by Cj Paul
Her virtual garden is overflowing with vegetables at the teetering edge of perfection.
First we start with the bell peppers...
Bell pepper plants, bearing massive, firm, sweet delicacies big enough that they overflow even a large hand.
We move to the tomatoes...
The four tomato plants are almost breaking under the welcome weight of red, ripe fruit that squirt in your mouth, delicious right off the vine.
Next, the cucumber patch, as beads of sweat begin to collect on my brow...
Long, smooth, and thick enough that you’d have to use two hands to wrap around once, the cucumbers are growing and reproducing wildly, climbing higher and higher up the east fence.
I shift uncomfortably in my seat as she directs me to the zucchini...
The four zucchini bushes (yes, they’re that large) are deep pine green, resplendent with the lush, velvety lips and blossoms of edible flowers whose place will be taken soon by formidable, cylindrical squash.
At this point, moans escape my lips as I experience a mind-blowing, full-body orgasm caused merely by the power of Alex’s words – Alex’s electrically-charged, erotic words. The feeling is deep within my core and surges through my limbs to my extremities like a charge of uncontrollable electricity. It is not localized within my intimate female parts and is something that can only be described as an orgasm in reverse. There is no buildup, no ‘getting close’. Just an immediate and intense wave of bliss and release – a series of waves, actually. Multiple orgasms that fill me with a euphoria I’ve never known, more than even the best climax I’ve ever enjoyed at the hands of an ardent lover.
“Are you alright, Claire?” Mom asks, looking puzzled and a bit concerned.
“Shall we handle the Brussels sprouts next?” I ask, barely able to carry on a conversation.
The Brussels sprouts have great, oval balls tucked against the wide girth of their towering stalks, ready to be steamed and mouthed.
“Strawberries. We have to do the strawberries now!” I gasp as I sink deeper into a Tarantella-like frenzied trance.
And the ever-bearing strawberry bed is graced by dozens of plump, luscious berries so sweet and delicious their nectar forces your tongue to dance.
Without another word, I whip through her remaining crops of fruit trees and berries.
Still, as enticing as all of that sounds and is, all of these fruits are best shared. Anyone hungry?
Unable to contain myself an instant longer, I snap the laptop closed and, jumping to my feet, squawk, “I’m taking you home.”
Eyes wide and mouth even wider, Mom nods her acquiescence.
That’s quite enough farming for one day.
Chapter FourteenI sleep restlessly, unaware of what I dreamt about, but certain that it was sexual. Lately, I’ve been awakening with the strange sensation of carnal pleasures taking place during my slumbers, though I never recall anything concrete. And just recently, I’ve begun to feel as though the eyes of a ravenous voyeur are upon me at times, both in my dreams and sometimes even when awake. It is at once unnerving and arousing.
Last night, I was in a mood, to be sure. Alex’s virile vegetation had me writhing in my car seat throughout the drive to Mom’s house. On the way home, I tried to make sense of what happened. I’ve never done drugs, so I have no point of reference, but I’m quite convinced that what I experienced would be considered the heroin of sexual experiences. And after that one hit, I have become a junkie. I want more. Alas, as I made the drive back home, the feeling of wonder faded, and I despaired of ever having that rush again. I feared it was an isolated incident, impossible to replicate.
Later in the evening, while doing research on cleaning solvents to use in a show segment, I caught myself moaning and running a hand over my breast as I read about Simple Green and its eco-friendly properties. Suddenly, everything seemed painted with lust and sensual passion. I questioned if the world was always that way, if, perhaps, my rigid routine mindset had closed my eyes to it.
* * *
It’s a crisp clear day following yesterday’s storm, and I decide to enjoy it by doing my morning work happily perched at one of the outdoor tables at Starbucks. I toss some breakfast at the menagerie, grab my car keys and laptop, and head out. The colors of the sky, trees and flowers are more vibrant than I’ve ever seen – much more so than can be attributed to a cleansing rain. I think of last night’s touchless, full-body orgasms and begin to wonder if they really occurred or not. Then again, it really doesn’t matter, because something has changed within me. It’s as simple as that.
