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Message-ID: <48807asstr$1092305404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm@yahoo-OBLITERATE-SPAM!-.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} karina (M/g)
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Date: Thu, 12 Aug 2004 06:10:04 -0400
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                             Karina

                     by Vivian Darkbloom

    Passersby stared at me curiously as I stood facing a
    haphazard diagonal, staring intently ahead of me in
    the dusk twilight. In lonely absence, her aura
    haunted me as the fading warmth of the day. While I
    thought to myself that, just maybe, I was feeling the
    way she had felt, that very last time I saw her,
    standing in that same spot, facing the same
    direction, at a bizarre angle to the flow of traffic,
    ignoring the absent stares of orthogonally half-drunk
    voyagers in bright tacky warm-weather clothes,
    feeling the warm roughness of the sandy cement
    against the soles of my bare feet.

    An innocent glance at the bloom of a vine twined
    around a square wooden post next to me. Intricately
    random folds of orange tropical flowers trigger the
    memory of her smile, a memory which washes over my
    psyche in a tidal-wave of menacingly gentle sweet
    aroma, threatening to crush the world in darkness
    with the agony of her missing beauty, as arm-in-arm
    lovers contemptuously drive their harsh laughter into
    my heart, like broken looking-glass shards, or
    splinters of weather-worn planks of a sunken warship
    listing beneath the mud of eons.

    An older woman in pink shorts and white sun-bonnet,
    toting a large rustlingly full plastic shopping bag,
    filled with gifts for the grandchildren back home,
    whips around the corner, adjusts her course to avert
    collision, bumps gently into me. "Sorry," I say.

    "Sorry," she says, and is gone. I continue to stare
    intently in the dusk twilight of the receding day,
    reliving the event on this same spot only a few hours
    ago.

    "What are you looking at?" I had asked when I first
    saw her, she balanced on one foot in the blaring
    noonday sun, oblivious to her precariousness as she
    stared off into the distance.

    "Come here, look," she said. I placed my chin on her
    tiny shoulder and followed her gaze. Through a tiny
    chink in the hedge-wall glittered the dancing sparkle
    of sunlight on the distant waves.

    "The ocean," I said, breathless.

    "Yeah." Her soft hair brushed my cheek as she turned
    slightly, pursing her lips with the coy smile now
    etched into my burning pages of memory.

    She must be about eight years old, wherever she is
    now, with a calm, reserved adult-ness and long coils
    of beautiful dusty-blonde hair, the steely twinkling
    blue eyes.

    The `K' she drew with her big toe in the sand on the
    pavement. "So I remember this spot," she said,
    smiling secretly at me.

    "K, for?"

    "Karina," she reminded me. Pronounced like the girl
    in Bob Dylan song,

    Corrina Corrina, gal where ya been so long?
    I been wondering about you baby,
    baby won't you please come home?

    I sang the song to myself as I remembered in the
    twilight our mid-day "tryst," cursing this purgatory
    of infernal waiting as I watched through the tiny
    chink where the glittering waves would have been in
    daylight, seeing nothing in the pitch-black of night.
    Until a miracle transpired: at that very instant, the
    moon raised its curious brow over the horizon, and my
    eyes were met with the sparkle of millions of tiny
    twinkling pinpoints, dancing on the waves.

    Passersby stared as I stood diagonally transfixed.

    Walking back to the parked rental car, my stray
    libido must have been unconsciously working overtime,
    because I started feeling like Shrek watching the
    villagers sharpen pitchforks: little girls flushed
    smiling as they met my gaze, and parents almost
    imperceptibly tensed as I walked by. If only they
    realized, none of them were the one I was looking
    for.

    The merry-go-round spun aimlessly, populated only by
    a mother standing next to her little girl on the
    horse, braced against the centrifugal force, both
    watching stoically ahead as the horse circled around
    and around, expectantly if the laws of physics were
    about to shift and the horse would change direction,
    or perhaps transfigure into a gloriously live winged
    unicorn, bearing the both of them away into a land of
    unimagined wonders. At the center of the carousel,
    mirrors reflected every which way, and the carillon
    bells jingled their tuneless music-box calliope
    melody.

    Art gallery walls spaciously enclosed hollow laughter
    and specious kitsch, weasely obsequious salesman
    grins and the flashing credit-cards of casually
    wealthy retirees in expensively ugly shorts. The
    shallow smell of money. And while the moon busily
    made its way across the starry sky, the guy who drew
    portraits every night, sitting in the exact little
    niche in a storefront alcove, silently studied the
    face of a squirming, giggling youthful boy,
    surrounded by the critical gazes of his family.

    A front-line soldier patrolling the trenches dug in
    against the onslaught of transient visitors, each of
    whom was expecting the perfect vacation, the
    Portraiteer calmly studied the face before him. The
    private's wages were a fraction the income of the
    gallery-chain owner who sat at this very minute
    comfortably absorbed in a widescreen TV-commercial
    for a ridiculously large expensively gas-guzzling
    automobile. The corpulent General was cozily
    ensconced, safely away from battle lines, yelling at
    his wife in the kitchen for an extra scoop of
    ice-cream.

    The tall masts of ships anchored out in the harbor
    stood swaying as thin shadows against the night sky,
    talking to each other in the soothingly mysterious
    language of ropes ringing gently against hollow metal
    poles, accompanied by the occasional crash of waves
    on the rocky shoreline.

    As I drove the highway to my temporary dwelling, the
    rental-car radio gently crooned a Polynesian
    love-song. At the end of the driveway, the motor fell
    silent. The house was dark and empty, aside from the
    gaunt shadows of ghosts of vacationers and revelers
    from years gone by. Letting myself in, the key
    clattered to a rest in hollow silence on the bland,
    chipped formica of the kitchen counter.

    Lying in bed, the memory of her returned once more,
    the first time I saw her, earlier that same day, in
    the brilliant morning light waiting to board the
    plane. Ahead of her parents, she lugged the bulky
    suitcase, wheeling it into position in the line
    immediately behind me just as her parents exploded
    into an argument.

