Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha

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Thursday, September 10, 2218, 9 AM.

The Wells Home, 1110 Beagle St. San Ramon CA.

From Samantha Marie Wells’ Memoirs

I was only vaguely aware of it at first… the thermometer. A hand lighted upon the bare skin of my bottom and withdrew it.

“Ninety eight point nine,” said a heavily accented sing-song voice.

I was lying face down in a strange bed with a strange woman putting things in and out of my rear…

“Thank god!” came a more familiar voice. It was Mom, of course. Who else would it be?

“And I believe she is awake.”

“Honey?”

Okay, the bed was my parents’ bed, I figured that out as soon as I dared open my eyes. The other woman turned out to be Fatima, and I was still naked.

“Am I sick?”

“You had a fever of one hundred and two,” Fatima said.

“We stayed up all night with you,” said Mom.

“I don’t get sick!” I protested.

“It was most probably the stress from that monstrous contraption your brothers made,” said Fatima. “I’ve seen such things before.”

“’Tima is a trained medical first responder,” Mom explained.

“I am so surprised you do not have them here,” said Mom’s friend. “In Cairo half the girls learn basic medicine before they turn twelve. In India training starts even earlier. It's the only way for girls to get medical attention.”

“Cairo?” I asked. “Isn’t that in Egypt?”

“’Tima’s from Egypt originally,” said Mom.

“In any case,” Fatima went on, ignoring me and Mom. “You will be fine, my sweet. Sleep more, though. Here, take this.”

She held out what looked like a tiny chunk of red crate paper, and put it on my tongue where it quickly melted. I was unconscious very quickly…

I was awake again before eleven and spent the rest of that day with my studies. I got all my homework via email (as always) plus my class study work while my mother and Fatima waited on me hand and foot (making me feel very much like a princess, go figure!). I also managed to start (barely) working on questions for Jakim Golguli. I was done with most of it by four.

“Drink this,” Fatima told me as she held my head up. Mom stood at the door to the bedroom, just having took my temperature yet again… at least that had gone down to 98.7.

“By Sunday you should be fine,” Fatima said.

“You don’t think she should go to school tomorrow?” asked Mom, looking a little worried. Missing two days of school was not good. It tended to put one higher up in the lottery rankings.

“I see no reason why not,” Fatima said. “Unless she is very weak in the morning, I would send her,” Fatima turned to me showing me an adamant expression Indian wives learn from their mothers-in-law. “But it is early to bed for you, my sweet!”

“But…” I started to protest.

“NO! Listen to Aunt Fatima! Early to bed! Sleep long hours and be well tomorrow morning.”

“The Jakim Golguli call is tonight!” I protested.

Fatima’s chin went up in an “Aha” expression.

“I see…” said Fatima.

“You’ll have to postpone it,” said Mom.

“Not so easily done, Jessica,” explained Fatima. “Jakim Golguli is a very important man in my country. I would tell your lovely here to sleep now, and be ready to do the job. It will not come again.”

“You admire him?” I asked.

“He is very conservative, and he is a Brahmin, so people listen when he speaks. I respect him. Admire? I do not know. I know I do not like him. He wishes to conquer Pakistan again. It has caused much tension in both our countries. Muslims rioted in Delhi last year when he spoke.”

“He claims to respect Muslims.”

“He claims many things,” said Fatima. “He believes that Pakistan and Casmir are legitimate territories of India and should fall under the New Raj. India is Polytheistic, Pakistan is Sharia. He believes that it is in the Pakistani’s best interest to be part of a polytheistic culture as India will eventually be forced to destroy the country if it remains on its current path. So, he is also very dangerous, and perceived to be a militarist. His followers are certainly quite militant and nationalistic. But he is very adept at handling them, and they have been peaceful till now. But no one believes they will remain so. If he were to call for an armed coup, he would become leader of India in days if not hours. President Mibali has managed to keep Golguli in check, however, so far…”

That speech pretty much summed up what I had learned out of 200 or so news articles on and speeches by the man, Golguli. The rest of those three boxes contained books by him, mostly and some of his articles. I’d managed to read three of his most recent books… well… skimmed… actually.

