Chapter Thirty-Three

Shards of morning dapple a room wrapped in the scent of freshly ground coffee.

“Kona,” Ana tells me, playfully throwing her hip against mine as she takes a seat on the sun-warmed turquoise sofa. “It’s Hawaiian.”

Her red silk robe is not quite closed. My eyes coax it open a bit more.

“What grade would that be?” she teases.

“Grade?” I ask.

“That smile of yours.”

“That smile,” I reply, “would be a minus one.”

She laughs. “You get a minus one for being happy?”

“No. Happy is extreme. Happy would be a minus two.”

Ana laughs again, touching a higher note, before grabbing her head. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts. But I do love this number system of yours. Cuts straight to it.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I’m mocking-mocking you,” says Ana, leaning to kiss my lips. “Tell me about your writing. Are you fiction or non-fiction?”

“Interesting how you put it,” I reply, my fingertips finding the earliest beginnings of her left breast.

Ana closes her robe. “We’re having a discussion. Do you write fiction or don’t you?”

I pull myself a bit straighter on the sofa, adjust my white robe, and look around for my coffee cup. It’s only mildly troubling that Ana keeps a man’s bathrobe in her closet. 3X.

“It’s a tackier question than you might imagine,” I tell her. “Fiction contains a great deal of truth, and vice versa. Where did I put my splendid Hawaiian coffee cup?”

Ana hands me the ceramic mug, still warm to the touch.

“Place ten writers in a room,” I say. “A woman in a raincoat walks in, pulls the petals from a rose, and walks out. Now ask each writer to describe what he or she has just seen.”

“And you get ten different stories,” says Ana.

“Every time.”

“Like still-life painting,” says Ana. “Thirty art students all painting the same bowl of oranges, and no two paintings alike.”

I shrug. “I can’t imagine who would want to paint a bowl of oranges in the first place. Especially with someone looking over your shoulder saying, ‘Zees orange, he’s not look happy.’ Same with piano lessons. At a given moment, half a million students are banging away at the Moonlight Sonata. Same bowl of oranges. You know how many people have given up piano on the twelfth bar of the Moonlight Sonata? It’s not a musical piece. It’s a graveyard.”

“That’s what you write about, isn’t it?” Ana turns her head slightly and the green eye measures me. “The fine arts?”

“What’s so fine about them?” I reply, sipping my coffee. “Actually I’m not that kind of writer. I’d much rather hear about your own breathless pursuits.”

Ana lights a Gaulois with the dry scratch of a wooden match. “I consult.”

“And study myths,” I add.

“What’s so mythological about them?” replies Ana. “There is nothing we are that myth is not. Myth is a schematic of who we are at the deepest of levels. The complexity and perversity of myth exactly reflects our own.”

“I read that Heracles article you sent me.”

“Did it answer your questions about the Hydra?” she asks.

“The Hydra was known as the Guardian of the Underworld. What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Give it some thought,” says Ana. “Give it some serious thought. There’s no way to accomplish anything of importance without entering the mythical.”

“How does one go about that?” I ask.

She dusts an ash. “One finds a doorway, a metaphor of some kind. You’re into music, right?”

I gaze at her neutrally.

“You don’t have to answer,” Ana continues. “It really couldn’t be much more obvious. You’re so fussy about music.”

I shrug. “Tree tells me I’m a born singer. I tell her she’s a born lunatic. Tell me about your soul group.”

Ana looks surprised. “Did I say something about my group?”

“On the train. There are four of you. You manage things.”

She rolls her eyes. “You made me drink too much wine. I think I scolded you.”

“Scold me again.”

“I should,” says Ana. “Where did you say you’re from? Cetus? Aren’t you all bearish-looking creatures with lots of fur?”

“We shed like crazy every summer. And where are your own counterparts? Glastonbury?”

“They don’t have bodies just now. We tag-team. One incarnates and the other three assist.”

“From the other side?” I say.

“Do you find that amusing?”

“I find everything amusing. I’m a very amused person.”

