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Karina
by Vivian Darkbloom
Passersby stared at me curiously as I stood facing a haphazard
diagonal, staring intently ahead of me in the dusk twilight. In
lonely absence, her aura haunted me as the fading warmth of the
day. While I thought to myself that, just maybe, I was feeling
the way she had felt, that very last time I saw her, standing in
that same spot, facing the same direction, at a bizarre angle to
the flow of traffic, ignoring the absent stares of orthogonally
half-drunk voyagers in bright tacky warm-weather clothes, feeling
the warm roughness of the sandy cement against the soles of my
bare feet.
An innocent glance at the bloom of a vine twined around a square
wooden post next to me. Intricately random folds of orange
tropical flowers trigger the memory of her smile, a memory which
washes over my psyche in a tidal-wave of menacingly gentle sweet
aroma, threatening to crush the world in darkness with the agony
of her missing beauty, as arm-in-arm lovers contemptuously drive
their harsh laughter into my heart, like broken looking-glass
shards, or splinters of weather-worn planks of a sunken warship
listing beneath the mud of eons.
An older woman in pink shorts and white sun-bonnet, toting a
large rustlingly full plastic shopping bag, filled with gifts for
the grandchildren back home, whips around the corner, adjusts her
course to avert collision, bumps gently into me. "Sorry," I say.
"Sorry," she says, and is gone. I continue to stare intently in
the dusk twilight of the receding day, reliving the event on this
same spot only a few hours ago.
"What are you looking at?" I had asked when I first saw her, she
balanced on one foot in the blaring noonday sun, oblivious to her
precariousness as she stared off into the distance.
"Come here, look," she said. I placed my chin on her tiny
shoulder and followed her gaze. Through a tiny chink in the
hedge-wall glittered the dancing sparkle of sunlight on the
distant waves.
"The ocean," I said, breathless.
"Yeah." Her soft hair brushed my cheek as she turned slightly,
pursing her lips with the coy smile now etched into my burning
pages of memory.
She must be about eight years old, wherever she is now, with a
calm, reserved adult-ness and long coils of beautiful dusty-
blonde hair, the steely twinkling blue eyes.
The `K' she drew with her big toe in the sand on the pavement.
"So I remember this spot," she said, smiling secretly at me.
"K, for?"
"Karina," she reminded me. Pronounced like the girl in Bob Dylan
song,
Corrina Corrina, gal where ya been so long?
I been wondering about you baby,
baby won't you please come home?
I sang the song to myself as I remembered in the twilight our
mid-day "tryst," cursing this purgatory of infernal waiting as I
watched through the tiny chink where the glittering waves would
have been in daylight, seeing nothing in the pitch-black of
night. Until a miracle transpired: at that very instant, the moon
raised its curious brow over the horizon, and my eyes were met
with the sparkle of millions of tiny twinkling pinpoints, dancing
on the waves.
Passersby stared as I stood diagonally transfixed.
Walking back to the parked rental car, my stray libido must have
been unconsciously working overtime, because I started feeling
like Shrek watching the villagers sharpen pitchforks: little
girls flushed smiling as they met my gaze, and parents almost
imperceptibly tensed as I walked by. If only they realized, none
of them were the one I was looking for.
The merry-go-round spun aimlessly, populated only by a mother
standing next to her little girl on the horse, braced against the
centrifugal force, both watching stoically ahead as the horse
circled around and around, expectantly if the laws of physics
were about to shift and the horse would change direction, or
perhaps transfigure into a gloriously live winged unicorn,
bearing the both of them away into a land of unimagined wonders.
At the center of the carousel, mirrors reflected every which way,
and the carillon bells jingled their tuneless music-box calliope
melody.
Art gallery walls spaciously enclosed hollow laughter and
specious kitsch, weasely obsequious salesman grins and the
flashing credit-cards of casually wealthy retirees in expensively
ugly shorts. The shallow smell of money. And while the moon
busily made its way across the starry sky, the guy who drew
portraits every night, sitting in the exact little niche in a
storefront alcove, silently studied the face of a squirming,
giggling youthful boy, surrounded by the critical gazes of his
family.
A front-line soldier patrolling the trenches dug in against the
onslaught of transient visitors, each of whom was expecting the
perfect vacation, the Portraiteer calmly studied the face before
him. The private's wages were a fraction the income of the
gallery-chain owner who sat at this very minute comfortably
absorbed in a widescreen TV-commercial for a ridiculously large
expensively gas-guzzling automobile. The corpulent General was
cozily ensconced, safely away from battle lines, yelling at his
wife in the kitchen for an extra scoop of ice-cream.
The tall masts of ships anchored out in the harbor stood swaying
as thin shadows against the night sky, talking to each other in
the soothingly mysterious language of ropes ringing gently
against hollow metal poles, accompanied by the occasional crash
of waves on the rocky shoreline.
As I drove the highway to my temporary dwelling, the rental-car
radio gently crooned a Polynesian love-song. At the end of the
driveway, the motor fell silent. The house was dark and empty,
aside from the gaunt shadows of ghosts of vacationers and
revelers from years gone by. Letting myself in, the key clattered
to a rest in hollow silence on the bland, chipped formica of the
kitchen counter.
Lying in bed, the memory of her returned once more, the first
time I saw her, earlier that same day, in the brilliant morning
light waiting to board the plane. Ahead of her parents, she
lugged the bulky suitcase, wheeling it into position in the line
immediately behind me just as her parents exploded into an
argument.
Or rather her father exploded, make that her step-father -
dressed in a loose business suit, minus the tie, top shirt-button
undone. A man of big money and important things. "Dammit Lilly, I
still don't see why we had to bring her. It was supposed to be a
romantic getaway, remember? You promised."