    Or rather her father exploded, make that her
    step-father - dressed in a loose business suit, minus
    the tie, top shirt-button undone. A man of big money
    and important things. "Dammit Lilly, I still don't
    see why we had to bring her. It was supposed to be a
    romantic getaway, remember? You promised."

    "Not so loud, dear!" Lilly (the mother) gave a
    worried glance over at Karina, the little girl in
    red-rimmed sunglasses, humming a little tune,
    dusty-blonde curls erupting from under the brim of a
    stylish straw sunhat, cascading over her tiny
    shoulders and down her little back. Skinny legs
    gangling from white shorts. Ready for vacation.

    "Hey mister. Is this the line?"

    The frantically whispered argument continued behind
    her. "Yup," I replied.

    She let stand the suitcase, and lowered her
    sunglasses a fraction of an inch down her nose, so I
    could see her beautiful steely-blue eyes. "We're
    going on vacation," she said innocently.

    I became aware the smell of cigarette smoke just as
    the I saw airport attendant tapping the stepfather on
    the shoulder. "Excuse me sir," said the attendant,
    "I'll have to ask you to put that out."

    "Oh for crissake," he sputtered.

    "He always has a cigarette," Karina commented to me.

    Right then, I already felt tremendous love for this
    poor unwanted little girl, who was brimming with the
    joy of the moment, ready to enjoy the excitement of
    an airplane trip to an enchanted exotic tropical
    shore.

    Karina continued "The babysitter fell through at the
    last minute, because she had to go help her sister
    having a baby. So mom got me a plane ticket so I
    could go with them instead, and they've been arguing
    about it ever since."

    It was one of those interminable airport lines which,
    even with only 5 people ahead of me had been stuck in
    a holding pattern for the past 15 minutes. I sat down
    on my suitcase, so I wouldn't have to stoop down to
    talk to her.

    Up close now, her face was familiar, as if I had
    known her from somewhere. Or was it a face I had
    imagined from a storybook or novel? Or seen in a
    movie? I still couldn't place it. Perhaps it was
    subconscious recognition of someone I had known in a
    past life, and we had reincarnated together to meet
    in this odd way, two live humans stuck in a
    mechanistically dehumanizing situation.

    "And what's your name, love?" I asked.

    "Karina. What's yours?"

    "Dante."

    "Dante," she repeated curiously.

    "Named after a famous author, who wrote a big old
    book about hell."

    "Hell," she repeated absently.

    "You're going to have a great time," I told her, only
    half-believing it.

    "What's that?" she asked, pointing to the wooden legs
    protruding from my carry-on bag.

    "Folding easel. I'm a painter," I said.

    "Oh." She gave that famous coy little smile that now
    haunted my memory, the smile that had burned itself
    into my dreams, branding its impression onto my soul.

    Our chat continued as we sat in the waiting area. She
    asked me about painting, and read riddles to me from
    the pastime book she had stuck in the pocket of her
    bag.

    Her mom and step-dad seemed relieved that Karina had
    found a form of distraction. Her mom looked something
    of an aging floozy, lipstick and makeup each day
    increasingly a little more overdone, as if it could
    deny the lines and pores that she saw in the
    looking-glass invading her face in slow motion, as if
    the layers of covering could litigate in opposition
    to the inevitable changes wrought by the sands of the
    hour-glass, could negotiate a reduced fine, a more
    lenient sentence.

    And now that she found herself unexpectedly burdened
    by the result of one of her flings, she had put her
    charms to work finding a man with money, so her
    little girl could have the nice things in life.

    The step-dad was obviously itching for a cigarette,
    although it didn't seem likely he was any less cranky
    with the need fulfilled. Every minute or so his
    cell-phone would go off, and the mom dutifully,
    patiently, draped her arm across his neck, massaging
    his tense shoulders as he yelled at some subordinate
    far away. She was his trophy, his conspicuous
    consumption. His shiny new Cadillac that he drove
    down the streets of the worst slums in order to fluff
    up his bloated ego, the gourmet banquet he devoured
    with an audience of the millions of who were kept
    starving in order to flaunt his obvious superiority,
    as if status were measured by the amount of suffering
    one could cause to others.

    The two of them were both currently invisible to
    Karina, hidden by the brim of her beautiful new straw
    hat as she faced me, chattering away. She invited me
    into her own little fairyland, and we gaily strode
    the rustic paths under waterfalls and over rainbows,
    through meadows of giant pink flowers, over gently
    rolling hills of chartreuse meadows filled with soft
    fluffy grass, cartoons and dandelions, crayons and
    hot chocolate. I sat mesmerised by her glowing smile
    and bubblingly disconnected happy little stories,
    until the crackle of the attendant's voice over the
    squeaky PA system signaled that it was time to board.

    Reluctantly, I eventually stood, and we silently
    waited for our rows to get called. I lost track of
    her after we boarded the plane -- until by chance
    that I had encountered her in the center of town,
    staring diagonally at the sparkle of the ocean,
    before she was once again whisked away by her trusty
    guardians.

    I shifted again in the increasingly wrinkled sheets,
    waiting with tense impatience in the infernal dry and
    dusty desert heat for the gentle rain of drowsiness
    and sleep.
      ________________________________________________

    When I awoke, the pre-dawn light was faintly
    streaming back in the sky. The excitement of a new
    location, plus the time difference combined to awaken
    me earlier than accustomed.

    Throwing off the covers and struggling to rise, I
    went over to the window, pulling aside the curtain.

    What I saw so startled me that I blinked and rubbed
    my eyes before looking again. There she was -- a
    miracle -- playing hopscotch in the sand out in front
    of my window.

    Frantically I ran over to the suitcase to dig out
    something that I could wear outside. This was a
    generally simple task, which ordinarily transpired
    without notable difficulty, but today everything
    tangled and jammed with my impatience. After putting
    on inside-out shorts, and a shirt inside-out, and
    then backwards, I was finally ready. Afraid she may
    have already left, I gently opened the front door.

    Greeted by daylight, and the sweet tropical air. She
    looked up from her game when she saw me, and smiled.
    "Hey," she said, running over to the front porch,
    where she stood gazing up at me, lips moist, a
    delightful bundle of life and energy.

