original scrap of a short story, Yuletide Stephan © 1993 - 2017

Disclaimer: Bear in mind, this was originally conceived/written in and around the year 1993, and in some parts may seem rather dated, in fashion, music, as well as the the very world we lived in back then… While these are all fictitious characters, they are all based upon very real individuals, some living and some no more, and the places referenced are also thinly-veiled by different names. This story never happened, as the focal characters were more-than-idealized versions of ourselves, but the wish was there, believe me.

Stephan wanted to be selfishly exclusive Christmas afternoon, after opening our presents and then having one last yultetide romp in the bedroom while my Nutcracker Suite CD played... I awoke him at twelve, reminding him of Gracie's and Tom's Saturnalia Open House. He grumbled and griped (after the initial oh-so Stephan whines and pouts), wishing to laze in bed the rest of the day. It was "shitty" out by his standards (i.e., it was cold and damp, grey but for the light, slushy snow), and he would have just as soon preferred to stay in. "Well, suit yourself," I said rather stiffly, scrambling out of his embrace. "I'm going. You ought to get your ass in gear as well. I'm sick of showing up late to everything, or making excuses for you half the time." Why did I always have to be the grown-up in this relationship?

"But... I don't want to..." The whining tirade started up again. The last time we'd gone to Gracie's, Stephan did nothing but bitch that only vegetarian dishes of a foreign flair were served. I couldn't quite understand his reasoning, as he is usually an adventuresome type when it comes to cuisine, and has been known to try just about anything once-- I think more than likely he just needed something to bitch about. 

Once I'd emerged from the shower to begin the search for a suitable outfit, I found Stephan right where I'd left him: still curled beneath a tangle of bed sheets. "I told Grace we'd be there by two-thirty," I said, running a comb through my wet hair, which I'd colored yesterday a festive maroon, a separate layer of black dye still shimmering underneath. Stephan crawled out of bed in a stream of unintelligible muttering, then closed the bathroom door behind him. Meanwhile, I towel-dried my hair and began applying makeup at my vanity. After pulling on some sparkly charcoal fishnet tights, I opted for an ankle-length lace skirt with matching lace camisole under a black suede bolero jacket.

Stephan seemed to be taking an unusually long time in the bathroom; over fifteen minutes had elapsed since I'd heard the shower turn off. Finally he emerged, a towel wrapped around his head and one about his slender middle, as he shuffled through the closet in search of something to wear. He settled on a pair of black pants, then shuffled back out by the tree and picked up the box containing the black silk button-down shirt I'd given him that morning. He laid them out on the bed, then returned to the bathroom. I could hear the spray of the shower come on again, and another ten minutes passed. I looked up from my mirror, then glanced at the clock. It was past two already. I'd have to phone Gracie to tell her we'd be fashionably tardy... as always.

After the hairdryer had been going for another ten minutes or so, Stephan emerged, fluffing his hair with his fingertips and looking up at his bangs in a cross-eyed manner that I found most endearing. His locks were now dyed a shiny blue-black. He wiped at a telltale smudge of purplish stain on his nose with a dampened cloth, then set about getting dressed. He had trimmed the sides to an even blunt-cut bob, the ends just reaching his jawline, the back pulled neatly into a ponytail tapering past his shoulder blades. I reached up and touched it, soft and silken. 

"I thought you were through with hair dye," I quipped. He'd been growing out his own dirty-blonde locks for the past few months, shedding any trace of his former gothic, blackened days, when the sooty hair was sprayed up and out into a wild and mangy mane, falling to the middle of his back. He flinched slightly from my fingers.

"Well, I'd feel left out, being the only one at this shindig with his own natural hair-- I thought it was the least I could do, to blend in-in-into the scenery, as it were..." Ah, Stephan the Sarcastic... and there was that stutter. 

Now we matched-- dyed hair, black clothing. 

He sat fidgeting on the couch as I finished getting ready (clearly I was the less-efficient of the two of us when it came to our appearances), flipping through channels. I shrieked at him to "turn that shit off" when he cranked up the volume during a CNN round table discussion about Iraq, but gave up when he settled on MTV, loudly deriding the veejays' mindless patter and the "truly awful" hair-metal videos that were in heavy rotation. With one final spritz of hair spray into my rusty 'do, we were now ready to head on to the Dylan-Addams Christmas / Yule / Saturnalia Extravaganza.

The drive was relatively uneventful, although it was always a bit of a haul from the suburbs of New Jersey to Manhattan and her Boroughs. I've lost count of how many times I've white-knuckled it across the GWB (never a fan of heights or traffic, the two combined being a special kind of hellish gauntlet for me to run), or taking the Lincoln Tunnel during rush hour (there was just something about going under the river that put my system on edge, and I had to fight images of the walls suddenly bursting forth with a trillion gallons of mucky Hudson sludge sending me to a watery fate). After telling me for the umpteenth time that "no one drives into the City," and "that's what public transportation is for," Stephan amused himself by playing with the radio the entire trip, never content to remain fixed on any one channel, pausing merely to make fun of the deejays' selections, ripping apart the vocals, picking apart the empty lyrics, angrily deconstructing the method behind the cheesy riffs... Sometimes I kicked around the idea of designing an adult-sized child's car seat and strapping him in with squeak toys and jangling plastic baubles-- he always made me so edgy when I was in the driver's seat. His constant movement and babble was distracting enough, never mind the bits of sleet that struck the windshield and the threat of black ice I had to contend with, as I was the only one with a driver's license (or money for the tolls) in this relationship.

We arrived without incident (after squeezing into a parking garage and taking a brisk eight-block walk) at the Victorian brownstone in Central Park West (courtesy of all of those royalty checks garnered by Tom's past recordings with a once-famous 80's pop group), the House Beautiful façade complete with wrought-iron walkway fencing, faded autumn leaf-scattered steps and ivy-hugged red brick. The ever-Grace-ious hostess met us as the etched glass doors opened, kissing us both lightly on the cheek leading us into the three-story lusciously restored black-shuttered beauty, a veritable Romantic's fantasy of architecture and art awaiting us inside. Stephan, as usual, flinched and gave a half-smile along with an incoherent greeting, then scuttled in the doorway ahead of us.

