Tallulah Tempest

by Robert Scott Leyse

  And so my delight in our strife-heightened lovemaking suggests complicity in setting the stage for it, right? It begs the question: do I willfully push Tallulah’s buttons, intentionally seek to incite her, after all? It takes two to tango, fight and make up, right? For how much of Tallulah’s tempestuousness am I to blame? Perhaps I do wait for signs of stormy weather to appear in her mien and manner and then, albeit not overtly consciously, prod her towards tumult? That I derive fulfillment in the face of her misbehavior, not in spite of but because of it, is indisputable so this would tend to indicate I share responsibility for her misbehavior. To place the cause of our strident intervals on her shoulders alone, chalk it up solely to her being a hellcat, and absolve myself of all responsibility is something I’m no longer able or willing to do. In fact, a great deal of my former blindness with regard to my preference for feisty, unbalanced, explosiveness-prone females was likely due to my unwillingness to accept my share of the blame for our strident intervals. But listen to me: why am I wondering who’s responsible for what, mentioning blame? The bare-knuckles fact is that neither of us can get enough of each other. Our chemistry, our magnetism—the way Tallulah’s mere presence electrifies the air, goosebumps my skin, sets the very physiology of my body awhirl: of course we’re in this together, in equal measure, every step of the way. It appears we share the urge to bring about and weather storms in order to experience the inner quietude which follows a storm’s departure—that we enable each other to shed accumulated tension and flow unobstructed in our feelings, attain to a whirl of rejuvenating sensations. To put it another way: Tallulah lifts me free of the debilitating monotony of emotion that’s almost requisite when it comes to remaining gainfully employed in this day and age, part and parcel of existing amidst the affliction known as modern civilization—she immerses me in the unpredictability and mystery society seeks to eliminate from our lives. Life is fear and rapture and uncertainty and panic and dread and bliss and dizziness and entrancement and all points between, constantly in flux; a fertile ocean is a tumultuous ocean, the depths unendingly trading places with the shallows and forestalling stagnation; and a steady taste of this is what Tallulah brings to me. She makes it possible for me to catch a glimpse of the life we humans lived for thousands of generations, during the vastly greater part of our history, before our planet’s limited resources—in a word, overpopulation—compelled us to adopt agriculture, and permanent settlement, as a means of sustaining ourselves, and resulted in social stratification, splinteredness of mind, enslavement to status and property and possessions. I recapture a trace of that bygone primal fear and trembling and resolve and euphoria, when the almighty unknown—never knowing what lurked around the corner, whether one was even going to obtain a meal—was the measure of what we were prepared to endure and capable of enduring. All right, Angie, Ella, Steve: I suspect you feel I’m indulging in flagrantly idealistic hyperbole now—carrying seeing-what-I-want-to-see to ridiculous limits. Nevertheless, instead of deleting the four sentences that precede my address to you, I’m going to keep them, for the reason that what Tallulah brings to me makes them believable to me, even if I occasionally laugh at myself. What does it matter if I’m imagining who knows how much of those four sentences, unduly bringing the possibility of resurrection of human pre-historical experience into the picture, as long as my emotions follow suit with my imagination and carry me to fulfilling states of being I’ve never been in before? The fact is that, because Tallulah’s the source of these imaginings and emotions, not to mention my newfound well of energy and enthusiasm—the sense of being reborn on each new day—I’m going to fight to keep her by my side with every last particle of my being: I’ve no doubt whatsoever that my happiness, and therefore my life, depends upon it.

