Four writers for the price of one blog
Tototikli · 3
A little erotic novelette by Redbud
Jan 6 2010 Nitibu comes to me more frequently now. He wants to see my notes. He can’t read them but he finds the writingbeautiful. He asks me if I think his own language could be written down – which is almost a magical thought to him – and I tell him there are people who could probably do it but that I don’t know how to. There are no words for ethics or morals in their language, though the concepts of right and wrong are commonly expressed. I cannot explain to him an anthropologist’s ethical dilemma: a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing.
Jan 18 2010The heat and humidity is especially bad today.
Jan 20 2010 Nitibu, after six months, has asked why I speak Anagoli, their word for English, but am brown-skinned like them. I explained to him that my parents were from an island, like theirs, but that I grew up somewhere else and speaking English. He said that my skin was much lighter when I first came to the island, and he asked if his skin would turn white if he lived in America.
Feb 2 2010 I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or not. Two storms have scoured the islands. The villagers secured their belongings and fled to higher ground before the arrival of the second. The village was intact when we returned. I wondered if a cyclone had blown over but William E-Mailed me today to ask if I was ok and that the center of a tropical storm had passed to the south, not a cyclone. My clothes are soaked. I didn’t secure them but I made sure to keep my laptop and cellphone dry. The heat and humidity remained. For the first time, today, I have gone without clothes. There seemed no point. They might have dried out but the humidity was pure misery. You would expect, in a culture where nudity is the norm, that we would become indifferent to nudity, but our desire and appreciation for the opposite sex, and our obvious differences appear as beguiling and attractive to them as to any modern culture. In the middle of re-organizing and tidying the storm damage, the boys and men would only glance at a girl or mate and their penises would stand engorged and upright. The girls and women preen but also scold the men. Jobsite behavior. Guys are guys and girls are girls in a funny sort of way that made me feel less homesick. There was a construction site between my neighborhood and high school. My friend and I would sometimes dress as provocatively as we could. We’d act like we didn’t know guys were staring at us. If a guy whistled, we’d give them the finger. It made me glad I wasn’t a guy. A woman can hide her arousal. I knew what was going to happen when the work was done. I went to the inlet to swim and to be alone. When I got out, I masturbated. I was on the sand, on my knees and on one hand – and I didn’t see Nitibu. He had followed me but only let me see him when I was close to coming. But, really, I wanted him to watch me. I wanted that connection. He was masturbating too. I wish I could explain – It was like telling someone a secret that you’ve kept hidden and hidden and hidden and finally there’s somebody to tell. It was like making love. I lowered my head to the sand. I just wanted to be – I don’t know. I just wanted him to see me as a woman. He was a man and that’s all that mattered. And at that moment, he was the most beautiful man imaginable. I stopped looking at his eyes. I stared at his cock. I watched him stroke it. When he came I came too. When the first spurt shot out of him, I remembered how girlfriends talked about seeing stars and blacking out. My orgasm was like that. Afterward, he didn’t approach me but I could tell he wanted to. He didn’t have to. He had already taken me, in his way – the way men do – but I wanted to pretend it didn’t change anything.
Feb 4 2010 Nitibu isn’t so anxious around me, or solicitous. I think, maybe, he’s found out what he wanted to know. Maybe he feels as though he doesn’t have to compete for me? The other men and women, I think, sense the change between us. The women invite me to join them in a way they haven’t before. I feel, perhaps, that I should tell him or them that I crossed a line shouldn’t have. I should speak with the elders, but I can’t. I don’t know how or if I want to. I don’t even write William. I am so confused.
Feb 9 2010 I’ve picked up Braithwait’s notebooks again. I feel like she’s my confidante. I feel like a know her now, what she experienced, in a way I didn’t before. I want to read her as if I talked to her, as if I could confess everything. I know she would understand. I know she would listen to me. She wouldn’t blame or judge me. She would – understand. About 15 pages of Book 1, from the last part just after the fisherman died, are too water damaged to read, but I found something interesting.
