Roses And Relations Reborn

Roses And Relations Reborn                        
                       
     I woo my sister. “If the lover of Prospero’s daughter were not fictional wouldst thou not be his leading lady on the stage called life?”    
    “Dost thou make oracular airs? Such prophecies are not made in jest,” she says.    
     “Ah, just a portent of love glimpsed from afar.”    
     “Given my impeccable femininity attested to by thee wouldst thou let a bitter man’s choice fill thy shoes?”    
    “Since our womb abode was the same surely to share the same bed would be a blasphemous deed.”    
     Ro replies, “Yet brothers to sisters are like barley to mead. When you add just the right amount of honey we find the middle way between cloyingly sweet and bone dry where heaven lies.”    
     “Rowena, thou art the embodiment of feminine’s own beauty, Aphrodite made mortal but with immortal loveliness, the femme de la crème is spoken soberly from lips which long for yours.”      
     “John, for Christ’s sake, I’m your sister! Your      
concupiscent courtship of me is that of a rake for a coquette he met in some ungodly tavern.”      
     “Where thou walk virtue is not far behind, in fact, it is with your every footstep. You belong barefoot in a wildflower meadow far from the spoils of merchants. My adoration for you is born of brotherly love.”      
     “Oh John, my face is pink with the blush of a lass. Desist your wanton ways or I shall depart on a sly but scrupulous note.”      
     “I shall try to stay my tongue. Yet your halo is a crown fit for an angel.”      
     “John, when you deify me I feel like a precious gem. Yet the trappings of a commoner fit me better than a jeweled robe.”      
     “Rowena, you are an Aphrodite incarnate who enchants mere mortals.”      
     “John, you’re rehearsing the play of courtship with me. I can impart unto thee the words to loosen a woman’s gown. But certain rules must be observed which means no female guests overnight. The springs in your mattress proclaim your ignominy. So you may use my bed to muffle your mischief. Mine will be a voyeur’s tithe when I tidy things up upon her leave-taking. The scents of love well made will be my reward. You must cloak your cleaving from Mom who goes produce hunting at the market Friday mornings. There is no need for worry because her punctuality is true as a sundial at a solstice. When the shadows from the window shorten conclusion must be at hand.”      
     I exclaim, “By Jove!”      
     “John, whenever Mom’s churchy friend brings her daughter, Caroline, over for a visit you miss the opportunity for a turnabout of a social call because you fret with the young woman with a nervous twitch portending her hex. Methinks the cause of your flirtation with me is that self-inflicted love is your pastime which is a poor substitute for women who are eligible prospects. When the aforesaid young lady makes a social call thou hidest behind my skirt like a timid schoolboy.”      
     “No, it is because you possess the charm and wit of a socialite from London, whereas Caroline while fetching, lacks your sophistication and urbanity. One day perhaps a woman will tickle my fancy like you. Until then be assured my flirtations art practice for correspondence with the fairer sex.”      
     “Your compliments melt me. Courtship is a lost art from a more genteel age. Hold my hand and I will govern your base desires into a sturdier heartwood.”    
     “What be the nature of your intention, dear sister?”    
     “My lesson plan is twofold. First you must learn how to properly kiss a woman. This shall not entail the mere cousin kiss. The art is in knowing how to approach her and melt the butter of her modesty. As your sister it is my duty to teach you.”    
     “Shall this be a dress rehearsal?”    
     “Why of course, dear brother. Do not be bashful. Let me lead this dance.” She holds my hand like a prayer book and plants her lipstick upon my cheek. My hand trembles in hers and she places my palm between her breasts. I feel her heart beat like a sparrow shivering in her winter nest.      
     “Dear sister, you have shown me the path. There is no need to follow it further.”    
     “If you are to learn the proper subtleties of the art, you must put your trust in me as your tutor.”    
     “Yes, after all, this is just a remedial course to remedy my lack of experience.”    
     “Twas in the merry month of May the kissing booth was womaned by me the fairest at the county fair. If my sugar sweetened the lips of total strangers for a nickel to aid the hobos then surely they are not above pressing upon my brother’s.”    
     “Am I the beggar whose plate you would fill with sugar plums?”    
     “Sages impart that charity is born at home. Now pucker up dearest.”    
     “Shall we smack our lips upon this bonbon?”    
