Volta

Stun Gun

When she had finished talking, I watched her unfasten her coat: mid-thigh in length, gathered at the waist, perfectly positioned below the wrists. On the front of the coat was an emblem of a woman’s face, her side profile sculptured into the crescent of a half moon. An arrow penetrated a circle that surrounded it. To break the silence, I asked her if this motif had any significance, and Volta replied that everything does. She said there are signs everywhere one looks, each a creative representative voicing its own parables.

I agreed with her. As I writer I notice details that escape the attention of others, as though my visual senses are drawn to meanings within specific situations: hidden narratives only visible to the trained eye.

“That which you do recognize is a gift to be explored,’ she said, responding to my thoughts. “There are many levels of seeing, as though the senses, once attuned, are able to strip away the pretentiousness that engulfs every day living. When you can see greater with closed eyes,” she continued, her gaze burrowing into mine,  “then you have given perfect sight to the senses of the soul.”

I felt an instant shiver release itself from my body, as if subconsciously prodded by a cattle ranchers’ stun gun. There were so many questions on the end of my tongue, and yet silence had a firm hold of the situation, instantly gagging anything above zero decibels.

As I placed Volta’s coat on a hanger I scanned the inside of it for a label, but there was none to be found. The lining of the coat felt as pure as silk, and its outer material was a soft felt, its fibres containing threads of velvet. The stitching on the shoulders and cuffs was immaculate, the sort of fine detail that is to be found on exquisitely tailored suits. This I know because my work has a history of taking me into areas where bespoke clothing is the norm for many. It is true that one gets what they pay for: suits from Savile Row cannot be compared to those suspended in their mass produced numbers.

Volta’s suit had all the signs of expensive taste. Not only did it fit her perfectly but it highlighted the contours of her frame, as though the designer knew how to dress her body better than anyone else. In addition to this, the shoes she wore were every girls weakness: a calf height boot in two tones of autumn yellow, a thick sole giving length to the legs with burgundy laces fastening them in perfect tension to the shin, providing both style and function. At the side of the boots, near the tops of them, were what looked like two wings, preparing the feet for take off at any moment.

I sat on the sofa and sipped some wine, unsure of her next move and my potential response.  She positioned herself at the side me, her bag at her feet and her gloves on the table.

“You may halt your questioning now,” she said in a gentle tone, looking me directly in the eyes. “You have been specifically chosen for your work, for your efforts, and for your commitment to that which is within. Until now you have existed mid-way between confusion and certainty, between reality and illusion, physical ignorance and spiritual knowing. Many people exist in this state their whole lives, afraid to question the obvious, complaining with the effects of their decisions. You are prone to do this too, but your inner desires and their need for expression keep pushing you onwards even though you do not know where they are leading; blind courage both teasing and forcing you.”

“Sometimes I just feel as though I am walking on a treadmill, on repeat, never seeming to get anywhere,” I replied to her, my lips quivering as they restrained tears. “At times I feel alone: the relation who lives a hand-to-mouth existence, never really reaping the financial success that others appear to do, my family reminding me that I am not getting any younger.”

 “Be quiet,” she said, her finger gently touching my lips. I did not respond, silence suddenly feeling very beautiful, the quiet emotion, attached to nothing and yet a vital part of the encounter. “Will you allow me to kiss your soul from head to toe so that you may experience the fullness of desire?” she asked. Again, I did not answer, my mind nestled comfortably in the crevice of mental solitude like a rock climber wedged in a large crack, warm in her sleeping bag.

 “Are you willing, here and now, to submit yourself to me, trusting that I have your infinite wellbeing at the forefront of my mind?”

I looked into her eyes, its pupils reminding me of the emblem on her coat, the black solid circles perfectly offset by an iris of hazel-green and sparkling with humble excitement. She placed her hand on my cheek, her thumb gently stroking the underneath of my eye as if wiping a renegade tear away. Then she lifted her other hand to my face, cupping it in her palm. Naturally I closed my eyes, her touch both warm and soft. She started to press her fingers around the sockets of my eyes and across my cheekbones, as if applying pressure to specific points, and as she did, I felt tiny electrical shocks underneath my skin. She moved her fingers down to my neck, which she started to massage, her touch sending electrical impulses into my spinal chord. My whole upper body began to feel light, as though its tension was departing.

Volta instructed me to lie down, and I did not resist, my nerve endings calling out for more, more, more, of the feeling that she was inducing in it. I did not halt her as she unbuttoned my shirt, the chilled air of the apartment teasing my exposed chest, cool currents blowing over my skin. I allowed her to kiss my face, soft kisses that felt like petals dropping from above. The gentle breaths that she expelled as she moved her lips down my body made me feel as though I was resting on a giant lily pad in a pond of mountain spring water; whilst the song of natural life gave grace to my ears.

At my midriff, she flattened her palm over my naval and pressed down. Intense warmth emanated from her hand into my stomach. I felt swirls of heat encapsulating my womb, tracing the infinity symbol over and around my ovaries from one side to the other, causing sensations between my legs as if reawakening this specific area, its sexual desire chanting hypnotic voodoo beats.

“Do not be afraid,” she whispered as she caressed my inner thigh. “Your soul is dancing to its own music now.”

I could feel dampness on my underwear, as though I was in a state of prolonged excitement. Volta ran her fingers up and down my legs, from the ankle to my thighs as if fondling a slow stream. She teased my toes, one by one, each touch sending gentle electrical currents through the energy centres of my body. For a brief moment she removed her hands, losing contact with my skin, and then I heard the dull click of a latch, which caused me to instinctively open my eyes. In her hand was the bag, from which she was removing two cables, each with blunt crocodile clips at their ends. When she saw me looking, she placed her finger on my lips and in a gentle whisper, said, “Relax.”

When I closed my eyes again she began massaging my breast, freeing its nipple from inside my bra. She repeated this with the other, each of them now standing to attention, erect and attentive. And then I sensed her clipping the mouths of the crocodiles around them, their teeth ready to take a playful bite.

This caused no pain.

Only comfort.