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.)
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
– 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.