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Tarotica Ch. 01

By: Anais



A semi autobiographical series using the Tarot  for a ground.

 The High Priestess

"(the Priestess) embodies the perfect woman and the essence of all that is female but not particularly feminine in a romantic sense . . .She is a teacher" Tarot Classic, Stewart B. Kaplan

"Something is going on beneath the surface. . . the High Priestess appears when you need to attend to your innermost feelings and listen to your inner voice.  The High Priestess appears when you need to tap into your hidden potentials, psychological depths, or unseen talents . . ." (Tarot: Plain and Simple, Anthony Louis)


Perhaps it was the egrets' fault.

When I went down to the small town beach, seeking refuge from the heat and the continual, ceaseless pounding of my own mental frustration, they were there - white grace, their necks bent in that familiar silhouette.  There were two of them, obviously together - I tried to remember - did egrets mate for life?  I walked down to the beach, trying to act oblivious to their existence, trying not to frighten them - as I approached, though, they flew away - over the party boats cruising the harbor, over the small fishing craft.  I watched them, for a second, but they were gone quickly.  I walked into the shallows of the river, feeling the gritty pebbles under my feet, spring seaweed dancing around my toes.  I was raised swimming in cold, Minnesota lakes - the temperature, the seaweed, the pebbles - have never bothered me.  It was still early spring; the Shrewsbury was still cold.  There were no other swimmers.  I walked in up to my waist, feeling my thighs numb just for an instance.  It didn't matter - it was hot, and I wanted the cold water.  Somehow, the Shrewsbury always feel like silk to me - perhaps only in comparison to the rougher waters of the Atlantic, just there, roaring on the other side of the spit known as Sandy Hook.  I dove into the water, feeling the rush of the cold water, the silky feel of the river.   When I surfaced, I was laughing - it was the first dip of the season.  It was wonderful.

I didn't stay long - the point was not really to swim, just to cool my burning skin.  It was spring, but it was hot - 90 degrees and muggy.  I walked to my towel and collapsed gratefully.  I could feel every pore in my body.  My skin was singing.  And perhaps that's what attracted the notice of the woman - the only other woman - the only other person -- on the rarely used beach.  The lifeguards, even, had not yet started their municipal duties.

I live two blocks from the beach - I bring only a towel.  The woman, on the other hand, was set up quite well - an umbrella, a chair, a number of towels, a cooler of beverages, several books.  The beach is small, sandwiched, as it is, between two domestic residences.  As I lay on my towel, feeling the sun's rays - now, the heat felt fantastic - she called over to me.  "How is the water?  You're pretty brave . . .it's gotta be cold."  I leaned up, looked over.  She was wearing large glasses and a straw hat - a sort of old-fashioned, Tallulah Bankhead sort of look.  Kind of - dusty glamorous.  "No," I responded, "It wasn't that bad - I mean - I wouldn't stay in for long - but it wasn't that bad."  Tallulah laughed, a rather harsh sort of guffaw,  "Well, you're certainly a braver man than I."  Of course, it was quite clear that Tallulah was no sort of man at all.  She was wearing a two-piece swimming suit, black.  The top was a sort of cropped tank, with (how piquant) a zipper between her breasts.  It was half down, and I could see the milky swell of her tits.  The bottom, too, had carefully placed zippers - one on either side, above her thighs.  They must have been decorative, as they were zipped tightly up.  "You must live around here," she said.  Her voice startled me - I had been studying her with quite obvious awe, admiration, and perhaps envy.  "Um, yes," I stuttered, "Why do you say that?"  Again, that harsh guffaw of a laugh.  "You travel light."  "Oh, right," I laughed, trying to inject a shallow levity I did not feel, "the towel."  

An awkward pause followed.  After all, what does one say in response to, "the towel"?   "Hey," Tallulah leaned forward in her beach chair, and I watched, awestruck, certain those milky whites would tumble, free and loving it, from her black swimsuit top.  "Hey - do you want a glass of wine?"  I tried to think of one conceivable reason I should say no.  It wasn't a man hitting on me, after all - that would have been easy to shrug off - to laugh, say I had to go, tuck my towel under my arm, and head back to the cats, the computer, and the omnipresence of the boyfriend, recently abandoned.  But this - what feasible reason could I give?  "Um, sure," I said.  I tucked my towel under my arm, all right, but headed not home, but to the woman's beach encampment.  I sat down, under her umbrella, feeling strange - she was in a chair, sort of looming over me - it felt rather awkward.  "Oh," she chuckled, "This will never do.  Hold on, there, sweetheart."  She stood up and walked back to the parking lot, not many feet away.  I watched her, watched her ass sway, watched her hair lift with the breeze.  She knew how to walk.  I shook my head, looked out to the bay - "She's right," I thought to myself, "This will never do."  Again, I searched for a way out - an excuse - but I was committed.  Nothing to do now but wait - and see.

Tallulah returned with another beach chair, and unfolded it next to hers.  "Wow," I said, "You do come prepared."  She sat down, tossed her hair - it was a long brown wave - and gave that precious guffaw, "Well," she laughed, "One never knows.  Take a seat."  I did so.   She opened her cooler, then, and took out a small bottle of white wine - I could not see the name - and slipped a corkscrew from the pocket of her chair.  I watched, scared, fascinated, as she screwed - carefully, deliberately - into the cork.  "What's your name?" she asked, during the operation.  "Um - Kristen." I answered, "And yours?"  "Louisa - rather old-fashioned, isn't it?  My mother named me after Louisa May Alcott - I think she always wanted a family of proper little women."  The last was said with a sardonic twist and a pop of the cork.  "There we are."  She smiled and poured the wine into two plastic cups - "I hope you don't mind wine in plastic?"  Since my wine is of the box variety, poured in liberal amounts from plastic and cardboard, I shook my head, "Oh no - that's fine.  Perfect for the beach."  "Well then," she smiled, "Cheers" and we touched, lightly, our plastic glasses.  The sun sparkled on the wine, and the color seemed to match the play of light on the waves.  

I took a sip - suddenly - it couldn't have been that little sip - but suddenly, I felt very, very good.  Almost unwillingly, I leaned back in the beach chair and sighed.  "It is nice, isn't it?" Louisa said.  "What brings you to this beach?" I asked, not really caring, just marking time, conversation, and the consumption of Louisa's very good wine.  "Well," she answered - her voice was languid - almost, not quite, a southern drawl, "It's almost always quiet here - I can come - read - not be disturbed." I looked over at the pile of books, lilting crazily by her side, "Do you read all of those books while you're here?"  She laughed, the guffaw again, and said, "No - I just don't know - when I leave - what I might want to read - I end up taking a number, just in case."  I leaned over, picked one up.  It was something by Aldous Huxley.  Underneath, The Woman's Bible by Elizabeth Cady Stanton.  Intrigued, I picked up the next. Tracks, Louise Erdrich.  I looked up, surprised.  It was not one's usual beach reading.  "Oh," she laughed, "I'm a runaway graduate student  -- Literature, of all the useless things."  "Runaway?" I asked.  "Forget it - I don't want to talk about it - let it lie there." Suddenly, there was a steel edge in her voice.  "More wine?"  I nodded, wondering what - and whom -- I had stumbled into.  

We sat there for hours, talking, sometimes dozing.  We talked about literature, we drank more wine, and somehow, I told her about Mike - about the fights, the scenes, the eventual breakup, the heartache.  Through it all, Louisa only nodded, and sometimes touched my knee, lightly, with just a trace of the bite of her fingernail.  We watched the boats, talked about fishing, talked about the water, the possibility of sharks.  Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the sun, but I dozed off at dusk, the sun still bouncing cheerfully off the harbor and the plastic-ed wine.

When I awoke, it was dark.  I was startled and, at first, didn't know where I was.  I'd been lying on Louisa's complex of towels and I woke to find her stroking my hair.  "What . . Where . . ." I stumbled, but Louisa only laughed softly.  "You're okay - you just fell asleep, sweetheart."  I swallowed the panic rising in my throat, "But  . ." But there was no but - there was no Mike waiting at home - only the indifferent cats.  "You're okay, Kristen, you just fell asleep."  Her large sunglasses had been cast aside, and I could see her eyes, flashing in the light of the half-moon.  She glanced down, briefly, feigning shame.  "Perhaps I fed you too much wine."  I sat up, looked at the water, back at Louisa.  "Don't you need to get home - or something?"  Again, her eyes flashed.  "No," she said, "I don't need to get home."  "What I need to do," she continued, and I listened, almost enchanted, "I think what I need to do - look at that water - and the moonlight - what I need to do - is go into that water - I need to take off my clothes - and feel that water - it feels like silk, doesn't it?  Come with me, Kristen."  

She laughed, then, and ran towards the water, shedding her suit as she ran.  I thought - My God, it's the town beach, but I followed her, and I did the same.  We both ran, laughing, into the silk of the Shrewsbury.  When we were neck-level, she reached me, embraced me.  "You know,' I said, "That must be very good wine."  "Oh, Kristen," she said, "Believe me, it is."  She kissed me then, her tongue probing mine, her hands moving down to my breasts.  She pinched my nipples and moaned softly.  I could feel the sway of the water, the sway of what her hands were doing - I could feel the pull of the river's tide.  All were the same, somehow.  Her hands traveled, down my breasts, pulling my nipples, down to my cunt.  I could feel her, softly pulling at the hairs there, then her fingers entering me - I protested, softly, uselessly, against her mouth, but she would not let go and she would not stop. I opened my mouth, wider, to the feel of her tongue and the soft silk of her lips.  "Oh, Kristen," she moaned against me, and I could feel her thighs against mine, under the water, the cold flowing between us - she was lunging towards me, pumping against the tide, against me - her hands moved to my clit, played there, and I gasped.  She was holding me, then, tightly, protecting me from the tide but also giving me her own particular tide  - she kissed, lunged, pinched my breasts, fingered my cunt, teased my clit.  "Louisa," I breathed, the light silver with moon and river, "Louisa - God, I need to cum."  "Yes, I know, Love," she answered, and thrust herself against me more violently, played with my clit harder and more rhythmically.  When I came, I gasped against her wet throat, happy - scared - wondering - fearful.  

'There you go, sweetheart. And now it's about time for me to go."  She was whispering, softly, into my hair.  "But," I said - what - where - when?  "Shhhh,' she said, "Don't think about it - there's only now." She was cradling me in her arms, my legs wrapped around her, a baby in the night and the moon.  Slowly, I separated from her and we walked back to the beach.  As usual, there was no one around. I listened to the cardinals, the thrushes.  She packed up as I sat, not talking, listening to the birds, the waves, watching the light of the boats in the harbor.  She walked back to her car - an old Lincoln - and packed the trunk. It was odd, seeing her there in the physical world.  She had seemed so unreal, somehow.  I helped her carry things - the chairs, the towel, the umbrella, the cooler.  She turned to me, after everything was tight, placed carefully in her trunk, "Thank you, Kristen.  Thank you."  She leaned forward, then, and pulled a wine bottle out of the cooler.  "It's the same stuff," she smiled shyly, "Enjoy it when you need to."

I watched her drive off, her car the only moving thing in the small harbor town.  I glanced at the bottle and walked home, it and my towel my only burdens.  I got to my apartment, fed the cats, put the bottle in the refrigerator.

I have yet to open it.

Tarotica Ch. 02



The Magician

The Magician is experiencing the establishment of his own identity through his own creativity and capabilities. . . .The Magician signifies originality and creativity. (Stewart Kaplan, Tarot Classic)

You are able to master new situations, take positive action, and focus your attention to realize your potential.  Making good use of available equipment.  Problem-solving ability. (Anthony Louis, Tarot: Plain and Simple)


I was bored, sitting there in the damp warmth of the garage.  I heaved a mighty sigh and twirled, frustrated, on the dusty bar stool that served as the only seat.  I inhaled deeply – that was one thing I did like – the musty smell of gasoline and dirt, the dank, hot smell of summer-garage.

Charlie was still under the hood of the ’72 Impala.  He was skinny, rather small, and the huge hood dwarfed him.  Motor-illiterate, I had no idea what he was doing – I could hear the ping of tools against metal, the occasional soft curse.  Charlie was wearing his usual outfit – tight-fitting blue jeans and a white t-shirt.  Loverboy played, loud, from the boombox on the garage shelf.  

“You know, Charlie,” I said, rather arrogantly – on my 18th birthday I had, after all, a right to arrogance – “That car is a dinosaur.”  The car had been sitting in our yard for years.  When Charlie expressed an interest, my father told him he could have it – free – if he could get it running and drive it away.  “Although,” my dad noted skeptically, “I think you’d have to be a magician to fix it.”  Now, here was Charlie, and here was I – the last two weekends had been spent in the hot, damp garage, with Charlie cursing and determined.  I was bored as hell.  Suddenly, Charlie was no longer as interested in other things – like the hot, damp sex we had in the back seat of his ’82 Oldsmobile – or in his attic – or in the cornfield – or at night, in empty parking lots – once, even, on the 50 yard line of the high school football field.  We’d both been virgins when we started dating, and had learned sex together.  We both loved it.  Or at least, we used to.

“I know it’s old, Honey, but it’s a good car – these things last forever.  There’s just a few more – small things – I need to do –“  Charlie glanced up from under the hood and smiled at me.  Those brown eyes, those dimples – I could feel myself getting wet, just sitting under the shade of that smile.  “And soon, sweetheart, we’ll be driving off into the sunset together.”  Once again, he was under the hood. Ping. Click. “Dammit – almost there.”  I wandered out of the garage, surveyed the driveway, the yard, the house, the dog lying in the shade of the large apple tree.  Mom and Dad had gone on their usual Sunday drive.  The sisters, the twins, were off somewhere – together, as usual.  We were at my house, at the farm, and it was quiet as tombs, safe as houses.  I smiled to myself, and returned to the garage.

I breathed in the smell again – the wonderful sex-dampness of wet dirt, gasoline, motor oil, and heavy, summer air.  Charlie was still under the hood.  I walked up behind him, admiring his small tight ass, the way his jeans fit.  I knew – so well – what was in those jeans – a good, hard 9 inches of teenaged love.   I stood in the garage door, half in, half out, watching that ass move and hearing the sound of the tools, his soft breath, his muttering.  Such utter concentration.  I moved closer, and put my arms around him.  He jumped, startled, and I heard the clang of tools dropping.

“Hey – hey – what are you doing?” he was annoyed, but only vaguely so.  

“Do you remember what we used to do on weekends?” I purred into his ear.  I was still behind him, my arms around his waist, and I was not about to let go.  “Do you remember?  The way I used to do this?”  I ran my hands down to his denimed cock.  It hardened in my hands, and I could feel and hear him groan. “Oh – Kristen – oh, Good Lord – oh don’t do that.”  “Why not?” I asked, and unzipped his fly.  In the small garage, the noise rebounded off the walls, and I felt one small shiver of fear – what if Mom and Dad. . . ?  But I didn’t stop.  I took his cock out and began to rub it with both hands, alternating between squeezing and running my nails lightly along the shaft, up to the tip and down – back and forth.  He groaned again and leaned heavily against the hood.  I was still behind him, still attached there.  I leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You know what I think, Charlie?” He grunted a reply, “What, Kristen?” “I think,” I answered, “That your blood is made of motor oil – and I think I want to taste it.”  I bit his neck then, tasting the sweat, the wet of the day, his flesh, the tang of the garage-smell – oil, grease, gasoline, tools.  I was crazy with it.  I bit harder, teasing his flesh out, knowing I would give him a hickey, knowing and not caring.  Charlie groaned again, then turned suddenly towards me.  

“Do you know, Kristen, that I think you’re just a nasty, horny bitch?”  He kissed me then, his mouth filling mine, his tongue probing.  His tongue moved from my mouth to my neck, down to my chest. He ripped my shirt – the way it’s done in movies, in books, and I had one more flash of panic – and then was lost in the wave of it, of us.  Still kissing me, he walked me over to the garage bench.  Uncaring, suddenly, of tools or car toys or supplies, he wiped the bench clean, urgently, violently.  For a minute, reality – “Charlie, you’re going to have to put that back before Dad comes back.”  “Shhhh,” he responded, his lips on my neck, trailing down my chest, “Don’t worry about it.”  His hands – cracked, grease-covered, smelling of work – traced my breasts, my nipples.  I groaned, by this time as wet as the humid, Midwestern day.   His hand went to my crotch, and I humped his fingers urgently, wanting him, wanting cock, wanting to swallow the smell of him, the car, the garage, the heavy, heavy air.  His cock was still out, hard, probing – he pressed it quickly against my cunt, then unzipped my jeans.  Again, the sound rebounded, echoing, against the garage walls.  He pushed the denim down, out of the way, and I could feel the rough material sliding down my ass, my ass hard against the bench.  “Charlie,” I whispered, “Do you think we . .”   He gave a low chuckle.  “You started this, sweetheart, and you’re going to see it through.”  He lifted me, then, and my bare ass was on the bench – I could feel the cold of the metal, the spray of the dirt underneath me.  He pulled my jeans down further – they were at my ankles -- then rubbed his cock against my cunt.  I moaned, feeling his length against me.  He rubbed his smooth head against my clit, knowing it drove me crazy, knowing it would make me so wet he could easily enter, easily take me.  I felt his cock push against me, and then inside me, almost tearing, almost hurting, and feeling so full and so fantastic – I groaned and spread my legs as far as I could, bound as they were by my jeans, pooled at my ankles.    Charlie pounded inside me, and I lay back on the dirt of the bench, feeling the roughness of the metal beneath me, the wonderful roughness of Charlie, inside.  When he came, I arched my back, wanting it all inside, wanting to absorb every drop of his cum – not wanting to lose a bit of flesh, or a moment.  Charlie grunted, moaned, then backed away from me.  He was red and grinning.

“God – what you do to me,” he muttered, then looked around, a little startled.  “Wow – we – uh – we better clean this place up.”  I leaned back and laughed, feeling it come from somewhere deep in my belly, perhaps from Charlie’s cum.  “Yes, I guess we do.”  I pulled my jeans up and, together, we picked up the tools, the nails, the screws, the coffee cans – the casualties of our abandon.  “Hey Charlie?” I asked, as we returned the last of the detritus. “Yeah?” he asked.  “Do you think this old beast will run yet?”  Charlie looked at the car, his face a mixture of skepticism and fondness.  “I don’t know – Could.  Why?”  “Well,” I smiled, “I think I should probably go and buy a new shirt before Mom and Dad come back.”  He looked at me, at the way I was clutching my shirt, now sans several buttons and suffering a rather ragged and obvious tear. “Oh shit,” he said, “I’m sorry – I forgot about that . . .”  I smiled, “Don’t worry about it – start the car.”

Charlie wiped his hands with a shop towel, still shaking his head.  He opened the heavy metal door – it creaked, protesting its interrupted rest.  He sat down in the dusty driver’s seat and turned the key.  With a cough and a roar, the Impala came to life, kicking up some dust but running – actually, unbelievably, running. “Woooo hooooooooo,” Charlie yelled, “Hey Kristen – let’s take a ride!”  I slid in next to him.  He placed his jacket around my shoulders – it was warm, but it would disguise the buttons and the tear.  I moved closer to him – the front seat was as big as a living room – and kissed his neck, his ear.  “Hey, Charlie,” I whispered – I could smell sex and could feel the wonderful dampness between my legs, our juices mixed and leaking.  “What, sweetheart?” he asked, and gave me that smile, those dimples, those eyes, “You really are a magician.”  Charlie snorted, then, and laughed.  We backed out of the garage and down the driveway, riding out, into the sunset.



Tarotica Ch. 03



The Fool

The fool is entering upon a new world of unlimited possibilities and self-expression. . . . The fool personifies the spirit and enthusiasm of youth possessed by the boundless range of possibilities one perceives when setting forth upon a new undertaking. (Stewart R. Kaplan, Tarot Classic)

The fool appears when you are about to embark on a new phase in your life.  The card suggests the need to take a risk with childlike optimism and innocence. . . .You may feel like you are standing at the edge of a cliff about to fall off. (Anthony Louis, Tarot: Plain and Simple)

What is the first step on the sexual journey?  Where and how does it begin?  With a look?  A smell? A furtive touching of oneself, born from a mysterious, curious itching?  That first touch – hesitant hand to clit, then to cunt – wondering, indeed, if hands enter there.  

When I was younger, I rode the school bus home one afternoon – as I did every afternoon, every weekday, every week, every month.  I was the daughter of a Midwestern farmer – my life was consistent, scheduled, regimented, comfortable – some day in the future, in a future poem, I would refer to the Midwest as a “monstrous armchair” – and so it was, comfortable, cushioned, entrapping.  That day – that specific day – I remember, quite vividly, the feel of the bus window on my forehead, the way the farms looked – three-dimensional models springing from the flat landscape.  It was spring, and hot.  The bus had no air conditioning.  In the upper Midwest, hot spring days are always humid, and the wet, flattened air pressed against my chest, my arms, my thighs.  I was thinking of – who knows?  -- school – a math test – some old anxiety or another – when – from an utter, utter nowhere – a chill – a shudder – crept, slowly, deliberately, from my ass to my cunt to my stomach to my spine.  I glanced around – Had anyone noticed?  My world, though, had not changed.  The students – the backpacks – the arrogant, quiet teenagers – all were in the same place.  No one was staring.  I glanced back out the window and, for the first time, began to think of sex.

Of course, I didn’t know, really, how to think of sex.  I had seen the pigs, the cows, the cats, on the farm – had watched them mount each other frantically, maniacally.  I had seen birth – of kittens, of piglets, of calves, and knew, of course, of the connection.  But human sex – I knew of furtive, whispered, heated conversations between my sisters – I knew my mother was concerned if my brother and his girlfriend were in the same room, alone.  But specifics?  I knew, really, nothing – but I did know, at that moment, that this wonderful chill had something to do with it – that this thing – this sex – could, and should, feel good – no, not good – beyond good, a word I could not even yet imagine.  Perhaps a word that did not yet exist.  I shivered, pressed my head against the window pane, and thought of the boys in my class.

That night, I took a bath.  I touched my tits  – I had never done that before, and, at the time, was unaware that this touching – the light caress of tight young nipples – was a common part of foreplay.  But it felt good, that caress, and I continued it, lying in the warm bath water, looking at my body with wonder.  I was jolted out of this new kind of reverie by my sister’s desperate knocking – we were, after all, eight kids and only one bathroom.  

My sisters – they were twins -- were four years older than I was, and, I thought, much more cosmopolitan. I had heard them speaking to each other in flushed whispers.  I had not cared to know, at the time, but of course they were talking about sex.  After my bath, as I lay in my bedroom, watching the cottonwoods sway through my second story window, I conceived a plan.  I knew how they spent their weekends – they would lie out, they would tan, they would talk on the phone – but also, they would read.  They didn’t read what I read – not into the classics, my sisters, or Trixie Belden, or Nancy Drew.  But I’d watched them devour whole books in single days, sometimes lying in bed to do it, sometimes lying out, barely clothed, on the deck.  My mother would sigh and say, “I don’t know what you see in those books,” and “You know – you really don’t have to bring those books to church with you.”  I saw them exchanging these books, grinning and sometimes whispering, “Don’t let Mom read this.”  That was the secret, then – there was something in those books.  

