Tarotica

The Lovers

Love. Beauty. Perfection. Harmony. Letting oneself go. A person deeply involved in the emotions and problems of a friend or relative. -Tarot Classic, Stewart R. Kaplan

Union. Sharing . . . Sexual adjustment. The Lovers card often appears when you are faced with a crucial life decision and must choose which path to follow. It can herald a romantic adventure, often with a trial or a choice involved. -Tarot: Plain and Simple, Anthony Louis

The Lovers card upright is about making choices in love and romance. With this card, there’s always the possibility of a new romance or a new direction for the heart . . .The Lovers card is all about learning the ways of the heart, attraction, and the desire for cooperation. -The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tarot and Fortune-Telling, Arlene Tognetti and Lisa Lenard

It was terribly, terribly hot. I could feel the sweat, unwelcome, uncomfortable, trickle down my armpits, around my breasts. I wanted to be inside somewhere, in front of the air-conditioning and yes, maybe even the television, indulging myself on this cooked Saturday. The heat rose in palpable waves from the black concrete, and the bus shelter, quite successfully, worked its greenhouse effect. I sighed, rubbed my forehead, pushed my wilted hair back – wilted or not, it felt incredibly heavy. It was on such a day as this, I thought, that I, desperate to be cool, cut my hair off – my curls went from swinging below my shoulders to a neat clip above my ears. The hairdresser was horrified – and terrified I would regret it. Against my wishes, she had cut it pert, curled around my neck – a modified Princess Diana kind of thing. I had to go to a man’s barber – who was equally as terrified, but much, much cheaper – to get the plain, tightly short ‘do I had originally requested. The hair had grown back, of course, and, since then, I hadn’t had the heart to repeat the episode. I sighed again, and glanced at my watch, sure the crystal must surely be boiling by now.

He was late, as usual. It was no wonder I thought of my hair, sitting there – it wasn’t only the heat. Last night, as we lay together, after a night of short but very satisfying love-making sessions, my hair had fallen in his face, into his mouth. He spat it out, disgusted, and muttered something about long hair – and something about a trim – and then he was snoring. It was a small thing, and perhaps I am (as I’ve been told) overly sensitive, but somehow, the satisfaction dissipated, a small wave of spite floating through the screen of the open window, into the humid night air. I shook my head. Such a thing shouldn’t matter. And the lateness? Should that matter? I didn’t want to meet him at the bus stop, knowing the forecast – I am a Minnesota girl, born and bred, and the moist heat of a mid-New Jersey day is sometimes a weight I can’t stand – but it was close to his job at the Golf Store (I could never remember its real name – but they did sell golf clubs – and golf gloves – and golf gadgets I could never, ever name nor recognize). He would have a break at noon, he said, and would love to catch me. Catch me? I pondered. Had he caught me?

I saw him then, pounding up in his tight jeans and polo shirt – appropriately dressed for the Golf Store. “Hey girl – so sorry I’m late – got tied up with a customer.” He was a bit out of breath, but he was not sweating -- after all, he hadn’t been waiting in the glass heat of the bus stop – his blonde hair, as always, was trimmed and perfect, his blue eyes, deep, large, smiled at me. I felt the internal melting – the eyes always did that. I smiled, despite the heavy weight of my hair and the annoying, embarrassing trickle of my armpit sweat. “It’s okay, Michael – it wasn’t that long.” “Lord, it’s hot, isn’t it?” he responded, unnecessarily. “Great for golfing, though – man, are we busy.” “That’s good – do you have time for lunch?” Michael yawned and stretched his long arms. He shook his head. “I thought I would, honey – but the weather – it’s just so busy. I don’t think I can get away that long . .” I felt the unbearable heat flush from my fingernails to the roots of my wilted, heavy, now too long hair. “Michael,” I could feel the anger building from somewhere below my lungs, and I struggled to keep my voice in check, “Michael – why didn’t you call me to let me know?” Michael looked at me, hurt. “I couldn’t – it was so busy – and anyway, I thought you might like to see me – even for a few minutes -- I wanted to see you.” Of course, as always, the shame was instantaneous. He wanted to see me – it was so sweet – it was sweet, that was it – not thoughtless, not selfish. A part of me wanted to scream, You KNOW what this heat does to me – but that sounded so petty, so trivial, so petulant. Instead, I said, “Of course, sweetheart, I should have known – you better hurry and get back – I’m sure they’re missing you by now. Make sure you eat something, anyway.” Michael smiled, relieved – crisis past. “Don’t worry – Howie brought in a bunch of food, left over from his barbecue last night.” We kissed, briefly, and I tried not to rub my sweat-soaked body against his cucumber-cool skin. “I’ll call you tonight, Kristen, once things settle down – let’s do something, okay?” I nodded, and sat down to wait. The ten minute interval ‘til the next bus was heatedly interminable.

