The Departed Psychic Lover Lon T. Ryden There are only three ways to be. You can be lucky. You can be good. Or you can be both. A lot of people out there believe you can be neither too, but those are just the ones looking for a reason to pity themselves. If they really took the time to think about it they'd see something in their life worth being encouraged about. Now take my brother for instance. Ray Bullock is one of those types which is both good and lucky. He had the luck to have gotten all the good looks to be had, genetically, from our parents, and he got Dad's common sense to boot. But he didn't stop there. He put all his smarts to good use. He wound up with money and women. Me? I take nothing for granted. I got mom's wandering eye, and her thin, lifeless hair. Both Ray and I got dad's cross-bite, mis-aligned jaw, but on him it gives the impression of a rugged, handsome rebel type, and on me it makes people wonder whether I'm retarded or not. Ray got dad's powerful, broad body, and I got mom's sickly, weak one. And in terms of brains? Everything I got out of that deal was the result of a hard-learned lesson. Everything I have which passes for intelligence is really only the sum of thinly disguised cynicism and suspicion. But I'm not complaining. I did get good at using what I had. And now, of course, I know it's a much better thing to be good than to be lucky. And of course, I'm still alive. Two week's ago, Ray died. He was right in the prime of his life. He was a myth in the making, and now, his is the legend which will never be finished. When he died, he was rated number 24 on the list of the most influential businessmen in America. And if you can remember back to last year's 'Sexiest People' issue of People magazine, you may be able to put a face to the name I'm going to attribute to his wife: her name was Annataszia Killyan. Annataszia Killyan-Bullock officially, but without the hyphen whenever she appeared before the camera. She was rated in the top 10 as far as sexy People went that year, number eight to be exact. She had just come off a year in which she'd had a #1 box-office hit called I'd Like You to Watch, the cover of the SI Swimsuit Spectacular, and her first designer fragrance marketed: Killyan... God, Ray... Does that sound like the life? Number 24 in money, and number eight in terms of sexual prowess? Do you think maybe you could get by on just that? Would that be enough for you? What did I have? A career as an actor which barely qualified me as 'starving.' That's what I had. My love life was so pitiful, I only succeeded in orgasm by masturbation fifty percent of the time. Stop. You might have the wrong idea from all of this. What I need you to know is that I hated Ray Bullock. I resented him. I was jealous of him in nearly every way you can imagine. I'm really glad he's dead. When I turned on the ten o'clock news the other night and saw that glitzy little video-obit for him, I probably felt a little bit like Lex Luthor would seeing that Superman had died. I ran to the kitchen for a beer so I could toast my good fortune: one less thing to goad my ulcer with. When I got back to the TV, they had a full-body picture of his widow, wearing a black, micro dress, weeping by his graveside. Well, that's when the gears first started turning. The sight of Annataszia, breasting out of a dress the size of a handkerchief, with fresh grief glistening on her cheeks, is a sight to get the blood of any healthy man pumping. My mentality just at that moment, watching her on the screen, was in a state somewhere between horny and sympathetic -- treading the line on both sides -- and I had just had a brainstorm. A brain hurricane, by God! But you need to know what I knew in order to understand what I'm talking about. It's true that I never kept tabs on my brother. As far as I was concerned, taking the time to say hello to him on the phone was more trouble than it was worth. But you must remember he and his wife were media magnets. All I ever had to do to find out what was new in his life was turn on the TV, and flash! there he was. Full close-up, his massive head, filling up my house with silver-blue television light. Ray Bullock, so big and omnipresent you could count the pores on his nose if you had the mind to. And of course all the stories that made the news were the trashy ones. The ones a sensible person would just shrug past and say, "So?" to. But I remembered them. For instance: Annataszia had a screen put over the mirror above her antique, Russian vanity when she learned there were jealous spirits living inside its reflections. Annataszia always consulted astrologers before photo shoots so she could minimize her exposure on days of "high cosmic incidence." Annataszia had her and Ray's house totally redesigned so it would be more in harmony with the Oriental Chi -- Feng Shui: put stairs over there, hang up another mirror, we need a crystal. Annataszia once guest hosted Sightings. Those are the highest ratings that show will ever get, and it has nothing to do with her being an authority on paranormal activity. Now, if you take what you know about Annataszia, having read the story up till now, and condense that knowledge into three words, the three words you will have are these: gorgeous, rich, stupid. And further, if