Hilary Fields - Bliss

Maybe I should just talk about the alcohol, she thought desperately. It’s certainly done a number on my life. But in her heart, Sera knew booze was a demon she’d already exorcised. The addiction would always be a part of her biology, but it no longer directed her behavior, and so long as she maintained her sobriety, it wasn’t a source of shame. Her real problem was—and as mortifying as it was for Sera, it would simply devastate her aunt. I can’t do this, I can’t do this… it would kill Pauline if she knew… She opened her mouth to mumble some platitude about trying harder to meet a nice guy, or making more time for her social life.

Instead, to her utter horror, the truth flew out.

“I can’t have an orgasm.”

A howl erupted from the hysterical crowd.

Fireworks shot into the night sky, detonating with deafening booms.

And with a great roar and a whoosh, Zozobra burst into flames.

For as long as she lived, Serafina would never be able to say exactly how she made it from the field where Zozobra had gone up in smoke, along with the last remnants of her dignity, to the citywide celebration that was toasting his fiery demise. One minute she was in the center of a circle of gaping, dismayed women; the next, she was spilling onto Lincoln Avenue at the entrance to Santa Fe’s historic plaza, swept along on a tide of happy, party-hungry Fe-heads ready to get their fiesta on.

Sights, smells, and sounds assaulted her senses in the best possible way. The trees at the center of the plaza had been dolled up in festive colored lights, while tents, booths for food, games, and souvenirs as well as a bandstand crowded every inch of open space about the square, blocking off the streets to traffic. The mellow adobe facades of the buildings framing the plaza—the Palace of the Governors, restaurants, shops selling everything from tacky souvenirs to authentic cowboy boots and spendy sheepskin coats—were all decked out in lights and flapping fiesta banners. The Five and Dime General Store was closed for the evening. (Sera had asked her aunt when she’d first arrived how a sundries store had managed to co-opt such prime retail space, but Pauline had just shrugged and told her that, as far as she knew, it had always been there, and the tourists appreciated access to cheap sunglasses, sunscreen, camera batteries, and postcards.) The ice cream shop on San Francisco Street was doing a brisk business, however, as she suspected it always did—who wouldn’t like an ice cream cone to stroll around licking while taking in the sights?

A relaxed, festive air had replaced the crowd’s earlier frenzy. The faces around her were lit up with enthusiasm, purged of negativity just as Zozobra promised. Not Sera, though. As usual, she’d failed to ride the moment to its intended conclusion. She winced as she recalled how her awkward pronouncement had coincided with Zozobra’s big flame-out.

On the one hand, it had been surprisingly freeing to finally cop to the truth. There it was, out in the open: Serafina Wilde had never in her life, alone or with assistance, ever managed to achieve sexual fulfillment. She’d buried that shameful secret since puberty, not even telling her doctor or best friends. She’d faked it with what few boyfriends she’d had up until Blake, and he… well; her pleasure hadn’t been uppermost on his mind. All these years, Sera’s inadequacy had weighed on her, nagging at her self-esteem and making her leery of relationships, until tonight, for the first time, she’d gotten it off her chest. And despite the fact that she didn’t hold out much hope of ever “curing” her conundrum, it was a relief not to have to hold it inside any longer.

On the other hand, there had been the look on Aunt Pauline’s face.

If she’d announced she’d run off to join a cult of burqa-wearing fundamentalists, she could hardly have stabbed Pauline Wilde more directly at her core. Everything she stood for—the freedom to express, demand, and receive pleasure from her own body—and everything she’d taught; all for naught with the one person who should have been her greatest success. Pauline had never had a daughter, but Sera knew she’d loved her niece as deeply as if she were her own. She’d tried her best to raise Sera, who’d arrived on her doorstep a shy and traumatized teen, to become a strong, confident woman. Now Sera had, by virtue of her sexual failure, called into question Pauline’s very movement, her philosophy—hell, her technique!

What she’d seen in her aunt’s eyes tonight had almost resembled… betrayal. And as much distress as her disability had caused Sera herself over the years, it was nothing compared to the dismay she felt at hurting her aunt’s feelings so deeply. But she hadn’t had a chance to express any of that to Pauline. Immediately after her admission, still embarrassed and a bit shocked at herself, Sera had been caught up in the crowd. She’d lost track of the rest of the Back Room Babes, apart from Aruni, and she hadn’t reconnected with her aunt since. In fact, she had to wonder whether Pauline and her followers were avoiding her. From their expressions during her confession, it was obvious that whatever issues had brought them to join Pauline’s club, no one else had her particular problem. Perhaps, in their pity, the BRBs were giving Sera some space.

Well, she could live with that, Sera told herself. She just hoped she hadn’t spoiled Fiesta for everyone.

Then she shook herself—hard. Really, how arrogant can I be! Sera suddenly remembered her sponsor’s characterization of the alcoholic ego. As Maggie put it, alkies tended to think of themselves as “the piece of shit at the center of the universe.” No one is worrying about my little “situation” right now, she chided herself. They’re all having a blast, dancing, singing, eating, and drinking. Just as they should be. And as I should be, too. Well, except that drinking part. Tonight is a magical night, and I’m not going to ruin it by worrying about what others think of me.

Much.

