I Am My Grandmother's Legacy, a post by @GiselleRenarde

My grandmother died.

The past month has gone by in a haze of hospital visits as my grandmother--my favourite of all the humans--took a turn for the worse. One week ago, she was taken off food and water. I got up the next morning and tried to wash some dishes before leaving for the hospital. She wasn't dead yet, but that's when it really hit me: she would be, in the next few days. I had to come to terms with losing her.

I cried into my dishwater. I sobbed so hard I thought I was going to throw up. After that, I realized I'd started speaking about her in the past tense. Technically, she was still alive, but barely. Just barely.

We were there at her bedside when she took her final breath: all of her many daughters and me.

I'd never watched someone die before. A few of my aunts had warned me about the horrific expressions they'd seen on the faces of loved ones. Or unsettling sounds they'd made.  As my grandmother's breath slowed, my aunts wanted me to be prepared for the things they'd found disturbing about death.

But nothing like that happened when my grandmother died.

She just stopped breathing. That's it. Her breath slowed down, and then it stopped. She slipped away. No strange expressions or noises.  It was such a peaceful passing. I'm eternally grateful that I got to be there for it.

After she'd died, one of my aunts asked, "What was Mummy's legacy?"

Her family.  Everyone agreed about that.  She was proud of her accomplishments and her work, but the one thing that lives on now that she's gone is this big family she produced.

In that moment, when my aunts and I talked about legacies, I stopped feeling like a worthless person with a useless career. I am my grandmother's legacy. There are no other storytellers in my family.  If I don't preserve the stories she told me--of her life, of her parents, of her grandparents--who will? Her generation is gone. I must preserve their memory.

I matter. I mattered to her. I'm not worthless. She saw my value.

My grandmother believed in me, even when I didn't.  She believed my work was important, even when I claimed I was just in it for a quick buck. She knew there were easier ways to pay the rent, and she was right about that.

She was proud that her grandchild grew up to become a writer. In my family, we're not showy with the emotions. We don't go around saying "I love you" or "I'm proud of you." In my entire life, my mother has never said those things to me. I've never said them to her.

But my grandma told me she was proud of my writing career. She told me that all the time. She said "I love you" to me only once, and I was so uncomfortable with the bigness of the emotion that my response was: "Shut up! Why are you saying that?"

I never returned the sentiment until after she died.  As the colour drained from her skin, I petted her cheek and said, "I love you, Grandma." 

Maybe I didn't say it in words while she was alive, but I know she knew how I felt. I showed her by spending time with her. Lots of time. That wasn't solely for her benefit. She was truly my favourite person on the planet. I'm so thankful for the nearly 40 years we had together.

I will miss her forever, but every time I start feeling worthless, I'll be able to remind myself I have stories to tell. I have value. I am my grandmother's legacy.

My grandmother was always an avid reader--she'd read the dictionary if there was nothing else around--and a lifelong library user. If you've been following my many posts about my grandmother's life and you feel inclined to commemorate her death, I encourage readers to make a donation in her memory to your local public library system. I think she'd like the idea that there were more books and services available to more people because of her.

Heartfelt thanks for allowing me to share our stories with you.
Giselle

How Do You Celebrate the Holidays Following the Death of a Family Member?

a post by Giselle Renarde

Thanksgiving has never been a big holiday in my family. It isn’t as big here in Canada as it is in the states. I’d venture to say it also means something different. It’s mostly just an excuse to eat turkey. At least, that’s always been the case in my family.

My mother is a terrible cook, but she always cooks for us (myself and my siblings). Over-cooked, under-seasoned food is part of our tradition.

If we’re very lucky, my mom’s sister invites us to join herself and her husband for Thanksgiving. They’re amazing hosts and excellent chefs, the both of them.

We got lucky this year. We received a very unusual invitation, as far as Thanksgiving dinners go.

My family is in mourning at the moment. You know this, if you’ve been reading my posts of the last few months. In case you’re not aware, one of my cousins died unexpectedly of an overdose. What I’m learning, from this death more than any other, is that grief can weigh heavily on a family for a long time… potentially forever.

My late cousin’s immediate family—my aunt, uncle and cousin—are not okay.

Thanksgiving was the first time I saw them since the funeral. My mom’s sister planned a gathering with them in mind—with grief in mind. In a way, grief was the guest of honour. It sat among us, silently drawing our attention in its direction as we conversed.

The host of this gathering, my mother’s sister, was incredibly thoughtful in her approach. Knowing that the holidays are a hard time for those in mourning, the evening she planned was the total opposite of a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.

There was no turkey, no stuffing, no sit-down meal. In fact, we didn’t even eat indoors. We ate in the garage. It was lit by fairy lights and candles (fake ones, so we wouldn’t burn the house down). No meticulously laid-out table. No gleaming cutlery. No cutlery at all. We ate with our hands. It was all that sort of food.

My mother’s sister, who planned the gathering, told me she’s been learning that different people prefer different atmospheres. Some people like the darkness, especially during a mourning period. They don’t have to worry what they look like. And my aunt, uncle and cousin—they’re not looking so great these days.

When I got my aunt alone, I asked her how she’s doing. Some days are better than others, she said. Some days are terrible. Some are okay. She’s more concerned about her daughter and her husband. My uncle blames himself for his son’s death. She looks at her family, at her daughter and her husband, and she sees that they’re thinking… they’re thinking…

And I know exactly what she means, because I noticed the same thing. When we were all sitting around the living room chatting—with the lights on—I often looked at my uncle and my cousin, and I noticed them staring into space. No, not staring into space—staring into a space. Into that space occupied by grief.

As I said, grief sat among us. It was just more visible to those who felt they should shoulder the blame for my cousin’s death. The looks on their faces… well, it reminded me of a friend of mine, of when she used to have frequent PTSD blackouts. You’d look at her and she just wasn’t there. Her face seemed vacant.

One more reason the darkness at dinner was so welcome to so many of us. In the dark, there’s no one policing the look on your face, no one noting what you’re eating or not eating. Perhaps nobody would be judging you anyway, but in the dark there’s no false perception of being judged.

So, how do you celebrate the holidays after the death of a family member? Like this. In the dark. Maybe some people would prefer to cling to traditions, but for others, traditions bring on a wash of associations that are too much to handle when a family member’s death is still so fresh.

This will be a year of firsts, for my family. Thanksgiving was the first first. Next will be Christmas. I don’t know if we’ll dine in the dark for that, but I wouldn’t mind if we did. I wouldn’t mind one bit.

Supporting someone who is grieving deeply is so difficult, and most of us feel lost. We have no idea what to do and we’re scared of saying the wrong thing. I want to help my family, and in many ways (and for many reasons) I feel like I don’t know how. That’s why I’ve decided to donate all my October royalties from sales of my Erotic Older Women books to a non-profit in my city that does peer grief counselling. I might not know how to help, but they do, so please help me help the bereaved by purchasing:
Older Women, Wild Desires
Older Women, Lesbian Desires
Older Women, Kinky Desires
Or all three in one collection: Erotic Older Women

Mortal Remains - #death #surrender #immortality

By Lisabet Sarai

I went to bed last night wondering what I could write for this cycle’s topic, “Lifting the Veil”. I woke this morning from a vivid, disturbing dream that seemed like the answer to my unspoken question.

In the dream, I was about to be dismembered, literally sawed into pieces. I’d somehow fallen into the clutches of some cabal who quite calmly informed me of their intentions. I had no idea why they wanted to do this, what they hoped to accomplish, or why I had been chosen (though there was some sense that other people had been subjected to the same fate). Immobilized, strapped to a table, I didn’t even try to escape. It’s as though I’d accepted my lack of choice.

