Chapter Ten
She'd met Josh nearly ten years earlier, before he completed his doctorate. Veronica was in charge of public information and community education for the County's Environmental Resources Department. Josh was working as a free lance diving instructor. She'd been putting in long hours on the reef restoration project and had even learned to skin dive and do underwater photography. Josh was in a group of Sierra Club volunteers she led on a dive to the project's man-made reef in Biscayne Bay.
Weeks afterwards, as they walked along the bay at Matheson Hammock, the sun’s center just touching the water (why can’t we hear the fizzz and see the steam, she wondered?) a sleek young lady strolled by.
“You know,” Josh said as he admired the smooth rotation of hips and buttocks. “That’s nice,” he gestured with his head. “But your enthusiasm and the pride you felt about the reef project attracted me almost as much as the incredible way you fill out a wet suit.”
Four years earlier, Josh completed his Master's Degree in Clinical Psychology at Harvard. Nearly burned out, needing to indulge his soul and rest from the academic circus, but with loans to repay that would take forever unless he got his Ph.D and into a tenure track, he compromised. He began his doctoral research into ancient Mexican religious rituals to indulge his soul, and have a shot at a tenure track. At first the academic hypocracy wasn’t too hard to handle. He managed two trips to Mexico City and one to Spain. The vaults in Malaga confirmed what he’d found in Mexico: a freightening new form of energy, a force, a natural frequency that enabled people to communicate in their dreams.
He returned to Boston torn nearly assunder. The classically trained professors on his doctoral committee would not be likely to accept the idea of a "new" force in Nature. Yet not only was that what the data showed but what he knew, in his soul. The dream frequency was not an artifact of human psycho-social dynamics, though it clearly impacted these, it existed independently of them.
If he could get them to see this. . . . But they were myopic. True products of the system, they thought the dream frequency was a "supernatural" phenomena, inappropriate for scientific investigation. Months passed. He could not keep his doctoral committee focused.
Scraping up the money for two more trips, he went first to Malaga. They gave him the original diaries and journals of the conquistadors to read. Anything to stop that pitiful begging in his strangely accented Spanish. Then to Mexico City. He interviewed three generations of a family that claimed its descent from an Aztec priestess. He went to the great Museum of Anthropology, but the begging didn’t work. They would not let him see the sacred stone of Coatlicue.
He returned to Boston. Through days filled with agrevating, barely civil meetings and nights with roller coaster dreams of pitifull, shrieking horror and searing, ecstatic passion, he lost perspective, momentum and part of his sanity. How could the dream frequency be explained? Why hadn’t someone discovered its awesome power before now? But of course, someone had. . . .
Arguing that what he'd stumbled on was as natural as gravity and not supernatural at all but just scientifically undocumented, was useless. Returning to his apartment late one night, shaking with exhaustion, Josh switched on the lights and saw the Joseph Campbell lying open on the dining room table. He didn’t recall leaving it there or even referring to it recently. But he knew what it meant. Since his bliss was skin diving and pursuing investigations of the dream frequency on his own, and it was winter in Boston, he went to Miami. On the day he met Veronica Clarke at the beach on the east side of Claughton Island, he'd been working as a diving instructor for almost four years.
Josh’s Sierra Club Group had only nine people, but that didn't dampen Veronica's enthusiasm. All in wet suits, tanks, regulators and fins on the rocky ground beside them, they listened as Veronica pointed out to the bay and explained how the Coast Guard and Eastern Steamship Lines had cooperated with the County in sinking the latest old freighter into its place on the new reef line.
Veronica's enthusiasm and lack of self-consciousness refreshed Josh even as they turned him on. She seemed completely unaware of the effect her body in that clinging wet suit had on Josh and the other men gathered ‘round her. Engrossed in her descriptions and directions, she had no awareness of her physical self.
Josh got into his gear mechanically, attention focused on Veronica and trying to maintain a view of her face. Once in the water, he stayed close to her. The easy way she moved softened him. He sighed and swallowed more air than he wanted. Her grace and eagerness excited him more than a mere body ever could have. Her being awakened something -- a sense of who he was and what might be -- that had been dormant a long time.
Singling him out after the dive, she asked for feedback.
"You're obviously the best diver in the group." She looked directly into his eyes, hands on hips in the characteristic relaxed, no-nonsense stance he’d come to love.
"I'd be interested in what you thought of the lecture, the dive and what you plan to report back to the Sierra Club."
“Can we do that over lunch?” he asked.
“Sure.”
They spent the rest of that day and night together.
Veronica was comfortable with Josh. Yet though they had many qualities in common, when he talked about where the research was taking him, and his eyes grew wide and fixed, and his body tensed, he freightened her, too. She matched his outrage about the injustices of the orthodox academic/scientific establishment and was compassionate over his wounds. She enjoyed the way her probing barbed questions seemed to encourage him, and came to accept the primary place the dream theories had in his life.
They did South Florida things together touring the Everglades National Park, picnicking in the lush foliage of Fairchild Tropical Gardens and watching Christo wrap the islands between the mainland and Miami Beach in pink fabric. And they made love. Not in the "slam bam thank you m'am" way they'd both become accustomed to, but in the slow, deep, soulful way they'd always fantasized about.
A brief glance, a hushed sigh or a barely visible movement could set them off. Words were rarely necessary. They shared a constant sensitivity, an instant responsiveness. Josh knew, sometimes even before Veronica did, when something thrilled or aroused her, making her nipples erect and the little blond hairs at the edges of her armpits bristle.
He'd work on her delicately, in small ways almost beneath her awareness, nurturing the seeds of a passion she barely perceived, bringing it to full flowing fruition and arousing himself in the process. He'd nuzzle her ear, brush up against her, stroke the side of her hand, catch and hold her eyes with his, whisper. Veronica knew Josh's secret places and tell tale signs, too. And she was not shy about exploiting what she knew, wherever they happened to be.
They both enjoyed beginning a seduction in public. Once they'd been so inflamed that they couldn't make it home and had to check into a nearby hotel. Even on that occasion, the flame of their passion was, as always, banked by their gentle, exquisite responsiveness to one another.
Josh undressed Veronica with his eyes, then with his hands. That was how their ritual of love began -- whether he undressed her, or she him -- and they gave themselves completely over to it. Sitting on the edge of the bed as she stood motionless before him, Josh gazed at her face, body, flesh.
Soon the goose bumps on her arms told him of her tingling readiness. Pushing her gently forward, he stood and removed her clothes, one piece at a time: blouse, skirt, bra, panties. Each garment a seduction, with sighs and whispered nothings, hot breath in her sweet-smelling ear and lingering caresses with his rough, diver's hands.
Then he stood motionless as she undressed him.
When the clothes were gone, he knelt before her, burying his face in the hairy warmth between her legs, reaching around to caress her naked nether cheeks. And Veronica just stood there, quivering, receiving his adoration, until she couldn't just stand there any longer.
She stroked his cheeks and ears and ran her hands through his thick curly hair. As he bought her closer to orgasm, she reached down and tugged under his armpits. He rose from his knees and Veronica clung to him. She molded herself to him and they moved together like a pair of ice dancers, gliding across the ice in a shimmering blue-green haze. He groaned. She leaned back to open herself and he slid into her.
The first contact was smoldering electricity flashing through molten flesh. Gasping, they clutched one another to keep from dissolving. Pace quickening, Veronica wrapped her arms around Josh's hairy muscular shoulders and shifted her weight, just as he cupped her damp buttocks to lift her off the floor.
Still holding his neck but letting her arms extend, Veronica let her head come level with his. Gazing into his gray-green eyes, she wrapped her legs more tightly around his lower back. For a moment Josh stared back, then nuzzled her neck and blew in her ear, never missing a beat.
Breathing deeply, pacing him with her breath, getting him to breath deeply, too, ingronica tried to prolong their pleasure. She knew he wanted to wait, to come with her, but that rarely happened. His climax shook and rocked them. He shuddered and cried out. Seconds later, she felt herself start to peak. They were so well attuned that his orgasm triggered hers.
At great cost to herself, Veronica used her love and understanding to help Josh realize he had to finish his degree, even if it meant giving up on his dream force hypothesis. Veronica did her work so well that five months after they'd met, Josh went back to Harvard and she continued her work with the County.
Twenty seven months later, when Josh had finished his degree and M.I.U. offered him a job in Miami, he took it.
For the first few weeks, Josh stayed at Veronica's bungalow in Coconut Grove. They'd talk and share, still cared, but something was different, lacking. He was distracted, withdrawn, not as open. Finally, at his suggestion, they'd set up what she called "separate establishments," meeting at one or the other of them, once or twice a week for the "quickies" they used to despise.
Something vital, deep in Josh had changed. Maybe he was stuck on one of his own pre-sets; maybe he needed to practice what he preached; maybe. . . . Whatever, a substantial part of his consciousness was elsewhere.
They continued encouraging one another to "follow their bliss" and to undertake their most cherished projects; Josh helping Veronica run Allen Sharpstien for the County Commission and in turn, she becoming a founding member of his Dream Group.
The Group counted on Veronica's controlled enthusiasm and analytic ability. She was a reliable source of great stability and energy. Her relationship with Josh was unknown to the others, and they'd been at it so long that unless someone was looking for it, their special connection rarely showed. But lately her enthusiasm was forced. She desperately needed help with a very disturbing dream and wasn’t getting it.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
When they entered the conference room at 7:25, Angela Saunders was there, but not the Herrings. She, Veronica Clarke, Jorge Garcia, Abel Katz and Eugenia Thomas were in their usual places around the big, rectangular conference table.
Paul thought Angela looked better than usual.
Her long straight hair was pulled back and to the right in a severe wave that accentuated the strength of her face and grace of her neck.
Business-like authority flowed from her carefully tailored clothes -- a red turtle neck sweater, tight brown stirrup pants and a stylishly cut green and brown plaid sports jacket. Her light brown skin glowed against the autumn colors and the careful tailoring complimented the curves of her athletic, hundred and thirty pound, five foot six inch body.
As their eyes met, a shiver ran through Paul. He tried to look away, but couldn't. Angela had fascinated him before, but never like this. He was unable to take his eyes from her lush body, angelic face and full voluptuous lips. On those other occasions he'd been watching her, unobserved.
Now, it was the other way round. She was watching him, boldly, in front of God and everybody.
Being looked at that way, appraised, like a model on a runway, was erotic. Up ‘till now, Magdalena was the only one who could make him feel that way; though there were many such in his fantasies.
Something exciting, perhaps dangerous was happening. Something he ought to understand better.
Another shiver ran through him.
Gotta maintain a professional attitude. Especially now that I'm in charge. Think of her as only a colleague, an extremely attractive successful lady whose direct assertive style you admire. Besides, Magda's right beside you.
Paul looked to his right. Magda was greeting Veronica Clarke and didn't see Angela devouring him with her eyes. If she had, Magda would have said something. Magda thought Angela was a black Yuppie, self-centered and over-sexed.
Angela felt Paul wrench his eyes from hers and watched him turn to Magdalena. She knew what Magda thought and it bothered her. She liked Magda and the younger woman's harsh unspoken judgment was painful.
Don't fret, darlin’. You're allowed feelings. You weren't born rich. You scrambled and put out for everything you've got.
True.
Now you deserve to have what you want.
Yes.
Paul’s eyes were locked on her face again. Angela slid her moist pink tongue across her full lips, saw his eyes widen and follow its glistening motion.
“Look into my eyes!” she commanded silently.
He did.
“Be mine!”
His eyes went soft, unfocused.
Angela leaned back in her chair, calmly holding Paul's gaze. Hypnotic self assurance and pure animal magnetism oozed from her. She almost purred with satisfaction.
Couldn't have done this when she’d joined the Group three years ago! Hanging from a thread then. Guilt, sleep depravation. Dreams too terrible to deal with alone. Dr. Wilbeth and the Group had helped. She appreciated that. It's why she kept coming, even though she was done with all that and didn't really need them anymore. She planned to enjoy her success and not care too much what they thought.
Yet here she was getting dragged down by that Spanish girl’s attitude. Criticism and envy from some still hurt. It wasn’t her fault she was naturally superior, smarter, tougher and sexier.
Magda's just jealous. Maybe if she forgave her and Magda saw she didn't hold it against her, they could be friends. Maybe. But no matter how that came out, she was going to have this scene with Magda’s young man.
Basking in Paul's hazy longing-filled stare, she squeezed her thighs together. The sensation was delicious. What a turn-on to feel her power wash over him.
You promised not to do this kind of thing here.
It just happened. Our eyes connected. Totally unexpected. He’s so open and vulnerable. . . .
Angela’s vagina grew moist.
My, my!
He was stunned, as if she’d hit in the solar plexus. He tried to look away.
Struggle’s useless, darlin'. You're mine now, all mine. Just a matter of time.
Paul’s face flushed.
His blood must be boiling! I can almost feel his penis stir.
Angela held his eyes another beat, her moist full lips curling into a suggestive smile, then she blinked twice, releasing him.
Just then, Magdalena turned to face her. Angela nodded coolly and looked down at the notebook open in front of her.
