I can’t say why other modern writers have turned their backs on Eros, but I can guess, because facing her head-on made me pretty nervous at first. Barbara Kingsolver
Archives for the month of: April, 2007
Getting off lightly
Henry sips his beer, he’s sitting too close to me. We’re both married, but not to each other. It’s his brother’s house and we’re there for different reasons. Sitting there in the dark Joburg night, the air still wet from the earlier rain, I feel as though I’ve stepped back twenty years to a place that still tugs at me.
My pregnant body tingles at his proximity. I can’t drink beer or whisky. I would love to, but I’m disciplined. The bench is hard and my lower back aches. My arms are bare and even though the air is cool I’m overheating. There is an engine inside me building my baby.
He tells me about his father in the hospital and how worried he is. Behind us we can see the lights from the house and the flickering TV – the boys are watching. We talk quietly, comfortable with the silences. It gets later and later. I should go to bed. I’ve been very tired. His presence enlivens me, his familiar eyes and laugh lines, the angle of his jaw, his body. I long to sit even closer, to touch him. I resist the overwhelming urge. I am able to resist.
“We’d better go in. I must go to bed, I’ll be shattered tomorrow.” We stand up and without saying anymore, we embrace each other. I feel his hand, hot and firm on my back, his chest hard against my belly which pushes into him. I might catch fire. He puts a hand to my head, holding me close and feeling the texture of my hair. I want to pull away, I want to pull in closer. I want to scream, I want to weep. He holds me a little longer and then as if we had both agreed, he lets me go and we walk towards the light. Our bodies are thrumming with life.
The embrace released me from the years of missing him, yearning for him. We go to our separate beds. He is out in the garden cottage. I’m sleeping inside in Ernie’s bed, on the bottom bunk. The room is dark, I don’t switch on the lights. I can see his collection of bears in the gloom. One by one I put them on the armchair in the corner, take off my clothes and naked climb into bed. I manoeuvre myself, pillow between my knees, and cradle my large belly. We could have gone to bed together. We could have been naked together, slept with each other. No-one would have known. I could still go. But I don’t and later I’m both sorry and relieved.
I don’t ask him the next day if he would have welcomed me into his bed. I don’t want to know. I want to believe he was disappointed.
The next day he takes me to Tempest Car Hire at the Rosebank Hotel. We drive the back way through the leafy streets of Saxonwold, so quiet, so like a forest, except for the high walls. After that night we weren’t alone again in the same way, but it was okay. I’d gotten off lightly.
Rose
She seizes me, merciless, drawing blood, each scratch burning acid on my skin. Ah, my toxic Rose. I curse you. But I have loved you too, when your heavy blooms hang their summer heads, broadcasting delicate perfume on subtle evening breezes.
I’ve learnt now. I talk to her before I begin. I tell her, Rose, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to clear the weeds from your stem. Don’t bite me, don’t hold me. I don’t need your warnings. I understand that this patch of garden belongs to you, your aphids, your rose spiders, your thorns.
I touch her silken petals with my little finger, gently, loving her. I watch her buds as they curl, unfurl, from shy bloom to full blown rose. Each slow opening takes me deeper into her heart, until she lies before me, defenceless, luscious, ripe. Crab spiders sit crosswise in the heart of her flowers, waiting, precisely poised, for a victim. Ladybirds climb her stems, hunting aphids as they perambulate. They guard her, ladies for a woman. Sometimes I have to help, so I take a hose, cup her buds in my hand and soak the furry covering of aphids in a stream of water. They fall, writhing, in my hand, and then drip earthwards. I take every bud between my thumb and finger and roll it, stroking it while the water runs, sliming aphids and returning each tightly closed rose to pink glory. One by one, they flower, briefly, gloriously. Then the edges of the petals curve and curl, begin to brown, fray, and drop one by one, although the heart remains stubbornly alive to the end.
Sometimes I cut them away so that new blooms return. But as the days grow shorter I leave them to become rose hips, round, rosy and plump, bearing a cargo of useless seeds. When winter rains fall cold and hard, her leaves shrivel and brown, falling to join the soil. Perhaps her fruit will flavour my tea with a deep tart redness that tickles my palate and warms my throat. But winter calls for new beginnings.
Then I take out my clippers, test the edge with my thumb, wait for a break in the cloud, and go out to talk to her. Rose, I say, this will make you strong and beautiful again. I’m doing it out of love for you, not to harm you. Be gentle with me, Rose, and I’ll be gentle too.
I cut nervously, gingerly, aware of her thorns, hooked to catch and hold me. If she traps me, I can’t escape. First I have to go closer, gently, quietly. Then pause and look and while blood wells and skin smarts. Then, thorn by thorn, I free myself from her grasp. Ah Rose. Perhaps this year I’ll pull you out, roots and all. Or perhaps I’ll try again to become your friend.
The Birth
She trusts you implicitly. She looks at you knowing that you will understand as one female to another what she is about to experience.
