THE RIDDLE OF STEEL

They always smell the same, don't they? Rot, that ancient rotting smell with mildew and decay and heaven knows what else. The log in front of me, nose height, was covered with small brown mushrooms, and they did not look particularly tasty. Again, I moved - the third time in about ten minutes as I gained approximately ten inches of terrain which brought me half past the log, my legs still in the underbrush. The sound of the rain high in the canopy filtered itself into areas where the steady streams of water came down, contrasting to the light patter I heard a hundred feet above. I could still hear the cicada buzzing merrily away about 4 meters to my left, so I took the initiative and pulled my legs past the log, careful not to disturb the mushrooms and so leave a mark of my passage.

The ridgeline seemed no closer. I was not pleased to watch the spider approximately the same size as my fist approach my left hand. Would he sense the heat, even though the hand was covered in mud and below that, green greasepaint? Worse, what if the spider mistook my hand for a mouse, and attacked? I waited for what seemed like an hour, and after getting hit by a fortuitous raindrop, the spider struck out casually for my shoulder, where the neck met the collarbone and was much darker and damper. He carefully tucked himself along my carotid, and as he got comfortable I could hear the soft scritching noises of his legs on my collar. This was definitely turning into a below-average experience. Looking around, I very slowly rolled over onto my back and the spider, not enjoying the wide open space, skittered off my shoulder, over my ear and into the moldering leaves.

Finally, I gained the ridgeline. Very carefully, I raised the hooded field glasses and took in the village. There were at least fourteen guards visible, carrying an assortment of rifles, mostly Eastern bloc Kalashnikovs, although I noted one of the guards was carrying what appeared to be a 12 gauge shotgun. The patrols were sparse, and as I had read three days ago, not professionally trained. The men were mainly hired thugs, narcotraficantes on the next to lowest rung. I could now smell the cooking fires, which had been extinguished and were still smoking softly in the rain. There were people milling about, and most of them were headed into a run-down greenhouse that had been painted brown so no light could get in or out.

The report said his nickname was "Ocho". He had only seven fingers left, local legend said that he had lost three of them in a machete fight as a teenager, but purportedly sported a male member of some renown, hence the nickname. He was not visible at the moment, and I infinitesimally moved back from the ridgeline into the jungle to await the late afternoon.

Today was a repair day. I painted my guest bathroom, and repaired the toilet. Exciting, eh? I painted the walls a flat tan, which matched the ceramic tile. As I was painting it occurred to me for the first time, do professional artists - specifically painters - fresco or mural the walls in their own homes? I have of course seen Monster House and thought that if I ever did that I would have them transform the interior of my house to look identical to an Irish pub in Belfast. Dark woods, tall tables and chairs, and perhaps a painted advertisement for Guinness or Murphy's on the wall. Hardwood floors, dim lighting and a long mahogany bar that I could sit at and eat shepherd's pie and hoist a jar while watching the news on the telly mounted high and over the bartender's area. Of course, it would have to have working spigots, and I would be able to draw off a pint whenever.

As it is, I am thinking of selling my house and I do not want to make any changes to it that I would miss. Hence, the flat paint instead of something more interesting. Now my next home, that will look significantly more like what I have described above.

The previous post was out of character for me, I thought it might require a bit of explanation, as opposed to just deleting it. Over at PL's (see link on left) there was a discussion regarding the difference between what men want and women want in regards to sexual fantasy. The standard male fantasy, the Mark One Mod Zero version - usually revolves around the female nymphomaniac stranger attacking the hapless male who despite the surprise fully services his lusty female attacker, and then she abandons him immediately after the deed to reside only in sweaty memory. There are many variations on this theme, but one only needs to peruse the men's magazines where the stories sent in by readers invariably begin, "I never thought these stories were true until the other night I had an experience which changed my mind..."

It is true that men are more visual, and with that in mind I related an encounter taken directly from my experience with the hopes that I could bring more than just the visual to it. I wrote it without editing it, I simply tried to convey the experience leading up to the final act without focusing entirely on the visual. I believe I failed, there is far more visual description than tactile.

I was successful at painting a portrait of the backdrop, which was more my goal than to wax pornographic, hence the abrupt ending. There was something achieved in this undertaking though, and that is that the next time I am in a situation like this I will pay more attention to what else is happening besides what I can immediately see and feel. I think that the heightened awareness may prove illuminating, if not ultimately enjoyable.