you take what little you know about me, and condense that into three words, the three words you will have are these: cunning, jealous, erect. The vision in my brain that night, after the news was over, was of me: stepping into my brother's life, and replacing him like an actor's understudy. Maybe I didn't have all the looks and charisma of my brother, but I had other tools in my possession by which to accomplish it. I had an intimate knowledge of Ray's childhood, his same cross-bite, and the memory of the secret nickname he had given every one of his many girlfriends: "sugar-snatch." * So when opportunity knocked, I was waiting in ambush on the other side of the door. Annataszia had never seen me outside of a decade-year-old picture, and she may not have even seen that. She had certainly never heard my voice before. If Ray was anything like me, he never even told anyone he had a brother, and really, what would he have gained by identifying me as a relative? So when I showed up on her welcome mat, I was a total stranger so far as she was concerned. A total stranger dressed monochromatically in blue. I had a blue beret, a blue scarf, a blue coat and bright blue, wool pants. Even the sunglasses I wore had a tint of blue in them. I looked like a paper doll cut right out of the sky. From my experience, idiocy is half of any New Age religious phenomenon. So I had the right costume. She opened the door and looked at me, and then had to look again. She blinked, thick, black lashes, gnashing like the teeth of a trap. My heart quivered. She said, "Can I help you?" and right off I had to restrain the urge to tell her just how much she could. She was even better in real life than she was on television. Maybe she was exuding some kind of pheromone or something. I took a deep breath, and the curtain went up on Act One. "Annataszia Killyan-Bullock," I said, slowly, taking nothing for granted. Annataszia had never seemed that bright in her interviews on television, so I figured I had to make sure I covered every little detail: make sure she knew I knew who I was talking to. "You don't know me, but I feel like I've known you forever." Immediately she started to close the door. She'd obviously had contact with my kind of admirer before. Or at least she thought she had. "I have a message from your husband," I said. "My husband is dead," she said. There was barely enough space left in the doorway to see her face through, and that space was closing up fast... "I know that," I blurted. I dramatically tore the sunglasses off my face, revealing my serious eyes. Is it just me, or does a wandering eye make you think of psychic abilities too? "If your husband were still alive, he'd probably be sending his chauffeur to give you a message. As it is, he needs to go to some extremes to get word through now." You know what I kept thinking about while I was saying that? The midget, psychic lady from Poltergeist: Zelda, or is it Tangina? Sometimes I get actors and their characters confused. The door had stopped closing. There was a pause then, so I went on. I had to sound as convincing as possible as quickly as possible. "His spirit won't rest. He says there's too much he needs to say to you that he never had a chance to. Every time I try to contact the spirit world for another client, his is the only one I get. He's very restless. He needs to talk with you." Annataszia seemed unsure. A thoughtful frown played on her heavy, pouting lips. Deep thought was an alien look on her face, but oh, what lips! I nearly got lost in a fantasy about them right then. Maybe a trifle quick, I played my trump card. I said, "I understand. For some people it's hard to accept. Some people have trouble believing. Ray thought you might be a little reluctant to let me in, so he told me to use his name for you. Sugar-snatch." I tried mightily to play it straight, but I think I blushed anyway. It made no difference, in fact, it may have helped. Annataszia was motionless for a second. She got all weepy looking in the eyes. "Oh," she said, her voice, sexy and vulnerable with a little quiver. "Oh. It is Ray." She opened the door wide and stepped back to allow me unobstructed entry. "Come in! Come in!" I went in. One step into the promised land. "Where can we perform a seance?" I asked. I wanted to seem as business oriented as possible. "We'll need a wooden table. No metal. Metal interferes with the channeling. And we should do it in a room that was familiar to the departed. An intimate setting." Subtle. "I know the place," said Annataszia excitedly. She went click, click, click over the checked tiles of the entry hall in her stiletto heels. I followed her, watching her ass, hypnotically swaying, like a pocketwatch on the end of a chain. She was wearing a short, short skirt that was as tight as a coat of paint, and there were no panty lines showing through it, be still my heart! I wondered if I had the patience to play it all out. She took me to the den. It was a warm room, dark red colored and accented with oak and gold. There were two, high-backed, wing chairs on either side of a round table on which an Oriental-looking tea service rested. On the wall behind the table was an ivory tusk into which a parade of tail-to-trunk linked elephants had been carved. "This was his favorite