I seized the opportunity that weekend.  They were going out – they always went out together – and their room would be unguarded.  After they had gone, leaving behind faint waves of perfume and whiskey, I walked down the hallway to their bedroom.  I made no attempt to sneak.  Were Mom to see, it would only have made it more suspicious.  The books were not hard to find – they were stacked in uneven towers on the two bedside tables.  I grabbed one near the bottom, and glided carefully out the hallway, down the steps, and out to the small woods behind our house.

There was some privacy here, at least.  Sometimes the cats would follow me, sometimes the dog, but they were an innocent audience.  I inhaled the smell of dirt and rotting wood, of new spring flowers and wet bark.  In the small tin playhouse, so carefully made for us by my brother, I lay back, in the dirt, my head on a small log, and began to read.  

In the book, there was --  touching – and words I had never heard, nor read – cunt, cock, clit, blow job, pussy – along with a vague sense of guilt and sin, I felt the chill again, starting right there in the depths of my ass – working its determined way up through my cunt, up through my spine.  It was hot – I was wearing shorts – I trailed my fingers, slowly, torturously, up my own thigh – with my other hand, I still held tightly to the book.  The man in the book was ravishing the heroine, pinning her hands behind her back, tearing her dress – I could feel the tear of the material, could feel his hands on my hands.  I was breathing heavily, and my own hand became more adventurous.  It snuck under the shorts, tucked itself under my cotton underwear.  When I touched my own clit, I gasped – the sensation was foreign, intense, and almost languid.  My hand moved from the swollen button to my cunt, tracing my lips, pulling on the sparse thicket of hair.  I read on.  My hand went back to my clit, and I pressed it.  The chill was back, but more intense, and the woods around me seemed more vivid, the smell stronger, the colors brighter.  I dropped the book, leaned back against the log – I was lying in the strong-smelling dirt, but I didn’t care.  I arched my back, thinking of the man in the book, thinking about the boys in my class, thinking about my sisters, thinking about the smells and the colors and the heightened blue of the sky.  I pressed my clit against my own fingers, which rubbed with a knowledge I did not know they had.  I was breathing hard, rolling a little, and I thought of cock – of cock entering my very own cunt, of how that penetration must feel – so full, so complete.  I thought of cock in my mouth, of a mouth on my clit – images I had never before entertained, things I had never before known.  It was all too, too much.  I came, pumping hard against my fingers, breathing in the woods’ scent and knowing, somehow, that I finally knew the secret.  Or, at least, I was onto it. 

When I returned to the house, I put the book back, making sure, again, it was in its appropriate place in the leaning towers of literary sex.  But – I took another one.




Tarotica Ch. 04



The Emperor

Masculine power and control.  Dealing with authority.  Domination of the world.  Ambition.  A man of importance.  A paternal man.  A man of  influence. 
Tarot: Plain and Simple, by Anthony Louis

This card represents worldly power.  Accomplishment.  Wealth.  Authority.  Indomitable spirit.  War-making tendencies.  Strong masculine development. A capable person who is knowledgeable and competent.  
Tarot Classic by Stuart R. Kaplan

I have always been a woman in charge.  Throughout my disastrous first marriage, I handled the bills, the paperwork, the rent – even the library cards.  With alacrity, Mark would hand me the requisite paperwork, then whistle, unconcerned, and go on his way.  Perhaps that’s an exaggeration, but it’s not much of one.  I didn’t mind, really – I’d been alone for so long in the small empire of my mind, it never occurred to me that someone should join me there.  I paid the bills, I did the paperwork, I kept track of the library cards and the books – I wasn’t even aware of the growing resentment.  Well, not until right before the divorce, anyway.  But that’s another story.  

I have been a woman in charge – I did very well in college, got a good job, bought a nice house – all in my own name, on my own terms.  I like to think that I am strong, though my divorce did its best to break me.  It did not succeed.  However, I have to admit – there are times – when I’m alone in my house, after a hard day’s work, or when I’m alone on the weekend, no dates and only cats for company – that I allow myself the luxury of a certain fantasy.  This fantasy does not fall within the bounds of what one might consider “politically correct,” nor does it seem appropriate for a woman like myself, having been through so much and survived.  And yet, it’s there – and yet, it never fails to excite me – 

****
I am on a ship, somewhere on a sea, in a land, far away.  The sea does not exist, the land does not exist – it’s important, somehow, that the world exists only for me, only in my imagination.  I am in the galley of the ship – I am a slave.  Not a slave of labor, but a slave of pleasure.  I am with others – we have been captured by warriors from another exotic land – and we are there, blindfolded, chained together.  Occasionally, we are fed by the ship’s crew.  They delight in tormenting us, providing a drink of water and then pulling the cup away – feeding us a few morsels of meat, and then walking away, laughing.  In this way, they are cruel, but they do not beat us.  At night, we sleep leaning against each other, swaying sometimes with the waving tipple of the ship.  We do not talk – we cannot.  As soon as there is a whisper, a nod, a bit of a conversation, there is a sailor there, babbling in some foreign language and providing a well-placed slap.  We do not know where we are, nor where we’re going.

At last, however, we arrive at our destination.  The ship docks with a sickening thump, and we are knocked, like dominos, off our bench.  The crew rights us, soothing our hair and re-seating us.  We are still blindfolded, but I can smell the smells of land – food cooking and aromatic spices – and can hear shouts – chattering – in the same foreign language the sailors use.  There is the creak of a wooden door and ancient hinges – I can tell, against my blindfold, that light is leaking into the galley.  I want it, lean towards it, and am pulled sharply back by the woman next to me.  The sailors come to us and, grabbing our arms, raise us to our feet.  We stumble a bit – we’ve been on the ship so long – but the sailors quickly right us, and we are on our way, shuffling over the wooden floor of the ship.  I am barefoot, and dressed only in a casual, short leather shift.  I can feel the boards beneath my feet, can feel the slight movement of the docked ship.  We leave the ship and are soon on the dock.  The voices are louder, the smells stronger.  I breathe them in -- both the voices and the smells – it’s been so long since I’ve smelled anything but sailor and galley sweat – heard anything but the slap of the ocean waves and the occasional moans of the other girls.  

We are led into some sort of conveyance.  We are still blindfolded, so I cannot see what it is, but from the uneven shift of weight, the groans as we are lifted into the air, I imagine that we are in a chariot, carried by men.  I can hear chattering – still the foreign language.  I want so much to hear my own.  I lean back, against the canvas wall of the carriage, and I can feel a breeze on my cheek, can smell again the cooked meat, the spices, the oils – the chatter, I thought, must be in a marketplace – haggling over prices, gossiping over local news.  For a minute, I imagine myself back home, eating with my family, talking with family friends, gossiping over neighborhood campfires.  Suddenly, the carriage jolts, then stops.  The chattering is louder. There is a shout from somewhere, and we are lowered. I feel the soft “chuff” of the carriage landing on earth.  Several men – I know they are men, from their voices and from the feel of their hands – guide us, walking us carefully, and we are led out of the carriage. Awkwardly, we stumble against each other but follow their lead.  Underneath my bare feet, there is grass, a brief path of gravel, and then smooth brick.  The brick is cool and somehow soothing.  We are led up the brick path and we are soon stumbling, still chained, up steps.  The guards try to guide us, but, since they do not speak our language, it’s rather tough going.  A sound of a door opening – a large door, from the sound of it – and we are guided into a cool hallway of some sort.  A collective sigh from all of us – the halls are scented, the floor carpeted – unexpected luxuries, for us so long at sea.  

We are led down a hallway, up a stairwell, and down another.  Finally, when we stop, we are unchained, our blindfolds lifted.  We sigh – a sigh of relief and curiosity – and look at our captors, at each other.  There is no doubt our captors chose the best of our land – around me are svelte blondes, curvy brunettes – beauty in all its resplendent feminine form.  For a second, I feel ashamed – my feet are calloused, my hair always tangled.  Then, we all notice where we are – 

The room is capacious – there is a large swimming pool, scented, in the middle of it.  Surrounding it are hot baths, attended by servants, both male and female.  Fragrant vines climb the walls with colorful flowers, their vines reaching for the high windows.  From the slant of the light and the placement of the windows, I can tell that the room is underground. The sailors who have brought us seem dirty and small here, but still they command us, and we are given to understand that we are to bathe in the hot waters, then the fragrant swimming pool.  We are separated in groups of three.  As I walk with the others, I gather my courage, and say, “Do you think we can speak now?”  The bathing attendant pays no attention – no slaps, no reprimand.  The buxom brunette beside me whispers, still frightened, “I think maybe we can.”  The bathing attendant – a young boy, really, no more than 18, turns to us and smiles.  “Of course you can speak.  Here, at least.”  We are startled – we’ve not heard our language for so long.  “Here,” the boy continues, “You at least have some freedom – you can speak to each other, play with each other – laugh, talk.  Of course, you cannot leave – but perhaps you will not want to.” Once again, I gather courage: “But – what is our purpose here?”  The boy laughs, and his dimples curve, “Oh – haven’t you guessed?  You’re for the emperor.”

The attendants bathe us and, for the moment, we luxuriate in the warmth.  The long days of sweat and sailor and smell are washed off.  We are shaved – everything – arms, legs, pubis, armpits.  We are given no clothes and, instead, are encouraged to enjoy the cool pool, naked, with our colleagues.  I notice, though, that, three by three, the attendants are taking the other women somewhere  – they are first dressing them in draped robes and jewels – from the corner of my eye, I see a woman’s nipples pinched with ruby clamps.  She gives a small yelp, but the attendant merely rubs a finger against her lips, then soothes the reddened tits.    I look around, but the other women are engaged in discussion, talking about missed families, talking just to talk.  It does not take long.  The attendants come to the edge of the pool.  They signal to me, my brunette companion, and another, rather shrill-voiced blonde.  Of course, we dare not refuse them. We climb out of the pool, hairless bodies glistening in the light from the windows and the sconces burning on the cavernous walls.  We are taken to a corner, slightly hidden from the rest of the women, next to a deep closet.  From it, the attendants bring white robes, strings of jewels – and then, they smile at us.  One drapes the brunette first, than braids her hair with strings of rubies.  She is smiling, nodding and talking with the attendants, relaxed.  Suddenly, another attendant comes from behind and clips her nipples with the same kind of clamps I saw earlier.  The brunette gasps, and the attendant covers her mouth.  I watch her eyes widen.  They are stringing the jeweled clamps from her nipples – a chain connects them around her neck, to her pierced ears.  Whatever she does I think to myself, She will have to pull those clamps – and feel them tug at her nipples.  The attendants lead her away – as the clamps pull, she whimpers softly.

It is my turn, and I follow the attendants with apprehension, dread, anxiety, and more than a little excitement.  I am given no robes.  I hear two attendants speaking to each other in their foreign, clicking language.  I am frustrated.  What are they saying? One smiles at me, runs a hand over my hair. “A wild child, eh?  That’s what the emperor likes.”  No robes, but a tiara of gold, delicately touched with flowers of sapphires and amber.  Chains of silver, tinged with rich amethyst, are placed around my neck. More of the same, in miniature, are ringed around my wrist.  Bejeweled nipple clamps – this time tinged with onyx – are attached to my tits, then wrapped around my wrist – and – horror of horrors – clipped to my clit.  I gasp as the attendant smiles, smoothes my hair, and says, “You have the clit and the cunt for this, don’t you?  So distended, so large – don’t worry – the emperor will like that, I think.”  I cannot move without feeling the pull of the clamps on my clit, on my nipples.  I try not to gasp aloud as the attendants guide me up the steps.  I feel the bare stone against my bare feet. 

The three of us are led up a steep stairwell, into a hallway – it is bright, here, as the sun shines fully in the windows.  We three squint – we have not seen full sun for so long. We are walking on soft red carpet, and the luxuriance of it feels strange against my callused feet.  We enter a spacious room, and I catch a glimpse of a long, stone table, covered with cups and various dishes.  There is a dais, too, but as soon as I catch its sight, our attendants force us down, on to our knees.   For the rest of the journey, we will crawl.  With each movement, I gasp – the clamps on my clit and my tits pull with every crawling step.  At last, we are made to stop, but the attendants hold our heads down, bowed, and we see only the lush red carpet.  The attendant speaks in his language, sounding proud, happy.  I hear an answering voice – brusque, but deep, a somehow soothing baritone.  There is the sound of shuffling, slippered feet – the attendants are gone. 

“You are beauties,” the voice continues, this time in our own language, “I think perhaps you’re the best lot I’ve seen yet.”  He is on the carpet, walking – I can hear the soft thunk of his boots on the red velvet.  “A blonde,” I hear him say, “A brunette – and” he has stopped in front of me.  I can see his boots and hear my breathing, my heartbeat.  “A red head.”  He squats in front of me, his hands on his bent knees.  I can see the rich cloth of his trousers, can feel the feather brush of his breath on my hair. I try to make my breathing regular, try to still its ragged, erratic pattern.  He reaches out a hand, then, and puts a finger under my chin. He raises my face, and my eyes meet his – he is handsome, ruggedly so, with a neatly trimmed brown beard and long brown hair that curls around his collar.  “Do you know, little one, what red hair means in this country?”  I shake my head; there are tears in my eyes – what did it mean?  Execution? Exile? Eternal imprisonment?  “Red hair,” he continues, and gently wipes the tears from my eyes, “is a sign of magic – of good luck.  We have no red-haired women here – or men, for that matter.  To have a pet – with hair that color – is very good fortune, indeed.”  I watch him as he rises and pulls a silken chord, hanging from the ceiling.  The attendants return.  He gives them only a look, and they lead away my companions, still on their hands and knees.  The Emperor – for obviously, that’s who the great man is -- has not spoken to them – only to me.  The Emperor returns to me and gently lifts me to my feet.  The clamps pull on my tits and my clit and I gasp a little.  The Emperor laughs, then pulls the chains himself.  I am almost yelping, not quite screaming, and yet I feel myself getting wet.  The Emperor must know this, for he reaches down, between my legs, inside me.  “Just as I thought,” he laughs, “It’s always the red-haired ones.  Too bad they’re so rare.  Come, pet, sit beside me here, on the floor.”  He has taken one of the chains, one leading from my tits down around my stomach, down further, and he leads me as if I were indeed a pet.  Once on the dais, he presses down, gently, on the top of my head, until I am kneeling.  “Good, pet.” He says, and strokes my hair, “Now – let’s see – just how you look – your hands behind your back please – and spread your legs.”  I am embarrassed, but I follow his orders.  He reaches forward, touches my pussy, which is also covered with red fur and is now, I see with humiliation, glistening in the sunlight streaming from the windows.  The Emperor bends, reaches down to touch the wetness, plunges his fingers into my cunt.  His fingers reach, then, to my clit and rub it in a rhythmic fashion that leaves me, once more, gasping for breath. He withdraws, stands up, and I want him back, there between my legs.  I let out an involuntary whimper.

The Emperor laughs and takes my chain one more time – this time, he leads me down, down in front of his chair, so I am lying on my belly in front of him.  Again, the clamps pull, and I gasp a little.  “You will get used to those clamps,” the Emperor says, from above me, “And you may even get to enjoy them.”  I doubt that, but I dare not say a word.  The Emperor, momentarily, rests his boots on my ass.  “What a wonderful ass – so white – so young.”  He reaches over, then, to smack me, lightly.  I am surprised, and try to wiggle away from his hands.  The Emperor laughs.

“Oh no, little one.  There is no escape here.  I’m afraid that you’re the spoils of war – that you’re mine.  But fear not – I’m not cruel, nor beastly, and I don’t kill, maim, or expose those captives for whom I really don’t care.  No – all my captives are fed, watered – taken care of.  But there are some – well – there are some – of whom I become especially fond.  I have only one other redhead.  You will see – I teach them our language, how to read, how to sing, how to dance – they are schooled in arts that will make them more gracious and, of course, more pleasing to me.  You are lucky, little one. You will see.”  With his feet, the Emperor rolls me over, onto my back.  He bends down from his seat and fingers my clit again, rubbing back and forth, up and down – no one has touched me there, and I feel as if I cannot breathe.  “Please,” I manage to gasp, and the Emperor laughs once again.  “We will break you in a little, I think,” he whispers, and his fingers, his hands move from my clit, into my cunt, back to my clit and then, more furiously, back and forth between.  I feel fire between my thighs and covering my face, my neck, my throat.  I have never felt this, and I don’t know how to respond, I don’t understand the tremendous internal wave that threatens to engulf me, I’m sure it will drown me.  I am breathing raggedly, sharply, regardless of my attempts to be calm and still, and my cunt is pulsating around the Emperor’s large hand.  He laughs, touches my face.  I can smell myself on his hand – it is not a bad smell, really rather pleasant. “I did take you for a natural,” he says, “And I was not wrong.”  He sits back, again, and pulls the silken rope once more.  His attendants appear, shuffling their slippered feet.  In the Emperor’s presence, they bow. 

“You can take her to bathe, now, and put her to bed.”  The closest attendant smiles. “To the bowery, Sir?”  The Emperor smiles back, perhaps slightly annoyed, “Yes, Ostara, you guessed correctly – as usual, you know my taste.  To the bowery.”

I am taken, then, not back to the other women, but to a separate bathing facility.  My jewels are removed – for some reason, I almost miss the constant pinch on my nipples and clit.  The water is scented, the towels large and soft.  The attendant hands me a robe, this time, and takes me to a long hallway.  There are large golden cages hanging above me, and I hear singing – a light, trilling, wonderful sound – coming from them.  I look up in wonder.  The attendant only smiles, and finally, we stop.  A button is pushed, somewhere, and one of the golden cages – furnished with silk bedding and a bowl of rose water – lowers from the ceiling.  “Here,” he smiles, “is your bed.  You will be able to look out the window, at the empire – there are books there, from your country, for you to read, and rose water for washing.  You will, I know, be comfortable.”  Before I can protest, I am led into the cage, the door locked behind me.  The button is pushed, the cage raised.  I feel it slightly swaying in the breeze, coming from the open casements above the large windows behind which we roost.  I look over, towards the cage next to me.  A beautiful brunette occupies this next-door spot, and she smiles at me.  It is she, too, who has been singing as she combs out her hair, a dark velvet tapestry that must reach her toes.  “Welcome,” she smiles at me, “Don’t worry,” she says, in a voice confident and self-assured, “You’re one of the lucky ones.”

I think of the Emperor, of his hands on my cunt, of the tight clamps on my clit and nipples, and I think, perhaps, she’s right.

***

So there it is   -- my very incorrect fantasy.  And you know what?  When the Emperor reaches for my pussy, and I touch myself, feel my own wetness, my own excitement – and then think of the golden bars of the cages, the silk of the bed clothes -- well, I must admit – I always cum.




Tarotica Ch. 05



Tarotica V - The Heirophant

The Hierophant represents that which is orthodox and traditional even to the point of ineffectuality.  The heritage and past symbols are often more important than the practicality and necessity of change needed in the present.
-	Tarot Classic, Stuart Kaplan

You may participate in a rite or a ceremony which links the individual with the traditions of a community. You may visit a place of worship, perhaps to attend a wedding. . 
- Tarot, Plain and Simple, Anthony Louis

I was a good child – in fact, I was a pious child.  So pious that my mother hoped I would become the nun she’d always wanted.  Unlike my sisters, I loved going to church.  I loved the ceremony of the mass, the smell of the incense, the dramatic stories of Easter and Christmas – I didn’t even mind the shrill winter-cold of the cinderblock church.  When I was young, my mother would drive us – herself and whatever children were still around – to town in a ’77 Impala.  The car’s heating system never worked well, and only kicked in, really, when we had finally traveled the five miles to town.  I remember huddling in the front seat, dressed in my Sunday best, covered by a heavy winter coat and several afghans.  Then, it didn’t really matter what you wore to church – it was so cold, no one took their coats off, and, thus, no one saw it – whatever it was -- the elaborate pink skirt, the tight-fitting knit dress – anyway.  

It didn’t matter – I loved the lull of the priest’s voice, loved the familiar hardness of the pew, the comforting feel of the missalette.  I could voice every response by heart, every hymn almost by the number.  When I got older, I wondered, a bit, about the Church’s stance towards women – and the sadomasochistic aspect of the Crucifix and Christ, bleeding, yearning, looking  for release – an image of which, in one form or another, I’ve seen in every Catholic Church I’ve visited.  Still, I was proud, somehow, to belong to this “first” religion, and I remember one of my CCD teachers responding, to a question about conversion to another faith, “Why would you want to switch? What other religion would you want to belong to?”  For a long time, those words held, for me, a significant impact.

When I went away to college, my faith fell away somewhat.  I remember one of my close friends and colleagues – she was the product of a Catholic high school, and quite proud of her Irish-Catholic upbringing.  About her was an incredible naivete – and yet, at the same time, she had done things of which I had never dreamed – speed, heroin – she knew countless girls who had gotten pregnant (they were Catholic, so they wouldn’t use birth control – but they would have sex).  Sometimes, she would go out and drink way too much, and come back to the dorm room absolutely blasted – as would I – but it seemed so incongruous, so strange somehow, for the childlike Molly to be doing the same.  Still, she went to Church every Sunday – I think I lasted through the first week of the fall semester.  Dutiful, I followed Molly to church, and we experienced Mass together.  Still, though, by the next week, I couldn’t bring myself to return.  It was not the same church of my youth – it was a strange church, inhabited by strangers – and the creeping hypocrisy of it all was beginning to bother me, somewhere at the base of my spine.

When I returned from school, I went to Church with my mother and family – sometimes there were nieces and nephews who followed us, sometimes not – and I would see former classmates, smell the familiar incense, recognize and rejoice in the familiar cadences of the nearly-programmed responses.  There was peace in it, somehow, and, at some level, a spiritual comfort.  

One Christmas, I returned for the long winter’s break.  We had over a month’s vacation  – over a month to spend in my small town, living with my aging parents – no parties, no mental stimulation.  The first week home, I napped on the couch, continually – recovering from my finals, from the parties, from the mental stimulation.  The following Sunday, I dressed for Church, and my mother told me how thrilled she was to have me home, how much she enjoyed someone sitting next to her in our accustomed pew.  We went through the familiar ritual, and I felt myself, again, nearly dozing, until the time came to share peace.  I roused myself, hugged my mother, turned to the pew behind – and blushed.  I hadn’t noticed, had been so out of it, but Trey was sitting behind us.  Trey, my old flame.  Trey, with whom I used to fight and fight and fight.  Trey, who used to, by turns, excite and infuriate me.  Trey, still as good-looking as ever.  He smiled at me, his teeth white, his skin – somehow, even in the depths of a Minnesota winter – swarthy and dark.  He held out his hand, and I gripped it in return, trying not to stammer, trying to meet his eyes.  “Peace be with you,” he said, his voice rolling out in tones as soft as the altar drapery.  “And with you,” I responded.  He held my hand for one second too long, winked at me, then returned his attention to the Mass.  I turned around, facing, again, the Crucifix, the robed priest, the altar.  As usual, the cinderblock church was cold, but my face was flushed and my hands felt oddly hot.