Despite this tacit acquiescence, I was terrified. It seemed they planned to hack away at me while I was awake and alert. I pleaded with them to give me some sort of drugs or anesthesia, and they agreed. At first I just felt a bit foggy-headed, all my sensations muffled in cotton wool, but soon I began to sink into unconsciousness. As I slipped away, I imagined what awaited me. Were these the last thoughts I’d ever experience? Was I about to be obliterated, erased? Or was there some spark, some spirit, some essence of my being that would endure after my body was nothing but a pile of bloody meat? I didn’t know the answer. Even if I did, there was nothing at all I could do. I had to let go.

I’m not the type to brood, but when you’re in your sixth decade of life and your partner is in his seventh, it’s hard not to think about death at least occasionally. It could come at any time, for either of us. Am I ready? Is anyone, ever? (Actually, I think some people are. My ninety four year old aunt told me before she died that every morning she woke up thinking, “Well, I guess I’m still alive.) Am I afraid? As in the dream, I am probably more frightened by the possibility of pain than of oblivion.

I do believe (with varying degrees of certainty depending on the day and my mood) that there is a dimension of energy or spirit beyond the material world, that indeed spirit engenders and shapes physical reality. Death might destroy the ego, the self, personality and memories, but our life energy must be recycled. I try to convince myself that death is just another stage of existence, that what awaits on the other side of the veil might well be revelations impossible to grasp when we’re shackled and smothered in our meat selves.

Some days I am more successful in fostering this enlightened view than others.

I really don’t know where my near-nightmare came from. I might have been influenced by this article I read just yesterday:

https://www.fastcompany.com/90243453/meet-the-foot-soldiers-in-the-radical-war-on-aging

In case you’re too busy to follow the link, the topic is RAADFest, the Revolution Against Aging and Death convention, part of a movement to use science to defer or reverse the effects of age. The ultimate mission? Immortality.

It’s easy to snicker when you read this article, but who knows? The human life span has more than doubled in a few centuries, and seems to still be on the upswing. Of course immortality has been staple fare in science fiction (not to mention paranormal erotica) for a long time. I recently finished Cory Doctorow’s Walkaway, a scifi novel bursting with provocative ideas, including some notions about immortality. A technology is developed to “scan” a person’s mind, upload and store the entire sum of his or her thoughts, memory and personality, and later reconstitute the “person” as a disembodied intelligence running on a computer. In particular, this technology makes it possible to “reboot” you after you have physically died. The process is far from foolproof, and can be highly disruptive, emotionally, to the person involved. Probably the most traumatic aspect, when your scan is loaded and activated, is dealing with the idea that you’re actually dead.

But what does that mean—“actually dead”—when extinct animals can be cloned from historical DNA? When new organs can be 3D printed (already possible for some sorts of tissues)? When stem cells can be teased into any sort of body part needed? We’re used to thinking about death as a sharp line, “The undiscovered country, from whose bourn, No traveller returns”, but maybe things aren’t that simple. Ghosts. Vampires. Clones. Sentient androids. Energy beings from space. Who knows what the universe holds?

Another strand in this tangle involves the eroticism of death. Most of my stories tend toward the sex-positive and sunny, but when I pen a paranormal tale, I often find myself spinning into darkness. I’m drawn to the experience of surrender. Could there be a more profound surrender than releasing oneself to death?

I have a story releasing on the 17^th that explores this idea, mixing it up with a bit of magic. My protagonist in Underground craves the experience of orgasm as she hovers at the edge of death. She spends long, frustrated years looking for a lover who can satisfy her needs, until she meets the mysterious Z at an exclusive sex club reputedly frequented by beings with occult powers.

He places his silver blade between my breasts, a sweet reminder of the blood he might or might not shed. The chill metal sucks warmth from my skin. His mouth dances over my lips, my straining nipples, my fresh-shaven mound. With every contact he draws the life from me, leaving exquisite languor in its stead. My limbs grow heavy. It becomes impossible to move, even if I wanted to. Meanwhile, profound pleasure circles and settles in my pelvis like a purring cat.

I open myself to him, mind and body both, desire overwhelming any residual instinct toward self-preservation. His luminous body is a magnet, attracting my essence. He drinks deep, taking what he requires.

To give him everything is my only desire. 

~~~~ 

Maybe working with this story kindled the strange dream. On the other hand, I’ve been aware of the emotional link between BDSM and death for years. Here’s something I wrote almost fifteen years ago, which captures this connection better than most of my tales.

Ritual

To GCS

They meet, infrequently, to perform the ritual. She waits for him to arrive, heart slamming against her ribs, stomach twisted with nervousness. When he enters, they embrace, awkwardly. It has been so long. She attempts lightness, a joke, a jibe, pretending that she does not know why she is here. Then he gives the sign - a mere eyebrow, arched in a question - and her protective humor slips from her along with her clothing.

The ritual demands much of them, the steps choreographed, but always with room for improvisation. First he binds her, with rope, or silk, or leather, ceiling-hung with thighs spread, or splayed across the bed, or bent double over a hassock. Sometimes he will position her limbs and bind her to stillness with his command alone.

Then he teases her, dabbles his fingers in her wetness, lovingly mocks her sluttishness. She melts at his slightest touch, sinks liquid and helpless into the ritual spirit, moaning just as he intends. She could drown in his rich voice, nuanced and full of power. He pinches her nipples into aching peaks, captures them in clothespins, or cinches them with rubber bands. All the while he strokes her pussy, calls her his pet, muddles the pains and the pleasures besieging her.

Next, he beats her. Here the ritual has many variants, but all with a single purpose: to invoke the purity of her surrender. She writhes under the lash, twists away from the hairbrush, whimpers as his bare palm reddens her buttocks. She does not wish to resist him; her only thought now is to please. But the pain is difficult to endure. Breathe, he says, soothing, encouraging, even as he scourges her. Open yourself. Yield yourself to me once again.

His voice is the key that unlocks her. Some barrier shatters and she floats free, each stroke of the whip an ecstatic kiss. His mind moves with hers now, sharing her agony and her joy. His breath comes in gasps like hers. His organ is granite. Now, come to me, my love, he whispers, entering her front or rear or spraying her marked thighs with his burning seed. She obeys, sliding into climax as he slides inside her, white hot fringed with red streaks of the pain.

Transcendence. Communion. Completion. They do not speak of it as they dress. There is no need for speech when the ritual is complete.

They meet infrequently. Sitting alone, on the plane or the bus taking her homeward, she savors the gaping, twitching sensations in her rear hole, the sharp echo of her stripes as she shifts in her seat, the slickness, still, in her sex. His voice echos in her mind.

Theirs is an old love. She thinks of him daily, imagines his life, her chest swollen with bittersweet aching. He thinks of her less frequently, but when he does, he gnashes his teeth, driven almost to madness because he cannot possess her. Then he recalls her sweet pliancy, her willing debasement, and his lips curve in a smile as he strums on his cock.

The ritual renews them. When she lies in a dentist's chair, or on the surgeon's table, when she wakes in fear in the night, she remembers him. Breathe. Open. Surrender. She relaxes into the fear, trusting as she trusts him.

She is sure that she will think of him, that way, when she surrenders herself into the arms of death. And then, perhaps, their meetings will be more frequent, and the ritual will be perfected. 

~~~~ 

Despite the terror, my dream held hints of this epiphany. I would like to believe that when the time comes, I will cross the threshold in grace and trust, not in fear.

The Flood, a post about grief by @GiselleRenarde

I used to be an art snob. I never bought prints. Money’s a little tighter now than it was when I had a “real” job, so I can’t always afford to buy original pieces anymore. I still want to support artists, especially young ones and those just starting out, regardless of age. That’s why I don’t mind so much, buying a print.

Last month, I bought one that gripped my heart: it’s an image of a girl, a giant girl. She’s crying so hard that she’s flooded the streets. You can only see the tops of cars. That’s how many tears she’s shed. She’s drowning out vehicles.

