Blowing Off Steam

by Karen Mercury

  She tilted her head. “Mostly concerned about himself. But once in awhile, he’d remind me that I wasn’t the only one who knew how to pleasure myself.”

  Field glanced at Maurice, who had been sitting atop a counter this entire time, loudly chewing on some broccoli. Field gestured with an uplifted chin for the kid to skedaddle. “Here’s another wonderful thing about having sex without being paid for it, just because you love someone.” Saying it in that vague way helped avoid dropping the pronouncement in her lap like a giant hippopotamus. It was more abstract, less a statement of fact. Lightly kissing her luscious, buttery lips, he whispered, “When a man does it out of love, he doesn’t expect or need satisfaction every single time.”

  Pulling her hips to him, he bent slightly at the knees and snaked his long fingers around the back of her thigh. From years of sly and married experience, he instantly found the slit in her drawers, and his fingertips slipped against the bulging, slimy petals of her labia. He was gratified she was already wet, and his fingertips tickled each side of the elongated clitoris. He needed to find out which side of her button was the most sensitive, and her tiny gasps “oh, oh, oh, oh” told him all he needed to know.

  Gasping and breathing in tiny hisses, Calliope’s eyeballs rolled up into their sockets when Field concentrated on the right side of her clitoris. As an engineer, he was proud to have so quickly found the right spot.

  “Oh! My possum!” When she lifted her foot and wedged her toe inside his boot, she left it there. Wide open to his ministrations, she leaned on her palms and threw her head back on a limp neck. Field was easily able to add his other hand to the mix, diddling her bulging clitoris just inches from his own throbbing cock. But no. He wanted to pleasure Calliope, this Appalachian stunner, this sun-browned gal who would have been a corn-fed farmer’s wife if she hadn’t struck across the plains.

  His fingers danced over her clitoris, and already Field was learning much about what made Calliope hot. She gasped and hissed like a teapot when he flicked his fingertip across the right side of her extended prepuce, and how quickly the clitoris emerged from its little hood! He had to strive to remember the exact pacing of a woman’s orgasm, as it had been so long since he’d induced one in a woman—one did not do that for hookers, of course—and each woman must have her own rhythm. It seemed very swiftly that Calliope entered the breath-holding stage where she appeared to be concentrating intently with an inner mantra, so Field took advantage of this.

  He slid two fingers up the slick canal of her pussy because he wanted to feel her orgasm around him. Her breasts heaved and rolled like a current, and he could even see her rapidly beating heart in the pit of her throat. When he bent over and slurped one nipple into his mouth to bite down gently, she came off against his hand.

  The walls of her inner cunt contracted so powerfully around his fingers he feared the circulation would be cut off. As she bucked and hissed, her hips twitching like a dying deer, Field continued to twiddle her button, and now to his surprise a gusher of juice spurted from it. Juice flowed down his wrist as Calliope choked on her own breath. She slapped one hand to the back of his neck to hold his mouth to her nipple, so he chewed until her gasps became louder and she shoved him away violently.

  “Son of a bitch!” she cried, gazing wide-eyed at him as though he were a ghost.

  He felt vaguely stupid but also proud, standing there with a bulging erection while her cunt still spasmed around his fingers. He knew that to continue to stroke her clitoris would result in painful pangs, so he slowed to a mere tickle as she kept gasping.

  “Ah! Oh, God! Avast, you son of a bitch!” She slammed her feet to the deck, knocking his hand from her pussy. But after she collected herself, she smiled in that seductive, corn-fed way. “Field. My possum.”

  “Yes,” said Field, bringing his dripping fingers to her mouth. “Why do you call Rushy a tadpole, but I’m a disgusting possum?”

  “Oh, nasty!” Calliope slapped his slimy fingers. “I may enjoy tasting your jism on your tongue, but I stand firm at not tasting my own juices.”

  “Sorry.” Field shrugged and proceeded to lick her slime from his own fingers.

  “You nasty man!” she said playfully. “Possum? I don’t know—it means friend, buddy. A tadpole is more of a mischievous little boy. Now tell me. How did you get to be so…talented? You don’t need to bring off hookers.”

