Rituals

A big thank you to Bella Mariposa for reading an early draft of this story, and for correcting much of my poor punctuation, all of which amuses her to no end. For example, I think homophones should be banned from the English language, but this only makes Bella laugh harder about my carelessness.

A warning to casual readers, as with much of my writing, this story touches on a number of different sexual subjects, double penetration and rimming being the most prominent outside the 'usual' adult, sexual practices.

_______________________________________

I have been surrounded by ritual my whole life.

The ritual of baptism, the rituals of religious confirmation and confession, sometimes in direct conflict with the rituals of school and peer-group play, the ritual of courtship and of marriage, and, sweetest of all, the ritual of motherhood; I was steeped in it all, marinated, through and through, like tough meat tenderized by their ever present, safe, languid patterns. So many rituals, molding me into conformity, seducing me to accept a life less traveled.

What happens now that the rituals no longer hold true? What happens when the rituals of youth dissolve into the past, when pious ceremonies jade and fade from hypocrisy, when even the rites of motherhood no longer apply, now that the little birds have flown? What ritual is left me than that of dutiful wife, whose only remaining function is to accept the role of glorified concubine, makinghim comfortable with his quiet, yet solemn, marital neglect?

For the longest time, now, my soul has been restless for a new ritual; one that could ease the mind-numbing dullness of that one rite still left to me.

About the same time I developed this pensive restlessness of spirit, I heard of a myth, a story really, and a very sordid one at that. It was currently swirling within my circle of friends, always piquing my interest as well as my disbelief.

The story is always the same, and always begins the same way—a friend of a friend of a friend's cousin's sister had this deliciously sordid encounter, etcetera. You get the idea.

Somewhere, the story goes, there are rooms in which certain things happen that no one can talk about, within a house no one knows the address for. The specific events that occur within the house vary based on the storyteller, so I won't bother with details, but it always involved dirty, dirty sex—the kind of sex that changes lives.

It was the type of story none in my circle took seriously, but secretly, we allseriously wished it were true.

Like I said, it always piqued my interest, but also made me laugh. It was such a cliché. No one knows where the house is, because no one telling the story has ever seen and experienced it first-hand, but, of course, everyone has some naughty detail on what goes on there.

Isn't that how every 'calamitous' fable and tall tale begins? There were no survivors? There are no witnesses? No one knows anything directly, yet thereis a secret society that meets in secret in a secret house no one really knows exists.

Really, how could such myths start and grow if this were true?

One day, just by chance, I happened onto one of those mythical 'survivors.' I guessed this by what she said and how she said it—very detailed and sordid accounts of events in a house, delivered in hushed tones—and all the particulars she spoke matched what I'd heard from that mythical story.

She was a twenty-something, mousey, pink and lavender haired Emo—studs to the hilt, from shoes to earlobes and everywhere in between, I suspect. She sat at an adjacent table from me in my favorite coffee shop, and was describing the wicked events that happened to her on Thursday night last within a large house. A house she was obligated to deny existed if ever asked, I might add, and telling it all to a dour-looking Emo of similar age and attire.

The Mouse was being so secretive, so cleaver in sequestering her mouth behind a cupped hand, as if to keep those few strangers sitting around her from hearing what she said or reading her lips. Nevertheless, her purposeful, hushed tones and soft murmurings of Thursday's events were easy enough for me to hear. I just cocked an ear in her direction, and all she said came to me as clean and clear as polished crystal. Youth thinks it's so clever, but it's just full of itself.

As I listened, all her schoolgirl giggles and heartthrob mews began grating on me, but when she cut through the nonsense, what she described made my soul sanguine and pussy drip like a leaking faucet.

Finally, the Dour one took her leave of the Mouse, who then sat back, satisfied, as if she'd been worked over well by someone who knew how. Cracking open a volume of Sartre, her brow furled to the words printed as if her concerns alone could cure what ails the human condition. She read, deeply, and set about finishing her caramel macchiato.