The night before my cousin’s funeral, I flipped on the local news. Their breaking story was weather-related. A severe localized rainstorm had caused flooding in the downtown core. They had footage of cars stuck in underpasses. You could only see the roofs. The weather guy kept saying it reminded him of footage you see from other countries, not from here. We don’t get this kind of flooding in Canada.

Except we do, because we did.

It stopped raining during the night, but started up again the next morning. By the time I left my apartment for the visitation, which would precede my cousin’s funeral, the rain was hammering down. As I waited for my second of three buses, it started coming through my umbrella and dripping on my clothes. A lane blocked off for construction had flooded entirely. Rain water washed over the sidewalk.

My mother had phoned me before I left the house. She wanted to make sure I was out of bed. I don’t usually wake up in the morning. I work late, sometimes until 5 AM, and then sleep until noon. But I was up and dressed and ready to go. She said, “Bring an umbrella,” and I said, “I’m wearing my galoshes—the fancy European ones we found at that outlet store.” We’re bargain shoppers. It runs in the family. But she called me back the second she’d hung up and said, “Bring a change of shoes. It’s more… proper.”

When I arrived at the cemetery, there was a huge puddle blocking the entrance. I couldn’t tell how deep it was, and, anyway, I was lost in thought. The third of my bus drivers looked strikingly like my cousin. And he was nice to me. He was very sweet and kind. That’s what I was thinking about as I began wading through the lake that came up almost to my knees. Some Australian guy was astonished that I would put my boots through such trauma. But they’re galoshes. You can put them through anything. They only look fancy. They’re deceptive that way.

Indoors, staff at the funeral home was going nuts with the wet-dry vac. The building had flooded overnight. Of course it had. Of course.

The first mourner I saw was a woman I didn’t recognize. She was sobbing so hard two men were holding her upright. I’d never seen someone cry like that in public. I wasn’t even sure, at first, if we were there for the same funeral. It turns out we were, and that she’s my cousin’s cousin on his father’s side (so, my uncle’s niece). This was the woman who’d lost her own mother (my uncle’s sister) to pancreatic cancer a couple months ago. She’d taken her family on vacation to try to give her kids a sense of normalcy, and so my aunt and uncle decided not to call her to tell her about their son’s untimely death.

This sobbing woman only found out our cousin had died when she arrived back home—the night before the funeral.

No wonder she was such a mess. She just lost her mother. She just found out she’d lost a cousin.

Usually, I know in advance how a funeral’s going to feel: I’ll sit there, listening to happy stories from the life of the deceased, feeling strangled by tears and yet struggling not to cry.

From the moment I walked into our lovely funeral room, I knew this one would be different. My cousin was laid out in the steel casket his sister had chosen for him, but that isn’t what set me off. It was the picture boards, the photographs of my cousin as a little boy. When I knew him well. When he and my brother were like brothers. When they egged each other on into mischief. When my cousin shoved a slice of birthday cake down our heating vent and it took us weeks to figure out what smelled funny.

I used to be one of those people who never cried in public. My Grade 9 French teacher told my mother, “There’s steel in that girl,” and there was, back then. It’s liquid now. I’m more fluid than I used to be, in many respects. I didn’t feel awkward crying.

My brother hadn’t told me he was asked to be a pall-bearer. If you want someone who feels emotions very deeply, it’s my brother. I cried for him, because I can’t even begin to imagine how hard that was, for someone who already lives inside a well of sadness.

The funeral was family-only. My cousin’s parents and sister, aunts and uncles, cousins and grandmother. Nobody else. When I first arrived, my cousin’s sister hugged me and said, “I’m so glad you’ve come. I was afraid no one would be here. I thought we’d have a funeral for nobody.” There was no death notice in the paper. The service wasn’t even listed on the funeral home’s online roster.

But it led to the most honest funeral I’ve ever been to. The minister didn’t go on and on about my cousin’s good works. Part of me hoped he would. Something good. Something to latch on to. Instead, he focused on us, the grieving. The service wasn’t for my cousin. It was for us. The minister assured us there was nothing more we could have done. Perhaps his death was accidental. Perhaps it was suicide, the culmination of years spent struggling with depression. We’ll never know for sure.

Whatever the root cause, the minister said we should not blame ourselves, but rather turn to each other for support. Sure the funeral was family-only, but when you looked around that room, you realized this is a big family. We’re a lot of people. We can lean on each other and not fall down, like the lady I saw sobbing before the service. She had two family members by her side to hold her up.

Last night, I dreamed about the neighbourhood I lived in 15 years ago, down by the lake. In my dreams, the landscape is always different from reality, but I recognize it from other dreams. Last night, my dreamscape was flooded. In my dream, I was taking my cats for a walk, goodness knows why, and I didn’t have them on a leash. I kept having to pull them out of the deep water and hold them in my arms. It wasn’t easy. You know what cats are like. They squirm and try to escape.

As I walked along, I passed through a café, and my family was there. My aunt and uncle, the ones who just lost their son, were pushing a baby carriage. They were smiling and healthy, the way they looked thirty years ago. I was about to walk on by when my aunt stopped me. They had a little girl with them, a toddler, and my aunt asked me if the girl could pet my cats.

“This one’ll swat at you,” I said to the child, “but don’t worry—she has no claws. She can’t hurt you, even if she tries.”

Lhasa De Sela -- "I'm Going In"

Her Kiss: A Post About Death, by Giselle Renarde

There's no place on earth
You're likely to miss
Her kiss

I can't remember if I've talked about Kiss of the Spider Woman before. I suspect I have. The musical soundtrack found its way into my life just in time to greet my burgeoning sexuality. Chita Rivera's performance in the title role helped to establish a connection between sex and death, because that's what she is, that Spider Woman. She's Sexy Death.

In the 90s, I developed a real fascination with Kiss of the Spider Woman in all its incarnations. I borrowed the LP from the library and taped it onto cassette so I could listen to it in my bedroom as I went to sleep. I read the play by Manuel Puig. I watched the movie, which features William Hurt and Raul Julia. For me, this piece established a connection between queerness and the Femme Fatale, both of which I began to identify with as a teen.

My family's been flirting with the Spider Woman a little too much this week.

No, it's been more than flirtation.

Someone's been kissed.

On Monday, my grandmother had an appointment with a very frank doctor who advised her that it's time to start looking at end-of-life care. I'd been to visit my grandma on Saturday. She's got multiple infections again, the same ones she had when she spent all those weeks in hospital early this year. The antibiotics are making her quite ill, but beyond that she's having problems with... everything, really, at this point.

On Tuesday, my mother called me. Her voice was trembling. She said, "I've got some sad news to tell you."

I knew exactly what she was going to say. What else could it be?

"Your cousin died."

Not my grandmother. Not my 87-year-old grandmother. My cousin, who was in his early thirties.

He died of a drug overdose.

Now, here's where things get complicated, for me, for my grieving process: I can't tell you how many nights I've spent researching elder abuse resources because of this cousin. Perhaps I ought not speak ill of the dead, and I beg his soul's forgiveness if I'm mistaken, but it's my belief that this young man was an abuser in many senses of the word. He lived with his parents, both of whom are over the age of 65, and the way I overheard him speaking to them on multiple occasions... the threat of violence in his voice...

I spent my young life in a household plagued by domestic violence. I spent another decade working in a shelter for women and children escaping precisely that violence. You do develop a sixth sense, an ability to pick out abusers, and I believe, right down to the core of my being, that my cousin was one.

Not that my aunt or uncle would ever suggest such a thing. They do admit he's stolen from them. Aside from that, it's stiff upper lip all the way.

Except that my cousin's sister (who also happens to be my cousin) has moved house recently, and she asked us all to please not tell her brother where she lived.

When I received news of this young man's death, I felt much the same way I did when I found out my father had died: free. In this case, the freedom was vicarious. When there's someone in your life who poses a threat--especially when that threat is both imminent and physical--there is an element of release and relief to their death. They can't hurt you anymore, except inside your own mind.