So far I had nearly two hundred and fifty questions on ten subjects, and I was hoping that would be enough to cover all possible angles. One of the things people think Journalists must have is an interest in politics, which is not true. A journalist must have an interest in everything under the sun, and the ability to follow a story where it leads without digressing… hence… two hundred and fifty questions…

This man, Golguli, offered so much temptation to digress it made my head spin. He was sixty years old, had studied at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology and graduated at 20 with a degree in Astrophysics. By age thirty, he had three PhDs, one (Astrophysics) from MIT and two (Sociology and Indian History) from Cambridge, all the while working on the ESA team that launched the Copernicus VIII Observatory then spending time with NASA. He was still active with the New Raj Space Administration and the lion’s share of his speeches were given to his pet cause: various chapters of the Amateur Astronomers of India where he helped design and build telescopes that could be assembled by a pre-teen child. Indians loved him greatly for these efforts even if many despised his politics.

He was also a traditionalist. His Cambridge Sociology Doctorate marked turning point in his life and he immediately set out to expand on this and his history studies at the National University of India in Maharashtra, one of the main centers of Indian culture.

His fourth doctoral thesis, which centered on Indian Sociological Anthropology focused on India’s Historical Pluralism from 500bc to present day, and its affects on both India proper and the world at large. In it, he argued that Indian Pluralism naturally resulted in democracy and freedom and that no free nation in any part of the world could have existed without India’s example. Those seemed a bit of a stretch to me (still do) but he made quite a case for his position. Golguli’s logic was that India’s diversity reflected humanity’s natural state and that it was the role of the ruling class or the government to manage diversity to serve the whole, and not to stifle one in favour of another. It was a bit difficult for me to wrap my head around at the time, but it sure sounded good!

Just before my siblings came home, Fatima got a phone call from Ashima and stood talking to her just within my earshot. Apparently, I found out as I listened, Ashima’s cousins were more than a little more receptive to the idea of a California wedding than Fatima would have believed…

“They all seem so intent to shock!” Fatima complained to Mom.

And so, Ashima would have five bridesmaids instead of just three. The two additional ones, Ashima’s female cousins on her father’s side, would have to be fitted Saturday night instead of Tonight, as they were still on an airplane. The designer was on his way to our home.

That meant I had to get cleaned up…

Fatima and Mom guided me downstairs as wobbly as I was on my feet and into the main bathroom. Where Mom retrieved three patchwork towel-robes Miki had stitched together.

Our downstairs bathroom was the most elaborate room in the house with three toilet stalls, and a separate area for guests with just a commode and a sink. The counter sported four sinks each with its own mirror and an open four head shower. It was designed by the builder for practicality, not privacy, anticipating lower middle class families with large numbers of girls. Most of the homes in the area had a similar arrangement. Even the shower had been made for frugal living. Each head would only issue ten seconds of water at a time till the button on the wall was pushed again, saving massive amounts of water. I, of course, was used to it, but to someone not accustomed to it, I’m sure it would be tedious.

Mom stripped off her dress, which was all she’d worn, and the two of us went into the shower with Fatima standing outside. Mom began washing my hair as I soaped up, filling the air with the sound of her voice as she did so.

“… and so, Mattt’s a little perturbed about having to wear a tuxedo. He hates dressing up. He’ll bitch and whine about dancing, too, but whatever bride’s maid gets him will be lucky. He’s a fabulous dancer if you can get him onto the floor.”

“My husband loves to dance with me,” said Fatima, who stood watching us, still wearing her sari, skirt and choli. “It certainly is fortunate for Master Jake that he has a friend like Matthew.”

“Well,” Mom said as she began rinsing my hair. “Professionally close. They don’t really socialize, but they can go on and on and on about work related stuff.”

“Ashima says Jake is very close to Matthew. He considers Matthew a very close friend. Jake is very shy, it seems to me, and is not so trusting of people. Did you know Ashima is only the second girl he has ever courted?”

“No!” I exclaimed. “Really? But he’s soo hansome!” Mom’s hands were washing my back and hips lovingly as if she were handling something fragile. The sensation was truly divine, and I think I moaned.

