Another Time, Another Place

by Zane

  I glance out of the open window along the length of the north wall. It is still early enough for a breeze, which blows from the north, to air the house. The rest of my windows are close to the ceiling to maintain the cool temperature. But as the sun rises to its resting point, so shall the heat and its burning strength. I try hard to block the thought of the looming high temperature out of my head, but its presence is all around me.

  I sigh as my eyes fix on the sand dunes slightly to the right of the house, erected as barriers from the Nile’s floodwaters, and think about the water that flows from the heart of the tropics—which begin to rise at the summer solstice as a result of the rainy season of Ethiopia, and continue to do so for one hundred days, before it recedes. It is the rise and fall of the waters that holds the fate of our land. Too little, or too much, could mean sad devastation—the loss of crop and famine. I imagine myself naked splashing about in the waters, alongside the banks, and chuckle at the thought of wrestling crocodiles in the nude and riding the backs of muddy hippos.

  Then, somehow, I imagine myself climbing, naked and free, traveling the distance of the framed rocky walls that form cliffs which dip down to the Nile’s edge, then shoot up with covered tips of fine white limestone, to rich yellow sandstone, then higher up to red granite and black basalt—all these cliffs forming the horizon of all landscape views in beautiful Kemet. Then I imagine lying under the stars with my legs spread wide—the sand beneath my bare bottom gleaming like endless diamonds—exposing the golden brown lips of my smooth vagina as I pull open its slit with my fingers and wait for probing fingers, lips, and tongues to explore its sweetness. I can hear the low roar that escapes me as I lift my hips and grind and grind and grind against the sensations until I start to shake, then explode in ecstasy. From whence such thoughts originate I am unsure, but they amuse me, nonetheless—at least for the moment.

  The sight of two lion cubs playing catches my attention, and pulls me from my daydream. I inhale a deep breath, close my eyes, and silently pray to Min, the god of fertility and sexuality, asking him to keep the blessings of my sexuality and high sex drive bestowed upon me in this life and in the afterlife, so that I might continue to engage in sex as part of the joys of paradise. Even as gods and goddesses we are earthy enough to copulate, and to enjoy the pleasures of sex. And I want to be able to satisfy and indulge my libido here and into the world beyond.

  When everything is finally prepared, I place a clay jar of beer and of wine on the table. Though Horus will not need libation to be in the mood, it will loosen his tongue and allow him to speak out to the heavens so that the gods before him might hear his moans of unadulterated and uninhibited ecstasy. Tonight, there shall be no line drawn in the sand; there will be no boundaries. And I shall quench his thirst, and my own, for sexual pleasure.

  I burn kyphi, an assortment of myrrh, henna, cinnamon and juniper, and allow its fragrance to soften the staleness that has lingered in the air while I bathe. I enter the washing area—a recessed room that has a square slab of limestone in the corner, for standing—and oil my pubic area. I will shave to ensure it is smooth as silk. Next are my eyebrows. Removing body hair is not only for beauty, but it rids the body of lice. Though I shall not ever shave my head, I have been fortunate to not be visited by such nuisances as fleas, bedbugs or lice.

  I use ground beans from the ricinus communis plant and oil to rub into my hair. It is what maintains the lustrous growth of my flowing mane. I let it set upon my head while I shave. When I am finished, I use a cleansing paste of water and natron to cleanse my body, then shampoo my hair. I rinse myself, watch the water empty out into a bowl in the floor below, then dry off and wrap my body in a linen towel. Another towel is wrapped around my hair as I saunter into my bedroom and sit at my dressing table. The day is quickly beginning to take flight, the sun’s rays already dancing against the brightness of the room. And I am struggling to not break a sweat. I can already feel beads of perspiration popping up against my skin like goose bumps.

  I fan myself a bit so that I might cool, then pull out a solid gold hand mirror and stare into it, studying my features. I smile at what I see. Skin the color of honey, thin nose with full, inviting lips. Tall and sultry—with oval, mesmerizing green eyes that sparkle like precious stones—I am the fairest of them all. I thank Hathor—mother goddess and goddess of all that is best in women—for the blessings she has bestowed upon me. My exquisite beauty is striking, and oozes with sensuality. My presence alone announces my sexuality—free-spirited and open-minded, willing to indulge in all things pleasing to the body. And it is a reminder of why no man can deny me. It is no wonder that men are unable to resist me against their own temptations. And no wonder that I am every woman’s nightmare.