Aruni had gone off in search of the Frito pie she’d earlier mentioned, and judging by the many booths offering comfort foods from chile verde to posole with cornbread, tamales to chalupas, chimichangas, and rellenos, Sera doubted she’d have much trouble finding it. Aruni had promised to bring her back some Navajo fry bread drizzled in honey—giant, mouthwatering pillows of deep-fried dough which looked fit to beat any sort of fried bread Sera had yet tried (and Sera had tried a lot). For the moment, she was on her own in the square, though hardly alone. Kids ran about, dodging tourists, their scolding parents, and one another, giggling and shouting. Some were in regular street clothes, while others were dressed for the festival dancing, with girls in white peasant blouses and wide, colorfully ruffled skirts, and boys in white tunics and trousers, with sashes that matched the girls’ skirts. Up on the stage behind the bandstand, some of their parents had already begun performing traditional New Mexican ballet folklorico dances, swirling and stomping to the tune of a huge troop of musicians that constantly swelled and ebbed as members joined for a jam session and then left to stroll the plaza with guitars and fiddles, bringing their joyous music along with them.

“Check it out, they actually serve it in the Frito bag!” Aruni shoved an exploded chip bag under Sera’s nose, slit down the middle and gushing with shredded cheese, onions, sour cream, beans, and guacamole. She dug a plastic fork into the mess and shoveled up a bite, waving it in front of Sera’s face. As advertised, Sera could see whole Fritos layered in with the rest. “Try a bite,” Aruni urged.

“Um, maybe in a bit.” Smiling her thanks, she accepted the paper plate of fry bread her new friend had kindly brought her, enjoying the greasy, sticky experience of street food, but finding it hard to swallow her earlier embarrassment. Fuck it, she thought. I gotta know.

“Aruni, do you think…” Sera struggled to finish her question. She looked down at her plate, wishing she had the stomach for the fried treat, then forced herself to meet the yogini’s gaze.

“Hm?” Aruni’s mouth was full of vegetarian chili and crunchy chips. Her eyes held nothing but innocent inquiry. “Do I think what?”

“Do you think the BRBs will ever invite me back?”

Aruni swallowed hastily, wiping her mouth with a flimsy paper napkin hardly up for the job. “Girl, are you kidding? This is exactly the sort of challenge we live for! I don’t know the back story on this no-O problem of yours, but clearly you need our assistance.” Her eyes sparkled. “We can be your coaches, you know?”

Sera could picture them with their heads together, muttering things like “Friends don’t let friends fuck frigid” as they planned out her future sex life. “Any way I can stop that?” she ventured. “Nip that little idea in the bud?”

“Why would you want to?” Aruni looked bewildered. “Sounds like you’ve been held back long enough, if you ask me. I mean, I’m no guru like Pauline, but I gotta tell you, there’s nothing like a good O to get you ‘ohing,’ if you know what I mean.” She grinned, then sobered, seeing Sera’s expression.

“Aw, hon, I’m sorry. I can see you’re uncomfy, and that’s not what anyone wants—in fact, I’m pretty sure that’s why Hortencia is keeping Pauline occupied for you right now.” She nodded over at the central dance area in front of the stage and bandstand, and Sera caught sight of Hortencia and her aunt engaged in a hip-wiggling Latin dance number. The two women were surprisingly agile, considering their age and the fact that they were still shackled to each other. As she watched, Hortencia looked up, caught Aruni’s eye, and deliberately steered Pauline deeper into the crowd, away from the two younger women.

“Do you think I ought to go talk to them?” Sera asked reluctantly. “I’ve still got the key to their cuffs, after all.”

“I suspect those two will do just fine tied together for the night.” Aruni winked outrageously. “In fact, you better hope they’re staying at Hortencia’s place tonight if you don’t want to get serenaded by a whole lot of O’s overnight.” She stuffed her yap full of the last bite of Frito pie. “Seriously, though, you’ve never thought of doing something about your prob? I mean, it must really be a bummer when you’re in bed with a dude and he isn’t getting you there… I know you said you’re not seeing anyone, but what if you want to start?”

What if, indeed? Unwilling to explain the particulars of her problem, Sera started to brush Aruni’s question aside with her standard line about focusing on her career, when her gaze was caught by something across the plaza. Or rather, someone. Someone with whom she would very much like to get “there,” if her deepest fantasies be known.

Asher Wolf was sitting with a group of musicians on a bench under the portico shading the Palace of the Governors, hat half obscuring his face as he crowded in close, looking over the arm of one of the festively dressed mariachis at the fiddle in the man’s lap. Sera wasn’t sure exactly how she’d zeroed in on him among so many hundreds—it was, she thought with wry amusement, as though she had special Asher radar, allowing her to home in on her enigmatic landlord through any obstruction. As she watched, he lifted the violin with its owner’s permission, cradling the neck in one careful hand and bringing the instrument to his chin, close to his ear. He tested the strings with his other hand, plucking at them and listening intently before tightening one of the pegs and listening again. At last, he nodded with satisfaction, then attempted to pass it back to the musician. The man clapped him on the back, shaking his head, and instead offered him the bow, urging Asher to play. The others, strumming guitars of varying sizes and shapes, also egged him on, but Asher just laughingly demurred.

“You know what, Sera?” Aruni asked, oblivious to the direction of Sera’s gaze. “I think you should start taking some baby steps right away. Like, try some exposure therapy.”

“Who’s tryin’ what kinda therapy?” Janice drawled, trotting up to them and throwing her arms across their shoulders companionably. “Dang, y’all, I thought I’d never make it through that crowd! Do not, I repeat, do not ever drink a forty-eight-ounce travel mug fulla Big Mama kombucha unless y’all wanna wait forty-five minutes for the chance t’ experience the world’s stanky-ass-est port-o-potty. Pee-uuuu!” She shook her head as if to rid her nostrils of the memory of the stench. “So, what-all are we talking about?”