Camilla Pt. 06

The white, chipped wooden double doors at the top of the stairs were ajar, providing a peek at what she was leading me to. I recognized the hall as an old hall. The halls found in members-only buildings, Shriners, Odd Fellows, or the odd group beginning with "The Fraternal Order of." They were usually big rooms on the top floor of discreet buildings rented in cash to low-budget weddings or high school dances. The wood floor would be worn by traffic, faded after generations of chairs and tables being moved across them. I expected to see paneled walls impregnated with the smell of stale cigarettes, pipe smoke, and beer. The room had seen endless bingo games, high school hearts broken, or worse, fulfilled.

This was not the bingo crowd.

The hard, fluorescent lights were off, leaving the room lit by the weak corridor light announcing our arrival. The obtrusive beam reached a short way into the room before being swallowed by its darkness. Strewn across the floors were bed-sized risers of different heights. Dropped across them were hundreds of Persian rugs. Every inch of the worn, tired floor was hidden from view. The different patterns of the rugs, varying from vibrant rose reds, turmeric oranges, and turquoise blues to deep chocolate browns, created a warm, sultry alien landscape that dipped and fell into the dark of the room.

Atop the risers, laying on the rugs, among ornate beaded pillows were naked and half-naked bodies. Light, caramel, brown, and dark skins. All deep into the presence of their single and multiple partners with them. Some intensely kissing their partners, one mouth, then another. Others were whispering, languidly caressing naked skin with the tips of perfectly manicured fingernails. There were couples, triples, and crowds.

No, not the bingo crowd.

The doors closed behind us, cutting off the light from the hall and leaving us in its belly. A string of cheap Christmas lights threaded between the risers, safely navigating Strina and me through the room without disturbing the many beds of the different inhabitants.

She wove unhesitatingly through the room. Her dress, its adornment of roses, blazed through the dark. The smoke was a cloying mix of cardamon, cinnamon, tobacco, and chocolate. It hung thick, almost liquid, in the air. I spotted one or two huka, their ornate, tentacled pipes pressed to a man's or woman's lips. The light embers from the shallow bowl holding the tobacco atop the ornate vase emitted a warm orange eye of flame. Other eyes peered at me through the dark as I passed, winking brightly, then dimming, hidden by the exhale of thick smoke from its pleasure seeker.

The perfume of the room filled my throat, almost choking me. Honey-rich and intoxicating. My eyes lifted to meet one of a passing bed's inhabitants. It was a woman with older, deep-set, dark, tired eyes pinched with crow's feet. Her face was intelligent, someone who would report to an international committee how the GDPs of the foreign country in question were impacting global imports and recommending embargoes against them. She looked like she was sleeping quietly and alone in her bed in a faraway palace. Her naked body, flawless coffee skin, splayed across the rug. Three manicured men attended to her. Their dark, thick hair was bound in tight, round buns atop their heads. They held her sides, waist, and legs with long, manicured beards and gold-tipped fingernails. One gently kissed the tips of her nipples, returning to cup and kiss her breasts with his lips wetly. Another lightly caressed her waist, pressing his face against her nave, the tips of her hips, then back down the delicate cleft to her tummy and navel. The third's head was bobbing up and down rapidly between her legs. Her tired eyes opened sleepily, looking at me as I passed.

I heard men groaning and panting together, uttering phrases that popped like firecrackers in their passion, sounds from deep in the room's darkness, a gasp choked off, a mouth muffled and moaning from being worked. An animal groan, a surprised cry, and then a blissful wail of encouragement.

The rhythmic chanting of Middle Eastern music dizzily rose and fell. The singer's voice pleaded and begged, making the room swirl, bent, and tip to one side and then another.

I walked carefully, picking where I stepped along the dim pinpoints of the Christmas-lit path taking extra care not to step on a hand or brush the top of a head. If I did, it didn't seem unreasonable I would be killed and my body to disappear. I had no doubt this crowd would kill me. In my life, I had never seen these people. They were far from any circle I traveled. From the bodies lounging, writhing together, fucking, topless, naked, none were overly thin or overly fat. Their dark bodies still were adorned with decorations of their day lives. Opulent, expensive watches, thick ornate bracelets, clutters of rings, fingernails tipped with glittering white or gold. Some bodies, amid the roots of arms and legs, were frosted with gold dust or encrusted in gold leaf. They had come to give in to their lusts, their unspoken, unproclaimed desires. Their humanity. Queens, CEOs, Royalty, the highest paid, and most inhibited during the day, here secretly, discreetly for pleasure meeting their station in life. Tomorrow, they would return to their palaces and return to changing worlds.

