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“You see it that easily?” I remark.
“We are all open books,” she reminds me kindly.
“Well, whatever it is that you see in me, it’s the way it has to be now,” I tell her, as I understand what she means. “How can I be any different when it’s madness that burns in me?”
She nods with acceptance. “Of course, you must be truthful with yourself. I would castigate you myself if you were otherwise.”
I smile, thankful that she knows me, and doesn’t judge. Thankful that I can tell her what I’m about, and she’ll willingly honor it.
“And how are you and Samantha doing?” she asks.
“We’re okay, I think we have some peace between us at last.” It feels good to be
able to say that. “It’s just these other things…”
“I know,” she says gently.
“You probably do know,” I agree. I don’t need to say more. It suddenly dawns on me that Miriam’s presence should seem out of place, never having seen her here; though I do suspect that she’s more than just a casual visitor.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “I’m behaving badly, I should be welcoming you here.”
“You don’t need to welcome someone to their own home,” she replies. Her claim to ownership doesn’t surprise me, since I know there’s some link between Miriam and Tasia.
“Did you come to check up on me?” I ask.
“On all my friends,” she says warmly. “You take care.” She pats me warmly on the cheek like a mother, then drifts off elsewhere.
This conversation is all very mysterious, but I have the distinct impression that it was also very deliberate. It’s as if she’s once again casting an aura of her own over this house.
Even so, Miriam remains almost as vague as Tasia herself, and I’m beginning to feel that she’s a far darker woman than she initially appeared. This all makes me wonder who’s friend, who’s foe in this place. But at the moment, this is a question I don’t really care to pursue. I have my own lusts to figure out.
I wish I could find Peach. I still think of the agony of the night before, how raw she was with wounds that appeared to strike her deeply, more deeply than the slight broken skin on her ass. Why she makes herself so available for this torment still eludes me.
But there is the sexual excitement. Both Peach and I seem to be unable to avoid the fact that these terrible dark things turn us into raving sexual beasts. I never believed that living out the tales I tell on paper would do this to me in reality. I am even more surprised that Peach finds as much arousal and satisfaction as she does. At the very least, I hope she had some release for herself last night. I’m not sure how she could have survived without a sexual climax.
Now, I want to be with her, pour cream on her sore tight skin, and soothe her. I want to rub the burn away, but I know Tasia will not let me find her. I wonder if I pressed my case, if Peach would deny me now.
I realize as the words came out with Miriam, that the breach between Peach and me has nothing to do with the two of us anymore; it likely never did. I think for Peach, perhaps, it’s always had everything to do with Miriam and Tasia—for me it’s always Elizabeth. Haunted by specters from the past, we’re assured that they’ll not go away until we’ve stared these beasts in the face.
There are preparations going on. The music remains lively and unceasing, nearly day and night. There are circles of women on the beach, chanting their shaman rites and dancing to the gods of summer. I watch them revel, bodies moving in erotic heat, one against the other, and in curious unisons where it looks as if two women have found a way to join flesh as one being. There’s not a woman at the house, or on the grounds who doesn’t bare their chest proudly now. Beads and necklaces with feathers and private talismans hang between the pendulous mounds, and across the slighter more boyish ones. Protruding nipples fly in the face of conventions that would keep this part of the female anatomy covered as if it were something vile. This is a celebration of female freedom from the dead society that lives beside us, in the world outside this place. I can see why these days are so precious. I wish I could feel them that way too.
As it is, I allow myself some pleasure being in the midst of these emancipated women and their erotic sea of undulating flesh. This is as close to the fantasies in my stories as anything I’ve experienced in real life.
Some bolder women wear no covering on their loins, their sexual realities, their centers proudly bedecked with jewelry, in religious and carnal forms, that turn them into exotic seductive creatures. If I weren’t so wholly obsessed by this the world of my own, I’d find myself joining them in their revelry and in their garb. In this of all places, I think that I could be sexually free, the way I’ve always dreamed of being.
My own simple cotton shifts are mundane looking next to these well dressed celebrants. I had planned for no such activity, and brought nothing with me that would even begin to look appropriate for the celebrations going on around me. I envision what I might have brought. I even think of the shop at the beach where Peach had me pierced. There were many things there that would be perfect for this occasion.
I don’t suppose I have to dress for these days, but I really want to. In a moment of sheer genius, inspiration suddenly crashes in on me. The trunk!
As if I’m in a trance induced by the pagan medicine now practiced here, I make my way up the stairs to the attic, to find the costume that rightfully belongs to me.
I find the place strange now without Analise, though her scent is everywhere present. This arouses me at first, and then nauseates me. I recall the betrayal at her hands. It shouldn’t surprise me, because Analise has only the capacity to please herself. Any commitment to something virtuous is beyond her comprehension, and perhaps her years. Perhaps she’s too young to find value in a real relationship. Perhaps she’s never had the satisfaction of real intimate commitment. It’s certainly her loss.
I try avoiding the memories that flood me, and go straight to the trunk. I find it exactly where it was when I opened it last, though I discover that there are costumes missing. I wonder who’s taken them, but the answer should be obvious, Tasia.
I’m not sure exactly what’s been taken, but there is certainly enough left to please me. Removing my shift, I stand naked in front of the mirror and try on what remains to see what fits me best. There are two sarong skirts, one too small and one that fits my hips snugly. My breasts seem more erotic to me half clothed in this sarong skirt, than when I’m fully naked. I like the way the skirt parts when I strut in front of the mirror. With it adjusted just right, the slit in front opens just enough so that someone looking might even get a decent peek at the bottom of my cleanly shaved cunt.
I try on a dozen necklaces that change my look as the color changes, as the textures against my pale skin change from beads, to feathers, to woven pieces. They’re all made to glide against the skin as I move. The way they tickle me, I see it’s arousing just to wear them. The way my breasts become a focal point of my body delights me. This feels almost naughty, so much so I want to giggle.
