Mayan Mystique II
Mayan Mystique II
She says, “When the lights went out, I planned to pursue a Ph.D. in Mayan linguistics.”
“What was your thesis statement?”
“There is a manuscript from the Yucatán known as ‘Ritual of the Bacabs’ that speaks poetically of lovemaking. The ancient author says, ‘I dip, my wick with the petals of she who gave birth to you and the stamen of he who planted your seed. Thou art the yearning of the offspring of the womb, the pining of the progeny of the seed planters. Amen.’ I extrapolated from this that for Mayans lovemaking involved the male psyche being subsumed into the female and woman’s identity become man, like the transition of transgender people but evanescent as the passage of intercourse. Any good doctoral committee could see through this as a preconceived notion instead of based on fieldwork. You see it dawned on me that I was narrowing my thesis too much by making it exclusive to Mayans. Indeed this coital transference is cross-cultural. Also, I became aware that my dissertation was becoming less an academic treatise and more a memoir.”
“How did the graduate faculty react?”
“They said the focus of my research was too broad and would require fieldwork in conflict with the morals of the department.”
“Academic freedom is the first casualty of accreditation.”
“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.”
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.
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.
“Please pray tell, what addled wits brought you to this state? Your folly is that of a rodeo clown,” I reply.
“I’ll show you who is the fool,” 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.
I say, “I felt like a botanist who sampled a mushroom that turned the cricket choir into a choral ensemble of women joining voices in Debussy’s ‘Sirenes.’”
“Don’t go comparing me to a chorus of sirens. I don’t have the vocal range and sure aren’t aiming to lure you into anything but to be my man.”
“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.