Tarotica Ch. 01

A semi autobiographical series using the Tarot for a ground.

The High Priestess

"(the Priestess) embodies the perfect woman and the essence of all that is female but not particularly feminine in a romantic sense . . .She is a teacher" Tarot Classic, Stewart B. Kaplan

"Something is going on beneath the surface. . . the High Priestess appears when you need to attend to your innermost feelings and listen to your inner voice. The High Priestess appears when you need to tap into your hidden potentials, psychological depths, or unseen talents . . ." (Tarot: Plain and Simple, Anthony Louis)

Perhaps it was the egrets' fault.

When I went down to the small town beach, seeking refuge from the heat and the continual, ceaseless pounding of my own mental frustration, they were there - white grace, their necks bent in that familiar silhouette. There were two of them, obviously together - I tried to remember - did egrets mate for life? I walked down to the beach, trying to act oblivious to their existence, trying not to frighten them - as I approached, though, they flew away - over the party boats cruising the harbor, over the small fishing craft. I watched them, for a second, but they were gone quickly. I walked into the shallows of the river, feeling the gritty pebbles under my feet, spring seaweed dancing around my toes. I was raised swimming in cold, Minnesota lakes - the temperature, the seaweed, the pebbles - have never bothered me. It was still early spring; the Shrewsbury was still cold. There were no other swimmers. I walked in up to my waist, feeling my thighs numb just for an instance. It didn't matter - it was hot, and I wanted the cold water. Somehow, the Shrewsbury always feel like silk to me - perhaps only in comparison to the rougher waters of the Atlantic, just there, roaring on the other side of the spit known as Sandy Hook. I dove into the water, feeling the rush of the cold water, the silky feel of the river. When I surfaced, I was laughing - it was the first dip of the season. It was wonderful.

I didn't stay long - the point was not really to swim, just to cool my burning skin. It was spring, but it was hot - 90 degrees and muggy. I walked to my towel and collapsed gratefully. I could feel every pore in my body. My skin was singing. And perhaps that's what attracted the notice of the woman - the only other woman - the only other person -- on the rarely used beach. The lifeguards, even, had not yet started their municipal duties.

I live two blocks from the beach - I bring only a towel. The woman, on the other hand, was set up quite well - an umbrella, a chair, a number of towels, a cooler of beverages, several books. The beach is small, sandwiched, as it is, between two domestic residences. As I lay on my towel, feeling the sun's rays - now, the heat felt fantastic - she called over to me. "How is the water? You're pretty brave . . .it's gotta be cold." I leaned up, looked over. She was wearing large glasses and a straw hat - a sort of old-fashioned, Tallulah Bankhead sort of look. Kind of - dusty glamorous. "No," I responded, "It wasn't that bad - I mean - I wouldn't stay in for long - but it wasn't that bad." Tallulah laughed, a rather harsh sort of guffaw, "Well, you're certainly a braver man than I." Of course, it was quite clear that Tallulah was no sort of man at all. She was wearing a two-piece swimming suit, black. The top was a sort of cropped tank, with (how piquant) a zipper between her breasts. It was half down, and I could see the milky swell of her tits. The bottom, too, had carefully placed zippers - one on either side, above her thighs. They must have been decorative, as they were zipped tightly up. "You must live around here," she said. Her voice startled me - I had been studying her with quite obvious awe, admiration, and perhaps envy. "Um, yes," I stuttered, "Why do you say that?" Again, that harsh guffaw of a laugh. "You travel light." "Oh, right," I laughed, trying to inject a shallow levity I did not feel, "the towel."

An awkward pause followed. After all, what does one say in response to, "the towel"? "Hey," Tallulah leaned forward in her beach chair, and I watched, awestruck, certain those milky whites would tumble, free and loving it, from her black swimsuit top. "Hey - do you want a glass of wine?" I tried to think of one conceivable reason I should say no. It wasn't a man hitting on me, after all - that would have been easy to shrug off - to laugh, say I had to go, tuck my towel under my arm, and head back to the cats, the computer, and the omnipresence of the boyfriend, recently abandoned. But this - what feasible reason could I give? "Um, sure," I said. I tucked my towel under my arm, all right, but headed not home, but to the woman's beach encampment. I sat down, under her umbrella, feeling strange - she was in a chair, sort of looming over me - it felt rather awkward. "Oh," she chuckled, "This will never do. Hold on, there, sweetheart." She stood up and walked back to the parking lot, not many feet away. I watched her, watched her ass sway, watched her hair lift with the breeze. She knew how to walk. I shook my head, looked out to the bay - "She's right," I thought to myself, "This will never do." Again, I searched for a way out - an excuse - but I was committed. Nothing to do now but wait - and see.

Tallulah returned with another beach chair, and unfolded it next to hers. "Wow," I said, "You do come prepared." She sat down, tossed her hair - it was a long brown wave - and gave that precious guffaw, "Well," she laughed, "One never knows. Take a seat." I did so. She opened her cooler, then, and took out a small bottle of white wine - I could not see the name - and slipped a corkscrew from the pocket of her chair. I watched, scared, fascinated, as she screwed - carefully, deliberately - into the cork. "What's your name?" she asked, during the operation. "Um - Kristen." I answered, "And yours?" "Louisa - rather old-fashioned, isn't it? My mother named me after Louisa May Alcott - I think she always wanted a family of proper little women." The last was said with a sardonic twist and a pop of the cork. "There we are." She smiled and poured the wine into two plastic cups - "I hope you don't mind wine in plastic?" Since my wine is of the box variety, poured in liberal amounts from plastic and cardboard, I shook my head, "Oh no - that's fine. Perfect for the beach." "Well then," she smiled, "Cheers" and we touched, lightly, our plastic glasses. The sun sparkled on the wine, and the color seemed to match the play of light on the waves.