     “Hold your horses brother. First things first. I shall add to our zest by sucking on these Red Hots candy pieces I happen to have in my purse. They were meant for my lover but will suit our purpose well.”    
     “This feels like the fantasy I had of kissing my teacher only more forbidden.”    
     “Why of course. How appropriate because I am your teacher here to fulfill your desire. Now, place your hands on my hips as a man should when kissing his woman.”    
     “Hmmm, yes, now stay your lips parted just so.” She stands on her tip toes and with her tongue imparts unto me the mysteries of the universe.    
      “Lick the fire off my tongue,” she says. “How do I taste?”    
     “Your female flavor lingers on my taste buds.”    
     “You must try this with your mistress. Have her suck the spicy sugar treats and lick the juice off her tongue like you did mine.”        
     “Art thou pleased with thy pupil?”    
     “Very much so, did I excite you?”    
     “Like my first kiss.”    
     “Then imagine how much more exciting the taste will be from your very own mistress.”    
     “None can surpass your fire.”    
     “Tut tut. If you were not kin I would put your iron to my fire. But alas, we must observe the social graces that preclude such things. However, though my art of the tease is cunning, I am not cruel, I aim to please. We shall take this matter to the bedroom. I see that mischievous spark in thine eyes.”    
     “Are you inducting me into the fellowship of naughty brothers?”    
     “If you were any naughtier, I’d have to spank you.”    
     “My skin is iron enough for thy leather.”    
     “My hand should prove sufficient.”    
     “A woman’s hand is of no consequence.”    
     “A bee is small but its sting is great.”    
     “My skin is thick.”    
     “My nails are long and sharp.”    
     “Why does this sound like an augur?”    
     “A fortuitous one at that, but I jest.”    
     “Truly, how wouldst thou impress upon me the importance of being earnest?”      
      “Like any schoolboy thou must stay upon your homework to prepare your place at the feast of a woman’s touch.”    
     “But how would a virgin such as thou even begin to know such arcane mysteries?”      
     “Remember my outings to the library last autumn? Twas not a repository of books that beckoned me. The knowledge I sought was not to be found between the covers of a book but rather between the sheets.”    
     “Please tell me you weren’t selling your touch.”    
     “I was in training to do so. But not for the world’s oldest profession. I didn’t want anyone in this house to know until a diploma was in my hand. My flirtation, unbeknownst to you, was with the art of touch. I was a massage school dropout due to intimidation by the intimate nature of the profession. But I learned enough to be intrigued with the male physique and how males responded to my touch. My fascination kept me there long enough to master the art.”    
     “You don’t have to feel guilty for not working. My payroll job at the governess for hire company sees to that.”    
     “Yes, but mulligan soup however you jazz it up with spices and veggies gets old. I long to dine on baked Alaska and escargot instead of peanut butter and jelly. My taste buds hanker for the tapioca pudding that never seems to fit within our grocery budget.”    
     “I could get a second job at night.”    
     “You need REM sleep. If you didn’t dream at night, you might start hallucinating about marrying a rich widow and leave us high and dry.”    
     “I can sleep between shifts.”    
     “Working the graveyard shift would leave you too tired to flirt with me. Don’t break my heart.”    
     “What trade will you take up? The textile mills are all shuttered.”    
     “I can be a seamstress. I’ll be known as the girl with the golden needle. Then I’ll make clothes for you so you don’t have to go around in those raggedy jeans and stained t-shirt.”    
     “That profession sounds honorable.”    
     “Never forget that a woman’s work is never done. And your supper will still be ready by closing time no matter how many hours I spend at the sewing machine. Now time for your surprise.”    
     “Are you fixing me a dry martini? I could use one after all this flirty talk.”    
     “There will be nothing dry about this surprise once I am done with you.”    
     “I am intrigued and a bit trepidatious.”    
     “Don’t be anxious, it is me your sister, not some vamp you met at the barroom. My masseuse talents shouldn’t be wasted. Let me massage you. My maidenly heart cannot fathom laying hands upon a stranger. But thou are no stranger but my brother. I will feather thy nest for thee and the sweetest flower who shall be thy lady love.”      
      “Must I shed even my knickers?”    