Veronica Clarke had been observing Angela and Paul as she chatted with Magda. Should she tell Magda? What she’d seen might not mean anything. But on the other hand, she could almost smell the musk.
Paul drifted over to them; flashed that big wholesome grin.
"Hi, Veronica." He tugged at Magda's hand. "Let's go, hon."
Veronica dipped her head. "Paul."
She’d say nothing, for the moment.
Veronica winked and waved as Magda allowed herself to be led away.
At forty four, Veronica was the same age as Angela. But other than that, they had little in common. Veronica was idealistic, the tough-minded administrative assistant to Allen Sharpstien, popular reform-minded Dade County Commissioner. Angela was a go-for-the-jugular opportunist one of the highest paid real estate brokers in the county who suppressed her ideals.
Angela groomed herself carefully, for effect; always appearing in public as the stylish, no-nonsense business woman. Veronica had a slightly disheveled appearance, the clean but slightly rumpled look of a social activist, someone too busy with important things to be overly concerned with appearances.
Veronica pushed her big bifocals off the tip of her pug nose as she watched Paul and Magda take their seats near the chalk board. The octagon shaped frames were fashionable in the late 1980's. She wore them wedged between her ears and a few strands of curly black hair to keep them from sliding. The arched half moon eyebrows in the rounded rectangle of her face, a slightly protruding lower lip and a dimple in a pugnacious chin gave her a youthful, perpetually expectant expression.
Completing college at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, Veronica had spent seventeen years working in various bureaucratic capacities for the Metropolitan Dade County Government. She'd quit six years ago to run Allen Sharpstien's campaign for the Metropolitan Commission, and when she'd managed to get him elected, he hired her to run his office.
Veronica was one of the Group's founders. She’d also been Josh Wilbeth’s
lover.
When they entered the conference room at 7:25, Angela Saunders was there, but not the Herrings. She, Veronica Clarke, Jorge Garcia, Abel Katz and Eugenia Thomas were in their usual places around the big, rectangular conference table.
Paul thought Angela looked better than usual.
Her long straight hair was pulled back and to the right in a severe wave that accentuated the strength of her face and grace of her neck.
Business-like authority flowed from her carefully tailored clothes -- a red turtle neck sweater, tight brown stirrup pants and a stylishly cut green and brown plaid sports jacket. Her light brown skin glowed against the autumn colors and the careful tailoring complimented the curves of her athletic, hundred and thirty pound, five foot six inch body.
As their eyes met, a shiver ran through Paul. He tried to look away, but couldn't. Angela had fascinated him before, but never like this. He was unable to take his eyes from her lush body, angelic face and full voluptuous lips. On those other occasions he'd been watching her, unobserved.
Now, it was the other way round. She was watching him, boldly, in front of God and everybody.
Being looked at that way, appraised, like a model on a runway, was erotic. Up ‘till now, Magdalena was the only one who could make him feel that way; though there were many such in his fantasies.
Something exciting, perhaps dangerous was happening. Something he ought to understand better.
Another shiver ran through him.
Gotta maintain a professional attitude. Especially now that I'm in charge. Think of her as only a colleague, an extremely attractive successful lady whose direct assertive style you admire. Besides, Magda's right beside you.
Paul looked to his right. Magda was greeting Veronica Clarke and didn't see Angela devouring him with her eyes. If she had, Magda would have said something. Magda thought Angela was a black Yuppie, self-centered and over-sexed.
Angela felt Paul wrench his eyes from hers and watched him turn to Magdalena. She knew what Magda thought and it bothered her. She liked Magda and the younger woman's harsh unspoken judgment was painful.
Don't fret, darlin’. You're allowed feelings. You weren't born rich. You scrambled and put out for everything you've got.
True.
Now you deserve to have what you want.
Yes.
Paul’s eyes were locked on her face again. Angela slid her moist pink tongue across her full lips, saw his eyes widen and follow its glistening motion.
“Look into my eyes!” she commanded silently.
He did.
“Be mine!”
His eyes went soft, unfocused.
Angela leaned back in her chair, calmly holding Paul's gaze. Hypnotic self assurance and pure animal magnetism oozed from her. She almost purred with satisfaction.
Couldn't have done this when she’d joined the Group three years ago! Hanging from a thread then. Guilt, sleep depravation. Dreams too terrible to deal with alone. Dr. Wilbeth and the Group had helped. She appreciated that. It's why she kept coming, even though she was done with all that and didn't really need them anymore. She planned to enjoy her success and not care too much what they thought.
Yet here she was getting dragged down by that Spanish girl’s attitude. Criticism and envy from some still hurt. It wasn’t her fault she was naturally superior, smarter, tougher and sexier.
Magda's just jealous. Maybe if she forgave her and Magda saw she didn't hold it against her, they could be friends. Maybe. But no matter how that came out, she was going to have this scene with Magda’s young man.
Basking in Paul's hazy longing-filled stare, she squeezed her thighs together. The sensation was delicious. What a turn-on to feel her power wash over him.
You promised not to do this kind of thing here.
It just happened. Our eyes connected. Totally unexpected. He’s so open and vulnerable. . . .
Angela’s vagina grew moist.
My, my!
He was stunned, as if she’d hit in the solar plexus. He tried to look away.
Struggle’s useless, darlin'. You're mine now, all mine. Just a matter of time.
Paul’s face flushed.
His blood must be boiling! I can almost feel his penis stir.
Angela held his eyes another beat, her moist full lips curling into a suggestive smile, then she blinked twice, releasing him.
Just then, Magdalena turned to face her. Angela nodded coolly and looked down at the notebook open in front of her.
Veronica Clarke had been observing Angela and Paul as she chatted with Magda. Should she tell Magda? What she’d seen might not mean anything. But on the other hand, she could almost smell the musk.
Paul drifted over to them; flashed that big wholesome grin.
"Hi, Veronica." He tugged at Magda's hand. "Let's go, hon."
Veronica dipped her head. "Paul."
She’d say nothing, for the moment.
Veronica winked and waved as Magda allowed herself to be led away.
At forty four, Veronica was the same age as Angela. But other than that, they had little in common. Veronica was idealistic, the tough-minded administrative assistant to Allen Sharpstien, popular reform-minded Dade County Commissioner. Angela was a go-for-the-jugular opportunist one of the highest paid real estate brokers in the county who suppressed her ideals.
Angela groomed herself carefully, for effect; always appearing in public as the stylish, no-nonsense business woman. Veronica had a slightly disheveled appearance, the clean but slightly rumpled look of a social activist, someone too busy with important things to be overly concerned with appearances.
Veronica pushed her big bifocals off the tip of her pug nose as she watched Paul and Magda take their seats near the chalk board. The octagon shaped frames were fashionable in the late 1980's. She wore them wedged between her ears and a few strands of curly black hair to keep them from sliding. The arched half moon eyebrows in the rounded rectangle of her face, a slightly protruding lower lip and a dimple in a pugnacious chin gave her a youthful, perpetually expectant expression.
Completing college at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, Veronica had spent seventeen years working in various bureaucratic capacities for the Metropolitan Dade County Government. She'd quit six years ago to run Allen Sharpstien's campaign for the Metropolitan Commission, and when she'd managed to get him elected, he hired her to run his office.
Veronica was one of the Group's founders. She’d also been Josh Wilbeth’s
lover.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Thirteen years later, as he walked across a different cold, wind blown parking lot towards a different car, Paul remembered that Father Watteau never had explained.
The rain stopped and it was really cold. Not as cold as Dundeen could be, but as cold as South Florida ever got. Paul's breath hung in the frigid air. He climbed into his powder blue '87 Camaro .
An hour to go. He was jittery and anxious. The plan was to meet Magdalena at the Rat for a quick bite before the Group. But he hated that place. Too noisy.
The car was hard to start. It wasn’t used to the cold either.
It finally caught. The soothing sounds of David Lanz & Paul Speer's "Natural States" disk filled the chilly air. Paul smiled. The music had a clear simple depth and a suspenseful, "edgy" quality. He didn't remember leaving the player on, but it was too perfect to be just a coincidence. It was the Life Force again, guiding and guarding him.
A little miracle!
The fear and self doubt melted away.
It was always there, but you couldn't force it. Like the music.
The second cut was like a tune of his own, one he'd been meaning to write down but hadn't gotten 'round to.
It comes when it’s ready, not when you call. The usual discipline was useless. He was learning a new kind of control.
Just in time, too, because things couldn’t go on as they were. Even the big, beautifully warm, disarming smile that had earned him the nick name "Sunshine" from the older women at the graduate school library was controlled. Not in a manipulative premeditated way but in a basic, fundamental way. It was "hard wired”, sincere, yet mechanical. It gave others light but barely provided him warmth.
The little miracles overcame some of that control. Just as the music overcame it, momentarily transforming the discipline and force into flowing pleasure.
Not all the time. But every once in awhile, more and more lately, the music used him instead of him using it. Those were the times he cried. He could play the guitar and the piano. Had been in a Group in high school.
But psychology was more important and safer, too. Psychology would never use him the way the music did. Psychology was a discipline that perfectly suited his need to benevolently control himself and others. It emphasized discipline, control, authority and a friendly, outgoing exterior. Flowing pleasure was not allowed.
Psychology provided a natural cover for the dream work. And the dream work was necessary to save his life. He at least had a handle on the music. But the dreams were going beyond his ability to control and were probably taking him someplace he shouldn't be going.
The dream work was killing two birds with one stone -- one of his favorite things to do. He could do the right thing with his career and deal with the strong, sexual passions mirrored in and unleashed by his dreams. Soon the dreams would cease using him and he'd be using them. The Lanz/Speer CD ended just as Paul pulled into the parking lot behind the Rat. That and finding a parking space were additional small miracles he took to be good omens for his debut. Locking the car, he ran to meet Magda, his warm breath lingering behind him in the icy air.
Magda was happy to see him. Pleasure shown in the crinkles around her eyes and the glistening curve of her full lips. She too, was dressed for the cool weather. The white of her bulky cable knit sweater highlighted the dark abundance of long hair cascading across her shoulders. She glowed with a crisp clean radiance.
Paul bent, nuzzled her cheek then kissed her fully on the mouth. A soapy shower fragrance floated up to him on the warmth of her body.
Her lips clung to his.
"Hi," she said, all arch innocence after they finally broke. "Ready for the Group?"
"One more kiss like that and I'll be ready for my oral exams!"
"Your Orals are at least six months away. The Group meets in less than 45 minutes."
The earlier self-doubt knifed through Paul’s stomach, but quickly lost itself in Magdalena's radiance.
""Beautiful and practical. God, you make me feel good! Looking forward to Group? I am."
She tilted her head to catch his eyes. "Not really. Just watch out for Angela Saunders and the Herrings,” she warned.
Paul laughed. "Sounds like an old time rock Group. 'Angela Saunders and the Herrings.’”
"Yeah, doesn't it?” Magda laughed, too. “But seriously. Haven’t you noticed how Angela looks at you?"
"She's old enough to be my mother!"
"Not quite. But we have talked about her before. Long before Josh asked you to take over the Group."
"And I think the conclusion we came to was that Angela wasn't so bad for a 44 year old real estate agent."
"Right! You're always attracted to exotic beauties, Amor. It's her cafe au lait complexion you like."
"And don't forget that tall, voluptuous body and those high, African princess cheekbones."
Magdalena stared at him. There was more to his admiration of Angela than he knew. Too easily manipulated and quickly fascinated, once enthralled, Paul's decency and loyalty would keep him that way. Afterall, that's how she’d gotten him.
"O.K., so much for Angela Saunders. What worries you about the Herrings?" he asked.
"Oh, come now, darling. You know we can't stand them and they can't stand us!"
"But now the situation will be different. I've never attacked them."
Her tone was sarcastic. "No. I guess stage whispers, groans and facial grimaces can't be considered 'open attacks'."
"Yes. O.K. But my role is different now, more professional. They're professionals, too. They ought to appreciate that."
"Professional what, sharks?"
"Come on, Magdelena, give it a rest. I know the Herrings are phonies. So does everybody else in the Group. Those Masters degrees they're always talking about from that diploma mill in the Rockies don't impress anybody. But they are licensed family therapists and I do have to treat them with a little respect.
“Maybe we can get them to learn something, Magdelena. Think about it. They might learn something that might actually help them with their clients. How about that? It's not for them, it's for their clients."
She loved his idealism and optimism, but felt the need to balance it with a little reality.
"O.K. Amor. But the Herrings are still ass holes.”
"Right, but they're our ass holes. And maybe they're in the Group for a reason."
"Are we heading into mysticism here, Paul?"
Ever since that Sunday morning in Cali, mysticism and intuition frightened her. She knew the fear was irrational. Especially in light of what she was learning in the Group. But she still didn't want to deal with it.
She'd come to that first Dream Group meeting for a look see, and ultimately stayed because of Paul. Behavioral psychology, not cognitive psychology was her thing.
Paul leaned closer.
"Things don't just happen, Magda. Everything has meaning and purpose. Dreams are always about the dreamer. There's something for us to learn from Rita and Phil Herring, too. Maybe that's why we're together, to learn from each other."
"Obviously. But learning can be painful, Paul."