    "Um, hi," My intense eagerness was replaced by
    equally intense uncertainty. What on earth was I
    going to say to this young girl? Today, she wore a
    white T-shirt, over a blue-and-pink swimsuit. I tore
    my eyes away from her the tiny strip of material that
    ran between her legs, a manoeuvre which she
    registered with a slight flexing of her hips that
    blew my sense of reality all to pieces.

    "Um," I articulately continued, "whacha doing?"

    "Well, I was going to collect shells..." she gestured
    to the little pink-and-purple plastic bucket in the
    sand, along with a matching pink shovel, that
    particular shade of pink which invariably appeals to
    young girls worldwide. "... and then I saw your car."

    "How did you know it was my car?"

    "'cause I saw your pack..." and I remembered my pack,
    with the folding easel she had asked about the day
    before, and that I had neglected to bring it in from
    the car, so it remained on the back seat, where I
    casually tossed it.

    "Does your mom and dad know that you're out here?"

    "I would have asked. But they were busy. They had the
    door closed and there was lots of noise. I guess they
    were having sex."

    "Oh." Mentally I reviewed my knowledge of human
    stages of development. Did the average eight-year-old
    so matter-of-factly toss such a phrase into casual
    conversation?

    Her prodigious sandy-blonde curls, today unencumbered
    by any sort of headgear, tumbled gently as she
    shifted her head to gaze at me with her uncannily
    penetrating beautiful blue-grey eyes.

    "Did you collect any shells?"

    "Well no, I didn't yet."

    "Oh."

    We exchanged thoughtful silences. Or perhaps they
    were awkward silences. It was difficult to tell, with
    the aura of her untrained enthusiasm washing over the
    scenery, the warm happy glow of her presence falling
    like gentle rain in the parched desert.

    "Would you like me to go with you?" I asked.

    Her face lit up like a jack-o-lantern. "Could you?"

    "Sure, why not?" I replied. "It's not like I need to
    be anywhere. This is my vacation. So, just a sec." As
    I went to grab the keys from the kitchen counter, she
    stepped up to the threshold and her eyes darted
    curiously around the room.

    "I assume you're staying somewhere close by here?"

    She nodded solemnly, and pointed in the direction of
    a cluster of buildings invisible through the trees
    and over a hill. The side where the people with money
    stayed.

    I paused for a moment, thinking. "OK, let's go," I
    said, joining her outside and slamming the door.

    "OK," she replied, snatching her pail and shovel, and
    gaily skipping along the path.

    "This way," I said. "I've been here before."

    She followed, eyebrows raised with curiosity.

    After walking for several minutes through the brush,
    hearing the waves nearby, smelling the fresh scent of
    morning seabreeze, the path opened to a secluded
    cove, sheltered from the ocean waves by a reef, so
    that the waves broke gently on the shore.

    Clean fluffy white and tan grains of sand stretched
    away down the shoreline, freshly washed by the ocean
    tides. Grains of broken-down minerals were mixed with
    the tiny pure smoothed white remains of crumbled
    shells.

    She giggled with glee, running up to the water, then
    back as it rushed to meet her, then dropped the
    bucket as she bent down to scoop up the sand between
    her fingers.

    "You know how to swim?" I asked, striding over to her
    side. "Yep. Well, I take swimming lessons every
    summer. But I never been in the ocean."

    "Ah. So then I had better tell you something very
    important."

    "What?"

    "Be sure never to turn your back on her."

    "Her?"

    "The sea. The waves. They can change unexpectedly,
    and slap you down like that." I clapped my hands.

    "Never?"

    I laughed. "Well, you can turn away, but always keep
    an eye on her. You never know what to expect. You
    know, those waves come from thousands of miles away,
    from storms way out at sea."

    "Wow." She stood, staring at the waves as they
    crashed out on the reef, and the smaller waves that
    made it in over the breakwater.

    She was so beautifully thin and pale, against the
    weathered lines of the trees and shores, the tiny
    wisps of clouds that clung to the edges of the sky,
    hiding from the sun that lurked below the horizon,
    waiting to chase them away.

    A wave bigger than the rest arose and startled her
    slightly, and I could see the wheels of her mind
    spinning, absorbing the seeds of information I was
    injecting into her life. She faced me smiling. "The
    water is so clear," she exclaimed, giving a tiny
    leap. "I feel like I'm dreaming." She lifted her feet
    from the sandy holes that the waves had buried them
    in.

    She grinned. "Are you part of my dream?"

    "You'll wake up soon. I can pinch you to be sure." I
    slowly reached toward her.

    "No!" she laughed, playfully splashing.

    I faced her gleeful bubbling with tenderness and
    longing, glad to enjoy vicariously her delight in the
    novelty. Colors that had been faded and dried with
    the years regained bright saturation and moist
    exuberance with her enthusiasm. Every particle, every
    grain of sand rejoiced at the perfection of the
    moment.

    I followed her up and down the shoreline, as she
    eagerly poked and prodded the water and the sand, her
    squeals of ecstasy at the simplest little shell, the
    shadows of the fish swimming curiously in the next
    inlet, the crashing of the waves out at the natural
    breakwater.

    We met face to face over a starfish half-buried in
    the sand. She squatted down to touch the starfish
    with outstretched index finger, her legs spread wide
    towards me. I knelt down too, and in extending my arm
    to gain balance I unintentionally, gently brushed her
    soft, pale, white inner thigh with the outer edge of
    three fingers.

    "Sorry!" I said.

    She glanced up briefly, flashed a knowing grin, and
    winked.

    Then her attention absorbed in the 5-pointed animal
    below us, her face flush with excitement. My eye
    wandered to the triangular strip of colorful fabric
    stretching ever so thinly around her pubic arch,
    bunched up a little so that I imagined I could make
    out the shape of her sweet valley beneath.

    Cringing at first, she touched, and then picked up
    the starfish, turning it over to see the millions of
    tiny feet on the bottom, until the sea rose to caress
    her tiny buttocks, causing her to drop her quest as
    she stood, allowing the undertow to carry the
    starfish back out to sea, as droplets of water ran
    down her legs.

