Another Time, Another Place

by Zane

  “Oh, Raghaba,” he moans again. “You are so wet. I could lose myself in your every move from now until eternity. My heart beats for you, Raghaba. And I shall lay down my life to live out the rest of my days with you here and in the afterlife.”

  I blink, blink again. His tongue announces the thoughts of his heart. And I feel myself slipping off this pleasure ride. But I say nothing. Just press my lips against his to silence him, and continue to ride. I do not share his sentiments. Does he not know that I will allow him to soil my sheets, but never my heart? Does he not recognize that what he speaks is not of love, but of lust? After tonight, though I may ride him through the sun and back again, I do not want his heart, or his undying love.

  I give him more of my tongue; shove it into his mouth as deep as it will go to keep him from speaking words that may clog up the surge that rushes through me. Like the mighty Nile that extends four thousand miles from the mountains of Ethiopia, forming the Blue Nile and the White Nile that flows through Sudan, then converging and emptying into the Mediterranean Sea, a giant orgasm is swelling inside of me. I hear its roaring rapids crashing against my inner walls, splashing against Horus’ pulsing organ as he thrusts deeper inside of me. I reach around and cup his balls and jingle and gently squeeze them. They too are full…and heavy, ready to erupt. Our silhouettes sway about the room like two sensual dancers looping around each other, dipping and bending.

  I flip my wild and tossed-about hair out of my face. I feel the eyes of the gods looking down upon us, my womb calling out to them. I move down into him. He moves up against me. We are fighting to outmatch each other.

  Up.

  Down.

  Up.

  Down.

  I am galloping him. He is bucking me. Our pelvises are crashing against each other, the clanking of bones, the smacking of skin, desperately seeking release. I hold my breasts in my hands, pull one up to my lips at a time and suck and lick them, alternately. I slow my pace, moaning. “Uh…uh…oh, yes!”

  Horus runs his hands along the small of my back, his fingertips slowly gliding down my spine. “Raghaba,” he whispers, “my sweet, sweet Raghaba. Your insides are like the center of the earth, deep and hot. My loins burn with desire for you.”

  He slides his hands and fingers all over my flesh, causing it to tingle and become hot. Finally, his hands rest on my two soft, round humps. He digs his fingers into the flesh of my backside, squeezes the fat of my cheeks together and rapidly thrusts himself up into me, his eyes rolling back into his head. His moan becomes a growl, deep and hungry. He is panting and howling and pulling at the bedcovering. I pull in my bottom lip. His begins to quiver. And, together, we explode against each other. The intensity forces me to shudder and collapse against his chest. Drenched in a mixture of pleasure and sweat, we drift off to sleep, limbs intertwined with his organ still lodged inside of me.

  We both awaken to the kiss of the sun, bright and gleaming. The heat is already creeping in, causing beads of sweat to line the bridge of my nose. I am on my side, back facing Horus, and he has me pulled into his chest with his arm locked around me, and one leg draped over both of mine. I can feel the rigidness of his manhood poking me. With his arm still wrapped around me, I maneuver myself so that I can turn my body around to him, face-to-face. Although, I am full from the pleasures of the night before, I cannot believe I have allowed him to stay. Cannot believe I am looking into his face, breathing in his breath scented with stale passion. Can not imagine why I did not wake him in the still of the night and send him on his way. Probably because I will have him another round, I think.

  “Good morning,” he says, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. “The gods have poured down their blessings upon us this beautiful day.” He pulls me into his arms, and buries his face against my neck. His breath is warm and tickly, but I do not become aroused. “Oh, Raghaba, what have you done to me?”

  I slowly pull back from him; look into his eyes. There is another kind of wanting in them, a wanting I will not provide. “I have given you what you have so desired.”

  “And I yearn more.”

  “There is nothing more to offer you.”

  “Oh, my sweet Raghaba,” he says, leaning up on his elbow, “how wrong you are. There is still so much more of you to give. You are so full of vigor, so full of adventure. I want to spend every wakening moment exploring the depths of your spirit.”