"Yeah," he shot back, "but for who? You or me?"
He'd gotten her with that one.
Her face tightened. Her eyes hardened and she seemed unable to speak.
He was immediately sorry. But knew he was right. She did need to face herself and learn from her dreams. As long as she was in the Group, she might as well get something from it. That she might be there just for him, never crossed his mind. He was able to see that he'd cut more deeply than intended. Leaning closer, he put his arm around her.
She pulled away.
"Magdelena?" He pleaded.
She stared at him, wounded, trying to compose her face, achieving the beginnings of a smile.
"Please. I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to think about what I'm saying. You can learn, too. Right . . .?"
Instead of answering, she leaned closer and let him put his arm around her. Paul took this as agreement, breathed in her warm soapy scent and allowed himself to be comforted. A moment later, he withdrew his arm, leaned back and continued, blind and relentless.
"You're right about Angela Saunders and the Herrings. But I'm right, too."
She tensed again.
A phrase flashed through Paul’s mind: Do you want to be right, or happy? It hadn't seemed very profound when he'd read it; why couldn’t one be both right and happy? Now, looking at Magda he knew he had to choose.
It was so clear! No choice at all, really. Her happiness was his happiness. How simple. How. . . .
He was in the temple with the Goddess.
Aloof and magnificent, She sat on Her velvet draped, black onyx throne, staring into the torch-lit gloom. He was on his knees gazing up, adoring Her.
As he chose happiness, She turned, looked down and smiled.
A great wave of pleasure swept through him. Then his body seemed to disappear.
Magdalena saw the sensations flashing across his face. He'd stopped speaking in mid sentence. When he began talking again, she felt the difference.
"Magdelena!" He was ecstatic, overflowing but still controlled. "I know. I've seen it! Nothing is worth hurting you. The dream. I had a feeling from my dream just now! I know everything’s O.K.! Forgive me. Help me. I'm sorry. . . ."
She knew what he wanted for her was right; yearned to let go, open herself and express the energy in dreams and words as he did. But it scared her. Each time she tried, the energy possessed her. There was no middle ground. His way was not yet her way. Dreams and words could not mediate the raw power. She just lived it out for five days on the Calle de las Putas.
Thank God he didn't go into these altered states too often.
"It's fine," she said. "We're both right. Let's get going. We've only got ten minutes to get to the conference room."
She could see he desperately wanted to tell her more. Could even dimly perceive that if she didn't take the time to listen now, he'd probably lose what he'd found. But she just couldn't handle it.
Thirteen years later, as he walked across a different cold, wind blown parking lot towards a different car, Paul remembered that Father Watteau never had explained.
The rain stopped and it was really cold. Not as cold as Dundeen could be, but as cold as South Florida ever got. Paul's breath hung in the frigid air. He climbed into his powder blue '87 Camaro .
An hour to go. He was jittery and anxious. The plan was to meet Magdalena at the Rat for a quick bite before the Group. But he hated that place. Too noisy.
The car was hard to start. It wasn’t used to the cold either.
It finally caught. The soothing sounds of David Lanz & Paul Speer's "Natural States" disk filled the chilly air. Paul smiled. The music had a clear simple depth and a suspenseful, "edgy" quality. He didn't remember leaving the player on, but it was too perfect to be just a coincidence. It was the Life Force again, guiding and guarding him.
A little miracle!
The fear and self doubt melted away.
It was always there, but you couldn't force it. Like the music.
The second cut was like a tune of his own, one he'd been meaning to write down but hadn't gotten 'round to.
It comes when it’s ready, not when you call. The usual discipline was useless. He was learning a new kind of control.
Just in time, too, because things couldn’t go on as they were. Even the big, beautifully warm, disarming smile that had earned him the nick name "Sunshine" from the older women at the graduate school library was controlled. Not in a manipulative premeditated way but in a basic, fundamental way. It was "hard wired”, sincere, yet mechanical. It gave others light but barely provided him warmth.
The little miracles overcame some of that control. Just as the music overcame it, momentarily transforming the discipline and force into flowing pleasure.
Not all the time. But every once in awhile, more and more lately, the music used him instead of him using it. Those were the times he cried. He could play the guitar and the piano. Had been in a Group in high school.
But psychology was more important and safer, too. Psychology would never use him the way the music did. Psychology was a discipline that perfectly suited his need to benevolently control himself and others. It emphasized discipline, control, authority and a friendly, outgoing exterior. Flowing pleasure was not allowed.
Psychology provided a natural cover for the dream work. And the dream work was necessary to save his life. He at least had a handle on the music. But the dreams were going beyond his ability to control and were probably taking him someplace he shouldn't be going.
The dream work was killing two birds with one stone -- one of his favorite things to do. He could do the right thing with his career and deal with the strong, sexual passions mirrored in and unleashed by his dreams. Soon the dreams would cease using him and he'd be using them. The Lanz/Speer CD ended just as Paul pulled into the parking lot behind the Rat. That and finding a parking space were additional small miracles he took to be good omens for his debut. Locking the car, he ran to meet Magda, his warm breath lingering behind him in the icy air.
Magda was happy to see him. Pleasure shown in the crinkles around her eyes and the glistening curve of her full lips. She too, was dressed for the cool weather. The white of her bulky cable knit sweater highlighted the dark abundance of long hair cascading across her shoulders. She glowed with a crisp clean radiance.
Paul bent, nuzzled her cheek then kissed her fully on the mouth. A soapy shower fragrance floated up to him on the warmth of her body.
Her lips clung to his.
"Hi," she said, all arch innocence after they finally broke. "Ready for the Group?"
"One more kiss like that and I'll be ready for my oral exams!"
"Your Orals are at least six months away. The Group meets in less than 45 minutes."
The earlier self-doubt knifed through Paul’s stomach, but quickly lost itself in Magdalena's radiance.
""Beautiful and practical. God, you make me feel good! Looking forward to Group? I am."
She tilted her head to catch his eyes. "Not really. Just watch out for Angela Saunders and the Herrings,” she warned.
Paul laughed. "Sounds like an old time rock Group. 'Angela Saunders and the Herrings.’”
"Yeah, doesn't it?” Magda laughed, too. “But seriously. Haven’t you noticed how Angela looks at you?"
"She's old enough to be my mother!"
"Not quite. But we have talked about her before. Long before Josh asked you to take over the Group."
"And I think the conclusion we came to was that Angela wasn't so bad for a 44 year old real estate agent."
"Right! You're always attracted to exotic beauties, Amor. It's her cafe au lait complexion you like."
"And don't forget that tall, voluptuous body and those high, African princess cheekbones."
Magdalena stared at him. There was more to his admiration of Angela than he knew. Too easily manipulated and quickly fascinated, once enthralled, Paul's decency and loyalty would keep him that way. Afterall, that's how she’d gotten him.
"O.K., so much for Angela Saunders. What worries you about the Herrings?" he asked.
"Oh, come now, darling. You know we can't stand them and they can't stand us!"
"But now the situation will be different. I've never attacked them."
Her tone was sarcastic. "No. I guess stage whispers, groans and facial grimaces can't be considered 'open attacks'."
"Yes. O.K. But my role is different now, more professional. They're professionals, too. They ought to appreciate that."
"Professional what, sharks?"
"Come on, Magdelena, give it a rest. I know the Herrings are phonies. So does everybody else in the Group. Those Masters degrees they're always talking about from that diploma mill in the Rockies don't impress anybody. But they are licensed family therapists and I do have to treat them with a little respect.
“Maybe we can get them to learn something, Magdelena. Think about it. They might learn something that might actually help them with their clients. How about that? It's not for them, it's for their clients."
She loved his idealism and optimism, but felt the need to balance it with a little reality.
"O.K. Amor. But the Herrings are still ass holes.”
"Right, but they're our ass holes. And maybe they're in the Group for a reason."
"Are we heading into mysticism here, Paul?"
Ever since that Sunday morning in Cali, mysticism and intuition frightened her. She knew the fear was irrational. Especially in light of what she was learning in the Group. But she still didn't want to deal with it.
She'd come to that first Dream Group meeting for a look see, and ultimately stayed because of Paul. Behavioral psychology, not cognitive psychology was her thing.
Paul leaned closer.
"Things don't just happen, Magda. Everything has meaning and purpose. Dreams are always about the dreamer. There's something for us to learn from Rita and Phil Herring, too. Maybe that's why we're together, to learn from each other."
"Obviously. But learning can be painful, Paul."
"Yeah," he shot back, "but for who? You or me?"
He'd gotten her with that one.
Her face tightened. Her eyes hardened and she seemed unable to speak.
He was immediately sorry. But knew he was right. She did need to face herself and learn from her dreams. As long as she was in the Group, she might as well get something from it. That she might be there just for him, never crossed his mind. He was able to see that he'd cut more deeply than intended. Leaning closer, he put his arm around her.
She pulled away.
"Magdelena?" He pleaded.
She stared at him, wounded, trying to compose her face, achieving the beginnings of a smile.
"Please. I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted you to think about what I'm saying. You can learn, too. Right . . .?"
Instead of answering, she leaned closer and let him put his arm around her. Paul took this as agreement, breathed in her warm soapy scent and allowed himself to be comforted. A moment later, he withdrew his arm, leaned back and continued, blind and relentless.
"You're right about Angela Saunders and the Herrings. But I'm right, too."
She tensed again.
A phrase flashed through Paul’s mind: Do you want to be right, or happy? It hadn't seemed very profound when he'd read it; why couldn’t one be both right and happy? Now, looking at Magda he knew he had to choose.
It was so clear! No choice at all, really. Her happiness was his happiness. How simple. How. . . .
He was in the temple with the Goddess.
Aloof and magnificent, She sat on Her velvet draped, black onyx throne, staring into the torch-lit gloom. He was on his knees gazing up, adoring Her.
As he chose happiness, She turned, looked down and smiled.
A great wave of pleasure swept through him. Then his body seemed to disappear.
Magdalena saw the sensations flashing across his face. He'd stopped speaking in mid sentence. When he began talking again, she felt the difference.
"Magdelena!" He was ecstatic, overflowing but still controlled. "I know. I've seen it! Nothing is worth hurting you. The dream. I had a feeling from my dream just now! I know everything’s O.K.! Forgive me. Help me. I'm sorry. . . ."
She knew what he wanted for her was right; yearned to let go, open herself and express the energy in dreams and words as he did. But it scared her. Each time she tried, the energy possessed her. There was no middle ground. His way was not yet her way. Dreams and words could not mediate the raw power. She just lived it out for five days on the Calle de las Putas.
Thank God he didn't go into these altered states too often.
"It's fine," she said. "We're both right. Let's get going. We've only got ten minutes to get to the conference room."
She could see he desperately wanted to tell her more. Could even dimly perceive that if she didn't take the time to listen now, he'd probably lose what he'd found. But she just couldn't handle it.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Chapter Seven
Chapter Seven
Magdalena was waiting for Paul in the Rat in M.I.U.’s Student Union Building. She sat shivering in a gloomy corner, the light reflecting off the pure white of her over-sized sweater. She’d chosen the white one because Paulito loved the way she looked in white. “Estupidos!” she hissed. They had the air conditioning going full blast but the weather was wet and cold. She tossed her head, reached up with both hands to lift rhe long black hair from her shoulders and dropped it. An attractive guy at a nearby table gave her the once over. She turned away, face an icy mask.
No, senor. I am not for you! Paul is my man. She knew, without a doubt. Saw proof in the way his long, serious face opened, defenseless before her. Felt it in the way his body responded to hers. Knew by the way they communicated without speaking, energy flowing in their glances, between their eyes and hands. She was as precious as music to him. His need made her feel powerful.
Her man, the first to really appreciate all of her; from the cuddly purring sex kitten to the cold almost cruel clinician. She could guide and nurture him or turn him on as she chose. He was totally responsive to her, accepting her limits, not pushing beyond where she wanted to go. She could let her hair down with him and let the moods flow and carry them both away.
She knew he adored her 132 pound, 5'7" body because he'd kissed and licked just about every inch of it. His easy willingness was more than a comfort to Magdalena, it was a requirement. She needed the sense of physical and mental control she had with Paul. Because once, long ago, when she'd needed it most, it hadn't been there.
The men she knew then hadn't treated her as Paul did now. They weren’t fascinated by the combination of sensitivity, sexuality and intelligence. They'd only sensed the powerful female musk, and reacted to her warmth and friendliness as if they had been promiscuity.
And they'd been right. For in the beginning, when she was twelve, in Cali, Colombia, where she was born, it had been promiscuity. Not because she'd wanted it to be, but because it had to be.
She’d been as fascinated by her ripening body as were the men around her. They seemed to smell the difference in her. And of all the new sensations the blossoming sexuality brought, this power to command a man’s attention was the one she liked best.
But it bothered her, too, and she struggled against it. Afterall, she was a good girl and wanted to stay that way. Yet this powerful attraction, so very different from how things were supposed to be in Church and school, was strong, nearly irresistible.
Giving in to the surging sensations, letting them guide and nurture her, made men treat her differently. Senor de la Vega, her science teacher, and Senor Enrique at the Church Youth Group seemed more attentive and talkative. Even Joaquin, the family handyman who'd known her since she was a child, looked at her with new eyes.
