by Bardo Antares
(10/20/10)

"She's a perfectly healthy three-year-old. Bright kid, too. Her physical exam is completely normal," announced Dr. Edison. He lowered his voice a notch and continued, "Well, except..."

An alarmed "Except what?" from my anxious mother.

"She's tongue-tied."

"Now lift your tongue up, young lady, as far as you can." As I did so, the doc used a tongue depressor to show my mother my frenulum linguae, the small piece of tissue that secures the tongue to the floor of the mouth. "It's a pretty severe case. I can snip the frenulum for you, if you'd like. An easy surgery. It's called a frenectomy."

My mother hesitated. "Will she be okay without the operation?"

"Probably, but she could develop a stammer or a slight speech impediment."

That evening my parents had a serious conversation over their pot roast. "Should we get her the surgery? The insurance won't cover it, but we could probably scrape together the money."

My quiet father thought it over. Finally, "Our little girl could talk the ears off a brass monkey. I think maybe the good Lord intended her tongue to be tied down securely so it wouldn't fly off."

I, of course, didn't actually hear this conversation. I was in the rec room watching Batman with my younger brother and recounting what I'd learned about bugs that day. At eight months of age, he was a receptive, indeed captive, audience.

As I proceeded through school, it became apparent that a frenectomy would not be necessary. I did not stammer; I enunciated clearly. I was only marginally aware of my handicap until my late teens when I realized I was a lesbian. Damn! I was already allergic to cats; how much more irony could one budding lesbian deal with?

Knowing my tongue could only go so far, metaphorically and literally, in its efforts to please a lover, I made it a point to hone other skills. Unlike those sad, demeaning ads in the back pages of men's magazines ("How to Drive Any Woman Wild with Pleasure"), I realized every woman was, indeed, unique.

I developed the sensitivity in my fingertips until I could discern grains of sugar from salt; strands of corn silk from satin thread; the underside of diefenbacchia leaves from those of laurel. I studied subtleties of fragrance until I knew Shalimar on Jennifer from Emeraude on Nadine. I learned to distinguish the slight intake of breath that meant anxiousness ("you want to do what to me?") from the diaphragmatic clench when a lover felt self-conscious about her belly. I learned and I learned, then I studied some more. Education had never been so enjoyable.

By my late 20's, I was an experienced, sensually attuned lover. My confidence grew. I didn't give my stubby frenulum linguae a second thought.

Then along came Marlena, and I grew tongue-tied once again.

I met her at a community dance. She carried her individuality like a train ticket punched for Wonderland. We chatted over drinks. There was something fluid in her movements. Her irises were the color of the eastern horizon on an autumn evening, when the blue is as deep and vivid as it can be without adding cobalt or Navy to describe it. And within that blue were chatoyant flecks of yellow. I've never seen eyes like that before or since.

I was definitely intrigued. But I'd been with a number of beautiful women; I knew how quickly external luster can dull. I sought something more substantive, someone I wouldn't discard as soon as another whiff of heaven came along.

Who knows what happened on our first date, dinner at Sheffield's? What was the magical ingredient? Certainly nothing on the menu. Was it the combination of gazing into those fascinating eyes as her lilting voice told me she had played her cello in Carnegie Hall? Who knows what exactly exerted the charge? Whatever it was, the parts of my brain responsible for pheromones, hormones, and neurotransmitters lit up like a primed pinball machine.

Instantly I became a 7th grader who wasn't smarter than a 5th grader.

I couldn't sit still. I made bad puns. I laughed at inappropriate times. I went to the restroom to masturbate. I came back and could only maintain my normal persona for about 20 seconds. Worst of all, I was tongue-tied. I would think of clever, relevant remarks to add to the conversation, but somehow the neural circuits responsible for getting them from mind to mouth were sodden with libido. I er'd and uh'd. I would listen to Marlena, following each word, when suddenly I'd realize she was asking my opinion about something she just said, and I had absolutely no recollection of the topic. My more primitive brain had carried me on a fantasy ride about kissing the back of her neck or the potential succulence of her nipples.

What was it about this woman?