When I arrived at where Strina stood at the bar, focused on a simple mortar and pestle grinder, I began to understand her role. The room had been waiting for her. What she contributed began with what she was grinding to fine dust in that simple rock bowl.

But time slowed and thickened around me. Standing beside her, watching her hand wrapped around the simple rock tool, my head unconsciously, perhaps uncontrollably, rolled in slow, small circles.

The bar where she was working so intently once had a cheap plastic "beer" sign hung above a staircase of shelves littered with various bottles of bottom market brand alcohol. Now, tiny votive lights dotted the length of the bar extending a single wall of the room. They were among hundreds of small empty, round glasses that could hold no more than a few ounces of liquid. Attendants in all white, their heads covered with white scarves, hands in white gloves held in front of them, focused intently on Strina's progress.

The only other objects on the bar, besides the waiting glasses and candles, was an old wooden crate of white glass bottles - or glass bottles filled with white liquid. A withered, raisin of a man with a shockingly white mustache and white, starched shirt was popping the corks off each with a quick, precise movement.

Strina's one motion from her grinding was to glance from the stone bowl to the bottles, assessing and measuring the contents against the volume of bottles. Her hand moved in a slow, ceremonial circle. The heavy stone mortar made steady circles, grinding something the color of her red nails. Coming to a decision, she reached up to the collar of her dress and plucked another rose from the rose collar of her dress, leaving a space where she plucked the first a bit larger. It exposed a gentle, elegant neck. She pulled the petals apart, dropping them into the pestle, and then delicately scraped the tips of her fingers where the petals had left their color. She exchanged her focus from the methodical crushing and measuring to the number of bottles back to mixing in the pestle. I held on to the bar, not speaking to not disturb her but also to control the softly swaying of the room.

I had always liked being in control, but this night, from Kata taking me out for a drink, to getting in the cab with Strina, to intruding into this room where so many strangers were fucking, I gave up. I let it take me along. My way wasn't working. My wife had said so as well. In a moment of extreme bitterness, after months of exhaustion, trying to make it all work. That fight had been different, no prisoners this time, no feelings trying to be saved, no courtesy after bending and trying so hard between us. The frustration of joining two ends bubbled over. It was deemed impossible and now there was nothing to do but get angry at the precious time lost on a futile task. She screamed at how much she hated me. How disappointed she was in me. How they were finished. And I, at that moment, felt something close to relief and shame.

What had I brought to her over the short time we shared? Was it the same thing that led me here? That said yes to Kata? That was alone in my apartment every day after that moment? Would the man standing here have been at that argument? Or would he have prevented it? Would he even had married her in the first place? Whoever he was now, whatever was cracked, broken, and peeled away from the battles, I wanted to hold fast to it. I wanted to stay as I was because it led me to this ... fantastic place.

The music's reedy tendrils pulled at the pain of my memories, but they were softened by the hazy room, the absolute nakedness of it. I felt the tendrils twist and pry open pain, anger - rage contained by a tight fist over many years. I remembered another painful memory, my face turning unconsciously in disappointment. We had been out to dinner, the "dining dead." Sharing dinner and drinks under the false belief it was time and feelings being shared as well. Another half-hearted attempt was to add a glow to our emotional exhaustion. I was so tired, but I had created a mental list of "safe" topics we could talk about that wouldn't lead to fighting. Plate after plate, I crept out over the thin ice of our relationship to try and find something enjoyable. On the walk back to the car, I heaped layer after layer of compliments thinking enough would make me believe them. They piled so high, they tipped precariously atop one another, straining their height and under their weight. And then I said, "I don't know, I don't agree." It came out, the sincerity, probably from the wine. Presumably, the hope was she'd see me from what I was, stupid in parts, smart in others, fat, balding, loyal, steady, reliable, nonjudgemental, diligent. Not unhappy. Just content with my life.

