“I’m sorry, Ana. I don’t know what the problem is,” he said, even though we both knew well enough. I kissed away the apology, pretending that I didn’t care. I think I even managed to smile.
I was fairly certain he’d only asked me as a favor to Ochiba.
“No,” I said. “It’s me. Not you. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” But we both had, and Elio had slipped away from my bed as quickly as he could, pleading an early morning appointment we both knew was a fiction.
I had spent the rest of the night alternating between tears and anger.
“Elio, I’m afraid tonight…well, it wouldn’t be good. I’m tired, and I was planning to stay here, just in case Euz needs some help.” I lifted my sap-stained fingers. “I was hoping to get some of this work done, also.” The excuses came too fast and probably one too many; I saw in his face that he realized it too. Guilt warred with anxiety over the battleground of conscience and won an entirely Pyrrhic victory.
“El, I’m sorry. It’s just that I.…“ I stopped, deciding that there wasn’t much use in trying to explain what I didn’t fully understand myself. And there was the guilt of turning down an opportunity when I’d yet to become pregnant and those chances seemed to come less and less. “Anyway, I can do this some other time, and chances are Euz is going to be fine. Give me a bit, just to make sure that Euz is stabilized and to clean up again…”
I wasn’t sure what it was I saw in his face. “Sure. Good. I’ll come by then. At your Family compound?”
I nodded. We were being so polite now. “I’ll meet you in the common room.”
“Okay. See you then.” Awkwardly, he leaned over and kissed me. His lips were dry, the touch almost brotherly, but I enjoyed it. Before I could pull his head down to me again, he straightened. Cold air replaced his warmth. “See you about NinthHour?”
“That would be fine.”
After Elio had left, I halfheartedly cleaned some of the clinging peat from the folds of the Miccail’s face. “What were you like?” I asked the misshapen, crushed flesh. “And do you have any advice for someone who isn’t sure she just made the right decision?”
The ancient body didn’t answer. I sighed and went to the sink to scrub my hands.
.
CONTEXT: Ama Martinez-Santos
There were times that Ama regretted having been apprenticed to Hui. However, Geema Kyra had given her no choice in the matter, and an elder’s word was always law. Hui was never satisfied—no matter how fast Ama moved or how well she did something, Hui always pointed out how she could have done it faster, better, or more effectively another way. Hayat was given the same harsh treatment, but that didn’t lessen the impact. Ama was fairly certain that it was not possible to satisfy Hui.
And then there was Anaïs. She was just fucking weird. A good doctor, yes, and at least she’d give out a crumb of praise now and then, but she was…strange. The way she used all her free time lately examining that nasty body Elena had found.…
Anaïs had told her to put the Miccail’s body back in the coldroom. Ama threw a sheet over the thing before she moved it—she couldn’t stand to see the empty bag of alien flesh; she hated the earthy smell of the creature and the leathery, unnatural feel of its skin. The thing was creepy—it didn’t surprise Ama that it had been killed.
Ama had heard her mi and da talking—there was a nasty rumor that Anaïs and Ochiba had been lovers, though as Thandi always pointed out, Ochiba had died after giving birth to Euzhan, so if Anaïs was a rezu, then it hadn’t stopped Ochiba from sleeping with men. Ama sometimes wondered what it would be like, making love to another woman.…
She shivered. That was a sure way to be shunned. That’s what had happened to Gabriela—the second and final time she had been shunned. .
Ama wheeled the gurney into the coldroom. She slid the bog body into its niche and hurried out of the room.
She didn’t look back as she turned out the lights. Afterward, she scrubbed her hands at the sink in the autopsy room, twice, even though she knew that would make her late changing Euzhan’s dressings and Hui would yell at her again.
.