She becomes agitated seeking a safe place, scratching to make a nest. At last she is satisfied and lies down in her whelping box . Her sides begin to heave. She pants and her eyes glaze over with pain. She groans and a small black ball is pushed out from the birth canal. It is covered in a film which the mother licks away, exposing a black satin coat and eyes tightly shut to the world.
Her first puppy. She is so proud and looks for recognition but is too preoccupied with the birthing of the next puppy to wag her tail.
The miracle of life stirs deep feelings within you. You cradle this soft, warm bundle, so fragile, so fragrant, in the palm of your hand.
Playing with Fire
Your brother, my lover, has left for the night. Back home to his wife. The relationship has been limping along for too long anyway. I take my time cashing up. The restaurant is fuggy. A dying fire spits the occasional ember onto the tiled patch in front of it. I sit at the bar and watch you. Always so comfortable. Confident. Sexy. Different around me. Less defensive. You have always been able to make me laugh. I remember the first time I met you. A schoolgirl crush. I opened our front door and nearly died. You were the sexiest thing I had ever seen. I was fifteen. I ran downstairs and smeared myself with makeup – trying to conceal adolescent spottiness in the hopes that you would think me older and more sophisticated. I glued myself to your side for the rest of the day. Subtlety has never been my forte.
I know you suspect about your brother and I. It only happened once. A hideous mistake that resulted in so many tangled feelings and unresolved emotions for both of us. Our fathers went to school together, you are both part older brother and part anything but…
You are so out of my league. You are the only person who has never made a hint of a move on me. I know how to pick up vibes and you are sending me mixed signals. I watch you wash glasses. Your forearms are bronzed from the golf course. I notice the tiny golden hairs on your arm and long to stroke them. You are always immaculately dressed. Long blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. You have an easy smile that not many people get to see. When you smile at me my stomach lurches. Are you aware of what I’m feeling? Am I still the crass, obvious fifteen year old?
I can’t put off leaving any longer. I pick up my bag and head for my car. You follow me out. The moon is bright – casting an eerie glow over my flame orange Mazda. I open my door and stand staring at you, reluctant to get in. Hoping that after seven years, you will finally make a move. My heart is thudding. The roar of adrenaline in my ears stops me from hearing you. I realize that you are telling me that you have been secretly following me home for a while to make sure that my ancient wreck gets me there safely. Either that’s taking brotherly love to the extreme or you are not as disinterested as you seem.
This is so awkward. I can’t stand here like this forever. I have to get into the car. You ask me how it feels to always have guys buzzing around me like flies. I tell you that it doesn’t matter a damn when the one man I want doesn’t seem to notice me. You look at me and smile. You step closer and look deeply into my eyes. I lick my lips nervously. You pull me out from behind my car door and kiss me. Softly and full of tenderness. This surprises me. You can appear so cold and aloof, it’s disconcerting to get a glimpse of the true man. You rest your hand on the back of my neck and press yourself up against me. I am lost.
We break away from each other and over your shoulder I watch your brother drive past. Furious anger spitting from his eyes. War has just been declared.
Can this be Love?
The lights in the club were dim, giving no more than a little glow; just a few candles in bottles and one or two wall lamps with low wattage bulbs. But people weren’t there to read or even to look at one another, they were there for the music- sensuous, sensual jazz floating and insinuating itself into the bodies of the dancers. Some were dancing alone, moving unselfconsciously to the tunes; some were humming softly, one girl was singing into a “mock” mike and the others at a nearby table were entranced.
It was Jane’s first visit to this club with Geoff. They’d met two or three days earlier and since then, had hardly been out of each other’s company. He dances divinely, she thought. The saxophones crooned and the drums swished and shooshed. The rhythm and the melody took hold of her and she moved with Geoff as if they were one person. He bent over her and then pulled her upright, let her go for a twirl away from him and then drew her back again. They looked into each other’s eyes, and she rested her head against his shoulder, he kissed her hair, then bent to kiss her neck and they danced and moved to the music.
Suddenly a whitish flash moved across the floor. Geoff pushed her away and ordered her to sit.
“ Don’t say anything. I must go out for a minute.”
Jane was puzzled, confused and suddenly sad. She also felt foolish sitting alone. The music didn’t seem so seductive and the club seedy rather than enthralling. Where could he have gone? How would she get home? This was unfamiliar territory and the excitement of the earlier part of the evening was now replaced by a sense of danger. Geoff came back to her, muttering something about White Snow. She was alarmed and wondered if he had a cocaine habit.
“Sorry about that,” he said, but offered no other explanation. “Let’s go to my place, it’s not far from here.”
She smiled: it was all going to be OK. And he was sexy, charming and smiling again.
She hadn’t been to his flat. What would it be like?