Okay, her eyes were a Druidic wet dream. Her musical gifts permeated her being, lending song to her throat and grace to her hips. Whatever her unique attributes, they had an overwhelming effect on my frontal lobes. I felt certain she would soon tire of spending her evenings with someone who acted like a witless pubescent. I was fairly certain that if I could relieve the sexual tension, I'd be all right with her. In fact, we'd be quite fine together. It was time to do something to advance the situation.

For a second date, I suggested I bring a carpet picnic to her place, so she could play her cello for me. She liked that idea.

As I set out cloth napkins, wine glasses, and a loaf of French bread, she played her cello, accompanying a CD of Dvorak's Cello Concerto in B minor, Opus 104, as though she were adding a track. She sat with her legs parted to accept the phallic instrument. Her wrists and fingers embraced the vibrant wood as though soothing a wild animal.

I kept my internal 7th grader busy with the meal fixings. I didn't say a word; one inane comment could spoil everything.

Her living room reflected talent and individuality. A program from the night she played at Carnegie Hall and a newspaper clipping of a review of that performance hung on the wall, exquisitely framed. A tall vase of pampas grass highlighted one corner, the feathery texture contributing to her home's musical sense of flow. The décor was tasteful and eclectic. Seeing Marlena in her own environment, I was more drawn to her than ever. But I remained tongue-tied.

I thought the evening was progressing fairly well, thanks to a fine Pinot Noir when Marlena observed, "You're awfully quiet. Anything wrong?"

"Oh, no, no. I'm enjoying your music."

"I have other dimensions to me, too," she added coyly, daring me to draw her out.

"Tell me."

She thought for a moment. "Well, I'm fascinated by esoteric mystery practices."

"Oh, like the kabbalah?" I asked, trying to keep my end of the conversation short and sweet.

"I've studied that, yes. And like kechari," she answered. My blank stare must've prompted her to explain. "It's a yoga practice where you move your tongue above your soft palate and into your nasal cavity. While in an altered state from the yoga. It awakens the body's spiritual force."

The ancient parts of my brain responsible for her sexual dazzle were momentarily snuffed by the rational part of my head screaming, "You've got to be fuckin' kidding! I can barely lift my tongue from the floor of my mouth let alone send it on long journeys into nasal cavities!"

Of course, I didn't say that aloud, but discouragement must have shown on my face.

"What's wrong?" she asked gently.

"Oh, that sounds like an interesting practice, but I'm, uh, actually, uh, tongue-tied. My frenulum linguae is anchored too tight." I demonstrated, lifting my tongue as far as it would go.

She thought about that for a moment, brows knitting together slightly. Then without another word, she played three brief études for the cello for me -- my own private concert. At the end of the third, I walked behind her, bent over, and kissed the back of her neck.

She moved into my kisses. The cello bow slipped through her fingers, landing softly on her carpet. We both landed on the carpet soon after.

Her breasts were small and firm with large rose areolas. My short-leashed tongue explored every pore, every transport of flesh. I savored the slow, subtle squirms that told me her body was responding.

I lifted her loose skirt and pulled down her underwear. I picked up the cello bow and drew it ever so lightly over her outer lips. She moaned. I slid the bow downward over the middle of her mons for another few strokes and her lips parted. She was moist; I needed no further encouragement.

I nibbled and blew warm, steamy breath onto her while I slid thick fingers into pink nautilus chambers. I used my well attuned senses to tell me what her body craved at any given moment. When I knew the time was right, I employed a very special technique.

As she tensed toward orgasm, she panted, "What are you doing? I've never felt anything like that before!"

I smiled to myself and didn't miss a stroke.

"What? What? Oh my god! Oh, god!"

After she came, I snuggled her into my arms. I felt a whole lot less like a 7th grader and more like myself. I suppose she saw the grin on my face.

"OK, what exactly were you doing to me? I mean, I'm not inexperienced but I've never felt anything like that before...ever..."

"Well, when I learned about the tongue's frenulum linguae, I also learned there's a frenulum clitoridis. And what I did to yours, well, that's my secret. Hey, there has to be some compensation for being tongue-tied."

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