And I suspect my aunt, my uncle and their daughter will be suffering in the extreme, inside their minds, for the weeks and months and probably years to come. They will feel guilt. The will feel culpability. They will feel responsible for what happened.

The grieving process is so much more straightforward when you simply loved the person. Of course, that's a pretty utopian view of any relationship. Is there anyone in the world you only love? You have no points of contention with? Probably not.

But in a situation like this, man, grieving is a mess.

Today my aunt and uncle paid a visit to my grandmother. They went over to inform her that their son had died, and the circumstance of his death. My mother was adamant that my grandma shouldn't be left alone after receiving the news, so two of my aunts stayed with her until bedtime, and the nurses at the retirement home will be checking in on her throughout the night.

My mom was concerned my grandma would try to kill herself. And while my grandmother does seem incredibly enamoured of that Spider Woman, I doubt very much she'd try. I don't think she's physically capable of killing herself, at this stage. To that, my mother said, "What if she's been stockpiling pills? You never know what she's capable of!"

I think the more likely scenario would be what happened in my uncle's family. A few years ago, my uncle's brother died. He was not an old man, maybe in his 50s? He died and, three days later, their mother died too. She didn't kill herself. She just... stopped being alive. It's what you hear about with elderly couples. One dies of an illness and the other dies of a broken heart. That's what happened to my uncle's mother when her son passed.

Will a grandson's death be the thing that stops my grandmother's heart beating? I wouldn't be at all surprised.

But I'll leave you with a story my aunt told me after my grandfather died. My aunt went over to my grandmother's house to help her get ready for the little visitation type thing we had for him. When she walked into my grandmother's bedroom, my aunt found my grandmother sitting on the bed, weeping. We don't cry in my family, so that was a big deal.

My aunt went over and put an arm around my grandma and said, "I know. You miss Daddy."

My grandma gave my aunt the most confounded look. Her husband and abuser of almost 60 years had just died. What she said was: "I'm finally free."

There's No Place Like Freedom

by Giselle Renarde

Did I tell you my grandmother has moved to a retirement home? It was kind of a big deal.

I'm not entirely sure how the decision was arrived at that my grandmother would move out of her house and into a retirement home. It was such a momentous event. You'd think I'd be able to pinpoint exactly how and why it happened. But I can't. This year has been such a whirlwind of family stuff. It seemed like one day she was living in her house and the next she'd rented a respite room for 6 months. She'd been there 3 days when she signed a lease to move in permanently.

In the beginning, everything was wonderful. Everything was perfect.  My grandmother raved about the food, the care, the accommodations, the activities.

She'd been there less than a week the first time I visited her. Right away, she told me, "I have friends already!"  Which is wonderful. When she lived at the house, she had family, but that's it. Not a friend in the world. I mean that seriously. She relied on her kids for everything, including socializing. She's got a sister who is two years older than she is, and they only speak twice a year. So making friends was a big deal.

All the same, it was clear to me she was seeing this retirement home through rose-coloured glasses. That's fine. She's 87 years old. She's allowed to be excited about something. But she obviously wasn't acknowledging the negatives. It's almost like she'd fallen in love with the place. It was new love.

My sister and I visited my grandmother this weekend. We both had independent and innate feelings that it was very important to see her right away. My mother had mentioned to us that my grandmother's been ill of late, but that's no surprise during a heat wave. I've been sick too. Totally because of the heat.

When we visited, we found a grandmother who was practically a changeling of the one we've always known. My grandma has faced a lot of hardships in her life, but she's always had a positive attitude. The grandma we visited this weekend was the opposite of that person.

Everything was terrible. Everything! The retirement home she'd raved about when she first moved in was a prison to her. She hated it, hated everything about it.

She wanted her freedom. She wanted to go home.

"If I was at home, I could go out in the backyard and sit in the sun. I can't do that here. I'm locked in this one little room. I'm trapped here."

Well, I hate to call bullshit on my own grandmother... so I didn't do it to her face... but I will do it here. Because when we arrived, where did we find her? Locked in her one little room? Nope. We found her out on the accessible front deck overlooking the gardens, basking in the sun, chatting with her friends.

At home, she couldn't have gone out in her backyard if she tried. There are steps to get down into it and she no longer has the mobility to access spaces without ramps.

The freedom she imagines is imaginary freedom.

That's the thing about freedom: a lot of it is in your mind.

Easy for me to say. I can hear and see and walk on my own. I'm not 87 and my body isn't falling apart. My grandmother has been complaining about her physical deterioration for years, and she has every right to her complaints. I'd be complaining too, if I had all her medical conditions.

But there was a subtle difference this weekend, when we saw her. The complaining wasn't good-natured as it used to be. My grandma has always liked to laugh at her foibles. She's always told funny stories about all the inappropriate places she's peed (in my uncle's car, in my aunt's car, at Subway...), but this weekend's story was about waking up in blood and shit. It wasn't a funny story. It wasn't meant to be funny.

She kept saying, "I wish they'd just take me out back and shoot me."

Now, she says stuff like that all the time. The difference was the tone. The despair. The depression--a state I know all too well, but I've never seen it in my spirited grandmother.

In my mind, it's natural that she's dipped into this low. Maybe not usual for her, but it was bound to happen. When she first moved in, she couldn't find a single fault with her new residence. Now she can't find even one bright spot. She'll even out in time. The place isn't perfect, but it's far from terrible.

I just hope she's got that time ahead of her.

This weekend, a family friend's grandson lost his battle with cancer. He died two weeks shy of his sixth birthday. I was just reading his obituary, since the funeral is tomorrow. His parents ask that everyone wear blue instead of black, because that was his favourite colour. OR, if you happen to own a Star Wars T-shirt or Pokemon pyjamas, wear those. "He'd want you to be comfortable."

His parents miss him, obviously, but they insist he's found freedom.

I want my grandma to live forever. I love her. She is my font of wisdom, of stories. Nothing surprises her. There's nothing here she hasn't seen before. But every day that passes brings more pain, and she's lost hope. She's gotten to a point where she doesn't believe there will ever be a day where she feels better than she felt the day before. In her body. In her mind.

But you know what? When my sister and I left, she thanked us for the visit. She said she'd been feeling awful, just awful, and seeing us brightened her day.

I guess we'll have to visit more often. At this stage, it's all we can do.

Classic Giselle #Queer #Erotica #Gratitude

by Giselle Renarde

At one point in my teens, I told my family I wanted to be an actress.  My grandma was dead set against it. She was concerned I'd be "taken advantage of." And you know what?  She was probably right.

Strangely enough, when I decided to make a career out of writing erotica in 2006, my grandma was the only person in my life who actually supported me. By then I guess I was damaged goods anyway, so it didn't much matter if I wrote about sex all day.

My grandmother's been in hospital for the past couple weeks. When she was admitted, delirious and dealing with multiple infections, I was pretty sure the hospital was her last stop. But that's just me. I see death at every turn. My grandmother is 86, after all. My girlfriend's father died a couple days ago, so death seems to be looming.

For the past year or so, I've had this idea bouncing around my brain: an anthology of "Classic Giselle" erotica--stories I wrote at the very start of my career--that would somehow honour my grandma, since she always believed in me.

With my grandma in hospital, the time is nigh.  I've put together a collection of ten stories I wrote way back when, and that collection is called Classic Giselle: Queer and Quirky Erotica.

Thing is, I've also been reflecting on how much I appreciate my readers.  With Valentine's Day coming up, I figured this book would make a nice thank you gift.  So, from now until February 14 2018, the ebook is absolutely free at stores like Kobo, iTunes, Smashwords and eXcitica.

After Valentine's Day, Classic Giselle will cost money. But, in honour of my grandmother, I'll be donating all the royalties I earn from Classic Giselle throughout 2018 to the Canadian National Institute for the Blind (CNIB).