The Mouse was surprised and shocked when a fortyish, dishy brunette, smelling of Chanel 19 and wearing Neiman Marcus pumps abruptly sat, uninvited at her table. Quickly losing the shock, but none of the surprise, she continually rebuffed said brunette—wife and mother of two—and her needy request. It took another caramel macchiato and twenty dollars to wring the address of the house from her mousey grip. Before leaving, she asked my thoughts concerning post-modern existentialism.

Of all the questions she could have asked me, she asks that. "God, shoot me now! How's that for existential thought?"

And so, the fable of a house no one knows about grows. I'm sure there will be no survivors.

********

I arrived a little before ten on Thursday night—ladies' night it's called. It's a little before the time when things get going in the house with no address.

It looked like a typical, two-story farmhouse, many large rooms with tall ceilings, and probably a damp basement. It was a little ways outside the city. Not too far outside to be called strictly rural, yet far enough that there was some distance between houses.

There were no exterior lights. No outside illumination, save for a bright, gibbous moon, so the house looked empty as I pulled in the drive. The large number of cars parked haphazardly on the front lawn belied an empty house, though. Then I saw dull yellow and bright red lights—first and second floors, respectively—haphazardly spilled out and around drawn, tattered shades. Another indication someone was at home.

Filled with defiant panache to the very end, I just walked right through the front door without knocking. I figured either the myth was real and a new ritual is born, or I'm chased back out of the house by angry mongrels, piqued by my uninvited, home invasion.

Roll the dice, bitch. Lucky seven or snake eyes.

No hounds, lucky seven, it would be a new ritual, then.

The front door opens into a large foyer dimly lit by an overhead chandelier. Small patches of ornate tapestry and paintings, giving the room a Victorian flavor, cover parts of pale yellow, plastered walls. A larger patch of tapestry lies across wood flooring. In the far, back left corner of the foyer, a semi-enclosed staircase ascends to the second floor—where the red lights had shone. The front left of the foyer opened into a parlor, which was being used as a waiting room. There were plush chairs, sofas and settees all about the parlor, seating about fifteen young women of about college age, or a little older—ladies in wait and keepers of the other cars outside, I suspect. I didn't care what was to the right of me. My only real concern was with those stairs—my passage to a new and wondrous ritual.

A woman sat on a barstool behind a makeshift counter across from where I stood. She was bleached blonde, older than the gaggle waiting in the parlor, but not as old as me. She dyed her hair, I suspect, to differentiate herself from the darker hairstyles common with many of the Goths and Emos in the parlor, and not to cover any gray. I say this because her face was still youthful and free of wrinkles—no need for Oxytokin yet, the bitch. She had a small mouth, and pursed her lips whenever she looked down at something in her lap, appearing as though she had just bitten into something bitter and was looking for a place to spit it out.

She had me pegged the moment I entered the house. "We don't get many trophy wives here."

Is that what I was, a trophy? I guess so, bagged by a lucky shot from a dullard of a hunter when I was too young, too stupid, too arrogant, and too full of myself to know any better—hubris cubed.

"I understand there's an open invitation tonight," I said, letting her 'trophy' crack pass.

"If you know the address, you're invited. What type of 'entertainer' interests you?"

I had to think for a minute. The question was all too businesslike. Falling into a businesslike rapport to match her mood, I answered, "All I can get, and large enough so that I'll still feel them long after they've gone. How much, for how long?"

She smiled at both my panache and my naiveté. "They're all large here, more or less. We'll see about the number, we're coming up short tonight. How long depends on your entertainer. And it's no charge since it's ladies' night. You'll just have to wait your turn like the others." She said that last part while pointing into the parlor.

Wait my turn? That just wouldn't do. I wanted the 'entertainers' fresh and untainted, full of new day vigor and vibrancy, hard as wood girded with steel, and smooth and dry as plaster. Sloppy seconds just isn't my style.

Sizing over the crowd in the parlor, I saw nothing but penniless college girls living off daddy's dime and artsy working types schlepping food and drink for minimum between theater gigs. Moreover, it was ladies' night, a free night for those in the know. If it wasn't free, most of them couldn't afford being here. They couldn't afford the hard, swelling treats provided free by some deep-pockets benefactor. Mostly, though, they couldn't afford giving ample baksheesh to the 'lever holdings' to ensure their journey upstairs went smoothly and in their favor.

