Mind Caviar

Jean Roberta was born in California when her father was finishing a degree at Stanford on the G.I. bill. She's been living in Canada since she was a teenager in the 1960s. She now lives on the Canadian prairie and teaches English at a local university. She has a long-term woman partner and a grown daughter who are still on speaking terms with her. Her work has been published in Best Lesbian Erotica 2000 and 2001, Best Women's Erotica, Wicked Words, Herotica 7, and in various journals and Web sites.


Years ago, there was a character named Moonbeam in a comic strip in the newspaper. She was a hillbilly with tits and hips and pouty lips, dressed in rags that barely covered her essentials. She liked to hang out with the pigs, and she always had flies around her. Moonbeam somehow looked luscious and repulsive at the same time.

I think of a certain woman I know as Moonbeam, even though she grew up in a city and her real name doesn't sound like a joke. I know her all over, inside and out, from her dyed-black hair to her breasts (one with an inverted nipple) to her deep, tight pussy to her thin legs and long-toed feet. I don't really know if my carnal knowledge makes me responsible for her. I know that her lingering smell in my nose and the feel of her hand on my balls embarrasses the hell out of me.

I met her one night in the bar when she came up to me with a smirk and said, "Cool nose ring, guy. You wanna dance?" I probably should have said no, but I was intrigued. I'd rather see honest hunger in a woman than that coy attitude that makes you wonder whether she'll be more upset if you try anything or if you don't. As we danced to a fast song, Moonbeam looked at me as though we were alone on a desert island. When a slow number came on, she moved into my arms as though she had been following my rhythm for years.

The three friends I had come in with were all digging each other in the ribs when I brought Moonbeam back to our table. She'd made it really clear that I was the only one who interested her, but she was polite to everyone else. I thought her behavior was surprisingly classy. When I asked her if she wanted to leave, it was understood that we were going to my place.

In my car, she couldn't sit still or keep her legs together. She was wearing tight pants, and I couldn't help thinking that the crotch seam must be driving her crazy. At that point, I didn't care whether she had class or not. I just wanted to get her home fast. 

Once my apartment door had closed behind us, she wouldn't look me in the eyes. She walked around my living room, touching my plants and furniture. 

I thought she would feel better if I gently but firmly removed her confusion along with her clothes. I came up behind her and wrapped my arms around her. "Hold still," I whispered, and began unbuttoning her shirt. She sighed, shifting from foot to foot, but she tried not to breathe or to move. If you've never seen that look of trembling anticipation that some women wear all over their bodies, you've missed something.

She was thin and pale, as I expected, with breasts that looked too heavy to go with the rest of her. She had several black and red tattoos in unusual Japanese-looking designs. She had already told me she had had a nose job, and her hair was obviously dyed. I guessed that she might have had her breasts enlarged. I admired all the ways she had custom-designed her own body.

I wanted to see her from all sides as if I was looking at a famous statue in an art gallery I would never visit again. I let my hands move slowly over her shoulders, her back, her breasts, her flat stomach and her ass. I needed to know her this way as much as she needed to be known.

In the bedroom, on my bed, I spent some time kissing her and playing with her tits until her inverted nipple popped out, hard as a nailhead. When I spread her lower lips, she was wet enough to leave her mark on the towel I'd spread on the bed. Even though she was sopping, I wanted to be sure I had her full and heartfelt consent. Drunk or sober, a woman should know what she's doing. "Honey," I suggested, "would you get up on all fours?" She looked up at me with melting eyes, and did as I asked. I held her by the waist, and prepared to do it doggy-style.

Luckily, my mattress is fairly hard. I knew from experience that we could do this on the bed and get a good rhythm going. Crouched on my bed, presenting her slim ass to me, Moonbeam almost looked like a child. Inside, I found her deep, hot and reckless. Every time I pushed into her, she pushed back against me as if she wanted me to penetrate her guts. For awhile, we had a catchier beat going than a gospel choir. 

For a short, precious time, I felt she was mine. As I pumped her, she moaned and groaned and squealed and mewed. I couldn't hear myself at all. It was all so sexy I didn't think I could hold back until she got off.

I had no reason to worry about it. When Moonbeam came, she bucked so hard I was afraid I might accidentally damage her insides, so I grabbed her hips to steady her. Unfortunately, she responded to my hands exactly as a cat in heat would do, by bucking harder. I strengthened my grip until I knew I would leave red fingermarks in her soft flesh, and I tried to slow her down with words. "Easy now," I tried to soothe her. "Just slow it down." Talking did the trick.

Afterwards, she had to go to the bathroom as chicks usually do. When she came back, I just held her for a minute. I never want any woman I've been with to feel bad about it. I know a lot of women have had their heads messed up by the idea that nice girls should be untouchable. Women I know who were raised in religious families have been brainwashed the worst. I really try to help them accept their own feelings. I should start my own religion, the Church of the Holy Fuck. 