  I rub myself with almond oil to keep my soft skin moisturized and protected against the harshness of the sun. Though my flawless complexion does not warrant much, I reach under my table and retrieve a jar of khol and a pencil made of reed to line my eyes and eyebrows. When I have perfected the signature lines about my upper and lower eyelids, extending to the sides of my face, I dip my thin reed brush into a jar of henna and paint my lips. While most of the goddesses don wigs made of human hair or wool, I maintain natural tresses—thick, long, shiny black hair—that falls to my shoulders—with blunt-cut bangs. From the roots, I run my fingers through my silky hair, then brush and pin it up with jeweled pins. I dab Lotus oil behind my ears, under the crease of my breasts and along the inner part of my thighs. The use of unguents enhance my khaibt—special body odor. It causes the gods to draw to me like hungry flies swarming over a rotted carcass, and I will shoo them, swat at them, but allow them to dance with their fantasies afar.

  I return to the central room and lay out a bronze bowl of cactus figs, grapes, plums and dates, then wash and rinse the tall, straight lettuce and press its leaves for its milky substance. It is an aphrodisiac. And tonight, I will drink its secretions and prepare myself for the feast of lovemaking. And to prevent the seeds Horus will plant deep inside of me from spreading and taking root, I grind together a measure of acacia nuts with honey, then moisten seedwool and insert it into my vagina, covering the mouth of my uterus, to prevent pregnancy; for I am as fertile as the Nile.

  And—in a land where a woman’s femininity and desirability is contingent on her ability to bear sons and daughters—pregnancy is something to be proud of, and motherhood is venerated. However, bringing forth a child is not what I crave. The thought of nursing a child for three years, its teeth sinking into my breasts, nauseates me. Where the women strive to emulate Isis—mother goddess to Horus—because she represents all that a mother should be: loving, clever, loyal and brave, the purest example of the loving wife and mother, I am not motivated by such beliefs. My womanhood, my femininity, my sensuality, is not—nor will it ever be—defined by my ability to conceive or bear children. If it were, I would have taken a mate and be in a lifelong monogamous relationship, which by custom, should have occurred around age twelve or a bit older since it is common practice to wed young. Oh, joy! I would just as well slice my wrist, then toss myself into the Nile to be eaten by the crocodiles before becoming a hemet— wife, or be saddled down with three or four children, provided, that is, they survived the birthing.

  So, no, I shall not be lured into such trappings, nor shall I ever live a life of unhappiness just for the sake of conforming to the whimsical thoughts of others. And I will continue to defy all things that apply to such beliefs that have to do with marriage and children. I am young—twenty and vivacious—and full of carnal passion. And I will live my life according to my own will.

  I return to the roof to check on the meats, which are roasting well, brushing them with more seasons. When the meats are done, I store them in a clay pan, then return to my bedroom to finish beautifying myself. Once I am satisfied with all the preparations, I slip into my white diaphanous gown of fine linen, its transparency revealing the tips of dark, succulent nipples—erect and inviting. I adorn myself wit
h a gold and diamond headband, hang a gold ankh and lotus necklace around my slender neck, then slip in earrings made of lapis lazuli—the deep blue stones catching the sun and sparkling about the room.

  I walk out the door, greet the day with a smile, then stroll along the groves lined with sycamore and persea, one foot in front of the other. I am as graceful as all the goddesses before me were, my dress billowy, my stride giddy and light as I step on the earth.

  Along the way, my mind begins to wander again, and I conjure up thoughts of how I will seduce Horus and shake the heavens. My clit begins to swell and peek out beneath its hood with the images that now swirl about in my head. Images of what might hang in the center of his crotch and the heaviness of the pouch of skin that holds his seeds, slapping against me as he slams and twists and grinds and snaps his hips into me flash through my head. Images of gyrating myself atop him, tempting him, taunting him, to reach for me as I roll my hips fast and deep, gripping the length of him send a heat coursing through my skin, through my breasts and that heat settles on the tip of my clitoris, waiting to be released. I dare myself from taking shade under a willow tree and pinching away at the prickly sensations that are nagging me. It has been three moons since I have pleasured myself. And now these images that have found space in my head have sprouted a dire need for release.