"Not so loud, dear!" Lilly (the mother) gave a worried glance
over at Karina, the little girl in red-rimmed sunglasses, humming
a little tune, dusty-blonde curls erupting from under the brim of
a stylish straw sunhat, cascading over her tiny shoulders and
down her little back. Skinny legs gangling from white shorts.
Ready for vacation.
"Hey mister. Is this the line?"
The frantically whispered argument continued behind her. "Yup," I
replied.
She let stand the suitcase, and lowered her sunglasses a fraction
of an inch down her nose, so I could see her beautiful steely-
blue eyes. "We're going on vacation," she said innocently.
I became aware the smell of cigarette smoke just as the I saw
airport attendant tapping the stepfather on the shoulder. "Excuse
me sir," said the attendant, "I'll have to ask you to put that
out."
"Oh for crissake," he sputtered.
"He always has a cigarette," Karina commented to me.
Right then, I already felt tremendous love for this poor unwanted
little girl, who was brimming with the joy of the moment, ready
to enjoy the excitement of an airplane trip to an enchanted
exotic tropical shore.
Karina continued "The babysitter fell through at the last minute,
because she had to go help her sister having a baby. So mom got
me a plane ticket so I could go with them instead, and they've
been arguing about it ever since."
It was one of those interminable airport lines which, even with
only 5 people ahead of me had been stuck in a holding pattern for
the past 15 minutes. I sat down on my suitcase, so I wouldn't
have to stoop down to talk to her.
Up close now, her face was familiar, as if I had known her from
somewhere. Or was it a face I had imagined from a storybook or
novel? Or seen in a movie? I still couldn't place it. Perhaps it
was subconscious recognition of someone I had known in a past
life, and we had reincarnated together to meet in this odd way,
two live humans stuck in a mechanistically dehumanizing
situation.
"And what's your name, love?" I asked.
"Karina. What's yours?"
"Dante."
"Dante," she repeated curiously.
"Named after a famous author, who wrote a big old book about
hell."
"Hell," she repeated absently.
"You're going to have a great time," I told her, only half-
believing it.
"What's that?" she asked, pointing to the wooden legs protruding
from my carry-on bag.
"Folding easel. I'm a painter," I said.
"Oh." She gave that famous coy little smile that now haunted my
memory, the smile that had burned itself into my dreams, branding
its impression onto my soul.
Our chat continued as we sat in the waiting area. She asked me
about painting, and read riddles to me from the pastime book she
had stuck in the pocket of her bag.
Her mom and step-dad seemed relieved that Karina had found a form
of distraction. Her mom looked something of an aging floozy,
lipstick and makeup each day increasingly a little more overdone,
as if it could deny the lines and pores that she saw in the
looking-glass invading her face in slow motion, as if the layers
of covering could litigate in opposition to the inevitable
changes wrought by the sands of the hour-glass, could negotiate a
reduced fine, a more lenient sentence.
And now that she found herself unexpectedly burdened by the
result of one of her flings, she had put her charms to work
finding a man with money, so her little girl could have the nice
things in life.
The step-dad was obviously itching for a cigarette, although it
didn't seem likely he was any less cranky with the need
fulfilled. Every minute or so his cell-phone would go off, and
the mom dutifully, patiently, draped her arm across his neck,
massaging his tense shoulders as he yelled at some subordinate
far away. She was his trophy, his conspicuous consumption. His
shiny new Cadillac that he drove down the streets of the worst
slums in order to fluff up his bloated ego, the gourmet banquet
he devoured with an audience of the millions of who were kept
starving in order to flaunt his obvious superiority, as if status
were measured by the amount of suffering one could cause to
others.
The two of them were both currently invisible to Karina, hidden
by the brim of her beautiful new straw hat as she faced me,
chattering away. She invited me into her own little fairyland,
and we gaily strode the rustic paths under waterfalls and over
rainbows, through meadows of giant pink flowers, over gently
rolling hills of chartreuse meadows filled with soft fluffy
grass, cartoons and dandelions, crayons and hot chocolate. I sat
mesmerised by her glowing smile and bubblingly disconnected happy
little stories, until the crackle of the attendant's voice over
the squeaky PA system signaled that it was time to board.
Reluctantly, I eventually stood, and we silently waited for our
rows to get called. I lost track of her after we boarded the
plane -- until by chance that I had encountered her in the center
of town, staring diagonally at the sparkle of the ocean, before
she was once again whisked away by her trusty guardians.
I shifted again in the increasingly wrinkled sheets, waiting with
tense impatience in the infernal dry and dusty desert heat for
the gentle rain of drowsiness and sleep.
____________________________________________________________
When I awoke, the pre-dawn light was faintly streaming back in
the sky. The excitement of a new location, plus the time
difference combined to awaken me earlier than accustomed.
Throwing off the covers and struggling to rise, I went over to
the window, pulling aside the curtain.
What I saw so startled me that I blinked and rubbed my eyes
before looking again. There she was -- a miracle -- playing
hopscotch in the sand out in front of my window.
Frantically I ran over to the suitcase to dig out something that
I could wear outside. This was a generally simple task, which
ordinarily transpired without notable difficulty, but today
everything tangled and jammed with my impatience. After putting
on inside-out shorts, and a shirt inside-out, and then backwards,
I was finally ready. Afraid she may have already left, I gently
opened the front door.
Greeted by daylight, and the sweet tropical air. She looked up
from her game when she saw me, and smiled. "Hey," she said,
running over to the front porch, where she stood gazing up at me,
lips moist, a delightful bundle of life and energy.
"Um, hi," My intense eagerness was replaced by equally intense
uncertainty. What on earth was I going to say to this young girl?