After those first shocking blood-stained mornings a few months after her twelfth birthday, it felt like she was under a spell. Going about with a small vacant smile, attention turned inward, she felt as if the awakening sensations were singing to her. She touched herself constantly.
There were lucid moments when she felt peaceful, whole and normal; moments when her energy was balanced and she was able to think about school, her family and God. Those were the times that kept her sane and gave Magdalena and her family the strength for the other times.
But they were only moments. The sexual power was dominating more and more of her thoughts. . . her life. One Sunday morning in Church, seven months after her twelfth birthday, she ceased struggling against the burgeoning power, and just drifted away.
Intelligence drained from her vibrant heart-shaped face, the vacant smile re-appeared and her attention turned inward to the song her body was singing. Her nipples grew hard and she touched them. Her vagina grew moist and she touched it.
Magdalena's mother sensed the change. Elena Renaldo turned toward her daughter's empty smile, saw the hardness of Magdalena's nipples through the flimsy white dress and looked down to see her legs twitching and shifting. Reaching for the child’s hand, Elena lowered it from the child’s youthful breast and held it tightly, resting it between them on the wooden pew. Elena's own sexual awakening had been similarly powerful and she had immense compassion for her daughter.
Elena's husband Rafael shared his wife's wisdom. He glanced across Magdalena's two younger sisters, Beatriz and Anna, as his wife lowered Magdalena's hand.
Rafael Renaldo felt sad, not for himself or his family but for the changes that the sensitive intelligent Magdalena would endure. Thank goodness Beatriz, who was five and Anna who was three, were calm and unaware. Rafael felt in awe, struck by the unfathomable power of Life, by how it could not be denied, sweeping all before it. Magdalena was right to give in, to flow with it even as it flowed in her, boiling and spilling her blood.
Rafael Renaldo's reverie ended suddenly as Magdalena stood, shook off her mother's hand, squeezed across her two sisters, passed him and out into the aisle. He watched her walk rapidly out of the church, leaving the warm aroma of female musk lingering in the cool air. Rafael thought she'd gone to the bathroom.
The sunny warmth and noise of the street were a sharp contrast to the cool, dim quiet of the church. Magdalena felt like an escaped prisoner. At last! An outer reality to match the inner one. A pulsing rhythm to match her own!
Hesitating a moment for her eyes adjust to the light, she walked purposefully away from the Church, to the Calle de las Putas, the street of whores. Her friends had whispered about it. Once, a few months ago, they’d all passed by. That was before her awakening. She'd been a tourist then, now she was going to be a native.
Oozing musk and big for her age, Magdalena quickly attracted a man. He was her father's age. As he put an arm gently around her shoulders, she purred, tilting her head up to look into his eyes. Energy leapt between them and she had him. In spite of the difference in their ages and status, she had him. Yes, she would give herself. Yes, he would pay and could have what he wanted. But what he wanted was her -- Magdalena Renaldo.
Magdalena stayed on the Calle del Putas for five days. On the third day she began feeling sorry for her mother. She wondered how her father and sisters were. She missed her own bed and old peaceful life. She'd been with ten men. The feeling of exhilaration and control was dissipating. On the fourth day, a huge, mean, ugly pimp named Luigi roughed her up and had anal sex with her. Luigi sold her, in her torn and soiled white dress like spoiled meat, to three more men early on the morning of her fifth day. Then, at eleven o'clock, her father found her.
Rafael hugged his daughter, cried with her, walked with her and listened as she talked. They telephoned Elena. Magdalena cried to her mother and talked to her sisters.
Five months later, Rafael's company, Shell Oil, offered him a promotion to hemispheric corporate headquarters in Coral Gables, Florida. The next month, the family moved from their neighborhood of informal, red-tile-roofed homes nestled in the rolling hills of Cali, Colombia, to a new neighborhood of red-tiled-roofed homes set in the scrupulously maintained grid of Coral Gables.
Half an hour before he was to leave for his debut as Dream Group facilitator, as Magda left her home to meet him at the Rathskaller, the threatening weather finally turned wet, cold and blustery. Watching the rain drops splatter against the sliding glass door to the balcony, Paul considered his own potential to splatter.
Was the fierce weather a sign? It matched his state of mind perfectly. He was foggy about his dreams and chills ran through him when he thought about what might go wrong.
Maybe it’s too nasty to go. Maybe no body’ll show up.
His breath clouded the glass.
This was heavy coat weather.
Something more than personal fear was gnawing. Something about the weather. . . . It was a sign! Josh had told him just before he'd left.
"The textbooks say that the Aztecs believed every element: sun/fire, earth, wind and water, was a physical manifestation of a god or goddess. They also believed that these manifestations, powerful though they were, were pretty much meaningless by themselves. That is, they were not attempts by the gods to communicate with human beings. As you know, Paul, such communication always came through dreams.
"To the Aztecs, extreme elemental force, storms and such, were precursors of an important dream, either a waking dream or a sleeping dream. Storms were the gods' way of preparing human beings to receive important messages."
They were in the darkly paneled, shelf-lined study in Josh’s old 1920's home. The place was a quaint remnant of a bygone sub-tropical architectural age. Paul still wasn’t comfortable with its strange energy and creaking wooden floors. The rough beamed cathedral ceiling in the living room and arched doorways and windows reminded him of a scene from Lon Chaney’s Phantom of the Opera. There was even a stained glass window high up in the entry alcove wall.
"I think there's more to it than that," Josh continued, "that's one of the things I want to find out this trip."
"More to what, Josh?"
"More to the generally accepted idea that the elements were merely precursors of the gods. I think the gods became the elements, changed their form and became the wind and the fire. In fact. . . ."
Josh lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned forward, drawing Paul closer to him.
"I believe the gods could be both in form and not in form. That they were really some kind of omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient energy. I think the ancient, so called 'primitive,' Aztecs knew they were dealing with pure energy and only called them 'gods' so they could manipulate that energy more efficiently."
Josh rose, walked around his massive desk and over to the nearest shelf. He picked up the greenish white human skull from its place and beckoned Paul to him. Paul rose and went to his professor.
"Hold this."
Josh slid the skull into his hands.
Paul had noticed the skull the first time he'd entered the professor's study nearly three years ago. It had seemed to glow. He'd been repelled then and didn't want to touch it now. But he didn't have a choice.
As the skull slid into his hands, he felt a tingling. His eyes went wide, breath rushed from him and he nearly dropped it,
"You feel it?" Josh asked.
"Yes," he gasped, "my God, yes! What is it?"
"That's very likely the skull of one of the most powerful ancient priestesses of the great Goddess Coatlicue. She lived four hundred years ago. I acquired her skull on my last trip to Mexico City. She was one of the most dedicated, carefully trained human beings to ever walk the planet. She was an adept using the Goddess' energy. So much so that even now, some of it remains active.”
Josh took the skull from Paul's shaking hands.
“They killed thousands of people in the name of their gods, Paul."
Josh’s voice was a quaking whisper. Returning the thing it to its place, he put an arm around Paul's shoulder and walked with him back to the big desk and the pool of light in the center of the room.
"The history books record as an irrefutable matter of fact," Josh said as they sat down, "that 10,000 people were sacrificed in a single ceremony shortly before Cortez landed. Imagine the energy released! Perhaps that priestess," he gestured to the shelf behind him, "officiated at those ceremonies. . . . And that power still lives, not just as a weak vibration in her skull, but as a potent force in our lives, today.
"Things are coming to a head for us. I feel it. Those thousands of lives were not sacrificed in vain. We are very near to finding and understanding Coatlicue's power. But I fear what such an understanding may bring. . . . As much as I want it, Lord help me, I fear it."
Now, as Paul bundled himself up to leave the apartment, his own anxiety was heightened by the memory of Dr. Wilbeth's fear. The ancient alchemists’ injunction -- "what is, isn't; and what isn't; is" - - echoed in his mind.
The almost forgotten feel of putting on the heavy coat coupled with the sights and sounds of the severe weather, momentarily disoriented him, opening him to another memory. This one of a similar storm in Dundeen, Pennsylvania, on the day of his tenth birthday.
It had fallen on a Sunday that year and because he was an altar boy, a very serious and devoted altar boy, the family scheduled his party for after the last Mass. Paul had felt a strong connection with God and wanted to worship by singing in the choir. But dad had told him that was for sissies and talked him out of it.
Father Watteau, began that Sunday morning with the reverential calm Paul found so comforting. He liked being around the priest and wanted to be like Father Watteau when he grew up. But as the elements outside the frail old church grew stronger, the old priest had grown uncharacteristically distracted and agitated.
After the Mass, as Paul, Fred Keeshan, the other altar boy, and Father Watteau changed, the wind whistled through the robing room, shaking its small windows. Their breath hung in small, frigid vapor clouds around them. The heat was turned off just before the last Mass. It didn't reach that far back in the church even when it was on. They were freezing. As they hurried to get into warmer clothes, their movements were hasty and spastic.
Suddenly, Father Watteau stopped in mid motion and stood still, the surplice hanging in his hand. His eyes glazed over and his lips turned up in a slack-jawed mindless grin. "She is coming!"
"What did you say, Father?" Paul asked.
"The Goddess!" the old priest answered. "The storm is Her chariot. I am Her Steed."
He rocked as he said that. He seemed to be tightening the muscles in his thighs and buttocks.
Fred Keeshan jabbed Paul in the ribs.
"The old fart's having an orgasm! D'you believe that?!?"
Fred was two years older than Paul and Paul didn't like his irreverence and constant sexual innuendo. Besides, this was Father Watteau, a venerable old man in his sixties and it was broad daylight in a church robing room. People like that didn't do those kinds of things in such places. But what was it then? Father Watteau was obviously in the grip of some powerful energy. The priest had never done anything like that before.
"Serve Her! Serve the Goddess. She is coming!"
Then Father Watteau awoke, a slightly embarrassed expression on his craggy face.
"What happened boys?"
"Are you O.K., Father?" Paul asked.
"Why, yes. Yes I am. But I seem to have had a dream. I don't remember it too well. What did I say, Paul?"
Paul was feeling too mixed-up to repeat the strangely erotic words.
Fred Keeshan answered, a leer on his face.
"You said, 'The goddess is coming. Serve the goddess. Sounds like something from a dirty book to me, Father."
Paul's voice was desperate, pleading with the priest to say Fred was wrong.
"What does it mean, Father?"
Father Watteau seemed embarrassed.
"I'm not sure, Paul. I'm not sure I know and I'm not sure I could explain it even if I did know."
The old priest's voice trailed off.
"It's not what Fred said, Father!" Paul demanded. "Say it’s not that!"
"No, Paul, it's not that. But people like Fred always mistake it for that."
Before the priest could say anymore, Fred guffawed. Then they heard the car horn calling them out to the parking lot for their ride home.
Magdalena was waiting for Paul in the Rat in M.I.U.’s Student Union Building. She sat shivering in a gloomy corner, the light reflecting off the pure white of her over-sized sweater. She’d chosen the white one because Paulito loved the way she looked in white. “Estupidos!” she hissed. They had the air conditioning going full blast but the weather was wet and cold. She tossed her head, reached up with both hands to lift rhe long black hair from her shoulders and dropped it. An attractive guy at a nearby table gave her the once over. She turned away, face an icy mask.
No, senor. I am not for you! Paul is my man. She knew, without a doubt. Saw proof in the way his long, serious face opened, defenseless before her. Felt it in the way his body responded to hers. Knew by the way they communicated without speaking, energy flowing in their glances, between their eyes and hands. She was as precious as music to him. His need made her feel powerful.
Her man, the first to really appreciate all of her; from the cuddly purring sex kitten to the cold almost cruel clinician. She could guide and nurture him or turn him on as she chose. He was totally responsive to her, accepting her limits, not pushing beyond where she wanted to go. She could let her hair down with him and let the moods flow and carry them both away.
She knew he adored her 132 pound, 5'7" body because he'd kissed and licked just about every inch of it. His easy willingness was more than a comfort to Magdalena, it was a requirement. She needed the sense of physical and mental control she had with Paul. Because once, long ago, when she'd needed it most, it hadn't been there.
The men she knew then hadn't treated her as Paul did now. They weren’t fascinated by the combination of sensitivity, sexuality and intelligence. They'd only sensed the powerful female musk, and reacted to her warmth and friendliness as if they had been promiscuity.
And they'd been right. For in the beginning, when she was twelve, in Cali, Colombia, where she was born, it had been promiscuity. Not because she'd wanted it to be, but because it had to be.
She’d been as fascinated by her ripening body as were the men around her. They seemed to smell the difference in her. And of all the new sensations the blossoming sexuality brought, this power to command a man’s attention was the one she liked best.
But it bothered her, too, and she struggled against it. Afterall, she was a good girl and wanted to stay that way. Yet this powerful attraction, so very different from how things were supposed to be in Church and school, was strong, nearly irresistible.
