Hilary Fields - Bliss

“Wait a minute, Sera,” Margaret commanded. Sera could almost see her making the “roll that shit back a bit” gesture she always did with her hands. “Go back to the part where you told this Asher guy you were no good for him. You really said that?”

“Uh-huh,” Sera said, mentally preparing for a lecture. She twirled the old-fashioned phone cord between her fingers.

“Let me get this straight. You told the guy—this guy you describe as practically perfect, and hotter than New York in July—that you didn’t deserve to be with him because you were an addict and a failure?”

“Well, ah…” Sera chewed on a lock of hair. “Yeah, I might have said that.”

“If you were here, I’d give you such a smack on the ass right now,” Margaret swore. “ How many times have we read the Big Book together? How many meetings have we sat through? You calling all those people in the fellowship failures?”

“No, of course not…” Sera said meekly. Her fellow alkies were some of the folks she admired most. Hearing their stories of how they’d scraped themselves out of life’s gutters and pieced themselves back together into some of the kindest, most responsible people she’d ever met had inspired Sera herself to stick around and give living sober a chance.

“Damn right, Serafina. As well blame the cancer patient or the diabetic for their disease. You—well, you may have drawn the short straw when it comes to addictive propensities, but it’s what you’ve done to overcome that condition that defines you, not the addiction itself. I mean, how many alcoholics do you know who couldn’t get sober?”

Sera had to admit, she knew a lot. Only a small percentage of addicts ever managed to get—or stay—in recovery.

“And of the ones you know who did succeed,” Margaret continued relentlessly, “how many of them had it easy?”

“Um, none?” Sera forced herself to stop chewing her hair and twisting the old-school phone cord around her fingers. Both were nearly in knots, just like her guts. But Margaret was right, she had come a long way, and she had a lot to be proud of. She couldn’t let this absurd insecurity left over from the Blake years continue to cast a pall on her life. She felt herself standing straighter. “So if I get you right, what you’re trying to say is that I should be proud of my past, not ashamed—or at least, proud of my progress.”

“That’s right,” Margaret said, satisfaction coloring her voice. “You can’t control the way you were born, but you can control how you handle life’s challenges. Now you… you’ve done a pretty damn fine job, if what Pauline was telling me before she put you on the phone is true. Your store’s nearly ready to open. You’ve met a nice bunch of gals. Apparently you even got yourself some kind of badass monster truck. You’re really making a life for yourself out there. Why shouldn’t you have a gorgeous guy in it?”

Because I’m a dud in the sack, Sera wanted to say, but she’d told too many people about her no-O issue and she really didn’t want to go over it again. She had enough people out here hovering over her and monitoring her erogenous zones as it was.

“There’s no guy in the world so great you don’t deserve him,” Margaret continued. “I’m serious, Sera. Don’t blow your chance at happiness because of some outdated idea you have of yourself. You’re a new woman, and you’ve got everything it takes to achieve the life of your dreams. Just don’t let your disease talk you out of it, and you should be okay.”

Sera smiled. “Thanks, Margaret.” She was starting to feel better. Maybe, just maybe, her two favorite female advisors had a point. She should stop assuming she knew what was best for Asher, stop assuming she wasn’t good enough for him, and just let things play out. Asher was no Blake Austin. No matter how badly things went, he would never be deliberately cruel to her. The worst that could happen was that Sera would wind up humiliated—and she was no stranger to humiliation. The best that could happen, however… well, hell. The best would be very good indeed.

She forced herself to listen to her sponsor, who was still talking.

“You want my advice, I think you should lighten up, like your aunt says. That old broad’s got a lot of wisdom in her. Listen to her, and I think you’ll be happier for it.”

Serafina knew better than to argue with her sponsor—a formidable woman who just might come out to Santa Fe to deliver that ass-smacking if she wasn’t satisfied Sera was following her suggestions.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I’ll take that advice.”

Which was how Sera found herself spending the next two weeks on a bona fide Orgasm Quest.

I can’t believe I let you talk me into this, you guys. I hate sweating.”

The four women sat around a brazier in the dim light of a mud-brick Navajo torture chamber. Pan flute music was being piped in from some unseen corner. Clouds of sage incense wafted to their nostrils, while waves of heat billowed from the brazier, like cushioned fists thudding against their overheated skin.

You better believe you’re in New Mexico now, girl.

Sera felt as though the walls of the sweat lodge were closing in on them.

“Just relax, Baby-Bliss,” Pauline advised. “Try to focus.”

“I can’t focus, Pauline,” she snapped. “I’m naked here.”

“Naked is natural, dear,” put in Hortencia. “Look at me. I’m perfectly at ease with it.” She gestured languidly. Her plump, seventy-year-old frame was nearly boneless with relaxation, parked against the log-and-mud-brick wall of the lodge like she’d grown from it. Her white hair had gone a bit limp, but soft tendrils curled charmingly about her apple cheeks, which were rosier than ever. She’d brought along a home-knitted throw cushion for her bum, Sera saw, protecting her from the ground.

Beside her, Aruni settled her well-toned legs more comfortably into lotus position in her own corner of the hut. Her back was ramrod straight, but her curls were kinkier than Hugh Hefner. “Me, too,” she piped up.

Sera fought the urge to stick her tongue out at her friend. Sure, she had no problem being naked, because she had a perfect, years-of-yoga-toned body. And she had nothing to stress about—Aruni already had an orgasm totem. A fox, she’d said. A nice, fluffy red fox.

What am I gonna get? Sera wondered. A beaver?

Aunt Pauline had been adamant they attempt this adventure. “We’re going on a vision quest, kiddo,” she’d said that morning after rousting Sera out of bed and tossing her a towel. “Nothing else has worked, and Asher will be back any day. Forget all that other stuff we tried. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before! What you’ve got to do, Bliss, is find your orgasm totem. And there’s no better way to invite a visit from your orgasm animal than a nice, naked sweat ceremony. Once you find it, I’m sure it’ll show you the way. God knows I’ve tried,” she’d muttered. “But you, my darling niece, are one tough nut to crack.”

So here they were, two weeks into the great “quest for the holy wail,” as Janice had laughingly dubbed it, and no closer to climax (at least in Sera’s case) than they’d been a fortnight ago. Aruni, Hortencia, and Pauline were her fellow pilgrims today—the others had wanted to come, but the only time Pauline could reserve the sweat house up at Ghost Ranch had unfortunately conflicted with most of their work schedules.

Ghost Ranch, Sera had learned as they drove, had been expatriate New York artist Georgia O’Keeffe’s spiritual home. And as they’d arrived at the vast, empty space north of Abiquiu, she’d thought she understood why. Red sandstone cliffs rose out of the desert floor, painting the land with stunning color. Swaths of flat terrain were broken by mesas and rock formations that seemed carved by a capricious hand, bold and fierce. There was a hush surrounding the place, as if the very earth knew it was sacred. Here, O’Keeffe had let her creativity spread wide as the horizons, fearlessly exploring her artistic limits as well as her frank sensuality. If ever she was going to find hidden depths of passion within herself, Sera had thought, it would be in a place like this.