room," Annataszia said. She seemed momentarily caught in the grip of memory. Dreamily, her voice made the words, "I remember the times we had here." And for a second I thought I could remember those times. Her, balanced on the ottoman, perched on the edge of the bookshelf, bent over the back of one of those chairs... "This is a good place," I said. "I can sense all kinds of positive energies in this room. My crystals are tingling!" Annataszia looked delighted. She clapped her hands. My crystals were tingling. "Let's begin at once," I said. I took a seat on one side of the table and waved for her to occupy the other. The way she sat down, with her hands tugging at the hemline of her skirt so it wouldn't hitch up; the way she so slowly and deliberately crossed her legs. Oh... my... God. I put my hands flat down on the table and splayed my fingers out. "Join me," I said. "Put your hands on the table too. Arrange your fingers so they just barely touch the tips of mine." She did that. "We must achieve serenity," I said. "We must create a peace between us, so that the turbulence of the land of the living can be crossed by your dear Raymond." I looked into those eyes. Those sparkling spheres. And saw trust. "Ommmm," I said. "Ommmm," she said. She made the sound way back, deep in her throat. I liked that sound quite a bit. "You've done this before," I said, coy; over-sincere. Annataszia nodded. "Ommmm." I closed my eyes, and counted one hundred to myself. "Ommm," I whispered. Then I was silent for another count of twenty. At the end of twenty I snatched my hands up from the table, clawed at empty air with them, and shuddered with my whole body. I breathed, hoarsely, "It's happening!" "Oh!" said Annataszia. I convulsed again, laid still; counted to ten. Then: I opened my eyes. I sat up straight. I set my cross-bit jaw so my teeth were overlapping at the side. It was an expression I knew Annataszia would recognize, whether it came from Ray's face, or mine, or our father's. It is the one unmistakable trait of our family. "Annataszia," I said. "It's me. Ray." "Oh," she gasped. She recognized the look. Her mouth made a perfect ring of surprise. Oh, indeed! "I worry about you, dear. I worry about you so much. Perhaps I never made it that clear to you when I was living, but I love you." "Oh!" "I worry about you so much: a young, beautiful, rich widow. So innocent and so naive. Away from me now, and alone in an abusive world full of gigolos and users, with no one to provide for you and protect you." That's how Ray had handled all of his relationships with girls. He was their gallant knight. Their savior. "You've got to be careful, my dear. There are men in this world who would seek to take advantage of you." There are only two kinds of people who speak that way: dead people, and the psychics who talk for them. I felt confident in my act. "Oh, Ray. I miss you too," said Annataszia. "My nights have been so lonely. Sometimes I wake up crying out your name." "There, there," I said. I patted the top of her hand, testing her for resistance to my touch. There was none. "You're not alone now. I'm right here. The body you see before you may be different, but the soul inside is the same." Then for the awkward part. I gave a long pause, full of quiet sympathy, and then I said, "Lean forward. Come across this table so that I can remember, and savor, the taste of your lips." "Oh, Ray," Annataszia giggled. But she did it. She leaned towards me, and her white, silk blouse came apart a little at the lowest buttoned button as she did. I got a quick peek at smooth, naked, firm breasts as I leaned in the remainder of the distance to that kiss. She tasted succulent and red. Cherries and apples and roses. And with her flesh suddenly close, right beneath my nose, I was filled up with the smell of her too: Killyan... I made sure to kiss her passionately, like a man who had died and was starved for sensual contact in his state of phantom spirituality. My whole focus -- my whole world, was just the point where our lips touched. When she parted from me, and sat back in her chair again, I was mad with desire. I wanted to sweep the tea service off the table and have her right then and there. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, and feel my pulse in my pants. I licked my lips. There was still a lingering taste of her there. "You tease," I said. I was out of breath. "You are almost too much for this poor soul to bear. Why do you back away from me?" "I can't," she said. It was awkward for her. She struggled for words. "I --" "Is it this stranger's body that prevents you from loving me?" I slumped forward and held my face in my hands; exasperated. "Is not the power of my will, by which I have again made myself manifest, enough to win your love? Have I journeyed from the netherworld to be with you, only to face rejection because of the material vessel I occupy?" I even conjured a tear. "Oh, Ray," she said. "No." She got up and came over to me. She turned the chair I sat in away from the table, so I was facing her, and knelt before me, taking my hands in hers. "It's you I love, Ray. Your life. Your spirit." "Then please," I said. "Before my concentration wanes, and I fly away, join with me. And let me remember what the pleasures of being with you