Tarotica Ch. 07

The Chariot

The Chariot suggests a need to say centered and take control of competing forces to carry on . . Your strategy should be to move forward with determination and a clear sense of purpose . . . The Chariot can literally mean travel, buying a car, or treating yourself to a new means of transport - Tarot, Plain and Simple. Anthony Louis

In this card, a prince rides in a chariot under a starry canopy, carrying his wand of will and authority . . .notice there are no reins: his control comes from his stamina and focus on the goal at hand. - The Complete Idiot's Guide to Tarot and Fortune-Telling. Arlene Tognetti and Lisa Lenard

My husband teases me, continually, about my fondness for text. In the morning, if I wake before he does, I am - in an early a.m. instant - on the Internet, checking news headlines. If he does wake first, he orders me to drink my first cup of coffee before I run for the daily newspaper. When he leaves me alone in the car - even during quick convenience store stops, for coffee or cigarettes - he often returns to find me craning my neck, poking around the back seat, looking for some reading material accidentally left behind. This textual urge, he says, is driven by my need for constant stimulation.

It is true enough, I suppose. I grew up on a pig farm in the upper Midwest. I learned to read - to this day, no one in my family really knows how - at a young age, before attending kindergarten. By the age of 10, I was a lonely, homely girl - a girl with thick glasses and wild curly hair -- when visiting neighbors, I would bring a book and read it as I walked down our road. Or I would sit on our pump house, reading and re-reading my favorite book of fairy tales. Perhaps I need stimulation now because I grew up with so little - only words and later, sex.

Anyway, a few months ago, I found myself - along with legions of other Americans - out of work. Having worked in the ill-fated telecommunications industry, I should have seen it coming - but I didn't. Suddenly, the solidity of our lives was swayed. We were without insurance and without income. I am not the kind of person who is sanguine in the face of adversity - I cried, I wailed, I had a stress-induced seizure - until finally Rick and I had a long talk. We talked about money, we talked about stress, we talked about bills and the mortgage. We exhausted ourselves, and we limped to bed that night, balloons with no air. We agreed that it was now time to take turns - Rick would work, I would stay home and collect unemployment. The time, Rick said, would give me time not only to recuperate, but to write - "You've always wanted it - time to write," he said - and it was true.

After a few weeks of feeling lost and displaced, I did it - I started to write. The works I had long ago conceived, the short stories and poetry for which I never had time - they began to flow, part of a creative river, formed within this new emotional freedom. I read, too - voraciously - the way I used to read when I was younger, the way I had wanted to read - and hadn't been able to - for a very long time. I formed a rigid schedule - after Rick left, a brisk walk in the morning. Then, the newspaper and breakfast - always the same - peanut butter toast and orange juice. Then, from 9:00 to 12:00, three hours of writing. A break for lunch - an hour - and then I would tackle the reading list I had created. Within two months, I was halfway through the list. After my assigned reading, I made dinner, and Rick and I would sit and talk. Or, at least, Rick would talk. When I was in graduate school, I sometimes found that, if I spent hours of study in the library, I was unable to communicate with other people - including Rick - for the rest of the day. Pieces of my scattered brain remained in the stacks, in the dusty journals, and I found it hard to focus on conversation or physical reality. Now, I found, the same thing was beginning to happen. And Rick discovered it, too.

One night we sat down for dinner. Rick was telling me about his day, about his schedule, about a cranky client. My head was still buzzing with my daily text, and I nodded, distracted. Suddenly, Rick's fork clattered an irritated clang on his plate. "Hello?" he said, clearly annoyed, "Kristin? Do you remember me?" I looked up, surprised - what had I done? "Rick - what's wrong? What do you mean?" Rick sighed and threw his napkin over his half-eaten dinner. "For the past few weeks, I haven't been able to reach you - you've been somewhere else, somewhere I can't go. I see you making the motions - you make coffee in the morning, dinner in the evening, and sometimes, you make love with me at night. But you're just not there."

I hung my head, abashed. I knew it was true. "I'm sorry, Rick - I guess - maybe I've been spending too much time alone - not that I'm complaining, you know." Rick sighed, stood, and began to scrape his plate into the garbage disposal. He spoke again, his back still toward me. "Listen, Kristen - I want to do something this weekend - I want to go to a club - in the City - and I want you to agree to it, and, when you're there, to do what I ask you to do - no questions asked." He turned towards me. "You need to loosen up - you are so hard on yourself - it's good to be self-disciplined - but you have to let go - you have to remember how to feel - how it feels to be transported by some physical emotion - whether that's sex, or food, or whatever - but you've got to get out of your mind."

