Desperate For a Way Out

Image by Ulrich B. from Pixabay

My initial resistance must have caught him off guard.

To convince me to sacrifice my heart, the Sorcerer promised to cast a spell that would endure the test of time. I would grow more beautiful as the years passed.

At the time, I thought that a frivolous temptation. Youth never considers the brutal reality of old age, and vanity is not an indulgence available to the ugly.

I only gave in because the Sorcerer wouldn’t.

Now, I am grateful and relieved I took all he offered.

The winter, and sometimes the autumn, of life has often been described a woman’s hell.

That is usually the outcome for the women of my sisterhood, especially those who don’t leave the life to marry well.

Perhaps that humiliation may be mine when I am close to death, but thankfully, I have not suffered any loss of status or income, even though I am in my sixtieth year.

Again, I get ahead of myself.

To go back to that moment when I was offered the chance to change the dreariness of my fate, it may surprise you to know, my dear Shepherd, that I took a few days to think about it. To be made over into the image of beauty and grace was a dream I never had the audacity to imagine for myself.

Yet I couldn’t fathom how this could actually come to be.

First, how could I possibly lure the Patron’s Daughter to the Sorcerer of the Caverns? We absolutely loathed each other.

Second, how could the odious Sorcerer possibly seduce such a vain and arrogant creature as the Patron’s Daughter, given how ugly and ancient that he was?

“You need not concern yourself with that,” the Sorcerer actually laughed when I asked him. “I, too, have my methods of transformation.”

Since we are here now, we both know I accepted.

Really, how could I simply resist the reward?

I would never be ugly again.

I need not have worried about finding the possibility to influence her.

I started running into the Patron’s Daughter on my solitary walks through the Ancient Grove not long after meeting the Sorcerer.

The first time I ran into her, she was in tears.

She glared at me, of course.

But I was too stunned by the spectacle of her showing any sign of pain to take offense.

Apparently, the rejection of the Noble Son made her had gotten to her, and that made her vulnerable. That had never happened to her.

At first, I wondered if she now understood how her suitors felt in how she treated them.

But I would later find out that she didn’t give that any thought.

The abandonment left her dejected, but it also made her petulant.

Again, I get ahead of myself.

After that first unpleasant meeting, I ignored her and kept going on my way.

The next day, the Patron’s Daughter rode past us working in the fields, her demeanor as haughty as ever. But on this afternoon, she looked me in the eye and gave a slight nod as she passed.

That she had never done before.

The forbidden Ancient Grove must have been a favorite place for tearful girls suffering romantic disappointment.

Every time I went for a walk amongst the massive trees, the Patron’s Daughter was also there.

I wondered if the Sorcerer cast some kind of spell to make these frequent meetings happen.

It hardly mattered if he did.

After a couple of weeks of running into each other every time I went for my evening walk, the Patron’s Daughter finally spoke to me.

It was the first time I had ever heard her sound somewhere near pleasant.

“Do you come here every day?” she asked. “I imagine you would be too exhausted.”

“I do and I am exhausted,” I snapped before I could stop myself.

To my surprise, she almost apologized.

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean any offense.”

I accepted her self-correction with a nod and a thank you.

After that, we started to chat lightly whenever we ran into each other.

That was rather awful for me.

From what I’ve already told you about my former life as Addie, darling Shepherd, would it surprise you to know I was not particularly liked?

Anger, resentment, and envy were the strongest traits of my personality.

Who loves the bitter?

I was consumed with bitterness long before I turned eighteen.

Looking back, I don’t like who I was at that time.

Now, it shames me to admit I was every bit as petulant as the Patron’s Daughter, and that was without being spoiled. I thought myself above my company, the other peasants who worked as hard as I did under miserable conditions.

Yet I was the one who complained incessantly.

It was impossible to be held in esteem or respect with such a ridiculous attitude. Even my parents thought me a fool. For an indentured peasant born to a life of servitude to want more than I could ever have, instead of making do with the life that was offered me, seemed to everybody a state of lunacy.

And looking back, they were right. It really was.

But one thing I had never been was a hypocrite.

The reason the people around me knew of my envy, bitterness, and angry desire for more was because I let it show.

So to act in such a way to encourage the trust of the one girl I had hated and envied my entire life to get what I wanted made me feel vile.

To make my point, the only baths I knew during those years were the ones I could muster at the edge of the river, scrubbing myself with the scraps of meager soap that were left after doing the wash.

Most of the time, my personal stench made me nauseous.

Yet my pretense of friendship with a girl I couldn’t stand made me feel so much dirtier in a way that a lifelong deprivation of baths never could.

But I had a choice. Between the promise of beauty and the freedom of an unknown future, and a meager integrity that would keep me in a life of misery, what would you have chosen? Really?

I chose beauty and freedom.

I was truly desperate.

Please remember that, Shepherd, in case you feel tempted to judge me as my story unfolds.

Dangerous to Don the Essence of Another Man

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Then the day came when the Trainer lost his shirt. 

It was the hottest afternoon of the summer, the light wind making the heat worse. 

As the pair raced their mounts, the scorching air made a second skin of their clothes. 

Rough with nubs and irritating to the flesh, the Trainer scratched and pulled at the blouse glued to his trunk. He tore off the offensive garment and tucked it under the saddle flap, chuckling as the girl blushed and averted her eyes.

“I’ll race you again to the other side!” he shouted. “And this time I’ll win!” 

The Trainer kicked the flanks of the colt before she could react and emerged the victor as promised. 

But he didn’t notice the smock coming free from the saddle and floating along the breeze before sinking into the long grass. 

An hour later he noticed its absence, but by then they were in a rush to get back to the manor. The Trainer donned a spare he kept in his rucksack and left behind a shirt drenched in his sweat. 

The Sorcerer couldn’t believe his fortune. 

He waited until nightfall before venturing beyond his domain to get the precious garment. 

The Sorcerer had been tempted to boil it down many times over the years, but he resisted until he could finally claim the girl. 

The result might have been a catastrophe. 

He had never witnessed anything other than brotherly affection in the Trainer. 

If that were the true measure of his sentiment, the Sorcerer would feel no desire when he took on that essence.  

But his concerns were needless. 

When he stepped out of the mist to meet the girl grown into a woman, he saw her through the Trainer’s eyes. Through the Trainer’s flesh he responded, yet also through his heart. 

When the girl burst into tears, the Sorcerer marveled how natural it was to be tender with her.     

So the Trainer did have such feelings for the girl, even when she was young.

His original intention had been to mold her into the perfect concubine, but the Sorcerer was surprised at the pleasure he took in mentoring her. 

She had a most intense focus; she was intelligent with a gift for asking the right questions. 

The Sorcerer could not resist such a pupil. 

As the months passed, he gave her far more knowledge than he meant to, going beyond the ancient texts on carnal arts. 

In the past few days, he struggled to find new lessons and realized he’d taught her everything he knew.  

But he couldn’t regret that decision. 

Once the years of civilized denial shed from her, unveiled was an animal magnetism unusual for women. 

Her features were as savage as ever, but the ugliness now suited the girl and made her presence devastating. When she strode into his Caverns, it was with the strut of an outlaw.

The Sorcerer was overwhelmed with pride for his creation. 

She was a masterpiece.

Then there was their coupling. 

He had never experienced anything quite like her. 

From the first night, she plunged into the realm of fantasy with breathtaking abandon. 

And the pleasure that was already exquisite became indescribable when the girl showed initiative and nurtured her unique expression in the subtleties of physical love. 

This was the only time a seduction borne from illusion became passion that pulsed with life of its own. 

The Sorcerer cherished this chance to forget who and what he was, succumbing to the allure of being a man taking possession of his woman, only to want her more after his craving was satisfied. 

No conquest ever had this effect on him. 

It was dangerous to don the essence of another man. 

The morning the Sorcerer saw how little was left of the ruby liquid, a melancholy stupor weighed on his limbs as he slid that vial back in the rack and chose a deep green. 

He would never feel that way again once the Trainer was used up. 

Yet the Sorcerer prepared his lesson with the object of introducing another lover, hoping he hadn’t waited too long. 

Then his protégée was late.

By the time he heard the near silent footfall on the stairs, he was convinced she wasn’t coming. 

There was no relief to his unease when he saw her. 

The girl was different tonight. 

She was almost beautiful with her cheeks flushed and her eyes glimmering. 

And the Sorcerer sensed a current running through her so strong the air around the girl was palpating. 

She was excited about something. 

But the cause of her excitement had nothing to do with him or the Trainer’s essence.

The First and Most Dangerous Gamble

Image by S. Hermann & F. Richter from Pixabay

“Now that I’ve shared with you a little something from my life,” Adrianna murmured, “I’d like it if you let me see your drawings. I’m very flattered you took such an interest.”

The Shepherd looked down, startled by the strange shapes he saw.

Adrianna was there, but not recognizable in the flurry of shapes in motion on the paper.

“Ok,” he said. “But I’m not sure you’ll like it. I can probably have a better one for you later after having some time to focus.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Adrianna replied.

Glancing to his cache of drawings, she grinned wickedly.

“By the way, I would like to see all your drawings, not just the one of me.”

The Shepherd said nothing, but scowled.

The Courtesan threw her head back and laughed when she saw his expression.

Again, the slightly masculine mannerism disconcerted the Shepherd. The familiarity of it unnerved him, as much as how unexpected it was every time she did it.

“In case you’ve forgotten, my dear Shepherd, we made an agreement to trade stories. Perhaps your drawings would be a good start to open you up.”

“You do this every night?” the Shepherd asked in an attempt to veer the conversation.

Adrianna nodded, and finished off her water.

Without warning, she took his pad with his latest sketch and spent a few moments peering at it

“This is really quite good,” she declared. “Are you sure you wish to keep drawing only as a hobby?”

The Shepherd remembered how much the Butler boasted of his mistress as a benevolent and influential patroness of the arts, and was alarmed.

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Adrianna laughed again.

“Sweet, shy Shepherd. As you wish. Please let me know if you change your mind.”

A maid appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a long fur coat draped over her arm.

The Shepherd did not hear the girl enter.

“Ah yes,” Adrianna said. “It is the cocktail hour. I don’t feel a pressing need to change for supper. Do you?”

Without waiting for an answer, the young maid stepped forward to help her mistress into her coat.

Then the Courtesan looked at the Shepherd expectantly, slowly raising her brows when he didn’t move.

The Shepherd flushed when he realized she expected him to offer his arm.

 Adrianna smiled and linked her arm through his once he did.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “I think dinner promises to be quite lovely. And of course, I will entertain you with another of my stories.”

“I look forward to it,” the Shepherd said, suddenly remembering the details of the intrigue from the night before and eager to learn more.

*****

You are very fortunate, dear Shepherd.

I’ve shared this story when occasion called for it over the years, which gave me the perspective and ability to articulate all that I witnessed and felt.

At the time though, I couldn’t because I lacked the insight to understand the madness that happened. So you get to hear my perspective seasoned with the wisdom of experience.

My world blew apart and wide open during those next few months. I gained much wisdom that would serve me well.