I opened the door to my condo –small, unpretentious, but seaside – as the realtors say, location, location, location. Before the disappointing trip to the scorching bus stop, I had turned the central air on, and the cool of it hit me like a welcomed ocean wave. I sighed, felt the sweat dry, my skin no longer melting. I searched for Roxy D., my large white cat, named after my very best elementary friend, who had long ago disappeared into her own future. Her namesake, though, had disappeared only behind the futon – or the armchair – or the desk – or one of her many secret hiding places. I envied her ability to disappear. If only each one of us could fold ourselves into a flesh and blood sandwich and hide under a table.

I sighed, turned on the tv, and made a sandwich in the kitchenette. I took it to the futon, and ate as I watched reruns of The Twilight Zone. Rod Serling’s voice was nearly hypnotic. I dropped the empty plate to the floor, brushed off the runaway crumbs. I lay on my side, stuffed pillow under my heavy head, Rod Serling’s voice mixing, nicely, with the voices of old actors. The heat, the small effort it had taken to get to the bus stop – it caught up with me, somehow, and I felt myself drifting, almost deliciously – the ride was interrupted only by the weighty oomph of Roxy D, jumping up on my hip. I felt her knead my leg, then settle in the fetal curve of my stomach – her usual sleeping spot – and I fell asleep to the sound of her purr and the familiar rhythm of The Twilight Zone theme.

I was floating somewhere, it seemed, and the sky was a strange color – a goldish green, suggesting smoke, or heavy thunderclouds. I was in a boat – a small boat, like a rowboat, but it was somehow, mysteriously, self-propelled. There was no engine, no sail. I started awake and grabbed the sides. There was nothing – no land, no other boats – just gleaming water and the strange, ponderous clouds. I leaned over to taste it – cupped my hands, brought the water to my lips.

“Oh yes, you’ll find it’s quite salty – I suspect you don’t find that surprising.” I jumped back, looked back into the thick haze that engulfed the boat – yes, I did have company. Seated in the boat, facing me, was a small girl – no, she was a woman – with silvery white hair and golden eyes. She smiled. “I’m sorry if I startled you.” I was suddenly terrified – had I been drugged and kidnapped? Michael was always teasing me about the white slave trade – maybe – The little silver-haired woman laughed. “Oh sweetheart, it’s nothing like that. Although I’ve thought myself that being a captive – you know – a sex slave – wouldn’t be all bad.” There was something about the purr of her laugh, the glint of her golden eyes, the curve of her smile – that seemed somehow familiar. “Speaking of, by the way, you have a beautiful body.” I looked down and realized, to my shame, that I was naked. I gasped, tried to cover myself. I’m not naturally modest, but on a strange boat, in a strange ocean, with a strange woman – The woman laughed again. “Silly girl. You need not do that. Not here, not now.” She smiled, her teeth gleaming, her eyes the same golden color as the sky. “M and M?” She tossed one in her mouth and stretched out a closed fist. I accepted, my hand open, and she spilled small candies into my palm. They danced and shimmered there. I glanced down at the dancing chocolate, back up to my strange partner. “Oh they’re just fine to eat – just fine. Just wait” she cackled, “Til you eat the green ones. They’re the ones that make you horny!” I looked, once more, down at my palm. They were all green. She laughed again. “Go ahead – eat them!” I tossed them into my mouth, one by one – the chocolate was ambrosiac, the shimmering green covering sang against my teeth. I felt a wonderful warmth – one I’d not felt in years – crawl down the base of my spine, down towards my naked cunt and deep into my belly. I drew a deep breath. “Yes, they are quite nice, aren’t they? Try swimming now – do it – you’ll be – surprised.” I looked over the boat, doubtfully. There was no land, and we seemed so far out – but the candies had created an incredible itch, somewhere deep in the folds of my skin, and suddenly, somehow, the water seemed the only way to satisfy it. Clumsily, I started to crawl towards the side of the boat. “Not that way, dearie,” my companion said, tossing more M and M’s onto a golden tongue, “Dive into it – you gotta want it – otherwise, it just won’t work.” I stood up, but the boat remained quite steady. I dove headfirst into the strange waves, immersed suddenly in warm, watery silk. I surfaced, though I didn’t feel air-hungry. My companion was now lying back in the boat, her feet hoisted on the other seat, singing and popping the chocolate candy. She looked my way with just a faint hint of surprise. “You didn’t stay down very long. Go ahead – go down again – open your eyes – stay as long as you want – and then tell me what you see.”

