Tarotica Ch 10

When the Wheel of Fortune appears upright in a reading, you’re entering a lucky period or cycle in your life. You get to turn the Wheel of Fortune and great things come up. You’re very lucky now no matter what you wish to do; things just seem to go your way. In fact, nothing can stop you now!

--The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tarot and Fortune-Telling

Important developments. Improvements. Rapid change. You are entering a new cycle involving a fortunate set of circumstances that promise beneficial change and continuing progress. A new chapter in your life is about to begin. You are ending one phase and starting something new.

--Tarot: Plain and Simple. By Anthony Louis.

I have come to realize that I can’t return, that, as one grows older, there is no returning really, there’s only memory-residue, the cloth of which fades daily.

I was young when I married – my mother, later, would say “too young,” and I would get angry and say things like, “Don’t you think I know that, Mother? Don’t you think I’ve told myself that enough times?” and she would pout and apologize, as if she never meant to hurt me, and I would feel bad. She would leave my house then, her coffee cup still steaming on the table, and I would, for the 80th – 100th --- 4,000th time – put my head on the table and sob. I am still surprised my head did not make a permanent impression there, that my tears didn’t warp the old wood forever. It was tiring, divorce, and I cried and slept a lot. I called no one – only my family, and then only at the last minute, after everything was already settled. After my marriage, committed too young, had gasped its last death throes and the red-hot anger had mellowed to merely anguish.

I took a long vacation – fortunately, I was left with some of our savings, -- enough, anyway, to buy me a few weeks of recovery. My supervisor – a competent but still passionate woman – was more than understanding; she’d gone through her own divorce just three years earlier. She let me go with no admonition, just told me to take enough time – and that my return would be welcome.

So, during this time I’d bought for myself, I watched television, wrote a little, cried a lot, and clung to Bootsie, the cat – I’d gained full custody of her, and for that, I was grateful. She licked my face, sometimes, but mostly didn’t understand – she would often wiggle in my desperate grip, and sometimes she would mewl desperately at the door – “She’s looking for Eric,” I thought, though I had no reason, really, to think this, “She misses Eric. And it’s my fault.” This, inevitably, would be followed by another flood of guilt-anguished tears – mine, not hers. Bootsie would glance at me indifferently, than waltz off to her all-important – and all-consuming – nap.

During one of those days, I lay on the couch, sniffling a little after watching Rickie Lake and several day-time soaps. I’d not watched this kind of viewer-fodder for some time, but I relaxed in the indulgence, the excuse to be stupid, and found myself crying about Ronnie’s car accident and Victoria’s lost baby. Stupid, I would say to myself, Get up and do something – and yet – the something never really materialized.

Until Shandra showed up. Shandra is my older sister by 16 years. We were not close growing up, but had somehow gotten that way as adults. Eric used to say that we must have, in some prior life, been twins. When we finally formed our friendship, the similarities were amazing – similar gestures, similar laugh, similar thoughts on life – and of course, that uncanny twin-ability to know what the other is thinking. On one of those tear-soaked, soap-opera-soaked days, Shandra knocked on my door. She lived out of state – I did not expect her – and when I opened the door and saw her, rain-soaked, in front of my house, I cried – again – this time so much I thought I would burst right through my skin. Shandra said nothing, just walked into my house, shook herself down, and held me. She led me to the couch, she turned off the t.v., and I lay in her arms, trembling against her rain-drenched skin. After some time, she kissed me on the top of the head and said, “Sis – do you mind if I make us tea?” I sat up, laughed through the tears, and shook my head. “I’ll do it,” I said, “I can at least do that much,” and I walked to the kitchen to heat the water. Bootsie followed, mewling in curiosity.

“You surprised me,” I called from the kitchen. Shandra laughed – that distinctive, breath-full laugh, a trademark of my family’s – “I know – I meant to. Mom said you were pretty down.” I frowned, walked back to the living room. “Oh? You talked to Mom?” Shandra shook her head, still smiling, “Kristin – you can’t let her get to you – she’s just – Mom – and she does care about you – and worry about you. She suggested that I come down.” I grinned, hope creeping through my skin – a foreign feeling, these days. “I’m glad, Shandra – it’s just great to see you. I need you. How long are you here?” “Just a few days . . .” “I’ll take it,” I said, and walked back into the kitchen to fix the tea.