When my grandma's vision began to decrease due to macular degeneration, the CNIB was there for her every step of the way. And when I say they were there, I mean RIGHT THERE. In her house. People came in to teach her how to adapt to her changing vision.

My grandmother is now legally blind. She's always been a gadget geek, and the CNIB introduced her to accessibility technologies that have proven invaluable in navigating the world. And even tricks like how to pour yourself a glass of water when you can't see the water. Or the glass. They've done so much for her, and this is my way of acknowledging their help and care.

Classic Giselle is a double-whammy thank you. No, I'm wrong. It's a triple threat thank you. It's a thank you to readers for actually, you know, reading my words. It's a thank you to my grandma for believing in me. And it's a thank you to the CNIB for helping my grandma over the years.

It's been an exhausting couple weeks, but I'm so pleased to be able to give you this book of strange and silly stories.  Free until Valentine's Day from the following ebook stores:

Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/classic-giselle-queer-and-quirky-erotica
iTunes: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id1342513914
Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/786590?ref=GiselleRenardeErotica
Excitica: https://www.excitica.com/index.php/classic-giselle-queer-and-quirky-erotica.html

How do you know what's right?

by Giselle Renarde

Christmas with my family wasn’t easy this year.

The week before Christmas, I was trying to get in touch with my mother. She’s got 3 phone numbers (work, home and cell) and she wasn’t answering any of them. When I couldn’t get my mom on the phone, I hovered between worried and irritated. It’s pretty common for my mom not to answer my calls because she’s “too busy” but that’s not what was happening this time.

When I finally got hold of her, she sounded awful. I could barely understand what she was saying. It sounded like her whole body was shaking.

She hadn’t answered my calls because she was too sick to get to the phone, too sick to even move. She’d been vomiting for five days.

I had no idea she was sick. Nobody did, except for my brother who’d been taking care of her. My mom has a very strong constitution. She never gets sick. But if you’d heard her voice on the phone, my god, you’d have been as worried as I was.

But here’s the thing about my mother: she doesn’t like doctors. I mean, I don’t either. I get that from her and she gets it from her father. But last year when I was having heart palpitations and chest pains and all sorts of messed up shit, I let my sister take me to the emergency room.

My mother clearly needed health care, immediately and urgently, but she insisted she was “fine” and she’d recover if we just let her lie on the couch long enough.

I called my sister, the one who lives right down the street from my mom, and asked her, “Did you know that mom’s really sick?” Nope. Of course she didn’t. My mom was hiding from us because she knew what we’d say and she didn’t want to hear it.

My sister brought my mother vitamin water and other supplies. At that point my mother couldn’t keep anything down, not even tea.

Christmas Eve, my siblings all assembled at my mother’s house. At that point, my mom had not eaten anything in a week. She was sick as fuck and we were legitimately concerned she was going to die.

My mother refused to participate in the healthcare system.

We called my aunt and uncle. They offered to come over and carry my mom into their car and drive her to the emergency room.

We gave my mom three options: my aunt and uncle could take her to the hospital, we could take her to the hospital, or we were going to call 911.

She freaked the fuck out. Well, as much as she could considering she was unable to even sit up.

Oh, did I mention that all this was happening concurrent with an E. coli outbreak in my region? Yeah, and my mother’s symptoms matched up pretty precisely. One of my sisters happens to be a scientist working on her PhD in disease epidemics, and she was the one who brought the E. coli outbreak to my attention. The fact that she was concerned, and that I know this is something people die from even when they’re in hospital, had me so worried I actually expressed emotions around my family. And I never do that.

I spent Christmas Eve screaming at my mother.

I said, “People care about you! People want to help! We’re not going to let you die just because you’re too stubborn to go to the hospital!”

That’s all it was. Stubbornness.

And fear.

I kept asking, “What are you so afraid of?” and that’s a question she wouldn’t answer. Because I’m pretty sure the answer in her mind was: if I go to the hospital, I’m going to die. That’s what people in hospitals do.

My mother adamantly and belligerently refused medical care. She wouldn’t allow us or my aunt and uncle to take her to the emergency room. Clearly, she needed IV fluids. We needed to know what was wrong with her. But she begged us not to call 911. Begged us. “Just let me stay here on the couch. Please, I don’t want to go to the hospital!”

Ultimately, I guess she won, because we didn’t call 911. We said we were going to… but we didn’t.

I told my mother she’s her father’s daughter, and she accepted that title gladly. My grandfather didn’t like doctors either. He had shrapnel embedded in his lungs from WWII, and toward the end he had tremendous trouble breathing, but he wouldn’t accept medical care or oxygen in-home. He’d signed documents, power of attorney type things, I don’t know, saying that he refused to be admitted to hospital if he was incapacitated. DNR type stuff. He was serious.

But when he had a stroke, my grandmother called 911. Exactly what he didn’t want, but he was incapacitated at the time. In order to admit him to hospital, she had to lie to medical professionals. She told them he had said to her that he changed his mind, that he wanted hospital care. That’s the exact opposite of what he wanted. My grandmother tells me she did it for herself. She wasn’t ready to lose him yet, and she didn’t want him to die in the house.

He died in hospital about a week later.

I don’t know what’s right in this situation. I don’t know what is the right thing to do.

When you’re dealing with a child, you can impose your will on them. You can take your child to the hospital when they’re sick. But when we’re talking about another adult? When it’s your parent? When they clearly require immediate medical attention and they refuse it? What is the right thing to do? Impose my will on my mother? Call 911 even when she’s told us not to?

Acting in someone else’s best interest is a complicated thing. Older doesn’t necessarily mean wiser, but I was also taught to respect my elders.

My mother hasn’t fully recovered from whatever mystery illness is in her body. She’s eating again. My brother is caring for her. But when my girlfriend saw the state of my mom yesterday, the first thing she said when we left was, “Your mother needs to be in a hospital.”

You try telling her that.

We All Love the Beautiful Stories #CanLit #Storytelling #AmReading

A Post by Giselle Renarde

I just finished reading a novel called We All Love the Beautiful Girls. It's Canadian literary fiction by Joanne Proulx. I don't think I've ever read a book the year it came out (I'm very behind the times that way), but I found it in a Little Free Library near my house. The title and the cover appealed to me. I'll admit, I thought there would be lesbians. Spoiler Alert: there weren't.

But instead of talking about the book, I'm going to talk about my family. What else is new?

Okay, I lied.  I'm going to talk about this book a bit.  I'm going to tell you about something that happens in the book. Something fantastically Canadian, come to think of it. Something that touches on the story of my family.

A boy passes out in the snow.  He gets frostbite and loses a hand.

Now, here's why this story hits home for me...

My grandma loved her dad. When her parents divorced, she chose to live with him. When my grandmother married, he came to live with her.  I think he slept in her kitchen. I know my uncle slept in a drawer. But this was the late 40s, so I guess people were just sleeping all over the place.

I never met my great-grandfather, but evidence suggests he was a kind and caring person. He came here from rural Scotland, where he'd been a farmer. During the First World War he worked with horses, and when he came to Canada he continued in that vein, working in stables where milkmen kept their teams.

He wasn't much of a drinker, as far as I know, but one New Year's Eve he went down to the pub.  I guess he drank much more than his body was used to, because on his way back he passed out in a snow bank.  He wasn't far from home.  My grandmother tells me the snow bank was right in front of the house.  She's the one who found him there the next morning.

I'm telling you the story of how my great-grandfather died.

But I'm making choices about how I tell it.  I could stop right there.  Everything I've told you is true.  However, the implication is that, when my grandma found her father in the snow on New Year's Day, he was already dead.  That's not the case.  It's the best version of the story of my great-grandfather's death, but it's incomplete.

Because, when my grandmother found her father in the snow, he was still breathing.  They rushed him to hospital, where he died of pneumonia three weeks later. He never got out of that hospital bed.