VOICE: Anaïs Koda-Levin the Younger
Most of my erotic memories don’t involve fucking. I suppose the wet piston mechanics of sex never aroused me as much as other things. Smaller things. More intimate things. I can close my eyes and remember…at one of the Gathers, dancing the whirlwind with a few dozen others out on the old shuttle landing pad, when I noticed Marshall Koda-Schmidt watching from the side in front of the bonfire. I was twelve and just a half year past my menarche, which had come much later than I’d wanted. Marsh was older, much older—one of the fifth generation—and in my eyes appeared to be far more sensual than the gawky boys my own age. He stood there, trying to keep up a conversation with Hui over the racing, furious beat of the musicians. I kept watching him as I danced, laughing as I turned and pranced through the intricate steps, and I noticed we both had the same stone on our necklaces. I thought that an omen. During one of the partner changes, there was suddenly an open space between us, and Marsh looked up from his conversation out to the dance. His gaze snared mine; he smiled. At that moment, one of the logs fell and the bonfire erupted into a coiling, writhing column of bright fireflies behind him. I was caught in those eyes, those older and, I thought, wiser eyes. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and every time I looked, it seemed he was also watching me. I smiled; he laughed and applauded me. I felt flushed and giddy, and I laughed louder and danced harder, sweating with the energy even in the night cold, stealing glances toward Marshall. We smiled together, and as I danced, I felt I was dancing with him. For him. To him…
…Chi-Wa’s fingers stroking my bare shoulder and running down my arm, my skin almost electric under his gentle touch, inhaling his warm, sweet breath as we lay there with our mouths open, so close, so close but not quite touching. When his hand had traversed the slope of my arm and slipped off to tumble into the nest of my lap, our lips finally met at the same time…
…sitting with Ochiba at the preparation table in the Allen-Shimmura compound’s huge kitchen, peeling sweet-melon for the dessert. We were just talking, not saying anything important really, but the words didn’t matter. I was intoxicated by the sound of Ochiba’s voice, drunk on her laugh and the smell of her hair and the sheer familiar presence of her. I’d just finished cutting up one of the melons and Ochiba reached across me to steal a piece. She sucked the fruit into her mouth in exaggerated mock triumph while the orange-red juice ran down her chin in twin streaks. For some reason, that struck us both as hilarious, and we burst into helpless laughter. Ochiba reached over and we hugged, and I was so aware of her body, of the feel of her against me, of how soft her breasts seemed under the faux-cotton blouse. Then the confusion hit, making me blush as I realized that what I was feeling was something I wasn’t prepared or expecting to feel, and knowing by the way Ochiba’s embrace suddenly tightened around me that she was feeling it as well, and was just as frightened and awed by the emotions as I was…
Moments. Those fleeting seconds when the sexual tension is highest, when you’re alone in a universe of two where nothing else can intrude.
Of course, then reality usually hits. After the Gather, I turned down two other offers of company and went back to my compound alone, with one last smile for Marshall. I left my outer door open, certain that Marshall would come to me that night, but he never did.
Chi-Wa was so involved in his own arousal and pleasure that I quickly realized that I was nothing more than another anonymous vessel for his glorious seed.
And Ochiba, the only one of them who was truly important to me…well, in another year she was dead.
Tonight, I was keeping reality away with a glass of da Joel’s pale ale, and trying to stop thinking that it was late and that I wished I’d just told Elio no. There was no one else in the common room; Che, Joel, and Derek had all grinned, made quick excuses, and left when I’d mentioned that I was staying up because
Elio was coming over. I requested the room to play me Gabriela’s Reflections on the Miccail and leaned back in the chair as the first pulsing chords of the dobra sounded. The chair was one of da Jason’s creations, with a padded, luxurious curved back that seemed to wrap and enfold you—very womblike, very private: I’d never known Jason, who had died when I was very young, but his was my favorite listening chair. The family pet, a verrechat Derek had rescued from a spring flood five years before, came up and curled into my lap. I stroked the velvety, nearly transparent skin of the creature, and watched its heart pulse behind the glassy muscles and porcelain ribs. I shut my eyes and let the rising drone of the music carry me somewhere else. I barely heard the clock chiming NinthHour.
“I never thought Gabriela was much of a composer.”
