Tarotica Ch 08

Strength

Self-confidence. Inner strength. Patience. Wisdom. Faith in your own abilities. You will need to rely on inner strength, patience, and gentleness to solve your problems. You can channel your animal passions constructively to achieve good health and success. – Tarot: Plain and Simple. Anthony Louis

This card symbolizes strength. Courage. Fortitude. Attainment at considerable peril. Heroism. Tireless efforts. Triumph of love over hate. Liberation. – Tarot Classic. Stuart R. Kaplan

It was December. I scheduled a trip home – ludicrous, really, to schedule a return to Minnesota in the depths of bitter winter, but, on a romantic whim, I decided that I wanted to be home for Christmas. I hadn’t been home for four years, and I could tell by the hesitant twinge in my mother’s voice, by my father’s unusual eagerness to speak with me, that phone calls were no longer enough. They were getting older, and perhaps it was time to face my own filial demons. I was going alone– it would be just me, my family, and the blue bitterness of a Minnesota winter.

I slept on the plane – I do not like flying – don’t even really believe in flying. I always feel as if there’s some sort of mistake – that there’s no way anyone can possibly be winging along at an altitude of 30,000 feet – it seems an illusion, and I almost prefer to think of it that way. At 10:30 in the morning, after I boarded the plane, I asked for wine. The flight attendant looked at me, his eyes expressing only mild surprise, than went up front to fetch the small bottle – he wasn’t yet carrying alcohol in his wheeled cart. The wine, I knew, would make me drowsy – that, and the Valerian root I’d purchased before the trip. I took the herb with the wine, than watched the clouds. I do not like to think I’m actually in the sky, but, perversely, I prefer a window seat. I felt the comfortable, slow buzz of the wine and the valerian. I reclined in my seat and was soon dozing. I woke, occasionally, to the sound of my seatmate, shuffling papers, or the flight attendants talking on their way through the aisle. The flight was only two hours. I had wanted to sleep through the entire journey – and I did.

I woke to the urgent movements of my seatmate – he was packing his papers in his leather briefcase, buckling his seatbelt, tucking his magazine into the pocket in front of him. We were preparing for landing. I was told, once, by a young pilot that landing a plane is much more dangerous than lifting off – it doesn’t matter – emotions belie reason, and I am always happy to know that soon I will be on the ground – for real. Happily, I repositioned my seat and buckled my seatbelt.

Before we disembarked, the pilot made a joke about the weather – apparently, the wind chill was 80 below – not uncommon during a Minnesota December. I shuddered a little, remembering that particular cold – the kind that bites, that numbs your thighs til they hurt. Still, there was no turning back, so I moved ahead, part of the polite jostle as my fellow passengers grabbed their suitcases, their jackets, their laptops, and made their way to the door. We walked through the connecting corridor, and the only hint at the violent cold was one quick updraft as we walked through the jet’s door. Then, the airport and warmth.

I don’t know what I was expecting – my mother had not been clear on who would meet me in St. Paul. Neither she nor Dad dared brave the traffic, such as it was, and my siblings, by and large, were busy working or watching their own children. At any rate, I thought perhaps I would see a brother-in-law, or perhaps my uncle. Instead, I saw my cousin Ron, his dimpled smile greeting me as I walked through the gate. I’d not seen Ron since we were both in high school, and I felt my heart leap – we had never been kissing cousins – had certainly never kissed – but we had been good friends, had dated in the same circles – and had both, at one time, acknowledged a certain mutual sexual tension upon which we never dared act. I smiled, laughed, and threw myself into his arms. “Well, Krissy,” he said, his voice slow and lazy, not quite a drawl, “I didn’t expect that.” I laughed again and took him by the arm as we walked towards the baggage claim. “Ron – what on earth did you expect? I haven’t seen you in years – you look great – it’s just great to see you.” In truth, Ron did look good. His blonde hair was thinning, but his blue eyes still sparkled. He was trim – no trace of a paunch – and the years had added only wrinkles caused by his ever-present smile. “Well, Krissy,” he chuckled, “I can’t tell you how good you look.” Then, embarrassed, he turned toward the carousel as we waited for my luggage. Silence ensued, the moment felt awkward. “How ya been?” Ron asked. “Well – very well – and you? How are you?” Ron glanced at me; he was nervous, it seemed, or maybe uncertain. It had, after all, been years since we’d seen each other. “I’m doing good – doing good. Got a job in Pineland, you know – I’m working for a bank there.” “That’s great, Ron – that’s just fantastic.” In truth, it was better than I’d expected. From an early age, Ron was one of those who – well – to use a clichéd phrase, never seemed to live up to his potential. The last I’d heard, he was working at the local Hardee’s. The bank, indeed, was a step up.

