By: Teresa Wymore | 6 Dec | Category: Free Story, Romance | Leave a Comment

As Advent begins, the angel Raphael arrives to answer love’s unspoken prayers. Copyright © 2006 Teresa Wymore. All rights reserved. Heart of the Rose is a fictional work of erotic romance.

~~~

Second Week of Advent

“Well, I just don’t think we can stay with this parish. This isn’t what the Church teaches.” John Gottschalk’s lips remained tight, and without making eye contact, he left with his wife following along silently behind him.

Father Charles Bristol stood and smiled as best as he could while watching his parishioners leave. When he was alone, he sat down and clasped his hands together. He dropped them onto the desk and silently prayed for guidance.

He could have smoothed things over, could have sounded more understanding, but he was tired of compromise. He was worn out from the tightrope he walked as a liberal priest, not that he considered himself liberal. He felt merely Christian, faithful to the message of freely chosen service, of Love over Law.

What would it look like, he often wondered, to serve the needs of every man and woman without expecting them to be just like you? He knew what it would look like. It would look like scandal. It would cause the bishop to call him and it would cause people like the Gottschalks to travel another fifteen miles to Mass in Maquoketa.

Charles waited for some sign, some sense that God had heard him, but he had a difficult time listening. After several years of asking, he was used to leaving these conversations empty-handed. Besides, he so much wanted to see Lillian.

He left his desk to don his coat and boots. He slipped two silver compact discs into his pocket and cradled a sack of groceries in one arm. He left the rectory, choosing to walk the half-mile around Reiter’s farm. Fat flakes collected and softened the edges of tire tracks on the road. The crisp air filled his lungs, refreshing and reminding him how big life really was. He smiled, thinking this was probably God’s answer for guidance.

By December, evening came early, but the snowfield reflected the town’s glow and brightened the terrain like a dim sun. Many people adored the hush that descended with the snow, but Charles loved most the brightness, this emergent light that accompanied the Midwestern winter, as if the night had a soul.

When he reached Lillian’s cottage, he knocked and waited. He had not worn a hat and the wind blew especially cold through the tunnel made by the porch structure. The sting of his ears had gone numb by the time the door opened. As he left the blue of the night and entered the warm yellow light of Lillian’s living room, he dragged a swell of cold air with him.

Lillian quickly pushed the door shut and hugged herself. Charles handed her the compact discs, and while he pulled off his coat and boots, she put both discs into her player.

“Scarlatti’s Concerti Grossi,” he said after setting the sack of groceries on the kitchen counter and returned to the living room. “There’s some Mozart and Beethoven, too.”

She wore faded jeans and a khaki sweater and smelled fresh, like a warm field of grass just beyond a cool wood. Her reddish hair was a mess of soft curls, and everything about her invited his desire. He watched as she closed her eyes and listened. Her attention left, as if the music were a lovely old house she had not recently seen, and she wandered through its rooms. She remained gone through much of the first movement before she again opened her eyes. “Sounds like Bach.”

As she shifted, he noticed her body heat and realized how close he stood. His nervous hand fiddled with the volume control, but he did not move away. “That’s because Bach was the culmination of the era.” He smiled at his next thought before he said it. “I suppose you might know the difference if you listened to something besides the radio.”

“And if you listened to something besides two-hundred-year-old dead men, you’d know the youth group was actually thanking you when they called you ‘phat’ last week.”

He followed her into the kitchen. “They might have saved me the embarrassment by just saying ‘thank you’ instead of singing that song.”

As she put groceries away, he sat at the table appreciating the contradiction of her delicate frame and decisive movements. Even when he was supposed to be listening to her, he often found himself moved to an internal distance, where he would appreciate how her mouth formed words, how her eyes lighted, how her skin flushed. She sometimes stopped speaking in an effort to get his attention, believing his mind was elsewhere, when it was entirely focused on her.

She carried the teapot and cups to the table and sat down. “Father went for a walk about half-an-hour ago.”

“I wondered where he was. Wait. He went out in this weather?”

“Said he was going to look for angels in the snow.”

“So what do you think of our new parochial vicar?”

“Compassionate and funny. He has really bad taste in movies, but makes great cocoa.”

“I’ve spent every Mass and lunch with him for a week, and I couldn’t tell you that.”

“Well, we had a few late nights.” She paused at the change in the music. “I do love those violins.”

“Who doesn’t love Baroque?”

“Is this Mozart?”

“Oh my, no.” He laughed when she rolled her eyes. She had always declined an invitation to share his music–until recently, when she finally agreed to listen to a few of his favorite pieces. Trying to decide how best to educate her had preoccupied half his week. She knew a great deal about art, so he thought he would begin with a comparison. “What’s your favorite kind of painting?”

“The Pre-Raphaelites. Remember? You called them ‘decadent,’ not that I’m at all sure what that means coming from a man who loves Bougeureau.”

Her sharp eyebrow remained arched, and he accepted her scolding with good humor. “Oh yes, all that passion and self-referential honesty, if I recall your lecture to me. I still don’t connect you with such…melodrama.”

“Melodrama?” A sly smile spread across her lips. “I suspect you hide an unhappy Ingres inside you, Charles.”

He knew something about art history, too. “You think I’m a frustrated romantic?”

“Hardly frustrated. You pour it out over everything you do. Like this thing with the Hewitts. How did your meeting with the Gottschalks go?”