    The water that had splashed over her shirt revealed
    the outlines of her swimming suit, and traces of her
    dime-sized pricking-up nipples beneath. Immersion had
    caused the sparse fabric layers to lose their powers
    of concealment over her innocent flesh.

    She stood gazing out to the horizon, awe-struck with
    delightfully blushing innocent sensuous wonder.

    The sky grew brighter and finally the inquisitive eye
    of the sun broke over the rim of the horizon and bore
    down on our adventures, until finally we both agreed
    it was time to return for breakfast.

    "What are you eating?" she demanded.

    "Nothing special, I got some pancake mix down at the
    store."

    "Oh." her face fell.

    "Why, what are you having?"

    She scowled. "Cheerios. The positive worst. My Mom
    makes me eat them because she says the other kinds
    have too much sugar."

    "I'm sure they're good for you," I offered,
    unhelpfully, as she led the way, bucket swinging back
    on the path.

    "Yeah right. That's what Mom says." She pushed aside
    a branch from across the path, and held it for me.
    She gave the most amazingly creative expression of
    disdain I have ever seen in my life.

    "You're such the dramatic," I mused.

    "Can I come over after breakfast?" she asked as we
    parted ways.

    I shrugged, feigning disinterest. "Sure, why not? We
    can practice swimming in the ocean."

    Once again, the brightness of her smile rekindled the
    glow of embers deep within me.

    "I'll ask my Mom if it's OK," she said, departing.

    "You can tell her I was a lifeguard in high school,"
    I called after her.

    "'K," she said simply, and the echoes of the word
    hung in the air after she had departed. `K' for
    Karina.

    Breakfast was an exercise in restraining impatience.
    Maintaining order, keeping a sensible pace. Every
    sense was heightened, and it wound up that my timing
    was perfect in every aspect. The pancakes were
    delicious, especially with the mangos added to the
    syrup.

    There was a single, glaring monumental flaw in the
    event. That was the empty chair beside me. The
    silence in the conversation. The absence of the one I
    desired.

    I was starting to feel full, and making coffee, when
    I heard the knock on the door. Heart pounding I
    opened it, half-expecting inquisitive and possibly
    angry parents.

    My little friend stood alone on the doorstep, this
    time sporting a beach towel, sunglasses rimmed in
    fluorescent metallic red, and streaks of
    hastily-applied sunscreen. "Come in," I said. "How
    were the cheerios?"

    She lowered the sunglasses a quarter inch down her
    nose to reveal her beautiful blue eyes, and growled
    in response. I caught a whiff of cigarette smoke on
    her shirt.

    "You have sunscreen," I explained as I reached out
    gently, tenderly, to spread the errant lotion across
    her face. She waited stoically as I caressed her
    skin, and caught in the magic of the moment, I
    lightly stroked her amazing light-brown curls. She
    shivered slightly, and smiled as a cat ready to purr.

    "You know," I mentioned casually, "I had some batter
    left and I'm done eating if you'd like some pancakes.
    The syrup is rather excellent as well."

    Her beautiful steel-blue eyes widened, and she took
    her place in the empty chair, nodding silently. The
    princess assumed her rightful throne, and waited
    patiently as I reheated the griddle and the sizzling
    batter met the oily surface.

    "I told my Mom you were a lifeguard, and she said you
    could teach me mouth-to-mouth resustenation."

    I laughed. "Resuscitation," I corrected.

    "Whatever."

    An odd thing happened in the kitchen that day,
    unprecedented in known history. You know how the
    first pancakes are the best, but as the pancake
    batter sits out, it tends to go flat? But that day,
    those very last pancakes I made for Karina were
    spectacularly the lightest, most perfectly textured
    and ideally cooked pancakes I have ever made in my
    life.

    As if, rather than serving the cheap wine when it was
    time for the wedding-guests to leave, the best were
    saved for last.

    The syrup as well delivered perfection, and all was
    devoured in a state of gleeful frenzy, as I sat
    watching and sipping contented cups of coffee.
      ________________________________________________

    Along the path to the ocean, she glanced back, then
    stopped. "Oh," she said. "Mom and Max." She pointed.

    I followed the direction of her elegantly graceful
    innocent young gesture. Through the brush, facing
    away from us some distance away, I could see the
    couple. Both were smoking and barking loud, harsh
    laughter, seated in low-slung beach chairs swilling
    colorful drinks with little umbrellas in them.

    "A bit early in the day," I murmured.

    "She only smokes when she's with him." she scowled.

    They didn't notice us, and we continued on our way.

    We set our our towels in a secluded spot, and lay out
    in the sun for awhile before going in the water. She
    put on her red-rimmed sunglasses and took off her
    shirt, meaning that the glasses got lodged in the
    pleats of fabric and wound up perched askew on her
    nose as she tossed aside the shirt, revealing the
    bikini beneath, and acres of beautiful, smooth
    innocent white skin. Tiny acres.

    She straightened the sunglasses. "Help," she gestured
    with the tube of sunscreen.

    "Um, sure." She lay on her stomach as I gently spread
    the lotion across her shoulders, down her back, down
    her legs. My fingers lovingly caressed every square
    centimetre of her epidermis, fingertips palpating
    with tingling satisfaction the tantalizing plasticity
    of her elastic young flesh.

    Across her shoulders, down her spine, then with my
    thumbs gently tracing up and down her soft, thin
    legs. She moaned softly as I did so, shifting
    restlessly. I traced up and down again, spreading the
    soothing lotion.

    "Now your front," I said.

    Abruptly, she sat up on her knees and turned over,
    then just as abruptly collapsed into a state of soft
    spaghetti, perfectly al dente, and I caressed her
    arms, her forearms and hands, her shoulders, down her
    belly, tracing with my fingers almost to the sacred
    starfish between her legs. I stopped before I got
    there, but her nerves extrapolated the gesture and
    she moaned and shuddered briefly, until I continued
    down her legs, gently embracing each dainty little
    foot in each palm of my hand.