Giving in to the surging sensations, letting them guide and nurture her, made men treat her differently. Senor de la Vega, her science teacher, and Senor Enrique at the Church Youth Group seemed more attentive and talkative. Even Joaquin, the family handyman who'd known her since she was a child, looked at her with new eyes.
After those first shocking blood-stained mornings a few months after her twelfth birthday, it felt like she was under a spell. Going about with a small vacant smile, attention turned inward, she felt as if the awakening sensations were singing to her. She touched herself constantly.
There were lucid moments when she felt peaceful, whole and normal; moments when her energy was balanced and she was able to think about school, her family and God. Those were the times that kept her sane and gave Magdalena and her family the strength for the other times.
But they were only moments. The sexual power was dominating more and more of her thoughts. . . her life. One Sunday morning in Church, seven months after her twelfth birthday, she ceased struggling against the burgeoning power, and just drifted away.
Intelligence drained from her vibrant heart-shaped face, the vacant smile re-appeared and her attention turned inward to the song her body was singing. Her nipples grew hard and she touched them. Her vagina grew moist and she touched it.
Magdalena's mother sensed the change. Elena Renaldo turned toward her daughter's empty smile, saw the hardness of Magdalena's nipples through the flimsy white dress and looked down to see her legs twitching and shifting. Reaching for the child’s hand, Elena lowered it from the child’s youthful breast and held it tightly, resting it between them on the wooden pew. Elena's own sexual awakening had been similarly powerful and she had immense compassion for her daughter.
Elena's husband Rafael shared his wife's wisdom. He glanced across Magdalena's two younger sisters, Beatriz and Anna, as his wife lowered Magdalena's hand.
Rafael Renaldo felt sad, not for himself or his family but for the changes that the sensitive intelligent Magdalena would endure. Thank goodness Beatriz, who was five and Anna who was three, were calm and unaware. Rafael felt in awe, struck by the unfathomable power of Life, by how it could not be denied, sweeping all before it. Magdalena was right to give in, to flow with it even as it flowed in her, boiling and spilling her blood.
Rafael Renaldo's reverie ended suddenly as Magdalena stood, shook off her mother's hand, squeezed across her two sisters, passed him and out into the aisle. He watched her walk rapidly out of the church, leaving the warm aroma of female musk lingering in the cool air. Rafael thought she'd gone to the bathroom.
The sunny warmth and noise of the street were a sharp contrast to the cool, dim quiet of the church. Magdalena felt like an escaped prisoner. At last! An outer reality to match the inner one. A pulsing rhythm to match her own!
Hesitating a moment for her eyes adjust to the light, she walked purposefully away from the Church, to the Calle de las Putas, the street of whores. Her friends had whispered about it. Once, a few months ago, they’d all passed by. That was before her awakening. She'd been a tourist then, now she was going to be a native.
Oozing musk and big for her age, Magdalena quickly attracted a man. He was her father's age. As he put an arm gently around her shoulders, she purred, tilting her head up to look into his eyes. Energy leapt between them and she had him. In spite of the difference in their ages and status, she had him. Yes, she would give herself. Yes, he would pay and could have what he wanted. But what he wanted was her -- Magdalena Renaldo.
Magdalena stayed on the Calle del Putas for five days. On the third day she began feeling sorry for her mother. She wondered how her father and sisters were. She missed her own bed and old peaceful life. She'd been with ten men. The feeling of exhilaration and control was dissipating. On the fourth day, a huge, mean, ugly pimp named Luigi roughed her up and had anal sex with her. Luigi sold her, in her torn and soiled white dress like spoiled meat, to three more men early on the morning of her fifth day. Then, at eleven o'clock, her father found her.
Rafael hugged his daughter, cried with her, walked with her and listened as she talked. They telephoned Elena. Magdalena cried to her mother and talked to her sisters.
Five months later, Rafael's company, Shell Oil, offered him a promotion to hemispheric corporate headquarters in Coral Gables, Florida. The next month, the family moved from their neighborhood of informal, red-tile-roofed homes nestled in the rolling hills of Cali, Colombia, to a new neighborhood of red-tiled-roofed homes set in the scrupulously maintained grid of Coral Gables.
Half an hour before he was to leave for his debut as Dream Group facilitator, as Magda left her home to meet him at the Rathskaller, the threatening weather finally turned wet, cold and blustery. Watching the rain drops splatter against the sliding glass door to the balcony, Paul considered his own potential to splatter.
Was the fierce weather a sign? It matched his state of mind perfectly. He was foggy about his dreams and chills ran through him when he thought about what might go wrong.
Maybe it’s too nasty to go. Maybe no body’ll show up.
His breath clouded the glass.
This was heavy coat weather.
Something more than personal fear was gnawing. Something about the weather. . . . It was a sign! Josh had told him just before he'd left.
"The textbooks say that the Aztecs believed every element: sun/fire, earth, wind and water, was a physical manifestation of a god or goddess. They also believed that these manifestations, powerful though they were, were pretty much meaningless by themselves. That is, they were not attempts by the gods to communicate with human beings. As you know, Paul, such communication always came through dreams.
"To the Aztecs, extreme elemental force, storms and such, were precursors of an important dream, either a waking dream or a sleeping dream. Storms were the gods' way of preparing human beings to receive important messages."
They were in the darkly paneled, shelf-lined study in Josh’s old 1920's home. The place was a quaint remnant of a bygone sub-tropical architectural age. Paul still wasn’t comfortable with its strange energy and creaking wooden floors. The rough beamed cathedral ceiling in the living room and arched doorways and windows reminded him of a scene from Lon Chaney’s Phantom of the Opera. There was even a stained glass window high up in the entry alcove wall.
"I think there's more to it than that," Josh continued, "that's one of the things I want to find out this trip."
"More to what, Josh?"
"More to the generally accepted idea that the elements were merely precursors of the gods. I think the gods became the elements, changed their form and became the wind and the fire. In fact. . . ."
Josh lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned forward, drawing Paul closer to him.
"I believe the gods could be both in form and not in form. That they were really some kind of omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient energy. I think the ancient, so called 'primitive,' Aztecs knew they were dealing with pure energy and only called them 'gods' so they could manipulate that energy more efficiently."
Josh rose, walked around his massive desk and over to the nearest shelf. He picked up the greenish white human skull from its place and beckoned Paul to him. Paul rose and went to his professor.
"Hold this."
Josh slid the skull into his hands.
Paul had noticed the skull the first time he'd entered the professor's study nearly three years ago. It had seemed to glow. He'd been repelled then and didn't want to touch it now. But he didn't have a choice.
As the skull slid into his hands, he felt a tingling. His eyes went wide, breath rushed from him and he nearly dropped it,
"You feel it?" Josh asked.
"Yes," he gasped, "my God, yes! What is it?"
"That's very likely the skull of one of the most powerful ancient priestesses of the great Goddess Coatlicue. She lived four hundred years ago. I acquired her skull on my last trip to Mexico City. She was one of the most dedicated, carefully trained human beings to ever walk the planet. She was an adept using the Goddess' energy. So much so that even now, some of it remains active.”
Josh took the skull from Paul's shaking hands.
“They killed thousands of people in the name of their gods, Paul."
Josh’s voice was a quaking whisper. Returning the thing it to its place, he put an arm around Paul's shoulder and walked with him back to the big desk and the pool of light in the center of the room.
"The history books record as an irrefutable matter of fact," Josh said as they sat down, "that 10,000 people were sacrificed in a single ceremony shortly before Cortez landed. Imagine the energy released! Perhaps that priestess," he gestured to the shelf behind him, "officiated at those ceremonies. . . . And that power still lives, not just as a weak vibration in her skull, but as a potent force in our lives, today.
"Things are coming to a head for us. I feel it. Those thousands of lives were not sacrificed in vain. We are very near to finding and understanding Coatlicue's power. But I fear what such an understanding may bring. . . . As much as I want it, Lord help me, I fear it."
Now, as Paul bundled himself up to leave the apartment, his own anxiety was heightened by the memory of Dr. Wilbeth's fear. The ancient alchemists’ injunction -- "what is, isn't; and what isn't; is" - - echoed in his mind.
The almost forgotten feel of putting on the heavy coat coupled with the sights and sounds of the severe weather, momentarily disoriented him, opening him to another memory. This one of a similar storm in Dundeen, Pennsylvania, on the day of his tenth birthday.
It had fallen on a Sunday that year and because he was an altar boy, a very serious and devoted altar boy, the family scheduled his party for after the last Mass. Paul had felt a strong connection with God and wanted to worship by singing in the choir. But dad had told him that was for sissies and talked him out of it.
Father Watteau, began that Sunday morning with the reverential calm Paul found so comforting. He liked being around the priest and wanted to be like Father Watteau when he grew up. But as the elements outside the frail old church grew stronger, the old priest had grown uncharacteristically distracted and agitated.
After the Mass, as Paul, Fred Keeshan, the other altar boy, and Father Watteau changed, the wind whistled through the robing room, shaking its small windows. Their breath hung in small, frigid vapor clouds around them. The heat was turned off just before the last Mass. It didn't reach that far back in the church even when it was on. They were freezing. As they hurried to get into warmer clothes, their movements were hasty and spastic.
Suddenly, Father Watteau stopped in mid motion and stood still, the surplice hanging in his hand. His eyes glazed over and his lips turned up in a slack-jawed mindless grin. "She is coming!"
"What did you say, Father?" Paul asked.
"The Goddess!" the old priest answered. "The storm is Her chariot. I am Her Steed."
He rocked as he said that. He seemed to be tightening the muscles in his thighs and buttocks.
Fred Keeshan jabbed Paul in the ribs.
"The old fart's having an orgasm! D'you believe that?!?"
Fred was two years older than Paul and Paul didn't like his irreverence and constant sexual innuendo. Besides, this was Father Watteau, a venerable old man in his sixties and it was broad daylight in a church robing room. People like that didn't do those kinds of things in such places. But what was it then? Father Watteau was obviously in the grip of some powerful energy. The priest had never done anything like that before.
"Serve Her! Serve the Goddess. She is coming!"
Then Father Watteau awoke, a slightly embarrassed expression on his craggy face.
"What happened boys?"
"Are you O.K., Father?" Paul asked.
"Why, yes. Yes I am. But I seem to have had a dream. I don't remember it too well. What did I say, Paul?"
Paul was feeling too mixed-up to repeat the strangely erotic words.
Fred Keeshan answered, a leer on his face.
"You said, 'The goddess is coming. Serve the goddess. Sounds like something from a dirty book to me, Father."
Paul's voice was desperate, pleading with the priest to say Fred was wrong.
"What does it mean, Father?"
Father Watteau seemed embarrassed.
"I'm not sure, Paul. I'm not sure I know and I'm not sure I could explain it even if I did know."
The old priest's voice trailed off.
"It's not what Fred said, Father!" Paul demanded. "Say it’s not that!"
"No, Paul, it's not that. But people like Fred always mistake it for that."
Before the priest could say anymore, Fred guffawed. Then they heard the car horn calling them out to the parking lot for their ride home.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Chapter Six
Chapter Six
"Brrr."
Paul shivered. The darkness was cooler than usual, almost as cold as at Josh's the other night. He locked the door and rode the elevator down. The dewy open air was even cooler. A faint rosy glow tinged the sky.
"Glorious."
Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Paul turned on the music, patted his pocket to be sure the keys were there and set off at a brisk pace.
The cool damp breeze caressed his skin.
The same satiny sensation as in the dream.
“Keep those connections coming.” Clouds of breath hung in the still air.
Damp sprawling shapes of malaluca trees loomed from the darkness.
How pure and perfect to be swaying along in the early morning light, dream fragments coming through, music throbbing.
Pure like the clouds?
No! Pure for real. The way things are supposed to be. Organized. "Ship shape," Dad called it.
But that was discipline. What about having fun?
Fun was dessert, discipline, the meat and potatoes.
Didn’t he vacuum his one-bedroom apartment once a week (whether it needed it or not) and rinse off the dirty dishes and silverware before putting them in the dishwasher? Doing things the way they were supposed to be done (the way Mom and Pop had taught him) worked and kept him out of trouble.
Except for sex. . . and his older sister Antoinette. . . and. . . clothes.
His parents were formal and insisted he be buttoned up. Now, every chance he got, he wore loose comfortable clothing that didn't constrict.
Except for this damn jock strap.
Paul patted his swaying buttocks where the jock gripped, leaving red welts.
He’d been naked in the dream with gleaming smelly oil on his skin.
He shivered. Better quit thinking about it, getting hard again.
So. Go jerk off.
No way! Not first thing in the morning! Gotta keep thinking about the dream. Don’t want another acting out episode. Something’s gotta give.
Quit wearing the jock.
That made sense. The jock was already off in other areas, so yeah, why not?
Even in the thick of things, in the middle of statistics class or working a long line on the register in Eckerd's, the euphoric, light, crystal clear feeling would come. Then, breathing deeply, the way he did during the centering at Group, he'd join it; ease off and let himself slow down.
It was as if the Life Force itself was intervening, short-circuiting the discipline, saying he was O.K. and loved just as he was.
He was believing it, too, at least 10% of the time anyhow; sensing that without having to work at it, he was being guided toward both a great awakening and the fulfillment of his dreams. The sense of save-the-world urgency was still there, Josh seemed to feel it too, but more and more lately, Paul felt challenged, not threatened by it.
