Lady Lynda’s dramatic Encounter with Curmudgeon Erasmus Nutley

Erasmus Nutley looked utterly determined as he stood directly in the front of the diner’s entrance.    The man confidently swung his arms and clenched his first as he looked for the waitperson to seat him.   His  humped reed thin back rattled like a twig in the air conditioned  breeze.   His watery grey eyes furtively darted like a hawk eyeing  his next meal.   There was no way he would be taken advantage of he swore.  He was a paying customer He demanded to be respected. 

Nutley kept fidgeting.  The man glanced at his watch. He saw he waited for ten whole minutes. The waitress told him he didn’t need to wait.  She smiled, since she thought he’d be pleased he was free to seat himself. Her smile soon turned into a frown when her customer sternly told her she  should be ashamed for not letting a wait person seat their customers.  The female cashier retorted with this was just a diner. a casual bite to eat.  Erasmus  “Excuses, excuses for your lack of civility. She replied “Well if you don’t like it here you’re free to leave” Nutley snapped “What and deny my right to dine in a restaurant where I am able to enjoy a civil pleasure?  Its the principle my dear.  Its the principle”  he sneered.

The young female waitress gritted her teeth.  What next? Cut his meat?  Spoon feed him? He didn’t want service. He wanted to be pampered.   The counter woman wiped her brow as if to say I wish I could brush this creep off.  She was just trying to satisfy this customer the best she could. Though it was clear he didn’t deserve such consideration.  What he deserved was to be kicked where the sun don’t shine.

 Just then a dowdy middle aged woman walked in.  she wore  white leather pumps that perfectly matched her dainty white gloves.  Her prim flower print dress delicately skimmed the bottom of her knees. Her panty hose fit snugly covered her a smidgen too heavy legs.  She carried a white leather clutch. The woman look the epitomy of conservative fashion. On her pale lemon organza blouse was a small conservatively stylish rose brooch.  Her makeup consisted of loose light beige face powder, rose pink lipstick and mascara. The woman’s eyes were blue and green. Her features still pert for a middle aged woman.

 The confrontation between Nutley and the wait woman immediately gripped her attention.      She gasped as she heard the harraunging of Erasmus toward the poor dear victimized woman.   Lady Lynda  immediately wanted to come to the poor dear’s rescue.  The woman determinedly told herself  It was up to her use her immense knowledge of manners to deescalate the tense situation.  Yes but of course, true to herself, in a lady like way.  Lady Lynda after all was consistently a lady.

The self proclaimed etiquette expert walked just past Nutley and the waitress. Seymour Toze’s wife dropped her brush. “Oh dear. How clumsy of me”  Erasmus immediately looked up to check out the sudden commotion.   Erasmus glared at Lady Lynda.  He remembered how much a nuisance she was. Especially with her kumquat persimmon cakes.   What in hell was she doing he sneered.  His nemesis was not taken aback  She held her stride because she knew she was on a mission of civility.

“Mr Erasmus Nutley. That is not the way to handle things.  It is much better to use sugar than lemons.  If you really want somebody to be cooperative you must tell tem nicely.  Everybody has feelings. I suppose even you”

Speaking of lemons I’d much rather be a sourpuss then someone so sweet they make the Dickens character “Tiny Time”  seem like a sourpuss.  .”  Erasmus told her. “I know you can get a lot more done with people if you treat them with sugar instead treating them with lemons”  Nutley’s nemesis replied.

“You know I’m diabetic type two and I need to careful with sweets” “You know darn well what I meant my dear Erasmus.   I’m not telling not to complain but to try to do it considering other people’s feelings. You can be a lot more persuasive that way.  Come on try it. Please do?  “Okay I’ll do it to get you off my back” he snapped. With that Erasmus Nutley bit his lip and did what Lady Lynda suggested.  The result was everyone was happy.

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Lady Lynda does her wifely chores for Seymour.

 

Lady Lynda is making certain the house is spic and span clean for her husband Seymour Toze. She would love to whistle while she works but she when she tries only air comes out. She feels so inadequate. How tragic she thinks being born with bucal apraxia. It is a major heartship she must bear. She can never whistle a happy tune. But the woman smiles as she recalls how she can conversely immediately think of a song that goes with what ever she is doing. Right now she is thinking of “We all shine on” as she shines her brass candlestick holders. “And we all shine on. On and on and on”

Seymour Toz’es wifypoo is grateful for being married to Seymour even if he most appreciates her toes. At least he does at times enjoys the rest of her body. She likes how he is affectionate Sometimes to Lady Lynda affection is as important as being intimate.