Charles leaned back in his chair and scratched his thinning crown of black hair as he peered at her over the black rims of his glasses. He took pride in his consistent lack of color, always wearing a black clerical shirt and slacks, along with black socks and loafers. “It’s what you thought. They’re probably the ones who complained to the bishop. Have you mentioned anything to Father?”

“No, I thought you would want to explain the situation to him, but I don’t think it will be a problem, not from what I can tell anyway.” The music distracted her again. “Is this still Scarlatti?”

“How can you know so much about art and not care about the music?”

“I love all kinds of music. I just have no taste and don’t want any, you know. Better to be simple. I learned my lesson with wine. I used to love my nine dollar Napa Pinot Noir, and now I can’t drink anything unless it’s from the Russian River Valley–all because I spent time educating my taste buds.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a little sophistication.”

“My bank account disagrees.”

“You’ll catch on quick enough. Romantic composers are a lot like the painters. They’re easy to spot. All that lush sound.” After removing his glasses, he held them up to the light and wiped them with a napkin. “Augmented chords, diminished chords, things the Church had forbidden for centuries. I agree Tchaikovsky’s beautiful, but Wagner? Mussorgsky?”

“What’s wrong with Mussorgsky?”

After adjusting his glasses, he answered her with his own arched eyebrow. “How long did Father say he would be gone?”

“Didn’t.”

Charles left the kitchen to raise the volume on Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.

***

When Raphael opened the door, he was immersed in sound until Charles turned the volume down.

After removing his icy boots and coat, Raphael set them on the stand by the door. He used his foot to push the door snake back to block the draft, and rubbing his hands to warm them, he made his way to the kitchen.

“How was your walk?” asked Charles, following behind.

“Chilly.”

“I haven’t even thought about what to cook.” Lillian set a cup of tea on the table for Raphael. “I have some pasta sauce left over. Light wine, lots of garlic. That okay?” When they had agreed, she began heating a pot of water and returned to the table with a box of matches. “Should we light the candles now?”

Raphael nodded, and Charles began the ceremony. “The second candle of Advent is the Candle of Peace. Peace is a gift we must prepare for, given to us when we turn to God in faith. Our hope is in him and his son, Jesus Christ, and we light this candle to remind us that his coming brings peace to all who trust in him.”

Charles lit two candles. “Lord, set our hearts ablaze like John the Baptist, that we may we bring light and love to all we meet, that the darkness of sin and fear may be overcome. May we love one another in your peace, never to be separated again, for your peace is everlasting life. In Christ’s name we ask this. Amen.”

Charles and Lillian left the table again to prepare dinner. He went to the cupboards and took out plates and glasses, silverware and napkins and set the table as she heated the sauce. They glided around each other as easily as water around rocks. Once, when she dropped her stirring spoon, he kept her from kneeling with a hand to her shoulder, as he returned it to her and then wiped the floor.  

Raphael dunked his teabag and watched the routine. How odd it seemed to him that two such isolated people should possess this gentle affinity, especially when they refused to acknowledge it even existed.

Lillian set a plate of hot bread on the table, and minutes later, the three were sitting before a pile of steaming spaghetti and a pot of savory red sauce. They ate in silence until Raphael abruptly announced, “Our Lord came to make controversy, both when he befriended outcasts and when he became one himself.”

“That’s exactly what I say, Father.”

Charles glanced around. “Did I miss the conversation?”

“It seems I have.”

Charles recognized the question though Raphael had not asked it. “You’ve heard I agreed to baptize a special needs child. She’s three, newly adopted by the Hewitts.”

Raphael leaned forward. “But why is it a problem?”

“The Hewitts are a lesbian couple.”

“But why is it a problem?”

Charles offered a smile of relief. “The bishop’s worried, doesn’t want a controversy.” Charles pointed his finger like a gun at Raphael. “Controversy, right. That’s what you meant, but where did you hear about it?”

Despite his indignation, Charles seemed more wounded than angry. His surprise at the resistance to the baptism showed his true character, and the years of managing people had not made him cynical. The unexpected encounter with genuine humility warmed Raphael, who winked at Lillian before saying, “It’s what I don’t hear that would surprise you.”

Lillian stretched her hand across the table to get Charles’ attention. “You’re right to trust your heart. The bishop is only concerned about prestige.”

“You know it’s not that simple.” Charles set his hand on Lillian’s. “It’s about confusing people. It’s about a slippery slope that might take the diocese somewhere it shouldn’t go.”

“No, it’s simple. It really is. ‘Go, sell your possessions and give to the poor. Then come, follow me.’ What part of that means preoccupy yourself with how everyone else is living?”

Charles squeezed Lillian’s hand and returned to his spaghetti.

“You’re not going to let the bishop cow you, right?”

“Lil, if it’s the last thing I do as a priest, I’ll see that child baptized.”

“What does that mean?” Lillian’s green eyes took on a hard light.

Charles feigned confusion, though it was obvious to Raphael that he had meant to seed this discussion. “Just that it’s important to me.”

“No, you meant something else. Are you being transferred?”

Charles shook his head.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Lil, really…” 

She left the table.

“I should have told her.” Charles picked at his spaghetti. “I guess I let it sound like this is just a stop for you.”

“You could tell her now.” Raphael gestured for him to follow Lillian, but Charles returned to spinning his fork.

(Continued)

By: Teresa Wymore | 29 Nov | Category: Free Story, Romance | Leave a Comment

As Advent begins, the angel Raphael arrives to answer love’s unspoken prayers. Copyright © 2006 Teresa Wymore. All rights reserved. Heart of the Rose is a fictional work of erotic romance.