It was a typical bachelor pad, not unlike her own, small, fairly comfortable, minimal furniture (without being minimalist, she thought wryly.) She’d often thought that about her own flat. I suppose one has to be really rich to live in what looks like expensive poverty. But what was different about this place was that there was a balcony high up, looking down onto a garden four, floors down. It gave the room, even in the dark, a look of extra spaciousness.
They were drinking wine when Jane felt something moving near her legs. She dropped her glass and the wine spilled on the carpet. “Damn,” she muttered, “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, this is White Snow,” Geoff said, lifting up a large white cat and nuzzling its fur. “Isn’t she just beautiful?”
Jane didn’t like cats, was in fact rather afraid of them, but felt that saying anything adverse would spoil the mood of the evening.
Early next morning Jane woke and moved cautiously out of bed. She put on one of Geoff’s T-shirts and went to the kitchen to make coffee. Geoff didn’t stir and Jane looked at his sleeping form. He’s just so gorgeous. I think I’m in love. She still didn’t know him well enough, but felt safe enough to take certain risks. If it weren’t for the cat everything would be perfect. Perhaps his mother or his brother can take it…
Everything else was perfect: him, herself and the new confidence she was developing in making love with Geoff. “Here’s coffee…’ she started. Can I call him Darling yet? “Darling…” she said. This must be bliss: coffee in bed the next morning with your lover. It was Saturday, they didn’t have to hurry or get to work.
***
It was getting late and Jane was already in the flat. She found the novelty of living here with her man – her man, my man, she would say to Esther, her friend at work – and thinking of it as home, even after two months, exciting. It had been quite an upheaval for Jane to move there, but she did agree that it was a bit bigger than her own flat and the gardens seen from the balcony was a real bonus.
Geoff opened the door.
“Sorry I’m late my little darling,” he said and kissed her. “My little girl,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair as he’d taken to doing. Jane wasn’t sure how much she liked the diminutives and he also used similar words when he spoke to the cat. The cat had stayed.
“Not negotiable,” he’d said. “Mum’s in a retirement complex where they don’t allow animals and my brother’s in Australia. No, White Beauty stays here.”
“I thought its name was White Snow.”
“HER name, not its name!”
He spoke quite sharply. “But it’s all the same: she’s my White Beauty, Snow Baby.”
“Where’s Daddy’s love then?” he called. The large white cat sauntered inside from the balcony.
“I’m going to have a shower,” and he picked up the cat and placed it on his shoulders.
Is he going to wash the blasted animal?
Ten minutes later, showered, changed into casuals, he came into the sitting room, with the cat draped across his shoulders like a fur.
Doesn’t he realize how hot it is?
He mumbled baby words into the cat’s fur and nuzzled it. He was doing that to me a few weeks ago, and I loved it. Now it makes me feel sick.
“How about some drinks sweetie?”
Does he mean for me or for the cat?
“They’re ready on the balcony table, darling,” she said. “I’ll get some snacks.”
Do cats always land on their feet when they fall? She looked down four storeys to the garden as she placed bowls of olives and pretzels on the tables.
Parting
The naked prawns lay in a bath of creamy melted butter, redolent of garlic, lemon and herbs. The rising mists of the rich sauce teased her senses and the fleshy pink of the prawns resembled fat pinkies elegantly curled in anticipation.
“This will revive the spirits,” she thought as she moved towards the table.
He was toying with his glass of wine, silently contemplating the careful details of the table.
To the strains of a violin concerto she moved slowly in rhythm with the music and as she laid the dish before him she gently nudged him.
“Eat – things aren’t that bad,” she laughed –“enjoy this whilst you can – in a few days you’ll be in the desert and this may be the last really good meal you have for a long time.”
He looked up at her – taking in her smiling face and her relaxed demeanour. To others’ eyes this would be a romantic dinner, yet here they were, two old friends who had never been lovers, celebrating a parting – a completion of this cycle of friendship. Theirs was an idyllic relationship – no physical entanglement to confuse the senses but a complete understanding of each other’s needs – friends who had a history of more than 30 years. Across continents, between marriages, as children grew up, uncomplicated their lives had melded and parted like the waves of the many oceans that had separated them over the years.
She raised the juicy pinkness to her mouth, crunching softly, allowing the butter to spill down her chin, lying in glistening jewels against her skin. He reached across to wipe them away and his gentle finger lingered, tracing the butter jewels and moving up to her cheek to lie against the curve of her cheekbone. She raised her hand to cover his in a womblike embrace releasing him from the guilt of parting.
“We’ll always be friends,” he countered to her unspoken comment, “you are my anchor – always here, smiling and welcoming. I will be back.”
She touched his arm and in that moment felt the current of sensuality flow between them. A ripple of warmth spread through her body.
A tightness in her throat allowed her only to nod as she felt his fingers move slowly back down her face to cup her chin.
In tune, they knew that they would be together long after the last lover had closed the door, and even as the tides of parting rushed towards her the moment was complete.
In Fish Hoek Library
The first thing I notice are his hands.