“She’d have agreed with you,” I answered. “And I think you’re both wrong. She was a fine composer; the problem was that she just wasn’t much of a musician. You have to imagine what she was trying to play rather than what actually came out. Hello, Elio.”
I told the room to lower the music and pulled the chair back up. The verrechat glared at me in annoyance and went off in search of a more stable resting place. Elio gave me an uncertain smile. “You looked so comfortable, I almost didn’t want to interrupt.”
“Sorry. Music’s my meditation. I spend more time here than’s good for me.”
He nodded. I nodded back. Great conversationalists, both of us. I should have kept the music up. At least we could have both pretended to be listening to it. “Any change in Euzhan?” he asked at last, just as the silence was threatening to swallow us. I hurried into the opening, grateful.
“When I left, she was sleeping. Hui’s keeping her doped up right now. When I left, Dominic was still there, but Hui was trying to convince him that camping out in the clinic wasn’t going to help. I’m not sure he was making much progress.”
“Geeda Dominic can be pretty strong-willed.”
“Uh-huh. And water can be pretty wet.”
Elio grinned. The grin faded slowly, and he was just Elio again. We both looked at each other. “Umm,” he began.
If you’re going through with this, then do it, I told myself. “Elio, let’s go to my room,” I said, trying to make it sound like something other than “And get this over with.” I was rewarded with a faint smile, so maybe Elio wasn’t as reluctant as I’d thought. I’d been planning to let him back out now, if that’s what he wanted, figuring that if this was simply a guilt fuck, we were both better off without it—for most women I knew, sex simply for the sake of sex was something you did the first year or two after menarche. By then, you’d gone through most of the available or interested males on Mictlan. In my case, that hadn’t been too many, not after the first time around. Since then, with one glorious and forbidden exception, the only regular liaison I’ve had has been with Hui’s speculum and some cold semen, once a month.
Even that hasn’t worked out.
All that was long ago. Forget it. The voice wasn’t entirely convincing, but I held out my hand, and Elio took the invitation without hesitating. Tugging on my fingers, he pulled me toward him, and this time he kissed me. There was a hunger in the kiss this time, and I found parts of me awakening that I thought had been dead.
I suddenly wanted this to work, and that increased my nervousness. I wondered if he could tell how scared I was.
Elio either sensed that fright, or he’d learned a lot since the last time. In my admittedly noncomprehensive experience, men tended to go straight for the kill, shedding clothes on the way so they didn’t snag them on rampant erections. Maybe that was just youthful exuberance, but I’d spent many postcoital hours crying, believing that the quickness and remoteness was because they wanted to get the deed done as fast as possible. Because it was me. “Just doing my duty, ma’am. Have to make sure that we increase the population, after all. Nothing personal.”
Except that sex is always personal and always intimate, no matter what the reasons for it might be. In the midst, I might look up to see my partner’s eyes closed, a look almost of pain on his face as he thrust into me, and I knew he was gone, lost in imagined couplings with someone else.
Not with me. Never with me. Never together.
Elio pulled away. I breathed, watching him. He was still here. “This way,” I said, and led him off.
I’d done some quick housekeeping before he’d come, and the room actually looked halfway neat except for the mirror, as always draped in clothing. Through the folds I caught a reflection of someone who looked like me, her face twisted in uncertain lines.
When I closed the door and turned, Elio was closer to me than I expected, and I started, leaning back against the jamb. He touched my cheek, stroked my hair. As his hand cupped the back of my head, he pulled me into him, his arms going around me. Neither of us had said anything. I leaned my head against his shoulder. He continued to stroke my hair.
I wondered what he was thinking, and when I turned my head up to look, he kissed me again: gently, warmly, his lips slightly parted. This time the kiss was longer, more demanding, and I found myself opening my mouth to him, pulling his head down even further. His hands dropped from my shoulders; his fingers teased my nipples through my blouse, and they responded to his touch, ripening and making me shudder.