At the end of Mass, Mom and I made our way through the crowds of thick winter coats and vaguely familiar faces. Mom greeted nearly everyone by name, asking about their health, their spouses, their loved ones.  “Hi, Marion – How are you?  How’s Mabel?”  she would ask, and Marion would respond a bit sadly, her voice thick with the rounded O’s of a Minnesota accent, “O—hh – not good, you know, just not good.”  And the conversation would go from there.  I waited patiently, listening to the latest filial health bulletins and hoping Trey had gone.  At last, Mom and I made our way to the cold car – the Impala had long been replaced.  “I hope you don’t mind,” she said, as she took my hand, “I volunteered us to come clean the church this afternoon.”  I groaned inwardly, but had made a Christmas resolution to get through the holiday season cheerfully and without complaint, “No – that’s fine.  Nobody’s around, anyway – so there’s not much else to do.”  We drove the few blocks back to the house, and walked in to the ambrosiac smell of Dad’s Sunday chicken.  

After we finished Sunday dinner, Mom and I returned to church, bringing with us Mom’s substantial supply of cleaning agents.  The church had the charming, if somewhat comic, name of “Our Lady of Perpetual Help.”  I hoped that, at least for this afternoon, the help would not be perpetual.  We entered from the back, walking up the aisle after Mom dutifully crossed herself with holy water.  With no body heat, the church was even colder now, and there were only a few older women in front, taking stock of their cleaning supplies and doling out chores.  We walked up to join them.  “Oh, Kristen – I’m so glad to see you home – and here to help,” Betty, the organist, croaked as we came in – Betty could play, but she could not sing, and her voice had the resonance of a rotting, rusty gate.  “Let’s see – who’s all here?” she consulted her list, “The Johnson’s – the Bjornson’s – the O’Malley’s.”  My heart stopped a beat, and I gulped so loudly I was sure everyone there could hear it.  No one paid any attention, though, and Betty continued with her list.  “O’Malley’s not here yet –“  she muttered, and, from the back of the church, a voice boomed, “We’re here – we’re a bit late – but we’re here.”  And in walked the O’Malley family – Mr. O’Malley, Mrs. O’Malley – and Trey O’Malley.  Betty smiled, “Okay, then, let’s get going – good to see you, Trey – I was just telling Kristen – so good to see the young people back.”  Trey flashed me a smile, which I tried to return.  I’m sure it seemed more of a death’s head grin.  

Trey was, quite possibly, the best lover – up to that point in my life anyway – I’d ever had.  We had experienced kink together, had tied each other up, had sex, once in a cemetery, on top of a grave.  We were both a bit of Midwestern fringe – not quite fitting in, not quite outcasts.  Of course, our families thought we were perfect for each other – there are so few Catholics in my small, Midwestern town – my mother was absolutely thrilled.  The night of our graduation, Trey had ended it, with an absolute pronouncement.  “We’re both going to college,” he said, “And we don’t need to pretend we’re going to hold on to this.”  Perhaps for the first time in my life, I was truly, truly heartbroken.  I was the one who broke relationships – I was the one who decided when it was over.  Not this time.  The day after graduation, I stayed in bed all day, claiming sickness and crying myself into infrequent naps.  Of course, we had both gone to college – I had dated, danced, drank, fucked – but I’d not quite forgotten Trey.  And here he was, smiling at me, a mop in his hand.  

I heard Betty’s croaking voice – “Umm, let’s see  – Trey and Kristen – since you’re the young ones – maybe you can share the floor mopping, hmm?”  The “hmmm” was a verbal tic Betty had never quite gotten over.  “Yes,” I heard Trey say, “We can do that – here’s one mop – do we have another? And floor cleaner?”  Betty looked over the collected cleaning supplies.  Somehow, Mom had gotten swept away with the dust and the chatter and was now cheerfully polishing pews.  I could hear her laugh and her distinctive gossip tones.  Betty clicked her tongue, and said, “You know, Trey – I think there’s another mop in the cleaning closet downstairs – and I’m sure that’s where the Soilax is, too – do you want to go get it?  Let me know if it’s not down there.”  “Sure,” Trey said, “We can do that – c’mon, Kristen.”  Numb, I followed Trey down the steps to the basement, site of my early religious training – my mind jammed with thoughts of Sunday school and saintly filmstrips.  

“So,” Trey said, “How’s school?”  I shook my head a little and smiled, “It’s going well – actually, very well.  I think I’ll make the Dean’s List this semester.”  “Yeah?” he sounded genuinely pleased, “Good for you.”  “And you?” I asked, “How’s school for you?”  “It’s all right,” he sounded uncertain, “I think I’m just making an adjustment – to go from here to the University of Minnesota – well –‘  I nodded an acknowledgment, and we both stopped in front of the cleaning closet.  “Well,” he chuckled, “In we go – brave enough to follow me?”  I could never resist Trey’s dares – hence the socks, hence the cemetery.  I lifted my chin and followed him.  Automatically, the door clicked shut behind us.  It was dark, and I fumbled for the light. A hand covered mine.  “Kristen,” Trey’s voice was different – the way it used to be, when we lay panting in the back of his car, or sweating in the hay mow of my family’s barn – “I’m sorry – I never should have – I mean – I don’t know what to say – I really miss you. I thought, somehow, I was going to go – be this Big Man on Campus – and – I just really miss you.  I’m sorry.”  My breath was coming in quick gasps, but I tried not to show it.  “No big deal – it’s okay – We did have a good time, though, didn’t we?”

Trey’s hand lifted from the light switch, and he turned me towards him. We faced each other, there in the darkened broom closet, in the church of my youth.  “Oh, Kristen,” he moaned, and his hands were on my neck, in my hair, traveling down and under my thick winter sweater.  His hands traced my nipples, then bit them with a pinch.  “Trey,” I breathed, stepping back, “They’re going to expect us back – they’re going to come looking . .” Trey stopped me with a deep kiss, then leaned against me, towards the door, and locked it.  “Trey,” I said, “Have you done this before?”  He laughed, and I hoped those upstairs couldn’t hear, “Do you think I would tell you?”  After his stumbling apology, Trey’s devilry was back.  He leaned against me, in control, and I felt the doorknob press into the small of my back.  I shifted forward, and found myself pressed against Trey’s thin, muscled body. I could feel the thick hardness of his cock, and groaned in spite of myself.  Trey’s tongue was in my mouth, probing, and I could taste the familiar cinnamon of Big Red.  Trey’s hand traced my cheek, my neck, then moved down to my jeans – the zipper echoed, a gunshot almost, in the cleaning closet, “Trey,” I said, “Shh,” he responded, “We’ll make it quick – tell them we couldn’t find the mop,”  “But Trey,” I said, even as I felt my cunt getting wetter – wet enough, in fact, to mop a floor, “My mom –“  “Your mom loves me,” he said, and that was true enough.  His long fingers entered my open zipper, probing my thick hair and my wetness.  I could feel his smile against my hair, “Still doesn’t take you long, huh Kristen?”  “Nor you,” I responded, and unzipped his jeans to release his pulsing cock – purple, hard, crying for attention.  He moaned softly.  I took his cock in my hands, moved my fingers up and down, reached for his balls.  His head went back, and I grabbed the opportunity, leaning over to take his shaft in my mouth, his balls cupped in my hand.  His groan was loud.  I put my finger on his lips.

“I have to have you,” he mumbled.  “Here?”  I asked, wondering about logistics.  “Right now, there seems no better place.”  I chuckled.  “It’s going to have to be quick.”  “I know,” he groaned, “Unfortunately.”  He yanked my jeans down, almost a violent gesture, and I tripped forward.  Trey caught me, leaned me back against the locked closet door, his cock thrusting towards me, insistent, unafraid, not intimidated by the church, the church altar, the church closet, the church ladies, upstairs chattering like busy field mice.  I looked up, saw the dark of the closet ceiling, held tight to Trey’s neck.  His pants were down to his knees, and his cock jabbed towards me.  I spread myself, wanting him inside again, wanting to feel that thick, hard cock opening me the way it used to.  I reached for him, guided his cock into my wetness.  As always, the passage was easy, and I stifled my gasp as his cock reached its limit. I leaned against the closet door, my eyes closed.   I saw myself, tied up, laughing at Trey’s feather torture – and then Trey, tied up as I scraped my nails down his chest, down his thighs.  I felt the grave underneath us, the dank soil as we scrabbled madly against each other.  I saw the Crucifix, Christ agonizing in perpetuity, the velvet of the altar robes, heard the moaning of the priestly ritual.  All of it melted together, somehow, in kaleidoscopic colors  – so appropriate, so wonderful.  I tried not to yelp as we got there – Trey first, me shortly thereafter.  I could feel the warmth of his semen as it spurted inside of me, spilling, in its old delicious pattern, down the insides of my thighs.  I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t – 

“Trey? Kristen?”  It was Betty’s croaking voice, carrying down the church stairs, “What’s taking you so long?”  We zipped hurriedly, and Trey quietly unlocked the closet door, opening it slowly, stealthily.  “We couldn’t find the mop, Mrs. Peterson – but we have it now.”  “Oh good,” Betty answered, seemingly oblivious.  “And the Soilax?”  Trey looked around him, grabbed a box and a mop and yelled,  “Got it – it was just behind a bunch of other stuff.” “Okay,” Betty called, “Come on up and we’ll finish this off.”  Trey and I returned to the church proper, mop and Soilax in hand.  Together, we mopped the floors, sometimes exchanging jokes and college stories, sometimes just looking at each other and laughing.  When we finished, Trey grabbed my hand.  “Can I ask you out – while you’re here?”  I laughed, feeling the old blush creep from my tits to my face, “Of course.”  “I’ll call you.”  He smiled and followed his mother out, the church floor gleaming under his path. 

Mom and I walked out together.  “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”  She asked, stopping to zip one of her clunky, winter boots.  “No, “ I said, “Not bad at all.”  “And I’m so glad,” she gave me a sideways glance, “That you were able to talk to Trey again – I always thought he was such a nice young man.  I hope you’ll see him while you’re home.”

“Well, Mom,” I smiled, “Maybe I will.”



Tarotica Ch. 06



The Lovers

Love. Beauty. Perfection. Harmony. Letting oneself go. A person deeply involved in the emotions and problems of a friend or relative. -Tarot Classic, Stewart R. Kaplan

Union. Sharing . . . Sexual adjustment. The Lovers card often appears when you are faced with a crucial life decision and must choose which path to follow. It can herald a romantic adventure, often with a trial or a choice involved.  -Tarot: Plain and Simple, Anthony Louis

The Lovers card upright is about making choices in love and romance. With this card, there’s always the possibility of a new romance or a new direction for the heart . . .The Lovers card is all about learning the ways of the heart, attraction, and the desire for cooperation. -The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tarot and Fortune-Telling, Arlene Tognetti and Lisa Lenard

It was terribly, terribly hot. I could feel the sweat, unwelcome, uncomfortable, trickle down my armpits, around my breasts. I wanted to be inside somewhere, in front of the air-conditioning and yes, maybe even the television, indulging myself on this cooked Saturday. The heat rose in palpable waves from the black concrete, and the bus shelter, quite successfully, worked its greenhouse effect. I sighed, rubbed my forehead, pushed my wilted hair back – wilted or not, it felt incredibly heavy. It was on such a day as this, I thought, that I, desperate to be cool, cut my hair off – my curls went from swinging below my shoulders to a neat clip above my ears. The hairdresser was horrified – and terrified I would regret it. Against my wishes, she had cut it pert, curled around my neck – a modified Princess Diana kind of thing. I had to go to a man’s barber – who was equally as terrified, but much, much cheaper – to get the plain, tightly short ‘do I had originally requested. The hair had grown back, of course, and, since then, I hadn’t had the heart to repeat the episode. I sighed again, and glanced at my watch, sure the crystal must surely be boiling by now.

He was late, as usual. It was no wonder I thought of my hair, sitting there – it wasn’t only the heat. Last night, as we lay together, after a night of short but very satisfying love-making sessions, my hair had fallen in his face, into his mouth. He spat it out, disgusted, and muttered something about long hair – and something about a trim – and then he was snoring. It was a small thing, and perhaps I am (as I’ve been told) overly sensitive, but somehow, the satisfaction dissipated, a small wave of spite floating through the screen of the open window, into the humid night air. I shook my head. Such a thing shouldn’t matter. And the lateness? Should that matter? I didn’t want to meet him at the bus stop, knowing the forecast – I am a Minnesota girl, born and bred, and the moist heat of a mid-New Jersey day is sometimes a weight I can’t stand – but it was close to his job at the Golf Store (I could never remember its real name – but they did sell golf clubs – and golf gloves – and golf gadgets I could never, ever name nor recognize). He would have a break at noon, he said, and would love to catch me. Catch me? I pondered. Had he caught me? 

I saw him then, pounding up in his tight jeans and polo shirt – appropriately dressed for the Golf Store. “Hey girl – so sorry I’m late – got tied up with a customer.” He was a bit out of breath, but he was not sweating -- after all, he hadn’t been waiting in the glass heat of the bus stop – his blonde hair, as always, was trimmed and perfect, his blue eyes, deep, large, smiled at me. I felt the internal melting – the eyes always did that. I smiled, despite the heavy weight of my hair and the annoying, embarrassing trickle of my armpit sweat. “It’s okay, Michael – it wasn’t that long.” “Lord, it’s hot, isn’t it?” he responded, unnecessarily. “Great for golfing, though – man, are we busy.” “That’s good – do you have time for lunch?” Michael yawned and stretched his long arms. He shook his head. “I thought I would, honey – but the weather – it’s just so busy. I don’t think I can get away that long . .” I felt the unbearable heat flush from my fingernails to the roots of my wilted, heavy, now too long hair. “Michael,” I could feel the anger building from somewhere below my lungs, and I struggled to keep my voice in check, “Michael – why didn’t you call me to let me know?” Michael looked at me, hurt. “I couldn’t – it was so busy – and anyway, I thought you might like to see me – even for a few minutes -- I wanted to see you.” Of course, as always, the shame was instantaneous. He wanted to see me – it was so sweet – it was sweet, that was it – not thoughtless, not selfish. A part of me wanted to scream, You KNOW what this heat does to me – but that sounded so petty, so trivial, so petulant. Instead, I said, “Of course, sweetheart, I should have known – you better hurry and get back – I’m sure they’re missing you by now. Make sure you eat something, anyway.” Michael smiled, relieved – crisis past. “Don’t worry – Howie brought in a bunch of food, left over from his barbecue last night.” We kissed, briefly, and I tried not to rub my sweat-soaked body against his cucumber-cool skin. “I’ll call you tonight, Kristen, once things settle down – let’s do something, okay?” I nodded, and sat down to wait. The ten minute interval ‘til the next bus was heatedly interminable. 

I opened the door to my condo –small, unpretentious, but seaside – as the realtors say, location, location, location. Before the disappointing trip to the scorching bus stop, I had turned the central air on, and the cool of it hit me like a welcomed ocean wave. I sighed, felt the sweat dry, my skin no longer melting. I searched for Roxy D., my large white cat, named after my very best elementary friend, who had long ago disappeared into her own future. Her namesake, though, had disappeared only behind the futon – or the armchair – or the desk – or one of her many secret hiding places.  I envied her ability to disappear. If only each one of us could fold ourselves into a flesh and blood sandwich and hide under a table. 

I sighed, turned on the tv, and made a sandwich in the kitchenette. I took it to the futon, and ate as I watched reruns of The Twilight Zone. Rod Serling’s voice was nearly hypnotic. I dropped the empty plate to the floor, brushed off the runaway crumbs. I lay on my side, stuffed pillow under my heavy head, Rod Serling’s voice mixing, nicely, with the voices of old actors. The heat, the small effort it had taken to get to the bus stop – it caught up with me, somehow, and I felt myself drifting, almost deliciously – the ride was interrupted only by the weighty oomph of Roxy D, jumping up on my hip. I felt her knead my leg, then settle in the fetal curve of my stomach – her usual sleeping spot – and I fell asleep to the sound of her purr and the familiar rhythm of The Twilight Zone theme.

I was floating somewhere, it seemed, and the sky was a strange color – a goldish green, suggesting smoke, or heavy thunderclouds. I was in a boat – a small boat, like a rowboat, but it was somehow, mysteriously, self-propelled. There was no engine, no sail. I started awake and grabbed the sides. There was nothing – no land, no other boats – just gleaming water and the strange, ponderous clouds. I leaned over to taste it – cupped my hands, brought the water to my lips.

“Oh yes, you’ll find it’s quite salty – I suspect you don’t find that surprising.” I jumped back, looked back into the thick haze that engulfed the boat – yes, I did have company. Seated in the boat, facing me, was a small girl – no, she was a woman – with silvery white hair and golden eyes. She smiled. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” I was suddenly terrified – had I been drugged and kidnapped? Michael was always teasing me about the white slave trade – maybe – The little silver-haired woman laughed. “Oh sweetheart, it’s nothing like that. Although I’ve thought myself that being a captive – you know – a sex slave – wouldn’t be all bad.” There was something about the purr of her laugh, the glint of her golden eyes, the curve of her smile – that seemed somehow familiar. “Speaking of, by the way, you have a beautiful body.” I looked down and realized, to my shame, that I was naked. I gasped, tried to cover myself. I’m not naturally modest, but on a strange boat, in a strange ocean, with a strange woman – The woman laughed again. “Silly girl. You need not do that. Not here, not now.” She smiled, her teeth gleaming, her eyes the same golden color as the sky. “M and M?” She tossed one in her mouth and stretched out a closed fist. I accepted, my hand open, and she spilled small candies into my palm. They danced and shimmered there. I glanced down at the dancing chocolate, back up to my strange partner. “Oh they’re just fine to eat – just fine. Just wait” she cackled, “Til you eat the green ones. They’re the ones that make you horny!” I looked, once more, down at my palm. They were all green. She laughed again. “Go ahead – eat them!” I tossed them into my mouth, one by one – the chocolate was ambrosiac, the shimmering green covering sang against my teeth. I felt a wonderful warmth – one I’d not felt in years – crawl down the base of my spine, down towards my naked cunt and deep into my belly. I drew a deep breath. “Yes, they are quite nice, aren’t they? Try swimming now – do it – you’ll be – surprised.” I looked over the boat, doubtfully. There was no land, and we seemed so far out – but the candies had created an incredible itch, somewhere deep in the folds of my skin, and suddenly, somehow, the water seemed the only way to satisfy it. Clumsily, I started to crawl towards the side of the boat. “Not that way, dearie,” my companion said, tossing more M and M’s onto a golden tongue, “Dive into it – you gotta want it – otherwise, it just won’t work.” I stood up, but the boat remained quite steady. I dove headfirst into the strange waves, immersed suddenly in warm, watery silk. I surfaced, though I didn’t feel air-hungry. My companion was now lying back in the boat, her feet hoisted on the other seat, singing and popping the chocolate candy. She looked my way with just a faint hint of surprise. “You didn’t stay down very long. Go ahead – go down again – open your eyes – stay as long as you want – and then tell me what you see.” 

I dove once more into the odd depths. I let myself go – deeper, deeper. There was no need for air here, it seemed. I opened my eyes, and the silk of the water pressed on them, a strange sensation at first. In front of me was a sort of tunnel, twisting, serpentine, in the watery depths. I entered it, entirely unafraid. I half swam, half walked through its twisting corridor. There were round rooms off the tunnel, and each one was occupied – there were people, and sometimes mermaids, and they were doing – things. Sexual things. In the first room, a youngish man was licking the salty breasts of an oldish mermaid. She was laughing, delighted, and they both looked up at me and waved. I waved back and continued – the next room held a cat and kittens – sea kittens? -- and a woman who seemed to be talking to a young child, gesticulating between the nursing kittens and the woman’s own bare breasts. They were too absorbed to notice me. In the next room, a man and a woman – no mermaids, no sea-kittens – were fucking, he slamming into her with sheer beastly delight. She was screaming happily and, as I passed, he came, yelling into the thick of the water. She jumped up, pinched his cock, and then poured them both some bubbling liquid, kept in a jug next to the bed they were on. I had stopped here, and both of them, laughing, waved quite happily, then lay back on the bed, clearly sated, clearly content. 

It continued. Watching the scene in one round room, I gasped as a man whipped a dark-haired woman as she lay chained in barnacle-encrusted stocks. This was different, I thought – this was wrong – until he released the stock, helped her up, and they both turned their heads up, laughing. I could see her bare ass, streaked with red and aching. She rubbed it briefly, then playfully slapped his shoulder. He was a merman, capable of sudden, swimming motions. He grabbed her then, swimming capably around her furtive and useless attempts to escape. He threw her down on the floor of the round room, and fucked her with his formidable merman member. I was enchanted by this scene, and tore myself away to continue. In the next room, a number of men – mer-men and human-like men – were pleasuring a young, dark-haired woman who was writhing in ecstasy and delight. Two were at each breast, one was at her clit, one was at her belly, yet another tickled her ears, and another ran leisurely fingers up and down her thighs, occasionally teasing her with a finger-bang, then laughing and starting again. In the next alcove, the situation was reversed – a young, fair-haired man, blindfolded, lay on a small bed while mermaids and women tormented him. He laughed as they stroked his hair, whispered in his ears, grabbed his throbbing cock and poked anxious fingers into his asshole. He writhed, wanting it all, not quite getting enough. In several alcoves, there were animals fucking – cats, dogs, pigs – and in one, a woman astride an incredible seahorse, orgasming with the animal’s fabulous undulating movements. 

The corridor narrowed. There was one alcove left, in front of me. The itch had only increased – the water had not helped, and the scenes had only intensified the distant wanting. Inside this last alcove, the dead end, the final room in the tunnel, a woman lay on her back, pleasuring herself. She was rubbing her fingers on her clit, banging them in and out, lightly teasing her thighs with her own light, fingernails. She was gasping, wanting it, holding out. She brought her fingers to her lips, her head rose to meet the taste. I gasped, pleased, surprised, horrified – she was me. She opened her arms, and I found I could physically enter this last sex-space. She held me in her embrace, and I could feel myself dissolving into her/my skin. I was pumping against her, against myself, and I thought – perhaps, oh please – the mighty candy itch was going to – finally – satisfy – I threw my head back, into the rush of the silken water. I was pumping, against the woman, against myself, against the strange water, coming, my liquid joining this fabulous, sensuous warmth.  I could hear, somewhere, my strange companion from the boat – I could recognize her voice. “It’s all there for you, Kristen – you just have to dive in. You can have it all – don’t limit -- Don’t forget – remember yourself – remember –“ Suddenly, the woman’s voice turned strange – no longer a woman’s voice, it was the insistent talk of Roxy D, meowing and rumbling against the rocking of my legs on the futon. 