Today, she wore a white T-shirt, over a blue-and-pink swimsuit. I
tore my eyes away from her the tiny strip of material that ran
between her legs, a manoeuvre which she registered with a slight
flexing of her hips that blew my sense of reality all to pieces.
"Um," I articulately continued, "whacha doing?"
"Well, I was going to collect shells. . ." she gestured to the
little pink-and-purple plastic bucket in the sand, along with a
matching pink shovel, that particular shade of pink which
invariably appeals to young girls worldwide. ". . . and then I
saw your car."
"How did you know it was my car?"
"'cause I saw your pack. . ." and I remembered my pack, with the
folding easel she had asked about the day before, and that I had
neglected to bring it in from the car, so it remained on the back
seat, where I casually tossed it.
"Does your mom and dad know that you're out here?"
"I would have asked. But they were busy. They had the door closed
and there was lots of noise. I guess they were having sex."
"Oh." Mentally I reviewed my knowledge of human stages of
development. Did the average eight-year-old so matter-of-factly
toss such a phrase into casual conversation?
Her prodigious sandy-blonde curls, today unencumbered by any sort
of headgear, tumbled gently as she shifted her head to gaze at me
with her uncannily penetrating beautiful blue-grey eyes.
"Did you collect any shells?"
"Well no, I didn't yet."
"Oh."
We exchanged thoughtful silences. Or perhaps they were awkward
silences. It was difficult to tell, with the aura of her
untrained enthusiasm washing over the scenery, the warm happy
glow of her presence falling like gentle rain in the parched
desert.
"Would you like me to go with you?" I asked.
Her face lit up like a jack-o-lantern. "Could you?"
"Sure, why not?" I replied. "It's not like I need to be anywhere.
This is my vacation. So, just a sec." As I went to grab the keys
from the kitchen counter, she stepped up to the threshold and her
eyes darted curiously around the room.
"I assume you're staying somewhere close by here?"
She nodded solemnly, and pointed in the direction of a cluster of
buildings invisible through the trees and over a hill. The side
where the people with money stayed.
I paused for a moment, thinking. "OK, let's go," I said, joining
her outside and slamming the door.
"OK," she replied, snatching her pail and shovel, and gaily
skipping along the path.
"This way," I said. "I've been here before."
She followed, eyebrows raised with curiosity.
After walking for several minutes through the brush, hearing the
waves nearby, smelling the fresh scent of morning seabreeze, the
path opened to a secluded cove, sheltered from the ocean waves by
a reef, so that the waves broke gently on the shore.
Clean fluffy white and tan grains of sand stretched away down the
shoreline, freshly washed by the ocean tides. Grains of broken-
down minerals were mixed with the tiny pure smoothed white
remains of crumbled shells.
She giggled with glee, running up to the water, then back as it
rushed to meet her, then dropped the bucket as she bent down to
scoop up the sand between her fingers.
"You know how to swim?" I asked, striding over to her side. "Yep.
Well, I take swimming lessons every summer. But I never been in
the ocean."
"Ah. So then I had better tell you something very important."
"What?"
"Be sure never to turn your back on her."
"Her?"
"The sea. The waves. They can change unexpectedly, and slap you
down like that." I clapped my hands.
"Never?"
I laughed. "Well, you can turn away, but always keep an eye on
her. You never know what to expect. You know, those waves come
from thousands of miles away, from storms way out at sea."
"Wow." She stood, staring at the waves as they crashed out on the
reef, and the smaller waves that made it in over the breakwater.
She was so beautifully thin and pale, against the weathered lines
of the trees and shores, the tiny wisps of clouds that clung to
the edges of the sky, hiding from the sun that lurked below the
horizon, waiting to chase them away.
A wave bigger than the rest arose and startled her slightly, and
I could see the wheels of her mind spinning, absorbing the seeds
of information I was injecting into her life. She faced me
smiling. "The water is so clear," she exclaimed, giving a tiny
leap. "I feel like I'm dreaming." She lifted her feet from the
sandy holes that the waves had buried them in.
She grinned. "Are you part of my dream?"
"You'll wake up soon. I can pinch you to be sure." I slowly
reached toward her.
"No!" she laughed, playfully splashing.
I faced her gleeful bubbling with tenderness and longing, glad to
enjoy vicariously her delight in the novelty. Colors that had
been faded and dried with the years regained bright saturation
and moist exuberance with her enthusiasm. Every particle, every
grain of sand rejoiced at the perfection of the moment.
I followed her up and down the shoreline, as she eagerly poked
and prodded the water and the sand, her squeals of ecstasy at the
simplest little shell, the shadows of the fish swimming curiously
in the next inlet, the crashing of the waves out at the natural
breakwater.
We met face to face over a starfish half-buried in the sand. She
squatted down to touch the starfish with outstretched index
finger, her legs spread wide towards me. I knelt down too, and in
extending my arm to gain balance I unintentionally, gently
brushed her soft, pale, white inner thigh with the outer edge of
three fingers.
"Sorry!" I said.
She glanced up briefly, flashed a knowing grin, and winked.
Then her attention absorbed in the 5-pointed animal below us, her
face flush with excitement. My eye wandered to the triangular
strip of colorful fabric stretching ever so thinly around her
pubic arch, bunched up a little so that I imagined I could make
out the shape of her sweet valley beneath.
Cringing at first, she touched, and then picked up the starfish,
turning it over to see the millions of tiny feet on the bottom,
until the sea rose to caress her tiny buttocks, causing her to
drop her quest as she stood, allowing the undertow to carry the
starfish back out to sea, as droplets of water ran down her legs.