I really love women, and I hoped I was giving Moonbeam what she needed. It never occurred to me at the time that she wanted to move in on me. 

Now, I know there are a lot of misunderstandings between different people about what sex means. I know there are still a few very old-fashioned chicks out there who believe that sex always has to mean commitment. But I seldom meet that kind in a bar, and when I do they're always there with their guys, not looking for action. I always assumed that any woman who came on to me or encouraged me to make a move understood the difference between a good time and a marriage. 

I began to see the problem as soon as I offered to drive her home the next afternoon. I had made pancakes and bacon for brunch because we were both hungry when we woke up. After we had each read the newspaper over two cups of coffee apiece, I had to get going. I had to check on my sister's dog and houseplants while she was away and I had to talk to Mal (Mario the electrician) about a darkroom that we were supposed to set up for some guy who wanted to develop his own photos. Besides all that, I needed my space. 

Moonbeam looked as if she was going to cry when I drove her home. "You must have things to do, too," I reminded her.

"Me?" she sneered. "I don't have nothing to do." 

Before long, we were at her building in a rundown part of town. "So, when will I see you again?" she demanded.

"I'll call you," I promised.

"Tonight," she told me through her teeth. "Call me tonight," she repeated. Then she threw herself on me for a tight hug before jumping out of the car. She was not a happy woman.

I'm probably a fool. I phoned her that evening. "Look," I started, "I want you to know I appreciate what you gave me last night, but I don't think we see things the same way." I took a deep breath. "I don't want a serious relationship right now."

She gasped. I couldn't understand her next few words because she seemed to be crying. Finally she sniffed and then enunciated: "I wouldn't have let you if I'd known it wouldn't mean nothing to you. Why didn't you tell me?" I didn't know what to say. "So were you just planning to dump me like a bag of old clothes for the Salvation Army?" she demanded. "Just like that?"

"No," I soothed her, wondering how to be a nice guy without getting my balls cut off with a rusty knife. "I really like you, honey," I told her, "but I'm not ready for a commitment."

"So how often were you planning to see me?" she asked. She had this way of asking questions that made me feel like a suspect under interrogation. "I need to see you once a week at least, Frank," she flirted. "I need to hear your voice every day. You can't just stop talking to me. I know you wouldn't do that. You're not the type." I tried to say something, but I couldn't form the words. She was on a roll.

"You don't know how many jerks there are out there," she informed me. "After my husband, I thought there'd have to be a few real men left. When I started going out again, I started meeting all the little boys who never grew up. I'm in touch with my feelings, and most guys can't handle it, so they accuse me of doing this Fatal Attraction thing to them." She began to cry again. "I can't just keep taking it. I can't. You know what I mean? I can't live without love." She seemed to want me to make up for all the pain in her life. 

Out of curiosity, I asked her what she did for a living. "You don't know what it's like," she responded. After some beating around the bush, she told me she had been living on welfare since her divorce a year before. The humiliation and isolation of her life seemed to be messing her up more by the day. 

"Have you looked for a job?" I asked her, thinking I was suggesting the obvious. "That way you could meet people as well as earn money. You'd have something to do."

"As if," she shot back. "The only jobs are for people over forty. No one's going to hire me for a serious job. I'm not a movie star and I don't have lots of degrees." 

Man, she was making me feel old, but I took the bait. "Then why not apply for a student loan so you can go back to school?" I asked. "You could learn something you like."

"Yeah, sure," she snarked. Her contempt oozed from every word. "What planet do you live on? Why should I get $40,000 into debt and come out with a degree that still can't get me a job? How do you think women pay back that kind of money? It's all part of the setup. Don't go to school and never get a chance, or try to pull yourself up by your bootstraps and fall on your face." Her voice was rising, taking on a shriller edge. "But you're a man, and white, so you can feed off other people's blood. Why should you care what happens to the rest of us?"

"Sure, babe," I laughed. "Me and the vampire Lestat." 

Her own laugh was nasty. "You don't get it, do you? It's not your problem." Her arrogance annoyed me, but I recognized some truth in what she said.

"Look, I know it's hard to find work these days," I tried to comfort her. "Not just for chicks, women, but for everybody. I know it's harder than it used to be, but what do you have to lose by trying every way you can to get what you want? Some women make it big. Not everybody is in debt. If you keep trying, something's bound to happen." I felt like a teacher lecturing a rebellious student who was dying in prison from some disease that wasn't even known twenty years ago. I knew before she answered how she would react to my advice: "That old shit doesn't work any more. Give me something I can use." 

Suddenly Moonbeam changed the subject. "I used to be a dancer," she bragged, "but that's a trap. I'd rather make fabric art. I started a piece, but I can't afford all the material I need. When the time is right, money will come into my life, and then I can make enough pieces for a show. You'll see."

"Could you support yourself as a free-lance artist?" I asked, not seriously.