But the most unexpected and shocking lesson was the insidious power of hatred, and the ties created from it. The blind loathing and envy I cultivated for the Patron’s Daughter had bound my soul with hers, and therefore my destiny.

I had no idea that’s what I had been doing to myself. If I had known, perhaps I would have found another release for those violent emotions.

Then again, perhaps I wouldn’t have been able to.

The Sorcerer of the Caverns must have understood this because he certainly used that to his advantage.

He was the must cunning monster I have ever known.

I had no idea how to get him what he wanted.

If you know anything about the Sorcerer, you must know he would never have wanted to seduce an ugly peasant girl named Addie.

Of course, it was the Patron’s Daughter he wanted.

Beautiful and vicious, she presented an unusual challenge for the Sorcerer.

He had always ensnared his conquests through desires that were out of reach.

The Patron’s Daughter had been indulged and pampered all of her life. Never wanting for anything, she had no yearning.

Since the Sorcerer had no way to tempt her, she would never give up her heart to satisfy a forbidden longing.

So I would have to give up mine. But only if I was able to deliver the Patron’s Daughter to the Sorcerer.

You look confused, darling Shepherd. I get ahead of myself.

Our plan was both complicated and dangerous.

 I was to lure the Patron’s Daughter to the Sorcerer, so he could seduce her. After he claimed her maidenhead, he would transform me into the likeness of the Patron’s Daughter.

Except for my eyes, as I said yesterday.

But my heart would be the payment instead.

Although I was never one for sentiment, I resisted.

I didn’t understand why taking my heart was necessary since the Patron’s Daughter was the one marked by the Sorcerer, and I was risking death if anything went awry.

It was an argument I lost.

His premise was that I had the most to gain. Also, since I had been ruminating on death as a choice when we met, I had nothing to lose.

Much later, I learned that although the Sorcerer obviously savored the power that comes with a successful conquest, it was not seduction that kept him alive as centuries passed.

Feeding on the hearts of girls and young women - all of them virginal until he seduced them - was how the Sorcerer gained immortality.

Since the Patron’s Daughter could only be lured to the Sorcerer through deceit rather than her own choice, it was impossible for him to claim her heart even after he took her.

Since the Sorcerer could never have the heart of the Patron’s Daughter, he had to take mine in her place.

And I was definitely a virgin.

Oh the despair that would have followed if we had been caught!

I would have been publicly hanged, and my parents would have known nothing but disgrace for the rest of their miserable lives!

Don’t think I didn’t consider that as I made my deal with the Devil.

My Sweet Home Away From Home - On the Road #32, Part 2

Image by Willgard Krause from Pixabay

It is absolutely excruciating to read this particular letter of my DIY booktour/roadtrip in January 2006. I had just come to Santa Cruz due to Lili, the Rock Lady, who I had met on the ferry. I ended up staying in Santa Cruz for 6 months, and it was one helluva ride.

This is one instance where I let my romantic side interfere with my common sense and my intuition.

Before making a decision on where to live, I stayed a night in the main house where Janna and Fred lived. I woke up in the middle of the night with this oppressive feeling of some dark and heavy bearing down on me. I could hardly breathe and it scared the shit out of me.

That was all I needed to know. But I moved in anyway…

Big mistake. Huge. I did end up in a good place, but it was a crazy ride to get there.

Hey y’all,

Next I’d like to introduce Fred, Janna’s husband and father of Austin, the third and youngest son – chef by day and fire-dancer by night. He lives in San Francisco. 

"Fred is one of the most detached people I've ever seen - one of those people that has a strong relationship with himself and doesn't need anybody," Janna explained. "I think Austin takes after him that way."

Fred is the left brain in a coop of right brained artists – the voice of reason in the nuthouse. 

The first day I met him, he kept busy doing chores and I’ve hardly seen him since. Probably not the most desirable position to be in, but somebody’s gotta do it. 

“Fred works two jobs,” said Janna. “He’s hardly around.”

Laurie, who answered the post around the same time I did, will be moving in later in February. 

She’s moving to Santa Cruz from the east coast to be near her yoga guru. A former professional dancer, she stayed to dinner and was won over by the magic of the place.

And last but not least…Janna, the lady of the house and what else can I say? 

Janna is an artist, writer, homemaker, improvisor, survivor, and one of life’s miracles. 

I’d been hanging out with her all day when she mentioned her lawsuit for having been fired from her last job for being disabled.

Huh?

“I’m a cancer survivor,” she said, pressing her left shoulder and arm to accentuate the total lack of substance of her prosthesis. “And an amputee.”

I had no idea. 

She had had cancer when she was twenty-nine and had her left arm up to her shoulder amputated. This woman does more with one arm than several people do with both. 

I once saw a picture of her taken right before she found out she had cancer; it hangs in the stairwell going upstairs. 

It was taken when she had gone back to college and was an artist/model to make some money. 

In the photograph, she’s dressed in loose flowing, creamy clothes, sitting sideways from the camera, with her feet tucked under her and her folded legs laying at a diagonal. 

The profile of her soft, Swedish features camouflaged by a cascade of pale blonde hair flowing down her back and along the sides of her face. 

It is her arms that are the focus of the picture, however. 

They are stretched out, resting on her crooked knees, with the left arm overlapping the right, her hands clasped loosely, her fingers casually interlaced. 

She already had two young sons and a divorce behind her, but you cannot see that in the comely young woman posing for a photography class. 

The effect is eerie - those slender arms look vulnerable and the beautiful girl in the picture has no idea how much her life is about to change. 

She’s fifty-seven now.

She married Fred and had her third son by her mid thirties. All her sons are grown, and she suffers from empty nest syndrome.

“I lived in a commune years ago,” she said. “Finances are not the only reason I have boarders. I like living with other people.”

The night I met them, they asked me to dinner, and I stayed the night. 

The next morning, I thought as much as I liked the place, it would be better to live at the other one…and then Fred got up and puttered around, making his breakfast on the antique gas stove, and making me a cappuccino. 

I couldn’t not live here. (Huge mistake!)

Meg, from the other place, made it clear she and Cristopher were very disappointed. She was a sport about it, though. 

We’ve talked several times, and I know I made the right choice. (Ha!)

When Meg started dating a guy her age, Frank, her alcoholic landlord weed-whacked her garden in a jealous rage. 

Within a week, he had to be taken to the hospital.

Not because of Meg, but because decades of bitter self-abuse finally caught up with him. His pancreas had exploded. 

Christopher, the other roommate, took Frank to the hospital one day when he was complaining about a pain in his stomach. 

When Meg went to see him, the first thing Frank does is shout at her: 

“I can’t believe you slept with that guy!”

The nurses were looking at her funny, like she, at thirty-eight, was this guy’s lover. 

Meg was mortified, but being a good woman with a kind heart, she stayed and was holding Frank's hand when he passed on.

I found out as soon as I got back from my godfather's funeral.

"Wow," was all I could say. 

Appraisers and greedy relatives have been swarming the place ever since, and Meg and Christopher are wondering how long it will be until they get their walking papers.

How’s that for bizarre? Not to mention tragic. 

I’m in a good space. Can you believe I found it on Craigslist?

Same place where Meg found her new boyfriend.

Peace,

Montgomery

My Sweet Home Away From Home - On the Road # 32, Part 1

It is absolutely excruciating to read this particular letter of my DIY booktour/roadtrip in January 2006. I had just come to Santa Cruz due to Lili, the Rock Lady, who I had met on the ferry. I ended up staying in Santa Cruz for 6 months, and it was one helluva ride.

This is one instance where I let my romantic side interfere with my common sense and my intuition.

Before making a decision on where to live, I stayed a night in the main house where Janna and Fred lived. I woke up in the middle of the night with this oppressive feeling of some dark and heavy bearing down on me. I could hardly breathe and it scared the shit out of me.

That was all I needed to know. But I moved in anyway…

Big mistake. Huge. I did end up in a good place, but it was a crazy ride to get there.

Hey y'all,

I really meant to live in Santa Cruz, close to the beach. 

I’d seen a place with deer running through the yard and the roommates - Meg and Christopher - were about my age and in a similar phase in life. They were very cool. 

There was lots of light, and I liked the old farmhouse feel of the place - even if the landlord was an alcoholic, lived on the property, and sat in his oversize pick-up with his elbow jutting out aggressively, drinking cans of Bud and glowering at the house. 

To make matters worse, he had relatives wringing their hands in anticipation of his death so they could get their hands on his money.

“He (the landlord) has been mad at me ever since I turned down his marriage proposal,” said Meg, as she showed me around.  “Maybe he’ll fall in love with you, and I’ll be off the hook.”

Given that he was eighty-plus and had stalker tendencies, I sure hoped not. 

I really liked Christopher and Meg, and had pretty much decided I’d love to live with them.

But I went ahead and came to see this place that was fifteen miles into the Santa Cruz mountains because I had an appointment. 

And I keep my appointments.

“When you see James Dean on the left, take a right on Alameda…” said Janna over the phone. 

I hadn’t met her yet, so my first impression was from her voice. 

If caramel had a voice, it would be Janna's. 

Her accent, breathiness, and tone of voice pronunciation bring to mind a flow of smooth, thick liquid sugar. 

Oddly enough, her girl's girl voice is easy to listen to and she has many fascinating stories.  

In her late fifties with three grown sons out of the house, she is not in my phase in life. 

After driving through the Redwoods on Highway 9, I saw the mural of James Dean on the side of the Brookdale Lodge - which is supposed to be haunted - on the left and made an immediate right on Alameda…

I really meant to live where the action was, but I could not resist this place...

As I write this, I’m sitting here on a mini-stage built within a half-circle of redwoods. 

I smell smoke coming from the stove, burning wood from the main house. The house was built in 1907 from virgin redwood, crammed with antiques, photos, artwork, and knick knacks. 

Out back is a pool built during the 1920’s, I suspect. 

On the north/northwest side of the pool is the cabana with bathroom and laundry room. 

On the west side is the studio where Erin lives and behind that is the “secret garden.” 

On the south-central side is the main house, behind it the cathedral-stage of redwoods, and behind that…is my space. 

I live in a tiny house on the north/northeast side of the property, but I get the most sun.  (This was before tiny houses were a thing.)

It’s uphill from the creek, and groove on the constant trickle of water - it's like those meditation tapes that people play when they need to chill. 

On one side of my place is the chicken and rabbit coop. 

The rooster is lazy about cockling in the morning, and all the chickens are in cages except for Cadbury, the breeder mama bunny. 

She got out and still runs free, much to the chagrin of Erin Rose and Janna. 

There is a light breeze blowing, the wind chimes are gently tinkling a harmony. 

I also hear the chirps, peeps, and cackles of birds as beams of golden glow are streaking through the woods to light up this place nestled in the woods. 

“We took out all the Douglas firs when we first moved in,” said Janna.  “And the redwoods just shot up from there.”

“This place is very magical,” said Travis, Janna’s eldest son.

He wasn’t exaggerating; I feel like I’m living inside a fairy tale.

Welcome to my home away from home. 

I live in the “playhouse” of this property, but I call it the hobbit house. 

It’s the size of a shoebox, not even big enough for a double bed, but it gives me autonomy. 