I handed Gracie a silver mylar gift bag, her eyes widening with approval as she pulled the bottle from its nest of raffia and tissue paper to spy the label: a favorite spiced honey mead we had enjoyed at a Renaissance Faire years ago. She took my black wool pea-coat and Stephan's impossibly-long leather duster and scarf before he could scramble into the foyer. The house was bustling with commotion, as wafting scents of a veritable feast beckoned us further inside.

"I just hope they serve more than bean curd and ginger beer," Stephan mumbled when I managed to catch up with his bolt inside. I swatted him for such insolence. We'd only set foot in the door for thirty seconds, and already we were off to a terrifically embarrassing start.

Raeth Naithan came forward from the throngs. She wore a white silk blouse tucked into fitted black trousers with round-toed riding boots. Her once-tumultuous array of ebony curls had been slashed and ironed into a stylish asymmetrical cut, the bangs long, blunt and swept to one side as the other side was shaved close to her scalp. She'd been favoring more unisex clothing and haircuts of late as she secretly confided to me once that she had longed to be a boy since she was little, though this revelation had done nothing to quell her ardor for beautiful men. I envied her ivory skin and its perfect canvas for bright red lipsticks and deep grey eyeshadows and liners that it flawlessly provided. She hugged me tightly (she was not normally a touchy-feely type, yet seemed to always reserve such warm displays of affection for a very select few, including myself, an act for which I was both honored and grateful), then nodded to Stephan as a pleasantry. The two didn't generally enjoy one another's company. Raeth had woven her magick for Stephan many moons ago, and spent a mysterious weekend in her attic with him, but she had never spoken of it in detail, and her affections had moved swiftly on to others once she realized that they could not have been more dissimilar in temperament and desire. Stephan once told me that he found her odd and unhinged, much as he found most people, a true tortured artist to whom he really couldn't relate all that well, and had very little to do with her as a result, outside of those social interactions during which time similar circles would occasionally converge. However, both seemed tolerant now of each others' presence, perhaps for the sake of the Season.

Raeth's other half, the musician Tristan O'Madden (oh, Gracie and Raeth and their former 80's music icons who hailed from the British Isles), held a champagne flute aloft as he stood by her side. He reached out and touched the filmy antique gold and black lace shawl that was draped about her shoulders (perhaps the most "feminine" piece of her ensemble) with his long, delicate fingers. As her gaze met his, an unspeakably beautiful look connected them; a look so full of devotion and love swam behind both pairs of autumn eyes (it was true; their irises were the exact same shade of hazel, a mix of greens, golds and browns that would constantly change with the light)-- it made my heart soar to see two souls so connected and complete, without the need for exchanging a single word. It was that very je ne sais quois thing that we as the Three Halves-- Raeth, Gracie and myself-- had always strived for... And from the looks of it, we three had finally found it with our soulmates Tristan, Tom and Stephan.

Raeth's younger sister Emma was seated beside her current love, Kevin Dimas; she seemed quite content on his arm, until catching a glimpse of Stephan's arrival. She quickly stood up and craned her neck to see if Alexander Cooper would be following through the front door. The expression on her face that followed wasn't quite discernible; it fell somewhere between relief and sadness upon discovering that Alexander was not a party guest. Back in the club days, Stephan seldom enterered a social scenario without the ever-present Alexander Cooper at his side, loudly decrying everything within earshot and expressing their utmost distaste and abhorrence for the people in whose company they found themselves; together, they had to have been the most obnoxious and overbearing pair ever to grace a room. Never at a loss for voicing an opinion (informed or otherwise), Stephan's closest friend was a graphic design student at SVA, and I think Stephan enjoyed having someone with which to engage in witty repartee and pseudo-intellectual banter in the presence of those who were just common plebs, "guidos" and "morons," as he delighted in calling them. Despite having Kevin in her life, Emma apparently still had a slight case of the hots for Alex, although it had always been an unrequited, teenage angst sort of thing. She sat back down upon realizing that the coast was officially Cooper-clear, sinking into the red velvet of the couch with a sigh. Kevin, none the wiser for Emma's emotional transgression, lovingly draped an arm about her shoulders, playfully popping an hors d'oeuvre into her mouth and unwittingly distracting her from the temporary disappointment.  

Tom materialized by one of the windows, holding a wine glass tentatively, looking rather out of his element. I was surprised, expecting the regal King Leo to be the center of attention, especially as he was technically the co-host of this party. After picking up an iron and stoking the flames in the exquisitely-crafted deep ebony marble fireplace, he glanced about carefully, making small talk with guests as they passed-- but more noticeably, he was watching Gracie across the room with what appeared to be a wistful, hopeful look, waiting for her to return it. 

"I knew it. Some kinda Middle Eastern shit," mumbled Stephan as we made our way to one of the serving tables, sticking his finger into a bowl of some yellow-hued dip or spread and licking it. "What's this, baba ganouj?" I slapped his hand, embarrassed at his gross manners, his almost deliberate crudeness. A Jersey boy, born and bred; had he in fact been raised in a barn elsewhere?

"Would you stop it?" I seethed, handing him a napkin to wipe away the smear of hummus on his hands. 

"Told you it would be vegetarian. We shoulda stopped at a fucking White Castle on the way over." He dipped his finger into another bowl when no one was looking and gave the red chunky substance a tentative taste, grimacing. I rolled my eyes. Hopeless. For all his posturing and posing at being so erudite in most matters, I couldn't quite grasp his sudden dive into the crude and mundane.

"Fancy a drink?" asked Grace, having dispensed of our coats to hand us each a glass of sparkling bubbly. Stephan took his without so much as a mumbled thank-you, and headed in the direction of Emma and Kevin. 

"Gracie, is Tom all right?" I asked quietly, now that we were alone. She looked over toward her "gracefully lanky" mate across the room, blinking slowly in contemplation. 

"I don't know. He's been acting strangely the last few days. Distant and sad. He hasn't been himself. I think it's got to do with the holidays, being away from the people he's used to being around. Something tells me he gets nostalgic about family this time of year-- only he won't talk about it." She paused, looking over at Tom again. He was staring out the bay window overlooking the city street, gazing blankly at the grey afternoon of pre-dusk outside. All of his family had remained back in Wales, and he seldom talked to-- or of-- any of them. "I'm sure he'll tell me when the time is right." She swiftly shifted the subject at hand. "How are you and Stephan? Have the fireworks died down yet?" she asked with a knowing, ruby grin. "How has your first Christmas together been?" 

