Serendipity - A Prose/Poem Collage

[goldenmyst]

Serendipity

I was fresh out of college and tempest tossed on sea of troubles. My compass pointed true north but led me to ice bergs. I sought a navigator to take my rudder. My quest took me to a psychotherapy center for the poor. The counselor whom I was scheduled to see was absent that day. In her place was a raven haired priestess whose dark and smoky mezzo timbre gave me a natural high. Her name was Sandra. I instantly trusted her.

In our early years she wore summer dresses which rode high on her hips. Their hemline revealed the curve of her derriere with her milky thighs laid bare. Her legs folded and then parted with the space between barely concealed. Her gentle curves soothed my wild testosterone.

My eyes darted from her legs to her face. She winked at me. She jotted notes with a smile. Our sessions picked up steam. We rode each other’s waves as her warm words lapped my shore. She browsed my life story. My trust opened chapters for her tender care. Doors opened to my future. She ushered me forward into books yet unwritten.

Her counsel was sometimes soft as down and at others tough as leather. At times, out of necessity, she whipped me with words in an act of disciplinary compassion.

We played a game to teach me the ABCs of etiquette in discourse. I advised her to try another shade of lipstick. She said she really was insulted. I took shelter in this being a role playing exercise. She smiled and told me to be rude as people in the real world are. I admonished her on how to raise her children. She turned dark with fury. She tongue lashed me with the fire of a woman offended.

“How dare you tell me how to raise my daughter. Have you ever raised a child?” she chastised me. The session came to a close. She stood in the doorway facing me.

She said, “John I let my personal issues into this session.” Little did she know that her genuine feelings were just what I needed in my lesson that day.

At the beginning of our next session she said, “John, I’m sorry for being rough with you last time.”

I replied, “No I needed it. You took me to the woodshed.”

She smiled gleefully and said, “Yes, I took you to the woodshed.”

I replied, “I’m grateful to you for using the rod on me. Tough love was just what I needed.” She received my gratitude for her womanly discipline with a gracious grin.

Sandra could be stern. Yet I still believed women to be sugar, spice, and all things nice. I wrote a poem praising the soft side of the fairer sex. I shared this with Sandra. At session’s close she pointed out that my women as nurturer concept didn’t always apply. “We can go on the war path during PMS” she proclaimed.

During one of our sunny sessions, I asked her why my wife didn’t enjoy the lesbian erotica I wrote? With a sly smile she said, “Well I’m not a lesbian. So I wouldn’t be turned on by lesbian erotica.”

I echoed her, “You couldn’t get turned on.”

She reiterated, “No I couldn’t get turned on by that.” We shared grins and I took her point.

My wife made an appearance in a session. My spouse complained about me begging her to edit my erotica. Sandra told my wife to put her foot down and refuse to read them. My wife exclaimed that I pleaded with her and proceeded to imitate me. Sandra broke out giggling and mimicked my plea saying, “Baby please, please. Come on. Do me this favor, just this once.” It felt like being tickle teased by my first girlfriend.

One day Sandra wore a diamond ring. She smiled big as Texas. She had remarried. Then we got down to therapy. I revealed to her that my voyeurism annoyed my wife.

Sandra shared her experience with her new husband at the football game. Her new husband’s parents accompanied them to the game. The father and mother gazed together at the golden girls with their binoculars. Both of them made lewd comments about the physical attributes of the young performing ladies. This raised a red flag for Sandra. She asked her new spouse, “You don’t do that do you? Is this genetic? Please reassure me.” Sandra continued, “Looking at those girl’s butts was disgusting.” Her humor eased my anxiety.

Once I shared with her my chat room diversions. Sandra told the story of her night in a chat room. She often had men ask her to take nude pictures of them because she was a photographer. However, this night something unusual happened. She was by herself in the room chatting with a man. He asked her, “Are you married?”

She replied, “Yes, I am.”

He asked, “Are you happily married?”

She answered, “Yes I definitely am.”

He asked her, “Then why are you here?”

She said, “Just to make friends and have conversations.” The mystery man vanished into cyberspace. This was one of the many life experiences she shared with me in therapy.