There is a huge window Janna recycled from an old schoolhouse on the south side of the building and when I walk out the door, one of the first things I see is that cathedral of redwoods kitty corner from my slice of personal space. 

I have to go to the main house to go to the bathroom and use the kitchen, but I have the run of the property with my rent. 

“This place was like Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” Janna said. when she described the forgotten cabin that had been empty for years at the time she and Fred bought it. 

The people who live here could also be characters out of a novel.

“We’re an eccentric family,” Janna said.

First, allow me to introduce Erin Rose, the caretaker/adoptee who posted the ad. 

Photographer, recluse, keeper of Cooper, the ugly cat, and would-be catcher of Cadbury, the runaway rabbit, Erin Rose made his new home here a few years ago when Christian, Janna's second son, told him his mom could use some help. 

He has since become a part of the family and Janna’s best friend. 

Sometimes it's difficult to tell who takes care of who, or what.

“People actually got offended when I said Chief likes white animals a little too much…(Yum!) in the ad,” he said. 

He’d also described  chickens, roosters, numerous rabbits (including Cadbury, the breeder), along with Chief, a big white dog, and Cooper, his road-scrapping tomcat.

To be continued…Remember Cooper, the road-scrapping tomcat.

Peace,
Montgomery

Adrianna's Dance

Image by soundsonic from Pixabay

The Shepherd gazed at the double doors on the east side of the foyer, the doors to the cavernous theater.

He had loved the vastness in there.

Feeling hesitant without understanding why, the Shepherd turned the knob of one of the doors and entered.

Adrianna was there, dressed in pristine white bloomers and camisole, her long thick hair hanging in a long braid to her waist.

As the Butler said, she was taking her evening exercise.

Caught off guard, the Shepherd was embarrassed.

Stripped of her usual glamor, her simple garments were more intimate even than the revealing gown she had donned for dinner the previous night.

In this moment, Adrianna seemed more human, more vulnerable, more easily seen.

Yet Adrianna was clearly at ease. She waved when she saw him, without missing a step in her ritual.

“I beg your pardon,” the Shepherd said, turning to go. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Your presence is hardly an intrusion, my darling Shepherd. You can even join me if you like. I prefer to finish before supper.”

With her arms outstretched, Adrianna swooped low as she spoke, bringing her right shoulder down, the length of her arm reaching for the floor before she completed her turn with a rounded kick of her left leg in the air above her head.

Then her arms floated to her sides, as she sidestepped across the floor with long strides and a casual undulation in her hips.

Suddenly, she lunged forward with her right leg crooked at the knee, her left leg long behind her, her back arched and head thrown back as she stretched her arms toward her back leg.

Breathing in deeply and sighing audibly, she held the pose for a moment.

Then she swung her left leg forward and up, knee bent to her chest before lunging to her left side, her arms swinging over her head as she reached for the air beyond her grasp.

The dance was both graceful and peculiar in the silence that echoed through the theater.

“I think I prefer to watch,” the Shepherd replied.

“As you wish, dear Shepherd.”

Adrianna laughed, without missing a beat.

Her voice breathier than usual as she transitioned to the next leg of her choreography, abruptly coming out of the side lunge to jump high, bringing her knees to her chest before her feet came down with a soft thump.

Her grace was astonishing.

The legendary Courtesan became a dervish, moving with the agility and nimbleness of a woman more than half her age.

Within moments, the Shepherd was forgotten.

He could tell Adrianna had retreated into a world where nothing existed beyond motion.

Her lovely face was blank as she twirled, lunged, leaped, and spun around the magnificent space of the theater.

The Shepherd now understood how the legendary Courtesan maintained the youthful contours of her face and figure.

Watching Adrianna move to her internal rhythms was captivating in the quietude of a nearly empty theater.

She seemed to grow younger as the dance went on, years coming off her face that glowed from the bliss of freedom of motion. 4

It took strength and concentration, yet also surrender, to dance as she did.

There was so much beauty in the serenity and ecstasy of her expression, in the incandescence of her sparkling golden eyes, the simplicity of the black and silver braid falling to her waist.

Adrianna the Beautiful was exquisite.

That image seared itself into his mind, and the Shepherd picked up his sketch pad and started drawing furiously.

But he only needed to be reminded of the curve of her cheek, the muscles in her calves, the line of her arms stretched out.

He continued drawing even when she moved with the speed of a wood sprite, nimble enough to avoid getting caught.

The Shepherd didn’t look at the parchment at what he drew, so riveted was he by the dance of silence.

Suddenly, she was finished.

Adrianna became still and closed her eyes, her lower belly billowed as she breathed deeply and slowly.

Then she opened her eyes and took a long drink from a pitcher of water that had been left for her. She offered some to the Shepherd, which he accepted absently with a vague nod, finishing his sketch with a few bold strokes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” she said, breathing deeply.

“Absolutely,” the Shepherd agreed. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“An indirect consequence of one of my favorite lovers of all time,” she said.

“One of the luckiest moments of my life was meeting him. We called him the Chinaman, even though he said he was Burmese. But it was the business of his life to travel all over the Orient and then the far parts of the world.”

Adrianna took another look drink from the pitcher before she continued.

“The Chinaman taught me some lovely forms of exercise he learned during his travels. Yoga and tai chi. Very exacting disciplines. Over the years, I found I enjoy them so much more if I use the postures as a dance.”

A Man of Unconventional Integrity

The one-year anniversary of my father’s death was March 13th. To honor the memory of his life and passing, I’m reposting this.

Thank you to those who answered my note to read this.

This particular memorial piece about my father has been on my mind for 2 months. After Dad’s funeral was canceled due to the coronavirus, this idea came to mind during the drive back to Portland from Florida. The theme is difficult, and I’ve struggled to find a graceful place to start.

I’m sure a softer, more elegant segue is possible, yet I haven’t been able to figure one out. So this begins with the last authentic connection I had with my brother before he died.

As all of you know, Robert took his life in November 2012. What many of you may not know is that Robert had made a serious attempt with an overdose of pills that almost killed him in January 2010. The reason I mention that is because it’s part of this story.

In October 2012, Robert spent a week alone with Dad at the Rice Diet Center that had once been at Duke University. Going there had been Dad’s protocol whenever his blood sugar got too out of hand, and he needed to get it down and take off some weight. Although Robert also had issues with weight as he got older, this was an unusual move. Robert had struggled in his relationship with Dad for most of his life.

In November, I called Robert to talk to him about making an offer on my house, and asked him about that week with Dad. Robert said the Rice Diet was a special kind of hell before expressing pleasant surprise that the week with Dad had gone well, and that he had enjoyed spending one-on-one time with him.

There must be something about a severe diet restriction of eating only oatmeal, rice, and fruit, while taking out meat, wheat, dairy, fat, alcohol, and sugar that brings out all kinds of feelings. From what Robert told me, those two connected and went deep.

“You know, Mary, for all the therapy and meetings with doctors and psychiatrists, Dad asked me something about my overdose that week which nobody else did. I actually had to think about it before I could answer him.”

“What did he say?”

“‘Robert, before did what you did…taking those pills…what were you thinking?’”

“How many times has Dad thought about offing himself?” I blurted that out before I knew what I was saying.

For once, Robert didn’t tease me about lacking a filter.

“That was the first thing I thought as soon as he asked me that.”

Neither of us said anything for a minute.

“I hope he finds peace someday, Mary. I bet Dad never acted on it because he couldn’t do that to us.”

Robert was probably right, because he usually was about stuff like that.

“How did you answer his question?”

“I told him, ‘I think I just felt so lonely.’”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing much. He nodded, kind of like he understood.”

Photo by Loni Knehr

I don’t claim to get every word or sentence of a conversation from 7 ½ years ago exactly right. But this is close enough to the last real talk I had with Robert before he died less than 2 weeks later.

Some of you may be shocked that I would disclose something so personal. Please know that I gave this a lot of thought. I considered the personalities of Dad and Robert from various angles and how they would react to me sharing this. And my gut feeling tells me they would be okay with it.

Privacy had never been a top priority in how Dad and Robert approached life, and both of them were remarkably open people. I believe they’d even be supportive, especially knowing the why.

I chose to share that moment between Dad and Robert as it was confided to me because it indicates qualities my father possessed in great measure, which he received little credit for while he was alive – integrity and fortitude.

This is not the only story I could have shared that highlights Dad’s integrity, but it is the only one that immediately came to mind that didn’t hang somebody else out to dry. Dad would never have consented to me sharing anything like that.

This memorial is the 2nd of 3 pieces I’m working on to remember Dad and say good-bye in a way that honors him as he has deserved for a long time. The 1st and 3rd (not yet written) are intended for an audience of friends and family who knew my father, and loved him.

However, this piece is written for those who didn’t.

Besides Robert’s friends and mine, if you received a link to this, you were a part of the College Park/Winter Park/Country Club social group from my adolescence, and you happen to be one of my Facebook friends. It’s a short list – only 6 of you.

Some of your parents judged my father none too kindly, and in some cases, that judgment passed down to some of you. For the record, I don’t have an issue with anybody who didn’t see Dad in a favorable light. And if I did, that would make me a hypocrite.

For decades, a lot of people thought of Dad as an immoral-sonofabitch-who-didn’t-give-a-damn-about-anybody-but-himself. Unfortunately, my brothers and I were a part of that, and we treated Dad like shit for a long time.

I’m ashamed of that. In many respects, I realize this wasn’t my fault. I was way too young to deal with those aspects of my parents’ marriage and divorce that should have stayed between them. As was Robert. Chances are excellent that some of your judgment about Dad came from us. I remember confiding – or venting, really – to some of you when I was a kid. And I know Robert did his fair share too.

The question asked of me about my father the most often throughout my life was: “How can you respect him?”

My answer? I respect my father from the depths of my soul.

I wouldn’t have said that until a little over 10 years ago.  

Dad is not an easy man to defend. He was pretty scandalous back in the day. His excesses were shocking, and as a husband, he put both Mom and Terry through the wringer. I’m not making excuses for his flaws. But I am saying his flaws were not the truth of who he was.

It’s a hard sell in some ways to present Dad as a man of substance and strong character. Dad did not live by the classical checklist of good behavior. Monogamy was not one of his virtues. Neither were abstinence, moderation, or equanimity. His vices and lesser moments were often in the spotlight, whereas his qualities were behind the scenes.

And that’s the kicker. Integrity comes in many forms and so many people don’t know that Dad was an awesome person who had his standards that he lived by because he held the best parts of himself inside, and did what he did without drawing attention to it.

Today is Robert’s birthday. I’m pretty sure he would have liked it if y’all would give your time to learn about some of Dad’s finer attributes. I know I would.

Tolerance:

Dad was one of the most accepting, live-and-let-live people I’ve ever known. He took people as they were, and was not one to judge and point fingers. He was also friends with gays (through Terry) and lesbians (through the bridge world) for decades.

About 15 years ago, a friend and I went to see Dad and Terry at their place in Lake Tahoe to go snowboarding and celebrate New Year’s. Friends of theirs, Hugh and Barbara Jones, were also going to be there.