Lady Lynda decided to take a break by listening to her solemate’s 78′s collection. She casually perused the records until she noticed Bullmoose Jacksons “I want a Bowlegged Woman” She became quite intrigued She recalled her spouse’s compassion for those unfortunate freaks from the “World’s Cheapest Freak show Could his concern with differently formed manifested itself in his musical tastes?

 

She reflected on how noble her mate was with his keen interest in those who suffer from inborn misfortunes. It was not their fault they were so different from normal folks. Just imagine no sense of direction? The horrot. Yet with adversity sometimes comes strength.

The woman played the record. It felt so good to enjoy the contraptions of the past and not deal with the newfangled gadgets of today. She thought much she thoroughly disliked MP3 players, CDs, or even DVDs for that matter. They were much too fancy for her. She was old fashion and proud of it.

 

The sound creaked somewhat but the lyrics could still be easily heard. She read the lyrics were by Glover Nix. Who ever he was she sneered.

 

 

I want a bow legged Woman that’s all I’ll fall in love with Her right from the start Because her big fat Legs are so far apart I want a bow legged Woman right now I want to find me A gal somehow She’s gotta be built like an ol’ bass fiddle Big bow legs and a hole in the middle Gotta be on my way, To find a bow legged Woman today. (He wants a bow legged woman) Yeah (He wants a bow legged woman “…

Suddenly Lady Lynda heard the clock chime. She realized it was time for Seymour to come home. The w woman started to panic. She told herself she totally lost track of the time. ..

Just then the recording began skipping. The woman tried to make the needle be in a situation where it wouldn’t jump. Lady Lynda felt like she would jump if she heard Seymour open the door. If only she could find a way to fix the disk and put it away.

Seymour grandly opened the door. “I’m home darling. I’m thrilled my “Into Leather”shoe store boss promoted me to top pedicurist. “Oh darling you’re listening to “Bowlegged Woman” but now I think the song now should be Billy Joel’s “I Love You Just the Way You are”  Lady Lynda is making certain the house is spic and span clean for her husband Seymour Toze. She would love to whistle while she works but she when she tries only air comes out. She feels so inadequate. How tragic she thinks being born with bucal apraxia. It is a major heartship she must bear. She can never whistle a happy tune. But the woman smiles as she recalls how she can conversely immediately think of a song that goes with what ever she is doing. Right now she is thinking of “We all shine on” as she shines her brass candlestick holders. “And we all shine on. On and on and on”

Seymour Toz’es wifypoo is grateful for being married to Seymour even if he most appreciates her toes. At least he does at times enjoys the rest of her body. She likes how he is affectionate Sometimes to Lady Lynda affection is as important as being intimate.

 

 

 

 

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“A Wife’s Sacred Duty to her Husband”

 

A WIFE’S SACRED DUTY TO HER HUSBAND
“Desdemona was unjustly accused.  Othello’s was a detestable lout”, Auntie Carol thought as she spray starched he husband’s work shirts.  She mused about the unjustness of it all.  Herman would never fall prey to an iago, the hateful wretch.  “I am so happy to have my Herman/Emma Enigma, (Herman, of course was a hermaphrodite and a psycho therapist.)  One couldn’t tell whether he was coming or going, so to speak and he had two separate personalities, a man and a woman.  He was a specialist in dissociative disorders.   Who better?
 
Auntie Carol took pride in her role as “help-mate” to her husband.  She believed in being
the woman behind the man.” Every evening she greeted him with a “hello, darling “ and a kiss just like on “Father Knows Best”, an old sit com.  As the Bible says, “Cleave unto youe man.”  This was her motto.  Every evening she was there with his slippers, his Wall Street Journal, and a snifter of Remy Martin.  He settled into his cozy chair, and she sat in his lap like a smiling geisha.  She cheered his victories and put salve on his wounds She would say, “Darling, the girl was a bipolar noir poet.  She had a bad attitude about life.  You couldn’t have prevented her suicide.”
 
“If only I had caught it in time.  She gave me signed copies of her three books and a copy of  her will.  She was the Siamese twin that lived for Christ’s sake and her disastrous search for a
Soul mate.  She was always crying out for love and never getting it.  Her neediness and insane fits of jealousy always drove them away, and then was the guy she held at knife point for two days.  He left the country to avoid ever seeing her again. I tried and tried, but when she did a strip tease in my office, I had to refer her elsewhere.  In the end I threw her away just like all the others had.  I should have handled the transference better than I did.  She always said God let the wrong twin die, shoulda’ been her.”
“Darling,” said Auntie Carol.  “Let me say it crudely.  A woman’s got to take care of her own ass.  No man is a leaning post.  A bird flies on his own two wings”.