I saw my play.

I had a hundred dollar bill at the ready, perks of being a 'trophy'—plenty of folding cash on hand; compensation for the weekly, five-minute fuck followed by the hours of endless snoring.

Sliding it across the counter, I asked, "How far up the line will this push me?"

She smiled, not a pleasant one either, given her naturally pursed lips. She quickly palmed the bill before anyone else could see.

"All the way." She answered my question as a double entendre, and I might add, without giving it much thought. She could have said halfway and gotten another hundred for her chicanery.

Checking a list she had in her lap, she asked, pen at the ready, "Name?"

I didn't answer right off.

She stared at me with that not so pleasant smile, now making it look more like a leer. It was her attempt at closeness—God help us all. I guess the hundred not only bought me the coveted 'pole position'—my own attempt at double entendre—it bought her friendship, as well.

She continued smiling, staring, and waiting for an answer. I continued to look away from her and from that smile, hoping she'd get the message we weren't going to be 'BFFs.' When she started tapping the clipboard with her pen, I finally told her, "M," hoping that would put an end to the insipid tapping and the leering smile.

"Em, as in Emily?" she asked, brightly.

"M, as in mind your own business."

The leer evaporated. She went back to her normal, scrupulous, sourpuss look. Now that we weren't going to be best friends, she pointed to the parlor, saying briskly, "Wait in there. Someone will be along shortly to see you the rest of the way."

I didn't go in, but stood at the parlor's entrance, watching and waiting. The pungent scent of supercharged estrogen—dank, musky fabrics, pubes and skin—wafted over me like a heavy fog. I hadn't smelled anything like it since high-school gym.

Most of the 'ladies in wait' were toking, some smoking and drinking, still others were sweetly kissing with a hand down their friend's pants; ginning each other up for the coming events, I suspect. A few shot me scornful looks, as if someone my age didn't belong—the twats—while others took quick, embarrassed glances in my direction—I must remind those of their mother, naughty girls.

Look at them all.

Not a care in the world—and the world is their oyster, or so the song goes. They only need to reach out with their hand and grab it, provided they give a mischievous wink, a sultry smile, or a carefree laugh to those that hold the brass ring. The 'ring holders' have told them such. That the ease of obtaining the good things in life was just compensation for those rituals they are to fervently keep.

Maybe I should warn them what life really has in store; what little, droll, demented caricatures of human it molds us into when perusing those things we relish.

No, they'll learn soon enough. Ladies' night doesn't last forever, ladies. You have to pay for the finer things in life, and pay with more than just a wink, a smile, or a laugh. Youthful arrogance and bravado just doesn't cut for very long—cash or ass, and sometimes even your vibrant soul is what counts. They're the true coins of this realm. They're what make the holders of the brass rings sit up and take notice.

A hand touched my shoulder. I turned and came face to breasts with one of the tallest woman I had ever seen. Blonde on blonde, straight up to the sky, she went on forever—a Valkyrie on stilts, probably deciding which of us lives or dies in the rooms upstairs. She must be on hand to keep order when one or two of the carefree, 'ladies in wait,' gets a bit too impatient with the waiting and carefree with their manners.

"Are you Em?" Even though I was looking right at her, her words startled me and I flinched at their commanding tone. When I nodded, the Valkyrie continued, "Follow me."

My heart skipped a long beat before it started pounding in my chest. This was the moment. This is how the new ritual starts, born from myth.

The stairs the Valkyrie led me up were narrow and creaked loudly as I stepped. With my heart pumping so, the sounds of those stairs stabbed at my mind like little, wooden murmurs of caution; a call to conscience and to turn around and run back into my life of dull ritual.

And I almost did, but before I could bolt back down those stairs, the Valkyrie began talking, and like magic, her words righted me to my true purpose—that of continuing in only one direction and along only one course of action, upwards and following. My creaking conscious was silent once more.

"Has anyone explained the rules?" The Valkyrie's voice startled me again.

Rules? This place has rules?