My early attempts at coming out as bisexual/queer/gay had been often brushed off with “Oh Mary!” until my brothers started gossiping about it. Anyway, Jenn and I had been very close, but not as a couple. However, Dad didn’t know that because rumor had it otherwise.

When I talked to him about coming, Dad informed me that Hugh and Barbara would have the room with twin beds. When he pointed out that Jenn and I would be in the room with a double bed, he talked fast and stammered a lot like he always did when he was nervous.

That made me wonder, but whatever.

So Jenn and I went to Tahoe where Dad and Terry, and Hugh and Barbara thought we were a couple. That really wasn’t as awkward as it sounds. Except for a head-scratching moment here and there, like when Terry said she loved Jenn because she could see how much Jenn loved me – a good time was had by all, Jenn gave me some good pointers on riding my board, and later, I figured out what everybody had been thinking.

But the lasting impression that stayed with me was Dad’s immediate acceptance and support. Without saying a word, the message I received from him was “All good here. I just want you to be happy.”

That kind of puts him way ahead of his time, don’t you think?

Wisdom:

Dad was one of those who watched the goings on around him and kept his mouth shut. Really, that is a magnificently subtle act of wisdom in and of itself. God knows how many hassles and minefields he side-stepped because of that MO. But Dad never fought battles he knew he’d never win, and he tried to teach me to do the same.

But some lessons need to be learned the hard way. It hasn’t been until recently that I understood his reasons behind that.

By the way, when he did speak his mind about a person or a situation, Dad was seldom wrong. He pretty much called it every time. The first memorial piece I wrote tells those stories about Dad and his sage take on things. I’ll embed the link at the end of this for anybody who would like to keep reading and check it out.

Sensitivity:

Where do you think Robert got his sensitivity from?

Because of the nature of what’s expected of men of his generation and his life in business, this was not a side of Dad that was often seen. His presence was imposing, and I’ve lost count of all the times people have told me that my father intimidated or scared the hell out of them. That image was nothing more than an illusion.

The reality was that Dad was extremely shy, he struggled to connect emotionally, and his feelings were easily hurt. But he also hurt when he witnessed the suffering of others. One time, when we were out to lunch, he told me about an acquaintance who was terrified because his retirement did not last him the rest of his life. His wife had gotten ill and died, which ate up a lot of money, he was nearly out, and didn’t know what he was going to do.

“He said he retired with $2.5 million. You would think that’d be more than enough for anything that would come up, but it wasn’t.”

Dad was shocked and clearly upset about this man’s predicament, someone who was not a close friend, somebody he knew casually.

Forthrightness:

Once I was an adult, Mom shared more with me about the last two weeks of their marriage before Dad moved out. At this point, both were ready to stop lying to themselves and talked long into the night, every night, after putting us to bed.

Mom said she wanted Dad home more and no more mistresses.

Dad said: “That’s the nature of the beast and I’m not going to change. Your choice is whether you can live with it or not.” He was never one to mince words.

Of course that was not the answer Mom wanted. But Dad gave her the truth and there’s something to be said for that.

Which brings me to…

Honesty:

And at his core, he was. When he wasn’t covering his ass in his personal life, Dad was as honest as they came.

Years ago, I was knee deep in conversation about our families with somebody from this social group. The flow of conversation took an unexpected turn when she asked me if Dad had ever been in the mafia. To say I was taken aback would be an understatement.

“What?! The closest Dad ever came to being in the mafia was watching The Godfather too many times.”

“But how did he get in?” (making connections to do business in Florida)

“Bill Demetree. And they don’t get more pure or morally upright than him.”

Where business was concerned, Mrs. Demetree once told me that Mr. Demetree had always felt at ease in his dealings with my family. She said: “Bill always said: “I never have to worry about a thing whenever I do business with the Mahaffeys.’”

Is it so hard to believe doors would open readily for a man like this?

Drive:

In regards to that conversation, the woman I was talking to nodded, and we moved on to other subjects. There had been no malice or spite in her manner, only curiosity. I appreciate that she had been open with me like that.

But that stuck with me; and the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.

Although it’s possible her perception of Dad came solely from her imagination, I have always found that most of our opinions and beliefs are formed within the collective of which we are a part. I can’t help but wonder about the source where she came up with my father and the mafia.

It’s one thing to judge Dad for things he actually did. It’s another to strip him of the recognition for spectacular achievements that he earned legitimately. That is going way too far.

Carlton Towers Opening, St. Petersburg Times - Dad, Mom, Nana, Dado.

As ugly and acrimonious as my parents’ divorce had been, Mom always gave Dad credit for his work ethic, and the 20 hard years of working his butt off to build up the family company. So it never occurred to me that others wouldn’t.

Dad was a self-made man in the truest sense of that phrase. Nobody becomes that without intense drive, focus, the willingness to work hard, not to mention the gift of high intelligence.

Dad might have been crazy sometimes, but he was always brilliant. The Mahaffey Company would never have happened without him.

And last but not least…

Fortitude:

The first thing that comes to mind when I think of ‘fortitude’ is emotional endurance, the kind of strength that lasts over a long period of time. To be sure, I googled the definition and found “courage in pain or adversity.”

Not what I expected, but I don’t think one cancels out the other. To combine both, there is no denying that Dad showed courage in pain and adversity that he endured for about half his life.

Try to imagine what it would be like to go through life and not be seen for who you truly are. Try to imagine what it would be like to know that your reputation marks you as a piece of shit - and your kids believe it - all while knowing you are a better person. Try to imagine what it would be like to know there’s nothing you can do about it. If you tried to defend yourself, speak up with your side of the story, you’d know it would be ineffective and you’d only appear weak.

So what comes to mind? Think you can live with that? Dad did for over 40 years.

Robert was the first to acknowledge there was more to Dad than all the reasons he was so angry with him.

“I found out that Dad was far more honorable than any of us ever knew.”

Robert did not elaborate about what he meant by that, but I suspect he heard some stories after he went to work for the company. One thing is for certain, Dad never abandoned his kids. As unkindly as we treated him, he never closed the door on us.

Even if our opinions of him improved over time, a lot of damage had already been done. It’s impossible to get those years back with the original bonds intact. There was always distance between us and him. For somebody like Dad, who struggled to forge the connection he craved, that had to have been excruciating.

Kind of puts a different spin on the driving force behind his excesses and lesser moments, doesn’t it?

I don’t know if this will shift anybody’s opinion of my father for the better. But I’d like to think that maybe some kindness, compassion, and even respect would be inspired for this complicated man, this wounded soul, and multi-faceted human being who had been strong enough to live through his hell.

I haven’t been a christian for a long time, but I remember it clearly stated in the bible to not judge, and this is why. Human understanding is too meager for anybody to qualify for that job.

At the end of the road, we all need redemption.

Dad wasn’t only a better man than anybody knew. He was extraordinary.

If you’ve come this far, thank you so much for your time and attention. If you feel so moved, please share this with others and pass it on.

Peace.

Here is “Nuggets of Wisdom From My Father” if you’d like to read it.

Could Liberation Really Last Forever?

Image by Enrique Meseguer from Pixabay

She wondered if she had grown taller. 

When she walked, her limbs stretched longer with each stride. She was stronger and more agile, riding the stallions with more boldness than ever. 

She breathed deeply, the smoky air tingling her nose and throat.  

The trees seemed on fire when breezes swayed the branches and ruffled the leaves. 

She relished the layers of herbs and spices in food that now seemed to have more taste. 

When she listened to music, the notes vibrated through her, trilling along sinew and bone.  

Everything around the girl pulsed with life and she couldn’t get enough. 

She fell out of the habit of breakfast because of her long nights in the Caverns, sleeping until lunch. 

The girl found she preferred to start her day without her father. She always went numb in his presence and his silence was oppressive.

Yet they always came together for dinner. 

The table was covered with white linen, laden with china and crystal. Servants presented courses from silver platters, the parlor illuminated by triads of candles along the buffet. 

Dressed in finery, the Patron and his daughter met at opposite ends of the long table. 

The girl curtseyed with a long sweep of silken skirts and her father bowed, the abyss between them hidden by the trappings of formal dining. 

They took their seats the same moment a troupe of musicians struck the first notes. 

Every night was a different melody as the violinists, flutists, mandolin players, and minstrels of the village made rounds at the manor, filling the air with music and song. 

One day, the girl was startled to see her father standing at his chair waiting for her when she came into the dining parlor for lunch. 

Then she remembered he always worked in his study as the season drew to a close. 

She lifted her skirts and curtseyed, frowning at the empty place at her end of the table. 

A servant pulled a chair to the right of the Patron and he waved his hand to indicate where she should take her seat. 

But she hesitated before accepting, suddenly alarmed. 

Did he suspect? 

The Patron gave no indication he knew any of her secrets. He was quiet as always while they ate, yet he peered at her with curiosity in his light brown eyes. 

His scrutiny made the girl uneasy. 

She avoided glancing at him while they ate, only facing him after her plate and bowl were empty. 

The girl held her breath while her father looked at her for what seemed an eternity. 

Then he finally nodded and excused her from the table. 

She almost sighed with relief when she curtseyed and took leave, but she restrained herself in time.

****

Something wasn’t right. 

The Patron couldn’t find a reason for the disturbance niggling in the back of his mind, but concentration had become impossible. 

His restlessness often sent him pacing around the house until one day he settled at the portico on the backside of the house. 

This was his daughter’s favorite vantage point on those days she was inclined to paint, and he could understand why. 

The panorama of the rolling fields and the forest to the east was lovely, especially with the foliage rich in the warm light of the sun falling west, the deep blue sky slowly giving way to evening. 

The Patron grew calm as he listened to the river twining through the distant trees and breathed in the smoky sweet of autumn. It was a pity his daughter wasn’t here to paint this scene. 

Her easel stood ready for her with a fresh canvas, the palette and brushes resting on the shelf, her finished work stacked on a small table.

He glanced from the easel to the settee nestled between its legs. 

The watercolors she’d done that summer were face-down, secured from the breezes with a stone. 

The more the Patron thought about it, the more peculiar he found it that his daughter ever started painting again. Art had never been a pastime she cared for and she had complained about the subject more than once. 

Her duenna had been adamant she learn, for highborn young ladies were expected to be accomplished in all the arts. But once her instructor left, the girl never practiced again.

What muse could have changed her mind? 

The disturbance niggled away in the back of his mind, enough to disrupt the soothing effect of the eastern fields and the forest beyond. 

The Patron reached for the rock and hesitated, hating himself for intruding on his daughter’s privacy. 

But something was wrong and his daughter couldn’t object too much if she left her watercolors where anybody could see them. 

After another moment’s pause, he set the rock aside and turned over the top canvas. 

His hand started to shake when he saw the image painted there.

His daughter’s duenna had been the most respected matron in her profession, so much that he had had to wait several months before he could hire her. 

He flipped through the pile of watercolors and saw her reputation had been well deserved. 

His daughter had hated this subject, but her learning was so thorough she could pick up a brush several years later and do a fine job of bringing the Horse Trainer back to life. 

Every painting was of him.

He looked through them all. 

