Parameter-probing Eli Fang harolds a maudern day forbidden romance

Literati For reasons unknown our current contest seems to be testing the parameters of sexual relationships. I myself love testing parameters but only after they have been heated to three hundred and fifty degrees and allowed to cool in the oven. We started with a Shakespeare re-do with an audacious underage girl (14? outrageous!) who …

Literati

For reasons unknown our current contest seems to be testing the parameters of sexual relationships. I myself love testing parameters but only after they have been heated to three hundred and fifty degrees and allowed to cool in the oven. We started with a Shakespeare re-do with an audacious underage girl (14? outrageous!) who loved a boy to death, and sauntered on the beach hand in gland with Elizabeth Taylor and Eva Marie Saint and most recently posted a story of a strong leading male (meaning he was bi-ceptual?) leading males and females alike.

And now Eli Fang, who won our last contest held in June is feeling lucky. Eli, our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.  Uu-uu-ooo. (by the way, Eli? Did you ever pick up your trophy from the Trophy Shop in Oceanside? I left for Moscow before it was ready for you.)

Consent

By Eli Fang

A mist has formed on the windows of the car providing temporary refuge against the hostile, gray sandpaper skies and back-ache drizzle.

We check items:

–          airline tickets

–          passports

–          cash

–          my mother’s broach

–          his walkman

The isolation within the car blossoms the intimacy between us once again.  This same intimacy swaddled us the first time, when something (something a whole magnitude more powerful than the motive for obedience to written laws) simply consented.  You hear of inhibitions being lifted, but this was the opposite, more like a weighty but reassuring hand on each of our shoulders.

I have no regrets.  If I had not followed this path my life would merely be a vestige of a life, a frost-bitten bud robbed of the flower.  It’s hard to explain to anyone who has not themselves pierced the confining canopy of social morals and experienced what I can only describe as the light of primal morality.

That first time, when I placed his hand under my skirt on the inside of my thigh and he trembled through me, with me, my prince, my young king, this moment alone amounts to more light through the canopy than most will experience in their lifetimes. The closest expression I can offer is that briefly we experienced true joy and wallowed boneless in the color yellow together.

When we are together like this (most often in my bedroom – our sanctuary) there is no outside world of prescribed laws of when people can enter love; all of that is absurd.  All of that gets lost in the pinches and giggles amongst loosely furled sheets when he holds me down with the strength of his smooth shoulders and hard slender legs, and I see within him the youthful thrill of access to woman.

Sometimes when we are in bed together I become acutely aware of the contrast between my adult smell – it reminds me of fecund loamy soil, not unpleasant, but serious – and the palette of milk and vinegar of his youthful odor, somewhat whimsical and bitter-sweetly ephemeral.

The second time we were together I came, tightening and thrusting into him reflexively, and he finally knew the strength.  We lay afterwards in silence drugged by the passing of knowledge.  He reached across and tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear; a gesture I’m sure he had seen on TV and thought the right thing to do.  But I loved him all the more for this than if he had originated the move.  It was such simple innocence that I wept. Upon seeing my tears he fumblingly tried to take my face to his chest for comfort.  I pushed him away, laughing ludicrously, wiping away the tears.  This was more than he could deal with.  He swung his legs out of the bed and sat with his back to me, his hands in his hair, the top sheet toga-like around his waist.

“I just don’t know what you want,” he said.

“Just you, sailor!” I laughed, and leaped up pulling him back on top of me like a wrestler.  And so, once again the dance began.  Meanwhile, in the streets outside people went about their ridiculous lives: car doors slammed, distant sirens wailed, children shrieked, dogs barked, but despite the grandstanding din, only we were truly alive at that moment.

I’ve tried to apply a title to our attraction:

–          Love Spanning Generations

–          Forbidden Sex

–          No Boundaries

–          Cruel Destiny

All of these have merit, but not rape, that which is the taking of pride.  How ironic that it is I, the rapist-teacher, who walked beneath clouds of shame through the school grounds turning about-face quickly when I glimpsed him amongst a circle of boys furtively passing a cigarette, wondering if he was talking about “pussy” and “getting some” to the others.  And yet a part of me does not want to deny him these things.  I don’t want to steal any boyhood heritage from him, but he is my young king.  It’s ridiculous I know, but I feel certain no one else can see the seed, the true beauty of him.

Then there is the child behind us in the backseat.  The child I bore into this world, his child – a child from a child, I admit almost with a smile – fey humor perhaps?  At times I think, of all the things that I have done, this may be the true wrong, to start another heartbeat and bring another soul like an apparition under the hammer of life.  In a way isn’t our entry into the world the beginning of a type of extended, low-amplitude rape: the slow erosion of innocence and pride against the grit of life?