"Well... it's always such a see-saw, Grace..." I sat down, she in the chair across from me. Her three year-old niece Maeve scuttled by, swathed in a darling little jumper of burgundy crushed velvet with tea-stained lace at the collar, cuffs and hem, her brown curls pulled into twin tails tied in matching burgundy ribbons. "I mean, he's been an angel to me in his own little ways-- I love him, this is old news-- but I had to literally drag him here today, risking a nasty argument the entire time." 

"For as long as I've known him, Stephan's always been a pretty keep-to-himself kind of person," mused Gracie. "He's not much for social gatherings, unless it's a concert in the city or a film-- I'd imagine he'd rather be curled up with a good book or a movie, right?" 

I nodded. "He wanted to stay home in bed all day. I mean, it's shades of last spring, when he almost wouldn't let me leave his mother's house to go the Cloisters with you and Darlene that afternoon. He wants to be so utterly exclusive..." 

"Cancer-Leo cusp... the Lion demanding attention, yet the Crab demanding to be mothered exclusively in his shell," Gracie mused aloud, as if citing chapter and verse verbatim from one of the many metaphysical tomes that filled the floor-to-ceiling oak carved bookcases in the living room. "He just loves you, Raven. He wants to be with you. He wants to spend time with you. He doesn't want you to go out without him, for fear he's going to miss out on something-- or that you'll catch the eye of someone else..." 

I rolled my eyes and laughed. "Oh, please. Like I would."  I paused. "Like I even could." 

"I don't know about that... Remember last spring, when we were out that night at the Detour?" (Oh Gracie had such a memory for detail.) "Don't you remember Vance, the deejay, how he spotted you alone at the bar and then proceeded to put the moves on you? Planting himself in your face, talking to you about Bauhaus and the Sisters of Mercy, playing all the songs you requested-- and then Stephan appears out of no where, stepping in between the two of you, like he was guarding his territory..." 

"Yeah-- before I was even considered his territory..." I whispered at the memory. The tall, lanky tattooed creature in the matching leather trousers and vest (he spun tunes and videos at one of our favorite hangouts in Newark every Wednesday night) had met his match in the equally-tall and lanky Stephan. Few could stand eye-to-eye with either of them; but then I didn't know very many people who stood 6'5". It was certainly an odd moment, to watch two males engage in a strange, contemporary version of a mate-off in front of me, much less over me. 

"So, you see? He's just protective. It's sweet. It's his way. He loves you, Raven. Don't ever mistake what he does for anything less than love. You're a worrier. Just enjoy him."

I blushed slightly, then excused myself to take Grace's sage advice by going off to enjoy him. 

Stephan was in what appeared to be a very deep discussion with Kevin, much to Emma's apparent dismay. His ceaseless chatter always unnerved her, especially now when she probably wished to spend some private quality time with her man. Stephan had met Kevin two or three times through other circles. Kevin played guitar in a makeshift band called Boneyard; they didn't play out much, but they were always advertising for a drummer and/or bassist in the inner-city music paper The Scorpion.  

"Hi..." I whispered, planting a kiss on Stephan's ear. Emma's eyes brightened, probably at the prospect of my distracting him from the conversation. As he usually reacts when surrounded by his peers in a social situation, Stephan blew off my brief attempt at showing affection, shrugging away from the kiss with a sheepish look. It was evident that the affection would go no further in such a public setting as this, so I left the trio, in search of intelligent conversation from the other party-goers... 

The bustle grew louder from all corners of the house; I scanned the groups briefly, encountering faces of old acquaintances and friends, making light conversation as I made the rounds of the room, including Anthony and Miguel Dominguez, the two musician brothers from Cliffside, now in separate bands. Anthony's witchly wench Sandra, who lived in the seemingly incongruous location of a working horse farm in upstate New York, clung to his arm protectively, no doubt weaving a spell around him to fend off anyone even remotely interested in sharing his personal space. Her silver pentacle charms that hung from a velvet choker about her pale neck shimmered in the candlelight; her green eyes were ringed in black, glinting malevolently, like a cat's. Miguel came to the party sans girlfriend. I recalled having an embarrassing schoolgirl-type crush on him years ago, mostly over his smoldering Cuban features, especially that sensual grin when coupled with the raised eyebrow, the slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes... 

Darlene Basso and Jackie Delmonico had planted themselves beside a large silver tub of ice and beer with the sole mission to get plastered, likely several hours earlier. I nodded briefly to that sassy redhead Lydia Chesterson, who breezed past with a grin and a wink. She was one of the dancers in Miguel's band, and I nearly didn't recognize her with clothes on. The last I'd seen her, she was wearing swaths of orange cellophane, a thong, some leather and chain bondage gear, bits of strategically-placed black duct tape-- and nothing more. Jamie Silcott, the singing half of Miguel's band Blow-Up Doll (originally called The Exploding Mannequins, as they had a mannequin prop that they would literally detonate onstage during each show, club fire codes be damned), gave me a hug and an air-kiss before introducing me to a transvestite go-go dancing friend of his named Starr, who he informed me in an excited treble had just appeared in the video shoot for one of the songs on their recent EP. He told me in no uncertain terms that I "must" get details from Miguel, as the video was set to be premiered at an unveiling party somewhere in the East Village in one month's time. 

After paying only fleeting attention to these others and offering the usual slices of social niceties, I swept past Tom, touching his arm. He whirled around to face me, his intent, nervous stare out the picture window broken momentarily. He was such a beautiful man. He wore an elegant white silk blouse buttoned to the neck and a form-fitted vest of black, red and gold velvet, black trousers tucked neatly into leather buccaneer boots. His shiny red mane hung all about his shoulders, fanning out and down his back in soft, fiery tendrils.