This question set her off like nothing else. "Oh, so you think selling out to make money is a sign of success? Do you want me to do work for some company that poisons the environment and kills off animals and sells little kids in Third World countries to guys like you? Or answer some ad for some shit job and get gang-raped? Is that your idea of making it big?" 

"No," I sighed. "Hang onto your soul, honey. Don't let the bastards take it." 

"Phone me tomorrow," she begged. "Please, Frank. I really need to hear your voice. Don't forget."

"I won't," I promised her. Then I wondered why those words had jumped out of my mouth like little snakes in a horror movie about some guy under a witch's curse. 

I paced the floor, feeling irritated and horny at the same time. In spite of my common sense, her sassy stubbornness appealed to me. She had the pervy style of the goth maidens I sometimes see drifting by on the street in their black clothes and white faces, with that "I know you want to rape me and why haven't you" pout. After half an hour, I realized that I had to phone the woman back and say goodbye, once and for all.

When I phoned back, she sounded so happy to hear my voice that I almost lost my nerve. "I knew you'd call!" she squealed. "I just knew. I love your voice. I feel as if you're touching me all over." I couldn't shut her up. "I never felt like this about any man before you, Frank," she told me. "I feel like you're my guardian angel."

Despite my best efforts to stay cool, I could feel the hooks in my flesh. After I told her I thought it would be best if we didn't see each other for awhile, she seemed amazingly calm. She asked if we could meet for coffee one last time, just to say goodbye. I said yes, figuring why not?

To make a long story short, we went to her place after coffee for a repeat performance. She seemed so eager for me that she made me nervous, but her hungry little mouth and snatch cured that problem. I didn't think she would really say "no" to anything, and I was right. Cuffing her to her own bed was my idea, but that was after she showed me her leather handcuffs. She was like a kid showing off a new toy. Hot damn. 

Moonbeam also showed me some other treasures: her marble sculpture, shaped like a cock, that she said she got from some biker dyke who said it was modeled on one that she and her buddies cut off some poor dude; a riding crop and a signal whip that she said she inherited from her grandmother who'd once owned horses, and a wooden paddle from a nineteenth-century school for boys that she said was a gift from an antique-collector who admired her dancing. Moonbeam loved what I could do to her with her own toys, and she could take more than I would have guessed. After I had left marks on her, I couldn't just say goodbye. I had to make sure she was okay. 

Eventually, I got firm and refused to meet her in person. That was the beginning of the nightmare. My phone started ringing at all hours of the day and night. Even when I refused to answer, I could hear her persistence filling my apartment. I couldn't afford to be without a phone. I stopped going to the bar because I was afraid she would look for me there.

I could bitch about women in general, but that would be too easy. I touched her in too many ways in too many places before I started saying "no". I feel like an ass. I don't really believe I've lived up to my own standards, but at this point I don't know what else to do but pretend I'm a brick wall. 

If Moonbeam ever decides to work for a living, she would make a good private investigator. She got the names and phone numbers of all the people I know, and she has left messages for me everywhere. She phoned my sister and my brother, who lives in Florida. She phoned Mal and asked a lot of nosy questions about our business. She phoned most of the people Mal and I have done work for, then told me all this information in a message left on my answering machine.

Later on, Moonbeam wrote a letter full of misspelled words for activities and body parts, addressed it to me and stuck it on the bulletin board in the local sex shop. In her way, she has guts. Sometimes she lurks about my building all day so that I have to dash out the back and jump into my car before she can catch up to me. 

Moonbeam has changed my life more than I could have believed when I first looked into her eyes. She used to make me feel as if I had found enlightenment in her sweet snatch. If I had, I would know how to handle this situation.

I couldn't respect myself if I did whatever it would take to exorcise her from my life. It might even land me in jail. On the other hand, I can't respect myself now. And I'm not free.

Since I stopped talking to Moonbeam, I've been dreaming about some supernatural woman, the Mother Goddess. She usually comes to me naked, showing off her big breasts and life-giving hips. She always wants me. Sometimes she runs one of her fingers between her wet pussy lips and smears the juice on my lips. She smiles as if someone had just told her a good joke. 

Sometimes I just want to crawl into her cunt and stay in there as long as she'll keep me, staying connected. Sometimes I just want her to hold me. Other times I want to find all her most ticklish places and play with them until she loses control.

She never castrates me, exactly, but sometimes I feel as if she's holding me so tight I can't breathe. When I feel that way, I wake up. 

I don't really know if there is an all-powerful source of energy in the universe. I used to pray to Him or It in my weed-smoking days. Praying to the source still comforts me, even when I have little faith. Here goes:

Please send Moonbeam the help she needs because I can't give it to her. While You're at it, please send my strength back to me. If this situation is supposed to teach me something, please forgive me for my sins and help me find the wisdom never to jump into this deep, dark hole again. 
If You value me at all (and I am your devoted son), please straighten the woman out. And do it soon.
Copyright © 2001 Jean Roberta. All rights reserved. Do not copy or post.

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