“Indeed, he is!” Fatima said. “Ashima was smitten with him from the very beginning. That was perhaps two years ago, now.”

“That’s about the time Jake took over the shop full time,” said Mom. “Before that it was Gerry Atherton.”

“Who was he?”

“Gerry was the guy who brought Matt in when we had nothing at all, and I was destined to get culled early. I was already pregnant with the girls and Eric was a very active and curious infant, and we had only a studio apartment in Hayward. Our good friend Bernard Foss recommended Matt and just before the girls were born, we moved here. Mr. Foss and Gerry recommended us for a home loan to a mutual acquaintance, and here we were. I can’t imagine what it would have been like with four kids in a studio. I was so busy, we never got unpacked till after my youngest were born... ‘Tima,” Mom added. “There are two more shower heads, and plenty of room.”

“Oh..,” said Fatima nervously. “Of course,” she began removing her sari very slowly. “Most families in India and in Egypt have children every other year so the sisters can help each other out. They… how do you say..? they are never pregnant the same year, and they never allow their breasts to dry, so they can all nurse… Most Christian families in Egypt, I mean. The Muslims do not have so many daughters as we do.”

Mom began conditioning my hair. “I should have done this before I washed your back…” she said. “Aren’t the Muslims afraid of their daughters getting culled?”

“Not at all,” said Fatima, as she finally began to unbutton her choli. “In Muslim countries Muslim women are never converted. Christians, yes, Jews, yes, Hindus and all others, yes. But Muslims, never. They have a fatwa, a religious order that is often repeated to only bear one daughter per son. No Muslim woman can marry an infidel as it would be an insult to Allah. In Egypt, a Muslim man may take any wife he wishes, such is the law.”

I was feeling quite a bit better now, and Mom let me wash her hair as she and Fatima spoke, and Fatima undressed at her glacial pace.

“This is why my father gave me to Sanjay, so that I would not be taken by his employer for a feast or another wife.”

Mom and I both fell silent for long moments.

“How long has it been?” Mom asked. “Since you saw your family?”

“I was fourteen when Sanjay took me to India. I have not seen them since. I cannot return and my sisters cannot legally travel, though I might see my brother soon…”

“That would be nice!”

“But it is very difficult for Christian Egyptian Men even to travel. I only hope I will see them in heaven…” Fatima’s eyes were heavy with threatening tears. “I had a beautiful sister, Muna. Father was trying to find a suitable husband for her as well. But she was taken when she was thirteen for a feast before he could find anyone. It was for the feast of Ramadan,” she choked. “It is a terrible way to die,” she was gazing directly at me. “Your mother reminds me of her.”

I had rinsed Mom’s hair and was about to condition it when Mom stopped me, stepped out of the shower and approached Fatima. Mom kissed Fatima’s cheek and whispered in her ear to which Fatima nodded. Then, as Fatima stood there with large eyes, Mom undressed her tenderly, removing Fatima’s choli and skirt, then Fatima’s bra to reveal her large bosom with large brown areola and thick nipples. When Mom slipped off Fatima’s panties she revealed the mass of unkept pubic hair that completely shrouded Fatima’s mons.

“Is it disgusting to you?” Fatima almost sobbed.

Mom shook her head. “No, of course not. Just different. We’re not at all used to it, I’m sure you noticed.”

“Kshatryas, even Christian Kshatryas are mandated not to bare their yani as you do,” Fatima said.

“What’s a Kshatrya?” asked Mom.

“Her caste,” I said. “It’s just below the Brahmen, which are the highest caste…”

“That is correct,” said Fatima.

“Uhm,” said Mom. “Can you groom?”

Fatima was thoughtful. “I do not know. I have never asked.”

“I could help you with it if you want, or we could leave it. But it would look nicer if we could trim it a bit, maybe wax the edges like they do back east.”

“I suppose I should, as I am in California. I will be nearly naked at the wedding…” Fatima said reluctantly.

“Tell you what,” said Mom. “Let’s do it east coast style, like I described. Shall we? Okay, Sam, can you go to the kitchen and put some wax on?”