But instead, she laid into me. She was a young child of a woman, kept comfortable by him for years in a state both realized was ending soon. All that was left was the cut from the guillotine. But she was scared and ruthless, not going down without taking both of us with her. Her hacking away at me would stay on my shoulders for months, the ragged screams, and the failure he thought he was. It would be another five months before I had the guts to agree to her desire for a divorce; participating in the conversation without crying and admitting it was for the best for both of us. She was the better man for bringing it up and doing it for me - for us. By that time, I was waking up as I would wake up for years after, a piece of a man.

It was an ugly history. It rolled out like a Persian rug in front of me--the patterns were dark and chaotic.

I shook my head at it all and the room swayed and tipped. A took breath steadied the room and another - him. I embraced what was happening to me and the pieces of me I was now. The tight mental fist, clenched in rage, loosened. What odd chunks of me I was, I realized were meant to persist. The others left behind in a trail of arguments, pity, and change, were just the brown dead husks, leaving this seed to continue to grow.

Finally, Strina finished the grinding. A tiny copper measuring spoon materialized in her hand. She scooped a precise measure of the red paste from the mortar, leveling it with a delicate slice of her fingernail, and then deposited it into one white bottle after another. A scope, a leveling from the tip of her manicured blood red nail, and into the next bottle.

The leathery, dark bartend produced a long glass rod with a flourish. He plunged the rod into the first bottle, and did a quick stir, turning the contents of the bottle from a white to an opal blue. He pulled the rod out, dried it with a linen cloth, and then dipped it into the next bottle. He followed closely behind Strina's delicate work.

Attendees fluttered in from all sides, snatching the bottles from the box as soon as the bartender's stirring rod left them and taking them to the staircase shelf where the delicate ball-shaped glasses were waiting. One attendant would fill the glasses in fast, even movements. Another would pick them up and load them to round wooden trays being carried by still even more attendants. As soon as the tray was filled, they were rushed into the darkness of the room - out to the bodies, lounging, kissing, and fucking.

Finally, String finished her work, her intensity vanished and her smile returned. Her deep, blue eyes once again focused on Ed. "My special roses make something so harmless far better than alcohol, Ed."

One of the hundreds of tiny glasses was placed in front of Ed. It looked harmless, so small Ed found it difficult to hold with more than three fingers. Another was placed in front of Strina. She dipped her finger into the mortar and brought its stained tip to her mouth, delicately frosting the tip of her tongue with a frost of the red paste. Her sparking eyes never left Ed.

And then, her lips were on his. She plunged her tongue recklessly into his mouth. It curled and swept deliciously inside. Ed tasted the power; dry, bitter, and spicy. It filled his senses. The passion of her kiss took his breath away.

"Now drink." She said.

This world swept him along, releasing him from the opinions of his friends, the standards, and the traditions of the other world he lived in. He was apart here. It was just him and no one left to judge him.

And to him, the music was real. It seemed louder, more ragged, and lovelorn. Whoever this was singing, he guessed some Middle Eastern singing far from where they were got him. They got the anger, self-pity, and futility of it all. The singer loved, hated, ached, and cried as Ed had. In those moments when he thought he was entirely and utterly unnoticed. This song tapped deep down into the profound sadness he felt. Here at some bar, he connected to the pathways shared with many many, other men.

He drank every drop of the liquid. A feast to this world. A toast to the men that felt as he did. To this sad, ragged music.

"Well?" Strina asked. Her eyes twinkled with anticipation. She seemed to know what was coming.

"Nothing." Said Ed.

But then, a flavor. No. Another memory. Was he... six? His mother. A moment where she and he had the kitchen to themselves. She pulled out a fresh cookie sheet of chocolate chip cookies.

That was it.

Homemade chocolate chip cookies. Warm and buttery. A generous pile of them. Eat them before they cool, before the others sweep in and take the best ones. The moment was so pure and loving. All he needed were those cookies.

"What is it you taste, Ed?"

"Cookies. My mother's cookies. That's amazing."

"How innocent? Chocolate chip cookies? Do you miss them?"

"I loved them. Miss them? Yes, I do." He searched for the word. "Safe." He said.
"Safe with me? Well, I'm flattered. How lovely."