  “You assume I’ve only been with hookers?” Field feigned insult, but he swiftly added, “I enjoyed learning how to gratify my wife. I knew that when she was gratified she would be very pleasant. And much more inclined to indulge me.”

  Calliope traced his lower lip with her finger. “I see. So it was just a selfish, typically male thing for you to learn. You had secret goals of your own.”

  “I suppose. But that was a long time ago. I’m surprised I still know how to do it.”

  She looked up at him from under her sooty lashes. “And boy, do you. Thank you, Field.” It appeared difficult for her to utter these words. “I’d also nearly forgotten. What it was like for someone else to frig me. It’s quite different from doing it to myself. More powerful.”

  “Or maybe I’m simply more talented.”

  Calliope shoved him in mock anger. “Oh, you!” Her look softened. “You must miss her.”

  “My wife? Of course. We were very much in love. The sting of the loss has faded with time, but there’s still a hole in my heart where she used to be.”

  Calliope nodded slowly, examining his face closely. “I know,” she breathed. “An emptiness that you think can never be filled.”

  Field nodded, too, and silence engulfed the hot, syrupy air of the galley. Outside the room, metallic sounds of men hammering and the mellow shoosh of the steam engine at rest barely disturbed their intense concentration on each other.

  Calliope broke the gaze by saying, “Well! I’d best finish this venison stew.” She sipped more port. “Hmm. I don’t think the stew needs any more wine.”

  And her devilish grin was almost too much to bear. Field kissed her lightly on her cheek. “I should go find out what’s up with that Celestial spy in the plaid hat. And I’ve got a side lever fulcrum pin that looks about to wear out.”

  Calliope shivered comically. “Ooh. I love it when you get all educated and engineerish,” she said coquettishly.

  She loves it. Field went down the passageway to the engine room. The mere idea that the chef had used the word “love” in a sentence involving him filled Field with a fresh happiness. He had not felt this way in years. Calliope loved his education—at least she loved that. That was enough for now. And Rushy was probably ignorant of the methods in which a woman could be pleasured, having mostly fixed on his own meat for most of his life, no doubt. Field couldn’t imagine Rushy possessing the talent he did. Rushy had never been married.

  His fine mood didn’t last long, however, when he approached his own engine room and that selfsame damned riceman with the funny hat emerged. From his own engine room!

  “Hey! You!” Field yelled, and sprinted over.

  But the riceman’s mouth turned into a little O, and he dashed off even faster toward the landing stage, leaving such a rush of wind in his wake Field’s hair was blown about.

  He could tell by the riceman’s speed that he’d never catch him, so Field entered the engine room to see what the blasted spy had been fooling with. Since when did a Celestial know anything about engines? They only had those high-pooped ships called junks that had not changed design in centuries.

  When they hoisted anchor that day, it became evident that not only was the spy not on board—if he had been, they could have walloped him into the middle of next week to discover what he was up to—but Samuel Brannan had not boarded with his special guest. There was all manner of speculation as to why he had failed to board, but the general consensus was that Soquel Haight had “taken care of him.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Calliope was in a chipper mood as she walked up Clay Str
eet with Maurice. “You know what a good deed we’re doing, Maurice?”

  “Very good deed,” Maurice agreed.

  She was full of philanthropy, buoyed by her new realization that she was in love with Captain Field Trueworthy. “In love,” she said aloud, testing out the words.

  “I love pie,” said Maurice.

  Calliope chuckled. “Not that kind of love, little Maurice. This is the love between an adult man and woman. Or an adult woman and two men. Like your parents loved each other.”

  “My parents loved each other like pie?”

  “Yes. In a way.”

  “I don’t think so. My mother’s parents told her to marry my father. She did not even know him before that, so how could she love him like pie?”

  “Oh. I see. Well, maybe they grew to love each other like pie. Anyway, you know what? I love Captain Field Trueworthy.”

  Maurice seemed to understand then, for he reddened and giggled. “That is why you’re always fucking him?”