The fading notes of The Cure's "If Only Tonight We Could Sleep" with its jangling, shimmering sitars, tambourines and muted tribal drumbeats bled into the unlikely Concerto grosso in G minor, Op. 6, No. 8 by one of my favorite Baroque composers of all time, Arcangelo Corelli. Known informally as "The Christmas Concerto," it had always been one of my go-to soundtracks for the season. I found it haunting and romantic (as I'd always been a sucker for harpsichords and violins), and with the opening to the first movement Vivace, I peered deeply at Tom's somewhat lost expression. He did seem distant and sad, so I smiled at him, hoping he'd do the same. What I got in return was a half-hearted smirk, as if a full-fledged smile simply wasn't worth the effort. I opened my mouth, but no appropriate maxims would come out. Instead, I leaned forward and embraced him full, taking in a breath of that unique, spicy fragrance that was all his own, whispering "Happy Christmas." This is what Gracie breathes in right before he takes her, I thought to myself, reeling in his scent. What a magnificent, splendid creature... how lucky she was... He kissed my cheek and lowered his heavily-hooded eyes to mine, as if to say thank-you. I shook my head. Poor, tortured soul-- Gracie will take care of you, I thought loudly inside, and he seemed to nod in wishful, psychic agreement.  

"So... had enough?" came Stephan's voice. I jumped, startled. There he was, checking up on me. I was surprised that nearly an hour had come and gone, during which time I had probably come in contact with fifteen or more individuals of the male persuasion, and this was the first moment akin to his peeing on a tree (or me, for that matter) that I'd experienced tonight.
 

"Enough? We only just got here..."

"Yeah. That's enough for me. It's a bore. Same old people, same old drunken bullshit," he laughed. "At least I found these awesome mini quiches. They've got jalapenos or something in 'em. Hotter'n shit."

"That's a popper, you ass," I chided him, as he flipped the deep-fried jalapeno-stuffed-with-cream-cheese into his mouth in a single bite, quickly chasing it with the glass of liquor he held. Judging from the color of the drink, it appeared to be Kahlua, perhaps with a little vodka stirred in. Ah, those Black Russians... That's what we drank during our first night together at The Detour club...

"Well, you oughta know, my Texas girrrrrrrrl," he slurred. He always referred to me as his Texas girl, as that's where I'd been living when we first started our correspondence, even though I'd grown up in the northeast Tri-State area much as he had; I just couldn't seem to escape the stereotyped shroud of my last known address. "But seriously, I'm kinda done here. I don't think I can take listening to much more from the Cliffside brigade about their lame-ass recording sessions and even lamer demos. How quickly they forget that they booted my ass from the band," he snorted.

Ah, the bone of contention that would never, ever be completely buried. Stephan had been in a three-piece band called Tovarich in his late teens and early twenties, and due to clashing politics and personalities, he became the odd man out after a particularly awkward exchange that erupted into an ugly fight. To hear the story from all of the different parties involved, it was pretty much impossible to tell which was the truthful retelling of how it all went down. I chalked it up to Band Drama, and really didn't want to experience yet another re-hash. It was ancient history, and it needed to remain six feet under, muffled beneath the earth where I could no longer hear actually it.

"So yeah, jalapenos and Kahlua. Yeah, my ass is gonna be burning tonight. The Christmas present that keeps on giving..." I rolled my eyes.

"If you're going to continue to carry on like a little kid, I swear to God I'll dump your ass on a bus back home, and you can stay there and play with your toys while I try to enjoy what remains of the party..." I mumbled. I knew he'd much rather be back at the apartment, futzing around with his new strings and guitar pickups I'd given him that morning, but I wasn't at all ready to leave. I was enjoying the hum and drag of the tunes piping throughout the house, especially the current one, an ambient bit of Gregorian chant. It instantly brought me back to that long-ago spring afternoon when Gracie and I had first toured the Metropolitan Museum of Art's Medieval collection at the Cloisters in Fort Tryon Park. It was the first time I'd ever heard the Benedictine Monks of Santo Domingo de Silos, the mysterious sound wafting throughout the museum, a haunting trail of echoes in their soulful voices' wake. I could smell the rosemary and basil from the herb gardens throughout the museum grounds... or was that the fragrance of the mini quiches and aromatic bisques that simmered in warming trays and earthenware crocks set out for the holiday guests' consumption? Amazing how a scrap of music could bring back a sense-memory so quickly.

The music continued to fold and weave with delights and surprises around every corner, as the Benedictine chants were interspersed with a shimmering cut from Siouxsie and the Banshees, followed by ethereal offerings from Loreena McKennitt and Enya, Medieval pavanes, random Celtic harpists, Indian ragas, and echo-filled choirs from English Cathedrals... it was simply the Best Christmas-slash-Saturnalia Soundtrack Ever. I felt myself swaying to the music, a little bit drunk. 

"What, stay home alone without my favorite plaything?" Stephan asked, coyly. Uh-oh. He didn't usually delve into the theatrical like this. He sidled up to me, bending down to place his lips beside my ear. "Methinks you're being a naughty little bitch yourself... what say ye I just take you over my knee right here, and spank the living hell out of you..?" My eyes widened, and I stole a glance over at Tom, who was still within earshot of this conversation. His face looked about as dumbfounded as my own. I quickly prayed that he wasn't having horrifying visions of Gracie divulging private sexual role-play conversations to me-- his expression was one of absolute mortification. No where near as mortified as I was when Stephan clutched at one of my breasts with an incredible urgency, and then hissed in a nearly-inaudible growl, "What would you say if I told you your little boy's hungry..." 

I pulled away from him, afraid that anyone in the vicinity might have seen or heard this exchange over the party noises-- the stereo, glasses clinking, forks on china, beer bottles being snapped open, the click of cigarette lighters, conversations, laughter... But no one seemed to notice. Tom mumbled "Excuse me..." under his breath, and promptly headed in Grace's direction. I laughingly wondered if Stephan's inappropriate maternally-fixated outburst had inspired or conjured some pent-up desires that Tom needed to satiate immediately... 