  My thoughts are quickly disrupted by a deep, piercing voice calling out to me. “Raghaba, Raghaba…” I hear, cutting into my space. I glance over my shoulder, keeping pace. A sly smile forms across my face. Behind me is Hapi, god of the Nile, running to catch up to the scent that leads him to me. His full breasts, naked and free, bounce about as he closes the gap between us. “Wait for me…”

  I slow my steps.

  He sprints up to me like a gazelle, fast and graceful. “… hotep,” he says, his breath catching in his throat, “You have trampled my thoughts, my awakened moments consumed with the beauty of Raghaba.”

  I am not amused. “And may the gods bring peace unto you. Now, why have you come?” I ask, keeping my eyes ahead, dismissing what has fallen from his tongue. I ask, but I know. He has smelled the honey that gathers between my thighs, and longs to drink from its cup.

  “Are we not destined to feast on the passion that stirs between us?”

  I stop, stare, then allow my eyes to linger. Hmm…his lips are beautiful; full, juicy, suck-able, mocha-colored lips that look as soft as lambs’ wool. His strong face is that of a man, but his body, with breasts that nourish Kemet, is not to my liking. He shall never enter himself, nor empty himself, into me. A hermaphrodite god is not my fancy. But, I entertain vibrant thoughts of feeling his lips against my clit, and become tempted to indulge. “Foolish one,” I say. “There is no passion that stirs itself within me for you. You can offer me nothing, but the warmth of your tongue.”

  His gaze wanders lecherously over my body, his eyes traveling the curves that form me. “Then I shall caress your sweetness with my tongue under a nehet, and quench my thirst for you.”

  “So be it,” I say, walking off toward a willow tree to catch the shade. “Let’s be quick so that I may race the sun before it reaches its highest point. I do not wish to sweat out my hair or have my body reek of messy deeds.”

  He keeps step behind me, removing his loincloth, then spreading it out onto the ground. I lift my gown up over my hips, and sit, facing him. I glance up at his manhood. It is long and skinny with a curve, its head as thick as a plum. No, I think, he shall never slither his snake inside of me.

  “My ba shall be rested now,” he states, kneeling down before me, licking his lips.

  My eyes roll up in the back of my head. “Spare me. Your thirst for me has nothing to do with your soul,” I snap, leaning back and spreading my legs. “Now, cease talk and allow your mouth and tongue to do what’s in your thoughts.”

  A smile forms on his face as he parts the lips of my sweet basin with his fingers, then blows on my clitoris. The opening of my vulva, filled with the richness of brown and pink colliding together against the center of its seam, is waiting, soft, wet and ready.

  I lean back on my forearms, and watch him bury his face between my thighs. He licks in the center, his tongue thick, long and warm, flapping up and down along the seam of soft flesh. He darts his tongue in, then out. In. Out. In. Out. Flicks it against my tender clit, nudging it ever so gently; then he mounts his mouth around it.

  A moan escapes me. I am starting to hear the song of birds overhead. “Oh, yes…eat me…mmm…devour my goodness… leave nothing untouched,” I say.

  He is slurping me, exploring me, ravishing me. “Mmmm,” he moans, kissing the space his tongue journeyed. “You are as sweet as a melon…”—he flicks his tongue against my clit, again and again—“…Oh, Raghaba, between your sweet thighs lie my greatest desires.”

  He dips his tongue back into me, massages my clitoris as I raise my hips off the ground and grind against his mouth.

  “Mmmm…uh…uh,” I moan.