I nodded and dried off, slipping into the terrycloth robe Mom had for me and padded into the kitchen. Celine, Gracie and Mara were already home chatting away on the day’s gossip.

“Is Jenna home?” I asked.

“She’s upstairs getting ready for a date,” said Mara a bit snidely.

I took out the wax and the pot we used for heating.

“I think Mom wants her to stay.”

“How come?” asked Gracie. “She’s not going to be happy if she can’t go out!”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like we all get to do what we want, now is it? The fitters are coming,” I said.

“What?” Gracie almost shrieked.

“Can you go get Jenna, Mara?” I asked as I stirred the wax.

“You get her!”

“Okay… fine!” I said. I trudged upstairs, my calves hurting a bit as I did so, almost tripping on the second to last step. “Jenna?” I called.

“Here!” she called back from our room. When I found her she wore her favorite green underwear and had laid out various pairs of her bedazzled, hip hugger jeans, all of them with gaping holes she’d made with sandpaper to be in fashion.

“Who asked you out?” I asked.

“Darren Maxwell,” Jenna said matter of factly, as if I should have known.

“Fitters are coming any minute,” I told her. I picked up her bedazzled denim vest and looked it over. It was spectacular with swirling rhinestones of green and white all over it. “This is nice!”

Jenna grabbed it away from me. “They’re not coming till Saturday,” she declared.

“No,” I said. “It’s today. They had to switch with Ashima’s bride’s maids.”

Jenna’s face contorted and became red with anger. “Where’s Mom?”

“Downstairs, shower… with…”

“Mo-o-o-o-o-om!” She stomped out in her underthings.

I followed her down, slowly, feeling a bit dizzy, and Celine, bless her, was at my side helping me by the time I was halfway there.

“Are you okay?”

“Thanks, baby,” I said as I nodded. “Just a bit… dizzy, I guess.”

“So!” Gracie was at the bottom of the stairs, arms akimbo. “What’s going on then?”

“There’s some scheduling problem,” I told her, and explained what had happened. “So they’re coming, right now.”

“You picked a great time to ask,” Mom appeared momentarily in the kitchen with Jenna on her heels. Retrieving the wax she turned to Jenna. “Daddy and the boys are off at dinner with the Carrington’s so you thought I’d just give in, didn’t you!”

“No, Mom, I…”

“Right,” Mom said. “You think I’m going to be easy? I want you to call this boy and tell him you’re going to be late.”

And just then there was a loud knock at the door.

Gracie answered to reveal three people. One was a very tall, waxy faced man with a bald head that shined as if polished with dark hair wrapped around his head over his ears. The shortish woman with him would have been ordinary looking save for her with horn rimmed glasses, teal coloured hair and an overly voluptuous, perhaps a little overweight figure. The third one there was a man of similar stature to the woman with very close cropped hair, round spectacles and about two day’s grayish stubble on his cheeks.

“Is this the Wells House?” asked the tallest of the three in a high pitched sing song voice. “We are Lawrence Gray, of All Shades of Gray Glamour Studio! We deal in Colour and Shadow, and all things that make our world more beautiful! And who are you my dear? Are you a model?” He was talking to Gracie, then looked at me. “We were not told we were working with professional models today! We were told we were decorating a wedding party. Why were we not told? Who is the client? We want the client on the phone immediately! We must speak to the client now so that we are given proper credit for our work!”

“I’m not a model,” Gracie said.

“My dear,” said Mr. Gray. “Of course you are a model. If you are not a model, it is truly a crime! How is it you have not been discovered unless you pass each day hidden from the world? And here, this vision! Perfect in every way!” He approached me and pulled my robe open before I could stop him and gazed upon my naked body. My skin burned with a full body blush.

“Look at this!” said Mr. Gray. “What a canvas she will be. WE ARE A GENIOUS! Anti! Roberta! Bring in our drawings and set up there! Why are we not speaking with the client?”

A much shorter man behind him with close cropped hair and round spectacles handed him a very fancy cell phone which allowing me to close my robe.