A few moments later, the music switched in mid-song from the Dead Can Dance tune "Song To the Siren" to Bauhaus' "King Volcano." As the familiar strains of a single guitar filled the room, followed by tambourine percussion and a swirling piano scale that repeated itself ad infinitum, the living room floor cleared to make way for the dancing couple, Tom and Gracie. The latter swirled in a floor-length black velvet dress, silken bodice and bell-sleeves, her dark blue eyes never leaving those of her mate. They moved as one in this gothic waltz, the onlookers mesmerized by the song-chant in three-quarter time. I found myself dizzy with incense and wine, and the headiness of the patchouli and vanilla pillars that burned in oak-carved sconces and leafy table settings placed throughout the house.

I turned my gaze about the room to marvel at the framed prints by Marc Chagall (one of Gracie's favorite artists, particularly those paintings that depicted the clandestine meeting of lovers punctuated by primary colors) and the dismal, heart-wrenching imagery of Edvard Munch, as well as the Romantic and garden-mythic sensibilities of the Pre-Raphaelites' co-founding Brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti. I felt as though I were in a museum of sorts, full of dark-paneled mystery, grey-veined marble, iron chandelier candelabrum, muted ruby velvet and gold dust tassles, green Tiffany glass illuminating deep-stacked shelves of Baudelaire, Lovecraft and Poe, punctuated by wisps of flames against gothic-arched glass windowpanes and entryways, reflections all moving seemingly in time with the music, breaking into shadows to dance against the decorative quatrefoil relief molding of the ceiling tiles above. 

When I turned my face toward Stephan to apologize for telling him to "knock it the hell off" after his unexpected manhandling of my person just moments earlier, I was surprised to be met by his mouth on mine. I tasted beer on him (don't know where the Kahlua went), mingled with what must have been a second go at champagne. Obviously it had all gone to his head in a near-lethal mix. He normally didn't even drink these days. "You do not want me at a friend's home," I snapped in a whisper, the momentary magic dissolving away, as I pulled from the grasp he now had on my arm. 

"It's Christmas..." he said softly, almost begging. "A time for giving... a time to be fucking festive..." Oh, he was so convincing, and the telltale burn that always began in the pit of my stomach before we engaged in any sort of sordid encounter had started on a low flame already. I was momentarily distracted by the song's end, and the thunderous applause from those who had been watching Tom and Grace's performance. The two ended their steps with a tender kiss, and melted into the crowd. 

But no. NO. The idea of a sexual tryst during my best friend's house party was out of the question. Absolutely not. There was no way. Yes, in moments like this, it was apparent that I was indeed a prude. I disengaged from Stephan's gentle grip, giving him a look that spoke of long walks home in the slush and ice, then slipped out of sight. After three or four or more drinks with Darlene and Jackie, my frustration with him was numbed considerably.

Poor Darlene, bitching about how living at home was such a hell, how her mother was a psycho new age kook operating on another plane that Darlene couldn't possibly relate to; how she hated her dead-end job working nights as a checkout girl at the IGA on Teaneck Road while busting her ass at a Philosophy degree during the day at Rider; how she wanted nothing more than to travel and roam, taking in all the sights that the world had to offer. Of course, in this state of intoxication, I readily agreed with all of her proposed arguments, sinking deeper and deeper into the lush velvet cushions of the couch vacated by Emma and Kevin an hour earlier. I giggled as I clumsily dumped a beer in my own lap. That's when I noticed Stephan was right there, perched on the arm of the couch beside me, quick with a napkin to sop it up, purposely pressing the palm of his hand deep into the folds of my skirt, or more accurately, into my lap beneath.  

"Oh-- look. I got you all wet..." he whispered, now gently sticking his tongue in my ear to delicately trace the swirls of cartilage, then blowing warm, moist breath into it. My lips trembled at the sound and the feel... Without warning, he leaned forward and pressed his face into my lap, and began to literally suck the puddle of beer out of the material in my skirt and leggings. "You're sweet," he murmured when he came up for air. I flushed a deep crimson when I realized that I could not possibly be the only one privy to these sexual overtones, as both Darlene and a nearly-comatose Jackie were mere feet away... 

My rational mind again began to speak its voice very loudly: This is my best friend's house; this is a Christmas party; this is a gathering of mutual acquaintances brought together to revel in the spirit of the season-- 

I took hold of him by the back of his neck, like I would an errant puppy by the scruff, and pulled his face away from the source of his amusement. Undeterred, he reached back into my lap with a handful of eager, groping fingers... 

"Good god, get a room..." chided Darlene, jokingly, who had been witnessing this whole embarrassing scene with much amusement. Then she went on talking to Jackie, who had long-since slumped over on the couch, still clutching her drink in a cloud of clove smoke. 

Meanwhile, Gracie had disappeared, as had Tom, when their beautiful dance ended what, a half-hour earlier? The place was so full of people, and I was so drunk and disoriented by this point, it was a wonder that I detected their absence at all. I looked over my shoulder, from my upside-down vantage point, and noted the door to their bedroom off of the second-floor landing was shut. I wondered if anyone else had noticed, as well. I hadn't even seen them ascend the staircase...

Now a mouth was hungrily gnawing on my neck. When had the sun gone down? It couldn't be that late already... The stereo now played an erratic mix of the Sisters of Mercy, Peter Murphy, Maria Callas, Depeche Mode, The Mission U.K., Tom's former band Influenza, New Order...  

The latter's “Shellshock" shook my bones to their marrow, and I eased back onto the couch, hoping Darlene had the good sense to move over. I was met only by cushions, so she must have already vacated the scene (along with Jackie's dead-weight) before I began my descent. The room spun; dizziness swallowed me whole as I collapsed backwards, my body solely comprised of nerve endings that were buzzing and tingling. I could vaguely hear my own muffled laughter as Stephan kissed me, and in between mouthfuls he'd laugh too, his bangs tickling my forehead and nose, asking "What..?" over and over in the most annoying yet somehow endearing way... 

I couldn't take much more. I could feel his fingers weaving in and out of the fishnet holes, and along the lace and silk that barred any attempt at entry. With every upward sweep of his hand, a mild shock coursed through me; I drew my breath inward with a sharp gasp, to which he would deliberately repeat the action with his hand... a vicious, torturous cycle... Completely uncalled for at one's best friend's home, at a Christmas party of all things, with guests milling politely about as if nothing were going on... But perhaps that's where the "Saturnalia" portion of the party came in... 