    When I finished, she cast out a long soulful sigh.

    "Now help me?" I requested, after an appropriately
    respectful interval of time.

    "Sure thing, jelly bean." I laid back on the towel
    and closed my eyes as I felt the loving young hands
    methodically spreading the lotion across my tingling
    skin. The touch was magic with electricity, her
    caress the silk of empires reborn, and in a brief
    flash of opening eyelids I glanced her mesmerised by
    my growing member.

    She saw me look and smiled sheepishly, but without
    stopping her gracious gestures, the brush strokes
    painting swirls of passion across the canvas of my
    desire.

    Soon we laid together side by side on our backs,
    enjoying the sun. Birds sang, chattered, argued
    semantics in bird-talk with bird-brained abandon
    above and all around us, flowers gaily sprang into
    bloom.

    "What's mouth-to-mouth restustipation?" she asked
    abruptly.

    "What you do if somebody stops breathing, if they
    were drowning for example."

    "Can you show me it?"

    "You're required to get a certificate from an
    authorized instructor, and I'm not qualified to teach
    health and safety, so I am afraid I am not in a
    position to properly instruct you."

    "Please?"

    "Only authorized instructors are certified to
    effectively present the proper methodology, on
    account of the potential risk of liability and other
    legal considerations..."

    "So say I was suffocated by your long boring
    blathering, and stopped breathing, what would you do?
    Here I go." She took in a deep breath and pinched her
    nose with her fingers.

    I rolled my eyes, and rolled over into a sitting
    position. "OK, wise guy. First," I tried to remove
    her hand from her nose, but she refused, giggling.

    "First, you clear the passageway for breathing. Then
    you tilt the head back," (I did, gently) "and place
    your palm on the forehead, and pinch the nose." As
    she saw me yielding to her sinister plan, she let go
    her nose and dropped her hand back to her side.

    "Then you place your mouth against theirs," at which
    point I had to stop talking.

    Her young lips were soft and taut against mine. She
    opened her mouth willingly, and then in a miraculous
    instant, her tongue reached out lightly and flicked
    against mine.

    My reflex was to gasp and pull away ...

    She lowered, then removed the red-rimmed sunglasses,
    and her cool blue eyes gazed calmly up at me, haloed
    by her bodacious sandy-blonde curls. At this intimate
    proximity I noticed the sprinkling of tiny light
    freckles across her flushed cheeks and dainty little
    nose. And her moist red lips.

    I bent back down and kissed her. She responded with
    passion that sent tingles through my body, her lips
    so soft and receptive, her moans of desire as her
    back arched to meet me, her arms reached up and
    wrapped around my head and shoulders.

    Our first kiss. And when it was over, she held me,
    eyes downcast in serene contentment, lips full for a
    splendid instant suspended in time, until she looked
    up again, cool blue eyes blazing with desire, and our
    lips met again.

    My palms held her upper arms, played across her back,
    spreading broad gentle brush-strokes of burning
    magnetism through the fibres of her smooth canvas,
    filaments of attraction causing the ecstatic synapses
    to dance in delight.

    I marveled at our sharing across the ages, defying
    with each incredibly simple caress the countless
    shards of infernal waiting that would rage like a
    river between us, the endless grains of sand falling
    through the hourglass of years that stood between us
    like the a bristlingly armed sentinel, to be smashed
    into dust by something as simple as a gently traced
    line across her soft cheek, her fingertips against
    mine, her lips quivering with intense yearning, as
    her youth stood side by side with my years and we
    shared together the innocent pleasure of human sexual
    longing.

    Until the storm subsided, and she lay, gently sighing
    on top of me, her tiny hand in mine, her smooth cheek
    pressed against my hairy chest.

    "Swim?" I asked.

    "'K." we arose. She straightened her bathing suit
    bottom across her cute little buttocks.

    "You know," I said.

    "What?"

    "We can't tell anybody we were doing that just now."

    She gave a sly grin. "I know," she said. "I wasn't
    born yesterday, you know."

    "No, only the day before," I sighed, wondering what
    on earth I was doing. But determined not to worry
    about it, I set about care-free enjoyment of my
    vacation.

    As the merry-go-round turns, with each spin
    approaching and retreating from the brass rings and
    the enticingly open-mouthed clown offering a toss at
    few extra moments of sinusoidal undulation in two
    dimensions, I will leave the reader with a receding
    long-shot of the blissful day that ensued, the
    laughter and splashing, the shared awe at the sublime
    immensity of the sparkling sea that stretched before
    us.

    I taught her in these gentle currents how to go under
    the wave, to yield rather than be knocked over by
    fighting it; how to recognize the undertow and avoid
    it, what to do when caught (swim across it). As the
    waves approached and receded, so did we swim out and
    back across the wave break until I saw that she was
    comfortable with the rhythm of the sea, that she had
    the savvy to ride with the tide.

    There was a break for lunch, during which I got to
    chat with the sauced and sizzled legal guardians,
    each puffing away on a foul and fuming chimney-stack.
    The conversation sufficiently moved Max to dispense
    lunch money, a few twenty dollar bills as an
    incantation to make us go away and leave them alone
    again in their slobbering solitude.

    From the far side of the merry-go-round, we will call
    upon the reader's imagination to span the distance,
    to paint the details of the giggling and giddy
    affair, to connect the dots from the the romantic
    dining (with creme soda and extra french-fries) to
    the solemn sundae following, to the stroll along the
    tourist-laden main street glistening with fool's
    silver and trashy trinkets, T-shirts and posters
    saying "I was here" in countless permutations of
    gaudy rhinestones and hollow plastic, the
    Portraiteer, seriously longfaced footsoldier
    entrenched against the enemy, in conquest of sanity
    against the furiously fantastic expectations of happy
    vacationers. The artist sized up the squirming
    squabbling siblings, and standing next to Karina I
    saw the children around through her eyes, as peers. I
    suspect she was doing the inverse, seeing the world
    around her through the eyes of an adult.

    "Could you paint my portrait?" she inquired.

    I laughed. "I'd love to, dear, but I mostly do
    abstracts. I don't know if I'm really capable of a
    convincing likeness."