  Here I must pause to sing the praises of my darling Tallulah: she’s truly unique, not a false bone in her body, no putting on of airs, being anyone besides who she is—immune to the fashionable feelings and casts of mind and turns of phrase of the moment, absolutely down to earth. And so beautiful and delectable and delicate, radiant with vitality—such unblemished lily-petal-soft skin, luxuriant curling cascades of hair—eyes bright with light stolen from the stars. Comeliness that women who’re addicted to fashion magazines would kill for, and Tallulah simply has it and therefore has no need to run around in circles seeking to be someone she’s not. And the mood-swirl of Tallulah, her inner realms of restless discontent—not paltry discontent, as in thirsting to acquire a trinket she doesn’t possess, but elemental discontent, unsullied by base desires. Tallulah’s life itself, constantly metamorphosing from one state of being into another—never at ease with emotionally standing pat, always hungering for all that existence has to offer and striving to manipulate it into offering more. How could I have ever sought to deny that rapid mood-swings are a surge in my bloodstream like no other, the most effective heightener and broadener of experience by far? The thought that such volatility resides within petite Tallulah and her fundamentally kind disposition can be displaced by wild raving and violent dramatics at any time is, believe it, as comforting as it is stimulating. There’s nothing like vulnerability married to danger—a girl who inspires me to protect her at the same time I’m extremely wary of her. Whatever strife our budding relationship brings I’m very willingly along for the ride, because every fearful trough in a wave of drama leads to an exhilarating crest of reconciliation. A girl who’s able to randomly spin me through the emotional spectrum, from the depths of claustrophobic despair to the heights of expansive delight, is what makes heaven on earth possible. I own up to adoring manic mixes, all right, and Tallulah first and foremost: I hunger for more, and am rewarded with more, when she’s by my side; life is incomparably fresh, urgent, enthralling, and awe-inspiring as long as she’s by my side.

  By the time Tallulah and I reach the end of our heavenly interval on the carpet virtually every inch of our bodies is glistening, slippery and sticky, with butter sauce. She’s squirming against the floor—smiling, laughing, flinging her hair, not caring that it’s soaked with butter as well. I’m on my back alongside her, stretching snow angel-wise with the half of my body that’s not touching hers, relishing the electric calm that’s flowing through my limbs, accentuated the more I move. “Well, would you look at us,” Tallulah says, rising to her feet and straddling me with her stance, running her hands up and down her thighs and hips and waist, the most delicious amusement in her eyes. “I’d say we look like fun! What do you think, sweetie? Do we look like fun?”

  “We’re definitely the poster couple of fun,” I smile, commencing to run my hands up and down the backs of her legs. “We live and breathe all manner of fun, including luscious legs fun!”

  “Ooooo!” she exclaims, lifting her arms over her head, waving them back and forth while doing a slow shimmy. “Touch me lusciously fun!”

  “Religious experience fun!” I shout, allowing my glance to convey how captivated I am (as I always am) by her beauty.

  “Experience this!” Tallulah giggles, bending forward and brushing my chest with her hair as I continue to caress her legs. Although her hair’s wet through and through and heavy with butter sauce, it’s still extremely ticklish, because she’s only touching me with its tips, fully cognizant of the effect she’s creating.

  “Tickle contest fun!” I yell, lightly poking her in the ribs, proceeding to softly curly-cue my fingers about her inner thighs, where she, like every other girl, is especially sensitive.

  “Gotcha!” she announces, seating herself on my belly, pressing her legs, from knees to ankles, tight against the sides of my torso, seizing my wrists and pinning them to the floor. “You’re my prisoner!”

  “Happily so—do with me as you will,” I laugh. “No resistance here!”

  Without a word Tallulah lowers herself all the way onto me, releases my wrists, and grasps my shoulders. Soon we’re lying side by side, embracing and kissing. “Hard to stop, isn’t it?” she observes during a pause in our kissing.


  “Impossible to stop, and who wants to?” I say, rolling us together until I’m on top.

  “I sure don’t,” she answers, joining her lips to mine again, and… Ha, Angie, Ella, Steve: obviously, I prematurely stated it’s the “end of our heavenly interval on the carpet,” but that’s the point: more than once we’re all but certain the said interval’s over only to find ourselves propelled into each other’s arms again, unable to stop stimulating one another and ourselves, absorbed in renewed transports of delight. Tallulah’s the most adorable angel, as sweet and playful as she is ardent and insistent, throughout our time on the carpet—overflowing with what I’ll call giggle-inflected sensuality and hunger, laughing grace and agility and earthiness. The blithe tones of her voice, and peals of her laughter, seem to pulsate in the bright light and unzip the very air—open into endless expanses of serenity and joy, where everything good is deathless and nothing bad can exist: sometimes it’s astonishing how beautiful life can be. And having said that, I’ll skip ahead to the actual end of our heavenly interval on the carpet.