  “Maurice!” Calliope stood before the gateway with the gold Celestial characters carved into the posts. “I’m not always fucking Field! I haven’t even done that yet! What you’ve seen is just kissing.”

  Maurice pondered on this. “Oh. Kissing,” he said skeptically and plunged into the turbulent street of clamoring ricemen vendors.

  They passed little dens where they sold the drugged liquors that Kwok Lee had imbibed. Ricemen rolled “Havana” cigars at hovels where guards stood with hands tucked into their sleeves.

  Calliope knew that the hookers here cost only forty dollars in Kwangtung, but were valued here at four hundred dollars apiece. They were all slaves, living an equally degraded life as that of a slave in Louisiana or Cuba, for in addition to their lifelong servitude, if one dared to escape, she’d be hunted down. Owners gladly spent ten times the girl’s worth to retrieve them as an example to others who might want to follow. Many of the fallen women wound up murdered.

  They turned into Fay Chie Hong, where female heads stuck out from tiny windows cut in the doors. Calliope walked far past an “old mother” who jealously guarded her charges. She was attracted by a girl with carefully plaited hair adorned with a false flower, her face painted in the manner Calliope herself had not long ago painted her own. The girls kept up a constant patter. Jokes, Maurice said, although Calliope knew they were making disparaging remarks about her. What was a white woman doing in Fay Chie Hong?

  “This girl, Maurice? Shall we tell her why we’re here? Make sure to say we have a job for her, a paying job. A job that doesn’t involve screwing. Ask her if she knows how to cook.”

  So Maurice asked the girl with the artificial flowers, and her reaction was prompt. She instantly slammed shut the wicket window, and the alarm ran down the alley as though a tornado swept through, each wicket slamming shut in succession. In an instant the alley was quiet as the grave, aside from the old mother who glared at them with clenched jaw.

  “Well,” said Calliope. “That didn’t work too well. Did you tell her we have a paying job?”

  “Yes. That’s when she became sad and had to go.”

  “Sad? That’s a strange way to show sadness. Do you think she makes more money here than she would on our boat?”

  “Not more money.” Maurice lowered his voice. “That old mother takes all money and gives to man.”

  “So they’re just afraid of being caught and beaten?”

  “Yes.”

  Defeated, Calliope had no choice but to trudge back down the alley that reeked of garlic and sandalwood. In the main street, wives of laborers or merchants walked with heads held high, their coiffures sticking out like rudders a foot behind them, pinned with gold sticks eight inches long. But Calliope had wanted to help out a few of those poor downtrodden hookers, and she would never find any texas-tenders among the merchants’ wives.

  She paused by a table where domino players moved so swiftly their hands were blurs. “Maurice. If I send you back alone, could you try again? Tell them it’s the boat El Dorado. Maybe some of them could sneak out and meet us later on the boat.”

  “Yes. But Captain Trueworthy who you are in love with doesn’t want me to let you wander about streets alone.”

  Smiling, she said, “I’ll be fine, Maurice. I’ll go directly back to the boat.”

  So Maurice went off, walking through a cloud of opium fumes in front of a lottery shop.

  She thought about Captain Trueworthy with whom she was in love. She was confused, because she felt nearly the same way about Captain Wakeman. Her feelings for Field were more romantically inclined. It was very important to her, for some odd reason, that Field be impressed by her, awed by her, respect her, whereas she could really care less if Rushy joshed with her about wearing a schoolgirl uniform. She enjoyed being light with Rushy, to jolly him along.

  No, she wanted Field to take her seriously. She felt she would burst into tears if he made a joke about her former profession. She found most of her thoughts occupied by Field. True, his beautiful penis wasn’t quite as long or fat as Rushy’s admirable tool, but did a woman really want that? Rushy was built on frightening proportions. Calliope was a well-used gal and properly stretched as much as any woman who had given birth several times over, but sometimes an enormous slab of beef such as Rushy possessed just…well, got in the way.

