CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: The Ides of March
There are among boys no one virgin. A virgin is a girl, until as such she gives it to her man, a token of something strong, be it love, or lust, or the heartfelt wish of a woman inside, impatient to burgeon.
Sunny’s birthday fell on a Monday. As promised, Dante would of course spend it with her, only it would be at school. By no means did this create a deterrence for what happened over the following weekend—or more specifically, on Saturday night, while Brenton was away on business. Brenton only, for Sunny’s mom had decided last minute to stay home with her daughter. This made not the slightest difference either.
Dante’s father drove him to Sunny’s house. He, Dante, was to stay the night there. The pretense existed in form of the birthday party, which, Dawn Desdemona informed Mrs. Torn, could run late, as Sunny was now an official teenager. Would it be an issue for Dante to sleep over in the guest bedroom?
Dante overheard this telephone exchange at the kitchen table Saturday morning, fully aware of its content. He had planned it all week with Sunny and her parents. Watching his mother nod, he took a bite of toast. The butter had melted into the bread just right. Just perfectly right.
Sunny’s porch greeted him with a cold March wind. Dead foliage swept his legs, enticing him to the door. Dante knocked. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, purple dress shirt, and black pants. Half a dozen terra-cotta roses rested in one hand. In the other, a small white box.
The door clicked and was pulled wide. A slightly taller version of Sunny smiled in the form of Mrs. Desdemona. Gushing welcomes, she led Dante into the living room. The lighting was dim but pleasant. He remembered its sweet odor of pipe tobacco. It greeted him now. The books were also still here. Shelves of ancient-looking volumes, bound in brown and red. One title in particular stood out: Tuet Enormity Among The Stars.
“Dante?” Mrs. Torn said. “Could you make a fire? I forgot to have Brenton do it before he left.”
“Of course, Mrs. Desdemona. No problem at all.”
Her eyes, every bit green as Sunny’s, shimmered. “Thank you. I just love having a man in the house. Sunny too. She’s upstairs, by the way. Give her just a few more minutes.” She looked at the flowers. “Are those for her?”
“Three of them are,” Dante said, before executing a tricky maneuver to get three others free. “These are for you.”
Mrs. Desdemona took them with chest heaving for air. “I’m overwhelmed! Thank you very much!”
“My pleasure.”
“Let me put these in water and check dinner!”
She disappeared into the kitchen. Dante could now smell cooking food in delicate association with the cherry tobacco. Putting Sunny’s gifts down, he set to work on the fireplace, getting a healthy flame alight just as the sound of clicking heels approached from behind.
“Guess who?” a girly voice purred.
“Hello, beautiful,” Dante said, without turning around.
The flames seemed to grow higher for a moment. A curtain of heat brushed Dante’s face. He stood to his full height, then turned to find Sunny shining in the darkness. She wore a green, sleeveless kitty blouse with a short but serious black skirt. A silver-studded belt hung from the skirt. Her shoes—high-heeled, open-toed—were sleek and sexy. She thanked Dante for coming. Ever so slightly, her head tilted as she spoke, capturing the blaze in her emerald eyes, setting them in turn alight, so that they shimmered with the playful iridescence of her jewelry, bracelets and ear-rings, rendering her as a star that sparkled in solitude, adrift from any galaxy, bereft of satellites, alone until this night, upon which Dante knew her vacant system would become binary.
“You’re as lovely as I’ve ever seen you,” was all he could think to say.
“Thank you, Dante. I know you mean that.”
Her flowers were on the coffee table. Dante picked them up. “Happy thirteenth, Sunny. This is yours, too,” he added, reaching for the little white box. The box was decorated with a blood-red bow. “Would you like to open it now?”
The flowers sighed their fragrance as she kissed the corner of his mouth. “Later. Upstairs.”
“Almost time to eat,” came Mrs. Desdemona’s voice from the kitchen door. She leaned on the frame, wearing a smile that knew everything. “I’ll just borrow Sunny for a few minutes, Dante, if that’s all right.”
“Certainly,” Dante said.
And Sunny, arching a brow: “We’re having oysters tonight, Dante. Do you like oysters?”
“I’ve never tried them.”
“Oh,” she replied, in the voice of a detective who has just discovered a clue. “So it’s a night of firsts for both of us.”
They ate by candlelight, speaking softly of things mundane, such as work and school. Dante mentioned an approaching biology test, which made both ladies laugh. Like the rest of the house, the dining room was dim, adorned in silence. Barely visible paintings idled in cedar wood shadows. Dante was able to recognize one as a Bosch. Others were portraits. Dead relatives, perhaps. One had a face covered in thick hair. Its two eyes, more canine than human, regarded Dante from the depths of thousands of fine brown strands.
“Stephan Desdemona,” Sunny’s mother said, noticing Dante’s scrutiny. “Sunny’s great-grandfather. He suffered from a rather aggressive form of hypertrichosis.”