  Tallulah and I are on our feet, casting our eyes at the carpet and at each other, exchanging looks of amusement and admiration. “Messy fun!” she winks, nudging me with an elbow; then, gathering her hair in her hands and gazing at it doubtfully, “But time to pay the piper—a girl can only put up with buttered hair for so long! It’s definitely shower time!” And with that she spins about and scampers giggling towards the bathroom, glancing mischievously over her shoulder.

  Of course I follow at Tallulah’s heels and both of us are soon in the bathroom. She’s dancing slowly while observing herself in the mirror above the vanity, resplendent in the bright lights—a row of naked bulbs. “I think the light’s in love with me,” she announces. “Are you jealous?”

  “Extremely so,” I smile. “Because, as much as I’d love to, I’ll never be able to touch all of you at once like the light does—never be able to caress every magnificent inch of you at the same time!”

  “Oh, you do all right—you have nothing to worry about,” she responds, turning to place her palms against my chest. “The light’s all flattery and no performance—all flirtation, with no reach-inside-me satisfaction. The light makes me like me, but you make me adore me. And I adore you.”

  “And I adore you too, Tallulah—adore every curve of your light-illuminated litheness and the life and fire in your eyes.”

  “Ummmm,” she intones, grasping my shoulders and making a movement to pull me to the rug.

  “Hang on a moment,” I say. “Be right with you but let’s get the shower started.” Gently disengaging myself from her hold I advance to the shower stall, turn on the water, and commence adjusting the temperature.

  “Tickle attack!” I hear as she pokes both sides of my waist.

  “Brat!” I laughingly shout, jumping upright.

  “Tee hee!” she continues, dancing her fingers across my belly as I turn to face her; and when I am facing her and about to tickle her in turn she darts her eyes at my hands in mock alarm and, seizing them, declares, “Truce, I surrender—you win!”

  “But I haven’t won anything yet if I haven’t tickled you yet,” I tease. “It seems to me I need to earn it.”

  “But, darling, don’t you want to know what the prize is?” she inquires, widening her eyes as she nudges me towards the shower with her knee. “The prize is that, for being a valiant gentleman who’s willing to accept my offer of victory without tickling me, you get washed first! And I’ll do a good job, or my name isn’t Tallulah—you’re very deserving!”

  Suffice to say we’re soon in the shower and Tallulah, true to her word, is assiduously washing me clean of the butter sauce—alternating soft caresses with deep massage, gently turning me about so as to reach every part of me, not missing an inch. Then I’m returning the favor, soaping and rinsing while likewise repositioning her to facilitate access, her face suffused with equanimity and pleasure the while—she shiver-twitches with delight, happily squirms under her skin, at every pass of my hands. Then we’re seated on the ivory ceramic of the shower stall’s floor for at least ten minutes—wordlessly smiling into each other’s eyes, exchanging soft caresses—as water swashes over us.

  When we reenter the living room an hour or so later Tallulah has a white towel wrapped about her head and a few tendrils of curls are escaping at its edges—a most becoming sight. Tracing the path of one of these tendrils with my finger, I say, “Cute stray ringlet on the prettiest neck in creation,” and bend to kiss it.

  But Tallulah avoids my kiss: taking a quick backward step, she tilts her head towards the stains on the carpet, trains apologetic eyes upon me, and says, “Bad me for buttering your carpet. You were right when you said we should go into the kitchen and I’m sorry I took that the wrong way. Now I see you meant no harm and didn’t mean to be insulting and that in fact you weren’t insulting at all, because it’s my wrong interpretation that mixed things up and turned it that way. It’s just that I was dancing for you, doing what you like, and caught up in it and wanting to be nice. But of course that’s no excuse for making a mess and most certainly not a reason to throw a fit either. Can you forgive your bad girl?” Still gazing at me apologetically, she hesitantly reaches for my hand.

