever; not like this. Alarm klaxons are going off in my head, even in my fevered arousal: YOU'RE BREAKING THE RULES. I know it; Kayla must, too. I am afraid; but lust overcomes. To possess this tall, shy, quiet, deep, sweet woman overwhelms everything else. I want to thrust her over the brink; into the fire. I am in awe of our pending climax; her agony arouses in me a predatory, almost sadistic instinct. So I pull away and with a little more strength than necessary, I part her thighs, and in the missionary position so I can see into her eyes, her fear, and her soul, I reenter her very slowly, in little jabs, pushing in a bit at a time so that her swollen labia are finally gripping the base of me. She twists; moans. I am burrowing into her; to engulf her, penetrate her innocence and succulence; come into her heart. And we are so close now; we are one organism. Kayla's gray eyes open wide for just an instant, staring wildly into me with shock, pain, and a terrible grave fright - an accusation? Tears like jewels on her cheeks and eyelashes; she writhes and sobs "Oh God, please, NO, Davi, PLEASE"; then with all her strength she's trying to buck me off, push me off. And with all my strength, much greater than hers, I am holding her down - HARD - driving her; she is going to break; I am sobbing now, and my raw, white-hot lava is shooting into her; then her eyes close; her face twists and teeth clench in agony, her head rolls back again as she feels her body igniting, burning; and then she surrenders; I FEEL it: she gives herself up and is coming and coming and coming and coming; both of us crying out: my name; her name; the name of God. Sobbing my name over and over as her body convulses, she clutches me; her face against my breast; her tears scalding me. An empty eternity; the stillness of the grave except for our deep breathing, sniffles. I lie atop her, a sodden hank of her golden hair between my lips, her hands clutching me, mine trembling, desperately stroking her hair and her face; kissing her eyes and forehead and cheeks and lips, drinking her tears as the final breath of a very young me is exhaled, and my innocence and smug male certainty dissipate forever, leaving me hollow and fragile; an eggshell. Saliyeh stands in the doorway naked, a hand over her mouth, the other clamped over her genitals; stunned or horrified into absolute stillness and silence; eyes wide as saucers, brimming and frightened. And in a moment Kayla, wiping her tears and snot onto the sheet, turns to Saliyeh and says, to both of us, I guess; her voice breaking: "Now you know". I think that is what I heard her say. And I feel a paralyzing lance of foreboding and fear: This woman and I are in love, desperate for one another. I must be in her; have her; she has to be mine. Oh God, Kayla. Cherie, I am so sorry! In that silence, the three of us together but utterly alone, my thoughts turn apocalyptic: What was I thinking? How could I have been such a fool?..... harmless recreational sex; friendly, guilt-free pleasure? Am I a complete idiot; a heartless monster? Friendly recreation my ass; my Tantric self-satisfaction so much boy's braggadocio; my egotistical selfish little maneuvering and my little prick so desperate to quench its puny fire in others' innocent souls....this is a disaster. What was I thinking? Kayla rises weakly and goes to the bathroom; I hear her crying softly in her low voice: desolation. I roll over and off the bed and lurch out, painfully striking my shoulder against the doorframe. Saliyeh stands aside, her black eyes hot laser beams through my skull. I cannot meet her glare. I shamble to 'our' room, the love nest, where I pull on shorts, then walk heavily, a condemned man, through the house, past the bathroom where Kayla huddles on the floor against the tub, hands clutched over her face. Weeping, shoulders shaking, leaking me onto the rumpled bath mat. I cannot bring myself to stop; I have nothing to say; no comfort to offer anyone. Out the back door into the sunshine. There is no warmth; my heart is clamped in an icy grip. Damned and helpless. A bottle of cold Anchor Steam which I first drink from, then press to my forehead and use to roll tears from my cheeks. My heart shatters as I think of Cherie on her way home. Her bright, loving smile; her unselfish love; her strength. Our family dinner; wine; a funny story about the day. How will any of us sleep? Live? Fucking ruins. Apocalypse. How could I have been so blind to myself, to everything? I am damned; cast from the Garden. Kayla tried to hold this off with her sweet quiet strength as long as she could because it is the ruin of everything that is precious to all of us and so very delicate, and suddenly a light pierces me: I know your truth, sisters. It was not Eve who tempted Adam. He raped and then strangled Eve and hid her body; slaughtered or drove away the innocent animals, clearcut then bulldozed the Garden for a discount store parking lot. He will lay waste the planet and all of humanity and life from his greed unless human nature is refashioned somehow. In an instant I realize how wrong the fucking Bible, the fucking male leadership, fucking Christianity, fucking all of it. A world gone terribly wrong; me and my kind the wrongest. Hopeless. I, the destroyer, am now destroyed; hoist and impaled upon my own greed - my sex and my gender. I will take vows as a monk. My guilt is like a powerful drug coursing through me: I am aware of looking around the yard and into the forest but seeing nothing; just shrinking in horror of myself. Saliyeh exits the house dressed and mounts her little Subaru to drive off without a word to me or a look of accusation or anger or anything. I don't merit even a glance. I want to throw myself behind her car to be crushed; that's what I deserve. I will see her later, in another life, I know; yet I cannot face anything now, even my hardwired instinct to begin constructing an impregnable defense against this sorrow and trouble which is going to bring down the comfy home and perfect family life around all our feet. In utter resignation, damnation, I walk around the corner, and to blot Kayla's anguish from my heart I pick up the axe and begin to split Douglas fir rounds, with great force and a great concentration of rage; chips of reddish wood and bark flinging all over the yard.