Mesoamerica on the Bayou - Part Two
Mesoamerica on the Bayou
Ro says, “This museum has an impressive Pre-Columbian exhibit upstairs. There doesn’t appear to be much of a crowd. Let’s go enjoy a private showing of the Mesoamerican rooms. The primitivism of the Mayan sculpture will provide a good contrast to our museum experience.”
We enter the dimly lit room where horned beasts made of clay greet us. Faces of Mayan people gaze from a lost world. She tells me, “Look at that Sun God figure. No look closer. Gaze into his eyes. You need to squat for a better balance. We wouldn’t want you falling into it and getting sued for damages.” The statuary gazes through the millennia.
Ro’s soft ivory body emerges from her madras dress. She discards her panties like last year’s style for the 1960s love in naturalism come back into vogue. My eyes close. She says, “Oh come on. These New Orleans summers are hot. I’m just getting comfortable.”
Suddenly I feel her svelte hand slip the seam of my underworld only to unzip me like an audacious courtesan of an intercessor for the Sun God into whose stony eyes I stare. With a flick of her wrist, she undoes my belt and has both my jeans and fruit of the looms bunched up on my thighs.
Like an abbess, Rowena prepares me as her novitiate in the Orphic mysteries. She says, “You are about to experience something you haven’t had since you were a lad on St. Patrick day. There isn’t a thread of green in your garments. The burning question for you is where shall I make my mark? So think of my ladyfingers as the legs of a spider. Yet my fingernails are its bite. But lightly grazed upon your tender skin the feeling for you is altogether pleasant like being tickled by your girlfriend. Feel them crawl up your bottom like a web of pleasure to enmesh you. The sensation isn’t anymore naughty than the touch of your sweetheart from the days of yor except in so far as it pleases your imagination to think so.”
“At the end of the world dreams still live.”
Ro cackles like a mad lass on fire with playfulness. She draws crazy eights all over my bottom with the jagged tips of a chewed manicure. Suddenly she reaches into my perineum to drive me wild with tickles until my laughter is only outmatched by her chortles. To my utter surprise she says, “Now for something else you haven’t had since you were a lad and possibly never in this fashion.” Suddenly her hair tickles my tush and I await the denouement like a soldier waits for the news of an armistice while in the trenches. She pinches flesh between her index and thumb and I breathe a sigh of relief that her nip is my reminder. But its similarity to the tweak of a nurse about to vaccinate is an augury. Then Rowena strikes my bottom with her incisors digging in like the fangs of a rattlesnake, biting deep into my seat. It is all I can do to bite the bullet and keep from shrieking. Suddenly as though an answer to my prayer her hand moves smoothly in slow steady strokes across the pillar of my manhood that rises like a megalith from the grassy savannah of the iron age.
Ro tells me, “Your health will thank me. Now, that you have a derriere hickey you’ll be less inclined to be sedentary. Consider it a dress rehearsal for the day we all become Irish.”
“What does Ireland have to do with the Mayan artifacts here?”
“Scholars have discovered similarities between the ancient Irish religion and language and the Mayan culture. The Mayans believe their ancestors came from across the ocean and were fair-skinned. When the Irish landed on the Yucatan shore the emerald forest and fresh air must have made them feel at home.”
“Except for the sauna climate,” I reply.
“Don’t you dare contradict me,” she says.
With the swiftness of a fox, she lays me out, bestrides me, and circumscribes my circumcised flesh which shuts my smart mouth.
Her sensual provocation draws me deeper into her velvet mystery. My heart beats like a drum in this room of silent watchers. Only her voice interrupts the silence as she admonishes me, “I will quell any rebellious schoolboy notions you have of not completing your assignment simply by redoubling the pace so that you cannot resist.”
Her place of original magic opens each node on my stem to let the sap flow. Her inner flower arrangement captures the crown of my sunflower and alchemizes the radiant petals of pure male energy into a sun king who is granted an elongated reign.
My piston assumes the shape of the Sun God cylinder that astonishes my very eyes. Reassuringly she continues her tidal pull upon me until my lips form an O through which the unmistakable deepening of moans follows. After my final pulse, she zips me up.
Finally, she buttons my jeans only to be surprised that my manhood has thickened again so she gives me a merciful squeeze.
A more human terracotta figurine gazes from seven hundred A.D. with a visage that could represent laughter or a warrior’s face. My female companion says, “Spooky, isn’t he? His expression could be the amused look of a young despot who smiles while committing massacres as though he were attending a Sunday cricket game.”
I say, “His eyes are closed as though there is something he’d rather not see. I’d like to believe he is the Mayan equivalent of the laughing Buddha.”
She replies, “From Veracruz to China is a long way. But it is a lovely thought that his grin is that of enlightenment as opposed to gloating over a war victory. His necklace with the blue beads indicates he may have been royalty.”
I say, “Maybe the emperor valued him as a holy man and hence bestowed the gift upon him. He may have been considered a wise man whom the king consulted in matters of state and spirituality. Perhaps his detachment from the worldly life gave him objectivity the leader valued.”
“Maybe he was a beggar though the king offered him a place in the court. The emperor sought his advice on what woman to marry and how to pray. But the laughing man refrained from giving guidance in war strategies because of his pacifism.”
I reply to her, “Perhaps the reason the king had this likeness of his laughing advisor made was as artistic propaganda that if a beggar can laugh at the world what happier median than to grow your own food and partake of tomatoes fresh from the vine? A king’s life is fraught with worry.”
She says, “When the lights went out, I planned to pursue a Ph.D. in Mayan linguistics. But my research needed the element of applied ritual to make my dissertation genuine. Don’t worry I won’t sacrifice your life as the ancient Mayans did. In fact, with you, I’ve at last discovered a culture that will challenge my intersubjective research methods in the most fundamental way. Your masculine narrative is as different from my own as any Mayan. And your patriarchal caste system is as antithetical to my feminism as it gets.”
I reply, “I never thought I’d be the subject of an
ethnography on the male culture.”
She says, “This event will be recorded in my private literature due to my dissertation being in hiatus. Of course, I’ll give you a complimentary copy as soon as the printing presses are back in operation.”
I tell her, “My eyes are so misty that the goddess statue I face is blurry.”
“Tears are an expression of passion. The Mayan moon goddess Ixchel would be pleased.”
“There are plenty of vacant hotels in this city.”
“Let’s hole up in a deserted mansion. Why not move up in the world?” she accepts.
That night we sleep in the cavernous museum.
The next day we will search for food. We have become foragers in a hungry world.
Morning blossoms over the blighted city. I don my clothes. She covers her nakedness with her dress. She says, “Due to the earl grey shortage we held our teatime on the floor with gourmet kisses for pekoe and crumpets. Do you think you impregnated me?”
I hug her. “I don’t know. Would it be right to bring up a child into this world?”
Tears sparkle in her eyes. She says, “Instinct tells me so. Without children, there is no hope.” I lead her by the hand out into the blinding sunlight.