"All right!" he stage whispered, feeling the goodness of it, running through the cool damp air, the rosy glow spreading itself on the horizon.
It will fade, though. It never lasts.
So? It’s here now!
Whizzing onward, past the flowerless Poinciana trees near the big swimming pool, Paul wondered if those two fine-looking women would be out.
A woman had been in the dream. A goddess, magnificent and aloof.
Like Magda, but not like her. The kind of woman he’d always wanted. But thinking of Magdalena that way, as a sex goddess to be worshipped, wasn’t right. Magda was different. He cared about her, maybe even loved her.
But he did want to think of someone that way. Yeah.
If such a woman happened by in the course of his authorized activities, why not admire her?
Afterall, he didn't go out of his way searching. He didn't waste time. The radar was always on anyhow. Wasn't that what was expected? The way it was supposed to be between men and women? So why not look? Besides, South Florida provided a constant stream of feminine beauty -- Haitians, Latinas, Europeans and southern belles.
Once Paul’s radar locked-on to a carefully made-up face, the rhythmic flex of shapely calves or an artfully done hairdo; the woman’s pert impudently thrusting breasts or the gracious sway of her softly curving buttocks did the rest. He knew it was all illusion; but eagerly suspended disbelief. He allowed himself to be hypnotized by the shimmer, clothes, and make-up, to drift into fantasy, imagining the elegant women he watched from afar to be exquisite other-worldly creatures put on earth to fascinate and mesmerize him.
Were they aware? Did beautiful women know the power they had?
The ones Paul was interested in did. He knew they knew when they caught him looking, and he'd smile modestly and they'd give him that distant, superior look. They'd both turn away then. But at the first opportunity, he'd turn back.
He loved transforming the many attractive women he saw each day into the divine Female, aloof, self-possessed and fertile with possibilities. Watching them groom themselves in public, combing their hair, putting on lipstick; self absorbed and unaware of his admiration, was more than a pastime. It was communion.
Only women could change and transcended themselves in plain view. Only they were allowed to be attractive, vulnerable and open. Public places, trains, hallways and streets, were Paul’s temple. There, the chalice and host were raised and venerated. There, women, already other, became more so; both priests and what the priests worshipped.
But in the temple of the public place men could only admire the other, true worship had to be done in secret. For men, being opposite, were expected to only tolerate the feminine, not venerate it.
Maybe Paul’s need to worship grew from that rigid separation. Perhaps being enthralled was a way of meeting expectations; to simultaneously honor the feminine while separating himself from it.
Also, worshiping in secret required little of him. He didn’t have to work at being more open or intuitive. He could remain dispassionate and theoretical. It was like the wafer and the wine -- a ritual, something one did instead.
Yet sometimes, an otherwise perfect woman’s small imperfections, legs splayed a bit too wide or lipstick smeared on teeth, jarred him awake. Then he’d see her as only human, like himself, and the ritual’s magic was shattered leaving him with an uncomfortable, empty feeling.
But that never lasted long. Soon his radar would lock-on again, drawn by a pair of long tapering legs striding along, calve muscles flexing beneath black nylons. Or a softly glowing, artfully made up face surrounded by richly colored lustrous hair. A narrow ankle and shapely foot with high heeled shoe dangling from its toe tips. Or a relaxed yet gracefully erect posture with firm thrusting breasts. Or swaying, perfectly inverted heart-shaped buttocks in blue jeans. Then, hooked again, he’d be led through sexual excitement to an idealized experience of the Eternal Female -- forever beckoning, forever other, always unobtainable.
Goddesses. Divine beings requiring nothing more than worship.
That's what he was doing on his knees in the dream! What the discipline and ritual position were about.
Indeed. Kind of gives the radar and sex fantasies greater significance, doesn’t it? Make's 'em about the “Meaning of Life,” not just about getting off.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Forget it.
Okay. So the acting out . . . .
Goes with the sex fantasies.
All the way back to the earliest ones at age nine. Fantasies of secretly sniffing pretty girls’ bicycle seats. Or waiting for them to return, then convincing them to let him nuzzle their buttocks through warm smelly panties. Or those few weeks with his sister Antoinette. . . .
Ah, the good old days.
Now, the fantasies were erotic mini-series. With the same theme. Being forced to have sex with an arrogant and beautiful older woman. Someone in her thirties or forties.
She'd appear suddenly, in familiar locations, when he least expected her. Between the book shelves in the deserted third floor of the University library. Or behind the big cartons of toilet tissue in the darkened stock room in the back of Eckerd's Drug Store.
Sometimes she would speak. More often she would not. Speech was unnecessary in any event, for he was always ready, perfectly attuned to her. Always available. As their eyes met for the first time, he felt completed, as if he'd spent his whole life waiting and preparing himself just for her. She had only to gaze into his eyes to command him.
Once he'd satisfied her and this aggressive all-knowing female was done using him, she would take him to her spacious home in the suburbs. There, sure of her power over him, this irresistible, beautiful, older woman, now his beloved Mistress, would teach him the correct ways to please and serve a woman, keeping him with her, forever, as her sex slave.
Paul patted his rising erection. God! Even running and with Darth Vader's theme blaring!
But why those fantasies? He’d enjoyed straight sex since seventeen.
So? They were only fantasies!
The acting out said it was more. Something was desperate to do one of them -- to feel it, taste it, smell it. Maybe the fantasy with the big, thirty three-year old blonde in the library. . . .
Paul was erecting.
No! Think of the consequences! Give in and you might spend the rest of your life as an addicted sex slave, handed from one dominant woman to another in a shadowy perverted sexual underworld.
Yesss!
No! That was the point of the discipline and the busy schedule, to keep the fantasizing down.
Since Magdalena, it hadn't worked so well.
It was the games she liked to play.
Back and soaked with sweat, Paul stripped. The warm shower felt GREAT. The two women hadn't been out, but tomorrow was another day!
After a quick breakfast of Cheerios and vitamins, he put on his Eckerd's Drugstore "uniform." Standing in front of the full-length mirror behind the bedroom door, tucking the white shirt into the dark slacks, his mind wandered back to the jog and the shower. The two most enjoyable carefree parts of the day were over.
He sighed, feeling sorry for himself.
Well. . . . No matter, time for work.
Fixing the narrow red tie, Paul tried to buck himself up with an encouraging smile and a chipper, "Go get 'em, Boy-o!"
But it didn't help. Wistful for the warm shower, tireder than he ought to be, all he wanted was to float through the day.
"No coasting allowed! Strike while the iron's hot! You can do it, Boy-o!"
But maybe he couldn't.
As he drove east towards the drug store, Paul realized he was pouring more and more of himself into the dreamwork. He’d even skipped the morning run twice last week to stay home with Edgar Cayce and Ann Faraday to interpret a particularly conflicted dream.
Too much work. We’re close to a breakdown or a breakthrough.
But it wasn’t all work. Hadn't he met the woman he’d been searching for his entire life, the darkly sensuous strikingly beautiful Magdalena, on the job, at the Dream Group's Annual Fall Orientation?
Yes. And don’t forget Angela Saunders, too.
So?
But what about the music?
"Brrr."
Paul shivered. The darkness was cooler than usual, almost as cold as at Josh's the other night. He locked the door and rode the elevator down. The dewy open air was even cooler. A faint rosy glow tinged the sky.
"Glorious."
Butterflies fluttered in his stomach. Paul turned on the music, patted his pocket to be sure the keys were there and set off at a brisk pace.
The cool damp breeze caressed his skin.
The same satiny sensation as in the dream.
“Keep those connections coming.” Clouds of breath hung in the still air.
Damp sprawling shapes of malaluca trees loomed from the darkness.
How pure and perfect to be swaying along in the early morning light, dream fragments coming through, music throbbing.
Pure like the clouds?
No! Pure for real. The way things are supposed to be. Organized. "Ship shape," Dad called it.
But that was discipline. What about having fun?
Fun was dessert, discipline, the meat and potatoes.
Didn’t he vacuum his one-bedroom apartment once a week (whether it needed it or not) and rinse off the dirty dishes and silverware before putting them in the dishwasher? Doing things the way they were supposed to be done (the way Mom and Pop had taught him) worked and kept him out of trouble.
Except for sex. . . and his older sister Antoinette. . . and. . . clothes.
His parents were formal and insisted he be buttoned up. Now, every chance he got, he wore loose comfortable clothing that didn't constrict.
Except for this damn jock strap.
Paul patted his swaying buttocks where the jock gripped, leaving red welts.
He’d been naked in the dream with gleaming smelly oil on his skin.
He shivered. Better quit thinking about it, getting hard again.
So. Go jerk off.
No way! Not first thing in the morning! Gotta keep thinking about the dream. Don’t want another acting out episode. Something’s gotta give.
Quit wearing the jock.
That made sense. The jock was already off in other areas, so yeah, why not?
Even in the thick of things, in the middle of statistics class or working a long line on the register in Eckerd's, the euphoric, light, crystal clear feeling would come. Then, breathing deeply, the way he did during the centering at Group, he'd join it; ease off and let himself slow down.
It was as if the Life Force itself was intervening, short-circuiting the discipline, saying he was O.K. and loved just as he was.
He was believing it, too, at least 10% of the time anyhow; sensing that without having to work at it, he was being guided toward both a great awakening and the fulfillment of his dreams. The sense of save-the-world urgency was still there, Josh seemed to feel it too, but more and more lately, Paul felt challenged, not threatened by it.
"All right!" he stage whispered, feeling the goodness of it, running through the cool damp air, the rosy glow spreading itself on the horizon.
It will fade, though. It never lasts.
So? It’s here now!
Whizzing onward, past the flowerless Poinciana trees near the big swimming pool, Paul wondered if those two fine-looking women would be out.
A woman had been in the dream. A goddess, magnificent and aloof.
Like Magda, but not like her. The kind of woman he’d always wanted. But thinking of Magdalena that way, as a sex goddess to be worshipped, wasn’t right. Magda was different. He cared about her, maybe even loved her.
But he did want to think of someone that way. Yeah.
If such a woman happened by in the course of his authorized activities, why not admire her?
Afterall, he didn't go out of his way searching. He didn't waste time. The radar was always on anyhow. Wasn't that what was expected? The way it was supposed to be between men and women? So why not look? Besides, South Florida provided a constant stream of feminine beauty -- Haitians, Latinas, Europeans and southern belles.
Once Paul’s radar locked-on to a carefully made-up face, the rhythmic flex of shapely calves or an artfully done hairdo; the woman’s pert impudently thrusting breasts or the gracious sway of her softly curving buttocks did the rest. He knew it was all illusion; but eagerly suspended disbelief. He allowed himself to be hypnotized by the shimmer, clothes, and make-up, to drift into fantasy, imagining the elegant women he watched from afar to be exquisite other-worldly creatures put on earth to fascinate and mesmerize him.
Were they aware? Did beautiful women know the power they had?
The ones Paul was interested in did. He knew they knew when they caught him looking, and he'd smile modestly and they'd give him that distant, superior look. They'd both turn away then. But at the first opportunity, he'd turn back.
He loved transforming the many attractive women he saw each day into the divine Female, aloof, self-possessed and fertile with possibilities. Watching them groom themselves in public, combing their hair, putting on lipstick; self absorbed and unaware of his admiration, was more than a pastime. It was communion.
Only women could change and transcended themselves in plain view. Only they were allowed to be attractive, vulnerable and open. Public places, trains, hallways and streets, were Paul’s temple. There, the chalice and host were raised and venerated. There, women, already other, became more so; both priests and what the priests worshipped.
But in the temple of the public place men could only admire the other, true worship had to be done in secret. For men, being opposite, were expected to only tolerate the feminine, not venerate it.
Maybe Paul’s need to worship grew from that rigid separation. Perhaps being enthralled was a way of meeting expectations; to simultaneously honor the feminine while separating himself from it.
Also, worshiping in secret required little of him. He didn’t have to work at being more open or intuitive. He could remain dispassionate and theoretical. It was like the wafer and the wine -- a ritual, something one did instead.
Yet sometimes, an otherwise perfect woman’s small imperfections, legs splayed a bit too wide or lipstick smeared on teeth, jarred him awake. Then he’d see her as only human, like himself, and the ritual’s magic was shattered leaving him with an uncomfortable, empty feeling.
But that never lasted long. Soon his radar would lock-on again, drawn by a pair of long tapering legs striding along, calve muscles flexing beneath black nylons. Or a softly glowing, artfully made up face surrounded by richly colored lustrous hair. A narrow ankle and shapely foot with high heeled shoe dangling from its toe tips. Or a relaxed yet gracefully erect posture with firm thrusting breasts. Or swaying, perfectly inverted heart-shaped buttocks in blue jeans. Then, hooked again, he’d be led through sexual excitement to an idealized experience of the Eternal Female -- forever beckoning, forever other, always unobtainable.
Goddesses. Divine beings requiring nothing more than worship.
That's what he was doing on his knees in the dream! What the discipline and ritual position were about.