I opened my eyes. Roxy D. was protesting my movements – rudely, they had disturbed her deep, catly slumber. She was on my chest, her golden eyes staring intently into mine. My fingers were on my clit, and I was breathing deeply. I could still feel my cunt contracting. It had been months – no years – since I had orgasmed this way, in my sleep, unbidden. I reached out to pet Roxy D., trying to apologize. I rubbed her face and neck, and she closed her golden eyes and purred. Golden eyes – a purring voice – silver hair – I stared suspiciously at the fat feline, but she wasn’t talking. Instead, she jumped off my chest, wrapped herself around an endtable, and headed off to her bowl of food. As she moved – weren’t cats supposed to be graceful? -- she knocked off a glass dish, gotten from some long forgotten flea market. It fell to the floor, spilling its cargo – a bowlful of green M and M’s. I watched, bemused. I never bought candy. Still, I picked them up, carefully, trying to make sure each was clean before I returned them to their unexpected berth. One never knew when the urge -- 

When I rose and headed for the shower, I was surprised to feel a string of wetness, exploring my inner thighs. It had been months – years – since – well, since this kind of feeling. As I showered, the phone rang. It would be Michael, I knew. I smiled, touched my clit, lifted my face to the welcoming spray, and ignored the persistent, ignorant phone.



Tarotica Ch. 07



The Chariot

The Chariot suggests a need to say centered and take control of competing forces to carry on . . Your strategy should be to move forward with determination and a clear sense of purpose . . . The Chariot can literally mean travel, buying a car, or treating yourself to a new means of transport - Tarot, Plain and Simple.  Anthony Louis

In this card, a prince rides in a chariot under a starry canopy, carrying his wand of will and authority . . .notice there are no reins: his control comes from his stamina and focus on the goal at hand.  - The Complete Idiot's Guide to Tarot and Fortune-Telling.  Arlene Tognetti and Lisa Lenard


My husband teases me, continually, about my fondness for text.  In the morning, if I wake before he does, I am - in an early a.m. instant - on the Internet, checking news headlines.  If he does wake first, he orders me to drink my first cup of coffee before I run for the daily newspaper.  When he leaves me alone in the car - even during quick convenience store stops, for coffee or cigarettes - he often returns to find me craning my neck,  poking around the back seat, looking for some reading material accidentally left behind.  This textual urge, he says, is driven by my need for constant stimulation.

It is true enough, I suppose.   I grew up on a pig farm in the upper Midwest.  I learned to read - to this day, no one in my family really knows how - at a young age, before attending kindergarten.  By the age of 10, I was a lonely, homely girl - a girl with thick glasses and wild curly hair  --  when visiting neighbors, I would bring a book and read it as I walked down our road.  Or I would sit on our pump house, reading and re-reading my favorite book of fairy tales.   Perhaps I need stimulation now because I grew up with so little - only words and later, sex.

Anyway, a few months ago, I found myself - along with legions of other Americans - out of work.  Having worked in the ill-fated telecommunications industry, I should have seen it coming - but I didn't.  Suddenly, the solidity of our lives was swayed.  We were without insurance and without income.  I am not the kind of person who is sanguine in the face of adversity - I cried, I wailed, I had a stress-induced seizure - until finally Rick and I had a long talk.  We talked about money, we talked about stress, we talked about bills and the mortgage.  We exhausted ourselves, and we limped to bed that night, balloons with no air.   We agreed that it was now time to take turns - Rick would work, I would stay home and collect unemployment.  The time, Rick said, would give me time not only to recuperate, but to write - "You've always wanted it - time to write," he said - and it was true.   

After a few weeks of feeling lost and displaced, I did it - I started to write.  The works I had long ago conceived, the short stories and poetry for which I never had time - they began to flow, part of a creative river, formed within this new emotional freedom.  I read, too - voraciously - the way I used to read when I was younger, the way I had wanted to read - and hadn't been able to - for a very long time.  I formed a rigid schedule - after Rick left, a brisk walk in the morning.  Then, the newspaper and breakfast - always the same - peanut butter toast and orange juice.  Then, from 9:00 to 12:00, three hours of writing.  A break for lunch - an hour - and then I would tackle the reading list I had created.  Within two months, I was halfway through the list.  After my assigned reading, I made dinner, and Rick and I would sit and talk.  Or, at least, Rick would talk.  When I was in graduate school, I sometimes found that, if I spent hours of study in the library, I was unable to communicate with other people - including Rick - for the rest of the day. Pieces of my scattered brain remained in the stacks, in the dusty journals, and I found it hard to focus on conversation or physical reality.  Now, I found, the same thing was beginning to happen.  And Rick discovered it, too.  

One night we sat down for dinner.  Rick was telling me about his day, about his schedule, about a cranky client.  My head was still buzzing with my daily text, and I nodded, distracted.  Suddenly, Rick's fork clattered an irritated clang on his plate.  "Hello?" he said, clearly annoyed, "Kristin?  Do you remember me?"  I looked up, surprised - what had I done? "Rick - what's wrong?  What do you mean?" Rick sighed and threw his napkin over his half-eaten dinner.  "For the past few weeks, I haven't been able to reach you - you've been somewhere else, somewhere I can't go.  I see you making the motions - you make coffee in the morning, dinner in the evening, and sometimes, you make love with me at night. But you're just not there." 

I hung my head, abashed.  I knew it was true.  "I'm sorry, Rick - I guess - maybe I've been spending too much time alone - not that I'm complaining, you know."  Rick sighed, stood, and began to scrape his plate into the garbage disposal.  He spoke again, his back still toward me.  "Listen, Kristen - I want to do something this weekend - I want to go to a club - in the City - and I want you to agree to it, and, when you're there, to do what I ask you to do - no questions asked."  He turned towards me.  "You need to loosen up - you are so hard on yourself - it's good to be self-disciplined - but you have to let go - you have to remember how to feel - how it feels to be transported by some physical emotion - whether that's sex, or food, or whatever - but you've got to get out of your mind."  

For so many reasons, there was no choice but to agree to his conditions.  Rick smiled.  "Kristen - believe me," he said, "I know you - you won't regret it."    

That weekend, Rick and I took the ferry into New York City.  One of the reasons we had originally moved to this small port town in New Jersey was access; on Saturday evening, we walked two blocks from our house, boarded the ferry, and, within an hour, arrived at The City.  Rick hailed a cab.  The City swarmed around me - the vertical vastness of the surrounding skyscrapers always overwhelms my Midwestern mind.  Rick was from the City, and knew his way around.  With blind faith, I followed him into the taxi.  Rick had chosen my outfit - it was part of our bargain.  I was dressed in black lace, a dress that clung to my figure and continually crept up my thighs.  It was mesh and see-through, but underneath I wore a black lace bra and a short black slip.  No hose, only low-heeled black slingbacks.  

At Rick's command, the cabbie stopped, and I crawled out of the back seat, pulling the creeping dress down and trying not to trip on the uneven sidewalk. Rick paid the cabbie, who responded with gruff gratitude and a squeal of his wheels.  "Well, Kristin, we're here - get ready."  I looked around, but saw nothing - nothing in evidence - only a diner and a lingerie store.  "This way," he said, and took my hand.  We walked only a few blocks, then descended - underground - to a dingy basement, rocking with club music.  Rick bought a ticket from a gray-bearded man behind a cage - he was dressed in leather, but his beard, long hair, and paunch made him look only Santa Claus-tough.  "Have a good time," he said, and nodded towards a corridor.  I followed Rick, apprehensive but excited.  "Have you been here before?" I whispered. "Are you kidding?" he asked, and I could tell he was nervous, too.  "I read about it - heard about it when I was a kid - but this is my first time, too."  As we walked through the hallway, I noticed a man in front of his - he was naked and enthusiastically rubbing his cock.  I followed his gaze - he was watching a porn video, its glow lightly illuminating the dark hallway.  "Well," I whispered to Rick, and both of us laughed.  We continued, through the next doorway, and entered a large room, furnished with tables and a bar.  Around us, there was sex.  I don't mean people having sex - at least, not proper intercourse.  I mean men, naked or half naked, or sometimes not naked at all, masturbating - and a few women watching them, sometimes laughing, sometimes egging them on -- beautiful male transvestites walking around in stiletto heels and skirts shorter than mine.  The porn movies - the televisions - were ubiquitous.  I stopped to watch one; a woman was tied up, face down, her legs spread.  By turns, a man was fucking and whipping her.  I turned - on another screen, a scantily-clad woman was held captive in a cage, and two men were taunting her.  I noticed, in the front of the room, a cross outfitted with cuffs - both for hands and feet.  "Rick," I breathed, and I could feel the old tingle and the new wetness of my cunt.  "This is a BDSM club."  Rick nodded, "Yes - I was afraid, if I told you, you wouldn't want to come." He smiled, "But don't worry - I didn't bring the whips and chains.  That's for next time.  Here, have a seat."

I sat down at the table Rick indicated, and watched.  Rick fetched two drinks from the bar.  During his absence, a few of the masturbating men walked by me - some stared so intently I wanted to run - some smiled - some masturbated more fiercely.  One walked by and whispered, "You're lovely.  May I rub your feet?"  Nervously, I shook my head; I was grateful for Rick's return.  "What do you think?"  Rick asked.  I took a gulp of club soda. "This is fascinating - I wonder why so many men?  I see hardly any couples."  Rick shrugged.  "From what I read on the Internet, there are different crowds for different nights - I guess we hit the masturbating men night.  But remember, Sweetie - you can't take offense - they, after all, come here for license to be perverts."  I chuckled - there were a few men who had stopped near us, their cocks out, their hands working feverishly.  "Now, Kristin," Rick leaned over and whispered in my ear.  The slight flow of his breath tickled my ear and I shuddered, "Go to the bathroom and take off that dress.  Come back in only your bra and slip."  I looked at him, saw his expression, and knew he meant it.  I took another sip and, remembering my bargain, walked to the bathroom.  When I returned, most of the men were gone.  "Where's our company?" I asked, smiling - perhaps it was the atmosphere, perhaps it was the pervert-license, but I did not feel awkward, dressed only in my slip and bra.  I sat down.  "Now that you're back, they'll return."  And return they did.  One sat down at our table - he did not speak, nor introduce himself, just sat and watched.  Rick leaned over and kissed me - a long kiss, a French kiss, and, languidly, I sucked his tongue.  His hand dropped to my breast, and I felt his hands - they were hot and a little shaky - push under my bra and tease my nipples.  The crowd of men increased.  "Get up and dance for me," Rick whispered in my ear, and pointed to a dancer's pole behind our table.  "In front of these guys?" I asked, my heart beating faster than the rhythm of the dance music.  "Yes," he whispered back, "Don't worry, I'll protect you."  

I got up and walked to the pole.  I began to sway, moving my hips - I was a high school drummer, and have been told I have a fantastic sense of rhythm.  Rick often tells me, when I dance for him in private, that I should have been a stripper.  I ground against the pole, keeping my eyes on Rick, trying not to watch the crowd of men - all with their hands below their waists - who were now nearly crushing.  Rick got up and pushed the throng back.  "Not so close," he said and then, to me, "Take your clothes off - strip for me."  I hesitated, still mindful of the men, their hands - the incredible number of hard cocks - "Do it." Rick said, and I began to strip - I danced, feeling the sway of the music and the beat of the men breathing - and I did it right, allowing my bra strap to drop, then replacing it, pulling down my slip, then teasingly pulling it back up.  And, as I did so, I could feel a certain tension easing - in my body, yes, but also somewhere in the gray matter of my mind.  I threw my head back, laughed, and finally kicked the bra, the slip, into the crowd of men.  I knew I would not get them back - I saw one man deeply inhaling the scent of my slip - but I didn't care.  They were cheap, and I could get others.  

When the song was done and the strip was over, Rick helped me back to our table.  The men continued to press, and Rick continued to beat them back.  I heard whispers - "She's beautiful," - "You're lovely"  -- "Can I touch?"  And, again, someone asked to rub my feet.  Rick refused them all, and we both sat, eagerly drinking the club soda.  The crowd diminished, but did not dissipate.  "Come here, Kristin," Rick said, and I walked over to him - I was now dressed only in my low heels.  "Sit on my lap."  I did so, and was forced to face the crush of men.  There was a certain ridiculousness about the scene - so many men, so desperate, it seemed, their eyes intermittently watching me and the ever-active television screens.  "Masturbate." Rick said. "What?" I asked.  "Remember your promise - masturbate."  I leaned back in Rick's lap.  I could feel the soft of his stomach and the hard of his erect cock, and wondered how long it had been since I had actually noticed that - this contrast of hard and soft - and how long it had been since I'd noticed the feel of his skin, the way it felt under my touch.   I sighed, leaned into Rick's chest, and closed my eyes.  With one hand, I spread the hood of my clit - I rubbed myself, lightly at first, and I gasped a little.  I heard Rick's breathing, loud, almost labored.  I could feel his cock tighten and grow larger.  There was a certain power in this - in feeling Rick's excitement and knowing, though not seeing, the crowd of men who watched and waited.  I tickled my thighs - I was slow, languid - because it felt good, yes, but also to prolong the show.  My hands crept slowly to my breasts, circling my hardening nipples.  I touched my clit again, then spread my lips and thrust one finger in, just a little.  Rick's breathing grew louder.    I used the wetness I'd found to rub my clit, just the way I like it, first soft, then increasing the pressure - as the pressure increased, my breathing, too, became labored.  I was floating, almost, transported by the sex-atmosphere, the primitive beat of the music, my husband behind me, the dozen - more  -- men in front of me.  The old tingle came back - the one that starts at the toes, spreads upwards through the thighs and then, finally, explodes somewhere around the spine.  I came, convulsing in Rick's lap and gasping in the dead, close, club air.  I opened my eyes.  

The men were still there - some were still masturbating, a few were holding napkins, into which they were coming.  Some were cleaning up.  I threw back my head and laughed - one man was trying to walk away from the table, his pants still down around his ankles.  I felt flushed, excited - and a tremendous sense of relief.  Rick stood and, facing the crowd, said, "Okay - show's over gentlemen - now you can go away."  They dissipated then, some satisfied, some disappointed. "Well, young lady, how do you feel?" Rick asked, as he took his place at the table.  I laughed again.  "Strange - but - almost liberated somehow - that was weird, but it was also kind of powerful." Rick smiled.  "Transported?"  I took a sip of my soda and nodded - "Yes - kind of - transported."  "When we return to life, Kristin," Rick said, "Remember this - you don't have to let go of this feeling of transport, of release - remember the need for balance."  Rick leaned over and gently kissed my forehead.  I rubbed his hard cock through his dress pants.  "Remember - you won't fall off.  You don't have to hold so tightly to the reins."  I nodded, sipping thoughtfully.  "Hey Rick . . ." I said.  "Yes, Kristin?"  I smiled at him over my drink.  "Did you mean what you said about next time - about the whips and chains?"  Rick laughed, a real laugh, his head thrown back, his belly shaking.  He glanced at me and, still chuckling, answered, "Oh, yes doll - you know I did."  

9



Tarotica Ch. 08



Strength

Self-confidence. Inner strength. Patience. Wisdom. Faith in your own abilities. You will need to rely on inner strength, patience, and gentleness to solve your problems. You can channel your animal passions constructively to achieve good health and success. – Tarot: Plain and Simple. Anthony Louis

This card symbolizes strength. Courage. Fortitude. Attainment at considerable peril. Heroism. Tireless efforts. Triumph of love over hate. Liberation. – Tarot Classic. Stuart R. Kaplan

It was December. I scheduled a trip home – ludicrous, really, to schedule a return to Minnesota in the depths of bitter winter, but, on a romantic whim, I decided that I wanted to be home for Christmas. I hadn’t been home for four years, and I could tell by the hesitant twinge in my mother’s voice, by my father’s unusual eagerness to speak with me, that phone calls were no longer enough. They were getting older, and perhaps it was time to face my own filial demons. I was going alone– it would be just me, my family, and the blue bitterness of a Minnesota winter. 

I slept on the plane – I do not like flying – don’t even really believe in flying. I always feel as if there’s some sort of mistake – that there’s no way anyone can possibly be winging along at an altitude of 30,000 feet – it seems an illusion, and I almost prefer to think of it that way. At 10:30 in the morning, after I boarded the plane, I asked for wine. The flight attendant looked at me, his eyes expressing only mild surprise, than went up front to fetch the small bottle – he wasn’t yet carrying alcohol in his wheeled cart. The wine, I knew, would make me drowsy – that, and the Valerian root I’d purchased before the trip. I took the herb with the wine, than watched the clouds. I do not like to think I’m actually in the sky, but, perversely, I prefer a window seat. I felt the comfortable, slow buzz of the wine and the valerian. I reclined in my seat and was soon dozing. I woke, occasionally, to the sound of my seatmate, shuffling papers, or the flight attendants talking on their way through the aisle. The flight was only two hours. I had wanted to sleep through the entire journey – and I did. 

I woke to the urgent movements of my seatmate – he was packing his papers in his leather briefcase, buckling his seatbelt, tucking his magazine into the pocket in front of him. We were preparing for landing. I was told, once, by a young pilot that landing a plane is much more dangerous than lifting off – it doesn’t matter – emotions belie reason, and I am always happy to know that soon I will be on the ground – for real. Happily, I repositioned my seat and buckled my seatbelt. 

Before we disembarked, the pilot made a joke about the weather – apparently, the wind chill was 80 below – not uncommon during a Minnesota December. I shuddered a little, remembering that particular cold – the kind that bites, that numbs your thighs til they hurt. Still, there was no turning back, so I moved ahead, part of the polite jostle as my fellow passengers grabbed their suitcases, their jackets, their laptops, and made their way to the door. We walked through the connecting corridor, and the only hint at the violent cold was one quick updraft as we walked through the jet’s door. Then, the airport and warmth. 

I don’t know what I was expecting – my mother had not been clear on who would meet me in St. Paul. Neither she nor Dad dared brave the traffic, such as it was, and my siblings, by and large, were busy working or watching their own children.   At any rate, I thought perhaps I would see a brother, or perhaps my uncle. Instead, I saw my cousin Ron, his dimpled smile greeting me as I walked through the gate. I’d not seen Ron since we were both in high school, and I felt my heart leap – we had never been kissing cousins – had certainly never kissed – but we had been good friends, had dated in the same circles – and had both, at one time, acknowledged a certain mutual sexual tension upon which we never dared act. I smiled, laughed, and threw myself into his arms. “Well, Krissy,” he said, his voice slow and lazy, not quite a drawl, “I didn’t expect that.” I laughed again and took him by the arm as we walked towards the baggage claim. “Ron – what on earth did you expect? I haven’t seen you in years – you look great – it’s just great to see you.” In truth, Ron did look good. His blonde hair was thinning, but his blue eyes still sparkled. He was trim – no trace of a paunch – and the years had added only wrinkles caused by his ever-present smile. “Well, Krissy,” he chuckled, “I can’t tell you how good you look.” Then, embarrassed, he turned toward the carousel as we waited for my luggage. Silence ensued, the moment felt awkward. “How ya been?” Ron asked. “Well – very well – and you? How are you?” Ron glanced at me; he was nervous, it seemed, or maybe uncertain. It had, after all, been years since we’d seen each other. “I’m doing good – doing good. Got a job in Pineland, you know – I’m working for a bank there.” “That’s great, Ron – that’s just fantastic.” In truth, it was better than I’d expected. From an early age, Ron was one of those who – well – to use a clichéd phrase, never seemed to live up to his potential. The last I’d heard, he was working at the local Hardee’s. The bank, indeed, was a step up.

I nodded toward my black bag, riding closer on the carousel. I reached for it, and Ron slapped my hand, “Stop that – I’m here – I’ll get your bag.” I smiled to myself – one of the things I’d always admired about Ron was this romantic layer – though son of a small-town farmer, he still, somewhere, fancied himself a gentleman. And he was. We walked through the airport, then out to his waiting car. The cold hit me and I gasped. It had been four years since I’d felt cold like this, this knife-sharp, merciless cold -- this unforgiving wall shocked my skin, my lungs, and I had to stop to take a deep breath. Ron paused, concerned. “You okay?” he asked, and gripped my arm. “Oh yeah,” I responded, “It’s just – I’d forgotten – the cold.” Ron let go of my arm and laughed, “Move out east and you get soft – can’t take it anymore, huh?” “Hey – this is a nice car,” I said – another surprise. The last time I’d rode anywhere with Ron, it was in a LeCar – a tiny thing he’d eventually totaled while dodging an errant deer. The current car was blue, boxy – generic new, but Ron smiled at the compliment. “Thanks – it was Dad’s. He bought a new one, and, for some reason, decided that I should have this one.” Ron started the car. The heat slowly began to creep from the vents. I drew another deep breath, this time in relief, as my body began, torturously, to unthaw. 

My home-town is about two hours from the airport. I looked out the car window and watched the city-scape change into the endless, snow-covered flat of the upper Midwestern plains. It was desolate, almost a moonscape. Ron began to talk, then – he told me about his newest girlfriend, his problems with his mother, his difficulty in getting his current job – after 30 minutes, during which time I spoke only to respond to Ron’s comments, he paused, looked at me, and reached out to touch my thigh. “You know – Krissy – you’re the only one I’ve been able to talk to like this – I forgot how much I missed it.” He glanced back out the windshield, and chuckled. “I almost felt as if we were in high school again.” I smiled, too, and, just for a minute, felt that old – tension – exacerbated, I suppose, my time, distance, and taboo – Ron was, of course, my first cousin. I turned back to the window and watched the unchanging land. Suddenly, the car started to sputter and buck. I started and looked back at Ron. His brow was furrowed. He pressed the accelerator. The car lurched forward, then stopped. Died. Quite literally in the middle of nowhere, in the midst of a Minnesota winter, on my long-delayed journey home. I was tired, and I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. “Do you know what’s wrong?” Ron shook his head. “Nope – it’s never done this before.” He turned the key. The engine coughed asthmatically, then again stilled. Again, he turned the key. The sound was, if anything, more anemic this time. “Damn it – God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up – and it’s so damned cold.” Ron leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel. His eyes were closed, his quiet desperation tangible. 

Ron shook his head, sat up. “Listen, Kristin, I gotta go move the car out of the road, in case anyone comes. Stay here.” “Ron,” I shouted, as he opened the door, “Yeah?” “Do you have an emergency kit in your trunk – blankets, candles?” “You know I do – hold on.” In the brief time the door had been open, the cold was fighting its way in, trying to fill the spaces. I huddled and waited. Ron returned with a blanket, and I wrapped it around my legs, waiting, a passive, helpless rider as he pushed the car onto the side of the road.