———– From the Field Notes of Miss Braithwait
Book 1 Page 64 …anders show deformities. They are of the congenital type, as the late Mr. Darwin suggested, observed in animals, families and populations which suffer the effects of consanguineous couplings. By indirect method, I asked if there were not other tribes on other islands. After some discussion, they replied that their elders used to speak of tribes on the other islands with which girls and women were traded and that there was only one elder who was still alive and remembered. “Get Naquita,” said one of the men. They said that the tribes of the three islands courted each others girls and women to take them back to their own islands. This was not always done willingly by the girls, but the men of each island looked the other way if the girls were forcibly taken knowing that they too had done so and would do so. And though this ritual at first horrified me, its likeness to the ritualized (and forced) marriages of our own “civilized” society must not be ignored. Then, the islanders say, a great wave washed over the three islands. Only a few men, those who had been fishing in the open waters, survived. They came to this island, the least damaged of the three. Very few men survived and fewer women. Their used to be many more islanders, they answered, but their number has thinned and weakened. “Get Naquita,” said one of the men again. When the women answered that she slept and that they would not disturb her,
I fear the islanders, and their peculiar and innocent way of life, cannot withstand the isolation.
Feb 23 2010 I returned today to find Nitibu sitting on the floor of my shelter. I was naked and still wet from swimming at the inlet. I could see that he was very pleased with himself. He was copying my notes, and then he read the easiest words back to me. He wanted to know if he was right. His intelligence and curiosity amaze me. I am as confused as I have ever been. I want to ask William if I should intervene, but once again my solar charger has stopped working and I am afraid to use my laptop and cellphone unless I’m sure I will reach him. I have tried and tried.
Book 2 Page 3
Naquita is a very old matriarch with one tooth and one good eye and always laughing. She was told by the islanders that I had asked about the history of the islands before the great wave. She pointed to a sandy patch in front of her, under the shade of a palm, and was joined by mostly other women and the two elder men, Matlaki and Omal. As the women sat, they attended to their various chores. “Sit!” said Naquita. “Sit!” She smiled her toothless smile. I wondered whether we would have treated such a woman with equal reverence.
Nahana: Tell the Apogicqua your story!
Naquita: Na! Don’t rush me. Ok. You know there was a great wave?
Me: Yes, and that many women and children died.
Naquita: Before that – before that there were two other islands.
Omal: Still there.
Naquita: You cannot live there. You –
Matlaki: Hla! You could live there, but there are too few to go –
Nahana: Let Naquita tell her story.
Naquita: [She holds up three gnarled fingers.] Three. Hla. There were many more islanders and my father was chief. We – we used to – stop talking. I am talking. [Spoken to the other women.] One day the men would decide, from each island, that their own girls were not good enough, and that the girls
on the other islands must look better.
Nahana: And the men –
Naquita: The men, hla, the men looked better too.
Toliqua: Still look better on the other island.
Omal: Itsa! What would you do without a man to stiffen your bellies?
Naquita: Na! Na! Let me tell my story! Men would come in canoes and beat their drums to warn the other islanders. ‘We’re coming to take your girls! Your girls are prettier than our girls and so we’re coming to stick their bellies with our spears; so they will be ours!” And then my father’s people would answer their drums. Pok! Pok! Pok! Our girls are too quick for your men! You cannot catch them!
Me: Was it like a game? [The old woman looked confused. Though by now I can speak much of their language, I struggled to express the idea of ‘game’.
Naquita and Others: Na! Na! No children! Never children! Girls. Only girls. The women held their breasts, laughing, as though to show what they meant by girls. Ready. Young women. Not children.
Me: No, I meant: they do not war.