“Ah! Miss Khan! Yes, of course…”

As Mr. Gray disappeared out the front door, the woman, Roberta who wore her teal dyed hair in a fancy bob cut set up an easel where she then placed an enormous sketch pad.

“I’m Roberta,” she said. “This is Antone, and of course you already know Lawrence Gray. You aren’t models, are you?”

“No,” Gracie said. “I tried to tell him… Mr. Gray?”

“Yes,” said Roberta. “So, we’re doing four or five of you, right?”

“Let’s see, there’s Mom, Me, Sammie and Jenna.”

“And Mrs. Khan,” I added. “I think that’s all of us.”

“Five then,” said Roberta. “You’re underage?” She addressed Gracie.

“I’m fifteen,” Gracie said with a hint of protest in her voice. “So is Sammie and so is Jenna.”

“A brood, then? Sisters? Funny, a blonde, brunette and a redhead in the same litter. That’s cute. Where are the adults?”

“Hello,” Mom and Fatima arrived and Roberta introduced herself. What followed was a presentation by Roberta of the product. The outfits were, even by California standards, very daring. They consisted of Pantaloons, vest, hair-veil and gold sandals and some adornments in costume jewelry to be decided later. The material, save for where the seams came together, was completely transparent, and designed to be worn without underwear. The vests were designed to leave the breasts completely exposed, but that was not the main feature. That would be a pre-set pattern of vines with flowered accents painted directly onto the skin over the breasts, belly, back, buttocks, thighs and calves. It would take at least forty five minutes each side as we would have to lay perfectly still.

We completely understood the process, but the boss, Lawrence Gray himself, insisted on explaining the entire process in excruciating detail in the course of forty five minutes. It had taken Roberta all of five, albeit without Mr. Gray’s hyperbole. But it gave Roberta and the other man time to set up high powered light over the dining room table.

“All that remains is to begin,” said Mr. Gray. “Who shall be the first to wear our genius?”

“Uh… me?” Jenna jumped forward.

“Jenna has a date,” Mom informed.

“Ah! But I hope you will be careful with our creation! You must not bathe for twenty four hours after the pigment is applied!”

While Mr. Gray and Roberta took little miss fireball in hand using the dining room table as a platform upon which to work they’re magic. Darren Maxwell would have to wait two hours for her to be ready.

The short man with the round glasses and the stubbled face turned to my mother.

“If there is another table, I can begin work on whoever will be next,” the short man said in a high pitched nasally voice.

“Uh… sure. There’s one in the garage.”

“The workbench?” Miki said incredulously. “Mom, it’s still got that cradle-thing on it.”

“Well,” Mom said. “Put it on the floor. Let’s get some towels to cover it with, okay?”

“Mom,” I asked. “Can I go next? I really do need to be ready for the interview…”

“But what about me?” asked Gracie.

“Samantha should be next,” said Fatima who had just materialized. “The interview is very important.”

Gracie seemed a bit put out by that, but let it go. Between Miki, Gracie and I, we managed to get Eric’s monstrosity onto the garage floor while Celine, Mom and Fatima brought down fresh towels and spread them over the table.

Again, Mr. Gray parted my robe and looked upon me. “The light in here is completely inadequate,” he said. “But it will have to do. Aquamarine, I think, for the material. That Flower you like so much… clamatis. Make it blue, if you please.”

“You bet, LG,” said the shorter man. He turned to me. “Ready?” I simply nodded and he patted the workbench top. “Loose the robe first, if you don’t mind. It’ll be a real bitch trying to paint through it.” I lay down on my belly and he began to work.

“So,” said Miki. “Who is that guy?”

“Larry Gray?” replied the man as he began applying pigment to my back. “He designs looks for the rich and fabulous.” As he spoke, his attention was focused entirely on his painting.

“Like who?”

“Oh,” said the man. “Like Carmen Giovanni, Ashley Simmons… ever heard of them? Of course you have. Every girl your age has a stack of magazines with articles on both of them dating back ages. You know Phong Wu? She from the family that claims to be heirs to the dragon throne of China? Anyway, he worked up her dress for the Oscars this last year. You’ll find his name in Cosmo, Vogue, London Calling and Paris Match…”

“Is this the kind of stuff he does?” Miki had an eight by ten print copy of one of the larger drawing Roberta had shown us earlier. The figure was nude with nothing but body paint on it, basically the design we were having applied.

