At this point Tallulah’s flinging the waves of her hair over her head, allowing them to unfurl and swish before gathering and flinging them again, because she knows I find the sight inordinately delightful, while tickling my legs with her toes. Her voice is buoyant with jubilation, as cheerful as the sunlit water of a pristine stream—auditory succulence so vivid it’s reaching under my skin, winding delicious electricity through my nerves. “Sorry, but I need my feet now!” she announces with a wink, pulling them from my legs and turning to retrieve her heels from the floor; then, after she’s placed the heels on her feet, “I have a surprise for you!” So saying, she sits bolt upright in her chair, begins removing her shirt while rolling her tongue about her lips, undulating from waist to neck, rhythmically crossing and uncrossing her legs—all drawn out most delectably, and it’s her smile that’s the most beguiling of all. Then, having removed her shirt and tossed it behind her, she pours some butter sauce into her hand from the bowl and smears it onto her neck and shoulders and chest, squirming as if being tickled. “So what do you think, sweetie?” she inquires when she’s finished. “Am I a tramp or what?” Cocking her head to the side, she gazes at me wide-eyed, with lifted eyebrows, while slowly running a hand up the downward side of her face.
“Well, let’s see,” I smile. “Shirt taken off in a way that redefines seductive, butter applied in a way that’s even more seductive, elegance and grace and allurement evident throughout, a smile that’ll melt the polar ice caps: add it all up and I’d say you’re a girl who exemplifies the true meaning of freedom and lives and breathes it—a girl unhampered by the inhibitions that society seeks to impose upon girls—unabashedly stunning, unapologetically daring, in love with fun. So if that’s the definition of tramp, I guess you are one. Tramp’s obviously a very nice place to be. If I was a girl, I’d definitely aspire to be a tramp.”
“Silly!” she giggles, flinging the pile of remaining napkins onto my lap. “I’m not just a tramp, I’m a greased up butter tramp! And I fold up like a doll—your very own private petite plaything! (She brings her feet to the seat of her chair, hugs her knees to her chest.) See? My hair’s bigger than the rest of me! I’m your little toy to do with as you please, made to serve you! Your wish isn’t just my command, it’s my fondest desire! You own me and I aim to please!”
My friends, Tallulah’s as sweet and innocent looking, without a crease or shadow upon her radiant face, as a girl could possibly be. I swear she doesn’t look a day older than eighteen—folded up as she is on the chair, smiling from ear to ear. “If you’re a doll then the name for you is Flexi Sexy and I want some of that,” I say, rising to my feet. “Or Aerobic Angel. Or Candy Cutie. Or...”
“Why, thank you, kind Sir,” she breaks in, springing from her chair and curtsying. “All those names will do nicely! I’m happy you’re pleased with your dolly!”; then, eluding my outstretched arms and returning to her seat with a giggle, “Honey, your dolly has more surprises for you—watch this.” Extending her arms over the table, she flutters her hands from object to object upon it, inquiring, “Do I want this? Or maybe this? Perhaps this is the ticket?”
“Oh, I’m sure I know what you can’t resist,” I laugh, glancing at the bowl of butter sauce.
“Oh, do you now?” she says, smiling slyly. “Maybe dolly isn’t as predictable as you think. Maybe she only wants more salad, or to wipe off with a napkin, as so.” Plucking a wadded up napkin from the far side of the table, where several are strewn about on account of our napkin-war, she unfolds it and wipes each of her forearms with theatrical fastidiousness, even though they’re clean as can be; then, tossing the napkin onto her plate, “OK, what now? Well, yes, I do believe the time is right for this—it seems you were correct after all!” Wrapping both hands around the bowl of butter sauce, she slowly brings it to her chest. “Should I?” she asks, gently jiggling the bowl. “Do you think dolly has the courage?”
“You have courage to burn,” I say, wondering how much of the sauce is going to go where. “There’s not a more fearless girl on earth, you’re without peer in that department. Every other girl, and guy as well, can only hope to be as courageous as you. Petite cutie pie Flexi Sexy you may be, but your feistiness doesn’t play second fiddle to anyone’s! Another name for you is Flexi Fearless!”
