The prick of the needles was new to me twelve years ago. That Kate wanted me so completely yet still wanted me as an individual, separate from her being, was not something I had experienced, nor had I imagined that those contradictory impulses could exist in the same person.
She instructed me to sit straddling the weight bench. A small table with her equipment on it stood next to the bench. Kate ran the blade of a straight razor over the flesh of my upper back, removing the tiny layer of soft baby fuzz, then treated the area with a disinfectant. She laid the transfer on my back, placing it carefully, then removing it. Using a hand mirror, Kate showed me the ink design—two cherries with a stem.
Her hands felt foreign; she touched my back as if it were a canvas. Gone were the soft, firm strokes of reassurance, replaced with the artist’s hands seeking, searching, ready to create, transform. “Don’t move,” Kate cautioned me, and I heard the buzz of the tattoo gun. I clutched the sides of the bench as the new sensation moved through my flesh and Kate adorned my body with her art.
She owns me, not because of a mutual contract, an agreement, or an exchange of money. She is not my Mistress; I am not her slave. She is not my Daddy; I am not her little girl. Sex is my religion; she is my God. I worship her—not in the way that little children worship Santa Claus and their mothers, or the way priests worship their idols. I worship her in the intimate way prophets worship their gods. I have seen the burning bush, and my God has spoken directly to me. She has laid her hands on me, marked me physically and mentally. I worship her not with blind faith, but because she has been tested and proven. She has demonstrated her divine powers. I am her high priestess. Like Moses, I will lead my people out of servitude and into the Promised Land through her word alone. She reveals the divine prophecy and the mystical secrets. She places the holy manna in my mouth. I am nothing before her, and yet she has chosen me.
*
I open the jewelry box on my dressing table. An assortment of necklaces lies on the velvet lining—sparkles, thin chains, elaborate stone settings, and her favorite, classic white pearls. I select the medium-length strand and clasp it around my neck. The necklace belonged to my grandmother, a stern woman of English descent who was a social snob. I attach a bracelet to my wrist. It belonged to Kate’s grandmother, a flamboyant woman who seized life with gusto. I think they would approve of my use of their pearls, if not of my erotic choices.
I like the pearls because they hold our families’ history. Intact in the mucus and dirt that are of such value to society, our families’ struggles, lives, and loves are held fast. Kate chose a pearl, small and silky, as the bead for my labia piercing. It was our sixth anniversary. The room smelled of sage and musk. The piercer, a young, tattooed girl, had agreed to allow Kate to watch. The lace of my dress pushed up around my waist, my feet in stirrups, and my genitals shaved bare, I felt oddly exposed.
Kate sat slightly to the side and behind the woman as she prepared my clit for piercing and talked in a singsong voice indicative of how many times she’d repeated this procedure and its instructions. No sex, she said, for six weeks. She clamped my hood then pierced it, all in Kate’s view. The ring with the pearl holder was in before I was even able to process that she was done.
In the car in the parking garage, Kate placed a dental dam over my genitals and softly stroked my clit until I came.
I have always, from the first time I met Kate, felt as if I’ve known her forever. Forever. The word was incomprehensible, meaningless, mystical until her. Our bond is from a long time ago, as if we’d shared the same womb. Comfortable and safe. Someone I know, love, honor. And yet, she has felt new each day. New and unknown. Someone to explore, learn, consume. Her marks on my body are a road map of our time together. Gentle strokes of affection, passion-filled yearnings to strengthen our bond.
Offerings of my flesh, my spirit, I give to Kate.
*
Offerings of my flesh, my spirit, I give to Isabella.
I cannot think of anything more important to me than touching her. I’m addicted to the feel of her flesh under my hands. Addicted to the scent of her skin, the taste of Isabella’s cunt. I’m addicted to the sound of the moan she makes when I slip a finger into her and the little noise that seems to fight its way out of her when she comes. I’d do anything to make her happy—to satisfy her needs. Sometimes I’m afraid I can’t. Afraid she’ll want too much—more than I can give her.