The water that had splashed over her shirt revealed the outlines
of her swimming suit, and traces of her dime-sized pricking-up
nipples beneath. Immersion had caused the sparse fabric layers to
lose their powers of concealment over her innocent flesh.
She stood gazing out to the horizon, awe-struck with delightfully
blushing innocent sensuous wonder.
The sky grew brighter and finally the inquisitive eye of the sun
broke over the rim of the horizon and bore down on our
adventures, until finally we both agreed it was time to return
for breakfast.
"What are you eating?" she demanded.
"Nothing special, I got some pancake mix down at the store."
"Oh." her face fell.
"Why, what are you having?"
She scowled. "Cheerios. The positive worst. My Mom makes me eat
them because she says the other kinds have too much sugar."
"I'm sure they're good for you," I offered, unhelpfully, as she
led the way, bucket swinging back on the path.
"Yeah right. That's what Mom says." She pushed aside a branch
from across the path, and held it for me. She gave the most
amazingly creative expression of disdain I have ever seen in my
life.
"You're such the dramatic," I mused.
"Can I come over after breakfast?" she asked as we parted ways.
I shrugged, feigning disinterest. "Sure, why not? We can practice
swimming in the ocean."
Once again, the brightness of her smile rekindled the glow of
embers deep within me.
"I'll ask my Mom if it's OK," she said, departing.
"You can tell her I was a lifeguard in high school," I called
after her.
"'K," she said simply, and the echoes of the word hung in the air
after she had departed. `K' for Karina.
Breakfast was an exercise in restraining impatience. Maintaining
order, keeping a sensible pace. Every sense was heightened, and
it wound up that my timing was perfect in every aspect. The
pancakes were delicious, especially with the mangos added to the
syrup.
There was a single, glaring monumental flaw in the event. That
was the empty chair beside me. The silence in the conversation.
The absence of the one I desired.
I was starting to feel full, and making coffee, when I heard the
knock on the door. Heart pounding I opened it, half-expecting
inquisitive and possibly angry parents.
My little friend stood alone on the doorstep, this time sporting
a beach towel, sunglasses rimmed in fluorescent metallic red, and
streaks of hastily-applied sunscreen. "Come in," I said. "How
were the cheerios?"
She lowered the sunglasses a quarter inch down her nose to reveal
her beautiful blue eyes, and growled in response. I caught a
whiff of cigarette smoke on her shirt.
"You have sunscreen," I explained as I reached out gently,
tenderly, to spread the errant lotion across her face. She waited
stoically as I caressed her skin, and caught in the magic of the
moment, I lightly stroked her amazing sandy-blonde curls. She
shivered slightly, and smiled as a cat ready to purr.
"You know," I mentioned casually, "I had some batter left and I'm
done eating if you'd like some pancakes. The syrup is rather
excellent as well."
Her beautiful steel-blue eyes widened, and she took her place in
the empty chair, nodding silently. The princess assumed her
rightful throne, and waited patiently as I reheated the griddle
and the sizzling batter met the oily surface.
"I told my Mom you were a lifeguard, and she said you could teach
me mouth-to-mouth resustenation."
I laughed. "Resuscitation," I corrected.
"Whatever."
An odd thing happened in the kitchen that day, unprecedented in
known history. You know how the first pancakes are the best, but
as the pancake batter sits out, it tends to go flat? But that
day, those very last pancakes I made for Karina were
spectacularly the lightest, most perfectly textured and ideally
cooked pancakes I have ever made in my life.
As if, rather than serving the cheap wine when it was time for
the wedding-guests to leave, the best were saved for last.
The syrup as well delivered perfection, and all was devoured in a
state of gleeful frenzy, as I sat watching and sipping contented
cups of coffee.
____________________________________________________________
Along the path to the ocean, she glanced back, then stopped.
"Oh," she said. "Mom and Max." She pointed.
I followed the direction of her elegantly graceful innocent young
gesture. Through the brush, facing away from us some distance
away, I could see the couple. Both were smoking and barking loud,
harsh laughter, seated in low-slung beach chairs swilling
colorful drinks with little umbrellas in them.
"A bit early in the day," I murmured.
"She only smokes when she's with him." she scowled.
They didn't notice us, and we continued on our way.
We set our our towels in a secluded spot, and lay out in the sun
for awhile before going in the water. She put on her red-rimmed
sunglasses and took off her shirt, meaning that the glasses got
lodged in the pleats of fabric and wound up perched askew on her
nose as she tossed aside the shirt, revealing the bikini beneath,
and acres of beautiful, smooth innocent white skin. Tiny acres.
She straightened the sunglasses. "Help," she gestured with the
tube of sunscreen.
"Um, sure." She lay on her stomach as I gently spread the lotion
across her shoulders, down her back, down her legs. My fingers
lovingly caressed every square centimetre of her epidermis,
fingertips palpating with tingling satisfaction the tantalizing
plasticity of her elastic young flesh.
Across her shoulders, down her spine, then with my thumbs gently
tracing up and down her soft, thin legs. She moaned softly as I
did so, shifting restlessly. I traced up and down again,
spreading the soothing lotion.
"Now your front," I said.
Abruptly, she sat up on her knees and turned over, then just as
abruptly collapsed into a state of soft spaghetti, perfectly al
dente, and I caressed her arms, her forearms and hands, her
shoulders, down her belly, tracing with my fingers almost to the
sacred starfish between her legs. I stopped before I got there,
but her nerves extrapolated the gesture and she moaned and
shuddered briefly, until I continued down her legs, gently
embracing each dainty little foot in each palm of my hand.
When I finished, she cast out a long soulful sigh.
"Now help me?" I requested, after an appropriately respectful
interval of time.