When I didn't answer, she continued, casually, "There will be no cutting, biting, kicking, or hitting with fists. If striking occurs, it is done with an open hand, only. Slaps above the waist, particularly to the face, arms and lower back should be light enough not to leave a permanent mark. Marks left on any exposed skin, temporary or otherwise, are frowned upon..."

As she prattled on, I realized these weren't rules meant for me, but were the conditions the 'entertainers' were obligated to follow. Kind of a 'buyer beware,' warning label.

Leading me into one of the second-story rooms, she began a new set of conditions meant specifically for me, "You have five minutes before your entertainers arrive..."

My heart leaped. She said,entertainers! I felt my pulse race. My panties moistened.

The Valkyrie was still talking, emphasizing a specific word as I tried to calm myself, "...Youwill have removed all your clothes and youwill be seated on the end of the bed, when they arrive. If you fail to meet these two conditions, your entertainerswill leave, and youwill be escorted from the house..."

There was that word again,entertainers. My panties were drenched.

"...When the door closes, the entertainers won't listen to any of your demands, so don't bother speaking. You will not be able to leave the room of your own volition. You're here until the entertainers say you can leave, and you will follow all of their demands, explicitly. Failure to do so means you will be escorted from the house and never invited back. Is all this understood?"

I nodded my head.

Just as she opened the door to leave, the Valkyrie added one last 'commandment,' "I suggest you remove all your jewelry. We've never had an incident with one of our entertainers, but it's best not to invite temptation." She winked before shutting the door behind her.

The room was Spartan, no tapestry or pictures on the walls and floors as I saw downstairs, just bare, hard wood and plaster. I liked seeing the minimal, no need for wasted efforts on décor or design, not here. The accouterments of a civilized society wouldn't fit in this room. They wouldn't belong.

Bright red lights from above illuminated the room, while shadows played haphazardly in the corners every time a current from the air conditioning made the chandelier swing.

There was a queen-sized mattress and frame, covered by a thin, rubber sheet, extending out into the middle of the room from the far wall. It was bare of all linen and refinement except for two pillows.

On my left was a wood table. A large bowl filled with tepid water sat on top. A washcloth and hand towel were neatly folded at its side. There was also a box of condoms and a bottle of lube.

They think of everything.

On my right was a small wooden chair, into which I folded my clothes as neatly as I could. I placed my purse on top of it all, my jewelry secured inside.

I waited at the edge of the bed as dictated, arms stiff at my sides and knees pressed together with my feet swung well out to the sides—I sat like a little girl, waiting.

Now that I was alone, sitting naked on a cold rubber sheet, I wondered what I was doing. The second thoughts came at me hard, as they did to me on the stairs. They came from conscience, and with no Valkyrie here to quiet them and move me forward with her voice, ever upward and ever following, they continued to stab at my brain:

Go back. There's still time to leave. Go back to the one ritual you have left. It may be dull and spiritless, and even a little hollow, but it's still yours and in one piece. Continue on this course, and it will shatter that last ritual, forever. Don't be a fool!

But something else was droning within me and growing louder, drowning out those odious murmurs of conscience. My heart, beating in my chest like a trip hammer driving spikes into cold concrete, it thumped and pinged strongly and sharply, musically almost, incessantly from want and desire.

It had had enough of the dull and the mundane and the hollow of the old rituals; it wanted what was approaching me from the other side of that closed door. Sound and fury and blood—signifying everything—rushed into my brain all at once. It was my very own telltale heart, mercilessly pounding in my head, drowning out everything, sight and sound and smell and even conscience. Drowning out everything except for my drowning desire to act on whoever and whatever approached.

Minutes remain, fool, maybe only seconds. Run! The very last plea of conscience that could actually make itself heard over the droning thump of lust—a plea too late and far too little.

Footsteps drew near. In an instant, everything went silent, even the pounding in my head stopped. I sat frozen in time.

I heard the doorknob click sharply as it turned to open. So sharp and clear, so crisp and clean to my senses, like the smooth clicking of locks and chains binding me to this room, forever. My heart leaped as the door swung open...