He returned, clapping his gloved hands and slapping his arms. “God, it’s dark out there,” he said, “I guess we’re just miles away from anyone.” I smiled, choking back panic and the countless stories I’d heard – people stranded, frozen – dying alone in this bitter, bitter cold. “Well, we’re just going to have to wait, then.” I said, my voice cracking with plastic cheer, “Here – you have to get under the blanket, too.” I tried to share, tried to extend the red flannel over the stick shift and the console. “I’m afraid,” I said, “That, if we’re both going to benefit from this blanket, we’re going to have to slip into the backseat.” Ron laughed, a surprisingly genuine laugh. “Krissy – after all these years – are you coming on to me?” I laughed too. “Maybe – depends on how long we have to stay here.”

Awkwardly, we climbed into the backseat; we didn’t want to open the doors, didn’t want to let loose the vital and quickly disappearing heat of the car. We huddled together, and for a moment, there was silence. “This is like football season – remember?” Ron asked, and again, his cheer was genuine. “Late in the season – when it got so cold – and we’d bring blankets to share?” I laughed, remembering the brisk Midwestern air, the smell of fallen leaves, the excitement of huddled teenage bodies bustling with eager hormones. “I remember –“ I said, “God – what went on inside those blankets.” I moved closer to Ron – the heat was dissipating. He put his arm around me and I leaned against him. I heard his breathing, and wondered if he was recovering from his labors, or whether his labored breathing was a result of being close to me. The thought was – well – thrilling, and I pressed my face into his chest. He lay his head on my hair, and I could hear him, breathing in the smell of it. Then, his hands were on my head, then on my cheek. “Krissy – I gotta tell you –“ he said, his voice just a whisper, “I know it was hard for you – growing up – I always admired your strength. I could never have – well, I could never have done what you did – leave – I don’t think I could survive anywhere else.” I smiled against his chest. “Sure you would have – come out and see me sometime – I’ll show you.” “Krissy – do you remember . .?” I heard his heartbeat, a louder thump against his chest, and felt him sigh, “Do you remember that night at the QuickCheck – we stopped there before I took you home – and we both said . .” “Yes, Ron, I remember,” I said, “We both said – no – we hinted at – well –“ I could feel his smile on my hair, “Yeah – and then we stopped. But you know – it’s been four years, Krissy, and I still feel that way.” His hand brushed my cheek, then his fingers touched my lips. I was surprised at my reaction. I did not pull away, or take his hand from my face. Instead, I kissed his fingertips, remembering that day – it was autumn, that season always so pregnant with the possibilities of a new school year. And now there was a possibility we might die here, and that all other possibilities might be ended. “You were such a great friend. I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and I could feel my own breathing deepen, my own heartbeat increase. 

I grabbed his hand and looked up at him. I could see his blue eyes, his cheekbones, only dimly. “Did you ever read The Hotel New Hampshire?” I asked. Ron laughed, a belly laugh. “No – I think maybe I saw the movie – a long, long time ago.” “There’s a scene in the book – I don’t know if they kept it in the movie – a brother and sister have these feelings for one another – they want to fuck – but of course they can’t, they’re brother and sister,” as I talked, I moved my hand under his coat, rubbed his chest through his flannel shirt. “Uh huh,” Ron muttered, “So – what happens?” “Well,” I said, “They rent a room together – as I recall – and they fuck until they’re sated – until it’s out of their system.” Ron turned to me and unzipped my jacket. I thought about the cold – but hadn’t I read somewhere that skin against skin was warmer than layers of clothing? I could feel Ron’s hands moving up my shirt, up to my breasts. I sighed, leaned against the seat as he pinched one nipple, then the next. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” Ron said, and his voice marked by his trademark lazy sardonic drawl, “I’m not sure whether I should want to be your brother – or not. But the fucking part – the sated part – I like that.”  He leaned forward and kissed me. I felt a slight electric surge of panic – this was my cousin, this was Ron, and then another electric surge took over, and I leaned into his lips, opening my mouth to his tongue, then biting his lips, gently, with my teeth. I felt the weight of his body, and then he was upon me, and we were prone. With a desparation frustrated by years, we clawed at the layers of clothing that separated us. 

Ron stopped my hand. “We’ve gotta be sensible about this – it’s so damned cold – and we can’t be here, naked. God, what would people think then?” My hand traveled to the bulk in his pants – it was large, larger than I’d anticipated, larger than I’d imagined. “Ron – don’t take your pants off. Here, just let me unzip them.” His cock sprang from his denims, eager and utterly uncaring about the weather or first cousin taboos. “I think I can keep you warm,” I said, and leaned forward. I took his cock in my mouth, felt it press first against the roof of my mouth, then my tonsils. He tasted clean – like fertile cornfields and wet summer days. I sucked him, spiraling my tongue around his shaft, stopping to suck harder at the tip. I ran my tongue down his length, and reached into his jeans to grab his balls. “Oh God Kristin – oh yes – oh god – do you know how long I’ve wanted you – admired you – oh, god – oh don’t stop.” I pumped his shaft with one hand while I sucked, and cupped his balls with the other. They were cold, but in my hand they began to warm, first one, then the other. His cock, too, felt hot in my mouth. I wanted to rip down his jeans, to run my tongue up his lean thighs – but the cold, the damned cold. I felt his hands in my hair, gripping, and it only increased my excitement. “God you’re good at that – where on earth did you learn. . “ I heard him stutter, and then his voice eased off into a groan. I felt his cock thicken, harder, inside my mouth, and I heard myself gasp, my breath escaping around his thickened shaft. I continued to pump, continued to suck, continued to feel the welcoming pressure against my throat as he pumped, groaning, fucking my mouth. I heard a deep intake of breath, a whispered “Fuck –“ and he was shooting into my mouth, shooting in great big first-cousin streams, and I took it, gulping, wanting the warm salty liquid that now ran down my throat. 

Ron leaned against the back seat, his pants undone. His eyes were closed, his hair askew, his cheeks red. “You know,” he laughed, “We probably shouldn’t have done that – but you know I don’t even feel cold right now?” “Good,” I said, “I probably just saved your life.” Ron wiped at himself with the blanket, “You know, Krissy – you probably did.” Just then, a mellow light filled the car, moving slowly, sluggishly. “Ron,” I said, “That’s a car – someone’s coming.” Ron clambered out the back seat, his jeans still undone. “Ron,” I yelled, “Your zipper.” Ron looked down, zipped his soggy pants, then ran, his footsteps crunching – merrily, it seemed – the snowcrust.

Later, we rode in the backseat of the rescuing car, and our very own Good Samaritan sang Christmas tunes as he drove, keeping time with the radio. Ron kept glancing at me, then turning away, blushing. Finally, he leaned over and whispered, “God – you are something else, you know—thank you.” I smiled and tapped his tightly-denimed thigh, secretly smug – I knew, now, what was stored there. “Now when,” he continued, “Do I get to save your life?” “That,” I smiled, “is for the next time you get us stranded.” Ron leaned back and smiled, “Then,” he said, “I can’t wait.”



Tarotica Ch. 09



The Hermit

Contemplation. Meditation. Becoming centered. The need for psychological space. Self-discovery. Now is a time to withdraw voluntarily from the world to seek truth in solitude. You must reunite with the Source. You need to rest and think silently about your situation. -- Tarot, Plain and Simiple. Anthony Louis.

Counsel. Knowledge. Solicitude. Tendency to withhold emotion. Fearful of discovery. Failure to face facts. Tendency to complacently dwell within this wealth of knowledge as something worthwhile without seeking to utilize the information towards some goal or application. – Tarot Classic. Stuart R. Kaplan

Dimly but distinctly I could taste the tang of autumn in the late summer air. The cicadas, lazily, slowly, sang their late-season song. I sighed and pushed back the heavy covers, so welcome during the cool night before. Naked, I sipped my coffee and idly played with myself, my free hand running lightly up my thigh to my cunt, up to my clit. Lazily, I toyed with it, lightly fingered myself, then took another sip of coffee. The masturbation was more an act of remembrance – it was here, in this small Minnesota resort, that I was first kissed – it was here I first felt the blurred, confused excitement of teenage summer flirtation. 

Why had I returned? I trailed a light finger down my breast and tried to answer this question, phrased so solidly, so unavoidably, in the midst of my morning consciousness. I shook my head, drew my knees up. I was now 36 – no longer a child, no longer a teenager, no longer, even, a young adult. The memories were still vivid – I had rented the cabin my family used to rent, when we returned every year. Everyone saved up – saved up financially, but also emotionally, also mentally -- for this one week of bliss. The night before we left, my sisters and I would stay awake all night, excited, whispering. It was only a tiny resort, overstuffed with too many cabins and too many campers, located on a small, dirty lake. For us, though, it was a week’s escape to paradise. 

I stretched my legs and rose. I donned a long denim shirt and inhaled deeply. The cabin smelled the same – that fantastic vacation smell of hard water, old sheets, and dirty fish. Next door, a fellow camper was grilling bacon. I smiled. It was, in so many ways, the smell of innocence – and also, somehow, the smell of awakening. I walked to the screen porch, inhaling more deeply the combined smell of my own coffee, my neighbor’s breakfast, and the lake-smell itself. The porch held two large double beds. When I was young, I would sleep in one, my sisters in the other. There was, of course, no air-conditioning – just the wonderful light breeze blowing in, carrying the smell of stale beer and pizza from the tavern, campfires from those around us. I could not remember it ever being too hot – or, for that matter, too cold. Somehow, the lake was always perfect, always comfortable. 

This was the first time I had come to the lake myself – on my own – the first time I’d stayed in the cabin by myself. My parents no longer came to the resort – it had become, they said, too crowded, and the lake was now cut off from view. In truth, the resort was not a pretty place – it was, though, a party place, where families played cards and drank too much beer. I remembered my mother and fathern chairs, outside the cabin, drinking beer, eating candy bars – smiling – perhaps the only time I saw them happy for an entire week at a time. In fact, this was the first time I was back in the state – back in the Land of 10,000 Lakes – without telling my family. It was absurd, selfish, immature – but I didn’t want anyone to know I had returned, wanted to savor this experience myself – by myself. 

I had just finished a Ph.D. program – had endured the whole, hideous thing, classes, candidacy, comprehensives, foreign language exams – and finally, the last nail in the proverbial coffin, the dissertation defense. Through it all – through the torturous work, the abusive professors, the demeaning assistantships – I worked, determined to finish. I live my life in a whirlwind, and this was no different – I finished the entire program within three years. Then, my very own wake-up call – are they still called “breakdowns”? Anyway, that’s when Eddie – my boyfriend at the time, and then boyfriend no longer – found me, alone in my small apartment, surrounded by books I’d pulled from shelves, academic papers I’d torn from my files. I was hysterical, laughing and crying by turns. Eddie put me to bed and then promptly called a doctor. Despite my protestations, I was kept in the hospital overnight, then sent home with a sedative and a prescription for an anti-depressant. Eddie did not call, and I had no other friends. It was over – I had my sheepskin and my funny-looking cap. Now what?

Back to the lake. Somehow, it was the only answer that made sense. It was early – not yet 7:00 a.m. – but I returned to the cabin and pulled my swimming suit on under my denim shirt. When I was a child, and times were more innocent, I would often head down to the lake, by myself, before anyone else was awake. Oftentimes, I was the only early morning swimmer, and I would float, happily, on our old air mattress or inner tube; I knew, then, that nothing could mar that floating peace, that perfect happiness. Now, a towel in my hand, I walked the short path, past the tavern, down to the lake. 

I heard the clatter of voices and dishes in the tavern, saw the resort’s owner, Larry, his feet deep in wading boots, head down toward the small shed that housed a million minnows, waiting to be used as bait for the fish that still chose to call the lake – oily, dark, unnaturally warm – home. I lay my towel on the grassy knoll that bordered the lake – this being Minnesota, there was, properly, no real beach.   I headed down towards the lake and stepped in. The water was warm – “like bathwater” – my mother used to say, during the few times she joined us in our eager, frequent swims. I felt the slight jolt of the water, then ran in, surface-diving at the end of the dock. 

I frolicked there for a while, enjoying my solitude, the fact that the lake was my own. I fought to stay underwater, trying to increase my time with each dive. I turned somersaults and did handstands. After one of these, I turned toward the sun, smiling, genuinely joyful, and then laughed. This I thought to myself This is what I came here for. “Hey – you’re pretty good!” I heard a voice behind me, coming from the dock and the minnow house. I turned – a young man-boy crouched, watching me. He was dressed in waders, too, and earnestly untangling some very tangled fishing gear – obviously, he worked there. Silently, I calculated in my head – no, the owner’s children had grown up with us – one was my very first crush. They were old – or at least, my age. They’re recruiting a new crop, I thought to myself – And good for them. “Thanks – Glad you liked it,” my response was enthusiastic, and more flirtatious than I had intended. The boy dropped the fishing gear and stood up. He walked closer to me, stopping at the dock’s end. “The water’s beautiful,” I said, and then added, “You should come in for a dip.” The boy smiled and his face reddened. He was no more than 18; like most Minnesotans, he was blonde and blue-eyed, his cheeks round and tanned. He swallowed hard and his Adam’s apple bobbed like a fishing lure.  “Not everyone is here on vacation, you know,” and he smiled, “I’ve got to work.” “Well,” I said, “That is too bad,” and, turning and smiling at him once more, I headed back to my towel. 

That afternoon, I took a nap in one of the beds on the sleeping porch. I lay, feeling the slight cool breeze off the lake, hearing the rustle of the leaves outside the cabin door. I slept heavily, dreaming of first kisses and games of hide-and-go-seek, of tentative gropes around campfires. When I awoke, my hand was between my legs, anxiously, desperately, rubbing my clit. I looked around – anyone could have walked by, anyone could have looked in. I stopped, took a deep breath, and rose to get dressed.


I went to the tavern for pizza and beer; I’m not a fan of outside grilling, and I certainly didn’t feel like cooking. I took a book with me, but, once I sat down, it lay on the table, forgotten. I wanted to pause, to watch, to take the time to inhale again – wanted to smell the stale beer, the burnt pizza – surprisingly, I felt myself getting wet through my denim shorts. I really did, I thought to myself, love this place. I watched the resort’s temporary denizens enter and order their own beer and food. There were families, laughing and roaring at each other, fishermen carrying on their fish-story tradition. “Hi.” And there he was – the boy-man from the dock. Heavily, he sat down next to me. “I’m not working now.” His voice cracked, and I realized how much courage it must have taken him to approach me. I smiled, and relaxed into the chrome and plastic chair. Here was no threat. Here was, quite possibly, fun – and here, perhaps, was innocence – innocence and youth. “I’m glad,” I said, “I’d offer to buy you a beer, but I’ll bet you’re too young to drink.” The Adam’s apple bobbed again. “Don’t worry about it –“ I could almost see the lightbulb manifest over his head, “Maybe I could have one later, at your place.” I laughed. From the corner of my eye, I could see the sun glinting on the lake’s surface, breaking and floating like a thousand diamonds. “Do you think so?” I asked, “Well then, let’s go.” 

We walked back to the cabin together. As we left the tavern, I saw him glance around, furtively – he was worried, I thought, about his boss seeing him. I chuckled to myself and watched him walk – his legs were thin, his shoulders hunched. He was thin – his body, his life, had not yet had time to acquire real meat. We arrived at the cabin, and I directed him to a lawn chair. He sank into it in obvious relief. I walked into the cabin and fetched two beers. We sat and drank them, and for a while, nothing was said. “So,” I said, after half the beer was gone, “What’s your name?” “Richard,” he answered, “and you’re Kristin.” “Very good,” I smiled, “And how did you know that?” “You used to come here, with your family, every year.” “Ah!,” I responded, “Larry told you – I’m surprised he recognized me.” Richard laughed, suddenly confident. “He said you fill out a bikini a lot better than you used to.” I laughed, too. “Thank God for that – Richard, how old are you?” “18,” he did not try to lie, and for that I admired him. Half my age, I thought to myself, This kid is half my age. We drank another beer, after, and he chatted about his work, about the lack of fish, about Larry. I nodded, watching his hands, noting the light blonde fuzz on his chin. After we’d both finished our second beer, I leaned over and touched that fuzz. He jumped, surprised, and again, furtively, looked around. “If you’re so nervous,” I whispered, “Maybe we should go inside.” 

He followed me into the cabin. I took his hand, could feel him shaking. I led him to the back bedroom, the one my parents used – the thought made me feel odd at first, and then it made me chuckle. I stopped beside the bed. “Undress me,” I said, and Richard, his hands trembling, pulled my t-shirt over my head, then moved to my shorts. He was uncertain and fumbling with the button, and I helped him – I left the zipper to him. I felt the rush of the zipper’s descent and threw my head back, gulping a deep breath. I helped him pull the skin-tight shorts down, then untied the drawstring on his knee-length trunks; they were all he wore.  He stood before me, still swallowing, his thin naked body hard as marble, unmarked, clean. His cock was large and thick, and it bobbed eagerly in the waning light of the bedroom. I pulled him down next to me, took his cock in my hand. “You’re 18,” I said, “I assume you’ve done this before?” Again, the nervous swallow, “Yes – but not that often.” I leaned on him, forced him on his back, then moved down to his thighs. I ran my tongue up his hairy, thinly muscled thighs, then flicked my tongue over his tight balls. I heard him gasp, felt the slight pressure of his hands on my hair. I ran my tongue up the length of his cock and took the swollen head in my mouth. I rubbed him a little, then sucked slowly, running the tip of my tongue around his girth. The pressure of his hands increased, and I sat up. “Not quite yet, Richard,” I said, “Now – grab the headboard – with both hands – yes, just like that.” He was now stretched in front of me, and, lazily, perhaps cruelly, I ran a light finger down his side. He jumped, releasing the headboard. “Richard,” I said, “You don’t want me to have to tie you up, do you?” Again, the nervous swallow, “Don’t worry – even if I did, you just might enjoy it.” He smiled, then grabbed the headboard again. This time, I ran my tongue down his sides, tasting his salt and his youth. I wanted that – that 18-year old blood. Wanted that taste of fresh, of new. I bit him, then, wanting that young pound of flesh, and delivered small bites up and down his thighs, his sides, his arms. He was twisting, his cock was bobbing, but he did not let go of the headboard. His eyes were closed, and he moaned; he turned his head, pressed it against his arm, trying to stifle his breathing, his groans. I straddled him, then leaned over to kiss him, gently. He tasted like sunshine, like fresh fish, like old, resort cabins. “I want that,” I whispered. “What?” his voice was husky, “I said – I want you.” “Then,” the swallow, “You can have me.” I laughed, leaning back on his thighs, “Oh, Richard, I know that.” I kissed him again, again gently, but then I bit his lip and probed his mouth with my tongue. I felt a small gasp against my lips. I stopped, sat back. “Give me your tongue,” I said. “What?” his voice was still husky, his hands still wrapped around the headboard, “Give me your tongue.” He stuck it out, nervously, and I sucked it into my mouth, swirling my tongue around his, probing, reaching for his throat. I leaned back. I could feel his cock, beating time against my ass. I reached through my thighs, grabbed it, and placed it at the portal of my cunt. A deep intake of breath. “Do you want it, Richard?” I asked. “Oh, yes,” he whispered. “Don’t let go –“ I said, “just feel – just enjoy.” I eased myself down onto his rock-hard cock, and gasped as I felt its length and girth. I threw my head back, no longer in control, and thrust myself down and down again on that wonderful lengthy, youthful, innocent, 18 year old prick. “Oh, Richard,” I whispered, “That’s very, very nice.” It only lasted a few minutes; finally, Richard could no longer take the restraint, the waiting. An intake of breath, and then Richard was on top of me, his cock thrusting, harder, deeper, into my ready-cunt. I moaned. “Oh, God, Richard – yes – oh yes – oh give that to me,” And I thought about firsts – first kisses, first hand-held walks, the first time I’d made love – and Richard was holding me, thrusting and spurting deep, deep inside me. 

We lay there for a few minutes. I got two more beers. We sat on the bed, silently drinking, listening to the frogs and the cicadas. We finished the beer, and Richard got up. “I suppose I should be going.” His voice was still awkward, but I could see his cock, newly buoyant, bouncing in the twilight. “Oh, no,” I said, “I don’t think we’ll waste that.” I leaned towards him, stroked his thickening prick. “I want you to take me from behind,” I whispered, “I want you to fuck me hard –‘ To myself, I thought, Fuck me so hard that a piece of you – a piece of that youth and innocence – falls off inside me and adheres to something internal. His cock wakened, but I could feel his pause, “I’ve never done it like that before.” “Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll help you – and your future girlfriends will thank me.”  I knelt on the bed, my ass towards him. I felt the slight give of the bed as he knelt behind me, and then I felt his hands on either side of me, sliding, for a second, down my thighs. I reached back for him, opened my cunt with my fingers, and helped him slide his cock inside, deep, so deep. I could hear my breathing become more labored, could feel my face flush despite the early evening cool. “Richard,” I breathed, “Fuck me hard – I need it hard.” He was hesitant, at first, then began to slam into me, I could feel his thighs and balls rocking against my ass, could feel the tip of his cock teasing my womb. I leaned into him, tipped my ass up, opened up for him, for his cock, for his wonderful fountain of youth. 

This time, I came before he did. I felt the spasms reach up from my ass, up to my belly, up to that tingly point at the end of my spine. With one final surge, he thrust himself even more deeply, and came, gasping, as I grabbed the headboard and tried to ease the post-orgasm dizziness. We separated, both sweating, both sated. “Well, Kristin,” and I could hear the smile in his voice, could sense a new layer of confidence, “Can I go now?” I rolled over and kissed him on the chin, on that tiny blonde piece of fuzz. “No – not quite yet.” He looked at me in surprise. “Oh?” “Before you go, I want you to sit beside me, in the lawn chairs. We’re going to watch the stars, have one more beer, and eat candy bars.” His laugh was husky. “Okay – I can do that.” “And then,” I said, “We’ll talk about tomorrow night.” 



Tarotica Ch. 10



When the Wheel of Fortune appears upright in a reading, you’re entering a lucky period or cycle in your life.  You get to turn the Wheel of Fortune and great things come up.  You’re very lucky now no matter what you wish to do; things just seem to go your way.  In fact, nothing can stop you now!
--The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tarot and Fortune-Telling

Important developments.  Improvements.  Rapid change.  You are entering a new cycle involving a fortunate set of circumstances that promise beneficial change and continuing progress.  A new chapter in your life is about to begin.  You are ending one phase and starting something new.
--Tarot: Plain and Simple.  By Anthony Louis.


I have come to realize that I can’t return, that, as one grows older, there is no returning really, there’s only memory-residue, the cloth of which fades daily.

I was young when I married – my mother, later, would say “too young,” and I would get angry and say things like, “Don’t you think I know that, Mother?  Don’t you think I’ve told myself that enough times?” and she would pout and apologize, as if she never meant to hurt me, and I would feel bad.  She would leave my house then, her coffee cup still steaming on the table, and I would, for the 80th – 100th --- 4,000th time – put my head on the table and sob.  I am still surprised my head did not make a permanent impression there, that my tears didn’t warp the old wood forever.  It was tiring, divorce, and I cried and slept a lot.  I called no one – only my family, and then only at the last minute, after everything was already settled.  After my marriage, committed too young, had gasped its last death throes and the red-hot anger had mellowed to merely anguish.  