"Sure thing, jelly bean." I laid back on the towel and closed my
eyes as I felt the loving young hands methodically spreading the
lotion across my tingling skin. The touch was magic with
electricity, her caress the silk of empires reborn, and in a
brief flash of opening eyelids I caught a glance of her,
mesmerised by my growing member.
She saw me look and smiled sheepishly, but without stopping her
gracious gestures, the brush strokes painting swirls of passion
across the canvas of my desire.
Soon we laid together side by side on our backs, enjoying the
sun. Birds sang, chattered, argued semantics in bird-talk with
bird-brained abandon above and all around us, flowers gaily
sprang into bloom.
"What's mouth-to-mouth restustipation?" she asked abruptly.
"What you do if somebody stops breathing, if they were drowning
for example."
"Can you show me it?"
"You're required to get a certificate from an authorized
instructor, and I'm not qualified to teach health and safety, so
I am afraid I am not in a position to properly instruct you."
"Please?"
"Only authorized instructors are certified to effectively present
the proper methodology, on account of the potential risk of
liability and other legal considerations. . ."
"So say I was suffocated by your long boring blathering, and
stopped breathing, what would you do? Here I go." She took in a
deep breath and pinched her nose with her fingers.
I rolled my eyes, and rolled over into a sitting position. "OK,
wise guy. First," I tried to remove her hand from her nose, but
she refused, giggling.
"First, you clear the passageway for breathing. Then you tilt the
head back," (I did, gently) "and place your palm on the forehead,
and pinch the nose." As she saw me yielding to her sinister plan,
she let go her nose and dropped her hand back to her side.
"Then you place your mouth against theirs," at which point I had
to stop talking.
Her young lips were soft and taut against mine. She opened her
mouth willingly, and then in a miraculous instant, her tongue
reached out lightly and flicked against mine.
My reflex was to gasp and pull away . . .
She lowered, then removed the red-rimmed sunglasses, and her cool
blue eyes gazed calmly up at me, haloed by her bodacious sandy-
blonde curls. At this intimate proximity I noticed the sprinkling
of tiny light freckles across her flushed cheeks and dainty
little nose. And her moist red lips.
I bent back down and kissed her. She responded with passion that
sent tingles through my body, her lips so soft and receptive, her
moans of desire as her back arched to meet me, her arms reached
up and wrapped around my head and shoulders.
Our first kiss. And when it was over, she held me, eyes downcast
in serene contentment, lips full for a splendid instant suspended
in time, until she looked up again, cool blue eyes blazing with
desire, and our lips met again.
My palms held her upper arms, played across her back, spreading
broad gentle brush-strokes of burning magnetism through the
fibres of her smooth canvas, filaments of attraction causing the
ecstatic synapses to dance in delight.
I marveled at our sharing across the ages, defying with each
incredibly simple caress the countless shards of infernal waiting
that would rage like a river between us, the endless grains of
sand falling through the hourglass of years that stood between us
like the a bristlingly armed sentinel, to be smashed into dust by
something as simple as a gently traced line across her soft
cheek, her fingertips against mine, her lips quivering with
intense yearning, as her youth stood side by side with my years
and we shared together the innocent pleasure of human sexual
longing.
Until the storm subsided, and she lay, gently sighing on top of
me, her tiny hand in mine, her smooth cheek pressed against my
hairy chest.
"Swim?" I asked.
"'K." we arose. She straightened her bathing suit bottom across
her cute little buttocks.
"You know," I said.
"What?"
"We can't tell anybody we were doing that just now."
She gave a sly grin. "I know," she said. "I wasn't born
yesterday, you know."
"No, only the day before," I sighed, wondering what on earth I
was doing. But determined not to worry about it, I set about
care-free enjoyment of my vacation.
As the merry-go-round turns, with each spin approaching and
retreating from the brass rings and the enticingly open-mouthed
clown offering a toss at few extra moments of sinusoidal
undulation in two dimensions, I will leave the reader with a
receding long-shot of the blissful day that ensued, the laughter
and splashing, the shared awe at the sublime immensity of the
sparkling sea that stretched before us.
I taught her in these gentle currents how to go under the wave,
to yield rather than be knocked over by fighting it; how to
recognize the undertow and avoid it, what to do when caught (swim
across it). As the waves approached and receded, so did we swim
out and back across the wave break until I saw that she was
comfortable with the rhythm of the sea, that she had the savvy to
ride with the tide.
There was a break for lunch, during which I got to chat with the
sauced and sizzled legal guardians, each puffing away on a foul
and fuming chimney-stack. The conversation sufficiently moved Max
to dispense lunch money, a few twenty dollar bills as an
incantation to make us go away and leave them alone again in
their slobbering solitude.
From the far side of the merry-go-round, we will call upon the
reader's imagination to span the distance, to paint the details
of the giggling and giddy affair, to connect the dots from the
the romantic dining (with creme soda and extra french-fries) to
the solemn sundae following, to the stroll along the tourist-
laden main street glistening with fool's silver and trashy
trinkets, T-shirts and posters saying "I was here" in countless
permutations of gaudy rhinestones and hollow plastic, the
Portraiteer, seriously longfaced footsoldier entrenched against
the enemy, in conquest of sanity against the furiously fantastic
expectations of happy vacationers. The artist sized up the
squirming squabbling siblings, and standing next to Karina I saw
the children around through her eyes, as peers. I suspect she was
doing the inverse, seeing the world around her through the eyes
of an adult.
"Could you paint my portrait?" she inquired.
I laughed. "I'd love to, dear, but I mostly do abstracts. I don't
know if I'm really capable of a convincing likeness."
"Please?" she asked, in a voice difficult to resist.