Naquita: Na. The women knew that men were coming for the girls and became very excited and teased us, saying the men were coming with tails, that they would tame us with their tails and take us home. ‘Na! Nata!’ We cried. ‘We don’t want the men to put their tails in us! We want to stay here! We want to stay with our mothers and fathers! We want to stay!’ The older women laughed at us. ‘Your mothers and fathers are tired of you.’ They said the men’s tails were magic and that their magic was so powerful that we would follow them wherever they went after they had put their tails in us. The women painted us like the Chuhabas. [This is what they call an animal that, by description, seems like a monkey; but I have seen none on the island and am aware of none on any islands I have visited.] We were naked and they drew designs [the old woman made swirls around her breasts and lower belly] like this. Like this, see?
Toliqua: The men too! The men –
Naquita: Na! Toliqua. You talk too much. Let me tell the story.
Omal: They put tails on the girls and men.
Omal: We used to have tails.
Naquita: [The old matriarch shakes her head, piqued.] Omal! You are like another woman. Hush! Na! Tikli, listen to me! [Referring to me as Pearl.] Man and woman had tails, long before, you know what I mean? When we had tails, we were wild. We were like animals. We walked on hands and feet, like the animals. Ihaqo, the ancestor of all our people, was hunting one day, like an animal, and the Hualu [she flapped her arms like wings and made her eyes big with her fingers – and this I interpret as an owl] comes and bites off his tail. Ya! Just like that! The Hualu tells Ihaqo to stand up. He is a man now and must stand up. Without a tail you are no longer an animal! Ihaqo says: ‘Why do you bite off my tail?’ ‘Now you will be smarter without a tail.’ The Hualu replies: ‘I do something for you and you will do something for me. Now you will be smart enough to catch the Moipoi, who has been stealing my eggs. Once you hunt the Moipoi, I will tell how to get your tail back. Ihaqo kills the Moipoi and returns to the Hualu. The Hualu says Ihaqo must find another Chuhabra and pull its tail, and pull and pull until all of the tail comes out, no matter what she does. Ihaqo finds another Chuhabra. She is wild and dangerous but he holds her down.
Nahana: Like this, with her head down. Like this. You see? Her head is down and her bottom is up. He holds her behind the neck and pulls her tail up and out with his other hand. You see?
Naquita: Hush! He does it that way, with her tail lifted high behind her. She cries and she scratches. ‘Na! Nata! Nata! Don’t take my tail! I like my tail!’ She kicks him. She bites him. But Ihaqo still pulls her tail out of her and she grows weaker and weaker. She moans, like he makes love to her, and he likes the sound she makes so he pulls harder. She claws the earth and she opens her legs.
Omal: ‘More,’ she cries. [He laughs.]
Naquita: Na! You don’t know how to tell the story! Hush, Omal. Tikli, where he pulls her tail out, she weeps with water. At last, when the last length of the tail is pulled out, she dies. You understand? Not death. Not that kind of death. She dies and she is made weaker and there is a hole left between her legs where the tail used to be. She will always be weaker because he has taken her tail. [Yes, I nod, blushing, knowing that she means orgasm when she says ‘die’.] Ihaqo goes back to the Hualu and Hualu takes the tail and eats all but a little part. Then the Hualu cuts Ihaqo between his legs and sticks in the last little part of the Chuhabra’s tail, her tail, so that it heals like that, hanging between his legs. ‘Now,’ says the Hualu, ‘You have a little tail again, but it makes you not as smart.
Nahana: Hla! That tail makes men very stupid!
Naquita: Hla! Says the Hualu, her wound that you have left and the end of the tail that I have bitten off are very sensitive. You will see. Whenever you see the other Chuhabra, who you made into a woman, her tail, that I attached to you, will rise up and want to go back inside her. You understand? – asks the Hualu. ‘Her tail wants to be her tail again. You will see,’ says the Hualu, ‘And when she sees her tail, attached to you, the would will weep between her legs again. She is weaker now, but she is smarter than you. She will use trickery. She will try to swallow it and when she cannot swallow it, she will lift her “tail” behind her so that you will put her tail back inside. She will open her legs and nothing will feel so good as having her tail inside her again; and nothing will feel so good, to you, as having her tail inside her again, but now she cannot take it from you, so she will want you to put her tail back inside her again and again. You will see,’ says the Hualu.