     “A pillow case will be drapery on thy birthday suit for I am not a robber baroness poised to steal an eyeful of thy family jewels. Thou hath a lean and hungry look that invites the feminine caress.”    
     “Surely my apple is thy forbidden fruit.”      
     “Thou art banned braille written for my tactile pleasure. So let me awaken the summer that sleeps in thy seed.”    
     “Surely my bollocks are a no trespassing zone.”    
     “My fingers shall not disgrace thee. Only the branches that govern the flow of sap to thy trunk are fair game. Now, tell me dear brother where lies thy ache of lilies dying to bloom?”    
     “The knots in my wood can only be ungrown where my billfold nests.”      
     “You are the king whose decree is written in my heart. Shall I crown thee Emperor Gluteus Maximus? Yes, thou art enthroned by my gluteal worship.” She leaves the room for me to undress.  
     Rowena enters into my sacred space with her soft words, “Are you comfortable?”          
     My deep voice whispers, “Oh yes I am.”          
     She is the complimentary brownie whose smile is a Caribbean spice found only where cannabis is legal for pre-rubdown relaxation given to massage parlor virgins as a secret ingredient called Jamaican moonlight express.          
    She has me lying on my stomach on my bed beside which she kneels as though in prayer. She says, “Hey, massage oil would enhance the massage considerably. Alas I have none.”    
     I look up at her face and say, “I have some grape seed oil.”    
     Rowena asks, “Where is it?”    
    I hem and haw and don’t divulge where it is because of my erotica books which sit next to the oil. Rowena says, “You have nothing to be ashamed of.” I still keep the location to myself.      
     Finally, I concede, “The oil is in the nightstand next to my bed.”    
     Rowena’s finds it. “Oh, it was right under my nose. I can’t believe I didn’t notice until you told me. She holds the bottle of oil with a wicked smile. She says, “Don’t worry but I noticed your, shall we say literature, down there. The books on what professionals call tapotement that in common parlance is known as a spanking.”      
     She reaches beneath my drapery to tenderly cradle and cup my twin moons. My rose blushed hips rise in her hands.    
    “Brother, you may find religion through me.”    
    “A woman’s touch is so consoling.”          
     “You need upward mobility commensurate with your prep school education in manliness.”          
     I hearken unto the embers of her one hand clapping my fundament to the rhythm of her ‘Patty Cake’ sing along. Her hands send surges of Caribbean warmth flooding under her touch.          
     “The hearth is not the only heat a woman tends upon is it not?”  
     “Ro, thy hands are the sirocco that fells hot rain to ripen my peaches into the pink blush of spring.”      
     “And you thought I was just your shrinking violet sister whose hands were made of cotton.”    
     She lifts my drapery, as a silk curtain, and averts her eyes as she instructs me to turn over onto my back. Once she has me properly veiled to protect her virgin eyes and my modesty, she observes, “I see you are already climbing the corporeal ladder.” Her hands crawl across my shoulders. Their spidery prisms web her touch. And so, she took me into the deeper mysteries of sibling revelry.      
      Rowena rendezvous with a suitor with Mom’s midnight curfew looming. My pangs of jealousy are real as the Bard’s green-eyed monster. Finally, she darkens the door. “John, my return finds me the pure virginal girl Mama raised me to be. The clock didn’t find me cavorting in opium dens or even giving up my sobriety.”    
     “Good to know staying up for you proved as pointless as Hadrian’s Wall was for keeping out the Scots.”      
     “John, were you embraced by the arms of Morpheus even long enough for a grain of sand to      
fall through an hourglass?”    
     “I’ll sleep well enough in the sweet bye and bye.”      
     “When the moment teetered like Caesar on his last leg, to be chaperoned by my brother was a distant dream.”    
     “Oh no Rowena, vouchsafe that you found protection from angels on high.”    
     “Of course not, because such angels were not at hand. Therefore, the shame I cast upon him was my flaming sword. However, he found my lips sweet so he said. It felt strange. I was bathing in his kisses until I used what strength a lass can muster to send away his affection. But such a peculiar feeling came over me. I felt beside myself with joy and fear.”    
     “What provoked your fear?”      
      “He might follow a path without my consent. My palsied heart skipped beats.”      
     “Rowena, remember the phrase ‘frailty thy name is woman.’ Here I hold the sarcasm for a paternal tone if it is my right. But promise your brother that you will leave haste to the gallop of stallions in matters of the heart.”    