There was no mistaking the cause behind the smoldering eyes and the collapsed features. 

The Patron knew the look of a lover when he saw one.   

What a Fabulous Conversation! 5 Tips on How to Write Gripping Dialogue.

I love dialogue.

Of all the elements of fiction, dialogue is my favorite as both a writer and a reader. I get excited when a come across a long stretch of dialogue in a novel, and as a writer, I work on dialogue for hours.

There is no resistance. I love picturing these scintillating conversations between characters, and I have no complaints working out the kinks as I put those talks to paper.

If anybody has come across some of my work-in-progress excerpts, you would find a lot of dialogue because I love it so much. If you’d like to check that out, go here.

Maybe I should have been a screenwriter. Because splendid dialogue between characters on a movie screen makes me high for days.

For example, Pulp Fiction is one of the best dialogue movies I’ve ever seen. Without the exquisite dialogue in every single scene of the movie, Pulp Fiction would have been awful.

As far as the characters and the plot are concerned, the stories are disturbing. Generally speaking, all the characters are out for themselves and nobody has a moral compass.

There are exceptional scenes of personal growth, like the choice Butch made to save Marcellus Wallace from a hideous fate, even though Marcellus Wallace had put a hit on him.

Also, the epiphany of Jules to quit the hit man’s life, walk the earth as a holy man, in the final scene when he spares the lives of Pumpkin and Honey Bunny, made a breathtaking end to a film that boggled the minds of most people who saw it.

Pulp Fiction took black humor to a new level. Throughout the many psychotic and psychopathic events, the audience laughed hysterically and savored every moment (or almost every moment), and I believe it was because the dialogue was that brilliant.

This was during the days when Quentin Tarantino collaborated with Roger Avary. Either Avary was the dialogue genius, or the two of them needed each other for that magical precision of back and forth verbal volley between characters. All I know is the dialogue in Tarantino’s films has made me cringe once they fell out and parted ways. Too many monologues.

I love good dialogue in a novel. I relish the chance to imagine these fictional conversations in my mind and put myself in the story as one of the characters.

The dialogue in Tom Robbins’ work (Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Jitterbug Perfume, Still Life With Woodpecker) makes me want to dance and celebrate the glory of life. But his characters and his plots are every bit as magnificent as the dialogue they speak.

Back in the day, Jane Austen had some pretty luscious dialogues set in Regency England. But Jane Austen had far more fodder to work with. We’ve gotten lazy and unskilled in the act of communication. For centuries, conversation was an art that most people wanted to excel at.

Now that my rant about my love of dialogue is finished, the nuggets of advice I can offer on how to pen dialogue are:

1) Practice Writing Dialogue. Even if you suck at it, or think you do, make this a regular part of your writing practice.

2) Recall the most recent boring, inane small talk you engaged in recently (happens a lot in life), and throw in an unexpected twist. From there, one key word becomes several key words that feed the following next lines until you have a dialogue the flows like a cascade of dominoes.

For instance:

“I’m so sick of all this rain, aren’t you?”

“I’m sick of my husband’s farts in the middle of the night. Makes me want to sleep in the rain.”

“Oh really? My boyfriend talks dirty in his sleep. I wouldn’t mind so much if he wasn’t talking dirty to some chick named Agnes.”

“Who the hell talks dirty to girls named Agnes?”

“I know, right? Agnes sounds like somebody’s granny!”

“My grammy’s name was Serena.”

“That’s a sexy name.”

“Hey! That’s my grammy you’re talking about!”

“Maybe Agnes should change her name to Serena.”

“Why? She’s doing just fine if your boyfriend is talking dirty to her in his sleep.”

“Then I should change my name to Agnes.”

“That’s crazy! Maybe you should break up with your boyfriend.”

“Yeah, that may not be a bad idea. My boyfriend has a micropenis on top of all this.”

“That explains why he’s talking dirty to a chick named Agnes in his sleep.”

You don’t have to use this in anything. So relax, play with words and images, simply to see where the flow takes you. If you practice writing unexpected dialogue, eventually you will make magic happen in the dialogue of the stories you care about.

3) Eavesdrop. Listen in on conversations you find juicy, fascinating, or even irritating. Then write as much of them down from memory the best you can. Since chances are good (unless you have a 100% photographic memory ) you won’t recall everything, you’ll have to improvise.

Feel free to use step #2 above to take it in a different direction, and thus make the dialogue your own.

4) Read Your Dialogue Out Loud. That’s the only way you can hear the rhythm and flow of a conversation. You’ll catch any glitches or things that sound false.

5) For anybody who really struggles with dialogue, I suggest writing dialogue between the writerly YOU and your principal characters.

I suggest doing this one character at a time, to open yourself up to an impression of who they are as people and how they sound, even their quirky and unique expressions.

A few exercises like this and you’ll be creating luscious dialogue between your characters with little to no trouble.

I’m also happy to share a lovely article that gives other detailed tips on dialogue. Click here.

Taste of Power

Image by Daina Krumins from Pixabay

Her days transformed along with her nights from the time their arrangement began.

A few weeks after she started going to the Caverns, the girl went for her late afternoon ride, but changed course. 

Instead of going south through the village or west toward the Ancient Grove, she steered the horse east of the manor and followed the river winding through a younger forest. She didn’t know what compelled her to go to this place where she hadn’t been in years. 

She used to come here with the Horse Trainer on those afternoons they weren’t inclined to go to the Abandoned Valley. She hadn’t been back since he had gone.

In these woods, the Trainer had introduced her to the ways of the wanderer. 

The unlikely mentorship started because she didn’t believe his stories about stowing away in the lowest reaches of the ships, escaping from angry sheikhs, and traveling across deserts by camel. 

She didn’t think such adventures were possible for a penniless vagabond. She remembered how ashamed she’d been when she saw the outrage in his eyes. 

The Trainer noticed and smiled.

“I’m a lot of things,” he’d said. “But I’m no liar. I dare you to find out just how wrong you are, little Miss.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can show you how a man can live off nothing. You just have to be willing to learn.”

During the rest of that summer, she often regretted accepting that challenge. 

Those were the only lessons she struggled with in her life. 

The Trainer didn’t make it easy for her, and she hated him whenever he laughed at her. 

But he taught her everything he knew. 

He showed her how to make a pole and line to catch fish, how to shoot a rifle, even how to hunt with a knife if that was all she had. He insisted she skin her own kills and cook the meat in a skillet over a fire, which he also taught her to make. He instructed her in building a camp when she had something to work with and when she had nothing.

It took the entire summer for her to master these strange skills, but these lessons gave her the most gratification of anything she’d ever learned. 

She hadn’t thought about that season for years, pushing those days to the furthest recesses of her mind. But as she cantered the reddish brown steed around the bend of the river, she kept her eye out for their favorite fishing spot. 

Their poles were still there. 

The long sticks leaned against the tree as if they had been waiting for the pair to return and cast their lines. 

She dismounted from her horse and picked up the pole.

She had struggled to carve it until it the Horse Trainer felt it was right. 

She bent it slightly and chuckled when the wood split down the middle. She wasn’t at all surprised when she tried the Trainer’s pole and found it still strong and flexible. 

The girl hesitated for just an instant before throwing off her skirts and jacket. Clad in peasant breeches and a blouse, she crouched and clawed through the mud for worms. Before long, she had her line cast in the river and after an hour, she pulled in her first catch. 

Practicing these forgotten skills, the past intertwined with the present to bring her a peace she hadn’t known for too long. 

The girl often looked around, for the Trainer’s presence was so strong she almost expected to find him. 

But the memories were enough.  

That day, the girl floated through a haze of reminiscence. 

She even forgot her ostracism and brought her catch to the kitchen, just as she had that summer years ago. But sight of the corpulent spread of a back bent over the stoves thrust her into the present again. 

The girl stopped in her tracks. 

Pain exploded in her core, sending an upsurge of bile to the back of her tongue. Before she could move, the Cook turned around, her murky eyes flickering to the line of trout. 

Her face mottled when she flushed. Averting her eyes, the Cook mumbled thanks as she took the fish from the girl’s hand.

Her contentment went sour and the girl cursed her absence of mind. 

But the next night she thought better of it when she saw the main course was filet of trout on a mound of string beans. 

The girl tasted the Cook’s shame in each bite and savored her dinner more than she had in a long time. 

She came back to the kitchen the following afternoon and held a skinned rabbit above her head. 

Again, the Cook flushed. Yet she reached for the offering. When the Cook’s fingers brushed against her knuckles, she looked up and the girl saw she was afraid. 

Something shifted inside the girl in that moment. 

In the face of the Cook’s fear, she felt invincible. 

She came to the kitchen every day after that, relishing that sensation every time the Cook reached for her kills.

The girl had become somebody she didn’t understand.

By summer’s end, she welcomed the silence that had sent her to the river in despair. Her near exile now served her well, making it easy for her to come and go as she liked. 

In being an outcast, the girl now found her freedom. 

It Always Smells Like Roses Here

Image by Jorge Guillen from Pixabay

Adrianna and I stood next to each other in the courtyard, where the lavish carriage stood.

The Wanderer held Celia in a long embrace.

Apparently, Adrianna’s protégée had stayed with the Wanderer in his rooms the two days I was trapped in the DreamTime purgatory.

I must have been in a dead sleep if their noisy lovemaking didn’t wake me.

Finally, the Wanderer kissed Celia on the forehead and stroked the side of her face, and let her go gently.

When Celia turned, I was pleasantly surprised to see the hint of tears in her eyes.

She stopped and curtseyed to us before passing back into the Casa.

I wondered if Celia used rose water as a perfume.

I caught a hint of roses as she passed, but the scent lingered long after she had gone into the house. I frowned and looked around.

Adrianna noticed too. She leaned her head back and smiled, her nostrils flickering as she inhaled.

Before I could ask her about it, the Wanderer approached.

“I’m not particularly fond of good-byes,” he said. “So I guess I’ll see you in a month or so.”

“Oh, you’ll see me much sooner than that,” I said.

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” Adrianna quipped.

The Wanderer chortled.

“Either way, Adrianna, I’m flexible. Maybe send word out every week or so, and I’ll roam circles around the Capital City with his flock.”

He kissed her on both cheeks.

“Adieu. And thank you so much for the splendid hospitality, and the comfortable ride. I feel like a new man.”

“You are a new man, darling Wanderer. The pleasure was mine. Not as much pleasure as Celia got to enjoy, but I loved having you as a guest.”

The Wanderer chuckled again.

I clasped his hand and the Wanderer pulled me in an embrace. I was surprised at how comforting it felt to be held by my friend. Really, this man was more than a brother to me.

“Don’t worry about the Shepherd,” Adrianna said flippantly. “By the time I’m through with him, he may be too coddled to return to the natural life.”

“I highly doubt that, Adrianna.”

And then you left us, Wanderer. Your part as a character in this story ended and your role as listener began.

With a salute, you stepped into the carriage. Adrianna and I stood there and waved, the scent of roses growing stronger as the carriage disappeared from view.

My heart was heavy once you had gone.

“You are truly blessed in friendship, Shepherd.”

“I know.”