  I force a slight smile. I do not want to sound callous, do not want to breed cynicism, but he is asking for things he will never be given. Things I will not allow him to lay claim to. There is no one man I wish to share more than what I am willing to give him, a night or two of unadulterated, endless bliss. Anything more would be a lie chaining my spirit. I am not of this world to be tied down to matters of the heart. Not one to be hostage to emotions, or to expectations, or to vulnerabilities that come with opening up and giving of oneself—not in mind or heart, and definitely not to any one living, breathing being.

  “This,” I say, running my hands all over my nakedness, “is all I wish to give. And when I have fulfilled your desires, I shall move on to someone else’s.”

  He presses his lips against me, hard. Silences me from speaking what he does not want to hear, slipping his hand between my legs and stroking the front of my vagina, nuzzling two fingers between the spaces between each lip, then massaging my clitoris with his thumb.

  “Mmm,” I moan. “Mmm…”

  His fingers play a sweet melody against my clitoris, strumming along the opening of my vagina, causing drums to beat in and around and against my inner walls. I clamp my legs shut, and begin humping his hand, thrashing about the bed in a fit of unrequited ecstasy.

  “Oh, yes…Oh, yes…Oh, yes…Mmmm…it feels…so…good…”

  Horus plants his mouth over my nipple and sucks, then gently bites down. I scream. It is a sound not of pain, or agony, or discomfort, but of gut-wrenching explosions traveling from the bottom of my feet to the center of my being, transporting me from the here and now to another place, another time. I call on the gods, beg them, and plead with them, to keep me grounded, to keep me from slipping into another world. Horus’s hand, his fingers, his mouth, his lips, his rhythm takes me to the edge, pushes me over, then lifts me back up.

  I am coming, and coming, and coming—all over his hand, all over his fingers, wet and slippery, warm and sticky. I am drowning, drowning, drowning. A surge of orgasmic waves splash, pull me under, toss me around, awash me with pleasure. And I come a thousand times more. When I finally stop moving my hips and humping his hand, Horus pulls his fingers from out of me, then licks and sucks them. I catch my breath, watching him, then lean in and kiss him. I do not know why, but it seems logical in an illogical sense, tasting my sweet saltiness on his lips.

  With his head resting against the crescent-shaped stone head-rest, he holds me in his arms, and allows me to lay my head upon his chest. My eyes flutter and become heavy.

  “Raghaba, do you not know my desires for you are endless…?” Horus asks. “…I want to love you, give you the same pleasures you have given me …” His voice begins to dry up the river that still flows through me. I hear him, but I am too weak to speak. Too exhausted to tell him to tie a knot on his tongue, or get out. I close my eyes, and pray to the gods that when I awaken, he’s gone.

  I awaken from a deep sleep to the smell of food, wafting about the room. I open my eyes, stretch and yawn, wondering who is cooking. I glance over to the other side of the bed. It is empty. The only remnant of Horus’s burly presence is the big, round stain in the center of the bed that has since dried, and the scent of sex that still lingers between my thighs. I look up at the woven sticks and palm rafters of my roof, imagining it is the sky, and give thanks for the gods hearing my call. Horus has left. That was thoughtful of him to not rouse me from my sleep, I think, pulling myself out of bed and walking into the wash area. I am surprised to see the wooden bucket is filled with steaming water, and sweet-smelling lotus petals are floating atop
. I scratch and shake my head and almost faint when I walk into the central room to find a feast of all feasts spread out on the table. There is fresh fruit, baked bread and honey, along with roasted mutton and sliced cucumbers, onions and carrots. My stomach becomes a roaring lion.

  Horus enters the central room, naked, carrying a jar and smiling. “Good afternoon,” he says, stepping into my space and planting a kiss on my forehead. “Were your dreams as sweet as you?”

  “Sweeter,” I say, eyeing him. He is really a handsome man with striking features.

  “Here, sit,” he says, pulling out a stool. “I have drawn your water from the well so that you may freshen yourself.”

  “Thanks,” I say, taking a seat. “I thought you left.”

  “No, sweet Raghaba, I have not left you. I had hoped to spend another day with you. As you can see, I have prepared us a meal so that we may nourish our appetites and our urges.”

