about their wedding night, âhe married a gusher.â
âWe donât have to do anything,â she says, arching her back and pushing it against him until she feels his erection fit neatly into the cleft of her bottom. âWe donât have to do anything,â she says, moving slowly up and down against him until he begins to move against her. For a moment she is turned on by the idea of letting him in the back door. It would not be so out of character for them, she reasons. After all, her role has always been the experienced one while his is that of the ingénue. It was she who took his virginity that afternoon in her residence room. She knew from his ham-fisted effort that day that it was his first time, but she pretended not to. Instead, she made him feel that his first thirty-second performance was champion.
She continues to move against him. As his efforts become a bit more pointed, she loses some of her resolve. She knows it is something most men want to try â some women even say they enjoy it. But she is still lucid enough to know that it is the idea and not the act that appeals to her. There is something in the thought of that deflowering that seems just right, something to correct the sterility of the room, something to redress the formality of the day, something to nullify the presence of her parents in their suite across the hall. She senses their coming together in that way will form a deep equation in which two wrongs will make a right; they will enter â albeit with the help of lubrication â a parallel universe in which two plusses will make a minus. And below and beyond all that, there will be deep pleasure in their shame.
In the end, they do something far more radical. Violet turns to face her new husband and they kiss, tentatively and sweetly, as though for the first time. Long after he closes his eyes, she lies there looking at his face. In the half light, he seems to keep changing â another hallucination. She imagines he is being visited by all his male ancestors, their faces briefly flashing across his, drawn by the possibility that their former existence may soon find form again.
âIâm so happy that we found each other, Brian.â She whispers, not knowing if he is asleep. âI love you so much.â
Baby Power
As I stood next to Violet on our wedding day, in that concrete bunker underneath Fort Amherst, I imagined I was hooked up to a porthole-shaped monitor that displayed energy wavelengths in green. A similar screen hovered above the heads of everyone present. I couldnât believe that we were just moments away from pulling it off. What a farce. And yet suddenly it didnât feel farcical. My monitor readouts were jumping all over the place as I tried to deal with competing thoughts and feelings. As well, the flowers were aggravating my allergies, making my nose run and my eyes mist over. I was worried that those gathered might think I was about to burst into tears. Okay, maybe it was good for Violetâs viper-eyed mother to think that, but my friends, I knew from experience, didnât prize what Devlin referred to as emotional incontinence. When they were around, I tended to keep my deeper feelings under lock and key. The truth was, of course, that my feelings were staging a breakout. At that moment, I felt not so much a duty as a wish to embrace the role of groom. Violet and I were about to perform an act that, until then, we had only ever performed in private. I could feel my will, almost against my will, start to align with the collective energies in the room. No wonder I was sweating under the dead-manâs suit I had bought from the Saint Vincent DePaul. As the ceremony began, I watched the spyrograph waves on each monitor slowly calm, the arcs and ellipses collapse into a single bright green line.
And then we were done. We had consecrated our union, and, as foretold, the spirit dove upon us, manifesting as that highly prized,
âWe donât have to do anything,â she says, arching her back and pushing it against him until she feels his erection fit neatly into the cleft of her bottom. âWe donât have to do anything,â she says, moving slowly up and down against him until he begins to move against her. For a moment she is turned on by the idea of letting him in the back door. It would not be so out of character for them, she reasons. After all, her role has always been the experienced one while his is that of the ingénue. It was she who took his virginity that afternoon in her residence room. She knew from his ham-fisted effort that day that it was his first time, but she pretended not to. Instead, she made him feel that his first thirty-second performance was champion.
She continues to move against him. As his efforts become a bit more pointed, she loses some of her resolve. She knows it is something most men want to try â some women even say they enjoy it. But she is still lucid enough to know that it is the idea and not the act that appeals to her. There is something in the thought of that deflowering that seems just right, something to correct the sterility of the room, something to redress the formality of the day, something to nullify the presence of her parents in their suite across the hall. She senses their coming together in that way will form a deep equation in which two wrongs will make a right; they will enter â albeit with the help of lubrication â a parallel universe in which two plusses will make a minus. And below and beyond all that, there will be deep pleasure in their shame.
In the end, they do something far more radical. Violet turns to face her new husband and they kiss, tentatively and sweetly, as though for the first time. Long after he closes his eyes, she lies there looking at his face. In the half light, he seems to keep changing â another hallucination. She imagines he is being visited by all his male ancestors, their faces briefly flashing across his, drawn by the possibility that their former existence may soon find form again.
âIâm so happy that we found each other, Brian.â She whispers, not knowing if he is asleep. âI love you so much.â
Baby Power
As I stood next to Violet on our wedding day, in that concrete bunker underneath Fort Amherst, I imagined I was hooked up to a porthole-shaped monitor that displayed energy wavelengths in green. A similar screen hovered above the heads of everyone present. I couldnât believe that we were just moments away from pulling it off. What a farce. And yet suddenly it didnât feel farcical. My monitor readouts were jumping all over the place as I tried to deal with competing thoughts and feelings. As well, the flowers were aggravating my allergies, making my nose run and my eyes mist over. I was worried that those gathered might think I was about to burst into tears. Okay, maybe it was good for Violetâs viper-eyed mother to think that, but my friends, I knew from experience, didnât prize what Devlin referred to as emotional incontinence. When they were around, I tended to keep my deeper feelings under lock and key. The truth was, of course, that my feelings were staging a breakout. At that moment, I felt not so much a duty as a wish to embrace the role of groom. Violet and I were about to perform an act that, until then, we had only ever performed in private. I could feel my will, almost against my will, start to align with the collective energies in the room. No wonder I was sweating under the dead-manâs suit I had bought from the Saint Vincent DePaul. As the ceremony began, I watched the spyrograph waves on each monitor slowly calm, the arcs and ellipses collapse into a single bright green line.
And then we were done. We had consecrated our union, and, as foretold, the spirit dove upon us, manifesting as that highly prized,
Similar Books