were like." Overdone? You bet! I can't do it justice with mere words. It was the last line of magic-seduction-mantra I spoke that day. She let me undo the remaining buttons of her blouse, and slip the material down off of her shoulders. I was careful to make every touch seem like a miracle for me: like I really was a dead man, adrift in his memories of love. I caressed her like she was a sacred relic. I fondled her like she was a jewel. Her body responded with shivers and goosebumps. She was uneasy. I could sense her tension. But underneath it, I could also feel her excitement. It was something new for her. Something kinky. A cold touch of the forbidden, but she was warming to it. As she was on her knees, I too got down on my knees, sliding out of my chair, and coming down, eye to eye with her, all the while continuing to touch her, light, light, soft, soft. Reverent. Then I kissed her: on the lips, on the throat; and wrapped her up, like she was a gift; my arms and fingers were ribbons and bows. I ran my hands up into her hair and savored the glossy smooth texture of it. Even up to then, she had made no movement to indicate she would return my affection. She had only allowed me to do what I would without resistance. It took quite some time before her attitude changed. Don't get me wrong here. I was going to have her, by that time, one way or the other; whether she got into the spirit of the occasion or not, but such was my desire to win her over with the skill of my lovemaking that I took extra special care -- attentive and patient -- with her that first time, hoping to get a response from her. Up until the moment when her appetite was sufficiently roused to cause participation, I had nibbled at her with my mouth and fingers; gentle and encouraging. Teasing her lips and her ears and her nipples. Tickling her along her shoulders and arms. Then the magic happened. She sighed, a satisfied sigh, and arched her back, and all over her body stiffened, so that she was suddenly like the carved idol I was treating her as. She whispered my brother's name, "Ray." And then my nibbling was done. Then I was devouring her. Our bodies tumbled and twined together like blankets and bedsheets. We were like pure, liquid love; no skeleton or physical form to inhibit us. I ripped her skirt to shreds in my haste to be at her, and she popped the buttons and zippers on my garments as well. When, at last we were both totally naked, there was not the slightest lessening of the frenzy that was upon us. We were both insane for pleasure. I had never engaged in the act of giving a woman cunniligus, but I had a taste to do it just then. I spread her with my fingers and probed into her with my tongue, and sealed a violently passionate kiss between the lips of my mouth and her vagina. On the receiving end of pleasure, I, likewise, felt her, warm and wet, suckling me. We rolled and crashed against each other, like waves on a shoreline, and we continued until our bodies were sore from the awkward position. Then I reversed, mounted her, and plunged myself, like a sword into a sheath, and she fit me like that too: tight and precise. Like she was made to contain me. Neither of us was in the mood for soft or slow just then. Our use of technique had vanished. All thoughts of patience were gone; replaced with urgent need. We pumped, and bumped, and jostled. Her subtle, quiet sighs were abandoned for more expressive grunts and moans. It was no longer love we were making, it was sex. We made it to perfection. We built it up to the peak of achievement, and shuddered and screamed as we understood it in all its glory. And then it exploded. Mere seconds and it was gone: wasted. If ever to be seen again we should have to start over from scratch. We were somehow both sad and satisfied all at once. We were sweaty and radiant from our efforts. "Ray," she said, and I knew it was exactly the way she really said his name. She pillowed her head on my chest and slept. There was never a moment's worth of regret. * In the aftermath, "Ray" told Annataszia she would need to keep his messenger close at hand. "A messenger as psychically talented as that is a hard thing to find," said Ray. "They only come along once every millennium." Through his messenger, using his messenger's body, he could keep her close, and keep guard of her, and still have at least a ghost of the love they shared. Also through his messenger, he would still be able to manipulate his investments and make sure she was financially provided for. She bought that. Remember that third word I'd used to describe Annataszia? Stupid? God, you have to love her. It's funny how things work out sometimes. One day, you're bagging groceries at the corner market, and struggling by night to make it as an actor; taking parts for nothing at the community theater. Then, the right part comes along, and bang! the next day, you're living in a mansion in San Diego with a bedroom view of the Pacific, sleeping with the eighth hottest babe in the world, and controlling the workings of a Fortune 500 company. Of course, I owe it all to my brother. Kind of. In a way. After all, I'm the man he turned out to be, right? Am I cruel and insensitive? Probably. Do I lose any sleep over that? No. Am I lucky? No. My brother was the lucky one. I'm good.