  I reach for the jar of labna—a soft cream cheese made from milk—and scoop out a dollop, then spread it over bread sweetened with honey. I sprinkle cassia over it, then bite into its center, savoring its sweetness. “This is delicious,” I state, chewing.

  “Not as delicious as you.” I smile. “But it has been made by the hands of a man who wants nothing more than to please and spoil you, Raghaba.”

  I smile. It is the only thing I feel safe offering him; for anything I say will not be pleasing to him. I continue eating. I can tell there is something lingering on his mind by the way he looks at me. I try to finish up my meal before it is ruined by reckless chatter.

  We eat in silence. He watches me as I eat.

  “Travel to Elephantine with me,” he finally says, cutting into the quietness of the room. I keep my face straight, continue chewing. I have no interest in visiting or taking that hot, long journey to the small island just north of the first cataract of the Nile, on the borders of Kemet and Nubia.

  I suck my fingers clean, then dip them in water to rinse. “And why would I want to travel to Elephantine with you?” I ask, eyeing him cautiously.

  “So that we may spend time together,” he says, tilting his head as if I should have already known this, “while I hunt.”

  While you hunt, I repeat in my head. We are in a land rich and plentiful; a wet jungle of trees and thickets of reed and papyrus that thrive along the Nile; a land that is roamed by rhinos, hippos, elephants, wild boar, lions, and countless other wild animals. Not to mention, the crocodiles, scorpions, ants, mosquitoes and pesky flies that bite. I fold my arms over my chest, and blink my eyes. I blink again. How dare he think to part his lips with such a request? Does he not know I am not destined to be a cheerleader of hunting or any other sport—except sex?

  In my mind’s eye, I can see the fluttering of ducks, startled from their nests in the dense reeds by the cats used to flush them out. Ugh! The gall of him to think that I would find fancy in being on a wild duck hunt along the banks of the Nile with him poised with his bow and arrow, and me sitting beside him petting a tame lion and handing him his next arrow. Or worse, watching him hunt crocodile or hippos as many of the men do for sport.

  “Horus, you foolish man,” I say. “Though I appreciate the invitation, do I look like a woman who would enjoy watching you or any other man hunt?”

  “Would you not like to enjoy my company on the way? There will be other goddesses from all over the land there.” He adds that as if it is supposed to entice me to consider.

  I sigh. “I can find much more useful things to do with my time, than spend it in the jungle, cackling with a bunch of petty women who will fear my presence around their men.”

  “You’d be in my company,” he says. “So there would be no need for them to fear you.”

  I sigh. Okay, this is the moment the gods above have been waiting for—the moment of truth. See. I exist because I am desire. I exist because I am cravings. I exist because I am forbidden fruits. I exist because greed is what will keep one wanting, taking, more than what they already have; more than what they need. However, if it weren’t for the whimsical antics of the overindulgent and self-absorbed, I would probably not matter. But I do. And I will continue to live and flourish in hearts and minds because most can not deny themselves the pleasures of the flesh. So, I, the goddess of desire, will continue to cripple them, to weaken them, to entice them, to lure them into a moment of illicit passion. My lot in life would probably be most different if men and women could refuse temptation. But, because they cannot always deny themselves physical pleasures, they become impulsive, take risks, will do whatever it takes to satisfy the desires of the flesh, and will throw caution into the wind in order to fulfill real or imagined needs—without concern, without regard, for anyone. It is the love of pleasing the flesh which manifests itself in covetousness, whoredom, gluttony, wantonness, and drunkenness. So, I exist. Because, with all the heart and soul and might, we seek and delight in pleasure, no matter what is lost in the process. So, fear will always exist as long as I am present.

  I lean in, resting my arms on the table. I tell him, “If her man’s eyes wander upon me with lusty thoughts, then I shall quench his thirst if I so choose. If his thoughts are pure, and he can avoid temptation, then I shall leave him be.”

  He stares at me, hard. “And how many men shall you take to your bed, and allow to clutter your womb, before you set your sights on one man?”