    "Please?" she asked, in a voice difficult to resist.

    "I'll certainly give it a try," I promised.

    And the carousel, now gloriously filled with gleeful
    children, sinusoidally set in circular motion
    imitating the moons, planets, sun and stars orbiting
    and spinning during the years had separated me from
    Karina, to the tune of an ancient circus far away,
    transmitted across the ages via the glyphs and runes
    expressively interpreted by mechanical calliope.

    "Can we?" she asked.

    "Of course," I replied.

    After the wait for our turn at turning, we shared a
    single horse, she in front, squirming against my
    burgeoning codpiece, now and again flashing back a
    delighted smile.

    My arms being the longest, I was in charge of
    grabbing the brass rings, but her shot was true, and
    by the number threw that hit dead center, the ride
    would never have ended, we should still be spinning
    this moment, having sailed spinning in each other's
    arms, laughing joyfully into an eternity of turning,
    a splendid spiraling into infinity.

    The other game she played (and was winning) was that
    as I leaned forward to snag one of the brass rings,
    and only when I wasn't expecting it, she would place
    a moist and juicy kiss dead center on my cheek.
    Nervously, I looked around to be sure nobody noticed,
    but the horses nearby were unpopulated, and the other
    riders were to occupied with their own good time to
    be bothered with any excess of affection between a
    man and his daughter, or stepdaughter, or uncle and
    niece, or whatever.

    And the glyphs of the tuneless gaiety spiraled away
    through galaxies of neatly targeted rings and kisses.

    Strolling away afterwards, she feigned dizziness, and
    so asked to be carried piggyback. Of course, my
    princess deserved to ride first class, arms around my
    neck, her soft warm belly against my back, legs
    spread, and at the center seated on her precious
    flower pressed against the small of my lower back,
    cheek close to mine.

    As we promenaded along the sidewalk, the corner of a
    crazy flickering Lissajous parallelogram on the
    street adjacent caught my eye. My gaze followed its
    length to see that it was caused by sunlight
    reflecting on the windowed corner of a storefront,
    and looking diagonally through the glass panes I
    caught a glimpse of our reflection in a dressing-room
    looking-glass, she riding in her triumphant perch, I
    (for now) the beast of burden, the dance of two
    lovers mirrored in the elusive distance.

    Us.

    Eventually I put her down, and we found ourselves on
    a cliff overlooking the ocean, once more in a
    secluded spot. I became aware how naked she was in
    the skimpy bikini, as we looked into each other's
    eyes, each studying the face across. I traced her
    eyebrows with my little finger. She placed her palm
    on my chin, reached up and kissed me.

    More slowly this time, the passion flows between us.
    The deep current of a full river. Our bodies touch in
    different ways, permutations of limbs in contact --
    my wrist on her thigh, her shoulder against my ribs,
    the back of my calf caressing her cute little bottom.

    There is a delicious subtle tension between us,
    magically synchronized by our shared innocence. As
    she briefly draws away, I hold her towards me, as I
    lean back she clings to my arm, her push met by my
    pull, my push answered by her pull, like planets
    orbiting each other, flying apart from inertia only
    to be drawn back together by gravitational force.

    How can we so perfectly perform the dance of passion
    with so little experience? Or perhaps the experience
    is a detriment, since the leader of the dance is the
    sense of novelty, of exploration, of finding new
    sensations and postures and movements. Free from the
    burden of jaded ennui, we achieve the ideal jeweled
    perfection.

    She pushed me over onto my back and pinned me down
    fiercely with her torrential lovemaking. I held her
    tiny preciousness in my hands, stroking and touching
    and crushing her longingly against me.

    Her sexuality was more brazen now, and she rode my
    curving steel-edged ironwood root gently cupped in
    the warm valley of her desire, rocking and moaning,
    only the stretched and wrinkled clothes between us
    preventing the actuality of the unthinkable. I tasted
    her lips, her tongue, her cheeks. Wetness from her
    beautiful red mouth dotted my cheeks, my eyelids, my
    neck.

    Blissful ebbing and flowing of tides, as the dusk
    crept nearer with its friendly darkness, waiting to
    show us the stars it was keeping in its secret
    hideaway, inside the blackness of the aged ruins of a
    castle fortress deep in the sky tinged with purple. A
    fortress laced in vines decorated by the sensuous
    intricately random folds of orange tropical flowers.

    Soon she lay still and silent on top of me, breathing
    joyous sighs of our closeness. I felt the pleasant
    soft moistness of the pre-drops from the passion of a
    few moments ago. I imagined the sticky sweet dewdrops
    of moisture that had collected inside her opening.

    "Dante," she said.

    "Yes?" I replied.

    "Are we in love?"

    "We seem to be doing a pretty good imitation of it."

    "No, really," she insisted.

    "Sorry love. I'm not sure I know how you tell for
    certain. It's not like I've ever felt this way
    before."

    Abruptly, she propped up her head, staring at me.
    "You mean this is your first time?"

    Waves crashed on the shoreline below us.

    "Well?" she demanded.

    "I don't want to think about the past. There isn't
    much to think about anyway."

    She grinned. "It's your first time, isn't it?"

    "I didn't say that!"

    She lay her head back on my chest, giggling.

    "Look, Karina. I really care about you. I don't want
    to do anything that might hurt you, or let you do
    anything you'll regret later on. Kissing like this is
    fun, but..."

    Waves crashed.

    "But what?" she asked.

    "I just want you to be happy. Anyhow, I barely know
    you..."

    Crashing waves. A seagull squealed nearby.

    I continued: "I don't want to traumatize your
    childhood or anything."

    "Why not?"

    "'Cause, well you know. It could be bad. And stuff."

    A warm breeze lifted the fronds high above around us.

    She propped her head again. "You know, I think you
    just need to relax a little bit."

    "Right." I made to get up. "We should be getting
    back. Your mom is probably wondering where you are."

    She slid comfortably down my front as I pried myself
    off the ground, and came to a rest with her open,
    moist mouth only centimetres from my bulging crotch.

