On two previous occasions (September 2010 and March 2011) I’ve published stories written before I started doing this column, and here’s another one. I wrote this on March 30th, 1997 (Easter Sunday that year), about six months before I started stripping; it actually came to me in a dream, and I woke up and typed it out before breakfast. The heroine isn’t a sex worker of any kind, and neither is she me; though I experienced the dream in first person and her brother was “played” by my own brother, she’s a great deal more submissive both to family and convention than I ever was. Because it touches on themes we’ve visited before I’ve wanted to share the tale for some time now, but since it isn’t at all hooker-related I thought it best to wait until it was at least seasonal. A lot of my most memorable dreams are vaguely unsettling, and this one is no exception.
On Easter Sunday my brother called me to ask if I wanted to go to church. I had not actually planned to, but in the face of his request I decided to genuflect to convention and attend Easter mass with him. By the time I had gotten dressed and made up it was rather late, and we just barely made the last mass of the morning, the high mass, which had actually already started when we arrived. The church was absolutely jammed as churches are only on Easter, and as we arrived late we were forced to stand in the aisle near the front doors. Apparently the gentlemen present, secure in their piety by attending church today, felt that there was no need to press the issue by offering a seat to a woman.
The mass was long, as high masses are wont to be, and the priest was young and clearly nervous about performing in front of so many people. He couldn’t sing at all, and his sermon was long and rambling and extremely predictable. I could see that the old pastor was regretting his decision to let the younger priest perform the mass, and I was half-regretting my decision to come.
As the priest droned on about how awful a torture crucifixion was, my mind began to wander and my eyes with it. I looked at my shoes, white lace with flowers, and I began to turn a little, back and forth like the agitator in a washing machine, watching my skirt spin around my legs first in one direction, then the other. This proved fascinating (or at least more so than the lecture, which had now moved on to how poor the second collection, the one for missions, had been lately) until my brother gently nudged me and looked at me imploringly. I stopped, and began instead to look at the other women’s dresses. They were all white or pink or yellow or pastel green, and all very light and springy. This last was a shame because a late cold front had descended upon us, making the weather unseasonably cold and necessitating the wearing of heavy coats over light Easter dresses. Not in church, though – the old priest had turned up the heat and that, in combination with the slowness of the proceedings, was making the whole congregation very drowsy.
I looked back to the altar and it crossed my mind that the deacon was a prominent local lawyer. Trying to make amends? I wondered, noticing that one of the gentlemen who wouldn’t offer me his seat was also a lawyer. I started to smile as I wondered if they thought they could fool or bribe the Big Judge like they could the earthly ones, then realized that I myself should not judge and so turned my attention elsewhere.
“Elsewhere” was to the side aisle, where a group of teenagers dressed in some sort of sports uniform were quietly making their way out. The sermon was over, the second collection (which, I noticed, was pretty scanty in spite of priestly admonitions) was in progress, and the young people were obviously late for a game and had tarried here as long as they were able to. Fortunately, the front doors of the church opened to a vestibule. The inner ones, of transparent glass, closed completely before the heavy wooden outer ones opened, so no blast of cold air arrived to chill me. Something else, however, did.
Something had apparently slipped into the vestibule when the young people left, unnoticed by anyone but me. It must have come in to escape the cold, because it had adhered to the inner glass doors, as if to get as close to the heat as possible. What it was, I cannot adequately describe. It was soft and pink and fleshy, clearly invertebrate and about the size of a cantaloupe. Its bottom, that is, the side pressed against the glass, reminded me of a cowrie shell. It had the same long, thin, mouthlike opening ridged with serrated edges, and was of a slightly darker, brownish color than the rest of the thing. If there was any more to it I do not know, because the condensation on the glass hid it. I suppose it was the drowsiness, but I did not call it to the attention of my brother or anyone else, at least not for the few moments it took to form the impression I have just described.
In those few moments, a man opened the door. I don’t know why he was leaving before communion, but he clearly wished to escape undetected because he opened it just a little and slid out while everyone’s attention was fixed on the priest and the Eucharistic prayer. He noticed the thing, though, and gingerly touched it. In less time than it takes to tell it was absorbed into his hand; I can only use that word. It looked like a paper towel soaking up a spill, except faster. I am sure I gasped, but everyone was rising for communion and in the rumble my little sound was lost. The man made no sound at all. He merely looked surprised for a moment, then placed the invaded hand in his coat pocket and calmly walked out of the front doors.