When we're creating fiction, we're obviously making choices about how we tell a story. But when we're telling the stories of our lives, we're making choices too.

Good storytellers choose the best possible version of that story.

This is a lesson I learned from my aunt, who, I now realize, is the person who taught me how to be a storyteller.  When I was a child, I found her stories spellbinding. Now, as an adult, I still do.

In fact, just this weekend she told us a very evocative tale that drew on every sense. Her siblings all agreed that, the way she'd told it? Yeah, that's not the way it happened. Nowhere near.  There was a consensus that her facts were way off.

But does that matter? To me? I guess it doesn't. It doesn't make a difference whether my uncle came in through the front door or the back.  That doesn't impact the heart of her story, and my aunt's choices add nuance and build strong images.

Would it do an injustice to my great-grandfather if I led you to believe he died in that snowdrift, in the wee small hours of New Year's Day? When, in reality, he died in a hospital bed three weeks later?

That, I can't answer.  It's his death, not mine.

Giselle Renarde is an award-winning queer Canadian writer. Nominated Toronto’s Best Author in NOW Magazine’s 2015 Readers’ Choice Awards, her fiction has appeared in nearly 200 short story anthologies. Giselle's juicy novels include Anonymous, In Shadow, Seven Kisses, and The Other Side of Ruth.

Not So Psychic

by Giselle Renarde

My mom just got back from a vacation with her friends.

A couple weeks before she left, I had a dream my mother died during her trip. You'd think it would rip my heart out, but it didn't.  There was a voice in my head saying the universe had given me enough signs. I knew this was coming. So, emotionally, I was on the numb side of being okay.

It was a very bureaucratic dream. An unusually pragmatic one, for me. My dreams are usually fun, entertaining. This one was dull, grey. My siblings and I were dealing with all the mind-numbing paperwork that goes along with the death of a parent... instead of dealing with our emotions. That's par for the course, with us.

In my dream, I got the quote for how much it would cost to ship my mother's body home, since she died overseas.  I remember thinking, "My credit card won't cover this. What kind of person has a credit limit this low?"

I woke up the next morning to the familiar sound of an envelope shooting through my letterbox. Mail from my credit card company offering me a higher credit limit.

I'm not psychic.  I don't have precognitive dreams, never have.  But that one shook me. Not just the dream itself, but the confluence of dreaming about needing a higher credit limit and immediately being offered one.  That's a little spooky.

The last time I saw my mother, we were sitting around my grandmother's kitchen table.  My mom was saying how excited she was about this trip.  She mentioned that someone at the office was saying "Aren't you afraid of going there?" because the city she was travelling to has been hit with terrorist attacks in recent years.  She said she wasn't scared.  She didn't want to live her life that way.

Life is full of measured risks. She'd already decided she didn't want to be afraid about this trip.

That's why I decided not to tell my mom about the dream I had.  Yes it put me on edge, but I don't have a history of being psychic so I figured what was the point in frightening her?  Even if she dismissed it (which she almost certainly would), it would always be with her in the back of her mind. I didn't want her carrying that weight with her on a vacation she was so looking forward to.

The other side of the coin, of course, is: if I have what is potentially life-or-death information about someone else, shouldn't I share it with them?  Probably.  Maybe.  I don't know.  If someone knew I was about to die, would I want them to tell me?  I... guess... possibly?  What would I do differently? Get rid of anything incriminating. But if someone else had a dream that I would die, would I want to know about it?  I don't think so.  It's hard to say.

At any rate, my mother's plane landed safely back home this evening. I know because I checked the airport's website.  I can only assume my mother was alive and aboard.

The Elephant in the Room Doesn't Move

Rest, peace, tranquillity – all appealing concepts. Inertia sounds less inviting, but what else is rest?

Then there is the elephant in the room: death.

Sooner or later, all of us will be unable to move. We will be inert. If the soul, spirit or life-essence can survive on its own (as I suspect it can), it will leave the limp flesh behind. The greatest athletes, those who have physical abilities I could probably never attain, even with training, will eventually find that nothing works. The body will have run its course and be ready for retirement.

We don’t like to believe this. We also don’t like to admit that death has ever tempted us. In Western culture, there is a widespread belief that suicide is always a symptom of mental illness, and that a truly sane person would want to live forever, even in a deteriorating body. In Christian terms (specifically according to Catholic rules), suicide is a great sin, parallel to murder. It is a violation of God’s will.

Then there is the difficulty of reaching a state of eternal rest. As Dorothy Parker put it:
"Razors pain you,/Rivers are damp,/Acids stain you,/And drugs cause cramp./Guns aren’t lawful,*/Nooses give./Gas smells awful./You might as well live.”

-----------------
*apparently less legal in Canada than in the U.S.
-----------------

There you have it: a neat explanation for why I am still here – and why many other people are still alive, even though they have been told in various ways that they are using up too much air to which they are not entitled.

When I reached puberty, and my body developed into the shape, more-or-less, that it still has, I was told by everyone around me that women’s bodies (va-va-voom!) are beautiful, fascinating, an endless inspiration to artists, rapists, and serial killers. I was supposed to feel blessed. I was also supposed to be filled with shame, according to all the followers of Saint Paul.

For the rest of my life, as far as I could see, everyone around me would be so distracted by the appearance of my body (which would always be breathtakingly glamorous or breathtakingly hideous – there was no middle ground) that I could hardly expect them to notice any part of me that wasn’t physical.

There were “women’s magazines” to help me define my “figure problems” and try to fix them. There were numerous products to help me look my best. I was supposed to feel grateful for all the help.

When guys noticed me in public places, and yelled out comments about my body and what they wanted to do to it, I was supposed to figure out what I had done to attract the wrong kind of attention, and resolve to stop doing that to myself.

There seemed to be only one way out of the giant fishnet of double-binds. If I were not living in my body, no one could mistake it for me. Anyone could do whatever they wanted to the empty shell, and I wouldn’t care. I would not be living there.

There are various ways to go partway there. One can “disassociate,” as psychologists put it, by choosing not to be fully present in one’s body in the moment. One can try hard to live somewhere else. One can develop an “eating disorder,” which tends to shrink the body, possibly to the point at which it can no longer survive.

One can boldly go where many have gone before: swallow something that seems likely to cause death. In my case, they were sleeping pills, available without a prescription, because I wanted to avoid excruciating pain, if possible (I had read about the results of swallowing caustic household products) and I didn’t know where to get something powerful and illegal, such as heroin. I’ve always wondered if the pills would have worked, if I hadn’t been found in time.

I only tried it once. Failing at suicide seemed even more pitiful than continuing to live in a body that would always be vulnerable to attack.

So I am still “ert,” if that is the alternative to being inert. I wake up every morning, wash, dress, make myself as presentable as possible, go here and go there.

I assume I am much closer to eternal rest from “natural causes,” however those are defined, than I was at age nineteen. Maybe that’s why suicide no longer feels tempting.

I’m willing to ease into long-term inertia little by little. I’m sure I’ll get there soon enough.

"Procul His" A Hungry Story

This was his idea of hell.  Of having his neediness hung out in front of him for an obligatory four hours like a man in the stocks but with bathroom breaks as people went carefully around him smiling and avoiding eye contact as though he were ill or contagious, his sharpie pen ever at the ready and a stack of trade paperbacks ready to sign. "Carnival of Flesh".  His latest erotic urban masterpiece which no one would quite read, at least none he knew of.  Still small checks dribbled in every month from somewhere.  He had found a couple of his older minor masterpieces in the book stores rock bottom remainders bin, marked down even from half price.  Rather gauche of them not to hide them to spare his feelings until he'd passed through.  Soon they might give them away for compost with the spent coffee grounds from the Starbucks.

From where he sat on his little desert isle of a book signing table he could see a sign advertising Oliver North here next Saturday.  He would be signing his latest spy thriller, and because it was Oliver North and this a red state with an army base in town the line would probably be sure to form around the block.  But not today. 

