Hilary Fields - Bliss

“What first attracted me to you, Pauline, was how comfortable you were with yourself, how free you were in every possible way. And freedom was just what I needed. You know I was married—for years and years. Forty of them, to be exact. And when Carlos and I split four years ago, that was the first time in my entire life I’d gotten to do exactly what I wanted. Watch the damn dog show instead of football on Thanksgiving. Eat at a new restaurant every night of the week, instead of recycling the same menu of enchiladas, calabacitas, and his mom’s awful carne asada over and over. And for the first time in my life, I got to acknowledge that I loved women, not men. Do you know how liberating that was?” Hortencia challenged. “Of course you don’t. You crawled out of your cradle liberated. You flew from lover to lover like a hummingbird pollinating flowerbeds, and never looked back. But I… well, I came from a very traditional Catholic home. I married at twenty. I kept the house. I gave my husband three beautiful kids. And I waited until they had kids before I took back my life and claimed my freedom. That’s why I never wanted to move in with you, Pauline. I loved having a space that was all my own. So when you asked me to marry you, I just… I don’t know. It wasn’t that I wasn’t sure about you, and it wasn’t some lingering desire for a heterosexual relationship. I just saw the walls closing in on me again, and I panicked. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry I tossed that perfectly lovely ring over the side of the balloon.”

Pauline waved that away, as though diamonds plummeting out of hot air balloons were the least interesting thing in the world. She pushed her sombrero back off her head, letting it dangle down her back from its leather cord. Tears were streaming freely down her lined cheeks, but she looked radiant, her own personal gloom utterly banished.

“Oh, Horsey…” She trailed off.

Hortencia drew their clasped hands to her breast. “Pauline, if you still want to get married… I mean, if you’ll still have me, well, I’d…” She choked up.

Again, Pauline waved impatiently. “Hortencia, you beautiful old bird,” she declared, taking her beloved’s cheeks in her hands and gazing fondly into her brimming blue eyes, “I don’t care if we live in sin forever, as long as I’m with you.” The two women kissed.

And kissed.

And kissed.

“Yay, living in sin!” howled the Back Room Babes, erupting in applause. Those nearby in the crowd paused in their pyromaniac chanting to clap along with them.

It broke the spell, forcing Hortencia and Pauline to finally come up for air.

“Oh, my. Ladies, we better hurry up. The burning’s about to start, and we don’t want to leave anyone out. It’s your turn, dear,” Hortencia prompted Sera. “Tell us what’s been holding you back, and how you plan to change it. It’s quite liberating.”

“Yeah, kiddo,” urged Pauline. “Give it up to Zozobra, let it all go into the fire!” The crowd seemed to agree, the frenzy of shouting and dancing kindling the night.

Both older women were grinning blindingly. But Sera’s own smile fell away. She could feel all the eyes of the Back Room Babes on her as if they were literally pressed to her skin. She knew very well what her worst hang-up was, and she very much wanted to keep it to herself. The women were opening their circle for Sera, smiling and gesturing for her to take center stage. When her feet wouldn’t move, Pauline and Hortencia came to her, taking her rubbery arms and drawing her into the circle in their place.

Maybe I should just talk about the alcohol, she thought desperately. It’s certainly done a number on my life. But in her heart, Sera knew booze was a demon she’d already exorcised. The addiction would always be a part of her biology, but it no longer directed her behavior, and so long as she maintained her sobriety, it wasn’t a source of shame. Her real problem was —and as mortifying as it was for Sera, it would simply devastate her aunt. I can’t do this, I can’t do this… it would kill Pauline if she knew… She opened her mouth to mumble some platitude about trying harder to meet a nice guy, or making more time for her social life.

Instead, to her utter horror, the truth flew out.

“I can’t have an orgasm.”

A howl erupted from the hysterical crowd.

Fireworks shot into the night sky, detonating with deafening booms.

And with a great roar and a whoosh, Zozobra burst into flames.

For as long as she lived, Serafina would never be able to say exactly how she made it from the field where Zozobra had gone up in smoke, along with the last remnants of her dignity, to the citywide celebration that was toasting his fiery demise. One minute she was in the center of a circle of gaping, dismayed women; the next, she was spilling onto Lincoln Avenue at the entrance to Santa Fe’s historic plaza, swept along on a tide of happy, party-hungry Fe-heads ready to get their fiesta on.

Sights, smells, and sounds assaulted her senses in the best possible way. The trees at the center of the plaza had been dolled up in festive colored lights, while tents, booths for food, games, and souvenirs as well as a bandstand crowded every inch of open space about the square, blocking off the streets to traffic. The mellow adobe facades of the buildings framing the plaza—the Palace of the Governors, restaurants, shops selling everything from tacky souvenirs to authentic cowboy boots and spendy sheepskin coats—were all decked out in lights and flapping fiesta banners. The Five and Dime General Store was closed for the evening. (Sera had asked her aunt when she’d first arrived how a sundries store had managed to co-opt such prime retail space, but Pauline had just shrugged and told her that, as far as she knew, it had always been there, and the tourists appreciated access to cheap sunglasses, sunscreen, camera batteries, and postcards.) The ice cream shop on San Francisco Street was doing a brisk business, however, as she suspected it always did—who wouldn’t like an ice cream cone to stroll around licking while taking in the sights?

A relaxed, festive air had replaced the crowd’s earlier frenzy. The faces around her were lit up with enthusiasm, purged of negativity just as Zozobra promised. Not Sera, though. As usual, she’d failed to ride the moment to its intended conclusion. She winced as she recalled how her awkward pronouncement had coincided with Zozobra’s big flame-out.

On the one hand, it had been surprisingly freeing to finally cop to the truth. There it was, out in the open: Serafina Wilde had never in her life, alone or with assistance, ever managed to achieve sexual fulfillment. She’d buried that shameful secret since puberty, not even telling her doctor or best friends. She’d faked it with what few boyfriends she’d had up until Blake, and he… well; her pleasure hadn’t been uppermost on his mind. All these years, Sera’s inadequacy had weighed on her, nagging at her self-esteem and making her leery of relationships, until tonight, for the first time, she’d gotten it off her chest. And despite the fact that she didn’t hold out much hope of ever “curing” her conundrum, it was a relief not to have to hold it inside any longer.

On the other hand, there had been the look on Aunt Pauline’s face.

If she’d announced she’d run off to join a cult of burqa-wearing fundamentalists, she could hardly have stabbed Pauline Wilde more directly at her core. Everything she stood for—the freedom to express, demand, and receive pleasure from her own body—and everything she’d taught; all for naught with the one person who should have been her greatest success. Pauline had never had a daughter, but Sera knew she’d loved her niece as deeply as if she were her own. She’d tried her best to raise Sera, who’d arrived on her doorstep a shy and traumatized teen, to become a strong, confident woman. Now Sera had, by virtue of her sexual failure, called into question Pauline’s very movement, her philosophy—hell, her technique!