Summarily dismissed the two young women find themselves in the lobby and can think of nothing to say to each other.
“See ya,” say Kat.
“Bye,” responds Jen.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Pauline clears her mind of its clutter of thoughts. Her released intellect flies free and focuses on one word: share. As she pours her selected oils she pours her intent, infusing the preparations with her single-word mantra.
All afternoon she has pondered what mantra to bring to the oil. Various scenarios have played through her mind, some primal, some defensive, some selfish. She is not surprised that the word share has taken line honours in the process. Making out with Fish is delectable. It came as a surprise to realise that for nearly a decade she has only been intimate with women. I’ve always been open to men. She reassures herself by listing male friends — platonic pals, she grins, acknowledging she hasn’t considered anything else. Is it Sarai? The thought comes as an unexpected splash of cold water: she hasn’t been with a man since falling in love with Sarai! How foolish to love Sarai to the exclusion of others. Sarai is more emotionally available than anyone she has ever met … but there is distance. Part of Sarai is unknowable, an unbridgeable gap. Total love is seamless. Pauline realises she isn’t bitter; far from it, she appreciates every experience shared with Sarai. She silently gives thanks for the depth of their relationship and what it has nourished. The best sexual connections of her life have been with Fish.
Taking a basket of candles across the lawn to her folly, Pauline banishes all analysis. She places each token in its appointed place. The seed sharing grows from a word to a concept that fills every grey convolution … share … experience, share … surrender, share … pleasure, share … transformation, share … passion, share … earth and sky, share … flesh and spirit …
Fish arrives 15 minutes late. Pauline tells herself this is not rude, Fish is merely unfettered by mechanical clocks. This for the most part is true. Fish has never worn a watch, can’t stand the damn things, and they don’t like him either, none tried had stayed accurate. His clock is internal and serves him well. Pauline senses a hint of something else, something new in his persona … a note of discomfort — less than a note — an echo from over a hill and down a lane.
Though pleased to be at Pauline’s beautiful old house and in her beautiful old company Fish is wary. Pauline had texted preparing night of passion 2 introduce u 2 my way of sacred sex. The words sacred sex are not new to Fish. He explored Tantra years ago. There aren’t many things Fish hasn’t dabbled in. In his yoga days he harnessed and channelled his kundalini energy as an Indian yogi, without the inconvenience of travelling to India. Fish is a fellow who is up for anything, prepared to enjoy and be enjoyed. The niggle currently sitting as an ache in his right shoulder is control. Fish expects to drive the action, not in a dominant way, unless that is called for — he sees himself as a natural lover. His way is the best way. He takes pride in meeting his partner’s needs. What he doesn’t like is following someone else’s lead — it isn’t comfortable in the shearing shed, the mountain muster, in art class, and certainly not in the bedroom.
Fish shrugged off the meditative, introspective thing a life-time ago, but its foundations remain. He knows his need to be in control is a weakness, even believes he isn’t too old to revisit his position. He could be enthusiastic about the challenge of Pauline’s proposition but for one thing. Bigger than sexual philosophy, more powerful than sexual magic, is a primal fear. Can he sustain an erection if he isn’t calling the shots? Fish is invincible. Age will not weary him, especially at the going down of the sun. He will never need the crutch of Viagra. The only blip in his record was with a woman who had taken the lead. She did it with sexy intention, he knew that and it didn’t help. To be shit honest it has happened twice. Playing someone else’s game leaves Fish flaccid.
Such is his fear Fish considered not coming to Pauline’s tonight, even not seeing her again. Pauline is surprisingly exciting for an old girl, but Fish is not up for sexual embarrassment, he doesn’t need that shit. But there is no denying Pauline is not run-of-the-mill — she is different, good company, intelligent without throwing it around, and not in the least clingy. She doesn’t pretend she is in love. Nothing suggests she needs him. She sure doesn’t need financial support. Good God no. He reckons her house to be the most valuable piece of suburbia he has ever parked his shoes in. In addition to this commendable list there is the magic thing. Pauline is a practising witch, fun in itself but he senses more, something akin to magic in her eyes and words. Her very house embraces him in a metaphysical cradle.