He could not sigh.  Did not dare for one instant look sad or scared.  He didn't actually hope any longer for his long line stretching around the block, only for a friendly face to stop by and chat.  Maybe a writing student from the local college shyly asking for some advice from the big deal author.

Anybody.

Please God.

See me.

Pay attention to me.  Talk to me.

Praise me.  Please somebody tell me how much you love my stuff.  Please please pretty please.

Hell is lonely.  And I have an hour to go.  Somebody tell me how much you love me.

On the nearest bookshelf were some eye catching coffee table books.  He wanted desperately just to get up and look at them, be a customer again, a reader of books, not some lonely pimp on a street corner with his sharpie pen hoping to button hole some poor sailor of a book reader to come over and see his wares.

"Stone Tools of the Neolithic and Paleolithic Eras"

Now that looked like a mighty interesting read - he rose slightly at the knees to reach it - but no.  Could not.  Would not.  Reading someone else's book?  At a signing table?  Are you insane?  Wasn't that the most abject admission of defeat? 

The hand axes on the cover were finely polished black stone, probably obsidian.  He knew these tools.  Had studied them when he had thought he would be a paleontologist.  The men who had crafted them 50000 years ago had chipped edges in the material a micron thick, actually sharper than a razor blade.  Far sharper than they needed to be for chopping up meat and bone.  And why did cave men do these things?

To impress women. 

Beautiful hand axes.  Books.  Why would any man work so hard except to get laid?

But writers, he thought, even erotica writers, we don't get babes.  Its the dudes with the phallic guitars and surf boards under their arms, the bad boys with the new stone axes that get laid.

Fuck it.

Carpe librum - bitch.

He rose, reached across and seized the goddamn book.

I admit no one reads my shitty books.  I'm defeated.  So I'll read someone else's.  So fuck it.  Sleep till noon and screw 'em all I say.

He flipped open the cover and felt a heave of sadness.  Even one person, please tell me how great I am.  Someone must like these books because they send me a little money for them on Paypal.  Let there be people who think I'm good. I wish I had readers.  I wish I had fans.  I wish I had attention.  I conjure them - appear to me.

He flipped the pages admiring the spear heads and perfect arrow heads with their rippling edges.  Those cave ladies must have been some great piece of ass for men to do work like this, he thought. 

A shadow fell across the page. 

A young woman was there with a plastic bag of books in her arms.  Tall, twenty something, thick blonde hair tied back.  Her face was oddly exotic and full of temperament.  A T shirt with a burst of stars expanded outward from her ample breasts and over the stars the words "Procul His".

"Hello," he said. "Looking for the food court?"

"You are totally Edgar Black," she declared. 

"I am."

"I'm your biggest fan ever.  Your stories drive me wild."

He looked behind her, around her to see who was watching, giggling.  No one had put her up to it.

"Can I see?"  He held out his hand and she set down her stack of books.  People were looking at them now.  Her adoration crackled through the book store.

"Some of these I forgot I wrote.  You want me to sign them all?  I will."

"No, why would I want that?" 

His face burned.  "Look.  I don't understand." He waited.  She said nothing.  He pointed at her T Shirt.  "So whose Procul?  You're his girlfriend?  He's the guy who really likes my stuff?"

"No, it's just - " Christ, the girl was turning red.

"Are you okay?"

"Oh my god I'm talking to Edgar fucking Black!  I don't want your autograph."

"I get that."

She leaned in close.  He could feel her breath on his face, smelling of Juicy Fruit, her lips an inch from his.  "It's just - I want . . . I want you to do something really, really special for me.  And it has to be you.  Something personal.  Tonight. My place. Say yes."

He glanced down at the glossy color photographs of obsidian hand axes.  "Yes," he said.

He pressed the door bell again and waited looking down at the hallway carpet.  He clenched his fists around the sweating bottle of Pinot Noir and the yellow legal pad filled with penciled script.  The patter of bare feet running.  Feet stopping.  Deep nervous inhale behind the door, then the knob turned and she was there all in a see through red negligee.  She smiled and the bulky profile of her bare breasts beneath swayed with possibilities.

I have a groupie, he thought.  I may be the first writer since Bukowski to have a groupie.

She held open the door, he swallowed from a dry mouth and came in, his eyes slightly down seeing her bare feet, her girlish toes.  "I did it," he said, holding up the yellow legal pad.  "It's yours."  He held it out to her.

She closed the door.  She looked down at the legal pad suddenly disappointed.  "You don't understand?"  she said.  "I thought I was clear."

"Maybe not," he said, feeling his spirit sag.

"This is for us together.  I want you to read it to me.  In there."  She pointed at the bedroom door.

"Wow," he said and felt instantly stupid.  He walked to confess to her he had never had much experience with women.  Especially women who seemed to know what they wanted and weren't afraid to ask.  Everything he knew came from books; sex manuals and other people's romance novels mostly.  "I don't know."

She held out her hand assertively and he took it. She walked him to the bedroom by the hand, then stopped and snatched the legal pad from him.  At the bedroom door, she ran her eyes over it, her lips moving gently as she flipped the first page and read the next.  "This is some sorry shit," she said.

"You don't like it?  It's your story, you're in it like you asked."

"Noooooooo . . . . " She tossed the legal pad over her shoulder and gave him an exasperated curtsy.  "Edgar Black.  The Edgar Black.  Standing at my bedroom door.  You'll have to do better than that if you want to impress me."  She put her arms around him and squeezed him to her body.  She pressed her breasts against him and held him tightly whispering into his ear, the puffs of breath tickling him like drumbeats.  "I told you I wanted you to write an erotic story just for me with my name in it. But I want something good. Whisper it in my ear.  Whisper it so you make me come with your words."  She gently touched her cheek to his cheek, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered almost into his head.  "Can you do that for me?  Move the earth under me. Talk dirty to me.  I want to gobble up your words."

She pushed the door open.  The room was full of blazing scented candles.  The double bed was simple, with a thick comforter and several pillows and a clean white bath towel folded clinically at the foot of the bed.  Above the bed was a painting of shooting stars and the words "Procul His:  Beyond These Things".

She let go of his hand and stretched out on the bed, wiggling her toes, sitting up comfortably against the bed stand.  She hiked the hem of the red negligee up to the tops of her thighs and patted the place beside her.

It not occurred to him until this moment that he was wearing pants.  Rumpled and unironed from hotel to hotel and airport to airport, but suddenly in the way.  Should he take them off? 

He took off his shoes instead, hesitated at taking off his socks.  He had ugly middle aged feet.  At what moment would another false move spoil the mood?

He went over to the bed climbed up and sat next to her, stretching out his legs.  Quietly trembling.

She cuddled close to him, almost climbing onto his lap.  "So," she said.  "Tell me a story."

Fear left him as he felt himself rise to the challenge.  "Okay." he said.  "Do you masturbate?"

"Yes."

"Tell me a sexual fantasy of yours, something you use when you masturbate."

"Okay," she said.  She pressed in tight to him, their thighs touching.  "It's a dark and stormy night. I'm horny as a toad and I'm about to play with myself and lightning hits the house and knocks the lights out and I'm really scared to be alone in the dark.  Then the door bell rings and a man from the power company is there, the most gorgeous man ever. 'Can I come in ma'am and fix you?' And I let him in and I've forgotten I'm naked but he turns on his flashlight and sees me and his clothes are soaking wet.  I say to him you'd better take off all those wet clothes so you don't get zapped when you're working.  'You're right ma'am,' he says and he drops it all and he's got big balls that hang down and this thick stiffy sticking straight up and he sees me looking at it.  He shoves me down onto the bed and licks and kisses me and he lays on top of me so I can't move and twaddles me expertly with his fingers down there and he says -  ?"

Oh," he said.  "Okay.  Here."  He put his arm around her shoulders, held her tight and put his lips to her ear.