I took a long vacation – fortunately, I was left with some of our savings, -- enough, anyway, to buy me a few weeks of recovery.  My supervisor – a competent but still passionate woman – was more than understanding; she’d gone through her own divorce just three years earlier.  She let me go with no admonition, just told me to take enough time – and that my return would be welcome.

So, during this time I’d bought for myself, I watched television, wrote a little, cried a lot, and clung to Bootsie, the cat – I’d gained full custody of her, and for that, I was grateful.  She licked my face, sometimes, but mostly didn’t understand – she would often wiggle in my desperate grip, and sometimes she would mewl desperately at the door – “She’s looking for Eric,” I thought, though I had no reason, really, to think this, “She misses Eric.  And it’s my fault.”  This, inevitably, would be followed by another flood of guilt-anguished tears – mine, not hers.  Bootsie would glance at me indifferently, than waltz off to her all-important – and all-consuming – nap.  

During one of those days, I lay on the couch, sniffling a little after watching Rickie Lake and several day-time soaps.  I’d not watched this kind of viewer-fodder for some time, but I relaxed in the indulgence, the excuse to be stupid, and found myself crying about Ronnie’s car accident and Victoria’s lost baby.  Stupid, I would say to myself, Get up and do something – and yet – the something never really materialized.

Until Shandra showed up.  Shandra is my older sister by 16 years.  We were not close growing up, but had somehow gotten that way as adults.  Eric used to say that we must have, in some prior life, been twins.  When we finally formed our friendship, the similarities were amazing – similar gestures, similar laugh, similar thoughts on life – and of course, that uncanny twin-ability to know what the other is thinking.  On one of those tear-soaked, soap-opera-soaked days, Shandra knocked on my door.  She lived out of state – I did not expect her – and when I opened the door and saw her, rain-soaked, in front of my house, I cried – again – this time so much I thought I would burst right through my skin.  Shandra said nothing, just walked into my house, shook herself down, and held me. She led me to the couch, she turned off the t.v., and I lay in her arms, trembling against her rain-drenched skin.  After some time, she kissed me on the top of the head and said, “Sis – do you mind if I make us tea?”  I sat up, laughed through the tears, and shook my head.  “I’ll do it,” I said, “I can at least do that much,” and I walked to the kitchen to heat the water.   Bootsie followed, mewling in curiosity. 

“You surprised me,” I called from the kitchen.  Shandra laughed – that distinctive, breath-full laugh, a trademark of my family’s – “I know – I meant to.  Mom said you were pretty down.”  I frowned, walked back to the living room.  “Oh? You talked to Mom?”  Shandra shook her head, still smiling, “Kristin – you can’t let her get to you – she’s just – Mom – and she does care about you – and worry about you.  She suggested that I come down.”  I grinned, hope creeping through my skin – a foreign feeling, these days.  “I’m glad, Shandra – it’s just great to see you.  I need you.  How long are you here?”  “Just a few days . . .”  “I’ll take it,” I said, and walked back into the kitchen to fix the tea.

We talked, then, for hours – she talked about her past failed marriage, I talked about mine.  We laughed about stupid things – about clothing and work and movies and Bootsie – and, finally, I lay, nearly recovered, on the couch, my head in her lap.  “You know what we need, Kristin?” Shandra asked, lazily running her hands through my hair.  “What’s that, sweetheart?”  “Some wine.”  “Hmmm,” I responded, “You know – Eric left his precious stash – can you believe he forgot it? It’s supposed to be something special – I don’t know – but I’ll go grab a bottle.”  I went to the basement, to the “wine cellar” – really just a cabinet in the basement wall – and plucked a purplish bottle.  I had no idea its year, its brand – I chose it merely on the basis of proximity.  “Here we go,” I proclaimed, walking up the steps.  We searched for a cork-screw, then poured and exchanged glances, laughing as we did so.  There was more laughter, more glasses, and a thought occurred to me – “You know what, Shandra?  I have a game – that Eric never wanted to play – it’s called  ‘Wheel of Fortune.’”  “Like the television show?” she asked, the liquid grape slurring her words just a little.  “No,” I said, “Not at all like that – it’s a sexual game.”  “Oh,” she giggled, “I don’t know if I could do that.” “You’re such a bullshitter,” I responded, “Come on – let’s try it.” 

I broke out the game – it had been hidden, discreetly, under our couch.  Eric had been neither amused nor surprised when I’d brought it home – merely offended.  It was dusty now, and I blew on the cover, spreading scads of god-knows-what through the house.  Shandra coughed.  “Good Lord girl, don’t you every dust?”  “Not under things,” I responded, and opened the game.  There wasn’t much too it – some cards, a small plastic wheel.  “That’s it?” Shandra hiccupped, “No board?  How do you keep score?”  “I don’t think you do,” I said, squinting at the directions, which were written in a lurid purple font,  “The goal, it says here, is to have fun – and to let the game serve as a guide.”  “All right, then, let’s see that wheel.”  

The wheel was divided into four categories: Things you’ve done,  Things you wish you’d done, Things you would never do, and Things you’ve seen others do.  A small plastic arrow whirled in the wheel’s middle, moving with Shandra’s movements.  “Hmm,” she said, “I guess there’s a deck of cards for each of these – uh – categories.”  “It seems straightforward enough,” I said, “You spin the wheel, and pick a card – the other person has to answer the question phrased on the card picked.”  “That’s it?” Shandra said, “Well, I guess it might be a little hard to score.”  “Here,” I said, “I’ll spin first.”  With a tic of my fingertip, I sent the arrow sailing briskly around the wheel.  It landed, slowly, on Things you would never do.  “Go ahead, Shandra,” I said, “Pick a card.”  Shandra leaned forward, picked a card from the green corresponding deck, read it, and looked at me and laughed.  “Would you ever – or never – have sexual contact with a dog?”  I laughed, too, “Do they mean – the canine kind?”  “I think so,” said Shandra, taking another sip of wine.  “The answer, sis, is Never.”   “Thought so,” she slurred, “My turn!”  She picked up the wheel and, with a dramatic gesture, sent the arrow blurring around the small plastic disk.  This time, it landed on Things you’ve done.  I leaned over, made a drum roll noise, and picked up the appropriate card.  “Have you ever,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “made love to a woman?”  

Shandra paused, reddened a little, and then smiled.  “Well – you should know, anyway – I just didn’t to tell the rest of the family – but yes, of course I have.”  “Ahhh . .” I smiled, “I knew it – with Gabby, right?”  “You got it – I figured you’d know.”  I leaned forward, the game, for a minute, forgotten.  “What was it like, Shandra?”  I was on the floor, my head resting on one hand.  With the other, I ticked the wheel back and forth – whirr – whirr.   I imagined Shandra and Gabby together, kissing, their hair mingling, tangling with each other’s.  Gabby was an attractive brunette with startling black hair – almost an opposite of my sister, really – Gabby was tall, lithe, cat-like – Shandra was short, blonde, and sometimes – when she forgets herself – tends toward the squat.  I thought about the two of them, these physical opposites, rolling in bed, their breasts pressed together, their legs knotting. This is my sister, I thought to myself, Stop it.  Must be the game, must be the wine.  “It’s nice, Kristin,” Shandra’s voice was dreamy, a bit wistful, “It can be so much – gentler – and – so much more exciting, at the same time, than with a man –“ a soft chuckle, “Women are so much softer – physically, I mean.”  Another chuckle, “Not always – other ways – emotionally – or mentally – “  “What happened between you and Gab?” I asked, “Why did you end – things?  I always wanted to know.”  Shandra leaned forward, smoothed my hair, then patted my cheek, “Perhaps we’ll go over that ground during my next visit – now! Back to the game.  Whose turn?”

 I spun and Shandra plucked the next card.  We went that way, for a while, drinking wine and spinning the cheap plastic Wheel of Fortune.  We shrieked at some of the questions – Have you ever toe or titty-fucked? – one of mine to Shandra’s – who snorted with laughter and said, “I don’t even know what that means.”  Would you ever – or never – cheat with your best friend’s lover?  Have you ever watched someone else make love?  Would you ever – or never – let yourself be tied up and whipped?  “Okay, okay,” Shandra said, through her laughter, “One more. And then I have to go to bed.”  “All right – all right – it’s my turn to spin.”  I ticked the wheel.  Things you wish you’d done. “All right, for the big prize, the last question of the evening.  ‘If you haven’t done so yet, have you ever wished that you had a sexual relationship with someone of the same sex?”  I didn’t hesitate.  “Oh, yes, definitely,” I said, “I think about it a lot.”  “It must, then, be in the family,” Shandra said, “You think about it a lot?”  “Yeah – I mean – “ I took another sip of wine, “I like guys – I mean – I’m hetero, I think, but I think about women – about what they must feel like – about how nice it would be to have a sexual relationship with someone who understands – you know?”  I looked up at Shandra, who had moved closer to me.  We were still on the floor, both sitting, leaning against the couch.  She took a sip, too, then held my gaze.  Putting her wine down, she touched my chin with her finger, raised my face.  I was close to her sea-green eyes, to her high cheekbones, to the full lips I’d always envied.  She leaned in to me, then, and kissed me.  I felt a thrill – both of sensation and taboo – race its way down my spine.  Her lips were hot on mine, and I could feel the gentle prodding of her tongue against my teeth.  I opened my mouth, took her tongue, and, as I did so, felt my chest heaving under a new, odd weight.  She sat back, after the kiss.  My lips were still moist.  “Yes,” she whispered, “I know – it’s nice to be with someone who understands.” 

She leaned forward again, gently pressing my body down under her small weight. I felt the odd pressure of her small breasts, the softness of her cheek against mine.  I could smell the wine on her tongue, and something else – some other thing, some other scent, that seemed to reek of desire.  She lay on top of me, there on the floor, and, as we both reclined, we knocked The Wheel of Fortune – cards flew.  “Damned game, anyway,” Shandra said, and, lifting my shirt, began to nibble wildly on my tits – I could feel my nipples harden, my breath coming in even shorter, grasps.  Hesitant, curious, and now excited, I reached out to pull my hands through her hair – ran my fingertips lightly down her neck, watching the white skin dissolve into goose bumps.  “Hmm,” she said, and moved up to kiss me again.  I could feel the pressure – the heat -- of her cunt against mine.  She kissed my ears – both of them, one after the other, munching slowly on each earlobe and blowing gently into my eardrums.  I moaned, wondering – just for a second – whether I should shake her off and go to bed.  Before the thought went much further, Shandra’s fingers were up my skirt, at the portal of my cunt, tapping, playing, torturing.  I groaned, nearly faint with want, but dared not say anything – when we realized what we were doing – if it were voiced – would it shatter this bubble that encased us, that seemed to forgive this incestuous transgression?  Shandra’s fingers – two – plunged into my cunt – I was wet, and could hear the slide of her fingers’ movements as she worked me, back and forth – she curled her fingers – further inside me than Eric had ever gotten – and I closed my eyes – I could see static against my eyelids.  She moved down, then, until she was between my thighs, and bent her head, her mouth to me – she fingered me, still, for a while, before she took my clit in her mouth, swirling her tongue.  She paused a minute, and I thought – feared – she was about to stop.  Instead, she sighed, contented, and said, “Like candy.”  Her mouth was back at my cunt, at my clit again, and I could feel her fingers, alternating a rhythm with her tongue – back and forth, her tongue, the unrelenting fingers – I could smell her hair, could smell her perfume and the laundry detergent she used to wash her clothes.  Everything was heightened, my senses felt both sharp and chaotic.  Finally, I came against my sister’s mouth, my hands on her hair, my eyes closed.  As I writhed and pumped, I could feel her, still unrelenting, biting each thigh, little, torturous nibbles.  

After, we lay there, amidst the Fortune cards, Shandra’s head resting on my shoulder.  I kissed her on the top of the head.  “Time for bed, I guess?” I said awkwardly.  To my surprise, she laughed and kissed my neck. “Yes – time for bed.  But next time – next time I visit – we play the game again.”  “All right,” I laughed.  The two of us stretched, rose, shaking our bodies, and I slapped my elbows, an attempt to return to reality.  “Shandra,” I said, looking down at my thighs, “You bit me so hard – there’s going to be bruises!”  She laughed, and took one last sip of wine.  “Oh – sorry about that.”  “You are not.”  “No – I’m terrible,” with a devilish laugh and a flip of her blonde mane.  “No,” I said, “We’re terrible – I guess it runs in the family.”



Tarotica Ch. 11



Chapter 11: Justice

The crowned female figure of Justice, depicting Astraea, Goddess of Justice in Greek mythology, is seated between the pillars of positive and negative forces. .. . She does not permit temptation or envy to misguide her.

-Tarot Classic, Stuart R. Kaplan

Harmony. Restoration of balance. Fairness. Maintaining a proper balance. Order restored. Strategy. Powers that enforce justice.

-Tarot: Plain and Simple. Anthony Louis

It was over dinner that we started talking about it. We hadn't been dating that long, but it was long enough – or maybe I'd had wine enough – to forget that there are things that really should not be said – or perhaps only to your best friend or, if you're lucky enough to have one, your soul-mate. 

We were out for dinner; the baked salmon was quite good, as was the Chianti, and we ordered our second bottle. We were laughing, and, somehow, the discussion turned to cats – mostly the differences between "cat people" and "dog people." Of course, I was on the feline side of the debate. Rather drunkenly, I admit, I began to enumerate the many wonderful catly traits. "They're so comfortable being who they are," I slurred, "They are the contentest creatures."

"Contentest?" Derek asked. 

I nodded. "They have the added virtue of being absolutely beautiful." Derek reached out and touched my cheek, "Like you."

"Thank you, sweetheart," but love-talk was not going to sway me from my conversational purpose, "And they have such gorgeous tails – have you ever seen the tail of a full-bred Maine Coon cat, for instance?"

"Um, no, love," Derek was amused, but getting a bit bored. "You know," I said, taking another sip, "I've always wanted a tail." Derek smiled – his playboy smile, dimples flashing. "You, my dear, have a wonderful tail."

"No, no," I said, laughing, "I mean a real tail – like a cat tail – or a dog tail – wouldn't that be sexy?"

"Um, well, in a word, no. It would just be gross," the playboy smile was gone. "Oh come on," I said, running my fingers lightly up his shirtsleeve, then leaning close to him and tickling his neck. "You don't think dating a girl with a tail – would be the least – bit – sexy?"

"Kristin, you're starting to scare me." Then he smiled, self-assured once more. "You know what this is, don't you?" He picked up his glass, leaned back in his chair. I soaked in the dimples, the wry smile, the wavy hair, and sighed. "What is it, Derek?" He took a long, slow sip before his pronouncement. "It's penis envy."

I leaned back, laughing – well, roaring actually. "Kristin," Derek stage-whispered, "People are staring."

"Oh, honey, that's hilarious," I said, trying not to give up a sow-like snort. "Penis envy? Oh, thank you, Dr. Freud."

"Well, clearly, it is," continued Derek, "Your desire for a tail is really a desire for – well – for the old wedding tackle." I couldn't help it – this time I did snort. "Wedding tackle? Oh Lord, oh Derek, oh stop."

"It's quite clear, Kristin," Derek went on, suddenly straightening, his tone eminently reasonable, "What else could a tail be but a phallic symbol?"

"Derek, dearest, a tail could be lots of things – it can serve as a sort of ballast, for example, when cats climb trees – it can also be a sign of distress, or a sign of affection. ."

"Kristin," Derek interrupted, his voice stern, "You know what I mean – you don't need a ballast," he chuckled – "and you certainly know how to convey affection."

"On the contrary, my dear – there are so so many times when I could use a ballast – and wouldn't it be wonderful to see me when I greet you at the door – my tail raised like a welcoming flag?"

"You're quite mad, Kristin, my love, but you're certainly never boring." I took another lazy sip of wine. I was rather enjoying this game. "And you know what?" I said, "I would just dearly love to have a tail I could hook over my shoulder – you know – I could play with it, rather idly, while reading or doing crossword puzzles."

"Kristin," said Derek, his voice once again mock-stern, "You hate crossword puzzles."

"Well, I know," I said, "But it makes such an interesting picture." 

We paid the bill and left, still laughing. We walked through the parking lot, holding hands, and I remarked on how bright it seemed. "It's a full moon, silly," said Derek, then stopped turned me to him, "Full moons are so sexy, aren't they? Make a wish."

"I thought you could only wish on falling stars."

"Not tonight," Derek said, "I proclaim it 'wish on the full moon night.'"

"Okay, then," I laughed, still warmed and loosened from the wine, "I wish I had a tail." Derek laughed, "You crazy bitch. And I wish – hmmm." He paused, pretending to think, "I wish I'd get lucky tonight."

Indeed, both of us got lucky that night – I challenged him to try to fuck me in every room of the house. We started in the kitchen; he took some olive oil from the cupboard and spread it, rather thickly, onto my wooden table. He grabbed me then, stripped me – quickly, anxiously – muttering in my ear the whole time. "I'm going to fuck you, oh yes – I'm going to fuck you – right here – in front of your kitchen window – I hope the neighbors can see." I knew my neighbors. "They'd only be jealous," I giggled. He led me to the table, forced me on to it – I was sitting, my feet off the floor, my legs spread and Derek between them. I could feel the oil under my ass, could feel the table shake – just a little – with my weight. Rather urgently, he unzipped his pants, leaned into me – for just a second, I could feel his hard cock – smooth, long – kissing my thigh – and then he was inside me, fucking me, fucking me hard – I was lying down now, gasping, the oil was on my back, my legs, my ass, my arms. "Oh god, Derek – oh god," I groaned, "Yes – oh god, Fuck me." And so it went. We fucked in the office as I leaned over the desk and my myriad forgotten bills – there, he took me from behind, and I clung happily to the desk's smooth metal top, feeling it cold against oily hands. We fucked in the bathroom – he sat on the toilet, and I sat on top of him, facing him, bouncing, again and again, on his overworked prick. We fucked in the living room, we fucked in the laundry room and finally, rather desperately, we fucked in the bedroom. As we snuggled together, under the covers, exhausted and covered with semen, I whispered, "You know – I think there was something to that moon magic." Derek smiled against my hair. "I told you it would work."

It was the next morning, after Derek had left – I was in the bath, somewhat regretfully washing away that wonderful, barbarous, after-sex smell – when I noticed it. There was a mole – or something – directly above my ass. I felt it press against my skin when I leaned against the porcelain side of the tub. I felt behind me, surprised – I didn't remember a mole just there– and for a minute, I panicked. What the hell, I thought, did Derek give me? I got out of the bath and stood in front of the full-length mirror. I turned around, looked over my shoulder. There was a bump there – not red or irritated-looking, but innocuous, flesh-colored. "What the hell?" I said aloud this time, whispering to myself and the bathroom walls. I felt a strange twinge, a physical shiver – it issued, it seemed, from the bump – "Good God," I whispered again, "I just saw it – it's growing." I felt the shiver of panic again – I couldn't call the doctor – it was Saturday. The emergency room? That seemed both silly and unnecessary – except for a dull brain-ache from the wine the night before, I felt fine. In fact, I felt good – very good. Last night, I thought, and the craziness began to sink into my dully thumping head, Last night – I wished for a tail – Derek wished to get lucky -- the fucking scenes played, slow pornographic movies, inside my head – Good Lord, help me Goddess, I'm growing a tail!

All day, it grew. I wandered through the house, naked, desperately afraid to go out. The thing was smooth, silky, and rather hard – penis-like, I thought, and laughed. By noon-time, it was eight inches long. I found that I could swing it, that I had control of its movements. I found that I had to re-learn how to sit. I found that – when I whacked it against the still-oil kitchen table – it had feelings, nerve endings. By the afternoon, I was more fascinated than frightened – when would it reach its full length? Was it permanent? I experimented, waving it back and forth behind me. I noticed – did this have to do with the circumstances for which it was wished? -- that it felt as if there were – well – sort of sprinkles of sexual feelings dripping down its length. It was a supple, thin tail - not the thicker sort – and I thought, absurdly, Probably would not be a great ballast. By 3:00, it was long enough so that I could lay it flat against my back to reach my neck. By 5:00, it was long enough to curl around my neck – and I could curl it! It was almost prehensile – I practiced gripping things – a pencil, the telephone – it couldn't bear too much weight, and the phone crashed to the floor with an irritated jangle. But smaller things – I could wrap my tail around – could even grip some things. I walked around the house, still naked, looking in all my mirrors, waving my tail, laughing and somehow proud. This, I thought happily to myself, This is better than any old penis. This, I patted it, is justice. 

I called Derek – we'd had no real plans; last night, exhausted from the marathon fuck, we had only vaguely hinted at seeing each other. His voice was an audio blur. "Oh hi, Kristin," he was not unhappy to hear from me, "Good God, thanks for last night – I've never – well, jeez, I just don't think I've ever done it that much." I laughed, drew my tail over my shoulder and idly played with it, curling its tip around my finger. "The moon was pretty powerful last night, Derek," I said. "Yes," he still sounded confused and a bit exhausted, "I guess that was it."

"Oh, darling, I know that was it."

"Yes," he answered, still muddled. "Hey," I said, "Come over tonight."

"Okay," he said through the tired, "Um, yeah, I'm not doing anything – I can do that." In the distance, I heard the television – a baseball game. "Great – I have –" almost against my will, my tail rose, its tip turned into a sort of question-mark – in cats, a sign of affection, "I have kind of a surprise for you."

"Great," he said, "but let's not go out, okay?"

"No, sweetie," I laughed, "I have no desire to go out – just a desire to see you." 

I had been naked all day, admiring my new appendage in every mirror. For the moment, I'd forgotten how to deal with a tail and the real world. After my phone call to Derek, it had grown again, and I found – to my delight – that I could now tickle my own cunt. But I had to get dressed – where to put it? How does one get dressed – around a tail? Finally, I took an old-ish dress from my closet and cut a hole in the back, guessing as to where appropriate placement would be. It worked, and I giggled at my own ingenuity. The dress was not particularly flattering – it was purple gingham, and longish – but I didn't think that Derek would be disappointed.

At the call of the doorbell, I met Derek on the threshold, trying desperately to hold my tail behind my back – I had to use both hands, and it seemed to have a mind of its own. It kept wanting to curl back up into that question mark shape – that feline sign of affection. Derek walked in, a bottle of wine under one arm. He chuckled, "I thought you might want some hair of the dog." Under the circumstances, this struck me as both hilarious and appropriate, and I tried not to laugh-snort again. "What the devil," Derek said, "Are you hiding behind your back?" I let it go – there it was – the question mark – forming over my shoulder. Derek walked in, walked around me, his mouth open, but laughing a little, "Where did you get that? It looks real."

"It grew," I responded, "It is real." Derek laughed again, "You crazy bitch." I swung my tail around in a small gesture of huff, "I've heard that before." 