I had never seen the man before, but he had one of those craggy, distinctive faces one never forgets or mistakes for another, and even had he not the shock and horror of that moment would have fixed his visage in my mind forever. It is important that I make this clear because about a year later he entered local politics. I was not surprised when this dark horse gained the backing of several prominent politicians and won a powerful local office, nor was I when he recently announced his candidacy for an important national one. The opinion polls show him far ahead, of course.
One Year Ago Today
“Feminine Pragmatism” points out that “a woman with two children to feed, clothe and house and no husband to help her does not have the luxury of obeying a stupid, arbitrary law written by men which says that she can’t get money to support them in the way which works best for her and doesn’t hurt anyone,” using an example from Brandy Devereaux’s blog.
Damn, Maggie … you actually witnessed the body-invasion of George W. Bush?
This explains much!
Women have the strangest dreams – nothing like men. I’m envious of them and thankful I don’t have them at the same time.
I’m not sure I dream at all – and if I do, I don’t remember them. Only one time I had a series of very “vivid” dreams and, it turns out – they were accidentally “chemically” induced by “sea-sick” patches – the kind you wear behind the ear. They inject some kind of medicine right into your “jugglar” vein transdermally. On subs – when you’re submerged, it’s like being at home in your house – absolutely no wave action at all, no one gets sea sick. On the cruiser I was on it was a different story – so when we hit a bad spell of seas I resorted to these patches one time.
Man … they were terrifying and very vivid dreams. I dreamed I was a knight riding through an English forest – and this “gobblin”, who was nude … enticed me to enter her abode – which I had to enter through a hole in a tree stump. She was green – with long pointy ears and a long pointy nose – yeah weird. Anyway – every time I crawled through the hole (I had the same dream several nights in a row) … dozens of other gobblins would pounce on me and rip the flesh from my body with her teeth – laughing as they did it. I couldn’t see them but I could smell their nasty breath and I could actually feel them chowing down on my flesh. Woke me up every time and I couldn’t get back to sleep.
I told the Doc about this after about three nights and she laughed out loud and pointed to the patch behind my ear and said … “yeah why don’t you take that off … it’s known to have some pretty harsh side effects”.
Slept like a baby after that … no more hot gobblin sirens!
Important safety tip – stay away from transdermal sea sickness products!!
I have some pretty awful nightmares on occasion; the ones I had while pregnant were absolutely the worst. I wrote a story based on one of them, but it’s far too long and far too graphic to share here.
“If you read this site for any length of time you will encounter the term “neofeminist”. This is my own coinage, because I refuse to apply the term “feminist” to a sort of twisted male chauvinist who believes that women are not good enough as we are and should therefore strive to think, act, work and look as much like men as possible. This is in sharp contrast to “archeofeminists” like myself, who recognize that women are just fine as we are and would in fact be weakened by becoming more like men.”
Should you not examine what women are doing (how they are being women), before you claim something like this? Feminism has problematized men and masculinity, why should not this be done also to women and femininity? My point is how can you know that women are fine just as they are before checking what they are? But of course, you mean that women are fine no matter what they are, but that is a different claim and probably closer to what you meant to say. But the question is does this also apply to men?
You write as though you believe I recently arrived from another planet where there are no men and women. I’ve closely examined both sexes for thirty years now (counting from the age of fifteen); just how long do you think a person should have to do this before arriving at an opinion? Fifty years? Seventy-five? Two hundred?
You have eclosely examined both sexes for 30y and come to the conclusion that women are fine as they are? Which woman or femininity are you talking about? The average?
I’m talking about feminine nature as it is, not the way some women act due to brainwashing or being taught that their natural impulses are “bad”. Just because there are some natural female behaviors that are inconvenient and/or unpleasant for YOU as a man doesn’t make them bad or wrong from an evolutionary standpoint, and the same goes for natural male behaviors some women may find inconvenient and/or unpleasant. The universe is not arranged for your personal convenience nor that of any other individual human.