If he is ever going to address this one sexual weakness, Pauline could be the woman to facilitate it. She doesn’t need to know. If it doesn’t work out he will go. What are a few minutes of embarrassment in the chaotic scheme of things? He can leave; leave her, her house, and her city. There is no chance of bumping into Pauline in Lawrence or Franz Joseph. He won’t return to Christchurch for years, maybe never — what does Christchurch have that he can’t get elsewhere? Should he crave city life Nelson is avant-garde these days, attracting US millionaires keen to have a holiday home in a quaint little city by the sea. And thus it is decided, he, Fish, will submit to whatever Pauline has in store and will do his damnedest to enjoy it.
Pauline has apprehensions of her own: conscience mostly. Sex shouldn’t be this good without it being love. If she had to find one word to express the Fish experience it would be playful. Fish knows how to play: his child is ever present, with the confidence that only age can render. Pauline has always taken care not to use the word love lightly. They are merely lovers. Fish is experienced in hearts and bodies, handles her like master potter, and she is willing clay. She changes the metaphor to dance — it is ballet, merging to ballroom, climaxing with the frenzy of Brazilian samba. She can let go with Fish — she ceases to be Wiccan, is not witch or priestess, not even Pauline Woods — she is Woman, and he is Man. They play and pleasure with a different energy to previous relationships. This one she wants to indulge further.
Pauline serves her pesto and parmesan oysters with salad. The meal is deliberately light. She leads her lover to the garden — at this time of year! Fish breathes relief as she walks past the ceremonial star. The thought of going down on a cold pentacle is unaccountably disconcerting. Her garden, he notes, is well planned, landscaped to delight, and functional to her needs, with nurture apparent at every pace. The crazy-paving ends at the riverside fence. Please, not the banks of the Avon, he appeals silently to an unnamed god.
He shouldn’t have entertained the thought; Pauline isn’t some crass teenager. She leads him across the lawn. Fish had presumed the hedge beyond the autumn trees marked the edge of her property but now he sees the hedge stops short of the riverside fence. The gap is narrow and yields the unexpected. The yew hedge is not a single hedgerow, it has a twin several metres further on. The two are connected by a distant third hedge, just visible behind a small building. The hedges conceal a strip where plants wander untamed beside a brick path. A secret garden — is there no end to this woman’s surprises? Scents of thyme, jasmine, lavender and rosemary hang in the evening air as the pair follow the yellow bricks to the building. “My folly,” gestures Pauline with pride.
It is, Fish supposes, what the English call a summerhouse, a little round building enclosed in glass. But it isn’t round, he realises, as he steps through French doors set flush along one angle. His eyes flick over the cushioned benches attached to its other four sides and linger on the space between. In the centre of the paved floor are sheepskin rugs topped with a white sheet and two folded hand-towels. The head of the love nest is defined by a glass-topped coffee table. A silver candlestick makes a focal point. He wonders if the pink candle is significant or random in choice. It is flanked by a bottle of wine and two glasses. Pauline motions to sit on a bench. She removes her shoes. Fish follows suit. A finger indicates he should stay seated. She stands, puts a match to th
e pink candle, and pours the red wine. They drink in silence. No chat, no toast, no comment. Interesting, thinks Fish, savouring the full-bodied after-taste. He allows himself to be intrigued by articles arranged with obvious deliberation. Interesting, he reiterates, and why?
One interesting and why applies to the shelf below the tabletop, where tiny bowls perch in wire stands. Pauline takes their empty glasses to the table and refills them. Before delivering the drinks she lights a stick of incense. If Pauline doesn’t want to speak he can handle that. He dislikes over-talkative women, especially in bed — if they ever get to bed! Pauline returns the empty glasses. This time she procrastinates with a taper. Igniting it from the pink candle she proceeds to fire the tea-lights that encircle the rugs, pausing to place the midget bowls over the first seven flames. Twenty-seven candles, he counts in silent disbelief — protection from the autumn air? When all but seven candles are glowing Pauline extends her hands, inviting Fish into her sanctum with the words, “Come, my lover.” Fish comes with a mustered swagger. Don’t be too cocky, son, he calms himself, be easy, easy does it.
