Courtesan in the House of Madness

Courtesan in the House of Madness              
               
     I am a strapping young lass fresh out of the madhouse. My Mom said I was loopy as a cross-eyed cowgirl. But I am footloose and fancy free. In my heart I am a flapper girl doing the Charleston on the loading docks of New Orleans with my hips swinging to beat of ragtime turned jazz which plays on my imaginary jukebox. Oranges in crates scent my wharf dance. My wild haired seduction wins whistles from the skirt chasing longshoremen. But my whisky lips will kiss only one tonight. Like the slide of a trombone my legs shuffle to the rhythm of freedom. With a wink my choice is made. The lucky  man will sip cognac with me this night with the calliope serenading us in our smoky room.        
     My compass points true north but leads me to ice bergs. I need a navigator to take my rudder. My quest takes me to a group therapy center for the poor in my home of New Orleans.              
     On my first day I try to be prettier than thou with the therapist. I am dressed like girl badly in need of attention. My shorts cling to me like panties in a lingerie commercial. Shame on me to be acting like a girl in a beauty pageant.              
     Amber ignores my exhibitionist clothes focusing instead on the therapy at hand. She probes our soft underbellies with her penetrating heart to heart.              
     The ragged souls sit around the room. They seek solace from their storm lashed lives. A woman conducts the orchestra of therapy. Her soft curves and smile soothe the tempest tossed madmen.              
     In the quiet presage of the session our conductress sits and gazes in contemplative beauty. Her sage words play on the piano of our hearts.  “Women and men are made differently. To deny that is to deny the truth.”              
     Our calm sea of communing is threatened by a tidal surge. A former prison inmate is spooked by a patient’s eyes. He rises from his chair like a wrathful deity. He slips his jacket off prepared to smite my new found friend, David.                
     Our petite therapist rises from her chair. She pinions the man with her fingers on his neck. With her other hand she presses womanly energy into his back. His eyes glaze and his jaw goes slack. Her velvet hand is wrapped snugly around his fist of aggression. She soothes his testosterone addled psychosis. Like a tropic storm, she gathers strength for her feminine foray. She escorts him gently but firmly out the door.  
     Amber, our counselor, takes me into her office for a private encounter. She opens, “Rosie, if you keep being late for session, I’m going to report you to your Mama!”              
     I reply, “Are you going to use the ruler on me?”              
     She spanks the air with her imaginary ruler while breathing “Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.”     I ask her, “Were you in a sorority? Did you get paddled there?”              
     Amber replies, “Rosie when I was in college in north Louisiana any group of seven or more women living together in a house was considered a brothel!”              
     “Now that you’ve broached the subject a confession is in order. Amber you may have already seen this in my records from the hospital but I earned my living by giving men erotic massages.”  
     “Hey, I can see why they came to you. You are a bombshell. But all kidding aside you were wise to give it up.”              
     “Well you know I was a young naïve girl fresh in the city with no resume.”              
     “You know I’ve always been fascinated by courtesans. Though I’ve never done sexual favors for money it has been a fantasy of mine. My boyfriend and I have even role played the scenario. But to do it for real would be an amazing experience. Don’t feel ashamed of the life you led. I’ve read that many women dream of trying it out. And it is a very common bedroom game for couples. Why do we women get turned on by it? Maybe because it is the ultimate sexualization of us. We become sexual beings.”              
     “Yes and they did tip well.”              
     Amber laughs. “That was the icing on the cake.”              
     “Amber my career goal is to be a nurse.”              
     Amber smiles. “Instead of doing erotic therapy your healing energy will be harnessed into being a shamaness. Perfect.”              
     Only at session’s close does Amber take note of my provocative dress. “Rosie if you were in high school I’d report you for a dress code violation.” My scantily clad, who’s the fairest of them all, turns into a guilty blush.            
     “When that happened the principal would send me home. Are you going to set me straight?”      “Don’t think I won’t put you in detention where you will repeat ten times after me ‘The art of the tease is to leave much to be imagined.’”
     “You busted me. I’m so embarrassed.”
     Amber says, “Well your look appeals to me. Your punk rocker grunge chic, while audacious, is anti-materialistic and edgy.”
       Good Friday comes. We platypuses among mammals who defy taxonomies gather under the sun. Our conductress charms me with tropic smile waves. She leads me into calm pastures where the sky streams in a blue sea of harmony. She is a counselor priestess to the mad.         
     Amber invites my inner child to play. We shed our shoes to walk barefoot in grass together. I feel the sensual touch of mother earth beneath my naked feet. The wet leaves of nature’s carpet lick my skin like a lover. I drink the wild air like a cup of sun-steeped tea and Amber is the twist of lemon whose flavor is love.