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Lorelei
Iread contraband romance ebooks with the frightening intensity of an apex predator on the prowl. Each book as important to me as the first bite of my favorite dessert. The words on the page as essential as a cup of water after a hard day’s work.
If I have a free minute to myself, I’m reading a steamy romance.
My entire family frowns at my heretical hobby. I was born and raised in an isolated community of religious zealots who believe sex is only meant for procreation. So, my love of original planet stories is unseemly.
“Lorelei, I noticed you werereadingagain,” my bitchy cousin sneers, making sure all the nearby women folk in our section can overhear. “And what was it this time? It must’ve been good,” she wags her eyebrows, “to keep you burning a candle for so long.”
I pause in my field work, wipe sweat off my brow and respond, “I was rereading a biography of the multigod saints,” I calmly lie, “memorizing the word of the gods for today’s absolutions.”
“Oh.” She frowns, clearly irritated that her public shaming was thwarted so easily.
Snort.
Not that there’s anything wrong with biographies of multigod saints. It’s just, I’ve read all of those and they’re not nearly as exciting as a duke in need of a bride. Sometimes the heroes of my original planet stories aren’t just “dukes” either, they’re also aliens, which is hilarious because I know actual “aliens” and these make-believe aliens the human authors from Earth dream up arenothinglike the real thing. It’s pretty funny. There are also stories with cowboys and vampires and something called “bear shifters”? And groups of males who ride around on crazy contraptions called “motorcycles”? I can’t get enough of these. These stories carry me away from my daily drudgery and bring joy to my lonely existence.
Although maybe my family has a point about all this reading being a bad influence, because it’s true that my black market books are planting subversive thoughts in my head. My imaginary world often clashes with real life and I begin to wish for more. Wish for things I can’t have. Like the devoted love of a partner who treats me with respect. The same rush of physical release the women in those books feel. I think…maybe women deserve pleasure, too?
“Lorelei, stop daydreaming and get back to work,” my younger sister hisses.
I quickly return to cutting vegetables off the vine, avoiding the prickly ends and tossing them in my sack, not wanting to bring more attention to myself. I already stand out like a sore thumb because I’m—gasp—overweight. And I read voraciously.
Both of which are heresy in our community.
Later in the day I help prepare final meal in the communal kitchen. And after the menfolk are served first, I’m finally able to sit down and eat my own food. The other women at the long tables chat about their babies and their husbands, basically ignoring me and…I…I daydream about sex.
That night, while lying in bed next to one of my sisters in my neck-to-ankle scratchy nightgown, I’m yet again dreaming of, you guessed it—sex.
Nasty, nasty thoughts of sweaty encounters and words of passion.
Jeez. Am I the only one who thinks like this? The next morning, I glance around at the stoic faces at the breakfast table and think, yes, yes, I am the only one who thinks like this.
I’m confined to the family compound with little or no interaction with the opposite sex, so eventually I can’t stand this burning need that’s growing exponentially inside of me. So, one day I take matters into my own hands, literally.
The door to my hiding place (a closet under the stairs—the only place where a girl can be alone for a damn moment) is thrown open and I’m discovered with my hand under my skirt, rubbing at the space between my thighs, furiously masturbating. It’s all so very humiliating. I’m still suffering PTSD from the whole episode. Mainly because my mother is the person who found me.
“Lorelei!” she screeches. “This is disgusting. Your behavior is unacceptable!” Her sharp tone echoes throughout the entire house, drawing a quick crowd of aghast onlookers. She drags me out by my hair and down the hallway to my father’s office. “Richard, I found your youngest daughter alone in the closet,touchingherself,” she hisses to my father, the local High Priest.
He looks confused. “Touching herself…?”
“Downthere,” she pants, literally pointing a finger towards the appropriate nether region with heightened urgency. “Trying to pleasure herself.”
My father sucks in a sharp breath because this is obviously the worst sin a female in our community could possibly commit, second only to murder.
I’m immediately banished. Well, actually sent to a nunnery.
Because the best place to send a young woman who is burning up inside, wanting sex and love and intimacy…is to a place where she’ll get none of those things?
Oh-kay.
I guess this outcome is to be expected since I’m the established black sheep of the family. The embarrassing one. The one who doesn’t look right. The one who rarely follows the rules set forth in the city charter. I’m always frustrated by the fact that I’m not allowed to research the outside world beyond our borders. Our life here is so narrow and confined, it pinches.
My older brother happily performs his absolutions three times per day and trains to follow in Father’s footsteps. My sisters remain untouched until their weddings and continue to act like sex isn’t even a thing, even when they “magically” become pregnant. Meanwhile, Father is having a hard time finding anyone to offer for my hand in marriage. Oh, the grown men all give my generous curves hungry glances, but none want to commit to the High Priest’s rebellious daughter.
“She’s so…sooutspoken,” the other wives whisper, like it’s a disease they might catch.
