Carole Douglas - Brimstone Kiss

"Soft as silk. Cool. Like a fountain in the desert. I feel the tingle of electricity meeting running water. Heat and meltdown. And then-"

"Yesss," the women hiss, eyes closed, feeling the moment.

"His tongue."

"His tongue speaking in tongues," the women shout.

God! They loved that their rock idol was soul-kissing strangers? Wasn't that… unsanitary? Not that I didn't get the rocky mountain high part.

"The tingle starts in my lips and wraps me in an electrical storm of satisfaction."

Tingle. Kinda like my Lip Venom gloss. Snow has some kind of built-in Lip Venom? These women could buy the special effect. I need to hand out Lip Venom samples along with the high-sugar desserts. Wonder if the manufacturer would donate?

"The tongue is killer!" the wispy young woman declares. She is now shouting. "The back of my throat starts vibrating and then I'm thrumming all over, but deep in my throat the spasms start and they don't end. They just don't end. Wave after wave of absolute pleasure. Then I just fall away. I feel his icy palm on my forehead and the connection is broken. I'm still twitching with the sublime spasms. I guess he's gone, but my body is still possessed by the Ghost of his Brimstone Kiss."

Silence. Some of them recognize the sensations. I can tell by their dreamy eyes and slack lips. Some ache for the sensations. I can tell by their closed eyes and deep sighs.

A few, like me, remember and recognize similar symptoms.

As the chant of "Ah, men" goes up in the room, I inhale the bracing aroma of strong coffee and come to the only possible conclusion.

Snow's Brimstone Kiss bestows multiple orgasms.

Try to compete with that using a coffee klatch and a fistful of chocolate candy.

The second act of my private self-help group was even more interesting. All the Have-nots began to testify, rising one by one and baring their souls and their libidos.

The longer this went on, the more I wanted to shrink into the floor like the Wicked Witch of the West and disappear. Not because I can't take forthright talk, although that's a bit rough for one of my genteel and ignorant convent school background, but because I'm starting to feel guiltier and guiltier.

As the talk turned to vibrators and jackrabbits, which I learn are not wild hares, but a super-powerful variety of vibrator, I began to see that the Have-nots have not ever had a sexual orgasm. Some of them must be seventy or older.

Surely there is an Orgasm Fairy somewhere who sees to women like this. No?

Here I thought I was one of them. After all, forty percent of girls, good or bad, don't, according to statistics. Yet, despite my anxieties, my handful of assignations with Ric have all been orgasmic. I must be a freak! He must be a stud! Of course, there haven't been that many encounters. I could crash and burn any minute. Or not crash and burn.

And I should stand up here telling these poor women to just get over it? Cocaine. Him. His Brimstone Kiss. I feel like the Grinch who stole Christmas. The Witch who would steal the ruby red slippers. The reporter who announced the deaths at Lakehurst.

Guilt won't help me find Lilith. Plus, it was time for me to try to wean these women off the instant orgasm dream.

"But," I pointed out to the Haves, "not one woman who's got a Brimstone Kiss has ever gotten another, right?"

Disconsolate heads shook. "No, not even anyone on the online chat groups."

"So you're all pining away for something that will never happen again. But, cheer up! It did happen. You're way ahead of the Have-nots over there."

I did not see happy smiles.

"Tell me about your jobs, what you do for a living." I started pointing and they started talking.

"Waitress" comes up frequently. "Cocktail waitress" a bit less frequently. These women say the pay isn't union, but the tips are good. Others are fast-food restaurant employees. Wal-Mart greeters. Grocery store clerks. Every job is in Las Vegas to be close to the source.

"Do you really want to spend your lives underemployed waiting for something that may never happen?"

There is silence, at least, if not lively "No's!"

"Wouldn't you like to be free of your obsessions, able to date men who stand on the same level as you do? I'm sure some of them out there kiss pretty good."

This merited the "No's" I was looking for earlier.

"Don't you know in your heart of hearts that there's more to life than chasing something that hard to get? The perfect man or a hormone high? And how long does the Brimstone Kiss last, anyway?" I asked the Haves.

"Until he moves on," one woman admitted.

"To the next fan girl. Whom he leaves coming down without a parachute. You have to catch the lucky girl to keep her from banging her head on the concrete floor. And does Cocaine care? No."

Frowning brows told me I was making progress.

"Once again, it's all the guy's way and the women can wait. And wait. And wait. Don't you want to be free?"

They eyed each other uneasily. One hand wavered up, then down, and then fluttered up again. It's on the Have-not side.

"I'm sick of explaining to my family why I'm wasting my doctoral degree in education out here in Vegas slinging cottage fries."

Another Have-not stood. "I'm sick of living with four other girls in an overpriced apartment."

And another. "I'm sick of standing on hard concrete for hours almost every night until my ankles ache and paying high dollar for it and getting nothing."

High dollar. That's right. Vegas show tickets are over the moon. These women are paying plenty for a mere chance at a smooch.

"How much a night do you pay?" I asked, my calculator out. They rose and shouted numbers one by one. "$142!" "$135." "$122." I toted it up when the roll call was done.

"Two thousand and eighty-five dollars, ladies. You give that up every night to gamble on getting a kiss. I bet the odds are better at any slot machine and twenty-one table in Vegas. I bet the odds are even better for the right vibrator."

They are all standing, milling around, restless.

"Ladies, the Hershey's Kisses in the brandy snifter on your left are all white chocolate. As smooth and creamy as you-know-who. If you can't give up the dream, take a handful of them of them when you leave.

"The ones on your right are dark chocolate. Smooth and creamy and also chock full of flavonoids that are good for your health. Those who are willing to try five Cocaine-free nights, take a bunch of those. Eat a candy 'kiss' every time you think of Cocaine. For you those of you in 'withdrawal'-every time you think of Cocaine and manage to replace that thought with something else, reward yourself with a piece. Put your email address on the sheet on your way out. I'll set up a Yahoo! group list to keep in touch."

With nods and smiles, everybody signed up, but almost everybody filed up to the white chocolate jar. Eight, looking furtive and ashamed, drew from the dark chocolate jar. I'd hoped for the other way around.

A few "good children" always want to linger and talk to teacher after the class. Six gathered around me.

"Why are you doing this?" one asked. "You actually stormed the stage to get to him. Are you taking home dark chocolates?

"You bet," I told them, digging out several while they watched. "I'm tired of being called a Cocaine freak. You are too, aren't you? I just wanted to make that man answer to putting all us women in states he's unwilling to satisfy again, or leaving us out of the so-called ecstasy night after night. What a cheap trick to get loyal fans to show up for every performance."

"I hadn't thought of that," mused a portly woman in her sixties. "That it's just a come-on to get him publicity."

"He doesn't even have to tour to get screaming hordes. You're the hometown team. You'd think he could at least make sure you all got something to remember him by. And what's the use of a mind-blowing orgasm, or series of them, if you can never get one again? Either way, he wins and you lose. Every time."