Then he launched a tirade against Betsy, the Bull Dyke, saying if she had balls she’d be a man.
 
“Darling, I just abhor all those hoity toity career woman who have this drive to achieve.  A woman’s place is behind a man to shore him up form life’s disappointments.   After all it is an honor to stand in reflected light,” said Auntie Carol. “ By the way, dear, I’ve prepared a scrumptious dinner.  Beef Bourgeonne. Green beans almondine, fruit compote a la Truman Compote and Key Lime Pie.  And we shall have  Patron Margaritas, your fave!!  Nothing is too good for my man.”
 
“What did I do to deserve such a woman, said   Herman.
 
“You proposed, Darling.   You proposed,” replied Auntie Carol.A WIFE’S SACRED DUTY TO HER HUSBAND
“Desdemona was unjustly accused.  Othello’s was a detestable lout”, Auntie Carol thought as she spray starched he husband’s work shirts.  She mused about the unjustness of it all.  Herman would never fall prey to an iago, the hateful wretch.  “I am so happy to have my Herman/Emma Enigma, (Herman, of course was a hermaphrodite and a psycho therapist.)  One couldn’t tell whether he was coming or going, so to speak and he had two separate personalities, a man and a woman.  He was a specialist in dissociative disorders.   Who better?
 
Auntie Carol took pride in her role as “help-mate” to her husband.  She believed in being
the woman behind the man.” Every evening she greeted him with a “hello, darling “ and a kiss just like on “Father Knows Best”, an old sit com.  As the Bible says, “Cleave unto youe man.”  This was her motto.  Every evening she was there with his slippers, his Wall Street Journal, and a snifter of Remy Martin.  He settled into his cozy chair, and she sat in his lap like a smiling geisha.  She cheered his victories and put salve on his wounds She would say, “Darling, the girl was a bipolar noir poet.  She had a bad attitude about life.  You couldn’t have prevented her suicide.”
 
“If only I had caught it in time.  She gave me signed copies of her three books and a copy of  her will.  She was the Siamese twin that lived for Christ’s sake and her disastrous search for a
Soul mate.  She was always crying out for love and never getting it.  Her neediness and insane fits of jealousy always drove them away, and then was the guy she held at knife point for two days.  He left the country to avoid ever seeing her again. I tried and tried, but when she did a strip tease in my office, I had to refer her elsewhere.  In the end I threw her away just like all the others had.  I should have handled the transference better than I did.  She always said God let the wrong twin die, shoulda’ been her.”
“Darling,” said Auntie Carol.  “Let me say it crudely.  A woman’s got to take care of her own ass.  No man is a leaning post.  A bird flies on his own two wings”.

Then he launched a tirade against Betsy, the Bull Dyke, saying if she had balls she’d be a man.
 
“Darling, I just abhor all those hoity toity career woman who have this drive to achieve.  A woman’s place is behind a man to shore him up form life’s disappointments.   After all it is an honor to stand in reflected light,” said Auntie Carol. “ By the way, dear, I’ve prepared a scrumptious dinner.  Beef Bourgeonne. Green beans almondine, fruit compote a la Truman Compote and Key Lime Pie.  And we shall have  Patron Margaritas, your fave!!  Nothing is too good for my man.”
 
“What did I do to deserve such a woman, said   Herman.
 
“You proposed, Darling.   You proposed,” replied Auntie Carol.A WIFE’S SACRED DUTY TO HER HUSBAND
“Desdemona was unjustly accused.  Othello’s was a detestable lout”, Auntie Carol thought as she spray starched he husband’s work shirts.  She mused about the unjustness of it all.  Herman would never fall prey to an iago, the hateful wretch.  “I am so happy to have my Herman/Emma Enigma, (Herman, of course was a hermaphrodite and a psycho therapist.)  One couldn’t tell whether he was coming or going, so to speak and he had two separate personalities, a man and a woman.  He was a specialist in dissociative disorders.   Who better?
 