I search my soul for a sign that I am worthy. I pray for strength. A vision that I deserve to receive the great honor Isabella has bestowed upon me. I am her vessel, her tool, and through me she will be able to reach the Promised Land. My fear is great, but my desire is stronger.
I swing the blade separating the shrublike weeds from their bases, then pull the roots out of the dirt. The weeds will grow back—they always do—since I am unable to remove all of the roots despite how hard I try. In a few weeks, I’ll have to return to the yard with my blade and hack them away again. Some cuts don’t last. I could remove them permanently with a chemical herbicide, but I like the ritual of cutting them. The process of cutting and pulling, cutting and pulling. The battle that these weeds and I are engaged in endlessly. I like the solitude of the act, the weeds and their resistance, the shine of the blade, and the gleam of the sharp edge when it is held just so. The secure, heavy feeling of the handle in my hand, the pump and rush of my muscles as I use them to hack, chop, cut, and pull the plants from the soil in which they grow—defiantly.
The first time I ever marked her body was eighteen years ago, with a blade—my blade. A smooth metal dagger with red stones set into the black handle in the form of a cross. I bound her arms to the overhead beam with fur-lined leather cuffs attached to silver chains. Then I put a spreader bar on her legs. The sound of metal on metal excited me, but not like the sight of her. Her body in a barely there leopard-print teddy. Her thighs exposed almost to her waist by the high-cut sides and the low-cut back. Her limbs spread open. The G-string bottom with just enough material to cover a quarter of an inch stripe across her lower back. “Two snaps at the crotch,” she’d told me when she bought it, “so you can get inside me without taking it off.” She knows exactly what I like.
But it was the breasts I wanted now. The nipples almost showing, raised up and out by the shelf design of the top and pushed toward me by the X-form of her bondage, her cleavage the focal point. I turned my back to her and withdrew the dagger from its black leather scabbard. I could hear the chains clank as she stirred and strained to see what I had, what I would do to her first. Turning toward her, I wasn’t sure if I could do it. Maybe I’d tease her, taunt her with the dagger. Trace a pattern on her skin without breaking it open. I knew I was ready; I wasn’t sure she was.
I stepped close to her, lightly kissed her forehead, and grabbed a handful of her black hair. I jerked her head back, exposing her neck, and ran the very tip of the dagger down the side of her throat to the valley of her cleavage. Isabella sucked in air, then stopped and held her breath, her body completely still. I allowed the point of the knife to push against her left breast, just hard enough to be felt yet not break the skin.
She moaned and slowly released her breath. I let go of her hair and lifted the dagger from her flesh. I traced a path with the point down her back and up her side. She moaned again. “I want your blood,” I said in a low voice without the emotion I felt. “I want your flesh and your blood.” She moaned again, slightly rocking her hips.
I repositioned the dagger in the small gap between her breasts, pressed lightly, and reached down and undid the two small snaps to expose her. “I want your blood and your soul,” I said as I slid two fingers into her wet cunt.
She moaned and carefully rocked her hips toward my hand.
“You’re wet,” I said as I pumped my fingers deep inside her. Isabella was warm and soft and felt so ready. I wanted more of me deeper inside her. I pulled my fingers out and grabbed her chin, leveling her eyes with mine.
“This is f
orever,” I said, holding her gaze.
“Forever,” she repeated.
“Don’t move, sweet. Don’t move at all.” I placed my hand on her breast and held it so it would remain still. She whimpered, a small helpless sound, and I looked into her eyes. Deep, dark black pools full of trust, fear, and excitement met mine.
The dagger pushed into Isabella’s flesh just deep enough to release her blood and leave a light scar when it healed. I drew a two-inch line across her right breast. Her skin resisted for a moment before the blade bit through it and released her blood. It ran slow at first for a moment and then dripped down in a steady, almost even stream. As I withdrew the dagger, Isabella groaned and moved her hips toward me. Her eyes were closed and her head hung back, exposing her neck to me. I watched the stream of crimson, red against her pale white flesh, trickle down between her breasts and pool in her cleavage.