That's when Miguel took a wrong turn and drunkenly knocked the screen out of the doorway leading to the rear terrace. That certainly averted everyone's attention. It was at that precise moment Stephan grabbed hold of my hand and pulled me to an upright sitting position. The earth spun in the opposite direction, and a bit of celery stalk came up with a burp that tasted like beer foam. I swallowed carefully. 

Stephan reached over my shoulders and under my arms to hoist me to stand, then led me carefully toward the guest bathroom through the maze of guests who assessed the damage to both the screen door and Miguel. Perhaps Stephan sensed that I might make a bigger scene with a vomit-laden interlude, and thought best to navigate me to a safer port, a more private space. Truth be told, there was no vomit on the horizon, just a lack of manners in the moment, and a digestive tract that was confused by its questionable contents and my own awkward positioning. I took his hand and dutifully followed his lead. Once inside the powder room, he shut the door promptly behind me, locking it. The hum of party noise and New Order served as fine background murmur. 

"I'm just so fucking glad I have you..." he breathed, his voice nearly choking into a desperate sob as I flicked the lights off in one smooth motion. "I never knew how much I needed you in my life..." I guess his choice of locale for seclusion had nothing to do with my potentially-impending puke situation after all. 

He pushed me gently down to my knees, grasping the back of my hair, so that I was now eye-level with his fly. I unzipped his pants and they peeled away, falling quickly to his ankles in a pool of brushed black linen. He took hold of himself, sliding his hand up and down to achieve the appropriate stance. Then his fingers met the moist orifice of my mouth and widened it, carefully pushing himself inside. I took great pains to roll my lips over the edges of my teeth so as to not injure this most sensitive part of him, and what Stephan had once deemed (during a particularly drunken and hilarious evening months earlier) the Dance of "What-Felt-Like a Thousand Tongues" began. The end was swollen like a plum, and I sucked at it gently, taking note of his approving gasps above me in the darkness. Almost-darkness. There was a single votive candle lit on the back of the toilet tank, which now cast amazing shadows in all directions on the aubergine diamond-patterned wallpaper. I caught a glimpse of an oval-framed portrait of Edgar Allan Poe on the wall above the sink, scowling grimly down at the passionate (albeit borderline sacrilegious) act beneath him, and I couldn't help but grin for a moment. One palm cradled the back of my head, as Stephan twined his long fingers through the tangles of my hair.   

Never enough

It's never enough-- it's never enough 

Until your heart stops beating... 

"Raven.....!" His cries became more breathy, his undulations quickening in their pace. I disengaged suddenly, scrambling to stand up. Vain, silly creature that I was, I feared he'd come too quickly and mess my skirts, so I started to back away from him, thinking maybe this little tryst really wasn't such a good idea after all. I suddenly felt as awkward as a college kid again. But Stephan wouldn't let his rusty-headed little crow-girl get away so easily without finishing what she'd started. If I'd been thinking rationally, I wouldn't have worried so much about my wardrobe; Stephan could take remarkable control of his body when he saw fit. He grabbed me by the shoulders, pulling me back to his chest with a groan. Taking one hand and reaching down to part my legs, he sifted through the layers of lace and proceeded to drag my leggings down past my knees. He jutted himself clumsily against my thigh-- a miscalculation on his part, which I chalked up to his not having night vision goggles, and perhaps because his mind was quite scrambled from all the hormones and alcohol-- and an obvious lack of blood to the brain. He was still for a moment, and as he looked down at me in the near-darkness (but for that tiny crack of light under the door and the red spangles thrown by the tiny votive flame), I still managed to make out his eyes, though his now-mussed bangs partially obscured them. They shimmered in their very icy grey Stephan way... And the nether regions were indeed now set ablaze. Those eyes did it every time.

"Let me take you..." he pleaded with an underlying growl, pressing harder against me. I shivered and flinched, still tasting him on my tongue... As if reading my mind, he plunged deep into my mouth, licking hungrily. 

"Can you taste yourself..?" I whispered as our lips parted for a moment; so very out-of-character for Little Miss Raven to be outwardly voicing any sort of sexual innuendo... He grinned as he drew in his breath to steady himself, then ran his tongue along my neck. I guess if he could taste himself, he didn't really care at this point.

"I wanna taste you..." he gasped, tearing at my flesh with his teeth, his hand working under my skirt again. He snapped the side strap of my underwear-- flimsy things-- and they fell away, now hanging from one thigh. His fingers delved deep into that most sacred place which had witnessed his flesh, his hands only. Maneuvering himself expertly, he pinned me against the wall and started his descent on that most coveted haven between my thighs... 

Rather than letting myself become totally caught up in this spontaneous flow of sensual freefall, I felt awkward-- I didn't make it a practice to have sex in bathrooms, leaning against walls-- call me overly-conventional, but I'd rather a bed at my disposal, and preferably my own. So as Stephan had now turned me to face the wall, bending me at the waist and thrusting and busting away, my thoughts were on where I'd rather be now-- at home, in my soft, spacious nest of wash-softened sheets and flannel blankets... I didn't like detaching myself from the act-- it was a difficult thing to do, besides. After all, here was whom I perceived to be the love of my life, groaning and moaning like a horny alley cat, trying to devour me while in the throes of a sexual feeding frenzy. The truth was, I began to lose my balance. My feet were sliding across the tiles (goddamned flat-soled suede fringe boots-- useless-- no traction-- paid a fucking sixty-five bucks for 'em, too...), and my skidding to the floor should have made things especially difficult for him. 

Quite a gymnastic lad, my Stephan-- he followed me down, never separating his flesh from mine, until I slid to the floor and rolled over onto my back.  He quickly followed suit in the downward slide, now laying above me. Amazing stamina, my seemingly frail and gaunt German boy-- how deceiving was that waify appearance... The New Order tunes segued into an early Eighties' pop classic by A Flock of Seagulls, a song which I fondly remembered blaring while I was strapped into the padded seat of the dizzying, undulating track of the Alpine carnival ride on the Ocean City boardwalk during my thirteenth summer, and Stephan-- to use a phrase that always seems to send Gracie into hysterics-- came buckets. After the initial rolling spasms and cool-down, I was laughing to myself, for no reason, really. Stephan always leaves me drained of reason and emotion. And there he was, already hiking up his pants, all business. I still couldn't control the laughter. Giddy, nervous release, to be sure. The very first time I'd performed an act of the oral variety on him, I'd actually laughed, which no doubt had caused him a moment's anxiety at the time. What can I say-- I'm a giddy, nervous girl, especially in the most inappropriate of moments. 

