Queen of the French Quarter Midnight Airs

Queen of the French Quarter Midnight Airs    
     
     The narrow French Quarter streets are packed with lost souls, people asleep though walking. I see their sodden faces, neon light reflected in glazed eyes. The neon signs beckon with promises of bliss in writhing girls on stages who give the illusion of satisfaction to hungry males.      
     I see one through the window, her legs wrapped around a pole, and her plastic face contorted in the image of passion. I know that deep in that body is the heart of a wounded bird who follows patterns ingrained from molestations, perhaps forgotten. The endless repetition of spirit violence tears at her being and leaves the husk of a once beautiful rose withered and dry.      
     I see the lines in her face which are dry riverbeds where tears once flowed. I know that the life renewing springs in her are all but dried up. Still in her eyes I see the spark of fire that will not die. I see reflected in her my own pain and feel her longing for sweet justice.      
     I step into the den of flesh and her eyes meet mine. I feel a spark fly between us with the speed of light. Recognition flashes in her eyes in this meeting, as intimate as two lovers embracing. I feel the loneliness emanate from her as I follow her movements, a sad mime of making love, to men whose bodies might as well be cold and stiff.  The men stare like zombies at the swell of her breasts and taunt derriere.  I feel volcanic forces move through my body. My eyes blaze with anger. I can no longer let this spiritual rape continue.    
     The music mercifully ends and she steps down from the stage like a fallen Goddess. I smile at her and she smiles back through a haze of tears. We share knowledge on a level which no one else there can see. I can see that she recognizes the depths of my compassion for her. She knows that I share her pain. I feel the bonds of sisterhood with this wounded bird. I can see she is willing to open the floodgates of her heart to me.      
     She pulls a white summer dress over her shaking body to cover her wounds in the purist lily-white symbol of a return to innocence. I take her hand and we emerge from the underworld into the intoxicating night air.  The moon overhead is swollen and red. I feel its power over me summoning the beast. The ancient craving fills my body. With the swiftness of lightening my mind is illuminated by the knowledge of what we must do.    
     Our wandering ceases as our bodies settle into stillness. We stand face to face in the shadows of Pirate alley. I gently grasp her bird delicate shoulders and press her lithe body against the cold stone of St Louis Cathedral. I hear her whimper like a kitten as I press my taut body against her soft flesh. My hills fill her valleys as our bodies coincide meshing into each other curves. I feel her heartbeat against my chest like a faraway drumbeat, faint but sustaining.      
     My senses tell me that she is stronger than those leering men could ever know. I want so much to nourish her tired spirit with my love. I long to merge with her and for our paths to join in this strange journey called life.      
     However, I know that there is a task to be completed before we can be joined.  Our lips meet in sugary bliss. Warmth spreads like an ocean current through my electrified body.  I feel the sweetness of her touch flow like honey through my sex.      
    A tall dark man in a business suit emerges from the shadows. He looks at us with intensity, as though trying to pierce us with his eyes. I feel his intrusion into our world stab at my heart. He has violated our most sacred moment with his leering hunger. His mouth opens and the words seem to boom from him, “You two look so sexy. Why don’t you two join me for dinner?”    
     I look into my sister’s eyes and whisper into her ears my secret plan. He waits patiently awaiting our reply.  She nods smiling. We stand on either side of him, each taking an arm. We walk with him through the streets, grasping onto his arms with the firmness of a falcon grasping its prey with its talons.    
    We enter the restaurant and the waiter looks at us as we smile. As he leads us to our seat he says, “You’re one lucky man. What I wouldn’t give to be in your shoes right now!”    
    He grunts and I smile saying, “Yes, he doesn’t even know what he’s in for. We have something      
really special planned for him tonight.”    
     Our man looks down at us while adjusting his tie. He says, “I like surprises!”    
     We each kiss him on the cheek. He grasps our waists as we stand by the table. He pulls us close to him as we caress his back together. I run my hand through his thick brown hair. The waiter stands with his mouth gaping and says, “Please be seated.”    
     I say, “I don’t think we need any dinner tonight. Why start with appetizers when you can go right to the main course?”    
     I grasp his arm and tell him, “I know the perfect place.” A naughty smile passes across his face. We lead him through the moonlit streets. I feel the moonlight fill me with warmth. I bathe in the purist moonglow; it fills the recesses of my body, making me feel feminine and powerful.        
     We arrive at my lair and we lead him down the steps into the darkness. He almost stumbles on the steps and we prop him up. I say, “Be careful. You wouldn’t want to break anything. After all you’ve got a big night ahead.”    
     At the bottom is my candlelit dungeon. I see fear in his eyes for the first time in the flickering candle-light. My special wine is in the corner. I pull out a bottle and caress its neck suggestively smiling, as he looks on hungrily. I pop the cork and pour him a glass. He looks at the glass apprehensively and offers me a glass.      