  “I shall bed as many as my womanhood allows,” I state, matching his stare. “And don’t you worry about the clutter in my womb. I shall keep it flushed so that nothing spreads and takes root inside of me.”

  “And have you no shame?” he asks, indignation coursing through his voice. I blink, blink again. How dare he question me, then become offensive? I do not want to bicker, or spew hurtful words about, but the slow spinning in my head indicates I will say things that shall not be taken back if his tone escalates.

  I pull in a deep breath to steady the thumping in my chest. It is obvious he wants to open up the conversation from last evening. But I shall tread lightly around the subject.

  “Why should I? I am a woman who does not subscribe to the likings of others. I do what I please with whom I please, whenever I please.”

  He abruptly gets up from his seat, looks down on me, then pulls a deep breath in. “Then I guess my presence is no longer needed here.”

  I shrug as my eyes follow him. “I have enjoyed your company through the night, and will even allow you to share my bed and what lies between my thighs again. But, I have no other interest in you, Horus. Nephthys, with her rotted teeth and hollow womb, longs to spend every wakening moment with you, not I. She wants to bear your children and live happily-ever-after. Go chase dreams with her; come fulfill fantasies with me.”

  “Nephthys is not whom my heart desires,” he says, lifting me up from my seat.

  “Then Uadjet should suit your fancy,” I offer. “Her eyes burn with passion for you.”

  He pulls me into him, pressing his body against mine. “I do not want Uadjet. My eyes burn only for you. I have longed for you from the very first moment I laid them upon you. It is you my heart craves.”

  “No, Horus,” I snap. My lip begins to tremble, and I am unsure why. “You do not know what you speak. It is the warmth and wetness of my lips and vagina your heart craves. It is not love; it is lust.”

  “Why do you reject me?” he asks.

  “I am not rejecting you,” I answer. “I am rejecting that which you offer. There’s a difference.”

  “Should we not endeavor to take a chance on love?”

  I cannot believe him. He is relentless. And his frantic ramblings almost sound needy. Desperate. Clingy. I have no time or patience for either.

  For some reason, hearing him say the word love makes me want to scream. Love, love, love…with all of its abstractions, with all of its uncertainty, there’s concreteness about its meaning, about its intent, that frightens me. It is a feeling that is foreign to me, and one I do not wish to explore. I do not wis
h to feel exposed, or vulnerable to emotions that involve the giving of my heart to someone else. To lose any part of myself in the process of loving someone does not excite me. I am not lonely, nor do I starve for love and affection in my life. Beyond the barriers of sex, I do not consume myself with thoughts of being held, or caressed, or cared for. There is no yearning for warmth, tenderness or intimacy. Just sex, sex, sex and more sex; that is the only thing I desire to share. So, no, I shall not entertain love’s possibilities. Nor shall I ever be plagued with lovesickness.

  “To dance with love,” I say, almost apologetically, “would be like walking barefoot across a thousand wild bees. I am not eager to embrace the sting of heartache should it come.”

  He looks at me with sorrow in his eyes. “Then you shall never know the joy it can bring.”

  “Nor shall I ever regret what I shall never miss.”

  He takes me into his arms. His touch begs me to reconsider his offering of love, but I am too detached and jaded for emotional connections. His hands, warm and gentle, embrace the sides of my face. “Who has cast a shadow upon your heart?” he asks, staring into my eyes. “Who has hardened your spirit against love? Tell me, dear Raghaba, who has trampled your heart? Will you not let me comfort you; help you mend?”

  I do not answer. Do not breathe credence into anything he says. I stand, pressed against his chest. There is nothing to mend, nothing that has been trampled upon, and there is no need for comfort. I feel his heartbeat, his measured breathing. I feel him trying to melt himself into me, and me into him.

  “Horus,” I say, prying myself from his embrace. “I will revel in the pleasures we have shared. And I thank you for keeping company with me, but I shall not open the windows of my heart to invite love in. Not today, tomorrow, and not in the calendar years to come. So, please do not badger me with such notions. If you wish to share my bed again, you may. But nothing more than explicit passion shall ever come of it.”