You seem to know nature better than I do. What is essential for feminine nature and what natural impulses are you talking about?
You’ve reversed the issue; which ones are you taking exception to? Surely you realize that I can’t summarize nearly seven hundred columns in a reply? And even if I could, I wouldn’t.
Surely if you claim something this general you could say something general about it.
“women are just fine as we are and would in fact be weakened by becoming more like men.”
What do you mean by “as we are” and “weakened”?
What I mean is, this blog has almost 700 columns, many of which address exactly the issue you’re asking. If you’re too busy to research the answers, surely you understand that someone who writes an entire essay every day and still has a life to live is probably too busy to explain it all over again for you. I suggest you follow the blog for about three months, but the end of which your questions should be answered.
Ok. Will do so.
You appear to have strong feelings about the nature of women and/or they way they behave. It would be interesting to hear what exactly it is you dislike or object to, and would help others (or at least me) to understand your argument better.
From a man’s perspective, I generally view attempts by women to change basic male behaviour to be largely futile. Are you saying we would be any more successful trying to do the reverse?
The problematic aspect of femininity is that it is essentially prostitutional and the problematic aspect of this prostitutionality is that it is parasitic, not symbiotic. It is symbiotic in way that the prostitutionlal relation is mutually entered but it is essentially parasitic in the sense that is for the woman in her femininity.
If prostitution is “parasitic”, so is every other service performed for money.
Wrong. Working for someone is not necessarily parasitic or prostitutional, it can be of course. Prostitution is by definition parasitic, thats the difference.
Wrong. People who use other people’s blogs to spread their poisonous misogyny are by definition parasitic, and therefore unwelcome here. Goodbye.
Wow. I knew that Episcopalians were Kissin’ Cuzzins to Catholics albeit twice removed, but I din’t know they went to Catholic Mass
It’s not important to the story, but for some reason I felt that the dream took place in France.
Oh, so the craggy-faced possession victim couldn’t have been George W. Bush. Unless George Bush really is Georges Buisson. Have we a copy of his birth certificate?
And speaking of possessions, have you seen this?
http://doubtfulnews.com/2012/04/documentary-claims-to-show-21st-century-exorcist/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=documentary-claims-to-show-21st-century-exorcist
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2125768/New-documentary-shows-shocking-footage-Vatican-approved-exorcist-work.html
I added the first link because I think you said something about the reliability of stories found only in the Daily Mail?
Not so much reliability (though that’s often suspect), but rather the undesirability of sending ad revenue (via click-counts) to a newspaper which is known for forcibly “outing” sex workers.
Oh, well then feel free to remove the link. No since giving the bahstahds any revenue.
Oh … I was joking when I said it was Bush. 😀
Some of the meds I am on for my type III bipolar disorder lead to interesting dreams at times-some would call them nightmares to quote Nicol Williamson in “Excalibur”-especially if I am in the process of discovering one of the underlying causes of my disorder.
While not a Christian, I went to a series of Catholic mission run schools, and on occasion attended mass, especially on Christmas, mainly because the girls in our group were going. Anyway, I can sympathise with the tedium you character felt. I especially liked your description of the way she swirled her skirt.
I would speculate that all that massed and concentrated hypocrisy came together to generate that phantom mollusc. The picture of the cowrie looks disturbingly sexy, by the way (or perhaps its just my twisted mind) 🙂
Anyway, good story.
Great story!!!
For me, dreams are usually disjointed, blend from one thing to another, and are quickly forgotten unless I tell somebody about them or write them down. Most of the time, I don’t find it worth it to do so.
Every now and again, something is different. Then I remember, I tell, and I even sometimes write down.
I didn’t think this one worked as well as the last one of My Lady’s stories that I read. It spends a lot of time meticulously developing the setting, but then gives less and less detail as the story becomes more interesting. I realize My Lady may not be interested in expanding or otherwise changing it, I’d suggest that the story might be better if it:
* Started from the very end, where the main character sees the man running for office and then flashed back to explain how she recognizes him, and
* Had two more paragraphs of description and action at the end. Especially good would be if the main character reacted in some way – by trying to chase him, talking to her brother about what she saw, spending the next months doodling images of the creature on her math homework, or something, to give us as a sense that she has been affected.