I’m observing this tendency in myself lately – attention to body parts, and what I do or don’t like about them. I have a list of things I couldn’t possibly tolerate in a man … No matter how good-looking or charming he were, I couldn’t bear to come too close to one with wet lips. I would immediately think ‘slobbery’ – no frame of mind to be in prior to closer contact. There are other details on my list, but I can’t for the life of me remember a single one of them.
He is holding a book. Skimming, flicking the pages. I watch his long fingers, the glint of fine blonde hair. The tendons at wrist and thumb stand out in ridges. His hands are smooth-skinned, and very brown. How finely grained his skin is, but I’m sure his palms are hard, even calloused. I have him pegged immediately, as someone who uses his hands in the work he does every day.
I was wrong in that, as it turned out – the work he did, I mean – but right in thinking that his hands would not be soft.
Balancing a stack of books against the shelf, I slot a Kingsley Amis into its space. I stand close to him, so close I can smell him, and realise with delight that what I smell is the hot odour of unscented skin. All I want is to move nearer, but instead I shift my gaze to what I can see of his arms. Here the hair is thicker, and slightly darker.
I stand there watching him, learning him bit by bit, and then he clears cleared his throat and asks, ‘Have you read this?’
We laughed later, over his pick-up line, but all I was aware of then was how much I liked the sound of his voice.
I glance quickly at the jacket cover, wishing, hoping I’ll know the title and have something fascinatingly intelligent to say.
‘No,’ I say, ‘I haven’t.’ I move further down the shelf, and find myself looking stupidly at a Maya Angelou. Although I am no longer inside the magic circle of close contact, I might as well be. My skin is alive – sparks could shoot between us – and the air so electric it seems to crackle. Clichés, I realise, are clichés for a very good reason.
I want to reach out and put my hand over his, just to feel the warmth of his skin. I look away, down at the stack of returned books and thank God for new and interesting acquisitions. At the top of the pile is a book I’ve heard people talking about – The Edible Woman by Margaret Atwood. I take a step towards him, and hold it out. ‘I’ve heard this is good,’ I say.
And even to my own ears, my voice is ragged, husky.
‘You growled at me,’ he said, afterwards.
He had the smile of a swashbuckler. She had hoped all night that he would dance with her. At last he came and they clicked like the opposite poles of a magnet.
“You are a good dancer I have been told,” he said.
“Oh – but a tango! I have not danced those too often.”
They took their position. He held her perhaps a bit too tightly, she thought; she did not mind. The band struck up. At the sound of the first note he drew her even closer to himself.
They started dancing in tune with the staccato rhythm, swaying gently, turning abruptly. She became aware of his body’s bonding, down from the arms to the taut muscles of his abdomen and thighs. His long step invaded the space between her legs, exerting pressure. A thrill ran up her spine. His hand in the hollow of her back slid slowly lower until it cupped her seat.
Her focus changed from the insinuating tune of the tango to his very presence. Every time she turned her head, she felt his hot breath fanning her face. Pearls of sweat formed between her breasts. Her erect nipples bored into his broad chest.
Sway, turn, rub, pressure – she did not want it to stop. They did not speak, only their eyes held a dialogue of mounting desire.
Nick
Thick black curls and a button nose, that’s what I noticed as I scanned the hundreds of students in my HDE group. Wow! My heart tumbled into my stomach as he turned to look back…(at me?) and I saw deep brown eyes, behind dark-rimmed glasses. I was smitten! I slid into a seat and tried to focus on the lecturer. My half-hearted note taking trickled to an end as the meridian break came. When the students stood en masse and made their way up the stairs to the two back doors, I tried to spot him in the crowd.
I ambled along to the shuttle bus-stop hoping to bump into him somehow. The Mowbray stop came up and I swung my rugsack onto my shoulder (and started the walk home to my digs). I kicked some stones along the way, wondering who he was and what his name was. Just as I was about to turn up into my street I heard someone’s step quicken behind me. I knew before I turned that it was him. As he caught up with me a shiver moved from the top of my spine down into my tummy.
“Do you have a kettle?”
I nodded , then giggled. What an opening line! He fell into step beside me and we walked up the steep hill together. Being so close to him unnerved and excited me and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. When we reached my flat, I fumbled with the key and eventually managed to turn it and push the door open with my knee. He held it open and quietly, confidently, stepped over the threshold.
While the tea brewed, he pulled himself up onto the kitchen counter and swung his legs. I was so aware of him that all I could do was busy myself with setting out cups and pouring tea.
As I brushed past him to reach for the sugar, he grabbed the pocket of my jeans and tore off the BOSS logo.
“I’ve been dying to do that all day!” he said, as he placed his big hands on either side of my waist.
No breath
Purple. Dark deep glimmers of velvet. It is a velvet glance that caresses the eyelashes. Slowly, one by one they shiver, eyes widen and tease the delicate fluff behind the neck. The hair quivers down the spine setting all hair atremble. The dark shiny hairs on my arms reach out towards him grazing his skin.