Me: They put tails on you?
Naquita: ‘What will their tails look like?’ I asked. ‘They will stand up between their legs when they see the holes between yours’ said the women. ‘Then you will want to put their tails between your legs.’ ‘Na!’ I said. ‘I will not.’ And then the women tell us to bend over. They have Piquoia.
[The Piquoia appear related to the Galanga root which we import from Siam, but the Piquoia root is larger, almost like a small sweet potato in size and, like the Galanga root, possesses hallucinatory attributes. Naquita described how the elder women peeled the root. This makes the root very slippery. They left the stems on the roots, with just a few leaves at the very end, and pushed a large root into each girl’s anus so that they were like a tail. The others seemed to enjoy Naquita’s description of how each girl would groan, how at first the girls only felt the root’s largeness, but because the root is spicy, they began to pant and sweat and held their knees together, arching as though they meant to push it out or urinate. They were forbidden to pull it out. They were told, instead, that whichever boy pulled their tail out would be the boy to whom they belonged. By this means, I suggest, they ensured that, while the girls did not want to be ‘caught’ by a man, the burning sensation of the root would only increase and inevitably work its way into their sex until they would as equally desire a boy to remove the root. They were also told that the men’s ‘spirit’, which they call his semen, would cool the burning in their sex. I confess that while I find the ritual grossly distasteful, I also find myself shamefully aroused by its description and wonder, myself, what it would be like. There is, in all of us, I must conclude, a primitive nature that is easily wakened and aroused – that we are never so far apart, from our earliest and most primitive selves, as we imagine ourselves to be. My thoughts incessantly turned to Malaki and the desire that his spirit soothe the burning in my own sex. How strangely these stories and myths work in our imaginations and arouse our reptilian instincts. Naquita admits that although she did not want a man to take her, she was also curious. Like anyone in such small societies, she had seen what men and women did and what pleasure they derived. The spice of the root did little more than to accentuate the torment of her indecision – tugged in either direction, both the curiosity of desire and the reluctance of her age. The boys from the other island were brought to the young women and were shown their choices.]
Mosquitoes have found me and the morning is getting too hot to read. I don’t want to read anymore. Sometimes I feel like I’m a character in an erotic story and I’m the only one a can’t have sex. The last time I wrote William I told him he should have sent somebody older, but all he tells me to do is to keep writing, that everything I’ve sent him is excellent. He also tells me to keep reading Braithwait’s journals and to share what I find. I’ll read some more next week. Nitibu checked in on me. He stands in the entryway to the small shelter and smiles. His cock – and I don’t want to write penis anymore. I want to touch him so much and to feel him touch me. His cock – I see his cock and I want to call it that because I’m not – I’m tired of pretending. He and his body mean more to me than that. He’s beautiful and I guess I want to communicate the effect he has on me. His cock slowly gets hard as he stands there. I know what he wants. To be so openly sexual strips away all pretense and pretending – and maybe that’s something I can write about, how having no clothes makes us, men and women, equal – at least in this culture – in a totally unexpected way. It’s like it’s clothes that make us unequal. If anybody had told me that before coming here, I wouldn’t have believed it. But then I think about places where women hide their bodies the most and those are cultures where women have the least power. Nitibu doesn’t hide his sexual attraction for me. He “lets me” see it in his whole body – the way his cock hardens, his nipples harden, his stomach grows hard and his breathing changes. I want so much, sometimes, to touch him. I think he knows. He sees how my nipples get hard. He’s stopped by because he’s taking the children to the inlet, to teach them how to spear. He wants me to come too. I don’t want to go naked. I put on a long T-Shirt, just to keep the sun off my shoulders, but that’s all I can stand to wear.