Auntie Carol took pride in her role as “help-mate” to her husband.  She believed in being
the woman behind the man.” Every evening she greeted him with a “hello, darling “ and a kiss just like on “Father Knows Best”, an old sit com.  As the Bible says, “Cleave unto youe man.”  This was her motto.  Every evening she was there with his slippers, his Wall Street Journal, and a snifter of Remy Martin.  He settled into his cozy chair, and she sat in his lap like a smiling geisha.  She cheered his victories and put salve on his wounds She would say, “Darling, the girl was a bipolar noir poet.  She had a bad attitude about life.  You couldn’t have prevented her suicide.”
 
“If only I had caught it in time.  She gave me signed copies of her three books and a copy of  her will.  She was the Siamese twin that lived for Christ’s sake and her disastrous search for a
Soul mate.  She was always crying out for love and never getting it.  Her neediness and insane fits of jealousy always drove them away, and then was the guy she held at knife point for two days.  He left the country to avoid ever seeing her again. I tried and tried, but when she did a strip tease in my office, I had to refer her elsewhere.  In the end I threw her away just like all the others had.  I should have handled the transference better than I did.  She always said God let the wrong twin die, shoulda’ been her.”
“Darling,” said Auntie Carol.  “Let me say it crudely.  A woman’s got to take care of her own ass.  No man is a leaning post.  A bird flies on his own two wings”.

Then he launched a tirade against Betsy, the Bull Dyke, saying if she had balls she’d be a man.
 
“Darling, I just abhor all those hoity toity career woman who have this drive to achieve.  A woman’s place is behind a man to shore him up form life’s disappointments.   After all it is an honor to stand in reflected light,” said Auntie Carol. “ By the way, dear, I’ve prepared a scrumptious dinner.  Beef Bourgeonne. Green beans almondine, fruit compote a la Truman Compote and Key Lime Pie.  And we shall have  Patron Margaritas, your fave!!  Nothing is too good for my man.”
 
“What did I do to deserve such a woman, said   Herman.
 
“You proposed, Darling.   You proposed,” replied Auntie Carol.
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Josette My Sodden Angel.

JOSETTE, MY SODDEN ANGEL

Before I go on, I’d best describe Josette as I first met her. She was a platinum blond and had long wavy locks which came pert near her ass. She had indigo eyes and the face of a fashion model with on little dimple in the middle of her chin. Her eyes were wide set and had the look of anticipation in them. As if one day she would own the world. She was thin, lanky and rawboned and athletic looking like a runner and raunchy as a she bitch in heat. She grabbed my cock and said, “Buy me a drank, honey pie. I forgot my change purse.”

I told her I was gay and to kindly remove her hand from my cock and I ordered her a boilermaker which is a beer and a shot of whisky, Jack Daniels Green, as that was what she was drinking. And then she said, “That’s righteous kind of you. I’m a little short on cash, so could you kindly take my tab, too.”

It was so ballsy, I had to laugh, and I decided this was a creature I wanted to know. Relying on the “kindness of strangers,” AKA Tennessee Williams. I asked why she was in a gay bar and she replied it was the only bar open on Sunday and that the church people were buzzing around like a bevy of happy bees and it got on her nerves. And then she said she wondered why there were so many men with no dates: it never occurred to her that they didn’t like, to use her word, “poontang”. She confided in me that she was disappointed in her small breasts and mad at God that she didn’t look like hr role model, Dolly Parton. She was forthright about her ass saying, “ You could set two martini’s on my cheeks and spill nary a drop. I got ass for miles. And I saw it was true and I told her gay men didn’t like to discuss women’s anatomy on the whole and in most cases. One thing about Josette she never edits what she says. Or considers the audience she is speaking to. She was no manipulator and honest as a small child.

Note. This is an excerpt from co writer of this blog Carol Bond’s Historic romance movel “Josette.”

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Lady Lynda Seymour Toze Fond Memories.

Lady Lynda and her husband Seymour Toze cuddle close to each other in their upholstered pink floral print love seat.

“Oh Seymour I knew from the day we met in that high school swim class you were the man for me. As soon as I noticed you staring with delight at my, as you call them, my ten pretties. I could tell. It was your destiny to be a show salesman and a pedicurist. “
“Yes my love.” replied Lady Lynda’s soul mate.

