By Lisabet Sarai
Five
Stages
“When
did she disappear?”
“Four
years ago.” My companion hardly looked old enough for this to be
plausible. She examined her manicured nails and sighed. “She’d be
seven now. More coffee?”
“No,
thank you.”
She
sipped hers, deep in thought. I scanned the sunny backyard, noting
the jungle gym in the far corner. The lost girl had been an only
child. I wondered at the woman’s serene composure.
“How
do you manage?”
“Therapy.”
A wan smile. “I’ve learned the five stages.”
“You
mean, like the stages of grief?”
“A
bit. But simultaneous. Grief is the first. Every day I spend some
time in despair.”
I
nodded. “And the others?”
“Acceptance.
I have to realize I may never see her again. Then there’s service.
Like volunteering for the lost child hotline. And giving this
interview.”
“Which
I appreciate.”
“Stage
four is continued investigation. I have a top PI on retainer. I’ll
know as soon he finds a shred of new evidence.”
I
tapped some notes into my tablet. “And stage five?”
She
smoothed her hands over her designer slacks. Her lips tightened into
thin line as she met my gaze. “Retribution. I won’t rest till I’m
holding his bleeding balls.”
Ready
I’m
ready.
We’ve
been making out for more than an hour in his dad’s car, parked by
the fields on the outskirts of town. I’m on fire from his roving
hands, his evergreen cologne, the masculine roughness of incipient
beard on his high-school-boy cheeks. I’m eager to lose my
innocence, to step through the gateway into womanhood.
He’s
ready, too. He’s stashed a blanket in the trunk. A full moon rides
among the stars over our heads. Hand in hand we wade through the tall
grass to the top of the hill. I strip, feeling his eyes on me,
knowing my own power. He does the same. His erection is massive,
scary, thrilling. Power indeed!
From
his discarded jeans he pulls a condom. Fascinated, I watch him tear
the foil, extract the limp bit of latex, try to roll it down over his
cock. It’s not working.
“Can
you help?”
I’ve
touched him before, even stroked him to messy climaxes, but now my
hands are clumsy. The head is inside, but the rest seems stuck. As I
fumble, his cock wilts.
Finally
we lie defeated on the blanket, in each other’s arms.
Guess
we weren’t ready after all.
For
the Queen
“It’s
not true, you know.”
“What?”
“Castration
doesn’t eliminate sexual desire. Not when you’re cut after
puberty.”
“You
still feel aroused? You still want women, even after—”
“And
men. Eroticism begins in the mind, Eleanor. Imagination is a potent
aphrodisiac. When someone attracts me, I start spinning fantasies.
Usually, of course, I don’t act on those notions, but they’re
surprisingly satisfying.”
“Usually?”
The
chief eunuch gives an enigmatic nod.
“Why
did you do it?” I can’t conceive of a motivation compelling
enough to make me give up my breasts or my clit—which I notice is
tingling due to this turn in our conversation.
“For
the Queen. She needed my counsel, my wisdom, my admittedly
Machiavellian skills, to develop into the steel-spined ruler the
kingdom needed. She was so young when she came to the throne. But she
already understood the distractions and dangers of sex.”
“Does
she know?” Our Majesty is no longer a green girl.
A
buttery smile stretches his pudgy cheeks. “She guesses. She trusts
me now.”
I
should be wary of this powerful creature, but I can’t resist.
“How–when
you’re aroused, how do you–?”
He
lays a soft hand on my thigh. “Let me show you.”