“So nice!” she smiles, slowly raising the bowl of sauce over her head; then, with a wink, “Shower time!” So saying, she turns the bowl upside down, whereupon butter sauce (A great deal of it—I always more than enough.) streams through her hair and down her cheeks and neck onto her chest and into her lap. Instants later she’s leaping from her chair, scampering to the center of the living room, and dancing—the sauce is flowing down her legs, splashing in all directions. “Surprise!” she shouts with glee, executing an eye-high kick.
“Hey—the carpet!” I yell, reflexively as it were; and I’m immediately cursing the said reflex and wishing I could take it back, alarmed at having raised my voice in an unkind manner, ashamed of myself. “Tallulah,” I hasten to add in soft tones, endeavoring to pave over my faux pas, assure her of my unreserved admiration, “this is a beautiful idea, a wonderful heavenly surprise, but let’s do it in the kitchen, all right? It’ll be a cinch to wipe the tiles clean afterwards, even if…”
“What?” Tallulah interrupts, coming to a dead-stop, disbelief and derisiveness chasing the mirth from her eyes. “I dance for you and you scream at me? You get mad because of a stupid carpet—materialistic stuff—when I’m being good to you? Now who’s making trouble, starting stuff, fighting? You say we’re going to work things out together and be nice to each other and be in the long haul together and it’s a lie! How do you expect me to be nice if you’re not? It’s give-and-take in a relationship, believe it or not! Mutual compromise! You do know the meaning of mutual, don’t you? I’m starting to think you haven’t a clue! My God! You really don’t have a clue, do you? I dance to make you happy and you slap me in the face and make me stop—incredible!” Exhaling forcibly and crossing her arms across her chest, she glares at me with knife-sharp eyes.
“Tallulah,” I say, astounded at my stupidity—doubly berating myself for having drastically altered the mood, essentially slain our happiness—as panic bursts into my breast, “I’m sorry I yelled, I was completely out of line, there’s no excuse. I should’ve been nicer about it, I didn’t mean to be so sudden and loud. Actually, I should’ve kept my mouth shut entirely, instead of being the greatest fool alive. I don’t really care about the carpet, it was a reaction—a positively stupid ill-thought-out mindless reaction—and I’m sorry. But I didn’t say to stop dancing, I would never want you to stop dancing—it would be a crime to want that. I love your dancing—worship your dancing—and could watch you dance all night, I’d never want you to stop. I suggested dancing in the kitchen, because of...unfortunately because of the stupid carpet, for which again I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right about the carpet only being a thing, it’s more important to...”
“Spoke out of turn, did you?” she cuts me off, spitting the words and abruptly spinning about, showing me her back, in disgust; then, audibly inhaling as if between clenched teeth and turning to face me again, “You’re never above insulting me, are you? As low as you can go, that’s how you like to treat me! Here I thought my dancing would be a treat and instead it’s another excuse for you to insult and knock the wind out of me! But that’s what I get for trying to be nice to a selfish two-faced creep, isn’t it? Obviously you don’t really like my dancing—that’s a big lie too! You think it’s fun to lie and push my buttons and scramble me and make my heart freeze, then say you want peace! You don’t want peace, you only want to start something and then act like it’s my fault! It’s fun being mean and bending things around and making me out to be the bad one, isn’t it? So much fun—sick fun! You don’t like being honest! You ruin nice moments, just kill them, and then blame me! And God forbid that I call you on it and try to get you to grow up! Because then the little boy will g
et scared and shut me out again, like last year! Do you think I believe you when you say you want to keep seeing me? Do you think I’m that stupid? Answer me, you lying coward!”