“I’m very pleased you’re staying. I didn’t think you would.”

I nodded.

“I take it the Wanderer talked you into this.”

“That is one way to look at it.”

The elder Courtesan threw her head back and laughed.

And yet again, I was disconcerted by the mannerism that seemed especially peculiar on her.

“Did he blackmail you?”

“I wouldn’t go quite that far.”

“But you are not here willingly?”

I hesitated, and then shrugged.

“No, I’m not.”

Instead of taking offense, Adrianna sniggered. Her beautiful golden eyes sparkled.

“Nothing quite like a little benevolent coercion, is there?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“As I said, Shepherd, you are truly blessed in friendship.”

As annoyed as I was with the Wanderer, I laughed with her. I couldn’t remember any other time I had been so adroitly backed into a corner.

“While you are here, my Casa is your Casa.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me just yet. I have appointments in town that will keep me away most of the day. I hope you can forgive me, for I never desert my guests. But I honestly didn’t expect you to stay.”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Adrianna. I know how to entertain myself.”

The Courtesan paused, her head angled to one side as she peered at me with a strange half smile on her mouth.

“That makes a refreshing change.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Most men I know lack self-containment. They need excessive amounts of attention.”

Adrianna took my hand and squeezed it.

“The Butler loves to give tours of the house and grounds if you get bored, and there’s much you haven’t seen. But now, I must get ready. I’ll see you tonight for dinner on the back patio.”

“Again?”

“Of course. It’s my favorite place to dine.”

What a strange woman she was, this legendary Courtesan.

“Adrianna, do you ever miss the bracing challenges of hardship?”

“Not at all,” she replied. “Dinner is at eight.”

*************

 After an hour or two, I understood why Adrianna’s guests needed so much attention.

The relentless luxury of the Casa made me restless, a sensation akin to being trapped and craving escape.

Instead, I crossed paths with the Butler and remembered Adrianna’s suggestion that the Butler loved to give tours of her Casa.

This was the first time I got a good look at the head servant of her household.

I wondered how he came to work here. The Butler carried himself with such dignity and grace I would have expected him in the finest houses.

He was almost as tall as I, and at least ten years older, but his posture was as straight as a rod. His long face was impassive, his pale gray green eyes held a neutral gentility.

Everything in his demeanor bespoke the soul of discretion.

We started in the courtyard before the front door.

The spring snow from a few nights ago had already melted, gone as if it had never happened. On this afternoon, the air was crisp and fresh and the sky blue.

I inhaled.

The phantom scent of roses was still in the air, just as it had been this morning when the Wanderer left.

“It always smells like roses here,” the Butler explained, as if he read my mind. “Even on the coldest day of winter.”

9 Fresh Writing Prompts! Versatile for Any Genre!

“Just breathe.”

“Damn you! I can’t breathe! Why won’t you listen?”

Isabella put her hand on Juan’s belly button.

Juan was relieved at the breath that filled his lungs as he watched her hand rise.

Isabella had the magic touch.

Juan had to keep her for himself, even if Isabella was desperately needed all over the world.

Hey there,

It’s been a long time since I put out some original prompts. What I like about these is that they could be used for just about any genre - fantasy, science fiction, romance, erotica, New Age, suspense, even mystery.

So here they are. Enjoy!

“Behold the White Goddess.”

“She looks nice, but I’ not sure it was worth the climb up a mountain to look at a statue.”

The Guide’s nostrils quivered and I felt foolish.

Really, it wouldn’t do to offend.

“I suggest you show some respect. The White Goddess or the Dark Daemon are your only choices for protection around here.”

“Is there any way out of here?”

“Would you rather be in a white padded cell? I thought you liked pink.”

“I like pink in doses. But this makes me crazy!”

“Well, I hope you come to love it because you’re going to be here for a while.”

“At least you have a choice of which hell you want to go to, Isabelle.”

“How appealing.”

“So do you want to the cold hell or the hot hell you grew up believing in.”

“I hate being hot. I’ll take the cold.”

The demon smiled.

“You’ll crave heat in no time.”

“Drinking the Kool-Aid much?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everything that has come out of your mouth for the last 20 minutes sounds pretty cultish.”

“Shannon, you’re missing out!”

“I’m happy to miss out. I like being my own person.”

“The Cob offers real deliverance and true freedom.”

“What a load of bull. Marcus, you know better.”

“Come to one meeting with me and you’ll see.”

“No.”

”I dare you to come. What are you afraid of?”

“You must go deep inside yourself to find your pleasure center.”

“I’m deep inside myself all the time. Pleasure requires at least two people.”

The Guru chuckled.

“You came because you want to enjoy sex, remember?”

“Yeah, but-”

“You may be your biggest problem, not your lovers.”

Julian entered the cave, his flashlight the only light in the darkness. His heart stopped when he saw the crumpled figure lying facedown.

Carefully, he turned the body over.

Before he could check for a pulse, he met the steeliest gaze he’d ever seen.

That was before Julian saw the gun pointed right at his heart.

“It’s the job of a lifetime.”

“That’s too sweet for me.”

“Since when do you have a problem with money?”

“Since I spent 5 years in prison because I loved it too much.”

“$10 million should help you recover. In or out?”

“These pins are too dull.”

“So you like pricking your fingers?”

“Not really. But I like my pins to work.”

“But you’ve never pressed witch’s pins. Press with your mind, not your thumb. Like this.”

Sure enough, the pin weaved through the pieces of quilt with ease even though nobody touched it.

“How’d you do that?”

“Try it. You don’t need me to tell you how.”

The Erotic Life With a Phantom Lover

Image by Sabrina B. from Pixabay

He nibbled along her throat while unlacing her gown. 

Her bodice slipped free and the girl shuddered from the caress of his calloused palms over her breasts and down her belly. 

The unfamiliar taunt of desire had already penetrated her before he reached under her rump and picked her up, pressing her against the Cavern walls, the black stone cold and hard against her back. 

The girl knotted her legs around him, yearning to take him inside her. 

As they had the first night, the girl and her Phantom Lover made love until exhaustion took its claim.

The girl fought off the urge to sleep, but she succumbed. In her dreams, she relived the pleasure of their coupling, only to wake up to the same loathing that made her want to crawl out of her skin when the Phantom was gone and she saw the Sorcerer of the Caverns watching her. 

Thus their time always came to an end.

But hatred would be far from her mind the following night when she wound her way through the lilies to the runaway stallion. 

Then she rushed through the woods and spiraled down to the Sorcerer waiting for her with his pointer and easel, the pages of drawings concealed.

The girl always closed her eyes when the Phantom came for her. 

When she didn’t see the Cavern walls around her, she could forget the Horse Trainer may no longer be alive. 

She could forget he would not be as she once knew him if he were. 

With her eyes shut, she could fall into the fantasy and allow his Phantom to consume her. 

When she didn’t see him, his touch went deeper and his smell transported her to the summer she learned what it was to feel joy. 

The Phantom could have her any way he wanted, so long as her craving was satisfied and the throbbing of her empty space remained quiet. 

It was the only time she felt whole.

In the early weeks, the girl detested the Sorcerer’s lessons. 

The Sorcerer with his pointer and his easel was a reality she couldn’t deny. 

Many weeks passed before she finished the first assignment and gave in to her own pleasure. It was a revelation when the inner fortress she lived in all her life crumbled. 

The Sorcerer never had to teach her anything twice after that. 

Most of his lectures had little to do with carnal skill. Her mentor was adamant seduction begin in the mind before the body surrendered or the heart claimed. 

As she listened to him talk about the greatest lovers in history, the girl realized it was the Sorcerer who was seducing her, even if he needed the essence of the Trainer to do so. 

She also understood that for all his knowledge, there was only one truth: she would never gain mastery over another until she was mistress over herself. 

This lesson was the most difficult. 

Every time the Phantom came for the girl, her self-command dissolved into the throbbing of her hollow. 

The girl began keeping her eyes open when they made love. 

She was frightened the first time she witnessed his surrender. She even had to fight the urge to close her eyes and fall back into fantasy. 

Then she became fascinated with his pleasure, exploring ways she could bring the Phantom to higher peaks. 

The first time her Phantom Lover surrendered to an ecstasy she had orchestrated, the thrill spread through her body. A climax like nothing she dreamed possible, the tingling exploding until both body and mind were shattered. 

Then she came back stronger. 

Her appetite for lovemaking became insatiable. 

The girl and her Phantom Lover made a game out of it, a competition to be the one to bring the other to the edge, only to send them into the abyss and fall in afterwards. 

They laughed often, for pleasure was assured. But the girl couldn’t get enough of that feeling when it was she who had brought the Phantom to surrender. 

The girl often had to fight to keep her hold on reality when fantasy threatened to intrude. 

Sometimes she almost succumbed to the belief the Phantom was the Horse Trainer. 

When he looked at her a certain way or kissed her with more tenderness than ardor, but especially when he laughed, the Phantom was so much like her friend joy burst inside, and she embraced the Phantom as her beloved. 

But waking up to the Sorcerer always reminded her of what she was really doing.   

Finally her loathing disappeared. 

As summer drew to a close, she had a sentiment akin to gratitude when she saw the Sorcerer. 

The Shepherd's Moment of Truth

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Where was that shaking coming from?

The Shepherd tried to pull away, but the hands gripping his shoulders were strong.

“Shepherd!”

There was the Wanderer! At last! Why couldn’t he see him in that riotous tower of stolen hearts?

“Wake up, Shepherd! You’re having a nightmare!”

The Wanderer shouted in his ear.

Finally, the Shepherd was able to force his eyes open.

The Wanderer leaned over him, quaking his shoulders until the Shepherd sat up and brushed his hands away.

He was trembling. That dream really had been a horror. He shook his head and rubbed his face.

“From what I heard you say, I take it you were back at the tower.”

The Wanderer’s voice was gentle.

Suddenly flooded with shame, the Shepherd looked away.

Even if the Wanderer had already figured out there was far more to the story the Shepherd had told him of the night he saw Woman kill the Sorcerer of the Caverns, his friend still must have been shocked from the revelations of the night before.

They had had no chance to talk it over. They had been so exhausted after the elaborate dinner and Adrianna’s tale, both retired to their quarters and their beds immediately.

“Yes, I was. What did I say? If I may be foolish enough to ask?”

“You were pleading with her to spare my heart. Where was I?”

“I don’t know. I wondered the same thing in the dream.”

“I take it you lost the fight.”

“I did,” the Shepherd replied. “Fortunately, you woke me up before your heart got eaten.”

The Wanderer smiled.

“I’m sorry,” the Shepherd said in a quiet voice. “I should have told you the truth years ago. All of it.”

The Wanderer took in the Shepherd’s apology for a moment, nodding slowly. Then he shrugged.

“Thank you, but it hardly matters now. I suspect everything went for the best – or as good an outcome as could be hoped for. We may not be here now if you had. I’d probably still be your talking Wolf.”

The Shepherd paused, then admitted his friend had a point.

The Wanderer nodded again, then hesitated with a subtle frown crossing his face.

“Are you ever going to tell me about her?” the Wanderer asked softly.

“I don’t know.”

