Gingerbread

(clove)

Since I didn’t have far to travel, I waited until I heard several people arrive at Audra’s apartment before going over. I always hated being the first guest at a party. I had to ring the bell, as my initial rapping went unheard over the murmur of conversation and New Age music on the stereo. After about half an hour of sipping a mimosa, nibbling at the soy snack mix, and making small talk with my fellow employee, I poked my head out through the kitchen doorway to view the newest arrivals.

And there he was. Some kind of walking plummy dream of a man, with black hair down to his ass and a vaguely androgynous air about him. . .too pretty to be a regular guy, but decidedly masculine nonetheless.

“Ah, she invited Michael,” Sam whispered over my right shoulder.

“Well that lets me out,” I muttered in reply, “I draw the line at industry people.”

“Oh he’s not in a band,” she said, turning back toward the buffet table. “He works in a bank.”

“Uh, aren’t there dress codes in financial institutions?” I asked skeptically.

“He's wearing a suit! This is the 21st century, Lisa,” Sam replied laconically. “Even corporations need to be liberal.”

She was right, he was wearing a suit – it was black and impeccably cut – with a white shirt shining in contrast underneath. Audra was leading him over to us and my mouth went completely dry. I was fully prepared to make a stammering fool of myself.

You can manage ‘hi,’ can’t you? It’s just one syllable.

“Lisa, this is Michael. He does my taxes and is in my coven,” she said blithely.

I nodded and smiled. I think I held my hand out and he clasped it within his own. He had long fingers and a smooth palm.

“Sam, you remember Michael?”

“Who could forget?” she sniped. But her tone was gentle, like her smile.

“Hi Sam,” he said, and his voice was a little high-pitched. Not too much, but just enough to be unusual. Looking at his face, slightly angular with pronounced cheekbones and chin, I perceived the color of his eyes to be somewhere between brown and green. Resting in the divot above his clavicle was a golden scarab hanging on a delicate chain. It glowed against his skin, which had a faint olive undertone. Taking it all in, I finally noticed that the others had left us there and my head turned to watch his foray into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator with a gesture of one well-acquainted with his surroundings, eying the contents on the shelves.

“There's beer out on the patio,” I said.

“I’m sure there is,” he said, pulling out a pitcher of orange juice. “Hand me that bottle, would you?”

I picked up the nearest vodka bottle I saw on the counter – it was Smirnoff – and turned to see him severely frowning at me.

“No, the Stoli.”

“Oh, sorry.” I couldn’t help but think I’d blown it, and was secretly grateful. There was no way I was going to come off as anything more than an idiot if I had to hold a conversation with someone so pretty. I had never dated any pretty people, they were like butterflies to me: nice to look at but impossible to capture. I watched him mix a Screwdriver and said the first thing which came to mind.

“So you’re a Wiccan too?”

He snorted through his fairly prominent nose and narrowed his eyes.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I didn’t think I was.”

“Audra’s no more a Wiccan than I am the Tooth Fairy. I know she gives off that hippy-dippy vibe, though.” He took a sip of his drink and he held his glass with more delicacy than even I was capable of. He was a guy, no doubt: his authority asserted itself with his mere presence. But there was also that sense of grace, of being a creature beyond the typical classifications of male and female, of being made to be effortlessly beautiful.

“And who are you?” he asked, after the silence of my contemplations caused me to stare out of a nearby window, unaware I was appearing rude by not responding to his last observation. But the almost ethereal pitch of his voice pulled me out of my reverie.

“Uh, I’m Audra’s neighbor. And I work at Natural Things.”

“Oh, so you’re the new guinea pig. Interesting.”

“What?”

A condescending chuckle was his response.

“Surely you know that whatever concoctions she dreams up she tries on you and Sam first.”

“Yes, but that’s just home remedy-type stuff. Mostly harmless.”

“Is it?” Dark eyebrows arched as he drank.

Raised voices floated in from the direction of the living room, and I went to see what was going on. When I stepped back into the kitchen, Michael was gone. I found him out on the patio, smoking and observing the scenery.

“Do you live around here?”

“No,” and his tone indicated that I would not be welcome in his part of town. It was cold enough to drive me back inside, and away from him. Again, I knew I was out of my element and sometimes it’s comforting to admit defeat rather than risk further embarrassment. I looked through the maze of people in the living room and found Sam looking vaguely dismayed as another of Audra’s coven members attempted to engage her in a conversation about sex magick.

“Oh hey, do you need my help, Lisa?” she asked, but the undercurrent of the inquiry sounded more like an imperative.