His eyes respond, leaping over the abyss of longing and pouring over my lips. Liquid cherry promise. Saliva fills my mouth, leaving my throat dry. Parched. I swallow. Look away from the next instant, which draws towards me on a black stallion, tearing through the branches. Its breath hot and dripping, nostrils flared. It is wet and parched with longing. It draws out the moment between the breath. Poised like a beast above me, waiting. I am the beast, and he, the beast above poised to ravish me with his next glance, he is merely my prey. Juicy, tender, waiting for me to glance back through the instant.
A flick of my lashes and the moment is gripped on the wrist, my wrist, between his fingers. Warm, long fingers. Smooth golden skin draws the longing towards my fingertips in a slow caress. Fingers flutter and slowly respond. There is no breath left between us. Slowly desire draws down into my thighs, hot pulsing, they quiver as he strokes another finger, all the way down to my wrist. His eyes, naked now, undress my lips, closer, ever closer. There is no more breath left between us. The moment will yield and let me through. Hands held tightly, our lips touch. Slowly they taste each other. Tongues flicker, wet, warm, hesitant. They embrace in a sensuous dance. Darting, leaping, caressing, drawing out each other’s scent. Eyes drown in the pools of their reflection. We sink into one another until there is no breath left between us.
“Huuuuuhhh!”
Charlotte heaves a deep sigh of relief. Eric, her brother- in-law is no longer with them. He has finally found a job and moved out of their small two-bedroomed flat. Not that she dislikes him, but since he has left the countryside and has been staying with them, he has somehow become the rival for her husband’s undivided attention. The weekends are the worst because he spends four to five hours with his brother, visiting friends or sharing a few drinks with him. He seems to have forgotten about her, which angers her from time to time. Complaining is not helping. Her husband keeps telling her that she will be included in their outings, but nothing materialises.
I’m having him back to myself this evening, she thinks. She intends to make a nice but quick supper in order to have a long chat with him before bedtime.
In no time, the kitchen is steaming with his favourites: spicy stewing beef and sizzling onions and potatoes, and grilled maize. When everything is ready, she reads the newspaper, whiling time away.
When he comes, she is all smiles. She throws her arms round his shoulders and slips the bag in which he carries his lunch off his arm and puts it away. When she comes back she asks: “What can I get you, coffee or tea?”
“A glass of water,’ he replies.
“I guess you were not lucky with taxis today,” she says.
Holding his head between his hands, he remains silent for a while, then bangs on the small table in front of him and shouts: “All my reports are overdue, I don’t know what to do! The huge amount of work, the poor money! This isn’t
worth the stress.”
“I wish I could find a way to help you,” she says sympathetically.
He glances at the clock on the wall. Time for the news. He turns the radio on and tries hard to listen. Clearly, his mind is wandering miles away. Charlotte serves supper which is eaten hastily and quietly. No sign of affection, not a single compliment about the food. Charlotte does not know where to start to brighten him up.
“I’m going straight to bed,” he says. Minutes later, he is sleeping like a corpse.
Charlotte feels warm tears running down her cheeks. It’s not her brother-in-law; it’s not stress. Something is wrong. Their love is gathering dust. It needs polish urgently.
The Birth
She trusts you implicitly. She looks at you knowing that you will understand as one female to another what she is about to experience.
She becomes agitated seeking a safe place, scratching to make a nest. At last she is satisfied and lies down in her whelping box . Her sides begin to heave. She pants and her eyes glaze over with pain. She groans and a small black ball is pushed out from the birth canal. It is covered in a film which the mother licks away, exposing a black satin coat and eyes tightly shut to the world.
Her first puppy. She is so proud and looks for recognition but is too preoccupied with the birthing of the next puppy to wag her tail.
The miracle of life stirs deep feelings within you. You cradle this soft, warm bundle, so fragile, so fragrant, in the palm of your hand.
My Princess
It’s still dark and the morning air is nippy. I step on the loose sleeper step, wood on wood; do not want the echo to wake the others sleeping in the rooms below. I push the door into the soft, suedy curtain.
“Good morning My Angel,” I say, closing the door behind me. I creak across the wooden floor.
“Uh,” Kayla moans.
The room is cold. She keeps the window next to her open behind the curtains. I pull back her covers, push her over and climb into the three-quarter bed next to her. Warm. She’s warm, relaxed, heavy in sleep. I put my arm around her and spoon into her. She needs a shower to wash away the odours of young womanhood. I wonder if these smells attract young males, but are washed away in the shower every day. I’m aware of my boobs pressing into her and wonder if it’s inappropriate to lie like this with my daughter.
“Okay My Girl. Time to get up,” I say.
“Sleep,” she says.
“Kielie, kielie, kielie,” I say, practicing the Afrikaans she needs to learn, tickling her tummy, under her arms.
She wriggles. “Uh-uh,” she says.