“Not really,” the artist said, still not having looked up from his work. “The whole skin tint thing is new. Roberta convinced him to try it, she’s very into it. She likes tattoos, which is how she got into skin tinting. LG, that’s my boss, he wanted to see if I could apply my textile print designs to the skin, which is sort of what I’m doing now. That’s normally what I do for LG, design textile patterns for his clothing designs. But Roberta, she’s one of those tattoo fans.”

“Tattoo?”

“Never heard of tattooing? No? The used to use needles to inject ink below the first layers of the skin. It was permanent.”

“Eww!”

“I know,” said the man. It’s like, hah, sooo gross, gay and stupid! Disgusting. Anyway, the designs, however, were absolutely fabulous. So LG, that’s the boss, had me read up on it, and of course we now have this skin dye that’s temporary, but similar. It doesn’t tint as deep, but it does tint the skin. Can’t be washed off for about two weeks. A few of the tattoo fanatics, like Roberta, are super into it. If Roberta showed you the work she does on herself, you’d be impressed. It’s nothing like what we’re doing here.”

“It lasts two weeks?” I asked.

“Well, ten to fourteen days,” said the artist, never looking up, his focus was on what his brush was doing. “If I re-apply it in twenty four hours it can last up to a month. But I few women want to be marked that long,” he was now applying what seemed like swirling designs to my rump, and liberally down my inner thigh after he pulled my knees apart. He worked in silence for a time with several different brushes, wide and small. Before he had me roll over, which I did very, very carefully, he spent about ten minutes drying his work with a gun-style blow dryer. Then he had me lay face up, legs still parted. My skin burned the whole time. I simply never became used to being naked in front of strangers…

Mom and Fatima moseyed in after the artist had been working a while.

“Are you the mother?” the man asked. “They have such perfect skin! This one fantastic to work with, even if she’s trying not to be ticklish.”

“I’m afraid we’re all a bit ticklish,” Mom confessed.

“Well,” said the man. “There’s no need to be embarrassed either. This one has a perfect figure, it’s a shame to hide it. I’m almost done. Will one of you be next?”

Mom looked at Fatima.

“No,” Fatima said. “Please you go first.”

Mom nodded and doffed her robe.

“Oh, I won’t be ready for a little bit,” said the man.

Just then, Jenna waltzed in looking completely comfortable in her skin and new painted adornments. Across Jenna’s body were dandelions with their leaves and stems painted to appear to be vines. I knew enough about dandelions (I’d pulled enough of them, thankfully that was no longer my chore) to know the ugly milkweed leaves. It certainly suited Jenna, I thought, I almost laughed out loud.

“Oh! Let me see!” said the man, looking up for the first time.. “Good! Roberta’s taking artistic license. ‘bout time, too!” He returned to me. “God, what is that thing?” he asked emphatically.

Jenna laughed. “That’s my sadistic brother’s idea of a comfortable roasting cradle.”

“Ewww!” said the artist. “It looks soo midevil! Sexxy, too, in a Torquemada kinda way. Do you have a rack or an Iron Maiden too?”

“A what?” Jenna asked.

“Nevermind,” said the man. “Is that blood on that phallus?”

Miki, Celine and Jenna all nodded.

“It made my sister sick,” said Celine.

“Gee,” said the man. “I wonder why. Which sister?”

“Sammie,” Celine said.

“Which one is Sammie?”

I raised my hand as everyone pointed at me.

“Oh! You’re Sammie. I’m Antone. Just call me Anti! I’m very anti. Anti-social, anti-pathic, anti-whatever you can think of...” Said the artist, to which Mom began to introduce all present.

“I’m not used to knowing the model’s names,” said Antone. “They’re usually too good for the room, anyway. So I don’t bother doing anything but treating them like a canvass or a mannequin, most of the time. Sometimes, rarely, you run into one that’s nice…” he said. “So… you actually got on that thing?” he asked me.

