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Never mess with a witch
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
This segement is from a larger account I've written about my life. It marks
the only event in my life that made me angry enough to tell stories out of
bed.
... In the week following the coffee house accusation I wrote the following
account of the events of the evening of the party where I'd been seduced by
the woman who accused me of rape.
The party.
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I'm not certain what sort of event this is. But I do have a reasonably clear
idea of the course of events one evening in particular. There was a party.
Part of the description is pornographic. Another part is ethical. It can be
cast in the language of myth. It is a story that can be told.
I remember that night. You were all tarted up, masquerading as a girl, you
said. Imagine that ! A witch, a wiccan, the leader of a coven. A latter day
pagan if I donUt miss my guess. But I stand by what I said to you on paper
already, slander from you notwithstanding.
Yes, I remember well the way you grabbed my hand, pulling me, a not
unwilling captive, off to the shed, my bedroom. It felt good, holding hands
like that,. The shed was an interesting pace to go. There was music there. We
made some of it.
There was a procession of people, all adding to the music in the shed. It
started small and soft. You and your special friend caressing each other
with a ritual round sung in intimate tones:
air and earth and water and fire
I listened for a while, and then added to the harmony with:
east and south and west and north
Then we sat, each looking at two others , all comfortably enveloped in a
silence of intimacy. I want to make love slowly in simple silence, you
said. I wondered if you were speaking abstractly, or to your special friend.
You were not looking at me.
Presently we were left alone for a short time. You said you were very drunk.
And then you made a disparaging comment about the absence of available
alcohol, your wine long since drunk. " Would you care for a wee nip of
Jack Daniels?", I asked in a mock Irish accent.
"Just what are your intentions?", you responded grinning like the cat that
Alice met.
I stood and walked to the door. "Why, only the sharin' of a sip of a rare
brew, and to make some more music". I said.
You laughed as I walked out the door.
When I returned with the bottle and a one ounce jam jar, there were more
people in the room. The jar was lifted some eight or nine times between
five people. You lifted it twice. As did I, and the others.
There were two guitars in the room. Nearly everyone played or sang.
You were getting a back massage while I played my sorely wounded but lovely
sounding, weeping guitar. I played my whole repetoire, all three songs.
Then I jammed for a while with the player of my other junky guitar. After
you had soaked up all of the prodding, poking, manipulating, and kneading
that the young musician at your back had to give, I offered to trade my
position at the guitar for his place at your back.
You are stronger that I; I know this, for I have sounded the breadth of your
back with cupped palms tattooing a counterpoint to the ambient rhythms in
that small room to which I retreat at the end of each day. You purred like a
kitten as I scratched above your ears, my fingers raking through the chestnut
depths across the surface of your scalp. It seemed as though your hunger for
sensual pleasures was insatiable. My pleasure was not merely vicarious.
To make a general claim: no small part of our ability as humans to sense
the rhythms and patterns in the world is mediated by the finger tips. And
visually, your feminine presence is obvious, shaped in the fashion of an
earth goddess. But perhaps the most direct of all is the subtle odour that
marks you - underscoring and superseding the smell of the perfumes in
your shampoo - as a woman. Then you bade me sit before you and you
began to massage my back and shoulders.
Up to the point that you took my shirt off one could say the evening was one
only of flirtations, bantering, music, and conversation. There was a mural
being painted by one and all in the house. And the discussion around the
fire pit was philosophical. But when you poured shampoo on my back the
evening took on a twist that was erotic by anybody's lights! I remember
the fusion of rock, jazz, blues, and Latin music emanating from the sound
holes of my guitars. "My two junk guitars sound wonderful", I said raising
my head from the floor. The laughter, the music, your hands on my skin,
worked as a melange, a potent witches brew actively emulsifying the
stagnating vicissitudes of a life gone awry. Your hands pushing me into t
he floor, pulling me up half into a lotus; witch - wicce - to wic : bent and
shaped. I did not notice our companions quietly slip out of the room. "Can
we turn out these lights?", you said.
I unplugged the fluorescent grow lite, and switched off the swag lamp.
Then I adjusted the position of the desk lamp so that it cast a soft, double
reflected glow upon the ceiling. " Is this ok?"
Super-saturated inter-subjective consciousness. We explored each other
with our fingers, our lips, our tongues. I tasted the skin above your collar,
lifting aside your heavy chestnut which draped to the bale of your spine.
Your fingers trace random paths across my chest, my arms, back and belly,
along the line of my belt; ants in silken slippers searching, seeking food and
materials for the hive, in service to the queen.
The door opened and in walked one of the guitar players looking for his jacket.
He found it quickly and left, laughing. " Turn out the light ." you demanded. I
unplugged the lamp.
My belt buckle defied your probing fingers. "You do it", you said.
"The U.S.Army gave me this belt when I was nineteen years old." I released the
friction bar on that little brass buckle. You bared your breasts with a sinuous
sweep of your spine, and I assisted you with your spandex, enjoying the
spectacle of you, a Palaeolithic Venus come to life before my eyes. Your
spandex lay on the floor, sloughed like the skin of the ancient symbol of
feminine wisdom. You stroked my cheek, and then you began to speak.
" I want to spend two hours making passionate love with you. But I want
to be perfectly clear. I am not trying to begin a new relationship with you.
I don't want you to come around my house. It ends here tonight."
You probably could not see the wry smile on my face in the diffuse
scattered light in that little room. Thoughts flitted and fluttered through
my mind, a thousand birds flying about, trying to alight upon a single
branch. No sooner did one settle in than another would push it from its place.
"Before we can go any further, David, I need to hear from you.", you
said into the pregnant interstitial silence.
"For me to pursue a relationship with you I would have to take too
much time away from my daughters."
Then you kissed me, and our exploration continued. I kissed the pin
which pierce your nose. I painted every accessible region of your skin
with my lips. I tasted of your golden lotus. You received these attentions,
guiding me with your sounds and your motions.
"Do you have any condoms? I'm at my most fertile, right now."
"In the bathroom."
I knew that either I should have to get dressed and go to the bathroom,
or satisfy this passionate encounter, as best I could, by oral means. I
chose the latter. Silently I returned my attentions to the petals and
pistil of your lotus blossom.
" I want you inside me .", you said, pulling me up, grasping my jade stalk,
guiding me into the recesses of your flower. "Don't come inside.", you said
as you pulled on my hips. Over and over you repeated these refrains,
punctuating your desires with your fears. You were vocal. I was silent.
I did not tell you that in my tiredness at the early hour of the morning,
with the alcohol thinning my blood, there was no danger; my essential
fluids would not issue forth.
Three times the rhythm and pattern of the wind and the waves was
interrupted by the opening of the door. Two times your special friend
asked you what you thought you were doing, and once it was another
resident of the little forest compound. Gently, but assertively you put
them all off with vague assurances. After a while I sensed a crescendo
and the echo of a dying chord.
We put ourselves back together, chatting languidly. You asked me to
return your earrings to you on Monday. Then you walked with your
special friend arm in arm , her head on your shoulder into the dark.
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