The Wanderer smiled again and pointed to his breast.

“This heart wants to know. And this heart has a right to know.”

The Shepherd smiled.

“Such an obvious truth is impossible to argue with. But I wasn’t joking when I said I never talk about her.”

“Whether you like it or not, I don’t think you have much choice. Adrianna is relentless when it comes to getting what she wants.”

“So what if she is? I’m leaving today.”

“You would be a fool to do that, Shepherd.”

“I have to get back to my sheep.”

“I can take care of your sheep,” the Wanderer retorted. “How long were you with Ella Bandita?”

“She was not that wretched creature when I knew her!”

The Wanderer’s eyes widened at the hard edge that had come into the Shepherd’s voice.

He looked away from the Wanderer staring at him with raised brows.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Was this was the love ‘that wasn’t meant’ as you once put it.”

“Why must you ask the nosiest questions?”

“Why won’t you answer them?” the Wanderer retorted. “So, was my Ella Bandita your woman?”

“Yes.”

“Am I also correct in the assumption that you haven’t known a woman since?”

“Now that is none of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ You’re staying. You need this.”

“The last thing I need is to keep company with a courtesan. I’m not a fool.”

“I insist you stay, Shepherd.”

“Last time I checked you were never the master of me.”

“In this particular instance? Like Hell I’m not. That very partial truth you told me was partial enough to be a lie. You owe me.”

“A lie for which I just apologized for. Since the greater good was served – and you said so yourself – I owe you nothing.”

“That’s a paltry way to pay a much larger debt. Not just to me, but to yourself. This part of your life has been chasing you since the day I found your drawing of Ella Bandita.”

The Shepherd was silent.

“It’s time for the story to come out,” the Wanderer persisted. “You might as well get lots of practice in with Adrianna before you tell it to me.”

“How many times do I have to say no?”

“This is not for you to refuse, Shepherd. I demand it of your integrity.”

The Shepherd swore under his breath.

Vagabond Found

The Patron found him in the garden he planted for his beloved before they wed. 

He had created an Eden of her favorite flowers to welcome his bride home, surrounding the house with lilies in every size and color. 

Narrow paths wove through the blooms; some were the color of wine, while others were golden and streaked with black, and still others blushed deep magenta. Pure white callas made regal sentinels that lined the path along the way to the pillars of the portico at the front door. 

The garden of lilies became more splendid with every passing year after his wife died. 

Their stalks grew taller and the bulbs thickened until the blooms were the largest he’d ever seen, perfuming the air with sweet musk as they opened.  

The Vagabond came in early spring, just after his daughter’s thirteenth birthday. 

A light rain fell that morning, sun shining through clouds and drizzle, making ribbons of light and water over the house and garden when he saw the young man among the lilies. 

Dressed in patchwork clothes, with the heavy rucksack of a wanderer at his feet, his mouth was agape as he stared around the garden.

“I beg your pardon,” the Patron said, “but are you lost?”

“Not this time,” the stranger answered, turning in circles and shaking his head at the profusion of blooms growing taller than he. “But everybody’s a bit lost, don’t you think?”

His voice had the smooth texture of aged cognac, but he was a vagabond for certain. His command of language was that of a citizen, but his accent drawled of faraway places. 

“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought,” the Patron replied.

The Vagabond faced him then and smiled. 

His teeth were brilliant against his tan skin, golden brown eyes sparkling as he removed his worn hat. Instead of bowing to introduce himself, he leaned his head back to allow droplets of rain on his face. He closed his lids, the flares of his nose puckering from the long swallow of air.

“Smells like heaven here,” he sighed. “I’ve been just about everywhere, but I’ve never come across anything like this.”

“Is that what you’re doing here? Coming across something new?”

“No,” the Vagabond said, pulling his head up and peering at the Patron. “I’ve come to work and they tell me you have a more generous heart than most.”

“Did they? I guess that depends on what you can do.”

“I can do lots of things, but I like to work with horses whenever I can. I have a nice way with them.”

“Oh really?” the Patron said, cocking one brow.

“Yeah. Really.”

The Patron chuckled and shook his head, unable to resist the urge to lead the young man to the barn. 

He heard the gasp of his visitor and grinned, knowing the sudden change in smell from the garden to the sharp pungency of the stables shocked his senses. 

But the Vagabond followed him to the last stall, whistling when he looked inside.   

“What a beauty!”

“That he is,” said the Patron. “Still a colt and absolutely uncontrollable.”

His coat was deep gray and his mane and tail could have been spun from silver. The long strands cascaded along the curve of his neck and reached to the ground from his hindquarters. His torso had the same girth, his limbs the same length as most adult stallions. 

The Vagabond tapped on the door to bring him closer. 

But the colt stayed at the far side of the stall, looking at the visitor with one eye and snuffling.

“Think you could have a way with him?” the Patron asked.

“Sure.”

“Two of my best stable hands are unable to work for a month after trying to break him in. Both men have worked with horses since they could walk and you believe you can do better?”

“I know I can.”

“I don’t think so.”

The Patron beckoned the Vagabond to accompany him back to the garden, feeling foolish and even a bit cruel for misleading him. 

“It’s too dangerous,” he continued. “I know nothing about you, but I know that colt. I’ve never seen anything like him and he’s not even full grown.”

The Vagabond grinned and shrugged, yet the Patron sensed bitterness as his handsome features tightened for a moment. But the Vagabond took in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, and any signs of wrath disappeared. 

Then he looked the Patron in the eye with a directness bordering the offensive. 

The Patron had never seen a destitute meet him as an equal.

“Sounds like that colt is one that’ll choose his master,” the Vagabond said. “Maybe you should just let him go.”

He chuckled then, with a richness that can only come from the belly. 

The sound of the young adventurer’s laughter was infectious, yet brought to mind the warnings the Patron had heard all his life about those who follow no law but their own.

He’d always tried to be generous and fair to those restless souls who showed up at his door, most of them diminished to half-starved wretches. 

The Patron always gave them decent wages and a good meal. But out of prudence, he never allowed them stay. 

“Thief…”

“Never-do-well…causing trouble wherever he goes…”

“Beware the vagabond and send him on his way…”

The litany of cautions echoed in his memory until the Vagabond interrupted.

“I can handle your colt, Patron. And if I’m wrong, then it’s my tragedy. But what do you stand to lose giving me a chance?”

The Patron knew it was madness to hire someone with nobody to recommend him for such a post. 

He could still see that peculiar young man as he had been on that day. 

A golden mist surrounded him, and the Patron tried to convince himself it was a trick of light from the sun shining through clouds and rain. But that Vagabond was the most radiant being he had ever seen. 

When he shook his head to dispel the mirage, the other glowed even more, and when the Vagabond extended his hand, the Patron accepted the offer before he knew what he was doing.

The Patron struggled to finish his breakfast as he relived that fateful morning. 

He could still feel the pull of destiny when he shook hands with his new Horse Trainer more than seven years ago. 

The irony puzzled him ever since, for he never doubted that decision. 

Yet the Patron also knew the Vagabond had been the gravest mistake of his life.

Dating During a Pandemic, Part 1 - The Comeback of Platonic Dating

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Years ago, long before this pandemic was the thing that changed everything, I had a friendly debate with an acquaintance about what qualified as a date.

She claimed a date wasn’t a date unless you kissed. Anything else was just a meet up.

I insisted that a date was a date if romantic potential was being explored. This especially applied to people who had connected through a dating site (or app as those are more common now), because that potential brought them together.

Even if nothing intimate or sexual happened, and the date ended up being a friend, the first meetup or two were dates. Platonic dates, but still dates.

Since she and I had met through OkCupid, she raised a brow.

“So you’re saying you and I had a couple of dates?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m so hawt!!”

Whatever. That’s not the point of the story.

At the time, I was surprised by her perspective, but I also suspected her theory that it wasn’t a date unless something sexual happened was probably more common than mine.

Once upon a time, OkCupid was known to be very sex-positive, as well as LGBTQ and kink and poly friendly. OkCupid used to have a lot of direct and indirect multiple-choice questions to size up values and attitudes around sexuality in all of these areas.

One of the many ways Match.com ruined OkCupid when they bought it out was that all those questions disappeared.

That is a shameful loss. So much valuable information was to be found in the answers to those questions. And those perspectives mattered a lot.

Most people who have dated online are familiar with the OkCupid algorithm questionnaire.

But for those who come across this blog who got married/partnered out of high school or college or before age 30 at least 15 years ago - and who stayed together, and thus never had to dive into the wonderful world of online dating and algorithms, here’s a quick tutorial.

If you perused the profile of somebody who looked good to you, you couldn’t see their answers unless you answered the same questions.

You could rate the importance of their answers by: 1) checking the answers that were acceptable to you; 2) rank if the answers mattered a little, somewhat, or a lot; 3) if you checked all the answers, it’s considered irrelevant because you don’t care.

Dealbreaker answers were highlighted in red. So if your answer was red, that’s their dealbreaker. If their answer was red, then it’s your dealbreaker.

This little algorithm was pretty rich when it came to the sex questions.

One of the simplest and most straightforward of these was:

If you started dating somebody you liked a lot, how long would it be before you had sex?

The choices were a) 1-2 dates, b) 3-5 dates, and c) 6 or more dates.

The most popular answer was 3-5 dates, but plenty of women answered 1-2 dates, and that was rarely marked with scarlet. Of course, the answer most often highlighted in red was 6 or more dates.

Guess which answer mine was? The least popular of the three.

Can’t bring the U-Haul on the 2nd date if you don’t fuck on the 1st.

That cliché about lesbian dating is kind of exaggerated and kind of true. Attraction, sex, love, and lesbian bed death before the breakup - this sequence of events often happens at a lightning pace.

Thus, it was clear that the consensus on queer dating was more in alignment with my acquaintance’s perspective than mine.

I was always floored by the 3-5 dates before sex as the median average.

I get it if people met through shared interests, mutual friends, work, or crossing paths in those random ways of similar rituals and life habits because the mating dance has already begun. Even sex within 1-2 dates seems all right, especially if the getting-to-know-this-person-I’m-crushing-on phase lasted a while.

But if the theoretical lovers met through a dating site? And the first time they laid eyes on each other was on that first date (or “meetup” if they didn’t kiss, according to that acquaintance)?

I guess I’m kind of a prude, or what is now known as a demisexual - which is far more flattering. That leaves so little time to know if I really like a person.

I know within seconds if there’s a spark and I find somebody attractive. But sparks can and often do fizzle fast. Real attraction with the delicious sexual tension that often leads to the best kind of climax – that develops over time.

I thought 6 or more dates was reasonable and not even that much of a challenge. Chances were excellent that sex would happen by the end of the first month. I mean, if we liked each other, we’d probably get together at least once or twice a week.

Yet that was the answer most often highlighted in red on OkCupid. This was before Tinder exploded and became the new normal for sex and dating.

What a minute…what dating? Tinder was all about the hook up.

You didn’t even have to pick somebody up or get picked up at the bar, where the mating dance of drunkenness led to the respite of getting laid.