    "Need to relax," I repeated to myself, hoisting her
    up to standing.

    Slowly we strolled back as the tropical darkness
    closed around like a cozy blanket of solitude. We
    held hands part of the way, and just before we came
    in sight of her house, she stood on tiptoe and made
    me bend down for a final quick kiss. Quick but
    effective.

    I accompanied her to the open front door. Light
    poured into the night from within. The atmosphere
    surged with a postcoital (for them) seriousness of
    intent.

    "Karina, there you are. Quick, get dressed. We're
    going to go out for dinner." It was her Mom.

    Max was invisible inside. My princess vanished
    within. I caught a glimpse of her cot just inside the
    front door. It must have been hers, rumpled bedding,
    her pink pail and shovel beside, her dolls strewn on
    top. The stink of dead cigarette smoke stung my
    nostrils.

    "Thanks for watching her for us," her Mom smiled at
    me as she too stepped inside, "It was nice to have
    some time alone."

    "No problem," I said, vanishing into the fading dusk
    light as she closed the door behind her.

    The path was invisible as I stumbled through the
    twilight that surrounded me, until my keys found the
    aperture in the front-door knob, my fingers found the
    lightswitch, flooding my senses with harsh photons,
    and the keys clattered on the chipped formica kitchen
    counter.

    Now the same room that had been so cold the night
    before was cozy with the glow of our afternoon
    together, with the memory of her sitting at breakfast
    right there, in that chair. I sat down next to where
    she had been and imagined her there for a moment.

    Alright, enough.

    I switched on the TV and found myself watching a
    channel which seemed entirely devoted to footage of
    volcanoes erupting, spewing walls of lava into the
    sky, trees and houses in the path in flames and
    collapsing, crushed under the molten river.

    Drowsy with the day's activity and sun, I eventually
    found myself starting to doze, and so killed the
    noisy tube and retreated to the boudoir where I
    removed all my clothes and collapsed like a house
    burdened with floes of lava, and crashed into
    chattering dreams of molten yearning.

    Suddenly I snapped awake, how long had I been
    napping? My brain struggled through the drowsy fog.
    Outside, pitch-blackness had crept in, but a dim
    light from the other room washed the wall across from
    the doorway. My still half-dreaming consciousness was
    thinking myself back at home, and it took a while for
    my mind to explain unfamiliar shapes and shadows
    around, not to mention the tiny footsteps in the
    hall. Finally I realized that I was in my cozy
    vacation spot, exactly as the familiar presence
    stepped into the door frame. Later I realized that it
    had been her slamming the front door that had
    awakened me.

    "Couldn't sleep," she muttered, rubbing her eyes,
    dressed in long white nightgown with vertical pastel
    pinstripes. "They were making noise again."

    "Uh," I articulated, wondering how I was going to don
    some articles of clothing without her seeing me
    naked.

    She stood at the edge of the bed, towering over me
    with tousled curls.

    "You could sleep on the other bed," I attempted. She
    glanced over at it, neatly made up and untouched
    since the housekeeping staff had primly and properly
    prepared it so tightly and neatly tucked in that an
    Olympic trampoline team would not have ruffled it.

    A week or so later, it would still be in that exact
    pristine state when Lilly, Karina's mother, would
    drop in to see where her darling daughter had been
    spending her nights. She would walk a brief circuit
    of the accommodations, glancing curiously into the
    bedroom, and,

    "See, there's a spare bed," I would furtively
    explain, meanwhile noticing the disheveled state of
    the bed I actually shared with my princess, along
    with various articles of her clothing and dolls and
    things strewn and scattered all over it.

    Her mother would give an inscrutably bemused glance,
    and say "You know, the two of you could really work
    on being a little less obvious."

    Tonight, Karina stood at the edge of my pillow,
    towering with tousled tresses. Wordlessly, she lifted
    the covers and crawled in beside me, curling up in my
    arms. Amazing how well we fit together, like adjacent
    pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that had finally found the
    right match.

    I did try to casually relax and doze off again, but
    it's kinda hard when the javelin is ready to go
    pole-vaulting, if you know what I mean. Worse, she
    felt it prodding her cute little buttocks, and began
    to squirm and moan softly.

    "Karina," I said. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

    "Why not?" she asked.

    "Don't you think we should wait?"

    She turned to face me. "Why? Do you need a few
    minutes to look at girly magazines first?"

    "I don't have any."

    "You could borrow some from my Mom. She's got a big
    ol' pile, so she wouldn't notice one missing. She
    likes to give `em to guys."

    "No, I mean more than a few minutes. A few years,
    maybe."

    "Years?!" she yelped with alarm. "Then I'll be, like,
    OLD!"

    "Right," I said. Then, seriously: "Look Karina, I'm
    dying to make love with you, more than anything. I
    just don't want to hurt you."

    She snorted. "So to keep from hurting me you'll break
    my heart?"

    Outside, the crickets and bazillions of other bugs
    called fervently to their mates. Inside me, something
    fell into place. I knew she didn't fully grasp what
    we were talking about, and that it was probably a
    line she had stolen from her Mom. But that instant, I
    knew that what was to follow was inevitable. The one
    tiny thread of logic opposed to the burning forces of
    attraction between us had just blown to smithereens
    by her chance remark.

    Beneath her amazingly prolific dusty-blonde curls, I
    traced her eyebrow with my finger. "You win," I said.
    My heart pounded so ferociously I was afraid it would
    cause an earthquake. Her tiny fingers closed gently
    around the tip of my throbbing penis.

    We kissed, slowly, deliciously, luxuriously, savoring
    each instant as time strolled leisurely towards
    destiny.

    I felt her tremble in my arms at every light
    fingertip-touch, as we wrestled and writhed together
    reciting passionately wordless sounds of love,
    longing, and fulfillment, on that magical night
    together.

    Curiously, she stared at my erection. "So juicy stuff
    comes out of the end when you get all excited?"

    "Yes, that's pretty much how it works."

    "A lot of stuff?"

    "Not too much. Some."

    "You aren't afraid you'll go to the bathroom?"