For so many reasons, there was no choice but to agree to his conditions. Rick smiled. "Kristen - believe me," he said, "I know you - you won't regret it."

That weekend, Rick and I took the ferry into New York City. One of the reasons we had originally moved to this small port town in New Jersey was access; on Saturday evening, we walked two blocks from our house, boarded the ferry, and, within an hour, arrived at The City. Rick hailed a cab. The City swarmed around me - the vertical vastness of the surrounding skyscrapers always overwhelms my Midwestern mind. Rick was from the City, and knew his way around. With blind faith, I followed him into the taxi. Rick had chosen my outfit - it was part of our bargain. I was dressed in black lace, a dress that clung to my figure and continually crept up my thighs. It was mesh and see-through, but underneath I wore a black lace bra and a short black slip. No hose, only low-heeled black slingbacks.

At Rick's command, the cabbie stopped, and I crawled out of the back seat, pulling the creeping dress down and trying not to trip on the uneven sidewalk. Rick paid the cabbie, who responded with gruff gratitude and a squeal of his wheels. "Well, Kristin, we're here - get ready." I looked around, but saw nothing - nothing in evidence - only a diner and a lingerie store. "This way," he said, and took my hand. We walked only a few blocks, then descended - underground - to a dingy basement, rocking with club music. Rick bought a ticket from a gray-bearded man behind a cage - he was dressed in leather, but his beard, long hair, and paunch made him look only Santa Claus-tough. "Have a good time," he said, and nodded towards a corridor. I followed Rick, apprehensive but excited. "Have you been here before?" I whispered. "Are you kidding?" he asked, and I could tell he was nervous, too. "I read about it - heard about it when I was a kid - but this is my first time, too." As we walked through the hallway, I noticed a man in front of his - he was naked and enthusiastically rubbing his cock. I followed his gaze - he was watching a porn video, its glow lightly illuminating the dark hallway. "Well," I whispered to Rick, and both of us laughed. We continued, through the next doorway, and entered a large room, furnished with tables and a bar. Around us, there was sex. I don't mean people having sex - at least, not proper intercourse. I mean men, naked or half naked, or sometimes not naked at all, masturbating - and a few women watching them, sometimes laughing, sometimes egging them on -- beautiful male transvestites walking around in stiletto heels and skirts shorter than mine. The porn movies - the televisions - were ubiquitous. I stopped to watch one; a woman was tied up, face down, her legs spread. By turns, a man was fucking and whipping her. I turned - on another screen, a scantily-clad woman was held captive in a cage, and two men were taunting her. I noticed, in the front of the room, a cross outfitted with cuffs - both for hands and feet. "Rick," I breathed, and I could feel the old tingle and the new wetness of my cunt. "This is a BDSM club." Rick nodded, "Yes - I was afraid, if I told you, you wouldn't want to come." He smiled, "But don't worry - I didn't bring the whips and chains. That's for next time. Here, have a seat."

I sat down at the table Rick indicated, and watched. Rick fetched two drinks from the bar. During his absence, a few of the masturbating men walked by me - some stared so intently I wanted to run - some smiled - some masturbated more fiercely. One walked by and whispered, "You're lovely. May I rub your feet?" Nervously, I shook my head; I was grateful for Rick's return. "What do you think?" Rick asked. I took a gulp of club soda. "This is fascinating - I wonder why so many men? I see hardly any couples." Rick shrugged. "From what I read on the Internet, there are different crowds for different nights - I guess we hit the masturbating men night. But remember, Sweetie - you can't take offense - they, after all, come here for license to be perverts." I chuckled - there were a few men who had stopped near us, their cocks out, their hands working feverishly. "Now, Kristin," Rick leaned over and whispered in my ear. The slight flow of his breath tickled my ear and I shuddered, "Go to the bathroom and take off that dress. Come back in only your bra and slip." I looked at him, saw his expression, and knew he meant it. I took another sip and, remembering my bargain, walked to the bathroom. When I returned, most of the men were gone. "Where's our company?" I asked, smiling - perhaps it was the atmosphere, perhaps it was the pervert-license, but I did not feel awkward, dressed only in my slip and bra. I sat down. "Now that you're back, they'll return." And return they did. One sat down at our table - he did not speak, nor introduce himself, just sat and watched. Rick leaned over and kissed me - a long kiss, a French kiss, and, languidly, I sucked his tongue. His hand dropped to my breast, and I felt his hands - they were hot and a little shaky - push under my bra and tease my nipples. The crowd of men increased. "Get up and dance for me," Rick whispered in my ear, and pointed to a dancer's pole behind our table. "In front of these guys?" I asked, my heart beating faster than the rhythm of the dance music. "Yes," he whispered back, "Don't worry, I'll protect you."