I owe you my life ma'am.  I'd have been electrocuted if not for you.  I'm going to stay here with you all night.   Use me.  Use me like your love bitch.  Play with my body.  Don't be afraid of me.  I won't hurt you.  Use me. That's it.  Kiss me with your mouth open.  Do it." 

As he whispered these words into her ear, his hand wandered over her shoulder, moving down her neck caressing, lightly hovering over the warm skin and fuzz of her arm in the candle light as he turned her face to him and pressed his lips into the warm wet of her mouth and felt her fearful tongue reach out and shyly touch his.

"Bob," she said.  "The power guy, his name is Bob."

"Bob says to her I'll do anything for you.  Use me, sweetness.   Any dark thing.  Any silly thing.  Anything you've ever wanted to do with a man's body and were scared to ask, ask me and its yours.  You can do it with me.  Whip me.  Tie me.  Beat my meat.  Suck me off.  Explore me.  Explore your desires through me.  And if you don't, then I'm going to explore you.  Every inch of your beautiful body.  Every crack in your body.

"What if I want to eat you up?" she whispered dreamily.

"Eat me up?"

"But what if I want to really eat you up?"

"Not if I eat you up first."

He knew it was his cue.  Here in the candle light of her room, his dreams were coming true.  He lifted the hem of her T shirt and pressed his lips to her belly and held them there, lingering, savoring.  No more thinking.  Bringing himself to her, breathing the scent of her skin as he held his lips there.  No more words, as he slipped her panties past her knees and pressed his face deep into her warm wet hair.

She stopped and shivered as his lips touched the spot, he felt her go vulnerable and open.  Her legs moved, he parted them and pressed the flat of his tongue against her wet nether lips and kept it there, breathing hotly on her skin, enjoying the scent and taste of her until her breathing became ragged and she began to move her hips into him.  He pursed his lips around her clitoris and sucked at it, in and out, sucking in and out, letting his breath fall on her skin as she tipped her head slightly seeking his touch.  

"I want to eat you up," she sighed.

He wanted to speak but he pushed the words away from his thoughts.  This was not a time for words.  For once words would get in the way.  He sucked her clit.  In and out.  In and out.  Gently thwonking the tiny shaft.  Sucking in and out and then gently rubbing at it with the tip of his tongue, setting up a rythem.  Suck.  Rub.  Suck.  Rub.  Feeling it.  Getting his tongue in deep.  Then suck.  Rub.  Suck in.  Rub out.  He ran his hands up over her belly as he sucked and tapped at her clit, in and out, in and out.  He twined his fingers in her wet wiry hair and caressed it lovingly, then her belly, ran his fingernails lightly, maddeningly along the delicate skin inside her thighs and waited with infinite patience as her body awakened to him.

Reaching up, stroking her breasts, smoothing outward like the beating of angel wings, his hands stroking her breasts in perfect time with his lips mesmerizing her.  He had imagined this.  He had rehearsed this a million times with a million fantasy women.  Sometimes at the keyboard.  Sometimes with himself.  But this . . .  This was life.  Woman.  Primal and dangerous.

He felt her nipples expanding under his fingers.  He resisted the urge to climb up and suck them.  Not now when she was so bravely opening herself to him, abandoning herself to him.  She didn't thrash or twist as she would in a story.  She didn't make a big deal out of it.  He would have to remember all this the next time he wrote a love scene.  It wasn't like that.  Sometimes.  She stopped moving.  Stopped breathing.  Became deathly still as though waiting for something inside that was rising to the surface.

"Fuck!"  She banged herself hard against his nose.  Ramming his face hard with her pussy so that he saw squirming starbursts behind his eyes.

"Ahhhhhh!" She wailed and he heard her sob.  "You fuck," she whispered as if it were a curse.  "You fuck."  Her body stiffened and twisted "Ahhhhh - " that weird lost wail as he felt the ripples coursing to his lips through her loins.  She reached down and twisted her fingers in his hair, rubbed her cunt against his face for one last spasm and fell back.

"Fuck you," she whimpered.  "Oh, fuck you to hell.  You stupid fuck.  Fuck."

He wasn't sure what it meant.  Had he done it wrong?

"Come here," she was smiling dreamily, a red faced angel in the candle light and waving her hand to him.  "Come up here you beautiful man."

He moved up her body and pressed his glazed wet face reverently on her neck as she lay panting.

"I still want to eat you up," she said, her eyes idiot dazed with the echoes of her pleasure, "You sweet, sweet man."  She licked his face and kissed him on the lips.

"What's it like?" he said, mildly.  "How does it feel when you come hard like that?"

"Like a little drop in space," she said,"exploding into stars."

She whispered in his ear  "Procul His" and gently nipped his ear so that he smiled and jumped. He was about to climb on top of her when she opened her mouth and he saw her lolling tongue as she leaned back and stared into his eyes.

And then her eyes turned black.

When he was a little child in Noble Oklahoma there had been a twister dropped down from the boiling green clouds of a spring evening.  It tore away the roof as his mother held him down under the bed.  But it was noise of the wind, the rushing, tormented wind like a freight train two inches from his ear that had haunted his nightmares.  It was the rushing headlong locomotive wind that filled his head in this moment with the woman with the soulless black eyes that made his ears seem to pop with a hollow deafness as his brain began to ache.  Impossible.  The rushing was something being sucked out of his head.

He was alone on the bed.  The woman had . . . What was the word?

What was the word when someone was . . . When they had . . .

There were names for things.  But the names were gone.  There were words for what people did.  But the names of those things they did were gone.

There were . . .

He was seeing the world the way he knew animals would see it.  The timeless endless fugue of the single headlong and indescribable  moment squeezed, stripped bare of past and future.  The wordless, endless instant.

How to say . . . what . . .?

He could not remember to form words. He could not remember the idea of words. The endless monkey chatter of his thoughts had been stripped to abject silence.

He rushed out the something, stumbled in the something, clattered down the something else.  A red something on the wall with painted little warning scribbles - they meant something.

He ran into the street and gibbered at the people who walked past.   A woman stopped with a worried face, touched his shoulder as his tongue stretched and strained, opening and closing his mouth like a dying fish.  Her lips moved at him; clucking sounds at him that made no sense.  He toiled, sweated, searching, for the lost sounds he needed to express what had happened. 

"Rah . . . .rah . . . Rah . . ."

People with worried faces gathered around him making senseless monkey sounds he should understand and could not.

"Rah . . . Rah . ."  He bit down on his tongue until it bled.  Slapped himself hard on the cheek.

"Robbed!" he screamed and fell down.

The sharpie pen twirled in her fingers, moved over the title page with studied indifference and the moving sharpie having writ moved on.

The next in line, a man, stepped up and picked up a fresh skinny little hard back off the stack and pushed it to her.  "Can you sign it to - "

"No."

"Okay."  He waited while she scribbled something across the title page, snapped it shut and passed it back.  "Can we get a picture?" he said hopefully.

"Sure," she said.

He passed his cell phone to the next in line, scooted behind the table and they smiled together as the smart phone made a shutter sound.  "Thanks!"

She glanced down at her watch and felt her stomach growl.  No breakfast.  No lunch.  Not even a coffee stand in this hick library building.  Ridiculously planned, this book tour.  She absolutely felt a poem coming on.

A shadow fell across the table and a whiff of patchouli oil.  A young woman was standing there blushing furiously with excitement. She wore a t shirt of expanding stars.

"Nice," said the woman at the table.  "Who's 'Procul His'?"

"You are - " said the young woman, hopping up and down urgently as though she needed badly to pee, " - the greatest poet ever!  Ever!  Your introspective lesbian poetry freed me to love and be my true self!  You saved my life!"

"Thank you."

The young woman leaned in, breathing softly.  "I would do anything for you, you deep sensitive woman.  Anything.  If you'll do something special for me."