Pauline strives to manage her tone to project care and confidence. It is important that Fish feel safe and comfortable — her responsibility. Fish has natural confidence but anyone can suffer uncertainty entering the unknown. Pauline’s aim is to be the Crone to channel what she knows and embodies. It had sounded good in day-dreamed rehearsals, now she is prey to self-doubt. She will not let it show.
“Stand with me, lover-boy.” Light talk to lighten the moment. “Come into my came.” Fish controls his irreverent lips to the merest twitch as she explains, with more haste than intended, came is an old Celtic mechanism. “The candles surround us creating a circle of safety.” She lights the remaining candles. The task frees her eyes from his.
When their eyes meet again both sets are composed. “I have blessed this came, it is full of sharing intention, I have evoked the gods to watch over us and protect us.” Pauline hopes she is conveying power and softness.
Fish endeavours to tune into the tone of her voice and finds it more potent than the words. She takes his hands, holding them in hers. “This came is our altar, our bed, and our protection.” She senses reluctance. “We have no need for defence.”
Fish is at a loss as to where this is leading but for the moment is willing to follow. “There is nothing human or otherwise that can touch us here.” The woman has set the rules, he will play her game. If her rituals must be entered before she is entered he will embrace her rituals. Her witch-hazel eyes glow with concentration. “Breathe deeply. Be at ease Fish.” He is. “Shed all thoughts and pre-conceived ideas. Exhale them as liberating dandelion seeds.” He catches the image and recalls childhood fantasy-time puffed from white dandelion clocks. “I have prepared this for us.” She feels his attention. She has prepared this for us, his mind echoes. She cares about us. His eyes circle the room absorbing the effort that has been taken, taken for him. Beyond the glass walls trees and shrubs drip shadows so inviting, he has a fleeting urge to capture them on canvas. But if anything is being captured it is himself, held immobile by the power of sights, smells, and textures. The sheepskin caress on his bare feet is pregnant with promise.
Suddenly there is tension in his cheeks, a smile … a carefree smile. What a treasure this woman is! He willingly submits to her undressing him. He is a strong, firm man, let her enjoy garment peeling. He is proud of the flesh beneath. For a moment his thoughts snap back to his fear. This is being driven by Pauline, she is the driver and conductor … and it feels … His groin convinces with a gentle flinch, that old familiar feeling: of course it is fine. Get a hold of yourself, old boy, he self-mocks. No no, he grins internally, let her get the hold. Pauline removes each garment with due attention to buttons, buckles and folding. Enjoy what the gods have brought you, you deserve it all. But, reminds faint but persistent Insecurity, you can’t sustain an erection without you pleasuring the woman. The problem had never presented with such clarity. His penis takes a dive. You don’t deserve affection. You, miserable soul that you are, are not worthy of unconditional love. Damn these feelings! He is a generous lover. You take what you want. The whole twisted game is about him proving and reproving his worth. Sex his defence, for 35 years! He is a contradiction, unexplainable to anyone. The thoughts rush in, in an unsettling instant. Pauline is talking, focus.
“I am not going to lead this, Fish.” What is she saying? “It’s not a waltz.” Why is she talking about who is leading? Can she read thoughts? She is a witch! “Look into my eyes, Fish. Do you trust me?”
He drags his eyes to hers. Give it that one chance you promised yourself.
The pause is too long. Pauline quakes inwardly but holds a steady gaze. His yes is barely audible but the following words have a ring of conviction. “I trust you, Pauline.” She steps out of her single garment and pulls him to a kneeling position. Their knees touch, warm on the wool-softened sheet. “We will share a special connection tonight — surrender yourself to the moment and magic will fill this came.” Fish blinks his acquiescence. “The gods will embrace us. I will help channel their blessing.” They are the last words uttered for over an hour.