“I did,” I said.

“And you weren’t scared?” asked Antone. “I mean, that’s blood, isn’t it?”

“I was,” I said, not sure I wanted to have this conversation with a stranger. Especially one who had me at his mercy, nude on a table. “I forgot I was a virgin,” I blurted anyway…

Antone was done with me at eight, exactly the time I was scheduled to make my phone call. So there I stood, wearing only socks in the kitchen on my phone. I couldn’t even sit. As the phone rang on the other end I chewed my already bitten nails excitedly.

“’Allo?” came the reply on the other end of the line.

“Hi!” I blurted, perhaps a bit too forward. “My name is Samantha Wells. I’m a reporter with the Amador Herald and I have an appointment to speak with Mr. Jakim Golguli…?”

“Miss Wells,” said the voice. “Of course. I am Jakim Golguli. So nice of you to be punctual. I was just setting up my telescope for a relaxing evening of star gazing and conversation…”

For the next three hours that passed like minutes. Mr. Golguli was as charming and engaging a conversationalist as I’ve ever encountered. Every question he answered with aplomb, enthusiasm and calm, sophisticated authority. For the all three hours Fatima sat enraptured, listening in with an earphone and keeping her special brew of Chai Masala tea warm in my cup. Toward the end, I took a risk and informed Mr. Golguli that Playpen Magazine had requested the rights to the interview, and I asked him if he would be offended if they published it. The smile in his voice said: “Of course not.” When Mr. Golguli and I finally said goodbye, Fatima looked at me with big shining eyes.

“Astounding,” she said.

“Really?”

“It was… I cannot say I can easily dislike this man! He charms!”

I smiled. I couldn’t help but agree.

We ventured back into the Garage where Mom was being worked on by Antone. He was the only one left here, as Mr. Gray and Roberta had left as soon as Gracie was done two hours before, she stood there, nude as the rest of us, wearing only pink pansies and watching as Mom received her red snapdragons. The four of us all had the same pattern on us, different only in the types of flowers.

“You’re father’s home,” said Mom as she lay there. “He and your brothers are in bed… I hope! At least they better be!”

Finally, it was Fatima’s turn. Again, she showed reluctance to disrobe in front of people. But there was nothing for it. All my sisters waited till she finally shrugged, and shucked off the robe to reveal her lovely body and my first glimpse of her since Mom began work on her nether thatch. Mom had expertly waxed the edges of Fatima’s pubic region and trimmed the hair till it appeared combed, and perhaps it was combed, I don’t know.

“Ooo,” said Antone. “East Coast girl!” To which Fatima’s olive tinted skin turned various shades of pink and lavender. She lay face down and submitted to Antone’s ministrations as he went to work adorning her body with pink and yellow accented white roses.

“It is getting late, Girls,” Mom said. “It’s safe for Gracie and Sam to go to bed, isn’t it Antone?”

“What? Oh, sure. Grace has been off the table for more than two hours now… I think. Right? So yes.”

“To bed then!” Mom commanded.

“But Moooom!” Miki, Patti, Danielle, Mara and Gracie all protested in unison.

“No buts! Now! It’s still a school night and I don’t need any of you skipping. Sam, just a minute…”

“Yes, Mom?”

Mom waited till after my sisters had left. They all looked jealously back at me, as if I was getting some kind of special treatment. When they were gone, she spoke in low tones.

“Daddy took the boys out to dinner with the Carringtons.”

“Yes, I know.”

Well, Daddy’s worried that Eric’s cradle will have to be scrapped.”

“What? Why?”

“Well, after last night, would you get on it again?”

I looked at it, sitting there on the garage floor. It was an evil looking thing, but other than tearing my hymen, it hadn’t really hurt me.

“Yes,” I told her. Mom looked shocked.

“Well, you’re not!”

“Mom,” I said. “I was stupid, okay? I actually forgot I was a virgin and I didn’t bother reminding Eric. Otherwise, I think it was okay…”

Mom looked back at the thing dubiously.

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” she said. “Bedtime.”

I trudged upstairs to my room, lay down and slept again so deeply that Thursday might have been a dream…