“Tallulah,” I respond, wishing to advance and grasp her hands but wary of doing so, as she’s far too incensed to be likely to allow it, “I hope you believe me when I tell you I want to keep seeing you, get to know each other better and begin a lasting relationship, but understand why you might be skeptical. What I did last year was inexcusable, I was scared and an absolute idiot, I’ve told you that. Telling the doormen not to let you in without talking to you first, seeking to work things out, was cowardly and I’m ashamed of that, a complete fool for doing that, and I apologize for doing that and mean it with all my heart. I hope you believe me—running into you again is a gift I want to be deserving of and make the most of. I have a second chance and want to be worthy of it.” It’s here that I make bold to approach her while continuing to speak. “Tallulah, I want so much to…”
“You stay there!” she shrieks, shaking with revulsion as she places her palms flat against the air between us. “You don’t come over here, I don’t want your poisonous mitts near me! I don’t like liars! I don’t like creeps who think honesty is a joke and don’t respect me! You have the nerve to spout pretty words without backing them up, as if I’m a silly goose with no brains! I was dancing for you and you threw ice water on me! You had the nerve to tell me to move to the kitchen and dance, where there’s not enough room to do it—might as well have told me to do it in a closet! I got butter on your precious carpet and you spat on me, threw a baby tantrum like the baby you are! You couldn’t overlook the carpet? It’s not like carpets can’t be cleaned—not like I didn’t plan on making it spic and span after I was done! I don’t make messes and walk away and forget about them before I clean them up, I’m not that kind of woman! But you make messes of good feelings! You destroy happy moments because you can’t overlook carpets getting wet! You’ll use any excuse to tromp on me! How can you think I want to keep seeing you, huh? Answer me that! And why am I even bothering to wonder if it’s a lie when you say you want to keep seeing me when I might not want to keep seeing you? That’s right, buster! I might not want to keep seeing you! Maybe I’ve had it up to here (She jerks her arm above her head.) with your immaturity!”
“Tallulah,” I say, seized by the fear, far more compelling than that aroused by her anger, that she might very well choose to shut me out, as I did to her last year (Racing through my head is the thought of how terrible it would be to be deprived of her, just when it’s become obvious she’s likely my first opportunity to experience lasting love; and also racing through my head is the thought that turn-about’s fair play and it would, unfortunately, serve me right.), “I’ve never insulted you and could never do so under any circumstances. Do you honestly believe that because I had a stupid knee-jerk reaction about the carpet it’s an insult, that there was any malice? With all due respect, I think most people would have something to say if a great deal of butter was being slopped on their carpet. Does briefly raising my voice constitute deliberately pushing your buttons? What I mean is that butter’s all over it and so what if it is but I’d say raising my voice is an understandable reaction when it’s first happening; and I immediately apologized for doing it, and apologize again now. I wasn’t pushing your buttons, wasn’t trying to ruin anything. I’d never—ever—tell you to stop dancing and, again, am sorry I interrupted your dancing. Telling you to dance in the kitchen wasn’t thought out either but in my defense I can assure you I adore your dancing in all circumstances, wherever and whenever you’re doing it, because you’re the one who’s doing it—because it’s beautiful you. Tromp on you? How could I ever want to do that? But if my behavior last year is what this is about then again I say I was a scared idiot, an unbelievably shortsighted coward who didn’t give us the chance we deserve, and again I’m sorry. I’m not proud of being weak, stupid, and deluded and I’ll say I’m sorry as many times as you want me to because I want to keep seeing you more than I want anything else and can only hope you believe it’s true and that you’ll want to keep seeing me. The doorman business is probably going to haunt us for a while and that’s my fault and I’m sorry, but it’s not going to happen again. Assuming you’re willing to give me the chance, I promise you’re never going to be shut out again.”
“Haunt us for a while!” she shouts, jerking her arms towards the ceiling and stamping a foot, glaring at me incredulously. “That’s a cute way of putting it! Right, and it’s your doing and you made me miserable last year! Are you proud of yourself?”; then, without allowing me to respond, she yells, “Son of a bitch!” and, darting to the table and seizing the sauce-bowl and lifting it high, slams it down on the tabletop, such that it shatters—ceramic shards strike me, because I’m nearby, and strike her. “Ow!” she yelps, whipping about and kicking me hard with the toe of her shoe.
Pain shoots through my shin, radiates up my thigh, throbs as if it's not departing anytime soon; I’m gritting my teeth, clutching my leg below the knee, cursing all the Gods in heaven and hell, unable to not be angry. “Why do you need to kick?” I yell. “Have I ever kicked you, struck you? Were you brought up to think it’s OK to kick people, is that a lesson daddy taught you when he turned you into a spoiled brat? What’s this mania you have for physical attack? I can tell you it’s not acceptable! Get it through your spoiled brat head: I’ve never kicked or hit you and never will, so don’t kick or hit me! Goddammit, I swear to God…”
“Sweetie, I’m sorry!” Tallulah breaks in, her voice electric with worry, inflected with kindness, entreatingly tender—the polar opposite of what it was seconds ago. Instants later she’s tremblingly embracing me—gazing at me with imploring eyes, momentarily averting them in self-reproach, then gazing at me again with a look of apology that’s far more compelling than words. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats, but it’s unnecessary for her to do so: she’s asking for forgiveness with the urgent quiverings of her acquiescent body—solicitude’s emanating from the very pores of her skin. And her beautiful visage is inches from mine, as radiant as if illuminated by a thousand lamps, still troubled and ashamed but communicating the sort of regard every man lives to see. Beneficent emotions heal like nothing else: the sweetness in Tallulah’s eyes and concern in her voice and softness of her touch dispels the pain in my leg and anger in my breast as easily as swift winds dispel a morning fog—propels me to a place where benign energy, a sensation as of being inundated by a wave of euphoria that’ll surge unendingly without breaking, is coursing through me and guiding my movements. I’m soon easing her to the floor, assuring her no apology’s needed, caressing her face, kissing her for all I’m worth—aware she’s wrapping her legs around my waist, tightening them until they shake.