I took a sip - suddenly - it couldn't have been that little sip - but suddenly, I felt very, very good. Almost unwillingly, I leaned back in the beach chair and sighed. "It is nice, isn't it?" Louisa said. "What brings you to this beach?" I asked, not really caring, just marking time, conversation, and the consumption of Louisa's very good wine. "Well," she answered - her voice was languid - almost, not quite, a southern drawl, "It's almost always quiet here - I can come - read - not be disturbed." I looked over at the pile of books, lilting crazily by her side, "Do you read all of those books while you're here?" She laughed, the guffaw again, and said, "No - I just don't know - when I leave - what I might want to read - I end up taking a number, just in case." I leaned over, picked one up. It was something by Aldous Huxley. Underneath, The Woman's Bible by Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Intrigued, I picked up the next. Tracks, Louise Erdrich. I looked up, surprised. It was not one's usual beach reading. "Oh," she laughed, "I'm a runaway graduate student -- Literature, of all the useless things." "Runaway?" I asked. "Forget it - I don't want to talk about it - let it lie there." Suddenly, there was a steel edge in her voice. "More wine?" I nodded, wondering what - and whom -- I had stumbled into.

We sat there for hours, talking, sometimes dozing. We talked about literature, we drank more wine, and somehow, I told her about Mike - about the fights, the scenes, the eventual breakup, the heartache. Through it all, Louisa only nodded, and sometimes touched my knee, lightly, with just a trace of the bite of her fingernail. We watched the boats, talked about fishing, talked about the water, the possibility of sharks. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the sun, but I dozed off at dusk, the sun still bouncing cheerfully off the harbor and the plastic-ed wine.

When I awoke, it was dark. I was startled and, at first, didn't know where I was. I'd been lying on Louisa's complex of towels and I woke to find her stroking my hair. "What . . Where . . ." I stumbled, but Louisa only laughed softly. "You're okay - you just fell asleep, sweetheart." I swallowed the panic rising in my throat, "But . ." But there was no but - there was no Mike waiting at home - only the indifferent cats. "You're okay, Kristen, you just fell asleep." Her large sunglasses had been cast aside, and I could see her eyes, flashing in the light of the half-moon. She glanced down, briefly, feigning shame. "Perhaps I fed you too much wine." I sat up, looked at the water, back at Louisa. "Don't you need to get home - or something?" Again, her eyes flashed. "No," she said, "I don't need to get home." "What I need to do," she continued, and I listened, almost enchanted, "I think what I need to do - look at that water - and the moonlight - what I need to do - is go into that water - I need to take off my clothes - and feel that water - it feels like silk, doesn't it? Come with me, Kristen."

She laughed, then, and ran towards the water, shedding her suit as she ran. I thought - My God, it's the town beach, but I followed her, and I did the same. We both ran, laughing, into the silk of the Shrewsbury. When we were neck-level, she reached me, embraced me. "You know,' I said, "That must be very good wine." "Oh, Kristen," she said, "Believe me, it is." She kissed me then, her tongue probing mine, her hands moving down to my breasts. She pinched my nipples and moaned softly. I could feel the sway of the water, the sway of what her hands were doing - I could feel the pull of the river's tide. All were the same, somehow. Her hands traveled, down my breasts, pulling my nipples, down to my cunt. I could feel her, softly pulling at the hairs there, then her fingers entering me - I protested, softly, uselessly, against her mouth, but she would not let go and she would not stop. I opened my mouth, wider, to the feel of her tongue and the soft silk of her lips. "Oh, Kristen," she moaned against me, and I could feel her thighs against mine, under the water, the cold flowing between us - she was lunging towards me, pumping against the tide, against me - her hands moved to my clit, played there, and I gasped. She was holding me, then, tightly, protecting me from the tide but also giving me her own particular tide - she kissed, lunged, pinched my breasts, fingered my cunt, teased my clit. "Louisa," I breathed, the light silver with moon and river, "Louisa - God, I need to cum." "Yes, I know, Love," she answered, and thrust herself against me more violently, played with my clit harder and more rhythmically. When I came, I gasped against her wet throat, happy - scared - wondering - fearful.

'There you go, sweetheart. And now it's about time for me to go." She was whispering, softly, into my hair. "But," I said - what - where - when? "Shhhh,' she said, "Don't think about it - there's only now." She was cradling me in her arms, my legs wrapped around her, a baby in the night and the moon. Slowly, I separated from her and we walked back to the beach. As usual, there was no one around. I listened to the cardinals, the thrushes. She packed up as I sat, not talking, listening to the birds, the waves, watching the light of the boats in the harbor. She walked back to her car - an old Lincoln - and packed the trunk. It was odd, seeing her there in the physical world. She had seemed so unreal, somehow. I helped her carry things - the chairs, the towel, the umbrella, the cooler. She turned to me, after everything was tight, placed carefully in her trunk, "Thank you, Kristen. Thank you." She leaned forward, then, and pulled a wine bottle out of the cooler. "It's the same stuff," she smiled shyly, "Enjoy it when you need to."

I watched her drive off, her car the only moving thing in the small harbor town. I glanced at the bottle and walked home, it and my towel my only burdens. I got to my apartment, fed the cats, put the bottle in the refrigerator.

I have yet to open it.