Trial By Fire
by Gwydion McCarthy
(7/18/01)
"Do you want to see me naked?" She asked.
It was in the middle of the chicken salad, after I had told her the story of my trip from New Jersey to South Carolina in a car that cost me $100. A non sequitur, I believe they're called. It was okay, I don’t follow, either. I wanted to say, "Does a witch come like a rocket?" which is my favorite reply to such questions.
"Here? I don’t think we’ll need to cause a diversion, I was planning on just jumping the guardrail and running."
"I didn’t think you had the cash to pay the check."
"You never did give me enough credit."
"Do. You. Want. To See. Me Naked?" She said, quietly, but firmly.
Yes. More than anything. One year without you, one whole year without ever seeing your face except in my shower-nozzle masturbation fantasies, time now beginning to draw a fuzzy spot like those censored anime porn videos you used to keep around. Your face, your breasts, with nipples like roses stolen from the church garden. Your hair on your skin like fire eating snow. What was I doing, eating lunch with you, when I should be making love to you in the motel across the street. When my hands should’ve already parted that silky blouse to the sound of buttons falling on the tile like rain.
Except time and life would not let me, held me fast, as sure as the silk rope I know you keep in your overnight bag once held you. Was this the test of my monogamy I was wondering about?
"Is this a trick question?" I grinned.
She laughed at me. "No, it’s not. I just thought you might, is all."
"One thing is true of life, I always say, and that’s never get your past tense mixed up with your present."
I always bring up writing with you. It’s what we share. Will it make it softer to hear?
"I think you’re the one who’s tense. I just asked a simple question."
"Something along the lines of, ‘Would you like a nuclear weapon?’ asked in the same voice as ‘Would you like some grey poupon?’"
"Well, would you?" She grinned, enjoying the banter. Her mind, quick at work.
"No thanks, mustard gives me gas."
"How First World War of you. No. That’s not the question I’m trying to get you to answer. But forget it."
"Yes." I said almost at the same time. Would my honey understand? Just because you bought groceries, doesn’t mean you can’t glance at the menu? Okay, maybe glance was okay, but ogle?
"I said, forget it."
"I said, yes. Yes. Oui."
"I’m sure you would. Forget it." Annoyance, but still teasing there from you.
There was this silence, which is normal for us. Silences are how you test me, have always been. Even when you used to make me wait for the answer to my questions.
"I actually wondered if you’d ever gotten around to posing for that Web site. Is that what you meant?"
More silence. This is the silence you first gave me. When I first unwrapped you, the first time, that quiet waiting silence to see if I would be disgusted, for this is what the world had trained you to be. Silent. Passive. Waiting. You waited to see if I would turn and run or stay and play.
I stayed. I had to take up d/s to get you to leave the lights on. I had to make you come with my mouth to get you to lay still long enough for me to look deeply at you. I savored every rich fullness, every soft curve, these lines pointed a roadmap to heaven for me. I wanted to throw my life away and run to Paris and sell my soul for an artist’s eye and paint my memories of you. I loved the soft, feminine things you wore for me, the skirts, the sundresses, the black, seamed stockings. A handful of Polaroids you wouldn’t let me keep didn’t do justice to your beauty, even though the semen stains on them did speak of my desire for you.
After a year and a day, my believability license had run out -- you no longer heard me when I told you that you were sexy. You challenged me to stay. I stayed. I stayed for eighteen whole months, as long as I could, until life had other ideas.
My cellphone bleated, and I cursed. I picked up the phone and answered it, and it was my honey.
"Bathroom," she whispered, and put something on the table, walking off past me. I designed dinner on the cellphone, mediated disputes, and administered congratulations. Late lunches were like this. I tugged at the tablecloth and brought over what you’d put down. It was a card, with a single URL on it.
The maitre d’ told me that the bill was settled already, and the beautiful lady had left.
I hope she knows that’s who she was.
©2001 by Gwydion McCarthy
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Photography by Mikkel Urup. More of his work can be seen on his Web Site.
Gwydion McCarthy is a worshipper of roundy women who lives in the steamy South of the USA. No matter what anybody says, today is not his birthday. Really.
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