     I say, “You’re our honored guest. Please drink first.” He holds the glass close to his nose smelling its fragrance. I look at the dagger hanging on the wall. I know that I must work swiftly.  I can never allow him to molest another woman.      
     I reach out feeling his stiff spear through his slacks. I know that his offending member will serve  a different purpose for us tonight.  I think of all the women, I have known, who were forever damaged by men.  I will do this dark deed for them.      
     His eyes close and a moan erupts from his lips. I deftly pull his zipper down and free his manhood. My fingers trace the tip in slow sensuous circles as he sinks to his knees.      
     As I stroke him, she grasps his hair and pulls his head back. She holds the wine glass above his open mouth and pours the sweet liquid into him. It spills across his cheeks and he gulps it.      
     We tug his pants off, revealing his toned body and muscular thighs. I gently unbutton his dress shirt. With soft spoken words I say, “That wine will help you obey. You will find it easier to submit to us.”      
     He looks up at me and pleads, “Please, let me go.”    
     I say, “Let you go? This night is just beginning. I promise you a night you will never forget.”  I caress his scepter, gingerly circling the crown as his eyes fall shut, and his trance deepens.      
     With my other hand I roll his eggs like dice. His mouth hangs open and his eyes are closed as I caress his loins.      
     In the midst of my ministrations upon his manliness, I tell him, “The Goddess ordains me to grant you what may be your last sex act. There was an ingredient in the wine you drank that in a few hours, once it has time to do its work, will make you flaccid for life without the antidote which I have hidden away. And to add to your dilemma you will experience coitus interruptus with no satisfaction in addition to a floppy one for life if you don’t agree to the terms I will soon reveal,      
capeesh?”      
     He is too enthralled by my touch to respond, except with deep breathing. I crouch down folding my legs under me and wrap my fingers around to paraphrase Percy Bysshe Shelley his: ‘fallen tower’ until it rises into a ‘Sculptured alabaster obelisk’ that is the ‘Stupendous column’ of his ‘marble daemon.’      
     He succumbs to his need. My hand relentlessly strokes him like a virtuoso violinist with up and down movements. My fingers explore the hidden root of his perineum.      
     Then I tell him, “I shall lay myself upon my bed. We need one little thing from you, a seed.”      
     So, my prize stallion obediently mounts me as my derriere sinks into the silken sheets. I call out to my midnight bride, “Let’s begin what we talked about while walking the streets.”      
     And she raises her hand with the deceptive appearance of a greeting and grins. It is at that moment that I gingerly grasp his stamen guiding it into my calyx whose inner sepals will mercilessly extract from him the gametes to sire progeny to be raised by me and my bride. I tell him, “I am ovulating profusely. Now, relinquish your seed to fulfill my need and yours.” He grunts like a horse.        
    I tell my bride, “Feel him to detect his readiness.” She reaches between his thighs and grasps his chestnuts between her delicate fingertips. He moans. She says, “It is shrunken like a dried plum.”          
     I tell my bride with soft but insistent words, “Let it begin!” She caresses his bottom with her hand and he begins pumping me with a slow but insistent flexing of his buttock’s muscles. His refrain of moans starts soft but deepens until I feel our sweat trickle down my heat-slickened inner thighs.      
     I lilt to my bride, “Drum roll, please.”      
     I hear the rhythm of her slaps on his derriere. She tells him, “I’m going to warm your buns just enough so that you feel it deep down to get your juices flowing.”      
     As things get steamier, he gives me his finest rendition of ‘Jingle Bells.’ In mid-gasp I tell him, “Oh ahhh, uh, darling you are serenading this gal while simultaneously opening the door to heaven for me. But this is Samhain not Yuletide.”    
     He replies, “It seems to fit the occasion with your accomplice jingling my bells with her vibrato on my posterior.”    
     “What kind of crime is my so called ‘accomplice’ aiding and abetting?”    
     “Trust me honey, it doesn’t get more consensual than this. I would have paid you a whole month’s pay check and agree to the most ridiculous terms for a night like tonight.”    
     “Well, this certainly isn’t prostitution since no money has or will be exchanged. On that note let’s bring in midnight with a bang.”    
     I hear My bride pop his tush to the sound of his ohs and ahhs. “Oh my God. There is sheet lightning in my keister,” he moans.    
     My bride tells him, “Then, I’ll go as soft on your bottom as a loving Mom who doesn’t have the heart to really spank her son.” I hear the pitter patter of her hands on his tush.      
      But she answers his sighs with, “But then again, you may need a firmer reminder of the consequences of misbehavior for being the heart-breaker you no doubt are,” as her swats turn into firecrackers.      
     I interrupt with, “This is an interruption of your scheduled programming. Either give me your solemn oath on your mother’s grave never to toy with a woman’s heart again, or we can call this whole thing off, including any hope of you ever rising to the occasion again!”    
      “I do solemnly swear,” he yells.    
     When he approaches the magic moment, she cackles like a bohemian dancer in the throes of passion with the rhythm of her slaps loud as castanets. But suddenly she says, “I am the cook gently stirring your roux,” as her smacks subside.        