“Yes, yes I do,” I responded, and we left the guy in mid-sentence. We came back to the kitchen and looking off towards the patio I could tell Michael was still out there: a shadow giving off smoke. But he was talking to someone else, so I brought Sam down to the other end of the room.

“Why is he such an -”

“- asshole?” she finished.

“Uh, prickly.”

She snickered. “Oh that's a good one. Well, some guys are just that way, you know? There isn't any particular reason why he should be such a jerk, but he is. He's successful – he writes more loans for Northern Trust than anyone else in the state – he's attractive, he's smart, he's all the things that we're supposed to want. But the total package is thoroughly uninviting.”

“Then why do I feel so compelled?”

“Well who wouldn’t? It’s not that unusual.”

Sam wandered away again and I noticed that Michael seemed to be hovering around the edges. For the duration of Audra’s Solstice party he did not speak to me, but wherever I looked around, there he was, close enough that I could pick him out of a cluster of people immediately.

As I was leaving, Audra drew me aside and whispered in my ear.

“Another bite?” she asked. “For luck?”

I winced, remembering the distaste of the first bite. “No, not yet.”

I moved out onto her doorstep to find Michael standing on mine. I approached him warily.

“Hi. Did you get lost?”

He gave me a faint smile, in acknowledgement of my sarcasm.

“Whatever potion she has you wearing is irresistible. I am compelled to conduct a very vulgar version of a Solstice fertility ritual. Are you inclined to assist me?”

Ah, the perfume, I thought, so he’s not my gingerbread man after all.

Though I near-soberly considered many reasons why I shouldn’t have sex with him, the overriding argument that a drought was an unnatural situation when it came to intercourse caused me to mentally lock those arguments into a very deep drawer.

Michael's hair was like another layer of clothing, it covered his naked body and revealed more than a few shades in the half-light of the candles burning on the bureau, and on the nightstand beside my bed. He allowed me to fetishize it, running my fingers through it repeatedly, twisting it around my hands, reveling in its' texture and weight. His hands were unerringly smooth against my skin – the hands of a white collar man – and although he required no specific prompting in terms of the places to touch to bring my pleasure, I felt a kind of surreal disconnection. A mere body, my soul of disinterest to his discovery. And yet I could not deny that my orgasms were intense, peeling away the layers of my emotional protection to leave me truly exposed, more exposed than the nude form that lay with legs clasped around the body of another, seeking specific release. And there was a certain chivalry to his demeanor, he was polite and appreciative, but ultimately chilly even as he covered me with his warm skin and hair.

“Why are you doing this?” I finally had to ask, astride him, slowly bucking toward the double-digit mark. I was amazed at his stamina, though in retrospect I suppose I wouldn’t have been mistaken to consider it detachment.

“It’s what I do,” Michael said, then gasped as I slid along the length of his cock. “I have a gift. I am a gift.” He sat up and pulled me against him. His eyes reflected the candlelight and shone like deep water. His mouth was perfectly curved, I noticed, and that was part of his androgynous mystique. I wanted to put a stop to that voice in my head that reminded me sex without emotional connection beyond physical pleasure was ultimately disappointing and closed my eyes as he covered my face in kisses.

“Saturnalia is coming,” he whispered, “revel with me.”

I let go: let go of doubt, of discernment, of expectation. He pushed me down upon the mattress and my legs wound around his waist, resting on his hipbones. My head hung off the edge of the bed slightly but I rather liked the slight dizziness I was feeling, it served to intensify the proceedings. But instead of thrusting, Michael seemed to move in a circular motion inside of me. I had never felt anything like it before, and pushed aside a stray thought that events had come to a sad pass if I could reach my thirties without such an experience.

“What -” I murmured, and he put his lips against my ear and responded.

“A spiral, the sacred shape. Let me spin you.”

And as he moved so did I. It did feel as though I were spinning around and around, all the while the energy moved up my spine and into my chest, my head. I cried out so loud I was certain all the leftover partygoers could hear me from across the hall. But Michael did not have an orgasm, or at least did not experience the aftermath of one.

“Did you. . .?” my voice trailed off as the question became too embarrassing to actually voice.

“My pleasure is derived from yours. And you were well-pleased.”

When Michael departed, dressing without further comment, I was left with a calm I had not possessed in quite some time, a pulse rippling through me like fingers over my skin. I stood out on the front balcony, after kissing him goodbye, watching him descend to the street, pausing to light a cigarette before climbing into his car and driving away. It seemed that I could taste the residue of that first bite in my mouth, but it was bittersweet, as opposed to my initial impression of acrid dirt.