I hug her again. My heart feels such love. I force myself up and pull the covers off her and off the bed so she can’t pull them back.
“Time to get up,” I say.
“Uhh,” she moans.
I go around to the other side of the bed and pull her up, heavy and floppy.
“No, Mommy,” she says.
She’s taller than me and I can’t hold her weight for long. I kiss her cheek, smelling her morning breath as she leans into me. I let her go and she falls onto her pink, flower-shaped carpet. I look at her, beautiful and scary, a creature rare, yet familiar.
“Don’t stay there for too long,” I say, and leave to make her lunch.
Careers 1969
Life categories ‘Careers’, ‘Love’, ‘Money’ ; she often chose a 20:20:20: formula as a child to win the board game. Loves to win, spot the main chance, sadly ignorant of the bigger picture. Even now the pattern repeats. She feels destiny tickle her toes as she wickedly smuggles deep into the delicious beachfront Blackpool hotel bed, courtesy of the Department: An Easter week long Physical Educational course, Archery. She already enjoys the sport, simply fancies a free holiday, and the Certificate will eventually help her teaching career. Tangy sea air pervades the draughty bow windows under the heavy, gently glowing, copper velvet curtains, her gorgeous young toothpaste flavoured gymnast husband slides beside her, bountiful backlit Adonis. Anticipation, hints of spicy aftershave, a stomach thrilled with three full meals a day, tropical overpowering central heating, a cutting, vicious east wind blasting their Rococo palace; she sighs, replete, sets her target. There are about a thousand other young teachers gathered for this varied Easter vacation training programme. Palpable excitement floods the testosterone-loaded coaches to and from the daily sessions, ambience free zones. Squads of vigorous young studs keen to conquer brightest, fastest, best. Coy power females obviously doing the choosing. Carelessly clouded in fragrant Freesia, soon their birthdays, she jokes it’s time they had a baby; stupid or programmed? Driven by a deep primordial urge to complete her pleasure, it’s her move. She could ask for anything right now. Instead of thinking, she lies back, giggles, enjoys the moment. Breathes in, fills with a sense of utter contentment, already mentally satiated, fat, gorged, in total control, hugs herself. Central figure in her own shimmer pink docudrama, monumental naiveté; she’s confident her new perfume will do the trick. Keeping her distance, she draws in her young flat tummy, thinks – next year I’ll be a mother ! Arrow sharp. A no-brainer. Eagerly reads her mood, brushes her arm, he’s got his promotion, hates condoms, and being a PE teacher, thinks only of scoring soon. Understanding his consent, she hovers, moist, prepared, exquisitely composed, unaware that her entire life is about to lodge squatly at the bottom of the economic ladder: No warning gong of doom, no red flag. She takes a moment. Lifts her face above him, encircles his neck, kisses him with more tenderness than she has ever known or shown, holds nothing back, as though the quality of this offering will determine the outcome. Without a benign sky fairy, or god of any persuasion watching, waiting to slap him back on track, Adonis is in for a late night. Remembers his team is playing away, hopes he can catch the result later. He plans a departmental ski trip soon. Val D’Isere is practically snow sure in February. Better not mention that at the moment. Tentatively, a winning tactic, he reaches out, pulls her into his arms, presses her into his hollows. Birmingham could slip to the bottom of the league; rolls her beneath him, masterly. Her heart floods with gratitude, quiet pride, knowing he will never let her down. She bites around his collar bone ferociously, scrapes those tanned broad shoulders, back. Feels the need to be in command. Experimentally, wriggles down, nips and laps sensitive inches of flesh, inner elbows, kneecaps, hip joints. Dominatrix, on a roll, pins him against fresh white linen, forces his arms flat. Lightly strokes his powerful legs, magazines stress the need for differentiation; ardently rakes his thighs, enjoys his rising excitement. Going for gold. Target practice or what! Blindly she burrows into his safety zone, drinks in his body smells, feasts voraciously on his firm strong flesh, explores her nesting site: Bullseye! Heady fragrant solid walls of warm seductive muscle wrap around her, gym workout getting a result, has he set the alarm for the overseas cricket report tomorrow morning? Wordlessly they rock in unison, melting into each other. She rears up onto him, nips his ears, nuzzles his neck. Reeling, he gazes at her, pleased, surprised, covers her face and neck in firm sweet kisses, picks up the pace, lets his rhythm flow. Defensive play no longer an option, with a bit of luck they should thrash the Aussies. She lets her sensual, sexual self swim in a dizzy giddy swoon of ecstasy, float on a wave of gaudy desire, whilst her scheming self makes sure he won’t regret it. Canny. Absorbing his energy, heat, and passion she blinks, time seems to drop away; best case scenario, she’ll be resigning this summer. She visualises ‘home, family,’ newly discovers her life plan, sublime comfort. Classes of over thirty, her workmates will be green with envy; to give up inner city teaching! Eldest of three daughters, she loves being first, should have two before she’s thirty. A whole new identity sweeps in upon her, no idea where this new self comes from, wild, unstoppable. Most probably get her maternity clothes in the summer sales. They are closing down loads of shops in the precinct. Shifting into a lower gear, delicious soft pure kisses fuel the giving of pleasure; create a fresh layer of commitment, dedication. Extending foreplay, swaying, rolling, they savour their slow satisfaction, testament to their future. The pram should fit snugly under the stairs. Let’s hope the new neighbours are child-tolerant. Generous lips pay sweet attention to eyebrows, temples; cheeks press together in a tender physical promise, to love, honour, cherish. Obey the breeding imperative. They hold on to each other as one, believe in the silent mutual pledge of total loyalty. Mothercare have their sale soon! Lungs almost bursting, never happier, wildly ecstatic to have taken this irrevocable step, she gasps at the intensity of her orgasm. She’s really getting this right. Living Bliss! Forget any thoughts you ever had of Travel, then. Fodder.