I nodded toward my black bag, riding closer on the carousel. I reached for it, and Ron slapped my hand, “Stop that – I’m here – I’ll get your bag.” I smiled to myself – one of the things I’d always admired about Ron was this romantic layer – though son of a small-town farmer, he still, somewhere, fancied himself a gentleman. And he was. We walked through the airport, then out to his waiting car. The cold hit me and I gasped. It had been four years since I’d felt cold like this, this knife-sharp, merciless cold -- this unforgiving wall shocked my skin, my lungs, and I had to stop to take a deep breath. Ron paused, concerned. “You okay?” he asked, and gripped my arm. “Oh yeah,” I responded, “It’s just – I’d forgotten – the cold.” Ron let go of my arm and laughed, “Move out east and you get soft – can’t take it anymore, huh?” “Hey – this is a nice car,” I said – another surprise. The last time I’d rode anywhere with Ron, it was in a LeCar – a tiny thing he’d eventually totaled while dodging an errant deer. The current car was blue, boxy – generic new, but Ron smiled at the compliment. “Thanks – it was Dad’s. He bought a new one, and, for some reason, decided that I should have this one.” Ron started the car. The heat slowly began to creep from the vents. I drew another deep breath, this time in relief, as my body began, torturously, to unthaw.

My home-town is about two hours from the airport. I looked out the car window and watched the city-scape change into the endless, snow-covered flat of the upper Midwestern plains. It was desolate, almost a moonscape. Ron began to talk, then – he told me about his newest girlfriend, his problems with his mother, his difficulty in getting his current job – after 30 minutes, during which time I spoke only to respond to Ron’s comments, he paused, looked at me, and reached out to touch my thigh. “You know – Krissy – you’re the only one I’ve been able to talk to like this – I forgot how much I missed it.” He glanced back out the windshield, and chuckled. “I almost felt as if we were in high school again.” I smiled, too, and, just for a minute, felt that old – tension – exacerbated, I suppose, my time, distance, and taboo – Ron was, of course, my first cousin. I turned back to the window and watched the unchanging land. Suddenly, the car started to sputter and buck. I started and looked back at Ron. His brow was furrowed. He pressed the accelerator. The car lurched forward, then stopped. Died. Quite literally in the middle of nowhere, in the midst of a Minnesota winter, on my long-delayed journey home. I was tired, and I felt tears prick the back of my eyes. “Do you know what’s wrong?” Ron shook his head. “Nope – it’s never done this before.” He turned the key. The engine coughed asthmatically, then again stilled. Again, he turned the key. The sound was, if anything, more anemic this time. “Damn it – God, I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s up – and it’s so damned cold.” Ron leaned forward and rested his head on the steering wheel. His eyes were closed, his quiet desperation tangible.

Ron shook his head, sat up. “Listen, Kristin, I gotta go move the car out of the road, in case anyone comes. Stay here.” “Ron,” I shouted, as he opened the door, “Yeah?” “Do you have an emergency kit in your trunk – blankets, candles?” “You know I do – hold on.” In the brief time the door had been open, the cold was fighting its way in, trying to fill the spaces. I huddled and waited. Ron returned with a blanket, and I wrapped it around my legs, waiting, a passive, helpless rider as he pushed the car onto the side of the road.

He returned, clapping his gloved hands and slapping his arms. “God, it’s dark out there,” he said, “I guess we’re just miles away from anyone.” I smiled, choking back panic and the countless stories I’d heard – people stranded, frozen – dying alone in this bitter, bitter cold. “Well, we’re just going to have to wait, then.” I said, my voice cracking with plastic cheer, “Here – you have to get under the blanket, too.” I tried to share, tried to extend the red flannel over the stick shift and the console. “I’m afraid,” I said, “That, if we’re both going to benefit from this blanket, we’re going to have to slip into the backseat.” Ron laughed, a surprisingly genuine laugh. “Krissy – after all these years – are you coming on to me?” I laughed too. “Maybe – depends on how long we have to stay here.”

Awkwardly, we climbed into the backseat; we didn’t want to open the doors, didn’t want to let loose the vital and quickly disappearing heat of the car. We huddled together, and for a moment, there was silence. “This is like football season – remember?” Ron asked, and again, his cheer was genuine. “Late in the season – when it got so cold – and we’d bring blankets to share?” I laughed, remembering the brisk Midwestern air, the smell of fallen leaves, the excitement of huddled teenage bodies bustling with eager hormones. “I remember –“ I said, “God – what went on inside those blankets.” I moved closer to Ron – the heat was dissipating. He put his arm around me and I leaned against him. I heard his breathing, and wondered if he was recovering from his labors, or whether his labored breathing was a result of being close to me. The thought was – well – thrilling, and I pressed my face into his chest. He lay his head on my hair, and I could hear him, breathing in the smell of it. Then, his hands were on my head, then on my cheek. “Krissy – I gotta tell you –“ he said, his voice just a whisper, “I know it was hard for you – growing up – I always admired your strength. I could never have – well, I could never have done what you did – leave – I don’t think I could survive anywhere else.” I smiled against his chest. “Sure you would have – come out and see me sometime – I’ll show you.” “Krissy – do you remember . .?” I heard his heartbeat, a louder thump against his chest, and felt him sigh, “Do you remember that night at the QuickCheck – we stopped there before I took you home – and we both said . .” “Yes, Ron, I remember,” I said, “We both said – no – we hinted at – well –“ I could feel his smile on my hair, “Yeah – and then we stopped. But you know – it’s been four years, Krissy, and I still feel that way.” His hand brushed my cheek, then his fingers touched my lips. I was surprised at my reaction. I did not pull away, or take his hand from my face. Instead, I kissed his fingertips, remembering that day – it was autumn, that season always so pregnant with the possibilities of a new school year. And now there was a possibility we might die here, and that all other possibilities might be ended. “You were such a great friend. I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and I could feel my own breathing deepen, my own heartbeat increase.