Once ensconced at a cozy table overlooking the little shopping enclave, I tentatively sip my steaming Mocha through it’s cool armor of whipped cream, and break off bits of banana nut loaf, unconsciously pacing the consumption of both treats to ensure they are finished off together. I open my laptop and go straight to Facebook. No checking email on Sundays, a small gift to myself. As is now usual, my screen opens to Alex’s page. Today he has posted a good morning message – one that is making the morning very, very good for the members of his harem.
I am arrested by his boldness. To be sure, he is an expert bait and switch man, dragging the most seductive red herrings imaginable across his page, slowly taunting his devotees in the most agonizingly pleasurable ways imaginable until they are in a state of delirious frustration. But this...this... There is no beating around the bush here. Eek! Figuratively beating around the bush, of course. Gad, now he’s got me doing it too!
Yes, this post is decidedly different. It’s direct, unequivocal, and oh so evocative. He’s an adult male who still wakes up with an erect penis, simple as that, and he’s celebrating it. For an instant, I want to disappear in my Starbucks chair so that no one can see my intense arousal. But, the feeling evaporates immediately and turns to a desire to disrobe, to dip my fingers into my Mocha, and use them to paint my nipples with the whipped cream topping. This man is doing things to me. I have never been part of the pack, never went along with the crowd, but I’m more than happy to count myself among his groupies, though I prefer the term ‘BandAids.’ Utterly unable to form a thought, let alone a sentence, I decide to chime in too.
Oh my God, that was so lame. Abort! Abort! Oh shoot, he already ‘liked’ it. I can’t delete now! The feeling of wanting to disappear into my chair returns, this time, out of sheer mortification.
I love these women – at least Elise and Lucy. As for Kelly, well, she’s just Kelly. I am impressed how the first two are so comfortable expressing their sexuality, and in such an open forum. I wish I could be more like that. Instead I say things like, “Is it getting hot in here.” Facepalm, groan, ugh! Reading on...
I also really admire this fellow, Ken. He never appears jealous of the inordinate attention being thrust upon Alex. Thrust? Ack, is it possible to form a thought without it including a double entendre?
Wow wow wow. I am dying to comment again, but after my last performance, I think better of it.
His last response causes me to convulse in heavenly abandon without warning, just as I did while reading about his vegetable garden last night. Only this time, it’s even more intense. I strain every muscle in my body in a desperate attempt to hide the ravishing occurring within. And I am momentarily arrested by the fear that someone may think I am having a seizure and call 911. Thank goodness I’m seated outside, alone.
At length, I settle down as my body surrenders to a bout of delightful aftershocks and a gradual fading of ecstasy. The aftermath feels much like the arousal brought on by foreplay, only here it is in reverse. It starts with that magical orgasm deep in the core, and then goes to intense arousal, before it subsides into a yummy, pleasant feeling that ultimately dissolves altogether, leaving nothing but a smile and a sense of total serenity.
A classmate from Tantric Yoga struck up a lengthy conversation on touchless orgasms with me once when we were waiting for the instructor to arrive. The classmate scoffed that such an experience could be poss
ible, and said it supposedly required some incredible level of enlightenment. I may be a far cry from the Dalai Lama, but I am here to attest that such heady physical phenomena really can happen before we ever achieve the astral plain.
If Alex only knew the effect he has. Maybe he does. Surely I am neither the first nor last woman he’s affected in such tangible ways.
I’m overcome with a feeling of gratitude for what he has done for me, for what he has done to me, for what he has aroused in me. Out of nowhere, the chakra shack has started cheering in sync, announcing a blessed event, the awakening of my kundalini.