I turned toward the kitchen, taking the wine, swinging my divine tail – in a way I hoped was sexy – behind me. "You know that wish last night?" I asked casually, "No," Derek said, "It can't be true – things like that don't happen." He followed me into the kitchen as I opened the bottle and poured the wine. I felt a sudden twinge from behind – I squealed and looked around. Derek was pulling my tail, feeling it – "Oh, sweetie – that feels good.' And it did – the sexual tingle that surged in my new appendage only increased with his nervous caress. "It can't be – Kristin – please stop playing with me," and then, in the next breath, "Do you think it's permanent?" I walked to the couch and sat, flipping my tail over one shoulder. I could see it writhe a little, again, almost on its own – "I'm not really worried about that yet – I guess I should be – but really Derek, I feel great." I stood up and undressed, "Wow – clothes are so uncomfortable now." I smiled, feeling – and probably looking – devilish. "Come here." Derek drained his glass in one gulp and stumbled over to the couch, his eyes fixed on the tail. 

He sat down next to me. "Watch," I giggled, and, with my tail, began to stroke my own breasts. I leaned back, moaning, enjoying the touch and Derek's wide-eyed amazement. He leaned into me, watching, awestruck and curious. "Hey," he said, "Can you touch your cunt?"

"I can," I responded, and did so, pushing the tip just a little through the flowery walls. "Wow," Derek breathed, "You can fuck yourself."

"I think, sweetheart," I said, leaning over and kissing his neck, "I would rather fuck you – you can't believe how horny having a tail makes one feel . ." 

I opened his shirt, unclasping the buttons with my hands but tickling his arms with my tail, alternating back and forth – right arm, left arm, right arm, left arm. Derek moaned and closed his eyes. I helped him shed his clothes – his shirt from his chest, his pants from his muscled thighs. We lay on the couch, the tail and I on top. Sure, it was bizarre – but Derek was excited. His cock was pushing forward, harder, I thought, than I had ever seen it. It wavered in the air, searching, poking at nothing. My tail curled up against my back, and then, almost without my will, it was stroking him – a light touch on his face, a light touch on his lips, a light tracing down his chest, a light tracing up and down his thighs. I kissed him while my tail worked, and began to pinch his nipples. Derek groaned, and when he spoke, his voice seemed far away, "Oh, God, Kristin, oh God. ." He twisted a little on the couch, his head moving back and forth, his eyes closed, his mouth open. My tongue worked his nipples, my hands moved down to his cock, my tail continued its torturous tickling – then it, too, wrapped itself around his now fully engorged dick and Derek groaned. Then, almost violently, he pushed me off his chest, pulled me under him. "Ouch, watch the tail," I mumbled, as his weight bore down on me and my new appendage crushed into the couch. "Oh, that tail," he mumbled, and then, "I'm going to fuck you, you crazy bitch – you crazy freak," he was serious but smiling, and I said, "It's not so gross, is it?"

"Gross? God no." 

He fucked me hard, my back banging on the couch arm, my tail over my shoulder, swinging back and forth, in rhythm with his thrusts. "Touch yourself with it," he whispered, and I did so, tickling my own nipples as he pumped ever more deeply inside me. "God, oh god," he whispered, and lay fully on my chest. My tail trailed over his back, and I could see the goose bumps rising in its rather frenzied path. With that wonderful, crazy tail, I moved down his back, down to his ass, tickling the tender spot between his cheeks. "Kristin – I'm coming," he gasped, and so he did, and I could feel the luscious spurt so far inside me – I swear I could feel it running down my tail. "Is it hollow?" I whispered. Derek lifted himself from me, "What?"

"Nothing, sweetie – I think we could both use a glass of wine." Derek nodded, and I saw the tiny sweat-beads that had formed on his forehead, saw the cherry-red of his cheeks. He got up and returned with two glasses, both full to brimming. We sipped, and, for a minute, nothing was said. 

"Kristin," Derek asked at last, and, as he turned to me, began to caress the tail. "What are you going to do about practical things – about work? Or getting dressed?" I took a thoughtful sip, "I don't know – and for now – for some reason – I just really don't care." The tail whipped around and, as if it needed rest, curled itself around my neck. I enjoyed the feel – it was soft, fleshy, and rather tickling. "A full moon wish," Derek muttered, and took another sip of wine, "I wonder if – I wonder if it would be effective – if I wished again."

"And what would you wish, Derek?" hoping that he wasn't going to dissolve my tail in his next whispered words – I had, after all, grown rather – well – rather attached to it. "I wish you would masturbate for me – with your tail – I want to see it." He put his wine down, leaned against me, pinched my nipples. I laughed and leaned back. My tail moved upright – then, leisurely, worked its way down to my clit, down to my cunt. I traced my lips with it, then began to rub it against my clit, wondering at the sensation that ran, electric sparks, between the now-reddened button and the tail. I closed my eyes and laughed, feeling suddenly happy, and suddenly free. And not the least bit envious.



Tarotica Ch. 12



Reversal. Slowed action. Limbo. Taking your time. Dancing to a different drummer. Spiritual attunement. Now is a time to pause and suspend activity. You need to reevaluate your attitudes, goals, and priorities while remaining true to your spiritual values. Time appears to be moving slowly and you may feel like you are in a state of suspended animation. -Tarot: Plain and Simple, by Anthony Louis

The changing of life’s forces. The period of respite between significant events. The approach of new life forces. Surrender. Outside factors having strong influence. -Tarot Classic, by Stuart R. Kaplan – 

It was Saturday. It was noon. It was raining. Nothing was on television, I didn’t feel like reading, and I was depressed. I was tired of hearing the drum beats of the current useless rush to war, tired of speculating on carnage. My friend Alexandra was over, and we sat on the couch, flipping through the channels. Alexandra dropped the remote, yawned and stretched her arms over her head. She had long arms, brown arms, and she swung them, almost artistically, to rest behind her neck. “Isn’t this great?” she said, “A nice quiet day – just stupid things on television – a wonderful rain.” I glanced at her quizzically, then back at the television. “Alexandra – it’s a perfectly hideous day. It’s raining, there’s nothing to do, the country is going to hell in a handbasket. . .” I paused, distracted by a motion on the television screen. “Hey,” I said, “Is that Mel Gibson?” “Yeah,” Alexandra responded, “This is the very first Mad Max.” “Good God, USA is getting desperate.” I sighed melodramatically, and leaned my head back. “No – this is really a great movie,” Alexandra said, “You just gotta ignore the fact that they dubbed American English over Australian English – isn’t that funny?” and she giggled. I lifted my head to watch. The soundtrack was muffled, the words discombobulated. The voices seemed to bounce off, rather than come from, each actor. “Pretty hard to ignore,” I mumbled, “What’s the deal? What’s with the cars and the motorcycles?” “It’s a fuel crisis, silly,” Alexandra said, knowingly. I have never been certain where Alex gets her vast store of knowledge concerning B movie plots. “Great,” I sighed, “In just a few short months – we’ll have war – and our country will look like that.”

Alex rose and turned the television off. “Kristin,” she said, “You’ve got to get out of this – my yoga instructor says, ‘World peace begins with inner peace.’” I groaned. “Oh, Alex, please . . “ “No, really,” she sat on the floor, in front of me, and, her gaze intent, looked into my eyes. “You haven’t got it, Kristin – there’s no peace there.” “Alex,” I said, “You’re crazy.” “I’m not,” she said, in a rather condescending tone, “But if you don’t find some peace, you will be.” I leaned back against the couch, my head hurting form the strain of my eyes’ skeptical roll. “All right, Alex,” I sighed, “Just what do you suggest?”

“Well,” Alex sat back on her haunches, her head thrown back, her hair falling around her shoulders. She looked, oddly, like a cat. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed. “My yoga instructor . . .” a dramatic pause. Alex does nothing without drama, “My yoga instructor says that she has . ..” another pause. Alex turned her head, gave a Bergman-esque look out the window, “a . . .” I waited, addicted by Alex’s playacting, my head lifted, my neck straight, the skepticism gone, “a . . . thing.” 

“A thing?” I asked, spitting out the words. My head rolled back on the couch and I reached for the remote.

“No,” Alex said, “Not that poisonous box. That’s NOT what you need – you need my – my instructor’s --- thing.” 

“Just what kind of thing is it, Alex?” I paused, but my fingers still threatened the remote’s buttons. 

“Well,” Alex appeared anxious, her hands on my hand, “It’s a thing – it helps you levitate – to find some sort of different consciousness – and some sort of peace.” 

“Uh huh,” I said, my fingers tapping the remote, “Does this thing come with some sort of drug?” 

Alex rolled her eyes – her turn to look skeptical. “Of course not. It comes from my yoga teacher, remember?” She turned away, then looked back at me and smiled, “You wanna try it?”

Alex and I had no sexual relationship – as yet – but she has catlike brown eyes that somehow never fail to make me wet, nor to acquiesce to her desire – however insane that may be. “All right,” I said, “Tomorrow – you have class tomorrow, right? Can you bring me this – thing?”

Alex sat back, satisfied, her lithe limbs relaxed and spread wide before her, her back straight – a pose I can never emulate without groaning and looking graceless. I looked at her with envy, “You bitch,” I said and she, knowing what I meant, threw back her head – while still in the graceful pose – and laughed. Her yelps rose to the ceiling to mingle with the sound of the rain hitting the window.

The sun shone the next day, and my spirits improved. I thought about calling Alex and canceling the arrival of the thing, but I didn’t –curiosity, not depression, was now the driving force. I cleaned the house, even remembered to water my ailing house plants, even hummed. “Who needs a thing?” I asked the drooping peace lily, “I’m just fine.” But I wanted – needed, I suppose – to see Alex, so I didn’t call, didn’t cancel. 

She arrived after her yoga class. At the cheery sound of the doorbell, I opened the apartment door and found her, in the hallway, sweaty but smiling. She had been tugging a large box wrapped with duct tape that now languished behind her in the apartment hallway. I glanced at Alex’s smile, her feline eyes, then down at the box – on the cover was a picture of a woman, suspended upside down, her ponytail inverted and pointed to the floor, her hands in front of her – though her eyes were closed, she was smiling. It was that – the smile – that made the package seem – well – almost pornographic. I looked quickly down the empty corridor, and, in a hasty rush, helped Alex drag the heavy box across my threshold. 

The door closed behind us with a desperate click. I looked at the box, looked at Alex. She was still dressed in yoga clothes – black leggings with a tightly clinging black top. “What the hell is that?” I said – my voice was surprisingly angry – surprising to me, surprising to Alex. For a moment, her eyes wounded – she looked at me, then back to the heavy box, “It’s my instructor’s thing,” she said, not quite whining, but certainly anxious, “And she let me borrow it – without giving her money or anything.” “This is the thing, huh?” Again, I looked down at the box, then back up at Alex – why had I never noticed just how much she looked like Audrey Hepburn? I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. I had, after all, asked for this. “Okay, Alex – what do I do?” Alex was now smiling, and, almost leaping, she bent to undo the duct tape that bound the package. I went the kitchen, pulled out a drawer, and came back to hand her the scissors I’d retrieved. “Oh no problem,” Alex said, “See the strength yoga has given me?” And indeed the package was now disassembled, the tape lying loose on either side of the cardboard box, “Just wait – just wait, Kristin, til you see this,” and she began to struggle with the box, then the apparatus it contained.

“So,” I said, “Alex, have you ever used this – thing?” “Oh, no,” she said, her black-clad legs straddled over the package, “But my yoga instructor – when she talks about it – you should see her. I just knew it would be for you – she just looks – well – rapturous.” For only a minute, I felt a pang of jealousy – lucky yoga instructor, to be so admired. Alex continued putting black metal pipes together as she scrutinized the package instructions, “I always think of you when she talks about it – how good it would be for you.” The pang eased just a bit. 

When Alex finished her labors, the “thing” as she called it, consisted of a metal bar, to be strung across a doorway; the bar was fitted with metal boots with rather evil-looking clamps. From the bar hung a canvas swath, equipped with a buckled waist belt (“for ergonomic back and lower abdomen support” read the package) and, on either side of the doorway, handcuffs – one for the right, one for the left. “Alex,” I said, my skepticism regained, “Didn’t antigravity stuff go out with the 70’s? Unless this is some queer bondage setup . “

Alex’s look was, I thought at first, one of intrigue and amusement; this was quickly replaced with her usual star-struck innocence. “Oh, no, Kristin – anti-gravity’s been around for decades – it’s never really gone away.” She ignored the second part of my question. “All right, Alex,” I responded, “How on earth do I get into that thing?” “Well,” she said, turning away from me – I thought there was a hint of a giggle in her words – “First you have to get naked.” “I have to what?” I said, and felt suddenly angry again. “Okay, Alex, forget it – I don’t think I need peace that badly.” “What’s the big deal, Kristin? There’s no one here – and it’s the best way to approach it. Open, bare – you know. I’ll turn my head,” she was giggling. “No, no, no – I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to do this – do you know how ridiculous I will feel, hanging up there, naked?” “You’ll have no idea how you’ll feel until you try it. Just try it Kris – please?” That Audrey Hepburn look again. Sighing, annoyed, I pulled off my t-shirt and jeans, dropping them in a cloth puddle underneath the “thing.” “Okay,” I said, crossing my arms to ward off a chill, “How do I get into this Rube Goldberg contraption?” Alex smiled. “First, you have to stand on your head.” “I have to what?” I said, for the second time in seconds, “No – No – I can’t do that, Alex.”

“You know,” Alex said, her eyes now filled with nothing but scolding, “If you had gone to yoga with me in the first place – as I asked you to – you’d be able to do a handstand with no problem.” I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, “Alex,” I said, “I am 34 years old – I was a cheerleader two decades ago -- I could do a handstand then – Christ, Alex, what on earth was I thinking?” She walked toward me, stood in front of me, and placed her hands on my bare shoulders.  I shivered, but it wasn’t from the cold. “I’ll help you,” she said, “You have to believe – remember – inner peace.” Was I angry? Crazy? Sunk by those insane feline eyes? Whatever the case – I inverted, Alex pulled on my ankles, and somehow I was in the doorway, upside down, my feet encased in those tortoruous boots, my hands clasped to either side of the doorway. I could feel my bare breasts swaying down, my nipples eyeing the floor. Alex stood in front of me – though standing on the floor, she, too, was inverted. I blinked, looked at her upside down face – her apple cheeks looked plumper but no less appealing. “Now what?” I said. “Now,” and her smile – was this Alex? -- seemed almost devilish. “Now, sweetheart, you hang.” She picked up her pocketbook, the sweater she’d left lying on my couch. “What????????” I nearly screamed, and then regretted it – the aggravation caused my blood to run to my head even more quickly, and my temples began to throb. “It’s no use finding inner peace with someone around,” she responded – was she teasing? – “I have to run home and change anyway. But don’t worry, love, I’ll be back. Until then – remember – relax – concentrate – inner peace.” She bent down – or was it tiptoed up? - tapped her lips on mine, and – with the quiet click of the door – she was gone. 

“Alex?” I whispered. All alone. I could hear the tick of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator – how come I’d never before noticed either? I couldn’t see the clock and, thus inverted, had no real sense of time. How long would she be gone? How long would she leave me – err – hanging? What if my apartment was robbed in her absence? “Wait,” I muttered to myself, “That isn’t very peaceful.” I closed my eyes, tried to think of waterfalls and flowers, sunbeams and open fields. The quiet hum of my apartment’s inner workings soothed me, somehow, and perhaps if it weren’t for the slight torque on my wrists from the handcuffs, I would have slept that way. After an indiscriminate amount of time, the door clicked again – a quiet sound, but one that, in the echo of my apartment’s emptiness, rebounded almost bomb-like. I jumped – or would have jumped, were I not so securely thing-bound. “Alex?” I whispered, suddenly fearful, the brief feeling of peace and well-being evaporating, “Is that you?” Alex appeared in front of me. She had changed all right, though she was still wearing her tight black yoga leggings. She was no longer barefoot, though; her calloused feet were elevated, encased in five inch black heels. There was a rhinestone on each black spike. She wore an abbreviated black top, and I could see her muscles – though inverted – ripple underneath the tight hem. “Wow,” I thought to myself, “So that’s what yoga does . . “ I knew it was Alex, although she was wearing a mask – not a normal, Lone Ranger mask, though, but a sort of winged thing, exaggerated tips above the eyes. This thing, too, bore rhinestones. She carried a bag – yes, you guessed it, black with rhinestones. The rhinestones traced upside down words. “Alex’s toys.”

“Alex?” I whispered, confounded. I could hear the blood pound in my ears. The tick of the refrigerator, the hum of the furnace, were joined by another sound – the ticking of Alex’s heels across the tiled floor. “I think, Kristin, that you better let me talk – for once in your life, you just shut up.” The last two words were enunciated slowly, deliberately, in a loud stage-whisper. “Alex . .” “What did I say Kristin?” From the rhinestone-studded bag, she withdrew a “toy” – a long whip – not a bull-whip, not a cat-o-nine (yes, I had read the appropriate literature), but a scary whip nonetheless. I swallowed hard – given gravity, a rather awkward function. Alex paced in front me. Click, Click. The rhinestones on her heels glittered frighteningly. The heels, the rhinestones, paused. She began to lightly whip my bare legs, than my bare tits. “I understand, Kristin, that you’ve been upset.” “Yes,” I answered, trying and failing to flinch away from the strokes. “I understand you’ve been having some difficulty – finding – peace.” Her words were again slow, deliberate, delivered with a confidence Alex didn’t often express. “Yes,” I answered, and was surprised at the quiver in my own voice. “Just for a few minutes, Kristin, I want you to call me Mistress,” one rather stinging blow to the bare thighs, “And I want you to listen to me.” “Okay, Alex,” I whispered, suddenly a little frightened. The whip – the sting – one more time. “What did you call me?” “Yes, Mistress,” I said. 

Alex walked around the divider, to the kitchen: she was now at my back, and I was denied the advantage of seeing the flashing heels. I could hear them, though, and could hear them pause behind me. Whack. A stinging blow to my ass. I whimpered, tried to move, tried to diminish the sting. “That,” Alex said, in her newly calm voice, “is for this stupid, senseless war we’re about to enter.” I wanted to giggle, but both pain and fear kept me quiet – so this was her release – whipping to cleanse. “Well why not?” I thought, “The Christians had hair-shirts. . “ Before my thought could continue, another stinging blow on my ass. I whimpered. “That is for the Republicans winning control of the Senate.” I could see red against my closed eyelids, and realized two things: my ass was stinging with an almost-glowing warmth, and I was soaking wet. Whack. Another stinging blow, this time to the backs of my poor, inverted thighs, “That is for the absence of any sensible energy policy.” The whippings came faster: Alex was breathing hard, and pausing only to articulate her reason: “That is for the oilmen coming into power,” “That is for the absence of a sensible environmental policy,” “That is for drilling in Alaska,” “That is for the loss of civil rights,” “That is for the loss of abortion rights,” and so it went, as Alex enumerated each disaster, each violation I thought was sure to come. By the end of her rant, there were tears running down (up?) my cheeks and I was pleading with her to let me down -- and suddenly, the problems of the world seemed rather distant. 

Alex held my waist as she unbuckled the handcuffs and the midriff support. Somehow – I don’t know how – she managed to hold me up while releasing the contraption – and then, somehow, I was upright in her arms, and she was leading me to the couch. I was crying, but now silently, when she returned from the kitchen, her mask gone, the high heels off, and a glass of wine in her hands. “Here,” she said, and, after I took a long, deep draught, she kissed my forehead, then my neck, then lay back on the couch, holding me in her arms. I shuddered a little, and then felt the oddest thing – a wave of peace, almost, somehow connected to my stinging ass and my wet pussy – and Alex’s weird but effective cure. “Feel better?” she whispered, her breath whistling into my hair. “I do, you crazy bitch,” I said, and somehow giggled through the tears and the pain. “I knew it,” she said, “I knew it would work.” Then she said something that made me gasp and almost cry again: “Next time you’re naked, though, no thing, no inversion, and no whips. Just you and me – and delicious denial of the rest of the world.” I couldn’t look at her, and hoped she didn’t notice the juicy flow that was now leaking down my thighs. “And you know what else we’re going to do?” “What?” I asked, feeling vaguely childish but unembarrassed. “We’re going to start a Web site – and we’re going to collect every bad thing we can find – on this administration and its nasty policies – and you know what we’re going to call it?” “What?” I asked, dumbly, my voice muffled by her halter-top. 

I could feel her smile against my hair. “We’re going to call it --‘WhiptheRepublicans.com.’”



Tarotica Ch. 13



Chapter 13: Death

A major change is about to take place. Transformation is imminent. The Death card often appears when you are facing significant life events. A situation is coming to an end and a new era is about to occur .– Anthony Louis, Tarot: Plain and Simple

A clearing of the way for new efforts. Abrupt change of the old self. Beginning of a new era. – Stuart R. Kaplan, Tarot Classic

That morning, I saw the article – a shock – and too much of one before the end of one's first a.m. coffee.

I swallowed hard – the brew -- good, strong, and gourmet -- was somehow thick in my mouth. "This should not affect me," I thought, "It's been years." I returned the cup to the table. My hand was shaking, and the paper rattled.

"Man, 30, Dies in Bizarre Train Accident"

that was the headline and, underneath, a picture of Paul. I had no doubt it was he – the years had dimmed some recollections, but not the familiar turn of his face, the dimpled smile, and the hair that curled tenaciously around his collar. "He used to cut that so short," I thought to myself, numbly, "to try to fight those curls." I read on.

"Paul Ribner, 30, the author of several best-selling novels, died yesterday in what authorities are terming an accident. Authorities state that, sometime early Tuesday morning, Ribner somehow fell onto the tracks in front of an oncoming commuter train. Though the engineer attempted to brake, it was impossible to avoid Ribner, who was declared dead at the scene."

I took a deep breath. An accident? Paul was not the kind to fall victim – so to speak -- to accidents. Paul: good-looking, self-assured –a well-known author before his 30th birthday. Paul – dying such a hideous death? That beautiful body – that beautiful face – mangled, crushed, broken by the dreadful rush of an oncoming train? It didn't fit somehow – and the violence of his death – the thought of it -- 

I hadn't ever been able to bring myself to read his work – I did not want to discover myself masked as a character in his almost-gothic, potboiler mysteries. Or perhaps that was vanity – perhaps I wasn't important enough for such a dubious honor. Perhaps I was jealous of Paul's success. We'd both dreamed of being writers; he had succeeded. I, on the other hand, entered the corporate world and, after a purge of "redundant" employees (which included technical writers), I had suffered, as they say, a "reversal of fortune." Now, desperate to save my house and my car – the worn, secondhand furnishings were in no danger: the same with my three cats – I was desperately lacing together a tenuous living through unemployment checks and erratic freelance work. 

I turned to the Obit's. There he was again, smiling, cocky – and, of course, dead. "Paul Ribner, 30, of Spring Grove, died Tuesday. Ribner was a much-loved, best-selling author of several mystery novels. Ribner was known for his willingness to meet his fans and provide autographs. Ribner also read several of his own novels for the audio-taped version of his works, also best-sellers."