I made the same mark on her left breast, then reached down and touched her clit. Her wetness had spilled out, allowing me to easily slide my fingers across it. Isabella’s body rocked as she made sounds of needing more. I bent my mouth down to her breasts and licked from the collected blood. I turned my attention to the wounds I had inflicted on her body and lapped at both of them. Her blood tasted like iron as it coated the inside of my mouth. I locked my lips over the incision on her left breast and sucked, pulling more blood to the surface as I stroked her clit.
I consumed her, pulling her every essence into me, then used the dagger to cut a gash across the palm of my own hand, allowing my blood to come forth. I placed my bloody hand over her mouth, and Isabella sucked my fluid from it.
Joined forever through the power of blood magic, I am chained to her—bound to her needs. Her hunger is all consuming and within that hunger lays my power. Without her belief, her want, I am nothing but another fake prophet. Her endless desire gives me strength and power. Her lust for more gives me purpose and drive. Her trust makes me confident. Her belief makes me real. Her love gives it all meaning. All I want to do is satisfy her and I never want her to be satisfied. Her body is the spring of life, the Garden of Eden, the seed of existence from which all things come. It is my responsibility to reach deep inside of her and pull forth from that dark space what lies hidden there—to release her soul. I am honored that she has chosen to allow me to have unlimited access to her body and mind, that she believes I am strong enough to lead both of us through the darkness—her darkness—into the light of salvation.
I take my vows seriously, for eating from the wrong tree will tumble us into eternal ignorance, expose our nakedness to each other, and prevent us from seeing the beauty. But sampling the fruits is part of my charge, and she has left it to me to be the ferryman and guide her across the river of bones inside her own being.
*
I pile the hacked stems, leaves, and assorted plant materials into a heap. Later I’ll feed them into the chipper to reduce the pieces to manageable sizes. The chips will be added to the top of the composter along with a bit of soil and water. Then I’ll turn it once each day so that the contents will ferment, mix, and decompose into what will ultimately become a highly compact, intensely fertile growing material for the flower beds. Because of this process, from the remains of the resistant, defiant weeds will come the delicate buds of the bleeding hearts, irises, and tulips. But only if I handle them correctly with care to every detail, remembering each day to attend it, mix it, and watch over its transformation. Adding just enough of what it needs, protecting it from too much and not enough; from carelessness, overindulgence, and neglect.
The sound of flesh sizzling like steaks on a hot skillet, the scent of human meat cooking crisp fills the room. I am overcome by the pink-red of her meat, the piercing cry of her voice, her unrelenting compliance to allow me to mark her body with symbols of my own unworthy devotion.
I place the burn pack on top of my newest offering and sob, overcome by the moment. Her ass had been in the air; as the iron imprinted its tribal pattern deep into her flesh, it sank into the mattress. I feel as if our flesh has become one. I cradle her in my arms and gently stroke between the folds of her labia. She is, as always, during these intimate moments, wet. Her desire confounds me as it honors me. For I am a heathen in the Vatican, ignorant of the correct rituals, what words to say, when to stand or kneel; but not of the power and glory around me. Her body, like the consecrated wafer, has been lifted up on high before me. The sanctified host has been offered and I have responded, “I am not worthy, but only say the word and I shall be healed.”
And she has said the word.
Amen.
I have been called like Abraham to sacrifice my best, my favorite, and my offering has been received. I wandered in the desert, tempted by false prophets and the devil himself before I saw the divine spirit made flesh in Isabella’s form and all of my pain and suffering were washed away by her blood. She’s mine. Her body is my responsibility. She’s the temple and I have to make sure everything is in order. I’m the priestess sworn to protect the goddess and to perform the rituals in praise and honor of her.