Without thinking, I search on my computer for the chakra cheat sheet I created after my illicit moment with Bret – emphasis on ‘ill’ where he is concerned. According to my chakra notes, “The Kundalini (sleeping serpent) lies dormant in most people unless it is activated. It is a very powerful energy that activates all the other chakras as it shoots up.” Oh my! Does that ever describe what I’ve been going through, and yes, it is definitely an energy I feel shooting up through my being. So, it was dormant there all along and just needed something or someone to trigger it?
For a moment, I am taken with a feeling of melancholy. Why couldn’t it have been David that activated my Kundalini? “Because he has a live-in lover,” a chakra interjects. Good point. Thanks Indigo girl! Thank God Bret didn’t push the activation button. That could have been a real mess. It would be nice if Nimo were able to kindle even a modicum of such desire in me, but I have to face the facts: it’s never going to happen – never ever.
The feeling sparked by Alex is radically different than anything I’ve ever known. It seems so pure, so real, so unconditional – so foreign, I have no words to adequately describe it, but I know it somehow feels spiritual. I fight the urge to simultaneously laugh and cry and squeal my delight. I have never felt so alive, or so womanly. I literally don’t know what to do with myself, but I am quite certain that if I remain here writhing, I will surely implode. I determine to thank Alex. Cool hippie guru poet that he is, I’m sure he’ll take the compliment in stride, in the spirit in which it is meant – that of simple thanks.
I wrestle with how exactly to comment on his post, and decide to send a private message, not wanting to make my BandAid inclinations public knowledge. Nor do I wish to offend anyone who is uncomfortable reading about Facebook-induced body-racking orgasms. I take a deep breath, poise my fingers above the keyboard, and begin typing a personal communique to Dr. Armstrong.
Chapter Fifteen11:33am
Claire Nichole Eden
Ok...this is best not shared with the FB masses...but your latest lengthy response on your 'wooden' post just resulted in a physical reaction on this end...... You're killin’ me here!!!.......And yes, I do mean in every sense, including le petit mort......... Oy!
There! Done. Time to get back to work.
Work? Like that’s ever gonna happen after leaving the most brazen, sexual, personal message of my entire life! What on earth made me do such an idiotic thing? I think twice about my hair-brained antics and go back to the message, frantically looking for a delete button, even though I already know there isn’t one. Good grief. What have I done?
Despite occasionally shaking my head in disbelief at my folly, I still keep an anxious eye on my incoming messages. Every time I see there is a new one, I gasp and momentarily freeze. And every time the message is from someone other than Alex. After about half an hour, I give up on the waiting game and head for home. Once there, I open my laptop and while it sorts itself out, I take a moment to go to the garden and pick some summer vegetables for lunch. If I didn’t know better, I would say I am starting to eat healthily – and actually liking it!
I return to the computer with an enormous, colorful salad in hand, having completely forgotten about ‘the message’ – that is, until I see a little, red notification, small but mighty, making itself known at the top of my Facebook page. My fork stops in the air, mid-bite. I put it back down and slowly, cautiously click the notifications button. It’s from him.
12:26pm
Alexander Armstrong
I just returned from grocery shopping to find this lovely message. Le petit mort? Oy is exactly right. They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but I had NO idea. Glad I made your body blush, Miss Eden, and certainly I'm quite happy to oblige.
Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! What do I do now? Okay...okay, keep calm. I read his message again. Dear Lord! He knows ‘le petit mort’ is the French term for orgasm.
12:27pm
Claire Nichole Eden
And I always thought FB was such a tepid innocuous place... Looking forward to every dangerous decadent word that drips from those honey-laden fingers
(and no double entendre is ever wasted on me......whether or not I specifically acknowledge it...le sigh)
In the way of a response, I get zip, nil, nada. Grrrrrrrr. Okay, back to work. Work. What was I doing again? Ugh.
I finally get my head back into the day’s business tasks when a little ‘ping’ alerts me to a new message. My first thought is mild annoyance, as I am on a roll with the current topic I’m laboring over: Nani Wahines and all things Polynesian.