Ana turns the blue eye on me. “What would you say if I told you I was there when the earth formed? That I watched the gasses cool? That I exist because of this planet, and it exists because of me? And others like me, of course.”

“Of course,” I say. “And what would you say if I told you neither my sister nor myself has ever been ill, that we’re twenty years older than we look, and that we are impervious to the sun’s rays though our complexions are roughly that of a bedsheet? If you must know, our intelligence quotients cannot be charted except by the Bernard-Baugh method.”

“I’d say you’re being modest,” replies Ana evenly. “I’m very well aware of who you are, Julian.”

We share a long, unblinking gaze.

Ana exhales smoke forcefully. “This is a very trying time for this planet. Entities are coming in from civilizations that haven’t begun yet, back-shifting millions of years to help with the evolution of their own ancestors. Think about that for a moment.”

“I’d rather not,” I say, squirming a bit in the white silk robe. I wonder if she has anything in a 4X.

“Of course, when they arrive,” says Ana, “they’re a total muddle. All those filthy schizophrenics you see wandering the streets? Back-shifters. Just how much help would you say they’re providing?” She glances at me. “At least you’re functional.”

“Thank you,” I say. My eyes stop on the image above the altar, the triangle within the square. I don’t like it. “What’s that image supposed to be?” I ask.

“A yantra,” says Ana. “And then there are the tourists, the extra-dimensionals who drop in just to rubberneck and add to the general confusion. You’d think a planet never went through a shift before. Then again, I suppose it must be interesting to watch. What do you know about the timetable?”

“Timetable?”

“For the shift. You said your group is focused on the Three-three-three.”

“If we manage to get it together,” I say.

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?”

The sun has moved imperceptibly across the uncurtained window. It now bathes Ana Manguella in a brilliant yellow-white, backlighting the smoke from her cigarette. “Didn’t you say your soul group is constitutionally opposed to polarity or some such?” asks Ana.

“I’ll answer your question if you’ll answer mine.”

She eyes me suspiciously. “What’s yours?”

I finish my coffee and set down the cup. “This totally boring consulting thing you do—you work in security, don’t you?”

Ana gazes at me. “I am in charge of security. Now you can answer my question.”

“You’re in charge of security?” I repeat.

“Don’t be coy, Julian. You’ve known all along.”

“Might that explain why you said you’re in China to meet me?” I ask.

An ash falls from Ana’s cigarette. “Did my duties summon me here? Yes, but that involves far more than you, Julian. And it has nothing at all to do with our little dalliance last night, if that’s what you’re wondering. Now I’d like for you to answer my question.”

I stare.

“Soul group?” she reminds me. “Polarity?”

“Ah. Yes. Tree says we’re stuck in polarity, globally speaking. The good news is, when you introduce a third element, it opens a dimensional door. Either that or your digital pedometer stops working. Can I get some more of this coffee?”

“And then?” asks Ana, appraising me.

“What? You mean that’s not enough?”

Ana taps her cigarette impatiently. “Before you go opening dimensional doors, Julian, you might give the resultant effects some little thought. You might also consider that polarity is not a problem in need of repair but the engine that drives this planet. Without polarity, there’s no positive and negative, no masculine and feminine. Only a muddy grey.”

“Actually, grey would be the fusion of two opposites,” I correct her, “which is not the idea at all. And I could use another cup of that Hawaiian coffee.”

“Make it yourself. And stop defending a hypothesis that you don’t subscribe to.”

“I subscribe. I always subscribe.”

“And that temple you mentioned?” asks Ana.

“The Temple of Heaven? Well, it certainly seems intentional. Especially the Circular Mound Altar, which is laid out in concentric circles of—”

“Nine. I remember.”

“Yes. Eighty-one stones around the outside, then seventy-two, then—”

“And the connotation… ?” asks Ana.

“Among the Chinese, Nine connotes fruition, completion, that kind of thing.”

The green eye measures me. “And what would be your interpretation of this word completion? And why is it you’re so concerned with temples?”

“Are you grilling me?”

Ana smiles coolly. “What if I suddenly showed up in your Cetus galaxy and announced that I was going to solve all its problems? This is the planet of free will, Julian. You have to begin by respecting the process that’s going on here.”