  Beneath the burning sky, beads of sweat threaten to roll down my face and back as I am nearing orgasm. I clutch the sand with my toes as he digs deeper into me. He is trying to unearth hidden treasures with his tongue, trying to unlock a jeweled chest full of liquid passion. I brush my hardened nipples with the tips of my fingers. My long lashes flutter, my eyes flit up, then roll up in my head as I let out a deep moan that causes everything around us to pause and take notice. The plover burying its egg in the sand, the lion grazing, the gazelles running to and fro, the scarab beetles rolling dung about, the vulture stalking over the carcass of a jackal, they all become paralyzed in the throes of my moans. I arch my back, lift my legs, wrap them around his neck, and let him lap his way to the key until its locks snap open and a warm fountain of joy gushes out, filling his mouth, and dripping down his chin. My body shudders as I soak the cloth beneath me with my juice and scent.

  Hapi keeps his mouth mounted around my vulva, suckling and moaning—begging for the last droplets of my overflowing juices. When he is done, he kisses my vagina one last time, then pulls his face from between my legs, his lips glistening, his chin streaked, with pleasure, his face and chest shining with sweat. I close my eyes for a moment, toss my head back and attempt to recover from the powerful orgasm. My insides are still trembling. I pull in deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. I wait for my heart to stop racing about, then open my eyes. Hapi stands, his serpent-looking phallus swaying about, its head swollen and large. He strokes it, looking down lustfully at me.

  “I have drunk from your lips and have been filled, and now my loins seek release.”

  I raise my brow, wiping myself with his loincloth, then standing up. “Then I suggest you suckle on your breast,” I say, tossing him his garment, “and stroke your own organ so that it may find the release it seeks; for I will not be the one who pleasures you.”

  He brings the soiled cloth to his nose and inhales, deeply. “Then I shall breathe in your scent and unleash the fire that burns within.”

  I have no further use for him. The sight of his breasts and skinny phallus sicken me.

  “Do what you will. Leave me so I might continue on my way.”

  “Hotep,” he says as he begins to stroke himself.

  “And peace unto you.”

  I too inhale the scent that still hovers in the air, and gather myself, leaving him under the nehet where he will spill his seeds into the earth with thoughts of me, Raghaba—the goddess of desire.

  Looking forward I see the mud brick palace that once belonged to Khnum, the creator of all things, and wonder what will become of all things that shall be. There is a light breeze that is stifled by the searing heat. But, despite its intensity, I am thankful. I am blessed. I lift my head to the sky, and allow its fiery rays to fall upon my honey-golden face as I give praise to Nut, the sky goddess, and Ra, the sun god, for harmony. I smile to Sekhmet, the goddess of war, and thank her for peace and protection. And, then, I spread my arms wide and give glory to Ma’at, goddess of truth, bala
nce and order, for keeping all things aligned.

  Through the gardens, I hear the frolicking and chatter of female voices, and silence finds itself before me as I pass by, glaring eyes pierce me. Suddenly whispers move with the wind and I strain to hear. I wonder if it is the same wind that has carried my moans through the air.

  “Ssh, Raghaba is coming. She will hear.”

  “Let her,” Nephthys says snidely. “She is useless dung.”

  How dare she insult me! I fight the urge to summon the gods for her head so that it may be put on display. She is hateful and bitter because she is as dry as the desert, and as ugly as a camel. And because she is not fertile, she is not for the taking in marriage. Yet she hungers for the love and attention of Horus whose eyes do not flicker with desire for her. Ha! Foolish one! Yet, it is I whom she chooses to blame for her despair. Little does she know I do not want him or his affection, just what hangs underneath his garment between his strong, muscular thighs. And when I have tired of him, I shall discard him as I do all the others. A wicked smile forms on my lips as thoughts of what the night will bring dance in my head. I am everything she wishes to be, and all things she will never possess.

  Her eyes follow me as she continues, “I will pray and give offering that Ra will scorch her womb and blister her skin.”

  “But she is adored by the gods.”

  “They are feeble fools,” she snaps, “who know not what she is. She lures them in with her exquisiteness, contaminates their minds with fantasies, then thickens their hearts against love. Beneath her lies the goddess of deceit.”

  I stop and turn to face her. Her stare is locked on mine. I throw my head back and laugh at Nephthys and the pettiness of the rest of them, keeping my glare on her. She is taken aback. “Do not hate on my youth and beauty. Nor speak malice with your tongues because your gods turn their necks and massage images of me into their heads. I give your men and the gods what you shall not dare.”