When we finally broke apart again, his pale eyes searched mine with soft questions. I reached behind us and touched the wall plate, the lights gliding down into darkness as I did so. “I can’t see, Ana.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I’d like to look at you.”
“Elio…”
A pause. Silence, He waited.
Biting my lower lip, I touched the plate again, letting the lights rise to a golden dimness. I stepped deliberately away from him. Standing in front of my bed, I undid the buttons of my blouse, of my pants. I held the clothes to me, hugging myself, then took a breath and let them fall to the floor. I stood before Elio, defiantly naked. I shivered, though the room wasn’t cold.
I knew what he was seeing. I might keep my mirror covered, but I knew.
Under a wide-featured face, he saw a woman’s body, with small breasts and flared hips. Extending below the triangle of pubic hair, though, there was something wrong, something that didn’t belong: a hint of curved flesh.
An elongated, enlarged clitoris, Hui had told my mother, who noticed it at birth: a paranoid, detailed examination of every newborn child is Mictlan’s birthright. A slight to moderate hermaphrodism. I doubt that it’s anything to stop her from reaching her Naming. Everything else is female and normal. She may never notice.
Maybe Hui would have been right had everything stayed as it was when I was a child. I certainly paid no attention to my small deformity, nor did anyone else. I didn’t seem much different from the other little girls I saw. After menarche, though.…My periods from the beginning were so slight as to be nearly unnoticeable and the pale spottings weren’t at all like the dark menstrual flow of the other women. I also began to notice how sensitive I was there, how the oversized nub of flesh had begun to change, to swell until the growth protruded well past my labial folds, pushing them apart before ducking under the taut and distended clitoral hood.
Over the years, even after menarche, the change continued. The last time I glanced at a mirror, I thought I looked like an effeminate and not particularly pretty young man with his penis tucked between his legs, pretending to be a woman.
Elio’s gaze never drifted that low. I noticed, and tried to pretend that it didn’t matter. I wanted to believe that it didn’t matter. He took a step toward me. He cupped my breasts in his hands, his skin so pale against mine. I fumbled with his shirt, finally getting it open and sliding it down his shoulders. Elio was thin, though his waist rounded gently at the belt line.
His skin was very warm.
I pulled him into bed on top of me…and sometime later…later…
No, I’m sorry. I can’t say. I won’t say.
.<
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JOURNAL ENTRY: Gabriela Rusack
I was a slow learner when it came to the difference between love and sex. Oh, I knew that people could enjoy sex without being in love with the person they’re with at the moment. God knows I experienced that myself often enough…and often enough kicked myself in the morning for paying attention to whining hormones.
As I grew older, I slowly realized that the reverse was also a possibility—I could be in love with someone and not have sex with them, if that wasn’t in the cards. I needed friends more than I needed lovers, and I found that sex can actually destroy love.
Lacina was my college roommate, and my friend. At the time, I was still mainly heterosexual, though I’d already had my first tentative encounters with women. I think Lacina suspected that I was experimenting, but we never really talked about it. I dated guys and slept with some of them, just as she did, so if on rare occasions a girlfriend stayed overnight, she just shrugged and said nothing. One Friday night in my junior year, neither of us had a date. We were drinking cheap wine and watching erotic holos in our apartment, and the wine and the holos had made us both silly and horny. I remember putting my arm around Lacina, playfully, and how sweet her lips were when I finally leaned over to kiss her, and her breathy gasp when I touched her breasts.…We tumbled into my bed and I made love to her, and showed her how to make love to me. But the next morning, when the wine fumes had cleared.…
After that night, it was never the same between us. There was a wall inside Lacina that had never been there before, and she flinched if I’d come near her or touch her. I don’t know why she retreated. I don’t know what old guilt I’d tapped; afterward, it wasn’t a subject on which she’d allow discussion. She pretended that our night together had never happened. She pretended that things were the same as they had been, but they weren’t, and we both knew it. At the end of the semester, she moved out.
Galaxy's Edge Magazine: Issue 2: May 2013 Page 25