It was unusual, her choice of music. It was Glenn Miller, which I found surprising in a thirtysomething-ish woman. I slowly walked her bookshelf, head cocked to the side listening to the clarinet and reading the titles of the books. You can tell something about a person by the library they keep. I was pleased to not see any of the Judith Krantz or Jude Devereaux hardbacks, nor was there a copy of Ms. or Modern Bride on her coffee table. Instead, the coffee table contained two remotes, an incense burner made of sandalwood with vague Indian sigils carved into it and a Discover magazine.

She spoke to me from the kitchen, her disembodied voice asking me if I wanted a drink and the clink of the ice in the glasses letting me know I was getting one no matter my answer. I continued my tour of the bookcase, and noted the movies mixed in on the bottom shelf. Again, no cloying cinema, no worn out copies of The English Patient or a host of Merchant Ivory pornography. The stereo was a bookshelf unit, one of the small ones that put out an astonishing amount of sound and again I wondered at the 1940's big band music.

Dinner had been a quiet affair, a small feast of quiet laughter and clever conversation. The restaurant had been slightly overpriced, but she was considerate enough to not order lobster tail and filet mignon. We shared an oversized dish of chicken with some odd sort of zesty chipotle sauce that made her eyes water. Our date had originally called for the dinner-and-a-movie script, but instead I took her to a small, privately owned bookstore where I knew the owner stayed open on Saturdays until 9 p.m. I did not want to sit next to her and not be able to speak for an hour and a half, so unless she insisted the movie part was not going to happen. She was delighted with this change in plan, and ended up purchasing a book on the great hurricane that devastated Galveston Island back in early September of 1900.

She pressed the drink into my hand, and sat next to me on the couch. She didn't sit directly next to me, she scrunched down at the end and removed her shoes to hug her knees to her stomach. However, she certainly held eye contact as we blathered on about what I cannot remember until I moved down to her end of the couch and gently touched her face with my hand. She immediately came into my arms and instead of the heavy kissing I had expected she pulled me to my feet and folded herself into me and murmured about dancing. This is something I knew how to do, and I gently led her about the living room while Bing Crosby reminded us that he would be seeing us in all the old familiar places. There was a sense of anticipation in our steps, and I loved the smell of her hair and the warm feel of the wool sweater under my hand at the small of her back. I spun her gently around and she laughed, and took me by both of my hands and pulled me towards the hallway.

There is an invisible barrier to a woman's bedroom, a force-field in the doorway that only men can feel. I breached this field with an almost imperceptible feeling of walking through a warm draft, and immediately felt the tension of being a stranger in an intimate setting. This was her space, her private area and while she held my hands I still felt like the proverbial bull, her smiling eyes wide and welcoming and me feeling clumsy and oversized. There were candles already lit, so I knew she had come in here while I was still at the bookcase. Her hands found the buttons on my shirt, and there was just enough fumbling to reassure me that this was not an overpracticed move on her part. Her mouth tasted of warmth and spices, the drink and her own unique flavor. There was a slight hesitation and a few bumped-nose kisses and then suddenly it was perfect, like we had practiced the movement a thousand times before. I held her auburn hair in my hands, and she ran both her hands up the back of my neck. I traced her collarbone with my lips into the sacred spot where it meets the base of her throat, and she moaned so low I felt it rather than heard it. She pulled the buckle on my belt, and I softly slid my hands down the outside of her thighs, her skirt half coming with the downward motion of my hands. She nudged her bedroom door half-closed, and Moonlight Serenade played on and on...

I had thought of saying something vaguely snarky like "This is Miss January in the Afghani-language edition of Playboy" but figured that I would talk about what is important here. The eyes. I don't need to talk about the facial expression, or the angle, what is important here is what you read into the eyes. Frown at this picture and she becomes serious, smile at it and she is happy. Look at it lustfully and her eyes deepen into forbidden coquetry.

In the movie "Kingdom of Heaven" there is a scene where Saladin has entered Jerusalem and the fleeing Christians are refugeeing their way across the desert, Saladin stops as he sees that in their haste to leave, one of them has knocked over a cross. He stops, rights the cross and moves along. According to reports, the crowds in Islamic countries cheered when they saw him show that respect to the Christian faith. Whether or not Saladins' action there actually happened is not important, the reaction to that scene is.