~~~ 

First Week of Advent

Drifting through the house, Raphael passed the kitchen table where a wreath encircled four candles propped in brass holders. One of the candles had been burned, its tapered contour lined with a hardened flow of wax. By custom he knew the candle to be violet and the wreath pine, but in his spiritual form he could not distinguish such features.  

Raphael had come to St. Mary of the Angels Parish to puzzle over the mystery of Lillian. Already, he had marveled at her melancholy afternoon as she stared out her kitchen window, and he wondered at her feverish evening, when she put written form to chaotic thoughts. Now, he settled beside her and roamed the landscape of her dreams, listening as only an angel can, while attending to the longing of her heart.

Everyone had a prayer, but Raphael could not find Lillian’s. Although he had scrutinized the sad woman from the time she made her morning coffee to when she slept, he could not find any hope left in her. Nevertheless, she simmered with intensity, as if ready to brim over with torments yet untouched. She seemed the type of woman meant for tragic love, not one to bring fulfillment to a sincere priest struggling with his vows.

But Charles loved her. It was his shy wish that had captured the attention of God’s Archangel of Healing. The only son of an overburdened widow, Charles wanted to help people because he had never been able to help those he loved most. He needed to be needed, which is why he had devoted two decades of his life to the Church, and why Raphael happily received the task of answering the hidden prayer he tried so hard to deny.  

***

In the late hours of a Sunday afternoon, Raphael walked a gravel road, his boots leaving tracks in the pristine snow as flakes floated through the frigid air, icing his golden eyelashes and blurring his vision. He adjusted his red plaid scarf, tossing it behind his back, and then lifted it to cover his nose. It was soon wet where his warm breath puffed from him as steam. His gloved hand was stiff from clasping a heavy suitcase, but he pressed on, knowing he was almost to his destination.

As an angel, he had few sensory impressions unless he took on a body, and despite many incarnations, each one surprised him with its dazzling sensations, even a harsh prairie winter. Touching and hearing the world with his spirit was more informative, but it was hardly more interesting.