I click the notification, gasp, and zero in on the words.
1:48pm
Alexander Armstrong
That's a charming quality, Claire. I'm delighted that my words aren't lost on you. They seem to flow over some people, most people, like water without the wetness, leaving them dry. So when what I write saturates someone, it's rather intoxicating. Maybe that sounds vain, and maybe it is. But a writer without at least a little vanity is like a shy exhibitionist: hard to find. So my dangerous, decadent, honey-laden mind will continue to explore all the subtle curves of language; and my fingers will caress the keys, in the hope that something magical happens. Because writing, to me, is like a long, earth-trembling petit mort: something best shared.
Holy cow! Who is this guy? After reading and rereading...and re-rereading his message, I brave a response.
1:54pm
Claire Nichole Eden
And it is equally intoxicating and thrilling to be drowning. To me, what you've said is not a tad vain...it is palpably raw and real...and ever so effective, as I am having increasing difficulty responding... Hard to type on a writhing laptop, you see... Please let your so-called vanity know that just in this last communique you have slain me...multiple times...in waves of unbridled trembling bliss....... Nothing dry about your writing...or my reading of it........whimper
Now that should elicit a response.
Or not. Ugh. Back to work. I’m such a hussy!
* * *
Later in the evening, I return home from a last minute visit to Mom’s. She’s starting to slow down a little and has been needing some extra care lately. It’s no trouble at all, and I’m glad to get to spend as much time with her as possible while I can, or rather, while she can. Logging into my computer, my mind is on Mom. That is, until I check my Facebook updates page and find a luxuriously lengthy new message from Alex. I feel somehow guilty, or at least awkward, going from thoughts of my Mom’s eventual passing to craving carnal satisfaction from a man I’ve never met, and know virtually nothing about. I make myself a cup of tea, grab some chocolate chip biscotti, and brace myself for the bounty awaiting me from Alex.
2:20pm
Alexander Armstrong
If you keep whispering such words in my ear, my muse will be seeking employment elsewhere. There really is something tangibly intimate about the written word. It compels one to express all the subtle details of intimacy that might otherwise be gleaned in person by, for instance, a subtle elevation of the brow, a leaning toward, a sigh or quiver or parting of the lips.
Have you ever tried to describe a kiss? The closing of eyes. The feel of warm breath. The moment of a
nticipation that thrills the body before dewy mouths meet. Soft at first, but growing in eagerness. The opening of mouths, inviting tongues to dance. Bodies pressed warm and tight and writhing, like a blind man searching for every fleshy morsel of carnal knowledge his body's hands can glean. Try it sometime.
I begin to quiver, and just then, a notification regarding him attracts my attention as it inches down my page’s sidebar ticker. It’s something about him ‘liking’ or commenting on a post about handcuffs! Oh, I felt that one, in my core. Without finishing his rich and overflowing message, I interrupt my reading to zip off a message of own.
7:49pm
Claire Nichole Eden
Oh this just can't be fair! I come online to the banquet you left for me, and while I'm reading it and trying not to drool on my keyboard, I see a little something in my ticker at the side of my page where you are talking about handcuffs
Facebook has become decidedly spicier and more exhilarating... and now I must return to bathe in your lengthy and ever so lush tome
Back to his message.
Or even a hug. There are a thousand ways to hug, each suited to its own occasion. And each as intimate as the next. Each unique in its character and disposition and emotion. Everything is multiple, endless, when seen through passionate, exploring eyes. Each night when I walk alone in the dark of the forest near the river, each time I meet the river herself, it's always a surprise and a delight. Poetry speaks through all that I meet there. And those are just water and trees and sand and stars. Imagine then, how much more infinitely thrilling to lay on a woman's shores, and listen to poetry speak through all of her. Perhaps I'm just a hopeless romantic. But it suits me, I think. And I couldn't imagine being any other way. Nor would I wish to.