The Unbearable Itch of Desire: Two Scenes from Real Life

by Jean Roberta

Mosquitoes were dangerous where Perekule grew up. They carried malaria, and that was guaranteed to kill the mood.

The Canadian prairies are the Land of Mosquitoes. They breed in pools of stagnant water, nourished by spring rain and snow-melt. They hatch in summer, when they have access to a smorgasbord of human skin. Luckily, prairie mosquitoes don’t transmit anything worse than itchy bumps. It’s the 1970s.

Warm summer prairie night. The bedroom window is open to catch a breeze, and I am wearing the top half of the baby-blue baby-doll pajamas that Perekule gave me when I asked him for something sexy to wear. I left the exact definition of “sexy” up to him. Now I hope he likes the look of sheer pastel fabric over my pink skin and rose-coloured nipples. The dark-brown triangle of curly hair between my thighs is a focal point, and I hope he can’t take his eyes off it.

“Uh.” His mahogany skin glows in the dim light from outdoors. He pulls me into his arms, but he is obviously distracted. A whine from tiny wings, like those of a mischievous fairy, comes close to our ears, diminishes, then stops just long enough to give me hope that we are alone.

Perekule knows that Canadian mosquitoes aren’t deadly, but old feelings die hard and a man has a duty to protect his wife. Whump! His bare feet hit the floor on his side of the bed. He reaches the light switch, and the room is bathed in harsh light.
Whap! He is leaping about the room with a rolled-up magazine, chasing the mosquito. I feel neglected, and I’m afraid my skin is more tempting to bugs than to the man in my life. Whap! Whap! He keeps missing.

It’s late and I’m frustrated. I turn away from the obsessed bug-hunter and curl up on my side. One cheek of my ass is facing him, but this no longer seems to matter.
Silence. Whap! The rolled tube lands smartly on my ass-cheek. “Got him!” Perekule is flushed with victory.

Now he can pay attention to the reddened landing-site.

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Dixie was born under Cancer, a sign that is supposedly ruled by the moon. She claims she is always influenced by its phases.

Calm summer night. A full moon beams down from a black-velvet sky as we bounce along a country road in her parents’ camper-van, accompanied by a soundtrack of 1980s power ballads on the radio. She has driven 300 miles to visit me so we can stage a lesbian ritual, a tribute to Sister Moon and Mother Earth. The night feels full of portents.

When we find the right spot, we’ll know. Or rather, Dixie will know because she’s more attuned to earth-energy than I am. We plan to spread our blanket in a farmer’s field and fertilize the wheat crop with our ecstasy. No other human will see us, but if all goes well, our energy will soak into the black soil to bless every plant, bird and prairie dog that visits the site.

Dixie parks the van and pulls off all her clothes. She hops out skyclad and looks around for a place to spread the blanket. Her freckled ivory skin is lit by the moon, and her bright-red hair looks darker and richer than in daylight, more like blood. Suddenly she dances a jig, slapping at her arms, her legs, her belly, breasts and face.

I’m not sure if this is meant to be part of the ritual until Dixie scrambles back into the van and slams the door. I am still taking off clothes, one piece at a time, while watching for traffic. “Mosquitoes!” she wails. I lean closer to the window, and see the hungry swarm hovering right over her chosen spot.

We hope our ecstasy will float out of the camper-bed to the surrounding field, even though we are keeping all the doors and windows tightly closed. Dixie lets me cover her with kisses, and she slides down my body to taste my nectar. If the Goddess' winged children feel deprived of nourishment, we don't really give a damn.

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