Fireflies

Lately I have been looking at women differently. Once Pierre made love to me on the floor, right next to our full-body wall mirror. He made me watch how my buttocks bounced and ebbed while I rode him. He made me note the way my breasts moved and softened when pressed against his firm chest. He put my hands on the curve between my buttocks or breasts and made me notice the softness and the delicacy of the slope. He taught me to love the intimate curves of my womanhood, and I learned about the mysterious sensuality that comes from my femininity. Pierre and I have looked at naked photos and paintings of women. There is such a mystery in those lines, such a dark beauty that is so impenetrable by anything concrete. We have teased each other with fantasies of bringing a woman over and making love to her, of making her watch us make love to each other to see what she thought. I have wondered what it is like to watch another woman shake in the agony of pleasure, the same as I do. I’m not gay. I love to feel the tree trunk harden inside me and I crave the company of men, but I am fascinated by this idea of beauty.

We have never been able to make this fantasy a reality. Pierre is a dreamer and is satisfied with keeping his fantasies nothing but that. My dreams become goals and I learn to make them real. He can get any woman he wants, so I think the only reason he hasn’t found one for me is because he doesn’t think I will really enjoy it. He will tell me from time to time I should try seducing one myself. Then I suddenly lose my confidence.

She is standing next to the lamppost as I stand on the other side. I have that nervous feeling of being in some situation with another person as if I should be doing something or acting a certain way but I don’t know what. I look over at her again. Her eyes are a bright scarlet under the lamp. She is gazing dreamily at the water. She looks at me and I can feel my heart drop. I am no doubt making her uncomfortable. She doesn’t snarl. She smiles instead, but it is a half smile. She is hiding something, an imperfection. There is something about her teeth, the sides of them, she doesn’t want me to see. I am fascinated by this unseen fl aw. I want to know what she is hiding. Perhaps this is what is missing from my life, some mysterious fl aw that I won’t want to correct.

“So, what is your excuse for being here at such a lonely hour?” she asks languishingly. There is a very slight accent in her voice. Is it Eastern European? I can’t place it.

“I came to watch the fireflies,” I reply. She smiles more fully now, but she turns her head and I lose my chance to see her teeth.

“I love them too. Do you know why they light up like that?”

“It’s a call for sex, right? A mating call.”

“Mostly, yes. But some females are not here for mating. They are here to eat. They send off little messages with their lights, like Morse code. Each species of firefly has a different code. Some of them learn to mimic the code of a different species. The male of this species is drawn to them and approaches them for mating, but they are outdone. Once the female has lured him in, she eats him. The males have learned many different ways to avoid this fate by only approaching the female if she responds in a very specific way or only mating during times when there is less flesh to prey on. Of course, it brings their chances down quite a bit.”

She explains all of this with such passion and intensity that I am just plain delighted by it. “Well, it sounds like a hard existence,” is all I can say. I guess we have it easier than we thought. Imagine not knowing if you are going to get fucked or going to get eaten? You’ll either find pleasure and fulfill your reason for living by procreating, or you’ll die a painful and carnivorous death. But then again, I’m sure there are men out there who wouldn’t know the difference. I smile at myself and she smiles back. She looks me in the eyes and I am entranced by hers, by their translucence, like red cellophane sparkling in the lamplight. She hugs the pole playfully then runs her fingers through my shimmering hair. “It’s beautiful,” she says.

“Thanks,” I respond, “I take good care of it. I use this shampoo which is just superb. It‘s called Sheer Luminance and it‘s so amazing. Just look at this shine!”

She flashes her half smile again and laughs silently under it. She doesn’t seem interested in the shampoo, which is a disappointment because Sheer Luminance is one of my clients. I use their product because I know it works and that is how I’ve been able to bring in the numbers for them. I understand the product more than they do. I find myself sighing. Usually my pitch brings on a giddy conversation between women but she is not impressed. There is something mysterious about this woman. She wears no makeup and she is casually dressed, but she has to be one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen in my life. Maybe I’m taken by her eyes. I’ve never seen red eyes before. There is also something about the way she moves and the way she holds herself. Her skin is flawless, so pale that it almost glows in the moonlight.

Could she be interested in me? Is she a lesbian? Is this my chance to take a woman home and prove to my husband that it isn’t as hard as he always made it out to be?

Who am I kidding? I’m a woman, and I intimidate myself. Women are secretive and complex. Men are always trying to impress them, so they are rarely impressed. They have layers and masks and little spots you need to find in order to please them. Men are happy if a beautiful woman simply notices them and delights in them. Women appear strong when they are really weak and weak when they are really strong. When I think of all the men I have rejected in my life, I wouldn’t dare make a sexual advance toward a woman.

“What’s your name?” I ask out of sheer curiosity.

“Natasha,” she replies a bit hesitatingly as if she has forgotten her own name, as if she was a bit annoyed that I would ask her such a trifling question. She looks me over. I feel her eyes searching my body. Then she looks away, gazing past the rippling darkness of the lake. Without turning her head, she speaks to me again.

“If you think the fireflies are beautiful, you’ll love the nymphomites.”

She looks at me for a reaction but I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. So she continues. “They hide between the rocks in the deeper areas of the park. They are quite beautiful. I can take you there if you like.”

“Right now?”

“Right now.”

“Okay, show me,” I say. I’m in the mood for some kind of adventure. I feel the full moon on me and I am restless and alive. I am not as anal as Pierre thinks I am. I’m quite daring when I see an opportunity, and Natasha is an opportunity. An opportunity for something new, something to add to my sexual experiences.