Indeed. Kind of gives the radar and sex fantasies greater significance, doesn’t it? Make's 'em about the “Meaning of Life,” not just about getting off.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Forget it.
Okay. So the acting out . . . .
Goes with the sex fantasies.
All the way back to the earliest ones at age nine. Fantasies of secretly sniffing pretty girls’ bicycle seats. Or waiting for them to return, then convincing them to let him nuzzle their buttocks through warm smelly panties. Or those few weeks with his sister Antoinette. . . .
Ah, the good old days.
Now, the fantasies were erotic mini-series. With the same theme. Being forced to have sex with an arrogant and beautiful older woman. Someone in her thirties or forties.
She'd appear suddenly, in familiar locations, when he least expected her. Between the book shelves in the deserted third floor of the University library. Or behind the big cartons of toilet tissue in the darkened stock room in the back of Eckerd's Drug Store.
Sometimes she would speak. More often she would not. Speech was unnecessary in any event, for he was always ready, perfectly attuned to her. Always available. As their eyes met for the first time, he felt completed, as if he'd spent his whole life waiting and preparing himself just for her. She had only to gaze into his eyes to command him.
Once he'd satisfied her and this aggressive all-knowing female was done using him, she would take him to her spacious home in the suburbs. There, sure of her power over him, this irresistible, beautiful, older woman, now his beloved Mistress, would teach him the correct ways to please and serve a woman, keeping him with her, forever, as her sex slave.
Paul patted his rising erection. God! Even running and with Darth Vader's theme blaring!
But why those fantasies? He’d enjoyed straight sex since seventeen.
So? They were only fantasies!
The acting out said it was more. Something was desperate to do one of them -- to feel it, taste it, smell it. Maybe the fantasy with the big, thirty three-year old blonde in the library. . . .
Paul was erecting.
No! Think of the consequences! Give in and you might spend the rest of your life as an addicted sex slave, handed from one dominant woman to another in a shadowy perverted sexual underworld.
Yesss!
No! That was the point of the discipline and the busy schedule, to keep the fantasizing down.
Since Magdalena, it hadn't worked so well.
It was the games she liked to play.
Back and soaked with sweat, Paul stripped. The warm shower felt GREAT. The two women hadn't been out, but tomorrow was another day!
After a quick breakfast of Cheerios and vitamins, he put on his Eckerd's Drugstore "uniform." Standing in front of the full-length mirror behind the bedroom door, tucking the white shirt into the dark slacks, his mind wandered back to the jog and the shower. The two most enjoyable carefree parts of the day were over.
He sighed, feeling sorry for himself.
Well. . . . No matter, time for work.
Fixing the narrow red tie, Paul tried to buck himself up with an encouraging smile and a chipper, "Go get 'em, Boy-o!"
But it didn't help. Wistful for the warm shower, tireder than he ought to be, all he wanted was to float through the day.
"No coasting allowed! Strike while the iron's hot! You can do it, Boy-o!"
But maybe he couldn't.
As he drove east towards the drug store, Paul realized he was pouring more and more of himself into the dreamwork. He’d even skipped the morning run twice last week to stay home with Edgar Cayce and Ann Faraday to interpret a particularly conflicted dream.
Too much work. We’re close to a breakdown or a breakthrough.
But it wasn’t all work. Hadn't he met the woman he’d been searching for his entire life, the darkly sensuous strikingly beautiful Magdalena, on the job, at the Dream Group's Annual Fall Orientation?
Yes. And don’t forget Angela Saunders, too.
So?
But what about the music?
Friday, February 12, 2010
Chapter 5
Chapter Five
On my knees!
Paul rose and tried to concentrate.
How long?
He forced his straining eyes to focus on the microwave clock.
Five eleven.
Only a minute.
He looked absently at his diminishing erection.
"I've acted out!"
He shuddered, released his shriveled penis.
“If I'd been in a public place. . . . My God. Gotta tell Josh.”
Tell him what?
The professor's disappointed face flashed by. All Paul had were vague longings, tight muscles and a dry throat. Without recall, they were nowhere.
He willed his shaking hands to reach for the steaming mug.
Easy, Boy-o! Easy.
He took a sip. The hot liquid felt good.
Gotta remember.
Sure you do, and you will. Just lighten up a bit. Why not put some music on?
A muscle twisted in Paul's belly.
Music? Now?
Hey, what happened to that melody? Almost had it the other night at Josh’s didn’t ya?
"More important stuff to do. . . ."
Paul put the mug on the counter and went to the CD cabinet in the living room.
That’s it. But you want to finish that song don’t you. . . ?
He loaded a David Arkenstone disk and returned to the kitchen. As he saw his undershorts on the floor, a fragment of the dream flashed by. He shut his eyes and grabbed for it.
"Yesss! Thank you, God!”
The content was hazy, but it felt like the first dream, the one he and Josh had dated to Paul’s tenth birthday. Finally, another pay-off for the struggling and constant, “would the dreamwork ever be more than a hobby,” doubts.
The full scholarship from Miami International University’s Psychology Department including graduate courses, room and board at MIU's South Campus in Miami and a part time job at Eckerd's Drug Store had been the first pay-off .
Now this memory, nearly three years later, as the first draft of the Master's Thesis on dream communication was nearly complete, might be equally important.
Paul gulped the coffee and went to get his gear from the hall closet. He started suiting-up for his daily run. As the jock grabbed the tender flesh of his buttocks, another piece of the dream surfaced.
It was lewd. Lewd? Yeah, you know, dirty, scummy, disgusting.
Peaceful, too, though. O.K. Sexy and peaceful at the same time.
Themes. Josh says go for the themes.
Lewd-sexy and peaceful.
Sharp contrasts! But not in the dream alone. South Florida was full of them.
The power was contrasts. The dream wanted him to open to the contrasts.
Very difficult. The contrasts were so extreme they were already pulling Paul apart. It would be hard to open any more, and stay sane. Canals dynamited out of rare coral. Endangered Keys deer. Wounded manatees. New Florida Turnpike extensions slashed through virgin mangrove and saw grass. And tall coconut palms swaying elegantly above it all.
The boosterism and bluster, the man-made and God-made, collided head-on here. But for the threat of a hurricane, which neither Paul nor three quarters of the two million people here ever experienced, it seemed as if the man-made was winning. There was nothing but contrasts!
So what did it mean, getting pulled apart? What was the theme?
Letting go. It means, if you're holding on and being pulled apart, the only way to survive -- hold on -- is to let go. It's a paradox. A Zen thing.
Like the clouds.
Paul sighed remembering late afternoons on the Tamiami Trail, driving to school those first weeks in South Florida, with the cumulus clouds, majestic, high in the blue sky. They’d seemed above it all, disinterested observers, beyond the confused tangle on the ground.
But they hadn’t been, and it hurt Paul even now, to accept that.
The clouds were a part of it, not at all what they appeared. They too made a contribution to the nagging discomfort -- the perpetually clinging warmth and the pervasively frigid air conditioning, the bright glaring sunlight and the $90.00 sunglasses.
Paul shook his head and pulled on the jogging shorts.
The schools here taught in thirty-seven different languages! Imagine! People from Russia, Syria, Lebanon, Haiti, Thailand and Vietnam plus every Caribbean Island and every nation in South America were here. Sounds of so many different languages and vistas of so many different human features, hues, shapes and sizes, made even a casual walk an adventure.
But there was a scary side, too.
A sibilant presence hissed in the city’s aggressive urban hustle, trains, tall buildings and traffic jams; gnawing inaudibly but for the sudden violence, at the low-key touristy ambiance. Some coiled power slithered beneath the year-round school summer-vacation atmosphere. Vague and misshapen, it gave Miami-Dade county and its 30 cities a Graham Greene novel feel, like one of those provincial capitals in a Latin republic perpetually under a partial state of siege.
Of course, the power was everywhere, not just in the Magic City, but Paul thought it was closer to the surface here than in Pennsylvania. He’d even glimpsed its restless motion in the laid-back art-deco hotels on South Beach. Like a play within a play, the really good stuff happened behind the carefully managed scenes, just below the surface. Especially with the local politics.
Silence hung heavy, pregnant. The David Arkenstone disk had stopped. Paul's mind raced on.
Josh called that power the Life Force and said the ancient alchemists' injunction, "What is, isn't; and what isn't, is" -- best described how it operated.
"That means watch out for me, your habits, and most especially, your own thoughts,” Josh had said. “Take nothing for granted. This place especially. Miami's like an incubator for premature babies -- artificial but life giving. It takes things that would die if left alone, weak premature aspects of the Life Force -- fragile hopes, twisted dreams, lost causes -- and not only sustains them, but helps them thrive.
"The dream you're working on, the sexy one you can't remember, that's an example. You had that dream in Dundeen, right? But not as frequently or as intensely as here? It's this place. The same thing happened to me, when I first got here from Boston."
It was true. Paul pulled the sweat shirt on.
He was being seduced by geography; by the way this place ceaselessly offered itself and by the easy opportunities to experience the different in the familiar. This tropical place with its lurking potential and fecund otherness was incubating something in him. Had been for months. Now it was being born. He was in labor. His white, male, middle class consciousness, his major theme Josh would call it, the music, jogs, dream work, discipline and sex, was changing.
Paul stood. The jock relaxed its grip on his scrotum. Then, as he stooped to lace the other shoe, it grabbed the tender flesh of his buttocks.
Someone had done that to him in the dream. Disciplined him. He’d had to maintain a rigid, ritual posture on his knees.
Maybe it was time to skip the run and work this through. Acting out was . . . . No. Better to keep going. For some reason, this routine stuff is working.
Opening the CD cabinet, Paul clipped the Walkman to his belt, slipped the headset around his neck and stared at the neat stacks of self-improvement and music tapes. Dearth Vader’s theme seemed right. He slid the Empire tape into the player, adjusted the headset and left the apartment.
On my knees!
Paul rose and tried to concentrate.
How long?
He forced his straining eyes to focus on the microwave clock.
Five eleven.
Only a minute.
He looked absently at his diminishing erection.
"I've acted out!"
He shuddered, released his shriveled penis.
“If I'd been in a public place. . . . My God. Gotta tell Josh.”
Tell him what?
The professor's disappointed face flashed by. All Paul had were vague longings, tight muscles and a dry throat. Without recall, they were nowhere.
He willed his shaking hands to reach for the steaming mug.
Easy, Boy-o! Easy.
He took a sip. The hot liquid felt good.
Gotta remember.
Sure you do, and you will. Just lighten up a bit. Why not put some music on?
A muscle twisted in Paul's belly.
Music? Now?
Hey, what happened to that melody? Almost had it the other night at Josh’s didn’t ya?
"More important stuff to do. . . ."
Paul put the mug on the counter and went to the CD cabinet in the living room.
That’s it. But you want to finish that song don’t you. . . ?
He loaded a David Arkenstone disk and returned to the kitchen. As he saw his undershorts on the floor, a fragment of the dream flashed by. He shut his eyes and grabbed for it.
"Yesss! Thank you, God!”
The content was hazy, but it felt like the first dream, the one he and Josh had dated to Paul’s tenth birthday. Finally, another pay-off for the struggling and constant, “would the dreamwork ever be more than a hobby,” doubts.
The full scholarship from Miami International University’s Psychology Department including graduate courses, room and board at MIU's South Campus in Miami and a part time job at Eckerd's Drug Store had been the first pay-off .
Now this memory, nearly three years later, as the first draft of the Master's Thesis on dream communication was nearly complete, might be equally important.
Paul gulped the coffee and went to get his gear from the hall closet. He started suiting-up for his daily run. As the jock grabbed the tender flesh of his buttocks, another piece of the dream surfaced.
It was lewd. Lewd? Yeah, you know, dirty, scummy, disgusting.
Peaceful, too, though. O.K. Sexy and peaceful at the same time.
Themes. Josh says go for the themes.
Lewd-sexy and peaceful.
Sharp contrasts! But not in the dream alone. South Florida was full of them.
The power was contrasts. The dream wanted him to open to the contrasts.
Very difficult. The contrasts were so extreme they were already pulling Paul apart. It would be hard to open any more, and stay sane. Canals dynamited out of rare coral. Endangered Keys deer. Wounded manatees. New Florida Turnpike extensions slashed through virgin mangrove and saw grass. And tall coconut palms swaying elegantly above it all.
The boosterism and bluster, the man-made and God-made, collided head-on here. But for the threat of a hurricane, which neither Paul nor three quarters of the two million people here ever experienced, it seemed as if the man-made was winning. There was nothing but contrasts!
So what did it mean, getting pulled apart? What was the theme?
Letting go. It means, if you're holding on and being pulled apart, the only way to survive -- hold on -- is to let go. It's a paradox. A Zen thing.
Like the clouds.
Paul sighed remembering late afternoons on the Tamiami Trail, driving to school those first weeks in South Florida, with the cumulus clouds, majestic, high in the blue sky. They’d seemed above it all, disinterested observers, beyond the confused tangle on the ground.
But they hadn’t been, and it hurt Paul even now, to accept that.
The clouds were a part of it, not at all what they appeared. They too made a contribution to the nagging discomfort -- the perpetually clinging warmth and the pervasively frigid air conditioning, the bright glaring sunlight and the $90.00 sunglasses.
