Intimates: A Journey Towards Sacred Sexuality

by Francis Kroncke

CHAPTER F

  Lan knew only two guys from The Chalice; accidents. Her invitation to Priscilla had been as much a ploy to flush her out as it masked her own personal desire not to meet guys from The Chalice. She handled Cats as many Smithys did, by titillation alone. Just pretending to know some, not ever date - Not a real date! - just have a conversation: such could stand you in good stead. It showed one’s edge: Lan, however, more than most, not wanting too much edge, simply because her specific past is too edgy - she’s come to Smith to move on up: ascend in several ways. Where Priscilla Young was selected - had always been, would always be! - with a matching single-minded self-selection had Lan jumped all the hurdles: exams, charitable works, a rounded athlete, public speaking, but, more: not just public personality but private disposition - "Goddess" - she had to become a goddess, meaning all that she achieved had to be topped - or cored - with desirability: having men desire her, women admiring her, true, but the males - each and everyone desiring her as Eternal Wife: companion, consort but, more, co-creator.

  It was - is! - a tricky road. No one said, "Behold, a Goddess!" No, but you could sense it. It truly was an internal gift; soulful. Prissy had this - as she thinks it, Lan shoves her aside in her mind; "Dethroning her!" - as thought, she knows that there is something right about this thought, correct about this mental action; fitting it is as the act of a Goddess: dark powers, which none articulate but which fascinate all.

  As Goddess so she played the two men from The Chalice: meeting them, conversing with them while maintaining full control: being pure desire - desired by them, not desiring them! - it just seemed right. After all these years of preparation, Lan trusted her instincts, accepted and reflected, confidently, upon her images.

  "That’s where they go wrong." If she had had to say it, this is what she would have said; so she is saying to herself: "Most women just don’t get it - Ascending is a moving-on-up." Her image was of a comet hurtling, blazing through a pitch-black sky.

  Why didn’t Priscilla confess? Tell Lan, "I’ve already snagged one. He adores me." Smug. Satisfied?

  Adores. It was what that moment had been about. Prissy is dressing; Lan is waiting. Priscilla had never been adored. The closest might have been the first reaction of a male to her mesmerizing neck. As the littlest of girls, so runs a first memory, she bends her neck for her grandfather to kiss. She can still feel his kiss: it is still there.

  "What do we say to them?" Scripted question.

  Lan shakes her head a half-beat left, then right, short-huffs: "They seem to do all the talking!"

  Obvious. It’s Monday and he’s at it again. Clever as he is, Xer came for each weekend show. "What’s it like without her?"

  Now, that question seems so full, almost like tripping a confession: Why’d you kill her, bud?

  It was all there when she wasn’t.

  Xer’s confidence as a sleuth is building.

  Priscilla walks into the bar - not having noticed its name - walks like she’s never been here before. So, she wasn’t. Not the Priscilla Young so closely watching her roommate, imitating her moves, finding a booth not too dark, somewhat close to the Ladies Room, not too far from the dance floor. "When in trouble, dance!"

  Dancing, Sips of alcohol. An occasional cigarette. "New Truths" was how all the once forbidden "Old Truths" were re-formulated. Not that the revelations of "The Latter Days" were denigrated. No, as theologians have all worked through the centuries: "What is revealed is true. Our understanding of truth is what is ongoing revelation." Bottom-line: "When you Ascend, there is no Sin."

  Q: "But how do we know we’re Ascended?"

  A: "You don’t sin." Straight-lipped, chuckling inside, delivering the "Pearls" as straight-man.

  March had walked away from his bottle - abandoned it sitting on the battered coffee-table; not caring whether his roommate would seduce it, ravish it.

  Walking into "Moroni’s" was the stuff of habit. He wasn’t even lining up his drinks: another habit. He just couldn’t be alone. Alone, he couldn’t move. Was paralyzed.

  Something’s missing. How many times did he check his heart-beat?

  Stan: "Scotch?"

  Xer watches her. She simply "a looker": one of many. Nice size, nice shape, stylish: sits and chatters and jostles and plays: a peck on the cheek, a quick feel, a sliding away gambit ... like dealing cards: she’s playing the game, but risking nothing: "House always wins!"

  Acting like the Smithy she is!

  March’s hand was strangle-hold on the base of the fifth: scotch - not the issue: it was like crushing a guy’s balls, that ultimate revenge: grab a guy by the nuts, crush ‘em! slice off his dick and stick it in his mouth - his buddys will get the message!

  Three guys. Three girls. Six nuts: he’s cracking them all.

  "Hey!" Attention-getter but also concern-for-a-regular: "Hey, March, what’s happening?"

  He followed her home by not following. He simply went directly there. Obvious: to Smith. Three dorms: he checks her out as young - Lacy Lily’s a new act: freshman!

  Beside a tree: in a shadow: Lily’s one and only routine was always at 7 p.m.: been there since eight ... not looking, not counting them off, not jotting notes: Nothing!: three girls - It has to be her. Intensity. Two: a chatterer; one moving as if floating on air: not her. Her: walks like an every-day girl: a Good Girl: one others would say "Obviously, not her!"

  March stood before her and everywhere she looked blood burst and spewed from his body. He had wanted to stand there: to arrive like a thunder-bolt: to shatter their "small world" of "panty-banter" - knowing what these guys were saying, doing: he could see them slipping a thumb, an index-finger, tugging the elastic waist-band ... to explode upon the scene: spit fire, eject fiery-balls from his eyes, slash with swords which cut, slice, maim, hack off the limbs of these: all these his Enemy!: foolish men - Boys! - daggers palmed; fingers into fist - a bludgeoning sledge-hammer cracking skulls ... but it isn’t this at all: nothing he could control: as if, once there, she plays him like a puppet, puts him on display: humiliates him.

  What did they say? March was crying? No. Never. "Not March!"

  Standing there: a wilted stalk of flesh. Starved due to lack of rain. Weeping. Not just drunk-weeping. What others could accept: "Guy was totally rocked out of his mind - whatja’ca expect?

  Tears which totally baffled the sextet. Who knows this guy? flashes between them? The guys know March - everyone knows March! - but the girls?

  Priscilla: "He’s scary!"

  The three slide, slither, slink, sluice away ... walking ever too quickly: with clownish pace, striding with all their might, until they espy the high iron crest, gateway to Joseph Smith Seminary.

  Xer catches them as they de-compress back to breathable space, a safe space: no crying men around: the one just waves goodnight and heads away; Lan presses the elevator button: "Who was that guy?" Priscilla: with total sincerity of fear: "What did he want?"

  March was easy catchings for two hot Cat sisters. They took him off-campus, promising to give him the time of his life, to so whack your doodle you’ll never fall for a Smithy, again, run him around and up and down: but it was for themselves that they took him: "March Forbar." Just to say that he’s firked you made some guys back away. "Whack your doodle doodle-do!"