Pagan Dreams

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Peach moves in with me. I have the bigger apartment. I tell her when I’m helping her pack that it might be better if we stayed in hers. “It’s cozier.”

“Believe me,” she says, with one of her huge planters in her arms, “bigger is better. Less likely we’ll tire of each other soon.”

I know that I’ll never tire of her. I can watch her for hours. I’m not like her at all, that bubbly and infectious, with an easy attitude. She’s funny the way she takes charge without people thinking she’s a b***h. She makes me laugh, and cry.

We weep together when an old boyfriend dies with too much coke in his blood. She tells me that’s why she won’t love men anymore. “They are just too risky. They can’t take care of themselves, and when bad things happen to them, I feel guilty.”

“You don’t feel that way with women?” I ask.

“We’re much more self sufficient. We can take care of ourselves, especially emotionally. Oh yeah, we’ll cry when we’re hurt, but that’s the point, we’ll cry and then go on. Men are too fragile for me; I just end up busting their balls, and I hate weak men, so it’s better I find my equal in a woman.”

That’s the sum total of her philosophy of life.

She doesn’t need more. All she needs is a place to put her emotions, no matter what they are. And believe me they are plenty, plenty big and plenty various and plenty crazy at times. Living with Peach is like living on one long roller-coaster ride.

Me, I’m very inside myself, given to fits of melancholy. I’m looking for spiritual passage through my cunt. I figure that God’s got to have planned it this way for me, since he gave me such an active one. With Peach it’s all in her Solar Plexus, her emotions. With me, it’s got to be the cunt.

She says she can’t believe the crazy things I think about and write about and daydream endlessly about. She says they’re extraordinary! She says it with such exuberance. I’ve been writing my stories for years, and finally found someone to appreciate them.

When she reads about “God and my cunt”, she laughs. She must laugh for ten minutes straight, tears rolling down her cheeks. I can’t stop her.

Then I’m in tears because I think, she thinks, I’m stupid.

“Hey, putz, it’s quaint,” she finally says.

“Quaint?” I snap at her.

“Yeah quaint, and it makes sense. What do you feel when you’re having an orgasm, some kind of spiritual high?” she asks. “I mean I feel really, really good, but it’s very physical. Am I missing something?”

“It’s not like that,” I tell her.

“So?”

“It’s like,” I muse for awhile and make her wait, she loves the drama of it and so do I. “It’s like, I’m never not with my cunt…” I fish for words.

“Of course, you’re not without it, it’s between your legs,” she points out the obvious, as if I haven’t already figured that out.

“That’s not what I mean,” I tell her. “Will you shut up so I can explain?”

She pouts and I ignore her.

“I’m always horny, if I’m not, I don’t feel alive,” I try again. “I think I could screw anything that’s alive, man, woman, beast, and… it’s not that I would, it’s just that I could. Sometimes I think I’m really obsessed, clinically so, but I know I’m not.”

“How do you know that?” she asks.

“What? Do you think I’m obsessive?” I query her seriously.

“No. But how do you know you’re not?” she asks.

“Because I’m happily erotic. I’m pleasured, I’m healthy, I’m productive, I pay my bills, and I contribute lavishly to anything worthwhile that pleases me. I’m really a regular person. I just live between my thighs. Some time ago…” I begin what could be a long story, even though I know I’d better tell it quickly, since Peach looks sleepy. She’s yawning. “I heard this guy talk, a really cool guy, and he tells me that m**********n is healthy, that it can cure just about anything. Well that seems a little off base. But I was having a horrible year with colds and flu and that kind of thing… I started m**********g a lot and everything cleared up. I started writing dirty books, and being happy, and it’s worked that way ever since.”

She believes me, I mean really believes me, the first person that I ever shared this secret with that didn’t think I was totally daft. There were two other lovers that knew this, but the whole idea fell so flat on them, I quit believing it while I loved them. Then everything went into the shitter, and I lost all my nerve and my confidence. So I dropped those two and started m**********g again (I never really quit, I just decided to like it again), and everything straightened out.

I tell Peach all this, she smiles and starts to kiss my hand. “So, if I’m to keep you safely under salvation’s wing, I suppose I’d better f**k you regularly,” she says. I think she’s taking this seriously, at least she’s gentle about it, even if she doesn’t completely understand.

I know I’m going to love her forever.