"What's so goddamned funny, Wench?" He added the pet name as an afterthought. Yep, every vestige of sentimentality and romanticism, pfft, evaporated. 

"Are you sure you're through? You sure there's nothing left?" I asked with a vampish smile, reaching out and running my fingers along the crotch of his pants as if to inspect his weapon of choice, already secured for recharging for perhaps a later encounter. 

"You're so wicked, you whore..." he laughed, grabbing my hand and trying to shove it down his open fly, making all sorts of exaggerated whines and moans. "Oh, yes, baby, yes..." he grunted sarcastically, pushing my hand up and down, "Let's make this a quick round-two... and you know I can do it..." 

"Oh, for fuck's sake, would you knock it off," I mumbled, yanking my hand back, then reaching along the wall to find the toilet paper dispenser. After cleaning myself off as best I could, I searched the floor for any telltale wet spots (ever the responsible adult of the pair), then flushed the tissues. Stephan stood with his back against the door. I cringed at my face in the mirror. My hair was slightly disheveled, though not beyond repair, and my forehead, nose and chin were a tad shiny. I dabbed them with a hand towel, then turned to Stephan. He was the one with a full-blown case of sex hair. I reached up and smoothed out a few strands, then patted his cheek. He didn't take his eyes off mine for a second... 

Taking a deep breath and expelling a contented sigh, I started to hike up the tights (now with a few more holes than when I'd originally put them on this afternoon), when I realized something. My mangled underwear was still hanging from one leg. 

I looked at Stephan, and burst into laughter all over again. In one quick sweep, I snapped them off and shoved them in the tight pocket of my skirts, then finished pulling up the fishnets. His eyes widened. 

"You realize, of course, that's going to be on my mind every second 'til we leave..." 

I grinned. With a spritz of some kind of hair product that was sitting conveniently on the counter, and a quick dab of lip gloss (never left home without the lip gloss), I was ready to meet the masses again. It was going to be a lovely Christmas, an enchanting Saturnalia, a fucking festive Yule, indeed. 

            

"Write about a brief but scary encounter with one of your old professors."

I graduated from the University of Pittsburgh in Johnstown, Pennsylvania with a B.A. in Creative Writing. My final semester before Graduation was probably the first time in four years that I'd made a concerted effort NOT to cut class, party at every given opportunity, and otherwise disregard the higher education that had been afforded to me.

The academic side of that last semester as a Senior was considered cake, in that I had no more required classes left to complete my major course of study; no more math (yes), no more French (I could not speak or read it to save my life), or any of the social sciences. It was all writing, writing, writing, and it took zero effort on my part, aside from the effort that it took to get out of bed every morning and actually go to class. That was far tougher to me than writing a 10-page paper or a collection of poems, and often left my business and chemistry major roommates shaking their heads. They never understood me, anyway.

One of these remaining classes in the spring of 1992 was not a writing class, though I figured it might be interesting; it was an elective survey course called History of Modern Art. I had enjoyed art for as long as I could remember, and had studied various contemporary periods on my own since high school. During my first day of class, I quickly realized that this was not a course taken by many Humanities students, but rather it fell into the category of one of those required classes that all the other majors needed to get out of the way. Hence the proliferation of Rugby players, business and engineering students in the room.

I sat in my usual, least surreptitious spot, the left rear corner, and listened intently to the lectures, poring over the coffee-table volume that was our textbook, History of Modern Art by H.H. Arnason. While I had long been fascinated by various eras including Impressionism and Surrealism, I really had no idea of their differences, nor where exactly the demarcation in history lay to divide Classical and "Modern" art. So I soaked up the knowledge as if I were the sponge I was during my much-younger years, marveling during a slide presentation at what was considered to be the "first" work of modern art, the 1834 lithograph by Honore Daumier, "Rue Transnonain."

I thrilled at discovering works that went beyond Van Gogh's "Sunflowers" and Edvard Munch's "The Scream," Matisse's "Waterlilies" and Dali's "The Persistence of Memory." I fell in love with other pieces by artists I'd never experienced before, like Franz Marc's "The Large Blue Horse," Paul Klee's "Around the Fish," Matisse's "The Red Studio" and "The Piano Lesson,"  Marcel Duchamp's "Nude Descending a Staircase," Georges Rouault's "The Old King," Rene Magritte's "The Menaced Assassin," Marc Chagall's "Birthday," Giorgio de Chirico's "Mystery and Melancholy of a Street," Edward Hopper's "New York Movie," "Early Sunday Morning"... I could go on with countless examples, but one need look no further than the fact that I still remember these artists and their works nearly 30 years later to understand how this class impacted me and my love of the visual arts.

In the end, I thoroughly enjoyed time spent in History of Modern Art, even though it was obvious that there was very little interest generated on the part of my classmates. I could often sense the suffocating atmosphere of utter boredom that hung heavy in the classroom. Their loss, I thought.

The theme of our final paper was simplistic, to say the least; take two pieces by two different artists from the same period, and in your own words compare and contrast their styles. Easily done. I chose Van Gogh's "Starry Night" and Edvard Munch's "The Dance of Life." In my one-line bibliography, I cited our textbook, as it contained glossy colorplate pages of the works and brief descriptions of each. The only snag I hit during the process was that my word processor had seemingly died (ah, living in an age without personal computers or laptops... sigh), and I had to enlist the help of a guy whom I really didn't want to be around-- a kid named Brian with whom I'd had a complicated series of drunken encounters for the past three semesters-- but desperate times called for any port in a storm, to mix a couple of metaphors. He took my paper and re-typed it for me, though he chose to misspell "Van Gogh" as "Van Gough" for reasons I never could quite ascertain. I simply red-lined them and hand-wrote the correct spelling before turning in the paper.