I got up and walked to the pole. I began to sway, moving my hips - I was a high school drummer, and have been told I have a fantastic sense of rhythm. Rick often tells me, when I dance for him in private, that I should have been a stripper. I ground against the pole, keeping my eyes on Rick, trying not to watch the crowd of men - all with their hands below their waists - who were now nearly crushing. Rick got up and pushed the throng back. "Not so close," he said and then, to me, "Take your clothes off - strip for me." I hesitated, still mindful of the men, their hands - the incredible number of hard cocks - "Do it." Rick said, and I began to strip - I danced, feeling the sway of the music and the beat of the men breathing - and I did it right, allowing my bra strap to drop, then replacing it, pulling down my slip, then teasingly pulling it back up. And, as I did so, I could feel a certain tension easing - in my body, yes, but also somewhere in the gray matter of my mind. I threw my head back, laughed, and finally kicked the bra, the slip, into the crowd of men. I knew I would not get them back - I saw one man deeply inhaling the scent of my slip - but I didn't care. They were cheap, and I could get others.

When the song was done and the strip was over, Rick helped me back to our table. The men continued to press, and Rick continued to beat them back. I heard whispers - "She's beautiful," - "You're lovely" -- "Can I touch?" And, again, someone asked to rub my feet. Rick refused them all, and we both sat, eagerly drinking the club soda. The crowd diminished, but did not dissipate. "Come here, Kristin," Rick said, and I walked over to him - I was now dressed only in my low heels. "Sit on my lap." I did so, and was forced to face the crush of men. There was a certain ridiculousness about the scene - so many men, so desperate, it seemed, their eyes intermittently watching me and the ever-active television screens. "Masturbate." Rick said. "What?" I asked. "Remember your promise - masturbate." I leaned back in Rick's lap. I could feel the soft of his stomach and the hard of his erect cock, and wondered how long it had been since I had actually noticed that - this contrast of hard and soft - and how long it had been since I'd noticed the feel of his skin, the way it felt under my touch. I sighed, leaned into Rick's chest, and closed my eyes. With one hand, I spread the hood of my clit - I rubbed myself, lightly at first, and I gasped a little. I heard Rick's breathing, loud, almost labored. I could feel his cock tighten and grow larger. There was a certain power in this - in feeling Rick's excitement and knowing, though not seeing, the crowd of men who watched and waited. I tickled my thighs - I was slow, languid - because it felt good, yes, but also to prolong the show. My hands crept slowly to my breasts, circling my hardening nipples. I touched my clit again, then spread my lips and thrust one finger in, just a little. Rick's breathing grew louder. I used the wetness I'd found to rub my clit, just the way I like it, first soft, then increasing the pressure - as the pressure increased, my breathing, too, became labored. I was floating, almost, transported by the sex-atmosphere, the primitive beat of the music, my husband behind me, the dozen - more -- men in front of me. The old tingle came back - the one that starts at the toes, spreads upwards through the thighs and then, finally, explodes somewhere around the spine. I came, convulsing in Rick's lap and gasping in the dead, close, club air. I opened my eyes.

The men were still there - some were still masturbating, a few were holding napkins, into which they were coming. Some were cleaning up. I threw back my head and laughed - one man was trying to walk away from the table, his pants still down around his ankles. I felt flushed, excited - and a tremendous sense of relief. Rick stood and, facing the crowd, said, "Okay - show's over gentlemen - now you can go away." They dissipated then, some satisfied, some disappointed. "Well, young lady, how do you feel?" Rick asked, as he took his place at the table. I laughed again. "Strange - but - almost liberated somehow - that was weird, but it was also kind of powerful." Rick smiled. "Transported?" I took a sip of my soda and nodded - "Yes - kind of - transported." "When we return to life, Kristin," Rick said, "Remember this - you don't have to let go of this feeling of transport, of release - remember the need for balance." Rick leaned over and gently kissed my forehead. I rubbed his hard cock through his dress pants. "Remember - you won't fall off. You don't have to hold so tightly to the reins." I nodded, sipping thoughtfully. "Hey Rick . . ." I said. "Yes, Kristin?" I smiled at him over my drink. "Did you mean what you said about next time - about the whips and chains?" Rick laughed, a real laugh, his head thrown back, his belly shaking. He glanced at me and, still chuckling, answered, "Oh, yes doll - you know I did."

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