“Feel the butter, honey?” Tallulah coos a few minutes later, pausing from our kissing, gazing at me with questioning, hesitantly hopeful, eyes.
“I’m feeling the most wonderful girl in existence—an angel who treats me to divinity when she dances,” I smile, stroking her forehead, pressing myself more insistently against her.
“Doesn’t wet sticky me feel good?” she continues, a mixture of courage and elation leaping into her eyes. “You like my butter, don’t you?”
“There’s nothing I like more,” I assure her. “And your beauty and wild imagination and miraculous energy and creativity, like no other girl’s.”
“And there’s nothing I like more than your handsome head,” she says, the thrilling happy candy in her voice again in full measure, as she passes her hand through my hair. Then she’s playfully wiggling below me, wrapping her arms around my back, squeezing me close, kissing me again—breathing deeply, moaning dulcetly. Just like that we’re whisked from conflict into a magical place where the sum of our united affection is greater than its parts, as in two separate impulses balancing one another to reach an elevated state unattainable by each alone—just like that my apartment’s vibrant wit
h blithe delirium, disappearing in the depths of our sighs, seemingly outside of space and time. I’m picturing, I kid you not, pristine silver springs rising from the depths of earth and washing over and engulfing and cleansing us—conceiving of the possibility of tapping into emotions unchanged since the dawn of human evolution, experiencing what our pre-civilization ancestors felt, resurrecting their non-society-manipulated sensations in the present day and age. Deludedly idealistic or not, that’s what’s sweeping through my head as I roll onto my back and pull Tallulah onto my chest and gaze into the sapphires of her eyes: at such moments gazing into her eyes is like gazing up at the stars on a clear moonless night and dissolving out from under myself on account of the spectacle of the vastness of the universe, seeming to feel the miracle of existence shimmer in my every nerve.
Angie, Ella, Steve: Tallulah’s treated me to a vivid reminder of what lurks inside her, how hair-trigger and unpredictable and extreme in her reactions she is. What’s just happened? What it boils down to is that my brief knee-jerk reaction on account of a mess on the carpet, a couple seconds of strident speech, has resulted in her being enraged enough to shake with the force of it, smash a bowl against the glass tabletop (It’s amazing the latter hasn’t so much as cracked, even if it is nearly an inch thick.), and kick me hard enough to have me gritting my teeth against the pain. What it boils down to is that in the blink of an eye joyful abandon disintegrated into extreme duress. And guess what? I’m telling you it’s far more thrilling to make love to Tallulah now than it would be had she been well-behaved. Picture it: my carpet’s soaked with butter sauce, shards of the shattered bowl are strewn about, she’s being the sweetest desire-animated darling a man could hope to clasp close and, on top of that, I just know she’s going to act up again at some point, come God only knows how close to being thoroughgoingly deranged—convincing me my world’s been flipped upside-down and heaven’s traded places with hell—and I can’t imagine a more enviable situation to be in. Consider me nuts if you wish, but I declare delight’s heightened incalculably when there’s a dose of strife, disorder, lunacy, and destruction to provide some counterpoint. Tallulah and I are in an emotional sanctuary now, a veritable oasis of mutual surrender and exhilaration, and I’m making the most of it while it lasts—lingeringly stroking her every luscious curve, drawing deep heady breaths in unison with hers, whirling about in my feelings to the rhythm of the undulations of her warm ardent mouth as we kiss, and... But, as I know you’ve grown to expect, here’s where I tell you I’m going to guard our privacy in the matter of our intimate activities and refrain from further description.
Tallulah Tempest Page 10