  “There’s nothing whatsoever to forgive,” I respond, stepping to her, grasping her hand, and kissing her forehead. “As you rightly pointed out, the carpet’s only a thing. Too many people get bothered about their possessions, act as if dead things are living things, and I’m sorry I lowered myself to doing that—I know better than to place objects before people. And you were dancing, being your beautiful self, treating me to sublimity. I’m a fool for interrupting that, there’s no excuse—I’m ashamed of raising my voice because of a stupid carpet. Very few girls can come anywhere near your level of athleticism and grace and only a blind person would toss cold water on that—I’m sorry for being temporarily blind. Not to mention that I’d never want to turn back the clock and move to the kitchen and have a clean carpet, because then we’d be without the heaven that happened on it. So what if it’s buttered? Who cares? Tallulah, I’m the one who needs to ask for forgiveness because I’m the one who was out of line—I opened my mouth when I should’ve kept it shut, had absolutely no business yelling. Can you forgive me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, yanking her hand from mine, flicking it through the air in dismissal, and backing away again; then, looking at me quite determinedly and raising her voice a notch and becoming increasingly excited, “It’s no small thing, the mess I’ve made—don’t downplay it and make excuses for me when I don’t deserve them. It’s your carpet, for God’s sake—the first thing people see when they come here, their first impression of your home, and there’s a bunch of grease on it, butter all over, big ugly stains! And it’s there because of my atrocious behavior, no reason else! Make no mistake, it was very thoughtless and irresponsible of me to dump butter on it, dancing or not! Dancing’s no excuse—I have no excuse and you were right to say I should take my act to the kitchen, like I should’ve had the decency to do! Of course our time on the carpet was heaven but we could’ve done the same in the kitchen, put a mat on the tiles to make them soft. Or maybe put a plastic covering, if you have one, on the carpet to protect it. We would’ve figured something out, if I had stayed calm like I should’ve and allowed us to. But I had to get bothered and throw a tantrum when you were only being sensible, didn’t I? I had to put a wall between us and refuse to listen when… I mean, just because there’s some butter it doesn’t mean there has to be a nasty mess, like the one I’m entirely responsible for! What I did is disgraceful and there’s no minimizing it, period!”

  “Beautiful dancing’s as far from disgraceful as anything can be,” I hasten to say, alarmed at the turn Tallulah’s cast of mind has taken and endeavoring to return her to being blithe and playful—coax the self-reproach and frown from her face, soften the edge in her voice. “A middling stain on the carpet’s a
small price to pay for your magnificent symmetry of motion and again I’m as sorry as can be for having spoken out of turn and interrupted you—that’s the only disgrace I know of. Make no mistake, the fault’s entirely mine for raising my voice and making a nothing thing out to be a tragedy. And the butter on the carpet is a nothing thing—it’s not like I’ll be dealing with it or as if it’ll be there forever. The maid will take care of it on Monday. She’ll have it shampooed and spotless in no time, no big deal. So forget about the stain—pretend it isn’t there.”

  “A maid?” Tallulah asks, a dubious look coming into her face, shiver seizing her body, muscles tensing. “Why a maid?” she repeats, glancing off into space, apparently momentarily lost in thought; then, bringing her eyes back to me and stepping up to me this time, “And how can I pretend the stains aren’t here when I’m the cause of them? I made the mess so it’s my duty to clean it up and I want to clean it up! I’ve been bad and need to make things right—I’m obligated to make things right, pure and simple! Let it never be said I don’t right my wrongs, I always right my wrongs! I’m not proud of being bad, but at least I know when I’ve been bad and believe in making full restitution! And there’s nothing middling about this mess, either! I told you not to minimize what I’ve done—I don’t need excuses being made for me, it’s the last thing I want! I’m thoroughly ashamed and mortified that I’ve caused this mess and am going to scrub it clean immediately, as you issue strict orders and supervise and make me do a good job! I won’t stop until it’s spotless, that’s my promise to you! I need to be brought to heel and punished! I need to be shown how to behave! Please show me how to behave, Justin!” she concludes, seizing my hands and squeezing hard.