"I'll certainly give it a try," I promised.
And the carousel, now gloriously filled with gleeful children,
sinusoidally set in circular motion imitating the moons, planets,
sun and stars orbiting and spinning during the years had
separated me from Karina, to the tune of an ancient circus far
away, transmitted across the ages via the glyphs and runes
expressively interpreted by mechanical calliope.
"Can we?" she asked.
"Of course," I replied.
After the wait for our turn at turning, we shared a single horse,
she in front, squirming against my burgeoning codpiece, now and
again flashing back a delighted smile.
My arms being the longest, I was in charge of grabbing the brass
rings, but her shot was true, and by the number threw that hit
dead center, the ride would never have ended, we should still be
spinning this moment, having sailed spinning in each other's
arms, laughing joyfully into an eternity of turning, a splendid
spiraling into infinity.
The other game she played (and was winning) was that as I leaned
forward to snag one of the brass rings, and only when I wasn't
expecting it, she would place a moist and juicy kiss dead center
on my cheek. Nervously, I looked around to be sure nobody
noticed, but the horses nearby were unpopulated, and the other
riders were to occupied with their own good time to be bothered
with any excess of affection between a man and his daughter, or
stepdaughter, or uncle and niece, or whatever.
And the glyphs of the tuneless gaiety spiraled away through
galaxies of neatly targeted rings and kisses.
Strolling away afterwards, she feigned dizziness, and so asked to
be carried piggyback. Of course, my princess deserved to ride
first class, arms around my neck, her soft warm belly against my
back, legs spread, and at the center seated on her precious
flower pressed against the small of my lower back, cheek close to
mine.
As we promenaded along the sidewalk, the corner of a crazy
flickering Lissajous parallelogram on the street adjacent caught
my eye. My gaze followed its length to see that it was caused by
sunlight reflecting on the windowed corner of a storefront, and
looking diagonally through the glass panes I caught a glimpse of
our reflection in a dressing-room looking-glass, she riding in
her triumphant perch, I (for now) the beast of burden, the dance
of two lovers mirrored in the elusive distance.
Us.
Eventually I put her down, and we found ourselves on a cliff
overlooking the ocean, once more in a secluded spot. I became
aware how naked she was in the skimpy bikini, as we looked into
each other's eyes, each studying the face across. I traced her
eyebrows with my little finger. She placed her palm on my chin,
reached up and kissed me.
More slowly this time, the passion flows between us. The deep
current of a full river. Our bodies touch in different ways,
permutations of limbs in contact -- my wrist on her thigh, her
shoulder against my ribs, the back of my calf caressing her cute
little bottom.
There is a delicious subtle tension between us, magically
synchronized by our shared innocence. As she briefly draws away,
I hold her towards me, as I lean back she clings to my arm, her
push met by my pull, my push answered by her pull, like planets
orbiting each other, flying apart from inertia only to be drawn
back together by gravitational force.
How can we so perfectly perform the dance of passion with so
little experience? Or perhaps the experience is a detriment,
since the leader of the dance is the sense of novelty, of
exploration, of finding new sensations and postures and
movements. Free from the burden of jaded ennui, we achieve the
ideal jeweled perfection.
She pushed me over onto my back and pinned me down fiercely with
her torrential lovemaking. I held her tiny preciousness in my
hands, stroking and touching and crushing her longingly against
me.
Her sexuality was more brazen now, and she rode my curving steel-
edged ironwood root gently cupped in the warm valley of her
desire, rocking and moaning, only the stretched and wrinkled
clothes between us preventing the actuality of the unthinkable. I
tasted her lips, her tongue, her cheeks. Wetness from her
beautiful red mouth dotted my cheeks, my eyelids, my neck.
Blissful ebbing and flowing of tides, as the dusk crept nearer
with its friendly darkness, waiting to show us the stars it was
keeping in its secret hideaway, inside the blackness of the aged
ruins of a castle fortress deep in the sky tinged with purple. A
fortress laced in vines decorated by the sensuous intricately
random folds of orange tropical flowers.
Soon she lay still and silent on top of me, breathing joyous
sighs of our closeness. I felt the pleasant soft moistness of the
pre-drops from the passion of a few moments ago. I imagined the
sticky sweet dewdrops of moisture that had collected inside her
opening.
"Dante," she said.
"Yes?" I replied.
"Are we in love?"
"We seem to be doing a pretty good imitation of it."
"No, really," she insisted.
"Sorry love. I'm not sure I know how you tell for certain. It's
not like I've ever felt this way before."
Abruptly, she propped up her head, staring at me. "You mean this
is your first time?"
Waves crashed on the shoreline below us.
"Well?" she demanded.
"I don't want to think about the past. There isn't much to think
about anyway."
She grinned. "It's your first time, isn't it?"
"I didn't say that!"
She lay her head back on my chest, giggling.
"Look, Karina. I really care about you. I don't want to do
anything that might hurt you, or let you do anything you'll
regret later on. Kissing like this is fun, but. . ."
Waves crashed.
"But what?" she asked.
"I just want you to be happy. Anyhow, I barely know you. . ."
Crashing waves. A seagull squealed nearby.
I continued: "I don't want to traumatize your childhood or
anything."
"Why not?"
"'Cause, well you know. It could be bad. And stuff."
A warm breeze lifted the fronds high above around us.
She propped her head again. "You know, I think you just need to
relax a little bit."
"Right." I made to get up. "We should be getting back. Your mom
is probably wondering where you are."
She slid comfortably down my front as I pried myself off the
ground, and came to a rest with her open, moist mouth only
centimetres from my bulging crotch.
"Need to relax," I repeated to myself, hoisting her up to
standing.