"Is that what that does?" He laughed. Is that the magic of her drink? He thought. How innocent! These poor, tortured people wanting to have childhood memor -

He was back at the kitchen table. He intruded as a man into the memory. The thought wasn't voluntary. His belly was pressed awkwardly and bulging into the table. The chair seemed too small for his adult body.

"Hardly." Her voice was nearby. "Just the beginning, darling. Hold onto me."

Her hand touched his face and he was back at the bar. She was talking to one of the attendants. They reappeared with a shallow basket filled with tissues, wipes, condoms, a vibrator, and an ornate massage oil bottle. It was dotted with more of the little round, harmless-looking glasses filled with the milky blue elixir.

The room thrummed and wailed, filling his chest with vibrations as his head floated miles above his body.

He stopped worrying about not looking.

The crowd was louder, wilder. Hungry. They want at each other with sweaty, reckless passion. Breast jiggled and danced. Mouths were stuffed to bursting with cocks. Legs straddled heads and ground themselves relentlessly against them. The room seemed hotter. Gasps were more ragged, Moans more guttural. Cries were muffled into the rugs as bodies smashed.

Strina grabbed his collar and pulled him to a far corner of the room, to a bed of their own. The darkness around them was dotted with screams of surprise.
Bleating and cries plugged by cocks, kisses, or cunts. The floor was a sponge-like consistency and sunk beneath his step. Hands, like tendrils of a vine, now reached out from the clusters of naked groups, grabbing him, pulling him in. Stone would notice, laugh, and peel the hand or arm from its grip on his pants or jacket and daintily place it back into its pile.

A dark, delicious chocolate-skinned woman tumbled in front of them. She had been perched on her hands and knees just over the edge of one of the broader beds. Her lover had been pounding furiously from behind and sending her glistening, sweaty body off the riser and in front of them. The ageless woman, her ebony breasts and ass round and firm, caught her breathe and climbed back onto the riser. Ed noticed her giving him one look, with startling blue eyes that pierced his. She pushed the muscular young male down, slapping him soundly in the face. Holding him down she climbed atop him and gently inserted his giant, stiff cock inside her. Ed passed by them as her moaning began once again.

Strina led them to their platform. The bed was dotted with long, ornate Middle Eastern pillows. The rugs with patterns seemed to shiver and weave with the music. He laid across them and handed him another glass from the basket. He paused waiting for her but she pushed it coaxingly into his mouth. He finished as she pulled off her boots and climbed atop the bed towering above him. Her fiery red hair was a stormy red cloud encircling her head, creating an otherwordly appearance. She began dancing, writhing, and twisting to the music.

She bent low, her perfect round ass facing him. It balanced atop shapely legs, her calves carved and strong. Her feet were tipped with red nails. She picked up another two glasses, swiveled on her toes to offer him a second, and drank together.

Ed was left watching her dance, her arms twisted around in sexy curves. Her sinewy body twirled and undulated like a ribbon to the music. The sounds of the room overwhelmed his senses.

Her arms caressed her sides, wrapped around her in a slow embrace, and slowly pulled her dress up to her waist.

The dress hid expensive thigh-highs embroidered with tiny red roses. Her thong, merely a string lacing around her generous, smooth curves traveled up from between the soft mounds of her cheeks to meet in a tiny red cluster of embroidered roses.

She bent again, swaying and rocking her ass, lowering to meet Ed's addled serene face. His senses caught her tangy musk and the sweet, heavy smell of her roses, rich and intoxicating.

Ed obliged her. He delicately pulled the rose thong to her feet. She took her time stepping out of it, curling her toes in slow tantalizing circles. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and spread her ass apart. His mouth found her puckered asshole. His head swam with its faint bitter scent, but his head swam with the mystery tonic. His mouth opened wide and his tongue laced up the sides and around in wet, sloppy circles, around her brown rose. His hands caressed and squeezed down to her thighs. He was intoxicated with pleasing her, unconscious of her hands fumbling to stay steady from his attention eating her ass. They grabbed at his head, then trembling grabbed the rug. He felt her tense and tremble. She reached up with one hand and then another to get a grip on his head. She groaned and pulled his face deep into her.