Feb 24 2010 Yesterday was awful. I went with Nitibu. He played with the children and made them laugh, and then he would get very serious and show them how to hold the spear and would not allow any of the children to stir. The boys stood stock still. The girls showed less interest, but not all of them. Some of the girls were very competitive and Nitibu, whether because I was there or not – I don’t know – was just as patient with the little girls. He was so beautiful. He is my Malaki. Every so often he will tease me and say that he wants to see my nipples and my poya. Why do I wear anything at all? – he asks. “Because I am not for you,” I say, but it sounds more like a lie every time I say it. He offered me a fish, called a Putlu, that he had divided between the children and myself. I had never eaten anything raw, but the meat was sweet – watery and a little sweet.
Feb 28 2010 I realize, as I read back through my own notes, that I hardly ever describe how beautiful the island is. First of all, it’s big. It’s volcanic. The inward island has two small ranges that are sometimes concealed in clouds and a deep freshwater caldera in the middle. The jungle is lush and I have only seen the caldera once, which was when I visited Braithwait’s grave. The caldera is a constant source of fresh water. If I were going to build a house, I would build it up by the caldera and have a view of the lake and the ocean over the ridge of the volcano. But it doesn’t make any sense for the islanders to live anywhere other than the ocean. The ocean is where the food is. There are only some very tiny fish in the caldera, but nothing that could support the tribe. There are hundreds of birds and I almost think as many different kinds. They are colorful and noisy and when I first came to the island, their gossip and squawking would wake me up during all hours. You wouldn’t believe how colorful some of them are when mixed with all the green of the vegetation. Some of their feathers are so baroque and ornate you’d think they couldn’t fly. No matter where you go on the island, except for the very center, where you can forget that you are on an island, you hear the give and take of the surf. The sands are white and full of shells. There are no tourists to collect the shells and so an endless variety is washed up. Sometimes I think I’m seeing the earth before there were a billion human beings. Everything is so clean and clear. I keep wondering when the illusion will be broken and how. There are no mammals – rats or mice. There are only lizards and one kind of snake that I’ve seen. The island is full of coconut palms. The islanders use them for everything. They have even learned how to make an alcoholic drink from the milk. What I notice most of all, however, is the heat and humidity. The blue of the sky can be searing hot. There are intermittent clouds which sometimes bring a refreshing and light shower, or a few heavy drops. I’m surprised by how so many clouds, even the smallest, can sprout a water spout. Very few of them, unless the clouds clump together, every reach the ocean’s surface.
March 4 2010 I was woken by an argument this morning. In such a tight-knit community, they seem to be resolved by the elders before any arguments break out. I later asked Nitibu what caused the argument. He said it was Omal and Onoki. They always have arguments. This morning they argued over whether a storm approached and before that which color they should apply to the eyes of their canoe. Nitibu’s cock always hardens around me. He’s so beautiful. He knows that I notice.
March 152010 I don’t – I never figured myself to be – sexual, in a voyeuristic way. I had a roommate who got off on pornography. She would show me pictures and ask me if they turned me on. But here it’s so natural. It’s different. I read about sex in Braithwait’s papers. Husband, wife, girlfriend and boyfriend – sex is like breathing, eating and drinking. There are people who would call this a paradise. It turns me on – so much. But it’s not the sex, really; it’s the jealousy, loneliness, wishing I had someone to talk to, hold me, fall asleep with and make love to me. It’s wanting someone to love that turns me on.
March 30 2010I’m so panicky. My laptop battery finally died today after I checked the mail. William said that a lot of funding has been cut. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to pick me up. The plane they used to bring me here doesn’t have enough range and the Irene has been dry-docked for at least another six months. They were supposed to send a sea plane by April but now he says they may not be able to pick me up for another two years. Two years! At least I don’t have any family. If my Mom or Dad were still alive I would be beyond panicking. I could rely on contact and William’s guidance, but that’s gone again.