The first candle-warmed oil drops soft into witching hands. Pauline sweeps the warmth from left palm to right fingers and caresses the man’s head. Concentric circles ripple from the first touch to lap in waves through his hair and lick the tops of his ears. He feels a pressure at the top of his head. She feels it too and believes an unseen beam of light is uniting their seventh chakras. She visualises the wheeling purple and hopes he feels the spiritual connection that is calming her.
Dipping into the second bowl Pauline spirals perfumed silk into the space between the man’s eyebrows. Their third eyes lock. Sixth chakra energy rises through Pauline’s fingertips and pulls with mystic magnetism. She is shocked by its force — it is all she can do to not crash her head into his. The beam curves from purple to indigo to a white spiral of all colours binding their embrace, head to head, brow to brow, chakra to chakra. Time stops as energy spins from heads to spines to limbs. When the spell ebbs she is reluctant to move but knows there is more, much more.
The third oil is for the neck and fifth chakra. She starts at his prominent Adam’s apple and wonders, Did knowledge lodge forever undigested in man’s throat? Thought is censored by Priority and Magic doesn’t miss a stroke. Invisible blue light relaxes his throat and shoulders. Her fingers circle upwards, spiralling from his cheeks to caress his lips. He closes his eyes and feels her fingers change partners.
It is a kiss of tender power, a kiss of knowing and sharing, a kiss of connection. The white light uniting their beings separates, whirling blue through mouths and throats, emerging from heads as unseen haloes.
Oil from the fourth bowl trickles from eager palms to muscled chest and energises the fourth chakra. The pull rises from beating hearts. It is not so much drawing together as expanding into each other, a pushing outward — souls transcending confines of bodies. Two hearts beat to a single rhythm, power flows from them to the green garden and the city, pink with love.
As the energy ebbs Pauline scoops from the fifth bowl and directs attention to the solar plexus and third chakra. Now supremely confident in her abilities she perceives the yellow wheeling light. She anoints his second chakra just below the bellybutton. Both are engulfed by an almost unbearable surge of orange passion. The man groans. The woman glides to the coiled serpent of the base chakra. Red is its colour, red for danger, red for blood, red for life. In the traditional Vedic view of chakra meridians sexual energy is accessed through the second chakra but as Pauline’s hands bring oil to his groin sex is all there is. The raw call of bodies ready beyond ready cannot be halted. Soft hands slide oil over the taut skin of his sex. Her own oils surpass candle heat. Sweat pours and secretions flow generated from inner fire. She claws through the coarse hair to his ramrod penis. The man and the woman clamp in the final chakra connection.
The candle light
blurs to a solid gold circle. Beyond the gold circle and glass pentagon the spirits of the trees unite a symphony. Through closed eyes Pauline sees a halo blessing trees whose limbs reach to embrace them.
~ ~ ~ | ~ ~ ~
Wilkin comes from shower to bed. Jen presents the smile that she has been mentally preparing since he entered the bathroom. Refusing to name the discomfort she feels does not dispel the unease. It has become a chore. It is day five of their six days of sex. And that is all she is getting. Their love life has become pregnancy-centred. For optimum possibility of pregnancy they need to do it every night for six nights. At other times he isn’t interested at all. It is an impossible situation. It must be difficult for him too, maybe more difficult than she has allowed for. She has decided to make an effort.
He pauses. She can’t read his expression but stays with her plan, lowering the duvet sufficient for him to glimpse red satin. She slowly reveals an elegant leg. The new nightie is short, very short. The leg is topped with a ruffled garter. His eyes show something she prays isn’t disgust. His actions follow the pattern of recent weeks.
She takes him in her mouth and begins the ritual. In this new ghastly context the oral performance has become a preferred task. It is an uncomplicated way of getting him hard enough to do the job. These days Jen keeps him in her mouth as long as possible, wanting him on the edge of ejaculation. What she dreads most is looking into his eyes. When he mounts for the act their hips are perfectly aligned and so are their faces. Now she can’t look him in the eye during love-making and hates him for it. She hates herself more. It is terrible to fear the eyes of your beloved.
League of Lilith, The: A thriller with soul Page 23