Proof that limited education keeps the British teaching workforce topped up,
stultifies the senses, deadens higher consciousness; crushes creativity, arbiter of taste.
Forty years later, wryly recalls Blackpool, modest expectations, her ruin and salvation. Blame that 20. 20. 20. formula. Small semi, daughter and son within three years, finally made Head of Department: Fair share of ill health through relentless Government led curricular policy changes. Be careful what you wish for. Having cleaved those lower rungs, slogged away at the chalk face for almost thirty years, they count themselves fortunate to have their health, thank god for P.E. fitness. Those 60’s dudes knew how to rock ‘n roll alright; see she’s smiling! Shame.
Encounter
Hadley had arrived at the centre of the city of canals. Lights basking in the oily water bobbed up at him tilting in the ripples left by passing riverboats. Downriver he could see the tips of a necklace of cranes against the fading light. Dockyards. Sucking at the wooden jetties and between the crevices of slimy steps the water exuded a swampy warm smell that filled his nostrils. This ambiguous mingling of rank sweetness and heat had a smell of the past – his mother bending over her lines of tuberoses, their roots deep in mud. Their waxy petals filled the air with a seductive fragrance. And as she snipped their thin hard stems he played games with his bare feet in the fetid blackness – pushing in a foot and then withdrawing it, making the mud gurgle and gasp.
He rolled a cigarette and blew out smoke rings from between soft lips. The Turkish tobacco had a slight kick to it. Would he ever want to give up such a pleasure? Fragments of music drifted down to him and disappeared into the darkness of the canal. He followed it to its source. Sat down at a café table and watched two couples moving to a Norah Jones song played by a 3-piece band. He couldn’t say how, but its impulse sounded distinctly cool ‘continental’ and not American. He noticed the woman sitting alone at a nearby table. He ordered a beer and swallowed it greedily, glanced at the woman and decided she was on her own.
Dance with me? he asked her, wondering if she would understand. He stood in front of her table. As she looked into his eyes she linked her hands around the back of his neck, her body opening to his. Neither spoke. Their faces close, they breathed each other’s breath. He smelled in her perfume the insinuating warm depths of tuberoses and he felt a gush of sudden desire. The music’s rhythm was caught up in the red silk clinging to her swaying hips, and his palms merged with the exquisite skin of her bare arms. He longed to slide his fingertips up and around them, like a wine taster savours the melting sensations around the tongue. The silence thickened between them, almost humidified, then trembled into an electric intimacy. He squeezed her closer into his body. As the music stopped she stepped back, her eyes still fixed on his. She smiled her thanks, and then walked to a car waiting at the kerb. The moment of a sudden and intense familiarity had passed.
He ordered another beer and rolled a cigarette. Inhaling deeply he felt hot and restless. The water sucked deeply, insatiably he thought irritably, at the sides of the canal. And the sweat that had gathered on his belly slowly trickled down and drenched his groin.
The Dress
It hardly seems possible, now that I think about it, but that dress grabbed me as I was passing by. London is overwhelmingly grey. It’s beautiful, it’s exciting, loud and lively, but it is definitely and interminably grey. Pavements, roads and buildings, and the lowering sky, that feels as though it is sitting just inches above my head. Into this monotony inserts the penetrating red, yellow and green of traffic lights, and that’s it.
The English wear black. They wear white, and they wear grey. Oh sure, occasionally some irrepressible Senegalese matron sails by, full blown, in Kitenge, vibrant in purple and gold. So, unbelievable as it may sound, that dress pulled me up short, stopped me dead in my tracks. From inside the shop it shone, sending out shafts of light that pierced my skin and left the hairs on my arms pricked upright. I turned towards the shop door. Life slowed down. My hand reached out, connecting with the cool, round, satisfying brass of the doorknob, and I stepped inside. A light and airy tinkle announced me. The shop door swung closed behind me with a pneumatic hiss of breath and the expensive silence of the place filled my ears.