I grabbed his hand and looked up at him. I could see his blue eyes, his cheekbones, only dimly. “Did you ever read The Hotel New Hampshire?” I asked. Ron laughed, a belly laugh. “No – I think maybe I saw the movie – a long, long time ago.” “There’s a scene in the book – I don’t know if they kept it in the movie – a brother and sister have these feelings for one another – they want to fuck – but of course they can’t, they’re brother and sister,” as I talked, I moved my hand under his coat, rubbed his chest through his flannel shirt. “Uh huh,” Ron muttered, “So – what happens?” “Well,” I said, “They rent a room together – as I recall – and they fuck until they’re sated – until it’s out of their system.” Ron turned to me and unzipped my jacket. I thought about the cold – but hadn’t I read somewhere that skin against skin was warmer than layers of clothing? I could feel Ron’s hands moving up my shirt, up to my breasts. I sighed, leaned against the seat as he pinched one nipple, then the next. “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean,” Ron said, and his voice marked by his trademark lazy sardonic drawl, “I’m not sure whether I should want to be your brother – or not. But the fucking part – the sated part – I like that.” He leaned forward and kissed me. I felt a slight electric surge of panic – this was my cousin, this was Ron, and then another electric surge took over, and I leaned into his lips, opening my mouth to his tongue, then biting his lips, gently, with my teeth. I felt the weight of his body, and then he was upon me, and we were prone. With a desparation frustrated by years, we clawed at the layers of clothing that separated us.

Ron stopped my hand. “We’ve gotta be sensible about this – it’s so damned cold – and we can’t be here, naked. God, what would people think then?” My hand traveled to the bulk in his pants – it was large, larger than I’d anticipated, larger than I’d imagined. “Ron – don’t take your pants off. Here, just let me unzip them.” His cock sprang from his denims, eager and utterly uncaring about the weather or first cousin taboos. “I think I can keep you warm,” I said, and leaned forward. I took his cock in my mouth, felt it press first against the roof of my mouth, then my tonsils. He tasted clean – like fertile cornfields and wet summer days. I sucked him, spiraling my tongue around his shaft, stopping to suck harder at the tip. I ran my tongue down his length, and reached into his jeans to grab his balls. “Oh God Kristin – oh yes – oh god – do you know how long I’ve wanted you – admired you – oh, god – oh don’t stop.” I pumped his shaft with one hand while I sucked, and cupped his balls with the other. They were cold, but in my hand they began to warm, first one, then the other. His cock, too, felt hot in my mouth. I wanted to rip down his jeans, to run my tongue up his lean thighs – but the cold, the damned cold. I felt his hands in my hair, gripping, and it only increased my excitement. “God you’re good at that – where on earth did you learn. . “ I heard him stutter, and then his voice eased off into a groan. I felt his cock thicken, harder, inside my mouth, and I heard myself gasp, my breath escaping around his thickened shaft. I continued to pump, continued to suck, continued to feel the welcoming pressure against my throat as he pumped, groaning, fucking my mouth. I heard a deep intake of breath, a whispered “Fuck –“ and he was shooting into my mouth, shooting in great big first-cousin streams, and I took it, gulping, wanting the warm salty liquid that now ran down my throat.

Ron leaned against the back seat, his pants undone. His eyes were closed, his hair askew, his cheeks red. “You know,” he laughed, “We probably shouldn’t have done that – but you know I don’t even feel cold right now?” “Good,” I said, “I probably just saved your life.” Ron wiped at himself with the blanket, “You know, Krissy – you probably did.” Just then, a mellow light filled the car, moving slowly, sluggishly. “Ron,” I said, “That’s a car – someone’s coming.” Ron clambered out the back seat, his jeans still undone. “Ron,” I yelled, “Your zipper.” Ron looked down, zipped his soggy pants, then ran, his footsteps crunching – merrily, it seemed – the snowcrust.

Later, we rode in the backseat of the rescuing car, and our very own Good Samaritan sang Christmas tunes as he drove, keeping time with the radio. Ron kept glancing at me, then turning away, blushing. Finally, he leaned over and whispered, “God – you are something else, you know—thank you.” I smiled and tapped his tightly-denimed thigh, secretly smug – I knew, now, what was stored there. “Now when,” he continued, “Do I get to save your life?” “That,” I smiled, “is for the next time you get us stranded.” Ron leaned back and smiled, “Then,” he said, “I can’t wait.”