Paul shook his head and pulled on the jogging shorts.
The schools here taught in thirty-seven different languages! Imagine! People from Russia, Syria, Lebanon, Haiti, Thailand and Vietnam plus every Caribbean Island and every nation in South America were here. Sounds of so many different languages and vistas of so many different human features, hues, shapes and sizes, made even a casual walk an adventure.
But there was a scary side, too.
A sibilant presence hissed in the city’s aggressive urban hustle, trains, tall buildings and traffic jams; gnawing inaudibly but for the sudden violence, at the low-key touristy ambiance. Some coiled power slithered beneath the year-round school summer-vacation atmosphere. Vague and misshapen, it gave Miami-Dade county and its 30 cities a Graham Greene novel feel, like one of those provincial capitals in a Latin republic perpetually under a partial state of siege.
Of course, the power was everywhere, not just in the Magic City, but Paul thought it was closer to the surface here than in Pennsylvania. He’d even glimpsed its restless motion in the laid-back art-deco hotels on South Beach. Like a play within a play, the really good stuff happened behind the carefully managed scenes, just below the surface. Especially with the local politics.
Silence hung heavy, pregnant. The David Arkenstone disk had stopped. Paul's mind raced on.
Josh called that power the Life Force and said the ancient alchemists' injunction, "What is, isn't; and what isn't, is" -- best described how it operated.
"That means watch out for me, your habits, and most especially, your own thoughts,” Josh had said. “Take nothing for granted. This place especially. Miami's like an incubator for premature babies -- artificial but life giving. It takes things that would die if left alone, weak premature aspects of the Life Force -- fragile hopes, twisted dreams, lost causes -- and not only sustains them, but helps them thrive.
"The dream you're working on, the sexy one you can't remember, that's an example. You had that dream in Dundeen, right? But not as frequently or as intensely as here? It's this place. The same thing happened to me, when I first got here from Boston."
It was true. Paul pulled the sweat shirt on.
He was being seduced by geography; by the way this place ceaselessly offered itself and by the easy opportunities to experience the different in the familiar. This tropical place with its lurking potential and fecund otherness was incubating something in him. Had been for months. Now it was being born. He was in labor. His white, male, middle class consciousness, his major theme Josh would call it, the music, jogs, dream work, discipline and sex, was changing.
Paul stood. The jock relaxed its grip on his scrotum. Then, as he stooped to lace the other shoe, it grabbed the tender flesh of his buttocks.
Someone had done that to him in the dream. Disciplined him. He’d had to maintain a rigid, ritual posture on his knees.
Maybe it was time to skip the run and work this through. Acting out was . . . . No. Better to keep going. For some reason, this routine stuff is working.
Opening the CD cabinet, Paul clipped the Walkman to his belt, slipped the headset around his neck and stared at the neat stacks of self-improvement and music tapes. Dearth Vader’s theme seemed right. He slid the Empire tape into the player, adjusted the headset and left the apartment.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Five ten A.M. Naked except for his boxer shorts, Paul Holcomb stirred a teaspoon of instant coffee into the steaming mug of hot water. As he lifted the cup to his lips, moist aromatic vapor drifted into his nostrils reawakening the dream.
Part of him instantly surrendered and floated off. Another part held back, struggling. His heart thudded. Sweat gathered in hairy armpits, bushy blonde eyebrows and ran down the back of his neck. His eyes strained, burned near to tearing, the lids jerking up and down and side to side.
Then that part surrendered, too and Paul stood becalmed, eyes glazing, mug suspended inches from his mouth.
He tentatively touched then caressed the rising movement in his shorts. His expression slid into a mindless grin.
"Oh. Ah. Aaah. . . ! Oh. My Godd. . ."
In a deep trance, Paul lowered the mug to the counter and slipped off his shorts. Completely naked, he knelt on the cool linoleum, now the shining marble floor of a vast ancient temple. Faint orange light from ornate high-mounted torches reflected from the polished surface and gleamed on the copper-colored flesh of the woman seated on the throne above him.
Her scent drifted into his nostrils borne on the warm wind moaning softly through the cavernous space. The Incense of Forgetfulness.
Hot and moist, it smelled sour and dirty like moldy cheese and fresh saliva but unbelievably musky, too. He inhaled it ravenously, pulling the jasmine kissed stench deep into his lungs.
Each breath narrowed the world to that smell; the feel of sacred oil, satiny, on his bare flesh, and the throb of his blood. Feelings, hot and deep burned away his mind, arousing and transforming him until. . . .
He was the sensuous movement of a sleek black panther, who, after awakening from a nap in the sunlight, its fur crackling with radiant warmth, languorously stretches itself at its mistress' bare feet, its belly barely touching the floor. So he, fully and unashamedly aroused, lithe muscular body gleaming with scented oil, stretched himself sumptuously before his Mistress, erect penis barely touching the cold marble floor feeling good to be empty that way, wanting only to please and be petted; waiting upon the gorgeous woman above him.
But she took no notice of him. Naked and at ease upon her throne, wearing only the golden belt, bra and diadem of an Aztec Goddess, she starred into the middle distance, unaware of the way his eyes followed the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. Or of how the shifting shades of her flesh fascinated him as its ripeness gleamed first golden, then copper in the flickering orange torch light.
Paul ached with the fullness and emptiness of Her; of looking at Her and smelling Her. Everything about Her filled him with lust and adoration. Her regal posture, arms on arm rests, spine erect; long lustrous black hair lying luxuriant on bare shoulders. The thoughtless elegance of Her lush young body as it heedlessly crushed the red velvet covering the black onyx throne.
He imagined himself that velvet cloth, there, beneath Her warm buttocks. His face turned up, bearing Her weight, inhaling Her odor, touching Her moist succulent flesh.
Anything to please and serve you, my Lady.
He was filled with mindless obedience to sensual urgings.
I am yours, Mistress. You need do nothing and I am your adoring slave. You are my reality. I, your creature, your thing.
He wanted only to become empty by filling himself with Her worship, Her service, Her smell. Her mere presence sent feverish tremors through him. Oh, to be one with Her! Absorbed by Her flesh, sacred soul released unto Her, body abased before Her, forever.
But his prayers went unanswered. She simply sat and allowed Herself to be adored; a Goddess, serene and beautiful, the all powerful Female, sacred and above him.
His eyes teared from the incense.
I am a shimmering vapor of hopes and desires -- a pathetic worm beneath Her notice.
He whimpered with the pain of his throbbing erection.
How can I attract Her attention?
Thoughts and feelings had no effect. She remained as unaware of him, as She was of the rows and rows of other naked male and female worshippers stretching away into the dim vastness behind him.
Yet was he favored. He knelt closer to Her than the others, his face on the cool marble floor just inches from the plush stool supporting Her bare well-tended feet.
"Oh's" and "Ah’s" of appreciation rose from the kneeling multitude telling him the service was drawing to a close.
He knew the ritual by heart. In his mind’s eye he saw the beautiful blonde priestess step again from among the lords and ladies arrayed around the Goddess’ throne, her ancient Aztec garb swaying around her comely body. Taking a step forward, she posed, white arms raised above her head, allowing the multitude to adore her.
When the sighs died away, her clear voice rang out, commanding them to worship. As one, they obeyed, voices swelling, filling the cavernous temple with a low chant of praise.
Paul remained silent. The sound came to him as if from a great distance. Though he longed to join the others, he could not.
The priestess knelt near him. As the chant died away, she bowed herself down before the Goddess. From the corner of his eye, Paul saw her willowy body rising and falling.
Then she laid herself flat, face to the floor, arms stretched over her head. The Goddess had smiled upon her. A moment later, the priestess rose, turned to the worshippers and extend her arms at right angles palms facing them in the unspoken command to worship. A soft whoosh followed by the flat sound of flesh on marble, told him hundreds of glistening nude bodies were bowing down and rising up in heart-felt obeisance.
Still he could not join them. Erect penis straining at every chant and each command, he remained motionless, his face at Her feet. And She, magnificent and aloof, sat, indifferent above him.
Five ten A.M. Naked except for his boxer shorts, Paul Holcomb stirred a teaspoon of instant coffee into the steaming mug of hot water. As he lifted the cup to his lips, moist aromatic vapor drifted into his nostrils reawakening the dream.
Part of him instantly surrendered and floated off. Another part held back, struggling. His heart thudded. Sweat gathered in hairy armpits, bushy blonde eyebrows and ran down the back of his neck. His eyes strained, burned near to tearing, the lids jerking up and down and side to side.
Then that part surrendered, too and Paul stood becalmed, eyes glazing, mug suspended inches from his mouth.
He tentatively touched then caressed the rising movement in his shorts. His expression slid into a mindless grin.
"Oh. Ah. Aaah. . . ! Oh. My Godd. . ."
In a deep trance, Paul lowered the mug to the counter and slipped off his shorts. Completely naked, he knelt on the cool linoleum, now the shining marble floor of a vast ancient temple. Faint orange light from ornate high-mounted torches reflected from the polished surface and gleamed on the copper-colored flesh of the woman seated on the throne above him.
Her scent drifted into his nostrils borne on the warm wind moaning softly through the cavernous space. The Incense of Forgetfulness.
Hot and moist, it smelled sour and dirty like moldy cheese and fresh saliva but unbelievably musky, too. He inhaled it ravenously, pulling the jasmine kissed stench deep into his lungs.
Each breath narrowed the world to that smell; the feel of sacred oil, satiny, on his bare flesh, and the throb of his blood. Feelings, hot and deep burned away his mind, arousing and transforming him until. . . .
He was the sensuous movement of a sleek black panther, who, after awakening from a nap in the sunlight, its fur crackling with radiant warmth, languorously stretches itself at its mistress' bare feet, its belly barely touching the floor. So he, fully and unashamedly aroused, lithe muscular body gleaming with scented oil, stretched himself sumptuously before his Mistress, erect penis barely touching the cold marble floor feeling good to be empty that way, wanting only to please and be petted; waiting upon the gorgeous woman above him.
But she took no notice of him. Naked and at ease upon her throne, wearing only the golden belt, bra and diadem of an Aztec Goddess, she starred into the middle distance, unaware of the way his eyes followed the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. Or of how the shifting shades of her flesh fascinated him as its ripeness gleamed first golden, then copper in the flickering orange torch light.
Paul ached with the fullness and emptiness of Her; of looking at Her and smelling Her. Everything about Her filled him with lust and adoration. Her regal posture, arms on arm rests, spine erect; long lustrous black hair lying luxuriant on bare shoulders. The thoughtless elegance of Her lush young body as it heedlessly crushed the red velvet covering the black onyx throne.
He imagined himself that velvet cloth, there, beneath Her warm buttocks. His face turned up, bearing Her weight, inhaling Her odor, touching Her moist succulent flesh.
Anything to please and serve you, my Lady.
He was filled with mindless obedience to sensual urgings.
I am yours, Mistress. You need do nothing and I am your adoring slave. You are my reality. I, your creature, your thing.
He wanted only to become empty by filling himself with Her worship, Her service, Her smell. Her mere presence sent feverish tremors through him. Oh, to be one with Her! Absorbed by Her flesh, sacred soul released unto Her, body abased before Her, forever.
But his prayers went unanswered. She simply sat and allowed Herself to be adored; a Goddess, serene and beautiful, the all powerful Female, sacred and above him.
His eyes teared from the incense.
I am a shimmering vapor of hopes and desires -- a pathetic worm beneath Her notice.
He whimpered with the pain of his throbbing erection.
How can I attract Her attention?
Thoughts and feelings had no effect. She remained as unaware of him, as She was of the rows and rows of other naked male and female worshippers stretching away into the dim vastness behind him.
Yet was he favored. He knelt closer to Her than the others, his face on the cool marble floor just inches from the plush stool supporting Her bare well-tended feet.
"Oh's" and "Ah’s" of appreciation rose from the kneeling multitude telling him the service was drawing to a close.
He knew the ritual by heart. In his mind’s eye he saw the beautiful blonde priestess step again from among the lords and ladies arrayed around the Goddess’ throne, her ancient Aztec garb swaying around her comely body. Taking a step forward, she posed, white arms raised above her head, allowing the multitude to adore her.
When the sighs died away, her clear voice rang out, commanding them to worship. As one, they obeyed, voices swelling, filling the cavernous temple with a low chant of praise.
Paul remained silent. The sound came to him as if from a great distance. Though he longed to join the others, he could not.
The priestess knelt near him. As the chant died away, she bowed herself down before the Goddess. From the corner of his eye, Paul saw her willowy body rising and falling.
Then she laid herself flat, face to the floor, arms stretched over her head. The Goddess had smiled upon her. A moment later, the priestess rose, turned to the worshippers and extend her arms at right angles palms facing them in the unspoken command to worship. A soft whoosh followed by the flat sound of flesh on marble, told him hundreds of glistening nude bodies were bowing down and rising up in heart-felt obeisance.
Still he could not join them. Erect penis straining at every chant and each command, he remained motionless, his face at Her feet. And She, magnificent and aloof, sat, indifferent above him.
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