  Calliope stopped to purchase some turmeric then pressed on down Clay Street. She had to admit, Field’s possessiveness was attractive to her. She enjoyed feeling, for the first time in her life, that she was being protected by a man. She was glad he had gotten jealous hearing about Levi, and his eyes had flashed with ire when Brannan had accosted them. Obviously Levi had failed to protect her, had just rolled over and accepted it when the other wives had run her out of town. Now, getting to know Field Trueworthy, Calliope was beginning to suspect that Levi’s reaction to his wives’ shenanigans had not been completely one of a man really, truly in love with her. Simply put, if Levi had truly loved her, he wouldn’t have let his wives run her out of town like…well, like a common whore!

  Turning onto Montgomery Street, Calliope was eager to return to the El Dorado. She planned to make cream of celery soup with some of the rare celery she had found, and with the Maraschino liqueur a passenger had given her she could concoct a dandy Nesselrode pudding. Her mind wandered toward waylaying Field in his engine room, perhaps even finally sucking on his superb prick—Rushy could join them if Field insisted!—when little running, padded feet sounded on the wooden sidewalk behind her, and Maurice spun her about.

  Accompanied by three Celestial women! “Maurice, this is wonderful! They aren’t afraid to join our boat crew?”

  Maurice was so proud he looked fit to bust. “They not afraid! This is”—and he said something that sounded like “Chiao Kuo”—“and she has worked for many years cooking.”

  “Perfect!” Calliope took Chiao by the hands. She was the woman with the artificial flowers in her glossy hair, perhaps not older than twenty-five. “Do you speak any English?”

  “No!” said Maurice. “They do not, but they can learn. We go back to boat and show them galley and dining room. See, there is boat.” Maurice pointed.

  As she had seen Celestial hookers do in Fay Chie Hong, Calliope took Chiao by the arm and began steering her toward the El Dorado. “This is wonderful!” she babbled, even though they probably didn’t understand her. “Today you can help me chop things, onions, celery, turnips. I do hope you don’t intend on putting those raw fetus eggs into every dish. Americans don’t eat dogs or rats, and those eels sting people’s mouths. You’ll have to let me continue doing all of the actual cooking, but you can assist chopping and cleaning up. Your friends here can help serving drinks in the saloon and with the dining carts serving meals. It’s not very difficult—what, Maurice?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Yes, Maurice?”

  “Where is boat?”

  Calliope looked. And dropped Chiao’s arm. “Son of a bitch,” she whispered
.

  The anchorage where they usually moored was empty. It must have only recently been vacated, as someone else would definitely have taken the spot by now if it had been empty more than a few minutes.

  And a trail of white foam laid down by the churning paddlewheels was still visible on the water’s surface.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The El Dorado had steamed nearly to Rio Vista before Rushy came to his senses. He was slumped on the high bench where visitors sat to look at the river, and he smelled like shit.

  His hand moved to a lump on his noggin, and he recalled being bashed over the head by a revolver handle. By…who? The warm honeyed rays of the setting sun against the burnished oak of the pilothouse reminded Rushy that normally they did not head upriver this late in the day. This in turn reminded him that they shouldn’t even be going to Sacramento today at all, which in turn reminded him why Field was piloting the boat, and not him.

  “Those rowdies!” Rushy yelped.

  Field turned around, steering with only one hand past a sandbar. Field already knew how to line up the jackstaff on the bow with the large cottonwood on the left bank to navigate around that particular sandbar. “Rushy! Are you all right?”

  Rushy looked at his bloody fingertips. “If ‘all right’ means smelling like I was just shoveling cow shit, then I guess I’m all right.” He stood unsteadily, out of habit taking the wheel. “Where’d those two rowdies go? Last thing I recall, I was trying to do a bunk through a herd of critters.”

  Field released control of the wheel and brandished one of Rushy’s own handkerchiefs. As he wiped Rushy’s neck, he said fondly, “Oh, they won’t bother us anymore. How’d you run into them, anyway?”

  Odd, Field had been composing a letter. Rushy could only read the most recently written part.

  I must profess my undying love to you if those highwaymen catch up with us. Please believe me, my last thoughts on this earth will be of you.

  Rushy knew Field had not been writing about him. “Oh, I was striking out to find Calliope, like you requested. They came out of nowhere! They insisted they were associated with…with…”