My thoughts are interrupted: through the misted rear window, flashing red and blue lights penetrate the interior of the car – the flickering lick of a dragon’s tongue comes to mind.  A premonition that has haunted my thoughts previously rises like a phantom: Across a belt of time Spanish priests smile lewdly to one another through greasy lips as hasps clamp iron into tender flesh – a reckoning is nigh and it pleases them mightily.

“Start the car!” he pleads. “We can get away.  We could make it.  There’s time.  I swear it’s not too late!”

A bolt of anger passes through me.  It’s times like these, some of the words he says, some of the things he does, that brings home the realization that our relationship is a decidedly lopsided structure.  At these moments I realize it may be a long wait for this prince of mine to mature into a king. However, I will endure.

I open the door of the car, step out and face the police officers who walk towards us.  I realize I have no coat on only when I notice their shoulders are hunched to clasp their black coat collars against their necks to seal against the insipid rain.

10 comments

  1. Parisianne Modert says:

    As much as I disliked you finalist story last time Eli, I must say I was impressed by this time. Your vocabulary is rich, the forbidden nature is enticing to read and the spun imagery of human emotions is lyrically stiking, provocative and quality poetry embedded within verse. The theme of obvillion this time fits the writing task offered. My favorite words were, “a frost- bitten bud robbed of the flower.” So far, in my opinion this is the best written story in terms of being lyrically appealling within this contest. Is your story the best story overall by cohesiveness, ability to be related to and logical in construct? Probably not, because there are many fine stories here. Is it uplifting to read? Not in the slightest, but it does capture a richness which deserves great consideration for the finals.

    • Parisianne Modert says:

      Your story seemed to me a much more personal version of Gregg Olsen’s, “I Loving You is Wrong” which recounts the story of one Mary Kay Letourneau who had her young boy/man’s baby. I realize her story and this story are not one in the same, but there are patterns which are similar. I like that your story centers around the woman’s point of view which gives us a well stated version of her mindset and compulsion to love in this manner. Ms. Letourneau lost her teaching position over the “statutory rape” of one Vili Fualaau who married her in 2005. I always had a soft spot in my heart for them, because they clearly loved each other and he was much beyond his years and she was enormously immature for hers. Your characters are very compelling Eli and he subject whole still taboo has never received the full compassion of the legal system. Her one arrest in a parking lot with Villi in the back seat reminded me also of your story. Mary Kay and Villi were married on May 20th of 2005. I wish them continued success in their marriage and I wish you well in this contest. Your story expresses the compassion and understanding that the legal system refused to consider in sentencing her to seven and a half years in Washington State prison.

  2. Eli Fang says:

    Thanks for the review and comments. You’re right Parisianne, my piece was inspired by the the M. K Letourneau story. It’s an interesting story I’ve always thought. I’ll have to look up the Greg Olsen piece.

    • Parisianne Modert says:

      Mr. Olsen’s book is published under the “True Crime” section and is fascinating as well as the real life characters within it that he studied and interviewed. Now, in the spirit of getting the interview, tell us more about yourself Eli. Your readers, who are now many, would like to know.

  3. This story creeped me out because of the subject matter, but your writing is smoothie smooth. You describe so well the perspective of a love that I don’t believe I shall ever understand. My mother was a teacher aide to the Oceanside teacher who was arrested last year for this same situation. She too has a child by the boy. But my mother’s theorized perspective of how the arrest came about is amusing, and so the way that you described how the woman feels when the cops show up. It makes a great end for this story on many levels.

  4. KYLE Katz says:

    Eli, you went so deep without apology, with a subject of love, and a desire of lost judgement or evaluation, that I understood, That had to be the ultimate freedom of expression .The characters sense of abandonment of society not letting them love, pushing them undercover with the label of rape, had to be debilitating to their spirits that have no age. But the reality that chokes you with the rules and regulations of such ill behavior…disgraceful behavior…what could survive in that acid pit of contrast? Right or wrong. What happens to a love that deep that you are willing to walk in the rain and surrender your stripped reputations to law and order? You are a very brave and astute thinker. it’s not simple! Or is it?

    • Eli Fang says:

      Thanks Kyle for the in depth reveiw and letting yourself get absorbed into the story. You touched on a lot of things I hadn’t thought of myself . . . that’s one of the rewarding things about writing, letting your characters loose and then get to see the other facets of them that are seen by other readers.

  5. Stars Fall On My Heart
    Stars Fall On My Heart says:

    If someone had just told me that this story was about an older woman in love with a younger boy, I would have written (ha!) it off. But reading the story stripped my judgment away. As it is with great literature <3

  6. Diane Cresswell says:

    This is certainly an interesting piece to read Eli. In fact it is so compelling in the emotional telling of thoughts that the aspect of age steps aside. It is not until I finished it that the aspect of sexual liaison with an underage partner came into place. Its easy to judge people who are involved in this and of course the social mores and laws that abound in this judgment until one realizes that yes there are perverted thoughts that people have in this situation but then there are those who have souls that know no boundaries of age differences. Unusual and extraordinary.

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