Slowly we strolled back as the tropical darkness closed around
like a cozy blanket of solitude. We held hands part of the way,
and just before we came in sight of her house, she stood on
tiptoe and made me bend down for a final quick kiss. Quick but
effective.
I accompanied her to the open front door. Light poured into the
night from within. The atmosphere surged with a postcoital (for
them) seriousness of intent.
"Karina, there you are. Quick, get dressed. We're going to go out
for dinner." It was her Mom.
Max was invisible inside. My princess vanished within. I caught a
glimpse of her cot just inside the front door. It must have been
hers, rumpled bedding, her pink pail and shovel beside, her dolls
strewn on top. The stink of dead cigarette smoke stung my
nostrils.
"Thanks for watching her for us," her Mom smiled at me as she too
stepped inside, "It was nice to have some time alone."
"No problem," I said, vanishing into the fading dusk light as she
closed the door behind her.
The path was invisible as I stumbled through the twilight that
surrounded me, until my keys found the aperture in the front-door
knob, my fingers found the lightswitch, flooding my senses with
harsh photons, and the keys clattered on the chipped formica
kitchen counter.
Now the same room that had been so cold the night before was cozy
with the glow of our afternoon together, with the memory of her
sitting at breakfast right there, in that chair. I sat down next
to where she had been and imagined her there for a moment.
Alright, enough.
I switched on the TV and found myself watching a channel which
seemed entirely devoted to footage of volcanoes erupting, spewing
walls of lava into the sky, trees and houses in the path in
flames and collapsing, crushed under the molten river.
Drowsy with the day's activity and sun, I eventually found myself
starting to doze, and so killed the noisy tube and retreated to
the boudoir where I removed all my clothes and collapsed like a
house burdened with floes of lava, and crashed into chattering
dreams of molten yearning.
Suddenly I snapped awake, how long had I been napping? My brain
struggled through the drowsy fog. Outside, pitch-blackness had
crept in, but a dim light from the other room washed the wall
across from the doorway. My still half-dreaming consciousness was
thinking myself back at home, and it took a while for my mind to
explain unfamiliar shapes and shadows around, not to mention the
tiny footsteps in the hall. Finally I realized that I was in my
cozy vacation spot, exactly as the familiar presence stepped into
the door frame. Later I realized that it had been her slamming
the front door that had awakened me.
"Couldn't sleep," she muttered, rubbing her eyes, dressed in long
white nightgown with vertical pastel pinstripes. "They were
making noise again."
"Uh," I articulated, wondering how I was going to don some
articles of clothing without her seeing me naked.
She stood at the edge of the bed, towering over me with tousled
curls.
"You could sleep on the other bed," I attempted. She glanced over
at it, neatly made up and untouched.
A week or so later, it would still be in that exact pristine
state when Lilly, Karina's mother, would drop in to see where her
darling daughter had been spending her nights. Mom would walk a
brief circuit of the accommodations, glancing curiously into the
bedroom, studiously making note of the two beds, one which
remained as the housekeeping staff had primly and properly
prepared it, so tightly and neatly tucked that an Olympic
trampoline team could not have succeeded in ruffling it. And the
other. . .
"See, there's a spare bed," I would furtively explain, meanwhile
noticing the disheveled state of the bed I actually shared with
my princess, strewn with various articles of her clothing and
dolls and an odd scattered assortment of little-girl clutter.
Her mother would give an inscrutably bemused glance, and say "You
know, the two of you could really work on being a little less
obvious."
Tonight, Karina stood at the edge of my pillow, towering with
tousled tresses. Wordlessly, she lifted the covers and crawled in
beside me, curling up in my arms. Amazing how well we fit
together, like adjacent pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had
finally found the right match.
I did try to casually relax and doze off again, but it's kinda
hard when the javelin is ready to go pole-vaulting, if you know
what I mean. Worse, she felt it prodding her cute little
buttocks, and began to squirm and moan softly.
"Karina," I said. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"
"Why not?" she asked.
"Don't you think we should wait?"
She turned to face me. "Why? Do you need a few minutes to look at
girly magazines first?"
"I don't have any."
"You could borrow some from my Mom. She's got a big ol' pile, so
she wouldn't notice one missing. She likes to give `em to guys."
"No, I mean more than a few minutes. A few years, maybe."
"Years?!" she yelped with alarm. "Then I'll be, like, OLD!"
"Right," I said. Then, seriously: "Look Karina, I'm dying to make
love with you, more than anything. I just don't want to hurt
you."
She snorted. "So to keep from hurting me you'll break my heart?"
Outside, the crickets and bazillions of other bugs called
fervently to their mates. Inside me, something fell into place. I
knew she didn't fully grasp what we were talking about, and that
it was probably a line she had stolen from her Mom. But that
instant, I knew that what was to follow was inevitable. The one
tiny thread of logic opposed to the burning forces of attraction
between us had just blown to smithereens by her chance remark.
Beneath her amazingly prolific dusty-blonde curls, I traced her
eyebrow with my finger. "You win," I said. My heart pounded so
ferociously I was afraid it would cause an earthquake. Her tiny
fingers closed gently around the tip of my throbbing penis.
We kissed, slowly, deliciously, luxuriously, savoring each
instant as time strolled leisurely towards destiny.
I felt her tremble in my arms at every light fingertip-touch, as
we wrestled and writhed together reciting passionately wordless
sounds of love, longing, and fulfillment, on that magical night
together.
Curiously, she stared at my erection. "So juicy stuff comes out
of the end when you get all excited?"
"Yes, that's pretty much how it works."
"A lot of stuff?"
"Not too much. Some."
"You aren't afraid you'll go to the bathroom?"