My curiosity about why she’d divorced her ex- husband had been smoldering quietly for years. During one session she revealed her secret. They had been snorkeling off the Atlantic coast of Florida. They rolled out there in the azure waves. Suddenly a dark monster swam from below the sea. It was a friendly giant, a manatee. However, though it was peaceful, she pointed out, it was huge and could’ve knocked her over. She was wearing flippers and goggles. Her ex-husband ran to shore, leaving her out there to fend for herself with the sea elephant. That she said, is what she tells her friends who wonder why she divorced him.

Her life lessons were guided by compassion. With each gentle push of her warmth she took me deeper down the lotus petal path. She coaxed my orange Pekoe soul into a morning blossom.

She calmed my storm tossed heart with her fairy queen spells. Her Wiccan words wrapped round my aggression. She rubbed my phallic ego with soothing aloe words in deep penetration.

Her raindrop words soaked into my thirsty roots. A bouquet of syllables blossomed from her flower petal lips. Her soft tones of pink timbre embraced me in aural peace. Her soul soothing sentences wrapped round my red heart core and slipped soft as morning sun into my monastic solitude. Her lips blew away the smoke hiding my burnt umber heart whose secrets she touched with healing horoscopes of hope. She held my masculinity in her delicate grasp. I was charmed by her maiden melody. Her soul salve eased my tender emotions into a healing reverie in which ragged feelings mended under her sorceress touch. She gently stroked the slick clay of my self esteem. My Argil rose under her spell into the shape of an erect dignity.

Then, she sculpted me with her word chisel. She pared away my broken pieces and reformed my cracked emotions. She shaped me into beauty and bared my original nature which was hidden under layers of pain. Her gentle caring was often tempered with tough lessons whose imprint was left deep within. Her nurturing exhalations breathed back into life feelings once dormant. She healed my heart hurt as the years softly slid by into
the abyss of memory.

After sixteen years of following her star the pages of our book are not yet finished. My soul is still soothed by her words whose warmth mists my torrent into a sun shower of love. I almost lost her when her patience worn thin as threadbare cotton. Like a Buddhist monk I followed her reincarnations into a remarriage, a new job, and a new life. She has been my Dharma Goddess who led me along the golden path to rose petal peace and eased my growing aches. She pulled me out of the abyss and kept resuscitating me when I had all but given up. Her emotional CPR gave me a future.

[stilltrucking]

just a jam don't mean nothing just inspired by your writing

I was just a kid of thirty-two stumbling around DuPont circle in D.C. my wandering lsd trips alone took me there for some reason, that night I got glommed up by Scientologists who prowled the streets of D.C. Memory of being in a mansion somewhere along Conneticut ave near the circle, a wood paneled room with a door that I distinctly remember being locked behind me and most of all I remember the woman there.
six foot flaming red hair,
she asked me such deep questions but somehow I think it had more to do with money. My memory fuzzy after forty-two years but I am sure
she was checking me out
afterwards I felt like charlie the tuna
cause the next thing I remember was being cast out into the street again. Somehow I felt relieved not rejected.

sorry for the ramble
thank you for writing
very beautiful
I am more and more drawn to Buddhism at this late date in my life

Iamage Source

[goldenmyst]

I loved your share. Your experience with the woman sounded like quite an adventure. Psychedelic with flaming hair femme to add to the experience. Scientology can be exotic and strange. Like you I prefer Buddhism more and more as the years roll by. Thanks so very much for following my meandering recollections of her. She still inspires me and uses her healing arts to tend to my emotional wounds after sixteen years.

John

[Unk]

I just want to write, and it just means a lot to me to hear from writers who's work I admire.

Even if it is painful for me to see my work juxtaposed next to your good work.

I don't know what it is with me and the word just. Something tells me to go back and edit, but some inner ear says leave it. When you write do you ever feel like you are taking dictation?

thank you for taking the time to reply, sorry about the multiple replies and user names.

[goldenmyst]

Your narrative ability, as evidenced by your above story, is superb. I thoroughly enjoyed hearing of your experiences in DC. You had my fascination with the finesse of your prose. I am honored to be among writers such as you. Thank you again for jamming here. It is very much appreciated.

John