     Then I feel the gentle sway of his body being rocked by her through his glutes. She tells him, “My hands are the wind that rocks your tree as your taproot digs deeper into her mother earth.”      
     I relentlessly flex the muscles of my Venus flytrap, engulfing the source of his masculinity. Then, his seeds explode only to stream into me like shooting stars in myriad patterns of beauty as the muscles of my petaled paradise for men spasm, drawing out his oil like an olive press.    
     And here I paraphrase Coleridge: ‘deep within my stately pleasure-dome runs his sacred river Alph, through my caverns measureless to man down into my sunless sea.’ The warmth spreads like honey, deep into my cervical passages. He and I moan and groan as she pauses her siege on his tender bottom.      
     And I yell to her, “Drummer, rest.” And he thrusts one last time for good measure until at the      
end, he groans in climactic pleasure.      
     He collapses with his cock still spearing me and lies atop me huffing and puffing. I lie splayed, as though in an opium den, until the moment arrives when I push him off. My bride and I each grasp one of his arms and he complies with us rising to his feet. “Good little boy,” my bride tells him as she pats his buns like a compassionate mother after spanking her boy.      
     His spear bobs up and down as we lead him to the tiny altar where the image of the Goddess looks down upon him.      
     I see how vulnerable and helpless he is. He is unanointed. He has never learned to see the beauty in woman. His mind is lost in a mire of stale attitudes and conditioning which we must wash away. Only then will his mind be the clear mirror which reflects the radiant beauty of the universe. Strangely my anger subsides.      
     I begin the ancient prayer, “Woman is the creator of all life. Out of the womb of the Goddess came the stars and planets. Only through woman is man redeemed. Woman is the salvation of all humankind.”    
     He begins to repeat my words. The syllables tumble from his mouth like a breath of fresh air. I look into the face of the Goddess’ image as she looks down upon us. I feel her energy fill my body. As we hold his arms, I feel him shake. He looks like      
a mystic in the throes of spiritual ecstasy.      
     His eyes shine with a light like starlight. His face looks younger than before. His trembling increases and he falls backward. I watch his eyes glaze over. He lies on the floor writhing with his scepter still erect and purple.      
     His trembling subsides and I get a blanket from the shelves. We wrap it around him and he rolls into a fetal position.    
     My sweet bird and I sleep in the bed upstairs. He stands at the foot of our bed. The satin sheets caress my skin as my bride and I lay together in the spoon position with me behind her.      
     I whisper into her ear like a summer breeze and my breath blows gently across her. “I will love you as only a woman can love another woman. Our flames will burn bright, as when two flames brought together burn brighter than the two separately.”      
     He looks down at us as my hands bless her and he watches. I look up at him. I see the sorrow in his eyes. I see the remorse he feels having been of the gender who used and abused this beautiful flower.      
     I feel a great weight lifted from my soul as I see the repentance in his face. I can see through his tears how he would give his life to change the past. If only he could wash away his sins and find absolution from the women whose spirits he abused. I put the promised antidote on his tongue and he swallows it with a big grin.    
     As I stroke her hair I say, “That Cheshire cat smile tells me you didn’t believe me about my possible imposition on your future intimacy.”    
     He looks down at us and I see a glow on his face which wasn’t there in the alley. He says, “Regardless, I am a born-again non-womanizer.”    
     I wrap my arms tighter around my tiny sparrow and gently rock her. I look at him and say, “You must always remember this night. Always treat women with respect and dignity. The Goddess showed kindness to you last night. You must show your gratitude to her by seeking the feminine within your own heart. You must feel love when you make love. Surrender your whole body and soul to the woman who trusts you. Only then will you know the ecstasy of true intimacy.”    
     He looks into my eyes with a softness that makes me feel tender. He begs, “I must repay you for saving my soul. It is the only way I can redeem myself.”    
     I answer his earnestness, “Our kid will have two Moms, but you can be our live in daycare helper, room and board provided.”    
     He smiles, “I’ll pass on being a nanny. I want to raise my own brood.”    
     “There is plenty of juice in your pear. Just don’t backslide. If I catch wind of it, I’ll spill the beans on this night to your future wife.”    
     “But what if you weren’t impregnated? Shouldn’t we try more times to be sure?”    
     I reply, “Oh thou art a man. My feel for my own body is infallible. I have always had that gift. Your seed was planted. Now, go forth, be fruitful, and multiply.” He gets dressed and I hear the door close as he leaves us.      
     My sweet bird rotates in my arms. She lays her head on my breasts and kisses my breastbone. I know that with time her broken wings will heal. In the night when fear floods her trembling heart, I will be there to hold her and comfort her. She will never be alone, she will always know my love.    
     She asks me, “Was there really something in that wine to make him impotent?”    
     “Oh, honey, you may be green behind the ears but you are mine.”    
      She kisses me and we sink into dreams of a future as bright as the dawn of the aboriginal Goddess.