“Ah,” Dante said with genuine interest. “Is there a gene in the family?”
“Indeed there is. It tends to skip over the females, lucky for Sunny.” She hesitated. “But one of her children may be born with it, you know. Perhaps even more than one.”
“She isn’t serious,” Sunny put in.
“But of course I’m serious, dear.”
“Mom.”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Dante told them. “I read about hypertrichosis in one of my dad’s encyclopedias. The wild hair doesn’t at all reflect what’s beneath it. Many sufferers were quite well educated and articulate.”
“Not Stephan,” Sunny’s mom said. She looked at the painting. Her voice changed to one of admiration. “He used to eat his meat raw. Sometimes he would walk around on all fours. And his voice was so like an animal’s, you’d insist—“
“That’s enough, Mom,” Sunny warned.
The other woman seemed to agree. Dismissing the painting, she smiled and asked if anyone would like more wine. Sunny nodded. “We’ll take the bottle upstairs to my room, Mom.” “That’s fine,” Mrs. Desdemona said. “I’ll rechill it for you.”
She rose and went to the kitchen. There came the sound of ice clattering into a bowl.
“Are you nervous?” Sunny asked, peering around one of the candles.
“No,” Dante told her. “Not at all.”
“Good. Because I am. A little.”
“It’ll be all right, Sunny. I promise.”
Mrs. Desdemona reappeared with a silver bucket full of ice. The wine bottle lay in it like a wrecked galleon upon Antarctic seas. “All right, children,” she said, placing the bucket on the table, “I believe it’s time. Sunny?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Do you remember everything we talked about?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Good. Dante?”
“Yes, Ma’am?”
She looked at him for a moment before speaking. Her green eyes were level, serene. Twin fields on a calm night. “Give her what she needs. She’ll tell you what that is, don’t worry.”
“I just need to find out first,” Sunny put in with a giggle.
“Don’t be nervous,” her mother told her. “Just…follow your appetite. Think of how you feel when you look at Dante, and indulge. Be gluttonous. Take what pleases you.”
Dante listened to this exchange, deeply charmed to be spoken of like he were a drink of particularly satisfying vintage. Eventually Mrs. Desdemona finished with her last minute pep-talk. She gave Dante permission to stand. He did so, picking up the wine. Sunny stood next. Mrs. Desdemona hesitated one final time before letting them leave. Her eyes moved from one to the other, making certain, perhaps, that nothing remained to be said. At last she smiled. She nodded at her daughter, then at Dante.
“Go upstairs,” she said. “Have fun.”
∞
The door to Sunny’s bedroom was red. It had a gold knob on it. The knob gave a graceful click under Sunny’s hand. Once the door was open, Sunny led Dante inside.
Her shoes clicked on hardwood flooring. She switched on the light, revealing a surprisingly conventional girl’s bedroom. Red, pink, and white were its main colors. An arrangement of stuffed toys lay on a neatly made canvas bed. Next to the bed was a small bookshelf lined with curly-cued titles. A vanity mirror, scattered with make-up, stood near a white dresser with crystal handles.
Sunny went to the window, pulled the curtains closed. She invited Dante to put the wine on the vanity table. He did so, then reached into the pocket of his coat. He’d put her gift there on the way upstairs. Now he proffered it again.
“And what is it?” Sunny asked with an arched brow.
“Something I hope is a good reflection of you.”
She pulled the ribbon off the box. Her fingers took hold the lid. Here Dante noticed for the first time how long her nails were tonight. Long and perfectly manicured.
Sunny lifted the lid. She looked in the box…and gasped. “Oh wow. Oh my goodness, Dante. Is this bloodstone?”
“It is indeed,” he said.
Another gasp filled her chest. Lifting the ring from the box, she said: “This is the coolest thing I have ever seen.”
“It should fit. I had to be very sneaky about finding your size.”
“Oh, you have to be the one to put it on for me, Dante. Please.”
He slipped it onto her finger, where it fit perfectly. The gold band shined. The stone glowed. It looked so alive Dante thought at any moment it might blink.
“I can’t wait to show my mom,” Sunny said, turning her hand to admire the ring from all angles.
“Is this really how it is in your family?” Dante asked. “When girls turn thirteen?”
“Not for every girl, no. Just the ones who are very serious about a boy she’s found. Hold out your hand.”
Dante raised his hand. Sunny placed her ringed one into it. Soft and tiny, it became enveloped on the instant. Dante closed his fingers around the palm, taking care not to cause her pain. He heard Sunny’s breath catch.
“Did you meet my cousin?” she asked. “At the hotel?”
He laughed a little. “Yes. Is that another Desdemona clan ritual?”
“Sometimes. If the girl is nervous, like me. I need you in control, Dante. Confident. Because I’m not.”