He skidded a few feet as he descended a hill, leaving two trails behind him. He glanced back, seized with a sudden desire to throw himself down and create a snow angel. When a gust of wind whipped a tree branch, flinging a pile of snow onto his head, he brushed it off and returned to his task, accepting the divine prodding with his usual good nature.

He ascended the steps, set his suitcase into the snow, and pressed the doorbell. A flurry of curtains in a nearby window was followed with a request for his name.

“Raphael.”

With a swoosh, the door opened. Lillian flipped a mess of auburn bangs from her heart-shaped face and apologized for the delay. “Come in, Father.”

Raphael stomped the snow from his boots and stepped into the warm cottage.

The house had been part of an estate willed to the Catholic Church before the First World War. A generation later, the diocese sold most of the land and buildings. All that remained to the parish was thirty acres supporting the chapel and rectory. Lillian’s grandfather had purchased the cottage, which had been servants’ quarters for the original estate and overlooked the parish graveyard.

“I didn’t expect you so soon.” Lillian took Raphael’s coat. “But of course you’re welcome anytime. I’m Lillian McKenney.”

“Father Bristol had a meeting with a parishioner, so I thought I’d walk over and introduce myself.”

Lillian glanced out the window. “My thermometer says it’s twelve degrees.”

Raphael wore his hair short, and his body carried a middle-aged stoutness. The appearance of a lingering tan and wind-burned cheeks allowed him to blend in with other men in the rural community. His face tingled, and he pressed his hands to his stiff cheeks. “I’m sure that’s right.”

“You must be freezing.” She ushered him to her kitchen table and returned a warm kettle to the stove’s burner. “I’m sorry if I’m distracted.” She tapped her head as she turned back. “Been working all day.”

Raphael adjusted his collar and snapped the hem of his black clerical shirt to remove the wrinkles. After he sat down, he touched the table’s centerpiece, a wreath surrounding four candles. One violet candle, its wick darkened, stood among the three yet to be lit. The pine branch was real, its fragrance the source of the fresh aroma he had noticed since entering the house. “Father told me you’re a good poet.”

She turned to look out the kitchen window. “I’ve had two volumes published, not like my dad, you know. He was brilliant.”

“Logan McKenney was, indeed, a brilliant poet. I know of one very worn copy of ‘Ransom Soul’.”

When the kettle whistled, Lillian dropped teabags into two cups and sat down. She sipped her steaming tea. “Were you raised near here?”

Raphael tasted his tea. “Apple-cinnamon?”

“Ginger-spice.” She looked him over. “After tea, I’ll show you the house. There’s plenty of room here, so I hope you won’t feel crowded. I keep to myself mostly.”

“Father told me you never leave.”

A blush spread across her cheeks. “My writing keeps me busy.”

He realized she had taken his comment as an accusation; she was sensitive to what people thought of the reclusive poet’s reclusive daughter. Although he recognized her discomfort, he could not look away. Despite visiting her many times, this was his first experience of her precise voice, her soft red hair, and the mutable green of her sad eyes.

He spoke with her a while longer, doing his best to avoid her questions about his life. He had no capacity to lie.

Later, after he had unpacked, Raphael examined the objects in the house. The wooden Advent calendar hanging by the fireplace was an heirloom from Lillian’s mother. Its thirty blue doors once held the traditional mystery of peppermints and prayer cards behind them. Nearby, a purple cloth covered the shelf used as an altar, where she set a sterling crucifix her father had given her the year he died. Behind the crucifix lay a brittle leaf from Palm Sunday, a box of white votives, and a handful of holy cards, including one painted with an image of the angel Raphael.

He picked up the fanciful portrait of himself, rubbing his finger across the glossy print of a young man with long golden locks. He had not taken on such a body since all those centuries ago when he accompanied young Tobias on his journey. The prayer on the back of the card was a request for Raphael to intercede on the petitioner’s behalf, but he did not recall Lillian ever reading the card. This was not her prayer.

Much could be understood from a woman’s attachments, and Lillian maintained the cottage as if it were a museum, displaying artifacts from her childhood, some unmoved since her parents had lived there. The house was an anchor, stranding her against a familiar shore, and Raphael decided he would have to find a way to free her.