I pick up my empty coffee cup. “Didn’t I once tell you that? Maybe you should consider traveling a bit more? Maybe see what the rest of the universe is about? Where do you keep the coffee?”

“In the kitchen.”

I lower my coffee cup. “I don’t suppose you could be taking all this a bit too personally?”

“Personally?” Ana stabs out her cigarette a little too hard, breaking it. “I’m taking the fate of this planet too personally?”

“I think there’s a point where one acknowledges there’s more going here than her own little private tea party. It’s called humility, Ana. You’ll find it in the h’s.”

“A fucking lot you know,” snaps Ana. “You’ve been here half a lifetime, and for most of it you’ve been tanked.”

I give her a stare. All this aggression is starting to turn me on. “Would you care to repeat that?”

“Why? Are you going to call me outside?”

“It’s a thought.”

With a sudden burst of animal energy, Ana springs to her knees on the sofa and kisses my mouth very hard, pulling away with a loud smack. She draws herself tall and the red silk parts a bit more, revealing the dimple of her navel.

“Let’s get dressed,” she says. “You can buy me a glorious Cantonese breakfast, and I’ll lord it over all the women sitting with uninteresting men.”

“Oh, I’m interesting now. A moment ago, I was a furry interloper and not a very bright one.”

“But you kiss well,” says Ana.

“And you’re amazing in red,” I observe.

I give her a rough shove. Surprised, Ana lands with a soft thump against the sun-warmed leather. The silk robe surrenders to each side, leaving only the red sash at her waist. With a defiant glare, Ana parts her knees a little more and the direct sun reveals that she, too, is aroused. Last night, this woman was a moonlit snowfield. In the direct sun, she is a hallucination of haughty splendor.

I lean forward to lick a long line along a luminescent leg, finally forcing my face into the very crux of the matter, enjoying the woman-scents there, teasing them out one by one. Ana’s fingertips dig into my scalp. Moments later, her belly swells and I know she is mine. I have known this woman’s alpine snowfields. Now I will learn of her equatorial jungles.

Unexpectedly, though, the white belly deflates. Ana Manguella is a fallen cake. Did I miss something here? Ana gives off a post-orgasmic glow, yet I don’t remember any orgasms. Eager to rekindle the blaze, I apply the Unfailing Tongue. It’s mere seconds before the white belly swells again, and Ana presses against me with an “ooo-ooh.”

Got her.

At the very last moment, Ana pulls away. Unwilling to let her go, I follow, pressing adamantly. I hear a throaty sound almost like mourning—but again she backs away. I follow hungrily, only to learn that two bare feet are pressed against my shoulders. Those feet now give me a savage shove, and I find myself sprawled on the opposite end of the sofa.

Lifting my head, I stare dumbfounded at the woman of the tousled tresses.

Ana sits up, crosses her legs, tidies her robe, throws her hair behind her shoulders, and says, “I decide when I come.”

I stare a little more.

“I had multiples last night,” she tells me calmly, combing her unruly hair with her fingers. “It was a wonderful release, but another right now wouldn’t be the best of ideas, so I circulated.”

“Circulated,” I repeat.

“Really, Julian, you’re old enough to understand how sex works by now. It’s an energy pump. You use it to accumulate and discharge energy. Personally I find that being a little overcharged has its uses. It keeps me primed. Being blown all to hell, on the other hand, is quite limiting. Like I told you about polarity, maintaining a little tension between positive and negative is the engine that drives everything.”

With an effort, I pull myself upright. I still want that cup of coffee.

Ana says, “Sex is fun and it’s also a technology. I woke up with a headache, so when you started feeding me energy, I received it and circulated it. The headache’s gone. Simple as that.” She tilts her head. “How are you feeling?”

“Feeling?” I repeat blurrily.

“You’ll find it in the f’s. I think you’re totally out of focus, Julian. Lie down.” Ana pats the spot beside her. “On your back. Get comfortable.”

I fuss about for a minute, fighting the undersized bathrobe. Finally, I’m more or less situated.