We talked, then, for hours – she talked about her past failed marriage, I talked about mine. We laughed about stupid things – about clothing and work and movies and Bootsie – and, finally, I lay, nearly recovered, on the couch, my head in her lap. “You know what we need, Kristin?” Shandra asked, lazily running her hands through my hair. “What’s that, sweetheart?” “Some wine.” “Hmmm,” I responded, “You know – Eric left his precious stash – can you believe he forgot it? It’s supposed to be something special – I don’t know – but I’ll go grab a bottle.” I went to the basement, to the “wine cellar” – really just a cabinet in the basement wall – and plucked a purplish bottle. I had no idea its year, its brand – I chose it merely on the basis of proximity. “Here we go,” I proclaimed, walking up the steps. We searched for a cork-screw, then poured and exchanged glances, laughing as we did so. There was more laughter, more glasses, and a thought occurred to me – “You know what, Shandra? I have a game – that Eric never wanted to play – it’s called ‘Wheel of Fortune.’” “Like the television show?” she asked, the liquid grape slurring her words just a little. “No,” I said, “Not at all like that – it’s a sexual game.” “Oh,” she giggled, “I don’t know if I could do that.” “You’re such a bullshitter,” I responded, “Come on – let’s try it.”

I broke out the game – it had been hidden, discreetly, under our couch. Eric had been neither amused nor surprised when I’d brought it home – merely offended. It was dusty now, and I blew on the cover, spreading scads of god-knows-what through the house. Shandra coughed. “Good Lord girl, don’t you every dust?” “Not under things,” I responded, and opened the game. There wasn’t much too it – some cards, a small plastic wheel. “That’s it?” Shandra hiccupped, “No board? How do you keep score?” “I don’t think you do,” I said, squinting at the directions, which were written in a lurid purple font, “The goal, it says here, is to have fun – and to let the game serve as a guide.” “All right, then, let’s see that wheel.”

The wheel was divided into four categories: Things you’ve done, Things you wish you’d done, Things you would never do, and Things you’ve seen others do. A small plastic arrow whirled in the wheel’s middle, moving with Shandra’s movements. “Hmm,” she said, “I guess there’s a deck of cards for each of these – uh – categories.” “It seems straightforward enough,” I said, “You spin the wheel, and pick a card – the other person has to answer the question phrased on the card picked.” “That’s it?” Shandra said, “Well, I guess it might be a little hard to score.” “Here,” I said, “I’ll spin first.” With a tic of my fingertip, I sent the arrow sailing briskly around the wheel. It landed, slowly, on Things you would never do. “Go ahead, Shandra,” I said, “Pick a card.” Shandra leaned forward, picked a card from the green corresponding deck, read it, and looked at me and laughed. “Would you ever – or never – have sexual contact with a dog?” I laughed, too, “Do they mean – the canine kind?” “I think so,” said Shandra, taking another sip of wine. “The answer, sis, is Never.” “Thought so,” she slurred, “My turn!” She picked up the wheel and, with a dramatic gesture, sent the arrow blurring around the small plastic disk. This time, it landed on Things you’ve done. I leaned over, made a drum roll noise, and picked up the appropriate card. “Have you ever,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “made love to a woman?”

Shandra paused, reddened a little, and then smiled. “Well – you should know, anyway – I just didn’t to tell the rest of the family – but yes, of course I have.” “Ahhh . .” I smiled, “I knew it – with Gabby, right?” “You got it – I figured you’d know.” I leaned forward, the game, for a minute, forgotten. “What was it like, Shandra?” I was on the floor, my head resting on one hand. With the other, I ticked the wheel back and forth – whirr – whirr. I imagined Shandra and Gabby together, kissing, their hair mingling, tangling with each other’s. Gabby was an attractive brunette with startling black hair – almost an opposite of my sister, really – Gabby was tall, lithe, cat-like – Shandra was short, blonde, and sometimes – when she forgets herself – tends toward the squat. I thought about the two of them, these physical opposites, rolling in bed, their breasts pressed together, their legs knotting. This is my sister, I thought to myself, Stop it. Must be the game, must be the wine. “It’s nice, Kristin,” Shandra’s voice was dreamy, a bit wistful, “It can be so much – gentler – and – so much more exciting, at the same time, than with a man –“ a soft chuckle, “Women are so much softer – physically, I mean.” Another chuckle, “Not always – other ways – emotionally – or mentally – “ “What happened between you and Gab?” I asked, “Why did you end – things? I always wanted to know.” Shandra leaned forward, smoothed my hair, then patted my cheek, “Perhaps we’ll go over that ground during my next visit – now! Back to the game. Whose turn?”