Instead, Tinderella gets down with Prince Not-So-Charming-But-Hot-Enough an hour after meeting him, and never seeing him again was her happily ever after - that became a trope for a reason. Because it happened often enough. Even between lesbians.

Then along came the Rona.

I’m sure there have still been some random hook ups through Tinder since the pandemic began. But in all, the culture of the Tinder hookup pretty much came to a screeching halt, and the Tinderella fairy tale turned back into a pumpkin.

There have still been those who found ways to get down - the truly determined, the agonizingly touch-deprived, or the desperately horny.

There have been some hot flings that lasted a month, sometimes two. But from what I’ve seen and heard, these are far more loving and appreciative connections.

Quarantine lockdown has brought a lot of people in touch with the reality and pain of profound loneliness. Possibly for the first time in their lives because all the usual distractions have been stripped away.

Short-term lovers part ways after admitting the differences between them are not going to work for a long-term relationship. But there is more respect for each other, and more gratitude for the time spent in this temporary respite from isolation.

Nowadays, most in-person dates have been socially-distanced outdoor walks, often times masked up. People either take some time to really get to know each other, or make the call that there’s not enough chemistry to bother.

I think that’s a beautiful thing.

The primal need to connect, really connect without taking each other for granted, is a stronger drive.

Platonic dating has made a comeback.

And it’s about fucking time.

6 Lovely Writing Prompts for Fantasy, Romance, Journaling!

Time for some more writing prompts! Here are some luscious ones that could inspire fantasy, romance, love story (my personal favorite), journaling, or even memoir. It’s all up to you. If you like these, click here for the writing prompts that came before. I may offer more this month simply just because…

Flirting With Hypothermia, Part 3 - When the Water Only Hurts

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

I made it.

I made it to the lowest temperature the water will be this winter.

I’m damn proud of myself for that. Of course, I am. 39° is no small feat. Especially in the absence of neoprene.

Bathing suit, water shoes, swim cap with or without goggles – that has been my go-to for these swims.

When I started doing this, I wasn’t sure I would be able to go all winter.

Cold water swimming is a different animal once the water dipped below the 50° mark. Once the water falls down into the 40’s, it hurts. Like a lot.

I stay in for about 20 minutes when the water was in the upper 40’s, and about 15 when the water was in the lower 40’s.

Then it fell to 39.

From getting in to my waist to dipping my hands to fully submerging to swimming to getting out of the river, I stay in that water for anywhere from 8-11 minutes, and I’ve done that at least 3 times.

Except for adding a swim cap to keep my hair dry enough and keeping my head and face out of the water most of the time (no brain freeze), I made no other change to my routine other than staying in for shorter swims.

I’m impatient for the water to hit the 50° mark again. The water is starting to go up, but it’ll be a while before it’s in the 50’s.

There is no pleasure at the edge of this pain.

The best I can hope for is enough numbness to make the hurt tolerable. I can only acclimate so far to water this cold.

My swim buddy handles the water differently than I do. She rushes in, fully submerges, and shrieks as she stands waist deep and waits for me.

I still do the walk. I stop at my waist and wait for the torment to become bearable.

Cold burns.

How odd is it that the polar opposite of hot burns as much, yet without frying your flesh?

The lower half of my body – legs, hips, and waist – feel the sharp pricking of invisible pins and needles. My bathing suit provides some layer of relief for my pelvis, but not much.

It hurts so bad that I scream “WHY?! Why am I doing this?!”

As much as I’ve heard and read that cold-water swimming is good for me; at this point, I’m in it for the ego probably more than my physical and mental health.

Sometimes I’m tempted to get out. But I’m already here. Besides I can’t lose face with my swim buddy, and it’s only 10 minutes of torture.

I grit my teeth until the pain is tolerable and my legs are almost numb.

Then I thrust my hands in. Of course, I scream again.

I can feel my heart pounding from the stress and fear of it all. This is completely counter-intuitive for modern day humans accustomed to the easy comfort of a thermostat.

I struggle to regulate my breathing and my hands hurt like hell.

Finally, the pain is tolerable. I psych myself up to go under. Then I start swimming.

My breath comes in short gasps and all I can say is: goddammit motherfucker shit this sucks oh fuck Fuck FUCK!!!

The water burns at the edge of my neck between water and air. Sometimes I submerge to give myself some relief. I know it’s bad when I have to go into the cold water to rid myself of the pain at the edge of water and air.

My swim buddy is flailing and shrieking a few strokes away. We’re in this together, yet alone. We are each immersed in our own relationship with endurance of something so wretchedly uncomfortable.

I’m counting strokes to determine how many minutes I have to keep doing this. Counting distracts me.

Breaststroke is agonizing, so I switch to side-stroke. I don’t know why that gives me relief from the agonizing numb. Maybe it’s because I have to switch sides and that small change makes it somewhat bearable.

Shit goddammit shit fucking FUCK!!!

My swim buddy and I screech and holler and laugh.

I submerge fully again, and the gesture is bizarrely soothing.

When the water is this cold, there is no workout. I can’t swim as far or as fast in this temperature as I could before. My hands never fully get used to the stinging pain, and they stiffen quickly.

I never reach an easy breathing pattern. There is no euphoria while in the water. That comes later during the rewarming.

At least that’s the way it works for me.

At last, we’ve done this long enough and it’s time to get out of the river.

We’re more conservative and careful in water this cold. We don’t stay in so long, and I don’t feel like I’m tripping on mushrooms when I get out. I’m sure I would if I stayed in 5-10 minutes longer.

But this water could kill.

So the magic mushroom trippiness can wait until the water is back in the 50’s and there’s a more generous margin of error.

We rush to our cars to change clothes and start the process of rewarming.

We have our rhythm down.

My clothes are lined up in the order to dress in, so I don’t even have to think about it.

Wool hat on before peeling down the top half of my suit. Once the struggle is over and the first layer is on, I’m relieved.

My flirtation with hypothermia will not end in tragedy. At least, it won’t today.

I like soft wool that fits close. My swim buddy has made life easier with a large sweatshirt and pants that she can throw on without precise coordination from her hands.

This is the moment of reward. The endorphin rush is phenomenal now that it’s over.

Instead of sitting on the beach, my swim buddy and I sit in one of our vehicles with the heat on full blast. We sip hot tea, bullshit about our personal lives, and laugh at the sheer lunacy of what we do. What we just did yet again.

The laughter is the best part.

Maybe that’s why I keep doing this.

Well, that and the bragging rights, of course. Who doesn’t love getting mad respect for doing something crazy?

Update February 13, 2021

I spoke a little too soon when I wrote this piece. Due to the latest snowpocalypse in Portland, the water has dropped to the low to mid 30’s.

My swim buddy and I hit it at 35 degrees yesterday, after walking barefoot across the snowy beach. It was agony, and I didn’t even last 3 minutes.

But I still did it.

If anybody would like to read “Flirting with Hypothermia, Part 2 - Riding the Edge of Pain and Pleasure,” click HERE.

Pariah Metamorphosis

Image by wal_172619 from Pixabay

All her life, people whispered what a tragic shame it was the girl didn’t take after her mother. 

The Patron agreed, although he tried to hide it. His daughter’s presence would have been easier to bear if she could have reminded him of his beloved wife. 

But he never saw anything, no matter how much he wanted to. 

Time had not refined his daughter’s features, and she never acquired the languid poise of her mother. 

Yet after that day, the Patron noticed the girl radiated an assurance that was unusual for women.

She possessed her own grace, moving with animal freedom. 

The Patron also noticed she had grown more animated. 

He found she chose satires and comedic novels for her reading, often biting her lower lip to suppress her chuckles. 

She also began painting for the first time since her formal education came to an end, singing or humming while working watercolors onto canvas. 

The Patron often found her on the back portico of the house, where she had a splendid view of the young forest to the east.

The girl always stopped her brushstroke when he came, confusion clouding her features every time she saw him. But the coolness in her eyes was unsettling. 

His daughter’s transformation intrigued the Patron. He couldn’t understand how that happened, for nothing had changed. 

She was still despised everywhere she went. 

Rooms fell silent on her entrance. People stared at her or ignored her just as they had for years. 

But the girl was no longer stricken by it. 

Instead, her indifference to what others thought of her was clear while she went through her day as alone as ever. She now had an air of contentment about her, happiness even. 

After years of ostracism, she had become someone who didn’t need anybody.

He wasn’t the only one to notice the changes in his daughter. 

Her lady’s maid seemed more intimidated by her than she used to be. 

She stopped using the back laces of her gowns as a corset, dressing her mistress in the manner she found most comfortable. 

The stable boys often gazed after her when she left the stables, and even the Cook stared at her whenever she passed with troubled eyes. 

His daughter had become fascinating, but she was a stranger to them all. 

As the Patron observed her, he found himself wishing he knew what her thoughts were. 

Yet every time he looked into her cold blue eyes, he remembered the last time he’d spoken to her. The horror the Patron had felt when he had found no heartbeat, followed with his accusations, and her protest of innocence.

“How could you do this? You are far too young!”

The Patron could still see the bewilderment in her eyes as the girl shook her head.

“What are you talking about?  I didn’t do anything wrong!”

But the Patron just turned his back and walked away, leaving his daughter to her fate. 

Sometimes he had overheard people express admiration for his mercy in allowing his daughter to stay on at the house.

And every time the Patron felt sick inside. 

He was haunted by the decision he’d made, and the doubts he buried in the back of his mind became a dull roar that made his head ache. 

The conversation he had with the Cook one morning gave no relief to his growing unease.

The Patron almost groaned aloud when he came into the dining parlor and saw the expanse of the Cook’s wide back. 

Her table-side manner left much to be desired. 

He was surprised to see her so soon, for the Cook only left her stoves when the kitchen girls were too ill to serve. It was the peak of autumn, too early for the maladies to start going around the village. 

For the sake of keeping his patience, he thought of the supper he enjoyed the previous night.

“By the way,” he said, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how impressed I’ve been with your recipes this summer. But last night you outdid yourself.” 

“Thank you, Patron!” the Cook said, her eyes lighting up.

“I especially liked the soup, but I didn’t recognize the meat. What was it?”

“Well, yesterday afternoon I got a pair of wild hares freshly killed. The soup was already done, but I thought they’d go well. So I diced the meat small to fry up quick and threw it in.”

“That explains it,” he said. “I haven’t had rabbit for a long time. How did you get it?”

The Patron was surprised when the Cook didn’t answer right away. 

Her fleshy features puckered at the question, which was never a good sign. 

He leaned back in his chair and waited.

“From your daughter, Patron.”

He set his coffee down. 

The Cook flushed and her speech was rushed.  

“Truth be told, Patron, I think your praise of my dinners has more to do with her hunting than my cooking. Near every day she comes to the kitchen with something.”

“Does she? And how long has she been doing this?”

“Since last spring. She brought in a string of fish out of nowhere one day.”

The Cook hesitated before going on, her tone dropping to a whisper. 

“I must say, Patron, it’s been a long time since she’s done anything like that. Not since-”

“I remember quite well when she used to bring wild meat to the kitchen.”

6 Unique Fiction Writing Prompts!

Here are some writing prompts! If you need some more inspiration, click here and here.