In slow motion, almost with stealth, I approached the mannequin. As always, she was much slimmer than me. Already my brain was working overtime, calculating, weighing up the odds, sizing up her waist against mine, assessing her slim arms, marble shoulders, haughty neck. The dress shimmered in a haze of autumn hues, beneath which shifted something else, a colour almost impossible to capture that moved in time to the deep rhythms of the moon. I sensed that laughter might lie there in the lining, and I longed for its feel against my skin.
My reverie was broken by the plummy tones of resentment that so often emerge from the mouths of shop assistants who sell clothes they cannot afford to buy. She was dressed like a man. Her short hair made me think of Adolf, the way it was parted and oiled, lying flat on either side of a face cut with high cheekbones and slashed with an unsmiling mouth. Can I help you? It always amazes me how those innocuous words sound on the lips of someone who has no desire to help. I’d like to try this on, I said. It’s beautiful isn’t it, don’t you think? Something in her softened then. The threads of the silk shift, like connecting threads of truth, set us both free: our fear dissolved by its beauty, by the laughter that lay under the surface of its design. What size, madam? she asked. 12, I hope, came my reply.
What had allowed us to become friends? Unlikely, I know, but it’s true: that dress enveloped us both in its joy. Like a lover’s, her hand touched the small of my back as she guided me towards the velvet-curtained cubicle, and with a conspiratorial wink she pulled them shut leaving me to raise my arms and let the cool smooth silk slip down over my yearning hips.
Floral Embrace
The woman in the wide floral skirt and white blouse crosses the bustling street. Her eyes squint in the early morning light. She clutches a straw basket to her heaving breast and peruses the swell of activity between haphazardly placed stalls. In the distance she notices the broad colour and shape of flowers.
She reaches the pavement, scratches in her right pocket and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper. Scrawled directives greet her gaze. Apples; onions; tomatoes; leeks…How crushed she always feels at the market! Glancing over her sagging shoulders, she purses her lips and hedges forward. She shuffles over sour milk that lies dehydrating in the mud as she ducks, bends and stretches to meet the objectives of her list. She notices the broad colour and shape of flowers in the distance.
The woman never argues or begs. She is too preciously middle-class. Surrounded by stalls brimming with fertility; bronzed muscle and glinting smiles, she clutches a pencil and ticks each item off before depositing it securely into her basket. With jagged movements, she arches her limbs around and below beings, textures and objects. The nape of her neck glistens with sweat and strands of hair stick to her skin.
The woman reaches the flower seller. The man rises from his wooden crate. His straw hat frames a beaming face. She notices the twitch of his veins as he fondles the stems of his magnificent creatures. Tall, tapering stems and billowing folds of fragranced petals.
The woman and man exchange few words. She joins in the touch and caress until they reach a mutual transaction. He hands her the chosen bunch. Crimson nestles firmly between them. She presses the money into his open palm.
The woman makes her way back through the throbbing action. She crosses the busy road once again. Her overflowing basket sways gently at her hip. The midday sun beats rhythmically against her body. She can feel the sharp heat through the cotton that shields her shoulders and falls softly against her spine. As her legs stride to and fro, blood tingles against her lily white thighs. Pulsing vein and muscle bore into her heart as the heat rises and intensifies. Her moist brow beats with the certainty that by sunset she will need more flowers. Their broad colour and shape shimmer in the distance.
Kodoshka
Before the Sun Dance begins, we purify ourselves in the Sweat Lodge and have a Pipe Ceremony to ask Great Spirit to help us dance Spirit awake. A soft breeze caresses our bodies. We are blessed.
Two hundred people. Three Circles. The outer, the supporters, the middle, the energy-givers and the inner circle – the Sun Dancers. Black Elk, my Fire Man leads the Sun dance and I, Moon Woman mirror him, step by step, saluting the four directions, the East, the West, the North and the South. I hold the energy for him as he dances, holding the staff of many colours in tribute to the sun. We dance for four hours, then rest for twenty minutes, then dance again. The drummers heart-beat the dance hour after hour, sunset to sunrise. The dancers dance round the Tree of Life, offering for the human race and blowing their eagle bone whistles to summons the eagles. The eagles come on the second day.
On the fourth day we have a small break and I go to his tepee. He tells his acolytes to leave the tent. Then he folds me in his arms, pent up with the power of the dance, the drums, the singing
He holds me, Sweat glistening on his arms, his smooth legs, his palms against my palms. Ever so gently, hardly at all.
I stand trembling. I become water and melting
A man comes into the tent. “Five more minutes”. Then he goes out.
Stretching of time, we are in the dream time, the Nagwal.
I sway with him, dancing the steps of the Sun Dance of Great Spirit.
We are one. Like the feathers of wings we fly together.
Then he touches me in my private energy place of power.
Lightening streaks through me from the sky to the bottom of the earth and again and again.
Then the dance goes on, drum beats, sacred songs and the prayers of the Sun Dancers.
Greatness of Spirit has touched us.