“I said comfortable,” says Ana. “ Look at how your leg is twisted. And this shoulder is high. Do something with yourself.” She begins yanking at me, jamming cushions under this spot and that until I am very comfortably arranged on the ultra-warm leather, my knees bent and supported by cushions. Ana pulls at both my knees now, shaking them until they release their customary tension. Sighing, I feel my lower body surrender, one knee falling against the back of the sofa, the other against Ana’s breasts. “Good,” she says. “Hold that spot.”

Slowly Ana’s hands part my robe, dragging its smooth silk across the delicate skin of my thighs. The sunlight now pours deliciously onto something that stirs expectantly. All of Ana’s fingertips go to the beginnings of my scrotum, making tiny unhurried circles there. “You have nice balls,” she says without emphasis. “It’s a secret pleasure among women, stealing glances at men’s balls. Handsome ones, anyway.” The fingers arrive at the base of my pleasure, pulling at it, exposing more and more of the rising serpent’s head.

“Mmmph,” says someone. It might have been me.

“Is it good?” asks Ana curiously.

I open one eye. Ana doesn’t notice. Her smile is tipping forward, drawing ever nearer the serpent’s head. I feel her busy fingertips glide further along the sensitive shaft.

“Oooh,” says someone.

My one eye watches Ana lick her lips. I feel her warm breath touching me. The warm finger pads reach the hyper-sensitive throat of my pleasure, and I cry out as her right hand grips that throat and gives it a punitive twist.

“Slow your breath,” she says, and I feel her hot breath again. “Let the energy build.”

I try to locate my breath. I can’t find it.

“Focus,” says Ana.

Closing both eyes, I find my breath and force it to expand. Instantly the excitement fades a bit and with it the erection.

“Breathe,” she says, her hand pumping now, teasing the phallus back to life. I only manage a couple more deep breaths before I’m approaching my limits.

“Orrurrgh.”

“Breathe,” orders Ana, stilling her hand.

My nervous system skids to a rough halt.

The hand disappears. “Julian, you aren’t breathing. You have to move back and forth between the sensations and the breath. The sensations are the accelerator. The breath is the brake. Between the two, you can fill your whole body with light. But you have to try.”

“Light,” I say dizzily.

The warm hand reappears at my groin. “I’m going to massage you some more. First just enjoy it on the most basic level. When the energy begins to build, shift your focus from external to internal and work with the breath. Accelerator and brake.”

I close my eyes and lace my hands behind my head. “Got it.”

Fuck her. I’m going to come.

“As you breathe,” says Ana, “picture a bright yellow-orange light building in your second chakra, flooding your whole body. It builds on the inhale and circulates on the exhale.”

Suddenly I’m aware that Ana’s other hand has closed around my balls. My eyes jerk open.

“If you come,” she says, “I’m going to squeeze until you’re unconscious, drag your ass out on the street, and leave you there.”

“Uh, no real need.”

“If you’re getting close, just say stop, and I’ll stop.”

I nod obediently.

Might actually be worth it. Ana’s right hand moves slowly and affectionately now, as though behind the ears of a beloved pet. This is pure mammalian touch, I realize. Something due every one of us. Basic to our membership. Foundational to our wellbeing. I can’t complete the thought. The back of Ana’s right hand is now twirling against the reawakening penis. Quite unexpectedly I laugh. I’m laughing, stretching, yawning, and shuddering at the same moment, as well as pressing quite rudely against the back of the friendly hand, pressing as might a greedy cat demanding more. The warm hand matches my pressure exactly, pushing back, now turning, thumb and forefinger closing around my dick to tug and twist. The tip of Ana’s smallest finger appears lightly at the edge of my anus, and the energy builds dizzily.

“Brake,” says Ana, and the fingertip disappears.