"Well," I thought to myself, "The family has to plug him even in death. I'm sure," I thought wryly, "They inherited all his royalties . . ." "Ribner was predeceased by his father, John Ribner. He is survived by his mother, Vivienne, and two sisters, Anne Lawson of Spring Valley and Janine Hughes of Blossom. Contributions may be made to the Paul Ribner scholarship fund . .." 

I closed my eyes, put the diminishing warmth of my cup against my forehead. Paul Ribner. I could still feel the soft of his cheek against mine, and the way we used to fuck – sometimes he was rough and wild, and the two of us challenged each other with escalating foul language. Other times, the night began with a bouquet of roses and wine, and Paul would not let me touch him – he would, instead, suck my throbbing cunt and tits, then lightly tickle my stomach, my ribs, my thighs. I would shiver with goose bumps, but he was always undeterred – on those nights, he would whisper, "There's only you, Kristen," and, already hypersensitive, I would shudder against his lips.

I shook my head. That, though, was long ago. We were both younger – we were college lovers, never with any formal or publicly-acknowledged relationship. Only the stealthy visits to each other's room, only the pretend-vacant glances we traded in college-hallways. . . After graduation, I had gone to work – by that time, Paul's father had died, leaving Paul and his sisters a substantial inheritance. Though it was not to be theirs until after her own death, Paul's mother – always a believer in her son's genius – somehow passed Paul's share on early so he would have only to write. Paul and I exchanged a few hot, teasing letters, and always Christmas cards, and then – you know how it goes – nothing. I hadn't exactly forgotten Paul– hard to, when his books glared garish red from the bookshelves at Wal-Mart. But I had other worries, a different focus – a life I was trying – in vain -- to attack and control. There were times, though, when I dreamt of Paul – when I could hear his low voice and smell a wafting scent of Polo. Sometimes, these dreams were intense – intense enough to make me cum in my sleep, and I would awake, pumping and helpless, against only the sheets.

I no longer had much of a dating life. My live-in boyfriend of three years had recently left, off to marry his high school sweetheart – I didn't know he'd re-discovered her on the Internet. "You understand, don't you Kristen? If anyone would, you would." Schmuck. Sure, sure, I understood – whatever. I understand I want you out of my life. Now.

Then there was the layoff – and then – well, then the daily struggle to stay afloat. I thought of Paul again – of his own realized dreams – of the cleft in his chin and the slight hitch in his walk. When others wore sweat-suits to class, Paul wore – always – dress pants and button-down shirts. Paul was -- always – together: how could he have fallen into an oncoming train? I looked around, at my own threadbare furniture, at the house I just might lose – I put my head on the table and started to sob. For Paul, being dead, and for me, being alive. After a second cup of coffee, I dragged myself back to the computer. I carried the third cup of a necessary caffeine fix. I had three freelancing projects – a brochure, a newsletter, and the editing of a journal article – I had to finish by the end of the day. I rubbed my eyes and turned to the stack of information I had to condense into a sensible, readable newsletter. The computer hummed its wake-up call. I sighed and began to sort. "We are proud to announce that Lloyd Johnson has won employee of the month." Behind me, a sudden rustle. "All right – which one of you is it?" I looked around, wondering which feline was now begging for food. No cats. "Huh," I said, and walked back into the living-room. All were couch-cuddled, sleeping quite happily in a furry, three-cat pool. They'd taken to doing that ever since, for financial reasons, I started keeping the thermostat low. I walked back to the computer room, took a sip of lukewarm coffee, and returned to my document. But – something happened. The dry text of the municipal newsletter began to distance, somehow – I saw it, wavy and strange before me, turning almost into a surreal 60's rock poster. 

I work at home – usually, I wear only a denim shirt and fuzzy slippers as my "professional" clothing. It also makes it easier – at odd, uninspired moments – to masturbate – which I do almost mindlessly, when stuck at some strange linguistic stop. But just then – while my text was swirling into an acid-laced blur -- my legs spread – there was a thought, somewhere in my mind, that I really needed to shave – and I felt a – whoosh – of something entering my cunt. I groaned and my head fell back. I felt the whooshing continue up to my womb, and I bucked against my office chair. I thought it would – Emily Dickinson-like – burst through my brain, explode the top of my head, but instead, I sat bolt upright.

Control N. In front of me, now -- clearly, crisply -- a clean screen. I started to type, and the words were unbidden. "Now, Kristen, it's time to get to work – don't you think? You're much better than dry newsletters and brochures." I shook my head – what the hell? – and returned to my previous document. I admonished myself, a bit ashamed at this strange interruption: "You are going quite mad, Kirsten, and you have work to do. Later, after this newsletter is done – you can reward yourself with a nice cum – your vibrator's been idle for a bit too long, anyway." Control N. "What the hell?" I whispered aloud, and tried to take my hands from the keys. Against my will, they kept typing, the words kept appearing. "Can't you feel me Kristen? Don't you know I'm here? Don't you recognize me? Don't you recognize the touch? Has it been that long? Am I that easily forgotten?"

"Paul," I whispered, "Good Lord – this isn't right – this is so – this just can't be. ." The words continued. "Well, it is me, Sweetheart. I'm glad you haven't forgotten. I never really forgot you, you know – remember that night – when I fucked you down by the lake? It was dark and I had you naked against the metal railing." "Omigod." I whispered and wondered if I was heading for the proverbial author's crack-up. "I know this must seem awfully – well – odd. But here – just to prove it's me. . ." There was the cunt-whoosh again, but this time, the whoosh – the wind – the whatever-it-was – somehow felt like fingers – fingers reaching deep, deep into my cunt and curling – it was a trick of Paul's, and no one had ever been able to finger-fuck me like that. I felt a deep tingle – the tingle of Paul's trick – and I gasped and twisted, and, for a minute, pulled my hands from the keyboard.

"I could stop here," I whispered, "I could walk away from the computer, I could stop, I could pretend this never happened – I need to see a therapist – What am I saying? --I have no insurance –I can't see a therapist. I could go out – I could go – downtown – to the coffee-shop – I could go out for breakfast. . . " I grabbed my coffee cup and walked back to the living room. I stared at the self-satisfied cat-knot. Felix reached one paw out, squinted at me, mewled, then went back to sleep. I returned to the computer. I sat in front of it, took a deep breath, and placed my fingers over the keys. My hands began to fly – the words came sputtering out quickly, more than mechanically. There were no errors, no mis-spellings. 

"I thought you would come back. I know you so well – still." "What do you know?" Was this the way to communicate? To speak to the letters madly scurrying across my screen? "I know you have the ability – and determination – to write – for me. There are things I was not able to finish before I"

My hands paused. The cursor blinked, waiting. "Before you what, Paul?" I whispered.

"Died. There are things I meant to write. But, the potboilers made money. A lot of money, actually, and I'm certain Vivienne is enjoying it now. I'm sure she's disappointed with the chunk I left to the SPCA. But, I digress – there are things one realizes, when one is in-between – much becomes clear. I should have made time – to write – what I meant. I did not. It's in part, I suppose, what led to my death – in some ways, I think, I died after publication of that first, damned, stupid mystery. But I think that's why I'm here – in-between – so that maybe I can finish some business. That's why I'm here – in your computer, so to speak. There are things I want to say – things I should have written – and the only way to do it now is through you." 

"You want to write – through me – from beyond the grave – like automatic writing?" My temples were throbbing into one major migraine. 

"I wish I could chuckle, Kristin, but within this medium, there are limitations. Simply typing "ha ha ha" does not quite do it. "Beyond the grave" is really pretty cliché – and really, I would prefer that you not describe my current state that way. I am, as I said, "in-between." And to explain it – well, I just can't, Kristen. It doesn't make sense when you're mortal –"

I snorted. A ghost and still a snob. "All right, Paul – whatever you prefer. But – you know – if I buy into the fact that this is actually happening – and I'm not sure that I do --- I really don't have a lot of time. I'm nearly destitute – I have cats to feed – and a ton of work I need to do – and work I need to dig up – just to save my house." My captured, tired hands on the keys again:

"You need to make time for this, Kristin. You have to make time for this. I promise you – if you do this – there will be no more worry for you. You will make money – much more than from beating up purple prose for newsletters no one reads. Trust me. I have – well – inside information."

The cunt-whoosh again, and the feel of Paul's long fingers, curling deep in my womb – only somehow so much, so much more intense than when those hands were mortal. I groaned again – my hands were off the keyboards, and reaching for my burning clit. I rubbed it fiercely, and the fingers curled, twisted again. It took, perhaps, five seconds. I came, bucking absurdly in the office chair, gasping, moaning, screaming. The waves receded – I sighed, gathered my shattered body, and placed my hands over the keyboard once more.

"There ARE other advantages."

"Paul," I said, "I can almost hear you chuckle." The next few months were, in a word, strange. I spent the mornings working, writing copy for newsletters and brochures, always finishing, always making deadlines – and yet always distracted. Because after the mornings, there were the afternoons.

Noontimes, I would break for lunch. Then, at 1:00 – when, without fail, the local church bells tolled the exact hour – I would head to the computer – almost, but never really quite, in a trance. I could have broken it – I could have walked away – I could have taken a nap, or played with the cats, or watched daytime television, or done anything else – but I didn't. After lunch, without fail, I was in front of the computer, my hands hovering – expectant – over the keyboard.

And the words poured like rain.

Sometimes, Paul would interrupt the word-tide to speak to me directly. Sometimes, Paul would visit me after dark, after I, stumbling and exhausted, tripped to a bed I never seemed to have time to make. Sometimes, during desperate dreams, the room would cool, and I would awake. "Paul?" I knew he was there – and he would come to me, sometimes with the curl of his trick finger-fuck. Sometimes, I could feel his shadow-weight, and his shadow-cock deep, impossibly deep, inside me. Those nights, I would scream with pain, shame, and delight – and would cum, again and again, against the sheets – and against a weight I could not name nor hold. Sometimes, those nights, there was a waft of Polo and a faint touch on my cheek. Once, I smelled roses. 

Together, Paul and I wrote two full-length collections of poems, a novel, and a series of essays. If I told you the titles – of those who allegedly wrote the poetry, the fiction, the non-fiction – you would recognize them. Together, Paul and I chose pen names for each genre. I didn't know what was going to happen – who would publish this mountain of work – didn't yet know the point of the (quite literal) extra-human effort it took to produce the manuscripts that piled, unread, next to my possessed computer. One day, after one last poem, I forced my hands from the keyboard, leaned my head against the cool computer screen, and sobbed. 

I swear I felt hands, gently massaging my back. 

With Paul's help, I found a publisher – I could recount that tale, but the details are mostly dull. With Paul's help, I knew what to say. With Paul's help, I created a pitch, and somehow, somehow, the work was published and sold – and sold like proverbial hotcakes. The royalty checks – and the fan mail – began to arrive. My house was saved, my car secure, and – for just one night – the cats enjoyed a steak dinner.

That part – those days – are still rather hazy for me. But one morning I woke – after an almost-depressing deep night of velvet sleep: no dream lovers, no dream ghosts – and felt a strange touch of clarity. That afternoon, no words appeared under my expectant fingers. There was no scent of roses, no whiff of cologne, no sudden temperature changes. Both relieved and disappointed, I left the house. I had lunch, then coffee, then ventured to the local bookstore. There, in the poetry section, I found one of our collections – it was listed as an "employees' selection." There, in the non-fiction section, I found our essays – it was shelved at the front of the racks, "best-seller" written proudly underneath. I read some of the reviews printed on its cardboard stand: "Inspirational. Profound. A necessary voice." There, in the fiction section, I found our novel. I picked it up, feeling the surprising weight of the text, and ran my raptured hand over the slick cover. I turned it over and read the back-cover reviews. "Destined to become a classic. An amazing new voice. Written with passion and conviction."

"Oh, you don't know passion and conviction," I muttered to myself. I felt the sting of tears, and couldn't answer the employee who asked me whether I needed help. I shook my head and scurried home.

I went to the bedroom, undressed, and lay down, enjoying the slight breeze from the open window, but also feeling the disappointment that the breeze was not Paul. I reached for my vibrator, felt the solid whir of it – intense and satisfying – against my palm – then applied it to my clit. I felt the inner spring start to uncoil, the warmth radiating from my toe-tips. I imagined Paul, tried to call him up – One last time, Paul, what do you say? I imagined him, walking into my room, dressed to the nine's, walking with his odd slight hitch, his dimples flashing. I imagined him whirling into a Paul-vortex, a spin of colors and Polo cologne, and then I imagined sucking him into my now-pulsing cunt. Whoosh. And then - there it was – Paul's by-now distinctive cunt-probe. His fingers – if one can call them that – were inside me – deep, deep, I swear almost to my throat. I moaned and came, bucking violently against my vibrator. There was no rest though; I could feel his ghostly cock penetrating my over-sensitive cunt and gasped, then twisted, but I could not get away. He – Paul – whatever – fucked me while my legs were somehow held high over my head, my ass almost off the covers, my head rocking back and forth in what was not quite protest. My breath was ragged, my thighs sore from the extreme position. I don't know how long it lasted – I don't even know if I was conscious through the entire episode – but I swear I felt something inside me I hadn't felt in our previous, ghost-fucking encounters. This time, I felt something pulse wetly inside me, spurt into my womb, soaking, it seems, my internal organs.

This time, Paul came in me. 

After, I slept – again – the deep dreamless sleep of exhaustion. I awoke to darkness and panicked mewlings for food. On the way back from the kitchen, after the cat-feast, I stopped in the computer room. A not-quite blank screen. "Thank you."

"No, Paul," I whispered, "Thank you." I touched my belly. There was no losing now – there we were – together, powerful, inside me. I – and the essence of Paul that had so-soaked me internally – would keep writing. 

But next time, I would use my own name. 



Tarotica Ch. 14



Tarotica 14: Temperance

Moderation. Self-restraint. Blending. Fruitful combination. Artistic creation. Compatibility. A balanced expression of sexuality. Nothing in excess. Issues of prudence versus excesses in behavior, including sexual activity, may be on your mind. 

Anthony Louis, Tarot: Plain and Simple

Possibly too temperate and moderate to achieve a goal presently out of reach and requiring considerable aggressiveness. 

Stuart R. Kaplan, Tarot Classic

When I think of him – of Wesley – I think of his oddities: his height, for one. He was 6’8” and rail-thing gaunt. He loved kittens. Somewhere, I still have a picture of him, a litter of kittens gathered against his bare, concave chest. Wes gathered odd sayings in leather-bound books he made himself. He collected quotes from everywhere – newspapers, literature, every-day conversations (I contributed a few myself). His sense of humor was bare-toast dry. There was something quixotic about him – eventually, I believe, he became a social worker, fully aware of the long hours, low pay, and eventual burn-out. For some reason, what doesn’t occur to me right away – only after I think or talk about him for a few minutes – is the fact that Wesley had one sexual quirk. Temperate in all things – I never knew him to drink nor take drugs – Wes’s sexual credo allowed him to do “everything but.” This meant heavy petting, passionate kissing, oral stimulation, and finger-fucking – but Wesley drew the line at penetration and ejaculation. For Wesley, there was absolutely no p and e.

I met Wes at the mall, of all places – so cliché, for teenage rendezvous. I didn’t mean to, though – didn’t mean to meet anyone. I was hanging out with friends – for us, going to the local “big” town (population 70,000) was a treat, a day out in the rarified, cosmopolitan air of the real world. The three of us were huddled over an arcade-game – I can see us – I was wearing my letter-jacket, a recently earned trophy. Diane was wearing no coat, just an over-sized sweater and tight-fitting jeans (narrow at the ankle, 80’s style), and Suzanne was wearing a sweater and a loose windbreaker. We were awed and excited, huddled over a video game, which (innovative at the time and not without its technical glitches) actually used video – with actors and everything. It was a Western-theme game, with girls in petticoats, dusty towns, and mean gunslingers. Our voices ringing in high-school-girl key, we pumped continual quarters into the ever-hungry slot. We attracted some attention, I guess – at any rate, there were Wes and his friend, standing behind us, laughing too, but looking not at the video screen, but at us.

I remember, from that first time, Wes’s height and his cleft chin. He was handsome in a rugged way, a way hard for a teenage girl to recognize. I know I didn’t, anyway. At the time, I was in an “on” period with my on-again, off-again boyfriend – I had to feign indifference. Somehow, though, we all talked and laughed. Somehow, we exchanged phone numbers and addresses. Somehow, Wes and I started a correspondence that would probably have sent my proper Catholic mother into cardiac arrest.

I was always sexual – my friends and I were open and tolerant, telling each other everything, judging nothing – we talked about feeling horny and fucking in cornfields. (One day, we drove by a field that lay in direct proximity to the house where Suzanne’s boyfriend lived. Dreamily, she looked out the car window and muttered, “There’s a lot in that field – used condoms – tampons – dirty underwear.”) Perhaps it was that shared sexual honesty that led to Wes and I –flirting – in our correspondence. Oh, perhaps “flirting” is not the correct term. I probably still have those letters – sometime, I should dig them up. Perhaps it was growing up in the frozen Minnesota north that made us all so randy – perhaps it was a revolt against the repression and violent conformity for which the Midwest is notorious – but those letters – those letters – 

I can’t remember the contents entire, though I do remember something about sucking jelly off each other’s toes – and something about eating crackers off each other’s bellies – we tried to trump each other with new sexual absurdities. I shared these letters with Suzanne and Diane, and we would laugh and try to top the latest kink that came through the mail. Honey? Well – how about bathtubs of Jello? Nudity? How about oral sex with a German Shepherd? Got excited watching your cats fuck? Let me tell you about how I felt when the pigs were getting it on . . and so it went. I did not see Wes – we didn’t date – but, through the postal service, we spiraled together in this mutual, crazed, linguistic orgy. I was surprised to learn that Diane found Wes sexy. I would send each letter out, hopped up with a wonderful, heady mix of guilt, excitement, and dizzying adolescent almost-sex. When Wes’s letters came, I would retreat to my room, trying not to run. Behind a closed door, I would smother my guffaws. Here was fun, here was danger, here was something new. Here was something my mother, my sisters, my father, could never, ever read. And here was my cunt, getting wet and smelling oh so good.

Finally, one summer, Wes and I did start to date. Funny – how we exchanged such letters, and yet we were not embarrassed nor ashamed when we did go out. In part, it may have been – as odd as it sounds – the innocence of youth. In part, it may have been that there was no guessing. We knew what we were. We were kinky bastards.

But we were Midwestern. And, hanging like a palpable cloud, there was always, always, that damned, incessant demand for conformity.

My mother loved Wes. To her, he was a gentleman. He brought her gifts and sometimes kissed her on the cheek. He was, too, a perfect gentleman to me. It was while we were dating that I discovered his true quirks – his sexual limits, for one. I tried to ask him about that – it was, he indicated, part of his religious code. It puzzled me – Wes could do, as I’ve said, everything but. But somehow that didn’t count – somehow, that didn’t violate his own religious creed, his own set limits. He was saving himself, he said, for marriage. And, thinking back, I am almost certain that Wes wanted to marry me. 

Perhaps that’s, as it were, jumping the gun.

Wes was insatiably curious about women’s bodies – a fact I only appreciated in retrospect. At the time, his almost-clinical examinations of me sometimes made me cringe. I remember one date -– we actually did romantic things on our dates – I think that day we’d gone for a walk on a local hiking trail, and then lay by a creek and watched the clouds (and I’m not making that up). After, we went to Wes’s home – a denizen of a zillion cats and his patient, tolerant mom. No one was home. We went down to the basement – I sat on his lap. It was wet-moist, Midwestern humid hot, and I was wearing shorts and the briefest of tops. I remember the distant whirring sound of late summer cicadas and the damp, mildewed smell of the basement. We were kissing, and Wes was running his hands inside my shirt, over my small breasts, which rose, eager, to his fingertips. Eventually, his hands were down my shorts. Then the shorts were off. Then, I was sitting on the chair and Wes was in front of me, licking, licking – and then he stopped. He was prying me open with his long fingers, looking intently inside my vagina, running his fingers over my labia, up to my clit. “Where do you pee?” he said. 

As I said, it took me a while to appreciate his interest.

Still, that summer dragged on – there were other guys, other “dates,”, but Wes was the most consistent, the most prominent, the most interesting. We went camping with his brother, who vaguely disapproved of Wes and I sleeping together in our own little tent. I don’t remember what I told my mother, but I do remember Wes’s feet, cartoon-like, sticking out of the end our pup tent, too small to contain Wes’s tall. It rained, but he didn’t care. I remember a wedding dance, and the mashing that followed – passionate necking, passionate caressing, passionate fondling – but no passionate p and e. I remember driving home together – from somewhere – and Wes, never shy about his requests, unzipped his pants and asked for a hand job. Though I’d had substantial sexual experience by that time, its diversity was quite limited – I think that was the first time I ever gave anyone a hand job. I remember my hand pumping on Wes’s long, skinny member, watching it, amazed, get purple and engorged as Wes moaned, but kept both a steady eye and a steady path. The flat, summery Midwestern landscape moved by – Wes moaned loudly – once – and then there was white froth all over my hands and the top of his pants. Before that, I had taken cum in either my cunt or my mouth – I’d never seen the silly stuff. 

Silently, I watched Wes, one hand still on the steering wheel, adjust his pants and ask me to pass him some tissues from the glove compartment. Wes was nothing if not prepared. He turned to me, smiled, and said, “Thanks.” I nodded, feeling cheated somehow – I felt, once again, as if I was an experiment – a prelude to an experience I would never get to realize. 

Still, it was a good summer – full of Wes and sex and weird comic moments. I don’t remember how we broke up – I think I returned to an “on again” phase with the boyfriend who kept popping up. Anyway, Wes’s kisses were starting to taste a bit like wash-rags, and his bones were starting to feel a bit too thin under my teenage hands. Besides, I wanted fuck – and I wasn’t getting it. I went to school. Wes began to date someone else.

One day, very late in my last semester as a senior in college, I got a letter. It was from Wes. In it, he said he thought, somehow, that we would always get back together. He asked me if we could see each other, when I returned home. I wrote back, said yes – and then, just a few months later, had to call Wes and tell him that no, no we couldn’t – I wouldn’t be home this last summer, but rather – well, rather – married. I’d met the man of my dreams, I said, and would be marrying him in just a few weeks. Wes’s tone changed. “I’d still like to see you,” I said, “As friends.” “Yeah,” he answered, and I knew it would never happen.

And it didn’t.

In four short years, I divorced the man of my dreams. I hear from my mother – it’s a small town, and somehow or another we are related to Wes by marriage – that he is married now, and living somewhere in Nebraska.

When I think about Wes, I think about that sticky, sweltering summer and his insatiable curiosity and curious temperance. I wonder if he still loves leather-bound, homemade quote books – I wonder if he still loves kittens – I wonder about his final, fulfilling experience – what happened to Wes, after that long-awaited charge, leading up to the ultimate sexual explosion. Did he lose himself? Did he want it? Or did he watch, bemused, at the final culmination of his own grand experiment?