“Oh my sweet Lady Lynda from the moment my eyes gazed upon your exquisite fleshy toes I knew I wanted to be a shoe salesman and do pedicures. Your ten pretties gave me ten reasons for wanting you to be my girlfriend. Don’t get me wrong I was attracted to the rest of you too. I first noticed the folds at each inner corner of your eyes. Then I came to notice your left eye is green and your right one blue. I smugly called you Alien as in Outer Space alien. It was my pet term of endearment. But my favorite term was Preciosa. Spanish for Precious. I learned that when we were in Spanish class together. Your toes were my inspiration for my then future livelihood. And it is working out so delightfully. The “Into Leather” shoe store is a dream come true. ‘At our shoe store we’re really into leather. If it wasn’t for you my lovey dovey who knows what I would wound up as. Its funny how one moment can so important to one’s destiny. How with one short wiggle of your toes I could discover my life’s work.”

“Yes my dear Lady Lynda it was fate we met at swim class in high school. Where being in your two piece swimsuit I could easily see your specialness to me I could tell right at that first moment our love was meant to be. “

“Yes we went through quite a lot in the decades since. You were so courageous to be true to your calling of making women feel better by giving them such delightful pedicures. I like how you call what you do pedi cures. You really get those lucky ladies back on their feet:

“You could say I make them toe the line. I’d be a real heel if I didn’t. Wouldn’t I. Its a shoe in.” joked Lady Lynda’s husband.

Seymour Toze’s wife quipped “You could say you put your heart and sole s.o.l.e. into your profession my dear sweet Seymour.”

“Yes I most certainly do. I hated when my parents so strongly disapproved of my profession. They wanted me to be professional they’d be proud of. A doctor, a lawyer, an accountant….. Instead their dear son became a shoe salesman. But that was my life calling. I even endured the teasing of my fellow high school students. Yelling at me such lines as if the shoe fits wear it. There’s no business like shoe business. Or on with the shoe and many more such cruel jokes. “

“Oh Seymour I’m so proud of you for persevering and being true to yourself. I’m so glad your mine”

“I’m so very, very happy you are my one and only too my sweet Lady Lynda. I love you toe tally.”

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Excerpts from Carol Bond’s writings for sale. Co writer of this blog.

CAROL ANN’S BOOK EXCERPTS
carolbond26@yahoo.com
215-879-0328
POEMS OF THUNDER, NOIR & WHIMSY
OBSIDIAN EYES

I think of you nude lying under the leaves with rose petals on your eyes,
An arm stretched out like Michelangelo’s angel on the Sistine Chapel.
I think of the click of your shoes like cruel castanets
In the red rooms of my heart.
I think of you nude,
Like a Romanesque angel.
Your skin like the dying rays of the sun.
I think of your hard, purple jewel
in the white, innocent smoothness of my hand
Mostly I think of your dark eyes like pitted olives,
Glowing like liquid obsidian in the dark moistness of the night.
I know you hate me and love me, and want the same from me.
You like arsenic and sugar,
and, I, poor simple beast only like the sugar.
You are a savage who rends and tears the ones you love.
Can I ever show you how simple is love.
How true. How deep. How honest.
You, vicious beast, who cannot learn.
Obsidian eyes.

CATFISH JOE & DOUBLE. DOUBLE, TOIL & TROUBLE
“Okay I be tellin’ ya my story. One time when I was young,
I was rich as Croesus. I had me six fine, fat, juicy Bitches and they
Wasn’t no ho’s neither. None of my womens had to work. Just lay
Back, fuck, and look pretty, that’s all. And I had me a big, giant
Mansion with twenty servants. They was all white, you see.
I figured, why not fuck ‘whitie” cuz he done fuck me royally
Fo’ so long. Tyrone, I tell ya it was heaven.”

“Tell me about the Bitches, Mr. Joe,” asked Tyrone.

“Oh, they was the finest pussy this side of Mississippi.
Big, black, and juicy as goddamn Georgia peaches. They was horny as cats in heat, too. They loved the hell, out of they ol’ Daddy Joe.
I done it all wit’ them. The suckin’. The fuckin’.
Old Joe know what to do wif a woman.
Then when I done give one money to buy a pretty dress,
Another bitch find out and she be jealous like ol’ Daddy
don’t love her as much as the first Bitch. Then I gives
her money and she go get an even better dress.
them Bitches was a trip. I tell ya, Tyrone.”

“And what about yo’ mansion”, asked Tyrone.

“Oh, boy, it was splendid. Just splendid. Twenty six rooms,
all done in white, white furniture, white shag carpets.
The Works! I even had me some Elvis paintings and
Bull fighter paintings on black velvet. I likes art.
It was real class, I tell ya’ I also had me a turquoise
Cadillac with zebra upholstery. Shit, them were the days, Tyrone.”
The old man’s eyes misted over.