I dove once more into the odd depths. I let myself go – deeper, deeper. There was no need for air here, it seemed. I opened my eyes, and the silk of the water pressed on them, a strange sensation at first. In front of me was a sort of tunnel, twisting, serpentine, in the watery depths. I entered it, entirely unafraid. I half swam, half walked through its twisting corridor. There were round rooms off the tunnel, and each one was occupied – there were people, and sometimes mermaids, and they were doing – things. Sexual things. In the first room, a youngish man was licking the salty breasts of an oldish mermaid. She was laughing, delighted, and they both looked up at me and waved. I waved back and continued – the next room held a cat and kittens – sea kittens? -- and a woman who seemed to be talking to a young child, gesticulating between the nursing kittens and the woman’s own bare breasts. They were too absorbed to notice me. In the next room, a man and a woman – no mermaids, no sea-kittens – were fucking, he slamming into her with sheer beastly delight. She was screaming happily and, as I passed, he came, yelling into the thick of the water. She jumped up, pinched his cock, and then poured them both some bubbling liquid, kept in a jug next to the bed they were on. I had stopped here, and both of them, laughing, waved quite happily, then lay back on the bed, clearly sated, clearly content.

It continued. Watching the scene in one round room, I gasped as a man whipped a dark-haired woman as she lay chained in barnacle-encrusted stocks. This was different, I thought – this was wrong – until he released the stock, helped her up, and they both turned their heads up, laughing. I could see her bare ass, streaked with red and aching. She rubbed it briefly, then playfully slapped his shoulder. He was a merman, capable of sudden, swimming motions. He grabbed her then, swimming capably around her furtive and useless attempts to escape. He threw her down on the floor of the round room, and fucked her with his formidable merman member. I was enchanted by this scene, and tore myself away to continue. In the next room, a number of men – mer-men and human-like men – were pleasuring a young, dark-haired woman who was writhing in ecstasy and delight. Two were at each breast, one was at her clit, one was at her belly, yet another tickled her ears, and another ran leisurely fingers up and down her thighs, occasionally teasing her with a finger-bang, then laughing and starting again. In the next alcove, the situation was reversed – a young, fair-haired man, blindfolded, lay on a small bed while mermaids and women tormented him. He laughed as they stroked his hair, whispered in his ears, grabbed his throbbing cock and poked anxious fingers into his asshole. He writhed, wanting it all, not quite getting enough. In several alcoves, there were animals fucking – cats, dogs, pigs – and in one, a woman astride an incredible seahorse, orgasming with the animal’s fabulous undulating movements.

The corridor narrowed. There was one alcove left, in front of me. The itch had only increased – the water had not helped, and the scenes had only intensified the distant wanting. Inside this last alcove, the dead end, the final room in the tunnel, a woman lay on her back, pleasuring herself. She was rubbing her fingers on her clit, banging them in and out, lightly teasing her thighs with her own light, fingernails. She was gasping, wanting it, holding out. She brought her fingers to her lips, her head rose to meet the taste. I gasped, pleased, surprised, horrified – she was me. She opened her arms, and I found I could physically enter this last sex-space. She held me in her embrace, and I could feel myself dissolving into her/my skin. I was pumping against her, against myself, and I thought – perhaps, oh please – the mighty candy itch was going to – finally – satisfy – I threw my head back, into the rush of the silken water. I was pumping, against the woman, against myself, against the strange water, coming, my liquid joining this fabulous, sensuous warmth. I could hear, somewhere, my strange companion from the boat – I could recognize her voice. “It’s all there for you, Kristen – you just have to dive in. You can have it all – don’t limit -- Don’t forget – remember yourself – remember –“ Suddenly, the woman’s voice turned strange – no longer a woman’s voice, it was the insistent talk of Roxy D, meowing and rumbling against the rocking of my legs on the futon.

I opened my eyes. Roxy D. was protesting my movements – rudely, they had disturbed her deep, catly slumber. She was on my chest, her golden eyes staring intently into mine. My fingers were on my clit, and I was breathing deeply. I could still feel my cunt contracting. It had been months – no years – since I had orgasmed this way, in my sleep, unbidden. I reached out to pet Roxy D., trying to apologize. I rubbed her face and neck, and she closed her golden eyes and purred. Golden eyes – a purring voice – silver hair – I stared suspiciously at the fat feline, but she wasn’t talking. Instead, she jumped off my chest, wrapped herself around an endtable, and headed off to her bowl of food. As she moved – weren’t cats supposed to be graceful? -- she knocked off a glass dish, gotten from some long forgotten flea market. It fell to the floor, spilling its cargo – a bowlful of green M and M’s. I watched, bemused. I never bought candy. Still, I picked them up, carefully, trying to make sure each was clean before I returned them to their unexpected berth. One never knew when the urge --

When I rose and headed for the shower, I was surprised to feel a string of wetness, exploring my inner thighs. It had been months – years – since – well, since this kind of feeling. As I showered, the phone rang. It would be Michael, I knew. I smiled, touched my clit, lifted my face to the welcoming spray, and ignored the persistent, ignorant phone.