But Dante had to wonder about this. In total paradox to her confession, Sunny took a step backward and slowly unbuttoned her blouse. It came open on a dainty, fragile-looking chest, lightly freckled about the ribs. More freckles sprinkled her narrow shoulders, which came into view when Sunny let the blouse fall. A black brassiere cradled her budding breasts. Taking a breath, Sunny reached behind herself. There came a tiny click of a clasp letting go. Her straps went loose.
“Sit down on the bed,” she purred.
Dante stepped backward and put himself on the mattress. Sunny gave him a playful smile. The brassiere dropped. Dante took the view in, enjoying the gentle, almost undetectable curve of her young breasts, the sharpness of her nipples.
From here Sunny opened her skirt. The zipper revealed a pair of black panties pressed tightly over the arcs and crevices of a girl’s most sacred places. Carefully, Sunny slipped the skirt over her waist and let it fall to her shoes.
“Good,” Dante told her. “Very good.”
She swallowed. “Do I get undressed all the way? I mean like right here?”
“Leave your shoes on. The rest I want to see.”
“Can’t I take my panties off under the covers?”
“No. Take them off now.”
Letting out a breath, Sunny hooked her thumbs under the band of her panties. Slowly then, she began to pull. Lower, lower. Her vagina appeared as a short, dark slit sketched lightly with new grown hairs. It looked tight and fresh as a shut flower. The panties slipped to Sunny’s knees, and then her ankles. Her shoes clicked as she stepped out of them.
“Very pretty,” Dante said, drinking the view of her nakedness in. “Very pretty.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Can I get a pretty smile to match?”
Tossing her hair, Sunny flashed him a playful, girly smile.
“There it is,” he said in appreciation. “Gorgeous. Now turn around.”
The smile faltered. “Turn around?”
“Yes.”
Her green eyes fluttered for a moment. “Uh…why?”
But of course Dante knew she was only loving the game. Narrowing his gaze, he told her again, more forcefully: “Sunny, turn around.”
She gave a quick nod, then followed his command, revealing the flow of her hair down her narrow back, and the small, shallow crevice of her butt, dotted lightly with freckles on either side.
“Dante?” she asked in a worried tone.
“Relax, honey. You’re doing fine.”
“Thank you.”
“And whose little girl are you?”
“Yours. I’m yours, Dante.”
“I am your Lord and Master.”
“Yes, Dante.” She swallowed. “Sir.”
“Turn around.”
His command was followed on the instant. The smile Sunny wore was that of a mischievous imp whose eye had caught some particularly satisfying fruit.
“Sir?” she asked, arching a brow.
“Yes, Sunny?”
“May I take you now? My mother…she told me to be gluttonous.”
“I know she did. And I want you to be. I want you to have everything.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
He smiled. “Come over here, baby.”
And she did take him, though from underneath, in the missionary position, locking her legs round his body, scratching him with her nails, biting his shoulder. And he in turn stabbed the breath from her lungs, until her air was in such short supply she was forced to arch her back, bringing forth the bones of her chest as if to signal for reprieve, which Dante, enjoying every desperate gasp she drew, did not give, even as those gasps became higher and more jagged, the gasps of a drowning girl; though instead of fainting, she dared him pull her deeper, dared him with words he had never before heard her use: words from back alleys at midnight, littered with trash, where no winds blew; words from the wharf, vomited at torn sails and cracked masts; words from the circles below, written of in a time long lost, where winged beasts made foul each breath of the eternally damned.
And when it was over she lay in his arms, rational again. She talked about the girls at school—her minions. All of them, she told Dante, knew about their weekend together, and were dying for news. She couldn’t wait to show them her ring. She even wanted Maris to see it. Her even more than the others. Let Shaya try to find a gift remotely as good. It would never happen. Never. Maris would turn green and grit her teeth every time they passed in the hall.
“And I’ll just laugh when she does,” Sunny said under the covers. “By the way, I’m going to cook breakfast for you in the morning. How do you like your coffee?”
He smiled and told her with cream only.
“Got it. No problem. Are pancakes and sausage okay?”
“That sounds perfect,” he said.
She giggled. “I feel like a wife. It’s so cool! I mean, yeah, I said my family doesn’t do traditional marriage, but it feels like it now, you know?”
“I do, Sunny,” Dante said, and meant it. Seeing the ring on her finger made him feel like a husband.
“And at school, it’s like…I’m in charge of everybody. I’m the queen. And you’re in charge of me.”
“King,” Dante said.
“Exactly, exactly.”
They lay together in silence for a few more minutes. As always, Dante enjoyed the sound of Sunny’s breathing, which was steady now, fully caught up.
He lifted the cover to find her wearing that same smile from before—the one of the mischievous imp.
“Let’s do it again, Dante,” she whispered. “Please.”
Dante smiled back. The fruit was hers. So of course, he let her take, and eat.