I spun and Shandra plucked the next card. We went that way, for a while, drinking wine and spinning the cheap plastic Wheel of Fortune. We shrieked at some of the questions – Have you ever toe or titty-fucked? – one of mine to Shandra’s – who snorted with laughter and said, “I don’t even know what that means.” Would you ever – or never – cheat with your best friend’s lover? Have you ever watched someone else make love? Would you ever – or never – let yourself be tied up and whipped? “Okay, okay,” Shandra said, through her laughter, “One more. And then I have to go to bed.” “All right – all right – it’s my turn to spin.” I ticked the wheel. Things you wish you’d done. “All right, for the big prize, the last question of the evening. ‘If you haven’t done so yet, have you ever wished that you had a sexual relationship with someone of the same sex?” I didn’t hesitate. “Oh, yes, definitely,” I said, “I think about it a lot.” “It must, then, be in the family,” Shandra said, “You think about it a lot?” “Yeah – I mean – “ I took another sip of wine, “I like guys – I mean – I’m hetero, I think, but I think about women – about what they must feel like – about how nice it would be to have a sexual relationship with someone who understands – you know?” I looked up at Shandra, who had moved closer to me. We were still on the floor, both sitting, leaning against the couch. She took a sip, too, then held my gaze. Putting her wine down, she touched my chin with her finger, raised my face. I was close to her sea-green eyes, to her high cheekbones, to the full lips I’d always envied. She leaned in to me, then, and kissed me. I felt a thrill – both of sensation and taboo – race its way down my spine. Her lips were hot on mine, and I could feel the gentle prodding of her tongue against my teeth. I opened my mouth, took her tongue, and, as I did so, felt my chest heaving under a new, odd weight. She sat back, after the kiss. My lips were still moist. “Yes,” she whispered, “I know – it’s nice to be with someone who understands.”

She leaned forward again, gently pressing my body down under her small weight. I felt the odd pressure of her small breasts, the softness of her cheek against mine. I could smell the wine on her tongue, and something else – some other thing, some other scent, that seemed to reek of desire. She lay on top of me, there on the floor, and, as we both reclined, we knocked The Wheel of Fortune – cards flew. “Damned game, anyway,” Shandra said, and, lifting my shirt, began to nibble wildly on my tits – I could feel my nipples harden, my breath coming in even shorter, grasps. Hesitant, curious, and now excited, I reached out to pull my hands through her hair – ran my fingertips lightly down her neck, watching the white skin dissolve into goose bumps. “Hmm,” she said, and moved up to kiss me again. I could feel the pressure – the heat -- of her cunt against mine. She kissed my ears – both of them, one after the other, munching slowly on each earlobe and blowing gently into my eardrums. I moaned, wondering – just for a second – whether I should shake her off and go to bed. Before the thought went much further, Shandra’s fingers were up my skirt, at the portal of my cunt, tapping, playing, torturing. I groaned, nearly faint with want, but dared not say anything – when we realized what we were doing – if it were voiced – would it shatter this bubble that encased us, that seemed to forgive this incestuous transgression? Shandra’s fingers – two – plunged into my cunt – I was wet, and could hear the slide of her fingers’ movements as she worked me, back and forth – she curled her fingers – further inside me than Eric had ever gotten – and I closed my eyes – I could see static against my eyelids. She moved down, then, until she was between my thighs, and bent her head, her mouth to me – she fingered me, still, for a while, before she took my clit in her mouth, swirling her tongue. She paused a minute, and I thought – feared – she was about to stop. Instead, she sighed, contented, and said, “Like candy.” Her mouth was back at my cunt, at my clit again, and I could feel her fingers, alternating a rhythm with her tongue – back and forth, her tongue, the unrelenting fingers – I could smell her hair, could smell her perfume and the laundry detergent she used to wash her clothes. Everything was heightened, my senses felt both sharp and chaotic. Finally, I came against my sister’s mouth, my hands on her hair, my eyes closed. As I writhed and pumped, I could feel her, still unrelenting, biting each thigh, little, torturous nibbles.

After, we lay there, amidst the Fortune cards, Shandra’s head resting on my shoulder. I kissed her on the top of the head. “Time for bed, I guess?” I said awkwardly. To my surprise, she laughed and kissed my neck. “Yes – time for bed. But next time – next time I visit – we play the game again.” “All right,” I laughed. The two of us stretched, rose, shaking our bodies, and I slapped my elbows, an attempt to return to reality. “Shandra,” I said, looking down at my thighs, “You bit me so hard – there’s going to be bruises!” She laughed, and took one last sip of wine. “Oh – sorry about that.” “You are not.” “No – I’m terrible,” with a devilish laugh and a flip of her blonde mane. “No,” I said, “We’re terrible – I guess it runs in the family.”