     “John, when you are a knight to my lady I feel a warm sugarplum melt inside of me. You’ve been the David to the Goliaths of my life. But I slew your giant. I trace a path to your twenty-first birthday. You proposed to drink a deuce of hootch bottles or meet a fate of ashes trying. I stalked you all the way to the Pub where I hovered outside like a policewoman on a stakeout ready to haul you into the drunk tank. You swaggered in like a swashbuckler whose only sword was the one between your legs.”    
     “My purse didn’t hold enough coins for the high-grade liquor but I surmised that the cheap stuff would be proficient to the point.”      
     “You staggered out like a sacrificial Druid with one foot in the grave. When you collapsed on the street whether you were having a heart attack or just stone-cold drunk was beyond my perception. So for the first time, we pressed lips.”    
     “You breathed life into my frail and dying body. Your exhalation was like a spring breeze.”      
     “My requital to your compliment is that while your breath wasn’t the essence of mint your compliance was most satisfactory. Even most wives couldn’t withstand those whiskey fumes for their very own husband.”      
     “I faced the grim reaper betwixt the eyes. In his cold embrace, my heart became a weir that stymied my corpuscles so that death was a mere stone’s throw away. Then, I felt your hands rub my face with the liquor of your touch to remedy the fermented corn.”    
     “Someday, you’ll meet a woman who will warm you in ways I can’t.”      
     “Celibacy comes naturally as it did for Adam and Eve before the fall in our garden of love.”    
     “Me, be chaste? Our heredity is Biblical in its begats. Growing the family tree is as much a family tradition as singing Samhain carols. My body cries for babies. I was born to make babies. It is in my blood” she breaks to me.    
     “My future wife must have your regal bearing.”    
    “John, are there no women at the castle where you serve the queen?”      
     “Of course, the nannies are women.”      
     “Are any of those lasses as fetching as me?”      
    “You are a pink flamingo among mallards.”      
     “You are a peacock among geese. But my confession spills from lips which have prayed upon      
the altar of your manly charisma. If you weren’t my brother I’d marry you.”      
     “Rowena, what did I do to earn such affection from my very own sister?”      
    “You make me feel like the woman I could become.” She kisses me on the cheek.    
     Rowena sets me up on a hot date with her best friend. To have my biscuits warmed for her friend she spikes my aperitif for sex with Spanish fly. But she also puts some in her own drink to share in the fun. She toasts me, “To your gift to womankind. You are not such a man as to hide your candle under a bushel. May your candle drip as the flame burns to return your gift tenfold.”    
     I say, “To the most favored sister for whose honor a brother would face the sword with death’s motto to recite.” So I invite Marjorie into the room my sister prepared for just such an occasion. Soon Marjorie and I are in the throes of passion. But I feel a strange sensation emanate from my sex to my heart.      
     All the while Rowena is in her neighboring room making love to herself by the light of her lamp. Little does either of us know that our shared lineage makes us allergic to the Spanish aphrodisiac Ro used to make our night special. And so, we find ourselves washing out to a sea of bliss until the water swallows us.    
     But the ocean turns into the Mediterranean Sea where my sister and I swim underwater not to die, but to find something in the sea. There are shipwrecks under the water where we are swimming. Upon surfacing we are thrown life preservers and hoisted on board a galleon.      
     A crusty old man with a grey beard says, “My alchemy turned you all from the pallor of corpses back into the pink of health.”    
     Rowena addresses Prospero, “Do you have any spirits onboard? Silly question all sailors drink.”    
     Prospero answers, “Why yes of course. We have rum from Barbados and made all the sweeter by the native ladies upon whose service you shall delight.”      
     “We are a pair of millennia aged leeward of five score years. Would an ID assure our petition?”    
     “Please, you’ve been properly vetted. It be but sailor’s grog yet enjoy.”      
     We are assigned the same bed to sleep in. I say, “But she be my sister. We shan’t share a bed.”    
      “Consider yourselves actors in a new play, a traveling production if thou wilt, wherefore thou art part of a cast whose roles art never reprised for the playwright signs his folio finis,” Prospero says.    
     Rowena tells me, “You can fawn on me to your heart’s content. We are no more siblings than birds are frogs.”