March 31 2010 I’m not so panicky today. I guess – I’m still working. Would I rather be working in a University building in San Diego, or maybe Tuscon, or would I rather be on an island in the middle of the ocean? I can pick coconuts whenever I want. Nitibu has been teaching me how to climb the trees. He’s small and strong and practically runs up the tree. I’m getting good at it. I tell him I’m going to practice until I’m faster than he is. He laughs and smiles in the way that infuriates me, and that I can’t stop thinking about. He says: “No. Not possible.” When I was climbing back down the tree, I almost slipped and Nitibu half caught me. I felt his cock between my legs, between my thighs. My blood was ringing in my ears. I know I must have been red. My face felt completely flushed and my heart was racing. My whole chest felt hot. It felt – so – good – just to feel his presence there. I could hardly breathe. My stomach was light as a feather. We were alone and I was – so – wet. I don’t know – but I held on to him longer, and he held onto me longer and when we let go I couldn’t talk. I wanted him so much. He acts like he doesn’t care. Maybe the elders have said something to him. If he hadn’t let go – if he had gently pushed me forward and put my hands on the tree to brace myself – I fantasize about it. I imagine what he would have felt like inside me. I’ve seen his cock every day and every day I think more and more about what it would feel like.
April 9 2010 I think today was the day the seaplane would have picked me up. I was panicky. I can hardly write. I went with Nitibu again to collect coconuts. My feet and hands have developed calluses so I don’t wince anymore. Sometimes he’ll just stop and pee without a second thought. He won’t hold his cock and sometimes, if he knows I’m watching, he pees when he’s hard. There is something so raw and sexual – in a way that makes me feel so female – when he pees like that. I squat and he waits for me like he’s watching over me.
April 18th 2010 I got out Braithwait’s journals again. I’m convinced she must have had children. The Caucasian appearance among some of the tribesmen and especially the children is obvious. But then I wonder how if she drowned with Captain Devin. Something about the story doesn’t make sense, and yet I’ve seen their graves. Nitibu visited before I could begin reading and writing what she wrote into my own journal. He was very excited. He has begun writing sentences. ‘You see?’ he says in English. ‘I begin write in your own language. Now you learn mine and teach write in mine.’ And he is so proud of himself and then I see his cock stand up proudly in his lap. I scolded him, telling him he should think about writing and not me.
April 20th 2010 I’m panicky again, but not because of William. Nitibu teased me today. He said that even if I learned to climb faster, I could never pee as high as a man. He smirked in that way that makes me so angry and peed on the trunk of the coconut palm, high up, and dared me to climb it. I just – I just wanted to stop thinking about the fact that I was somebody different. I just wanted to touch him. I wanted anything. I said I could pee higher. He said: ‘How? Show me!’ I tried to smirk the way he smirks at me and I got behind him. I pressed myself against his back. He felt so warm and his skin was so smooth and soft over his muscles. I reached around him and I touched him. I had to touch him. I held his cock. I felt it get hard in my hand and I told him to pee. I told him that this is how a woman pees higher. He said that I was cleverer than the Hualu but that it is still a man peeing. I held him while he peed and none of it mattered. I just wanted to feel the warmth of him against me. I bit his back just above his shoulder blade, tasted him, and began to move my hand back and forth. I couldn’t stop myself. I held him and stroked him and every one of his shudders was like a jolt of electricity. He tried to turn but I wouldn’t let him. I wanted to feel him. I just wanted to feel that life – so – much. My hand was starting to get slick when I heard him shout and every muscle pulse and jump. Oh God, feeling his cock leap in my hand. His semen marked the tree higher than his pee and I laughed and I cried at the same time. I didn’t want to let go of him. I didn’t want him to turn. I just wanted to feel all that warmth and body and life. I was shaking. Nitibu. He was very concerned that I was crying and promised he would let me pee from the top of the tree and that only made me laugh and cry harder. How many secrets do couples have like these? How many wonderful and absurd secrets? I just wanted to feel him against me and I know he wanted more, but I didn’t let him. ‘Na!‘ He said. ‘Stop crying. You win.‘ ‘I’ll clean you off,’ I said. My hand was wet and dripped with the beautiful smell of him. For the first time in a very long time I didn’t feel alone.