“Mr. Joe,” said Tyrone, “How you gone tell me
you wasn’t no pimp, Where you git’ the money!”

“Tyrone,” he replied, “I be a God fearin’ man.
I wasn’t never no pimp. They’s evil Bastards.
Goin’ straight to Hell fo’ damn sure.”

“Then where’d you git’ the money?” asked the Boy.

“Well I be tellin’ ya’ shortly, Just you hold yo’ damn horses.
Listen, Tyrone, when you was little did you believe in
Santy Claus and the Easter Bunny, and witches, and shit?”
asked old Joe.

“Sho’, Mr. Joe,” replied Tyrone.

“Well, I got somethin’ kind of weird to tell ya’. But I
wants to tell ya’ I ain’t no goddamned head case.
Tyrone, I had me this old, brown mule, the name of Sugar.
And when I would hold up her tail and it was time to go,
she shat diamonds. Big, beautiful diamonds, and nothin’ else.
Then the old Bitch died on me, and I didn’t have nothin’ no mo’.
Lost the mansion and the Bitches, too. Aint no woman gonna fuck with no po’ ass man.You, believe me, son?”

GITANA
THE DEAD

The carriage is coming for me. I lie pale and dead, my hands folded over my chest in a gesture of supplication. A pious lady like I never was in life. I am La Gitana. It’s what they call me, a beggar and consort of kings. You may think that the dead know nothing. But I tell you that we rage. We rage that we can no longer feel the dew on the underside of a leaf, nor the touch of a lover’s hand on our ass, nor the sweetness of red, full wine on our lips. We feel rage that we cannot feel the slow thud of our hearts, the red blood being forced through our veins, and we rage for all the love we have lost.

Ay, the beautiful caress of the wind through chartreuse, green leaves, the tilting of white clouds careening across a turquoise sky. We rage for the days gone by. Life is but a droplet of rain sliding down a window pane. I am much honored but I have also been reviled much in my life. One cannot be vivid without breaking some hearts. Que lastima, I say and winner take all. I have been what people thought I was, and I have also been just myself. It is impossible to sort.

My carriage is six black stallions and a pale driver. I asked for a rubio to ferry me across to the other side. Inside my carriage is gold and red velvet. Red is my color: blood is my legacy. They will line the streets and call my name holding long white candles. My story begins as I am sixteen. The year is 1679, and King Carlos having ascended the throne at age fourteen, has married Marie Louise, the niece of Louis XIV of France, at age eighteen. It is not enough for France to defeat Spain in war: she must also rule us on the domestic front as well. King Carlos, or El Hechisado as he is called, is simple and in ill health. What a sin to have to lie with a fool. Don Juan of Austria, Carlos’s illegitimate brother, rules through violence and intimidation. The queen mother, Mariana, is weakened and her valido, Valenzuela, deposed.

King Carlos is not our king, and Spain is not our country. We are ruled by our own king, a Rom Baru, and to hell with Spain. Soy una gitana. (I am a gypsy).

Escuchame, querida. Tengo mas que contar.
Listen to me, dear. I have much to

CHAPTER ONE

I am Tekla. Soy una gitana. The lower part of my body is marime, or unclean, two parts pressed together like a dusky rose. My upper body is pure like a virgin’s shoulders. So it is with all the woman of the Romani clan. We are pure and impure, and can pollute by our actions. We must never expose our lower half to anyone but our husbands and even then we must take care not to pollute them. We must stay away from our men and male stallions when we have the time of blood and when we are in child birth. There is a special red tent for these times. One who is marime by action or by nature cannot walk amongst us. The worst punishment for a gypsy is to be cast out, or judged marime, for he can never live the gypsy life or be with other gypsies. It is a fate worse than death for it is death to the spirit. Family is the most important thing for a gypsy, not possessions, as it is for the gaje.

When I was a girl I used to wander bare breasted through the camps free as a flower, my high little girl’s breasts catching the light like burnt calla lilies in the morning sun. The little, ragged boys would run by and try to touch them but I always avoided their greedy, curious fingers. As I have said my gypsy name is Tekla. My gaje name is Carmen, and my secret name you will never know. My sister, Rupa, at fourteen is much more beautiful than I. Yet, I do not shed a tear: my heart is a stone. I am a mere thistle at her feet.

Rupa! Rupa! Rupa! Even the birds sing her name. Who sings mine? The thistles and the thorns. But under her surface is but sugar and air. Sometimes I think she will never truly love another.

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