*
Isabella walks down the steps to the second floor, wondering if Kate is done with the yard work. She holds herself perfectly still four steps from the bottom when she hears the front door open. Kate’s eyes sparkle as she takes her in head to toe. A vision of loveliness. Isabella’s dark hair is pulled up into a bun held in place by rhinestone pins. A red satin dress in a style out of fashion before either of them was born, but cut perfectly to accent Isabella’s hourglass figure and display the cleavage Kate has loved for so many years, clings perfectly to her body. Matching ankle-strap high heels with rhinestone clips and opera-length gloves finish the dinner outfit. She is stunning in Kate’s eyes despite or perhaps because of the fine lines around her eyes, the extra fullness of her belly, and the gray in her temples. She is every bit the femme fatale Kate first met twenty years ago—and yet so much more.
“You’re too much,” Kate says, putting her arms out to her. “You hot thing.” Isabella moves down the remaining steps. “I’m all dirty,” Kate says, stepping back from her.
She’s wearing a one-piece work suit, faded from years of use. The sleeves are cut off, her muscular tattooed arms are pumped from the labor she has been doing. She is covered with dirt and grass from an afternoon in the yard. Kate smiles at Isabella, sweat dripping from her, the veins in her neck popping. Her blond hair hides the silver and her Nordic ancestors’ blood has served her well, allowing her to age gracefully. From where Isabella stands, the lines on Kate’s face can barely be seen and softness in her middle abdomen is hidden by the jumpsuit.
“I don’t care.” Isabella steps into her and Kate wraps her arms around her. Kate smells of earth and sweat, of comfort and love. Isabella smells of musk and exotic oils, of sex and desire.
It’s been twenty years since Kate first took her metal blade to Isabella’s breasts and made her hers. Twenty years since she embraced her in the folds of her arms and promised it would be forever. Twenty years since Isabella lay open and exposed the deep darkness, and Kate agreed to explore, control, and indulge it. Twenty years since they first shared in the flesh and the spirit. It has been a lifetime, but today as they stand together, arms around each other, they kiss with all the newness and excitement of two lovers sharing their very first kiss.
Reunion
Lisa Figueroa
The last thing I wanted to do was go to another family reunion. Is there anything more boring than a bunch of relatives gathered together to drink beer, grill fajitas, and chase after small children? My mother had other ideas and piled on the guilt about how both sets of grandparents weren’t getting any younger and that I had cousins whom I’d never even met. The woman is a connoisseur of passive aggression, so there was no point in trying to argue. Rosa and Blanca, my younger, identical twin sisters, would simply smile back at her when met with resistance, themselves students of the school of manipulation in which our mother gave daily classes. If
it hadn’t been for my grandmother, Abuela Frida, insisting, I wouldn’t have gone at all. She was a woman who, at age eighty-two, had survived three husbands, a bout with breast cancer, and as she liked to often brag, still drove her own fucking car.
My family has known I was a lesbian from the time I was twelve, starting with my first devastating crush on Serena, my best friend since kindergarten. Their way of dealing with it was not to mention it or ask too many questions they didn’t want answered. My mother finally stopped trying to fix me up with boys in high school when I discussed the futility of such attempts with my Abuela Frida. She was the only one who accepted me for the person I was and even respected me more for being true to myself.
“Mama doesn’t understand, Abuelita. I never have, nor will I ever be interested in boys.”
“My daughter is a hardheaded fool. I told her to back off, but she never wants to listen.”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m thinking I shouldn’t bother going to college. What’s the point? I’ll never be able to live my own life.”
“Emilia, don’t worry. I’m going to have a long talk with your mother. I’ll remind her about her great-aunt Cuca. Even back then we knew about women who loved women. To each her own, I’ve always believed. I respected your mother’s decision to marry your father and live her life, so why shouldn’t she let you live your own life? You’re not a child anymore.”
Lessons in Love Page 28