Desperately I shift my attention to the breath, trying to envision a yellow-orange light at my center. I’m too distracted by the burn of pleasure. Or. Maybe it’s the burn itself that she’s talking about. Curious, I slow my breath to more closely observe. A few moments later, I’m surprised to discover that the center of my pleasure is located deep within my body’s core. The skin-sensations feed energy to that central burn as would dry sticks tossed onto a fire. But it’s the enduring coals beneath the flames that provide the deepest undercurrents of pleasure. I focus on that deep, slow burn and find it not at all featureless but composed of tiny, bubbling cells of translucence. I try to discern a color. Ana’s hand begins to move, and more bubbles appear, welling, brimming, colliding one against another, a golden white when first appearing. As they tumble faster, the color becomes yellow-orange. I find I can rest my point of perception in their midst and let them carry me up, boiling up from the center of the cradle of the pelvis.

Oooh.

Ana has gripped me quite firmly, the flat of her thumb pressing into the underside of the cobra’s head. Now her hand begins to tremble spastically, and the tip of her smallest finger re-appears at my anus. My mouth falls open a little wider. I think I’m drooling. I don’t care. I also don’t care if I spend the remainder of the day unconscious in a gutter.

Deftly, Ana holds me teetering at the edge, reading my micro-moments. Time ceases moving. The erection rages, the glistening bubbles boiling furiously until they threaten to burst their container, and my breath catches. Instantly Ana’s hand becomes still. Belatedly I remember to use the breath to distribute the glow throughout my body. A moment later, the bubbles die down but the undercurrents continue to radiate warmth to my whole body. I realize that each of Ana’s little tugs and squeezes is intended to stoke that inner glow deep at my center. Is that what she means by shifting my focus from external to internal? Ana’s fingers begin to move, and the bubbles stir once more. Soon I’m again teetering at the edge.

Ana stills her hand.

“Is it too much?” she whispers. “Too much stimulation?”

I nod helplessly, and the hand glides to the underside of my balls.

“Just breathe,” she says. “Let yourself relax into it.”

The flat of her thumb presses into the perineum and slowly circles there. I loose a contented sigh.

“Good,” says Ana. “Good.”

Her massage is soothing. I fall forward into the sensation, melting into the glow as does my skin into the sunlight from the window. I realize that I am in the presence of orgasm. Not as an approaching event. As a present reality. Not as a sneeze of the loins but as a surrender of the entire organism. But unto what? I feel a strange sense of completion, strange because I’m not sure I’ve ever felt it before. Not like this. No need to reach for something further. Everything I want is present and basking in its own light. This can’t be possible. Following Ana’s instruction, I relax farther into that sensation, becoming a tumbling point of acceptance within an undifferentiated sphere of self-pleasure that—

“Is it good?” asks Ana.

My eyelids part for a bleary glance at her face. If only she knew how good. Then again, I suppose she does. My eyes roll closed. Again I fall forward into the glow, surprised at its depth. I recall what I’ve read about the second chakra, about all the chakras, how they’re capable of opening astonishingly wide when cultivated. Yoga-speak. Whatever. But now I am an unknown creature coiled at the center of that truth, gazing serenely out. I am within orgasm, within its warmest and safest chambers.

Ana’s hand grips me very tightly, and the coal at my center sends forth a flare. I realize that in an instant all will flash white-hot, consuming itself. I deepen my breathing, using the exhalation to dissipate as much of the yellow-orange fire as I can until the moment of danger has passed.

“Very good,” says Ana, her hand becoming still.

I rest for a long moment, opening my eyes to check whether my body is emitting light. No, yet I’m quite certain of something. Each cell of my body is a tiny engine of ecstasy that feeds the collective flame that feeds it in turn, conjuring an arrival in self without boundaries or purpose beyond its own micro-cellular brilliance.

“Very, very good,” says Ana, her palms spreading across my lower belly. I feel them glide up to my chest then down along my thighs, as though helping me spread the glow from my center to every part of my body. My erection slowly descends to a place of rest at my thighs. The session is coming to a close, yet there is no sense of anticlimax. No sense of deprivation. I feel only that same unexpected sense of completion. I can’t quite find my edges.

“How do you feel?” asks Ana.

“Bnrrrgh.”

“You see how it works?” she says. Ana Manguella’s hands grab fistfuls of my pubic hair and give it a playful tug. “Breakfast!” she cries.