“I put some towels on your bed, but feel free to get whatever you need from the hall closet.” As Raphael returned the card to the altar, Lillian stepped closer to peer at the calendar. “My mother used to put candy in it for us. She passed away when I was ten.”

He brushed a finger across the glossy wood. “Us?”

“My brother and me.”

As she crossed her arms and forced a smile, he realized how difficult it was going to be for her to live with someone in the house, to remain attentive when every day felt like another weight added to the heavy burden of life. “Does your brother live nearby?”

“I need to do some laundry. Do you have anything you’d like me to wash?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Feel free to use the machine whenever you like, or I can do your clothes if you leave them in the hamper.”

“I don’t expect maid service, Lillian. Just having a room until the repairs are done is a blessing. I’ll take care of the rest, like I would at the rectory.”

She smiled at a thought. “There was a time when St. Mary had a housemaid. My father use to talk about stopping by the rectory to see if Gisele had made a pie. She often favored the altar boys with a slice of rhubarb before Mass.” As she left the room, she commented, “I guess it’s lean times for the Church now.”

Raphael thought of Lillian’s brother, Lew, who had committed suicide two weeks before graduating high school. He already knew from his spiritual visits that Lillian thought of Lew every day, often as she had last seen him before the closed-casket funeral. She had been the one to find him, dead in his bed, music playing so loudly no one recognized the sound of the gunshot. Despite having nearly twenty years to heal, she lived as someone experiencing a recent loss, like a shadow impatient for the light to go out.

(Continued)

By: Teresa Wymore | 24 Nov | Category: Erotica | Leave a Comment

Filament, a magazine for women featuring semi-naked men, launched earlier this year, and it flew off the shelves, even though the women complained that the men kept their pants on. “A limp response to women’s erotica” (The Guardian, Kristina Lloyd and Mathilde Madden).

When Filament tried to run an issue with fully-aroused and naked men, its printer refused. Not only that, but distributers refused to handle a women’s magazine with a man on the cover. I had to laugh at the absurdity.

In challenging a culture that positions women as sex-products for men, Filament isn’t seeking to turn the tables in an act of vengeance. Instead, it’s asking for women to be acknowledged as human beings who can look and lust just as men can.

While some contend the lack of female-oriented erotica reflects a lack of demand, claiming the free market would prevail if women wanted such material, Filament’s experience of cockblocking proves otherwise. Perhaps what’s most insidious in this saga is that the market’s refusal to admit Filament reinforces an idea of female sexuality which justifies that very refusal. The absence of visual erotica for women on shelves crammed with magazines where women are products for male consumers, reduces female desire to the less-interested counterpart of male desire. The deficit positions women as the providers of sex for perpetually horny dudes. And so, runs the self-fulfilling logic, of course women don’t want magazines targeting their desire. Women don’t have desire, see? They merely receive it. How do we know? Just check out those magazine shelves.

Filament Magazine takes a swipe at this process on their website:

What is the female gaze? Our images of men are made for the female gaze. We draw on research about what women find erotic, from published academic research and our own online research community. From research we’ve learnt that what most women find erotic does not at all match what is typically thought of as an erotic image of a man designed for women. For example, on average, women prefer:  •men who are not muscle-bound •men with more feminine face shapes •men with attractive faces •images that show the subject’s character and the environment he is in. We also know that women’s tastes vary quite a lot, and we aim to cater to that variety too. Our mission to understand the female gaze is ongoing

.

By: Teresa Wymore | 20 Nov | Category: Erotica | Leave a Comment

“What intrigues me is the use of children as a standard to censor ideas and images. We drug them with sugared sodas and candies. But when it comes to sex we somehow muster all our parental muscle to make sure they are protected, to make sure they don’t see how people may celebrate and lovingly use their bodies.” (HopeDance Editor Bob Banner)

I love that quote and find myself appalled at the anti-erotica forces that wave the flag of “family,” as if it somehow goes without saying that a “family-oriented” institution should have nothing to do with discussions of sex.

As the parent of two young children, I understand filtering for age-appropriate issues, but protests of groups like Citizens Against Pornography (CAP) never bother even to define what pornography is. I do. And I share those ideas with my kids a little bit at a time. Besides, CAP’s evidence of our cultural decline is a list of ”news” all about child porn crimes.  That’s a long way from literary stories about consenting adults doing whatever they’re doing.

By: Teresa Wymore | 18 Nov | Category: Erotica | Leave a Comment