Hilary Fields - Bliss

Sera, somehow, had given herself a fat lip. Which hadn’t been much of a turn-on.

About the midnight moonlit drum circle, the less said the better. With unerring skill, they’d managed to cop a squat right on a red anthill, and then, once they’d managed to sort that stinging situation out, the BRBs had woken every dog in the neighborhood with their bongo slapping and drum whapping. It was a wonder no one had called the police, what with all the ruckus. Sera, who had the well-developed aversion for drum circles of someone who had oft attempted to relax in Central Park’s Sheep Meadow, had not changed her mind about the milieu.

And she hadn’t come a whit closer to climax.

The next week, Crystal, that evil wench, had dared them all to a chile-eating contest. She and the others swore by the aphrodisiac properties of the local hot peppers, so they’d tromped out to a famously sadistic dive called the Horseman’s Haven for some burgers smothered in nuclear meltdown chile, washed down with kombucha they’d snuck in themselves. There’d been a fair amount of gasping and wailing with that activity, but most of it had been Sera bemoaning the loss of her taste buds and the time it would take to regrow them.

The worst part, for Sera, had been disappointing her new friends. They took such joy in their excursions, be they silly, sweet, or utterly unhinged. These women just let it all hang out, whooping with laughter and living in the moment, even when it made them look goofy or exposed their weak spots. But Sera just… couldn’t. The harder she tried to let go, the tighter she got wound up. And the more she saw the crestfallen expressions on the BRBs’ faces after each failure, the more conspicuously “broken” Sera felt. But she couldn’t bear to disappoint her aunt, and so she’d pasted on a smile and sworn to keep on trying.

Yet her lack of progress was straining even Pauline’s vast reserves of optimism.

In the end, Pauline had clapped a stern hand on Sera’s shoulder and marched her into Bliss’s back room, which Malcolm, true to his word, had not touched. “Look, kiddo,” she’d said rather grimly. “I know you’re kind of a prude. So I tried to think outside the cocks. I thought maybe we could find a gentle way to ease you into things. But maybe the ‘hard’ way is the only way.” She’d ordered Sera to pick out a selection of machinery, imagery, and “facilitating lotions,” then take her loot back to the house. Then she and Hortencia had taken themselves off, loudly announcing their intention to take in a new German art-house film at the Lensic—a three-hour German film.

Sera was embarrassed to admit, she’d actually given it a whirl. Yet no matter what aids she employed, nor what pleasant memories of Asher’s embrace she conjured, the result was… disappointing. She kept picturing her aunt tiptoeing up to the window to see how she was doing, or pressing a glass to the door… or worse, offering a tutorial on the proper usage of her “tools.” In the end, almost without conscious design, Sera had found herself in her aunt’s kitchen, baking up a half-dozen almond galettes she had no good home for. She hadn’t been able to look either woman in the eye after they’d returned from the theater, merely serving them up the delicious dessert with a side of crème fraîche before retiring to her room to nurse her shame.

Now, melting to death in the ever-increasing heat of the sweat lodge, Sera knew she could never tell Pauline that the real reason she couldn’t achieve orgasm was Pauline herself. Her aunt would be devastated. Maybe I should just fake it, she thought. It’s worked for me before… and it would get me the hell out of this convection oven. But Serafina believed in rigorous honesty—it was one of the tenets of her recovery program. And so she sweated it out.

At least the lighting was nice and low, Sera thought hazily. And the sage was actually quite pleasant, once her nostrils got accustomed to it. The rosy glow from the brazier was… hypnotizing. The heat curled around her, lulling her, though she fought to stay alert. This isn’t so bad, she told herself. It’s just like a sauna.

A very steamy sauna.

Curtains of white condensation swirled about the hut, obscuring Sera’s vision. Somehow, as the mists parted, Sera wasn’t surprised to see the sweat lodge had admitted another guest. A very ugly, odd-looking guest, about a foot tall and walking on all fours. It trotted right up next to her in the hut, bold as it pleased. The other women had faded from Sera’s awareness, banked in clouds of steam, and it was just her and the wrinkly, vaguely phallic-looking beast.

“What are you supposed to be?” Sera, somehow unsurprised, asked the creature.

“Can’t you tell? I’m an armadillo,” the armadillo said proudly.

“Sorry,” Sera apologized. “I’m more used to subway rats and pigeons. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an armadillo in real life before.”

“And you ain’t seeing one in real life now, hon,” said the armadillo, which for some reason was now sporting a cowboy hat. And chewing a hayseed. “I’m not supposed to be purple. And my tail is a lot longer than this in real life. Plus, mostly I live in Texas, not so much New Mexico. Watch a nature show once in a while, won’t you?”

“Sorry,” Sera said again. “So, are you, like…” She couldn’t say it.

“Your orgasm totem? Your cum-critter? Your arma-dildo? Nah. I’m just a hallucination. But if you like, I could give you some advice.”

The armadillo trundled up closer to Sera, and she noticed that it was thick-skinned, yet naked, as she was, with a soft underbelly. Its eyes, half-buried in armor, were sharp and bright, its nose long and twitchy. It looked at her as if she were infinitely amusing, but also perhaps a tad pitiable.

“Sure,” said Sera, who at this point wasn’t above taking advice from purple fantasy animals. “Lay it on me.”

The armadillo pushed its rhinestone-spangled hat back on its tiny head. “My advice?” the beast mused. “Don’t worry about what these dopey broads tell you. When the moment comes, it’s just like sneezing. You know what I mean?”

“Um, not really,” said Sera, who appeared to be floating about six inches above the floor of the hut now. “Sneezing?”

“Ever tried to hold back a sneeze?” her not-totem asked.

“I guess,” said Sera, who had never thought about it before.

“How’d that work out for you?”

Sera considered it. Her mind was strangely languid. “Um, I sneezed anyway, but it was kind of bunged up. Not very nice.”

“Uh-huh. And ever tried to make yourself sneeze?” The armadillo didn’t wait for an answer. “Can’t do it, can you? It’s not something you can force, and it’s not something you can fake—not properly. You can’t stop it and you can’t control the timing. Just like climax. Also,” it paused and said thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure you can’t do either with your eyes open.” The armadillo gathered itself, settling its hat more firmly over its brow with one tiny claw. It patted its nonexistent pockets. “Anyway, lady, that’s about all I got on the subject.” It started to walk away, toward a little hole Sera hadn’t noticed before in the mud-brick walls. Then it stopped and turned back for a final word. “Oh, yeah—one more thing. You may never have sneezed before, but I have a feeling you’re gonna be developing some severe allergies pretty soon. Anyhow, take it easy!”

“You, too, Mr. ’Dillo,” said Sera, who had decided that was her new friend’s name. She smiled and waved, feeling mellower than she’d felt in a long time. “Byeeee!”

“I think we left her in here too long. Damn it, Pauline, you and your loco ideas. Look at her, babbling and muttering like that. We cooked her darn brains!” Hortencia sounded halfway between scared and exasperated.