    I laughed. "When it gets all stiff like that, it
    shuts off that part of the valve."

    She gently traced the contour with her finger,
    causing it to stiffen further, sending tingling
    shivers up my spine. "I want to feel your juicy stuff
    come out the end inside me," she said.

    "Oh," I said involuntarily, not the word but the
    wordless love-sound of longing for her.

    She eagerly explored my fully loaded love-shaft,
    prodding and probing, caressing the curly hair around
    it, gently grasping each ball in turn, then returning
    to the tip exploring and tracing lines around each
    and every contour, feeling the sweet love drops
    between her fingers.

    Meanwhile I slid my hand under her nightgown, and
    found what I was looking for -- the secret valley,
    hot and dripping with sweet dewdrops, surrounded by
    soft, smooth, silky spritely young folds of
    youthfully springy skin. My other hand, arm around
    her, brushed graceful strokes across her smooth
    chest, acknowledging each tiny pert nipple in turn.

    The wordless "oohs" and "aahs" and "uuhs" filled the
    air with the melody of lovemaking, and the bazillion
    bugs outside heard the humans inside calling
    fervently to their mates.

    I found the secret pearl of her pleasure, and her
    cries shifted into a more intense gear, as gently I
    prodded and played, feeling it rise and stiffen
    between my fingers as the oozing of sweet stickiness
    increased into practically a waterfall. The floral
    essence burst into the hot night air.

    My ear against her chest, her beautiful curls
    delicately brushing the back of my neck, I felt her
    heart pounding as her breath quickened and her hoarse
    moans accelerated into increasing intensity. Keeping
    my thumb on her precious pearl, I began to carefully
    push my finger inside her tiny opening. I knew I had
    found the rough edges of her G-spot from the change
    in her song. I kissed her gently, moistly on the
    cheek, as I mercilessly continued the gentle tickling
    and teasing. The hand she had resting on my stiff
    organ had lost her attention by now, and her other
    hand was on mine, pressing me to her. All else in the
    world ceased to exist for her, as her cries and moans
    focused on each rising and cresting wave, until
    suddenly she trembled and convulsed, and I felt her
    rhythmically closing on and releasing my fingers, as
    she arched back, spread her legs, and even more
    fiercely pushed herself against my hand.

    Her eyes flew open briefly, and she turned and kissed
    me with dazzling aggression. Kisses turned into
    butterflies, turned into minutes, into hours, into
    softness and melting away of snowy bluffs crashing
    into the rushing torrential river, fell into a
    blizzard of cherry blossoms fluttering through the
    air like a million faeries.

    Before I knew what, she had sat up and flung the
    nightgown to the floor beside the bed, and flung me
    back face-up on the bed, one hand on each of my
    wrists pinning me down as she carefully aimed the
    center of her dripping cavity on a calculated arc
    toward the tip of my vibrating rod.

    "Gently," I whispered, "It might hurt a little the
    first time."

    She grinned up at me. "I don't think it's any bigger
    than my Mom's toys," she replied.

    "You use your Mom's dildos?"

    She nodded, still grinning.

    "I hope you wash them before you put them back -- Oh
    my God," For at that instant, the opening ring of her
    sweet smooth-skinned valley of delight connected with
    my trembling desire, and as the tip disappeared
    inside her I shuddered blissfully and uncontrollably.

    Then I knew we shared profoundly, the same desire,
    the same fulfillment. Her tiny child's body so
    different from my bulky adult one, yet we felt the
    same feelings, knew the same sensations, thought the
    same ideas, embraced the same longings, and now
    finally we were together as one.

    I gazed at her above me, helplessly enchanted by her
    beautiful dusty curls, bouncing gently with each
    thrust, and steely-blue eyes calmly smiling down on
    me.

    Blissfully I felt our oneness blossom as she writhed
    and circled pushing herself over me, encircling me,
    embracing me, holding the most secret and forbidden
    part of me with sweet innocent lovingness inside of
    her. As our mouth-lips met gently in loving caresses,
    her sexual lips kissed my trembling rod with even
    greater sensation and fulfillment. She spread her
    legs even wider to take me inside of her, and our
    wordless love-song continued in contrapuntal harmony
    with the love songs of the insects outdoors.

    On the dark-grayish canvas, the sensations of her hot
    sticky moist little vagina sending drops down the
    shaft of my penis was a searing red, down in one
    corner, a dot becoming a line, becoming a zigzag,
    growing and smoldering. Each tiny little gesture
    screamed blissful agony of release across the cracks
    in the foundation of time, each little pelvic thrust
    or motion amplified a million times as we gyrated
    together in perfect synchronization.

    She grinned to see the effect she was having on me,
    still with both of my wrists pinned, until I sped up
    and twisted unpredictably, causing her to lose
    herself once more in her own pleasure, closing her
    eyes and throwing her head back up to the ceiling
    with intensity.

    In searing red and purple our forbidden oneness
    caressed and cavorted indescribably until the seeds
    welled up into a penultimate wave.

    "Here it comes," I cried out, thrusting once, twice,
    again, again, and then exploded with a million cherry
    blossoms, luxuriously enjoying my depth inside her as
    the thrusts became more deliberate.

    "Yes," she called gaily as she felt the drops she had
    been waiting for burst into her womb, and adding to
    the perfection I felt her pitch and lose control, her
    ecstatic contractions responding instinctively to
    mine, our release joined together on a deep profound
    level in time and space, as simultaneously across the
    years between us we shared the sacred forbidden
    cresting of the wave, the joyful release, the melting
    away of snowfall into the cascading waterfall, the
    collapse in coolness and tranquility as together our
    breathing calmed and quieted.

    Finally I withdrew the dripping dagger, knowing that
    I had left some of my sacred naughty sweet juice
    inside of her, some of my precious seed, and that by
    it we were now joined together in memory of the
    dazzling simultaneous satori. Now she smiled gently,
    gazing once more in tranquility with her steely blue
    eyes beneath those amazing dusty-blonde curls, and we
    cinched the cool covers around us and gradually faded
    into blissfully refreshing dreams.



      ________________________________________________




   -------------------------------------------------------


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