I laughed. "When it gets all stiff like that, it shuts off that
part of the valve."
She gently traced the contour with her finger, causing it to
stiffen further, sending tingling shivers up my spine. "I want to
feel your juicy stuff come out the end inside me," she said.
"Oh," I said involuntarily, not the word but the wordless love-
sound of longing for her.
She eagerly explored my fully loaded love-shaft, prodding and
probing, caressing the curly hair around it, gently grasping each
ball in turn, then returning to the tip exploring and tracing
lines around each and every contour, feeling the sweet love drops
between her fingers.
Meanwhile I slid my hand under her nightgown, and found what I
was looking for -- the secret valley, hot and dripping with sweet
dewdrops, surrounded by soft, smooth, silky spritely young folds
of youthfully springy skin. My other hand, arm around her,
brushed graceful strokes across her smooth chest, acknowledging
each tiny pert nipple in turn.
The wordless "oohs" and "aahs" and "uuhs" filled the air with the
melody of lovemaking, and the bazillion bugs outside heard the
humans inside calling fervently to their mates.
I found the secret pearl of her pleasure, and her cries shifted
into a more intense gear, as gently I prodded and played, feeling
it rise and stiffen between my fingers as the oozing of sweet
stickiness increased into practically a waterfall. The floral
essence burst into the hot night air.
My ear against her chest, her beautiful curls delicately brushing
the back of my neck, I felt her heart pounding as her breath
quickened and her hoarse moans accelerated into increasing
intensity. Keeping my thumb on her precious pearl, I began to
carefully push my finger inside her tiny opening. I knew I had
found the rough edges of her G-spot from the change in her song.
I kissed her gently, moistly on the cheek, as I mercilessly
continued the gentle tickling and teasing. The hand she had
resting on my stiff organ had lost her attention by now, and her
other hand was on mine, pressing me to her. All else in the world
ceased to exist for her, as her cries and moans focused on each
rising and cresting wave, until suddenly she trembled and
convulsed, and I felt her rhythmically closing on and releasing
my fingers, as she arched back, spread her legs, and even more
fiercely pushed herself against my hand.
Her eyes flew open briefly, and she turned and kissed me with
dazzling aggression. Kisses turned into butterflies, turned into
minutes, into hours, into softness and melting away of snowy
bluffs crashing into the rushing torrential river, fell into a
blizzard of cherry blossoms fluttering through the air like a
million faeries.
Before I knew what, she had sat up and flung the nightgown to the
floor beside the bed, and flung me back face-up on the bed, one
hand on each of my wrists pinning me down as she carefully aimed
the center of her dripping cavity on a calculated arc toward the
tip of my vibrating rod.
"Gently," I whispered, "It might hurt a little the first time."
She grinned up at me. "I don't think it's any bigger than my
Mom's toys," she replied.
"You use your Mom's dildos?"
She nodded, still grinning.
"I hope you wash them before you put them back -- Oh my God," For
at that instant, the opening ring of her sweet smooth-skinned
valley of delight connected with my trembling desire, and as the
tip disappeared inside her I shuddered blissfully and
uncontrollably.
Then I knew we shared profoundly, the same desire, the same
fulfillment. Her tiny child's body so different from my bulky
adult one, yet we felt the same feelings, knew the same
sensations, thought the same ideas, embraced the same longings,
and now finally we were together as one.
I gazed at her above me, helplessly enchanted by her beautiful
dusty curls, bouncing gently with each thrust, and steely-blue
eyes calmly smiling down on me.
Blissfully I felt our oneness blossom as she writhed and circled
pushing herself over me, encircling me, embracing me, holding the
most secret and forbidden part of me with sweet innocent
lovingness inside of her. As our mouth-lips met gently in loving
caresses, her sexual lips kissed my trembling rod with even
greater sensation and fulfillment. She spread her legs even wider
to take me inside of her, and our wordless love-song continued in
contrapuntal harmony with the love songs of the insects outdoors.
On the dark-grayish canvas, the sensations of her hot sticky
moist little vagina sending drops down the shaft of my penis was
a searing red, down in one corner, a dot becoming a line,
becoming a zigzag, growing and smoldering. Each tiny little
gesture screamed blissful agony of release across the cracks in
the foundation of time, each little pelvic thrust or motion
amplified a million times as we gyrated together in perfect
synchronization.
She grinned to see the effect she was having on me, still with
both of my wrists pinned, until I sped up and twisted
unpredictably, causing her to lose herself once more in her own
pleasure, closing her eyes and throwing her head back up to the
ceiling with intensity.
In searing red and purple our forbidden oneness caressed and
cavorted indescribably until the seeds welled up into a
penultimate wave.
"Here it comes," I cried out, thrusting once, twice, again,
again, and then exploded with a million cherry blossoms,
luxuriously enjoying my depth inside her as the thrusts became
more deliberate.
"Yes," she called gaily as she felt the drops she had been
waiting for burst into her womb, and adding to the perfection I
felt her pitch and lose control, her ecstatic contractions
responding instinctively to mine, our release joined together on
a deep profound level in time and space, as simultaneously across
the years between us we shared the sacred forbidden cresting of
the wave, the joyful release, the melting away of snowfall into
the cascading waterfall, the collapse in coolness and tranquility
as together our breathing calmed and quieted.
Finally I withdrew the dripping dagger, knowing that I had left
some of my sacred naughty sweet juice inside of her, some of my
precious seed, and that by it we were now joined together in
memory of the dazzling simultaneous satori. Now she smiled
gently, gazing once more in tranquility with her steely blue eyes
beneath those amazing dusty-blonde curls, and we cinched the cool
covers around us and gradually faded into blissfully refreshing
dreams.
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