In this dream of himself as a child, Fernando’s mother lifted one coffee-colored leg. She braced her foot on the edge of the vanity to paint her toes. Her dressing robe tented as she did this—a makeshift fort which no little boy could resist. He crawled under her chair, under her pitched-up skirt.
She was naked between the legs, though there wasn’t much for him to perceive then or now. A dark curling nest of hair that gleamed like it was oiled but wasn’t. A lone garter banded around her thigh which made no sense to him even in hindsight, except that she must like the feel of its constriction. The creases of her thighs and cheeks concealed the rest.
Under the translucent canopy of her skirt, Fernando played with his toy trucks and plastic beasts, two unlikely factions at vicious war with one another between the chair legs. While his toys feinted and clashed, he reveled in the rare closeness of her—the warmth of her presence, the subtle spice of her skin which evanesced like incense from her. She switched legs, and he caught a curious glimpse of her—a winking sliver of rose which tantalized him then and now. It was a fleeting sight. Though the curtain had closed, Fernando stopped playing with his beasts and trucks.
Carmencita went on primping herself, as oblivious to his interest as she ever was. When she scooted forward on her seat and spread her legs to rouge the lips between them, this lurid show was not for him. Beneath her skirt he was truly invisible to her in every sense. In fascination he watched her slick red her purplish pink folds. He tilted his head, observing at this angle how with its moistness and florid coloring her opening looked somewhat like a mouth. Deciding that it must be, he drew close between her legs. He kissed her there, smearing the rouge and thinking as she hissed and hiked up her skirt that his messing up her make-up was the reason for her flare of temper. Warily, Fernando sat back on his heels.
Her dark eyes flashed down at him. “Fernando, that was naughty of you. Don’t you do that ever again.”
Fernando frowned up at her. “Por qué, Mamá?”
She propped her foot on the vanity once more. A pair of red-taloned fingers slid between her thighs. Forking her fingers through the fleshy petals, she exposed the slim dark pit between. Fernando stared. His brow furrowed. What he saw both puzzled and captivated him. The enigma of it elicited a strange sensation within him, like a pull in the pit of his stomach. Uncomfortable but enthralling. He felt excitement, trepidation. He felt himself teetering at the edge of a profound mystery.
“Do you see this space?” his mother said, tracing a crimson fingertip over the entrance to the void within her. “This is a woman’s secret place. This is where babies come from. This is where you were born.”
Fernando’s brows knit further. He’d seen plenty of babies in the barrio, even newborn ones. He knew how big they were. He shook his head in flat denial.
“It’s too small,” he said.
Carmencita laughed her rich, lusty laugh. She tossed back her dark waving mane of hair. She curved a feline smile at him, slow and savage. Fernando felt embarrassed by her derision. He shifted on his heels.
“It can stretch quite wide, m’hijo,” she said, her smile steepening. She pinched the delicate periphery apart to show him something of how elastic it was. “Do you believe me?”
Fernando didn’t, but he nodded anyway, just to please her. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what she was saying, though he wanted to. He wanted to believe her. He understood that a baby grew in a woman’s belly. He’d seen women with babies in them ripening like melons fit to burst. But between this image and the one of a baby in a crib, his mind drew a dark blank which his mother’s words of revelation made all the more obscure.
Still, it intrigued him. It spoke to him in some shadowy recess of his mind, a primal wordless whisper of provocation. Goaded by it, he reached out to probe further into the depths of this dark mystery, but with a scolding word his mother slapped his hand away.
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La Gorgona © CS Dark Fantasy