A week later, at the conclusion of our class, Professor Tyson announced that he was handing back our papers, and that there was a handful of us to whom he needed to speak before leaving. I quickly noticed that none of the papers being passed back belonged to me. I thought, Maybe he felt that my paper was particularly good, and wanted to congratulate me? I had often been praised for my writing, though that was generally during my writing and literature classes.

I hung around while he quickly spoke to a couple of students who had also not received their papers back, and then I faced him. He held my paper in his hands, and he told me that I had forgotten to cite the source of my paper. I looked back at him dumbstruck, thinking, Oh, shit, did I forget to include the bibliography page, short as it was? Did Brian forget to type it? I'll kill him...

But, no, there it was, the last page of the stapled bunch, so I was confused. Professor Tyson's attempt at un-confusing me failed massively. "You need to cite the sources for this paper."

"But... I did." I gestured to the bibliography page.

"This final paper counts heavily toward your final grade. What sources did you use to write it?" he continued.

I was completely at a loss for words, not fully grasping the accusation that was about to come. My mind raced as I tried to form words, but no words emerged. I had used my own brain, in addition to the reference book, to write the paper, end of story. Since the power of speech seemed to have left me in the lurch, I pointed to my temple, as a mimed attempt at telling him that I had used my own power of deductive reasoning to draw the comparisons in my paper, punctuated by spitting out the word "Here." Unfortunately, I think he perceived my explanation as no more than an aloof, smart-assed response, which ironically could not have been further from the truth.

"No," he responded, with what could only be described as a shit-eating grin on his face. His eyes were narrowed, and the grin was a smarmy, smug, self-satisfied smirk. Before this moment, I had regarded him as an intelligent man and a gifted lecturer as he had held my interest for the past several weeks, which was more than I could say for the jock neanderthals that made up the majority of the rest of the class. He himself was a fine artist and an effective communicator, had taught and lectured at several institutions, and his art had been featured in several collections and exhibitions. Now, I just saw a mean-spirited asshole, his nostrils slightly flaring, his eyes a deeper black than I'd ever noticed before. "No, you need to cite all of the sources that you used to write this paper. If you don't, not only will you receive a failing grade, but I can have you brought before the Board on charges of plagiarism."

I think at that point my jaw dropped. The world seemed to stop with my heart trapped in my throat, determined to choke me. I still held the paper limply between two fingers, unsure of what else to do but hand it back to him before wandering out into the hallway. In that moment, I didn't possess the mental tools to comprehend what had just happened, or how to deal with the ramifications of the words that had just punched me in the face.

The next few moments could only be described as what it would feel like to slog through a marsh of quicksand, as the rest of the world continued past me in a grey wave of continuous slow-motion. I could perceive movement on both sides of me, as students were filing out into the hallway from other classes that had just ended, and I could hear their chatter and footsteps, the clicking of doorknobs being twisted and doors creaking open, but the sounds were muffled as though I were wading underwater through a thick, viscous soup.

At the end of the hallway, I stopped in front of the Humanities faculty office belonging to two of my Professors, Dr. Dave Ward and Dr. Richard Strojan, the latter of whom was now my academic advisor. I had never spent any quality outside-of-class time with either of them, but now I found myself standing in front of the door and windows into their joint office, my cheeks flushing, still not entirely certain of the impending doom with which I'd just been threatened.

Both of them happened to be in the room, and welcomed me warmly. "Heather!" called Dr. Strojan, "How are you? What can I do for you?" He was such a little man, probably no more than 5'3", with a large nose and two blue-grey eyes buried under a sea of wrinkles behind his wire frame glasses. He had a very bad haircut (it had to be a rusty bowl of a wig), his ears poking out from underneath. But he was a fascinating and warm-hearted character who had led several writing classes I had taken over the past four years. Dr. Ward loomed in the background behind his desk. He was a lover of James Joyce, right down to the mustache and round glasses that he himself wore (in homage?). I (and many others) had often wondered what the real living arrangement was between him, his wife and Dr. Strojan, but those thoughts were furthest from my brain at the moment.

I stared past Dr. Strojan's shoulder, straight to the wall, for what was probably only a few seconds, but which felt like eons. As I attempted to collect my thoughts and translate them into sensible English, he and his tan wool crew-neck sweater faded in my peripheral vision to a mere mass of shadows. I felt dizzy.

"How do you prove to someone that you haven't plagiarized?" was all that I could manage.

The rest of the conversation remains a blur to me now, much as it was then, but what rings clear to this day is the fact that Dr. Strojan was quite agitated by my story, a mood I had never seen him express before in all my years at school. "Don't you worry, Heather," he assured me, his voice rising in both pitch and volume. "Dave Ward and I, we'll get the Cliftons" (Dr. Gladys and Dr. Charles Clifton were both instructors in the Humanities Department that I'd had for classes over the years as well), "we'll get the entire Humanities Department to stand before the board and defend you. Don't you worry about this."

A week later, I was called to the front of the room as History of Modern Art concluded for the day. Professor Tyson had my once-questionable paper in his hands, but he still wore that smug, shit-eating grin on his face. I took the paper from him and saw the big red "A" written at the top of the page. I looked back at him in bewilderment. "You sit in the back of the classroom... you don't say a word the entire semester, you don't contribute..." he rambled, which was his way of basically stating that he didn't believe I had the intellectual capacity to write a paper that carried any weight to indicate actual thought or reason. My blood was boiling.

"You remember those three-by-five index cards you passed out during our first day of class?" I asked him. "The ones you had us fill out with our names, our MAJORS, our interests?" He didn't respond. "Well, if you had actually taken the time to read mine, you would have noted that not only am I a CREATIVE WRITING major, but that I've had an avid interest in art since childhood. You would have also noticed that I listed several eras that actively interested me, from Pop Art to the New Wave East Village scene in New York during the late 70's and early 80's-- stuff that I read about on my own," I spat. I turned on my heel,  once-offending paper still clutched in my hand, and exited his classroom for the last time.

I would have given my two front teeth to have been a witness to the conversation that must have taken place between him and Dr. Strojan and whoever else made up a cobbled assembly of Humanities professors to take up the cause and shut him down before he could make a move to fail me, or bring false criminal charges to my record.

As a result of the "A" grade, I wound up making Dean's List that semester; ironically, the first-- and only-- time during my four years of college.

Better late than never, I guess.