The Naked Bull

Oh witch! Oh witch! I know you are near

No scent, no taste, no sound, no fear

If you be her, then hold fast!

For Gilgamesh returns at last

A walking man ponders to a rhythm, a specific though evolving time signature; his steps the meter of his constantly shifting thoughts. The import of the time signature corresponds to the specific emotion given to any improvised reminiscence brought about by the random heartbeat, the staggered breath. In other words, it is a question of phrasing; we are concerned here with the meaning attached to the entire expression. For if not resolved with a chorus, thus allowed to continue in verse, it must be, in essence, repeated from the coda only to approach then, the confounded bridge.

In this way Vashon meandered the night amongst the animal noises of the ancient city of Pamplona in a half-hearted effort to find the scribbled address supplied by an anonymous waiter. He scrutinized himself from a remote vantage, an intangible phantom, Hamlet’s father, a ghost by any other name, longing for the flesh and bone required to participate in the cavalcade that was San Fermin. He danced around the issue of Whidbey and the lady; these would not be resolved by furrowed brow but of their own accord, in their own good time.

In the past, he had found this pigeonholing most useful at times such as these (and there were many) when his table was set a bit too wide for a poor man’s stomach.

And so, given free reign, the random thoughts did ebb and flow as the Spanish moon tugged and released them. The specter of the mysterious woman who had asked about him; his empty pockets, where he and Elliott might find work. Then there was the van which was in need of repairs, and Elliott, who seemed ever more distant and confrontational. Each was dispatched post haste, only to reappear, not unlike killing snakes: the hydra has many heads.

He continued up the cobblestone street, the main course where the bulls would pass by again the next morning, led by, among the many other death defiers, he and Elliott. Vashon savored the vision, which had the instant effect of hacking the briar from his mindscape.

This, however, was an egregious error on his part: Once the field was cleared of debris, he was left with not but a familiar gravestone: Poulsbo.

It had been almost a year since his brother the younger, his ward, had given up the ghost. Or perhaps it was yesterday? Vashon felt his Spector appear beside him as an amputee feels a lost arm or phantom leg. He watched with his mind’s eye as his brother shook with the hideous death tremors as he held his arm, then the tears that burned hot; viscous secretions that set and hardened as they filled the weathered mortar line of an apology that did crack and crumble with the advent of the salty water. Poulsbo then ceased shaking, thank ye Gods, exhaled that labored sigh as he fled his carcass, his final wretched breath.

Vashon remembered how Poulsbo’s skin began to change color almost instantly as the blood drained to the lowest points of his body.

Gravity always wins.

His eyes were still open yet had fogged over. Whoever this person, this sibling, this brother had once been, this vacant heap was no longer he. The drink had savaged his insides, and though he was listed as an organ donor, the attending nurse noted casually as if refusing an offering, they wanted none of it:

His guts were rotten.

And who did this thing to him, this murder most foul? Who poured the poison in his eager gullet? Poulsbo had ever been the annoying tagalong, the shadow of his hero. Vashon had always been the impetuous one, always in trouble, always on the way out to yet another adventure. Who could resist walking in his giant footsteps? Who had put the vision of the bottle and the hero’s journey in his brother’s head? To be bigger than life, no matter what the odds, to land on his feet, smiling his stock self-assured smile. And they would sing as they drank, and drank some more as they sang “A bottle of wine to make me shine, a bottle of rum to make me hum!” and the laughter that begged: were they not pirates?

Vashon muttered himself ugly dark, eyes downcast, hands in fists, jaw clenched.

Enough!

Inhale deep; the chest expands two-fold. Forced brow relaxes, open eyes as if still alive and well. Sorry, brother. Can’t follow this time, run home to mother, next time, promise.

In this manner, he prepared himself to greet the mystery. He had found the location which was, coincidentally, a place he had passed by on many occasions, toward the beginning of the route of the bulls. He allowed himself a small grin knowing that if all went well, he would not be late the next morning. Once again, he donned the black mask of Zorro, the wily smirk of Don Quixote.

The two-story stucco of some age that loomed before him was set quite close to the street. There was a small patch of green, hardly worth the effort, a few steps leading to the large arched door of ancient wood and stained glass, a hammered metal door knocker hung waiting which he lifted and let drop, once, twice. Vashon waited for a time, wondering if the woman might well be out, perhaps continuing her search for him. Just then a click and the complaint of a rusted hinge from above and, taking a step back, the man peered up through the night with hopes of grandeur. There, dimly lit from behind, was the dark silhouette of a woman. He could barely make out her long hair, pieces of her face hinted at by some sepia illumination from inside.

“You are the man Vashon?” a steady voice escaped the din and dark.

“I am he,” he said, the quirk of his name giving pause. She vanished from the window only to re-appear through the painted glass, then slowly opened the door and moved aside. Vashon walked in and stopped just inside, taking stock of the room. It might have been a museum, he observed: Statues, suits of armor, figures of toreros frozen in timeless battle with enraged bulls; figures of Don Quixote and Sancho Panza filled the walls on thick wood shelves separating a thousand most worthy tomes.

The woman herself was indeed striking, savory in fact, as the Spaniard had promised. Her eyes refused to blink. Vashon was intrigued and would quickly have lost himself to wanton recklessness had it not been for an infinitesimal movement of her mesmerizing black orbs. For just then her eyes shifted, for an instant and no more, over his shoulder, as if discovering something that had been previously hidden.

The spell now broken, he followed her line of sight and glanced behind him, remembering just then his situation, in a strange house with a strange person. Two high backed chairs sat facing one another before the fire, no more. Confidant, for the time being, that no malice existed there he turned back to the woman who was watching him with intense interest. But he was now alert, the spell having diminished, and though he knew he may very well rub bellies with this creature, it would be through conscious effort, senses intact. He hadn’t survived a treacherous and impersonal universe thus far by reckless abandon.

She wore a wisp of nothing, the flesh beneath suggested abundant sex.

“It’s late,” he said, “you were getting ready for bed.”

“That is my intention,” she said, “Drink?”

Vashon had a moment just then, a déjà vu; it stopped him

“Have we met?” he ventured.

Her eyes pursed to a quizzical squint as she tilted her face ever so slightly.

“You do not remember?” was her unfortunate reply. There was a tragic elegance to this woman. She must have predicted this question, for her response was an impish pout, almost as though she expected him to recognize her. Vashon shook his head once, twice. Near apologetic, for there was something, a dream lost to the morning sun, then nothing.

The woman eased.

“I am Issaquah.” She smiled as she took a step towards him. Vashon stood his ground.

“Different,” he said, wondering if she was genuine; this she noticed.

“Native American,” she educated, “More an observation than a title, or so I am told,” then on a tangent, “I have watched you run with the bulls, Vashon. It seems you have no fear.”

She spoke his name as though mocking, as though it were but a card he played.

Vashon deliberately broke eye contact again. She had a power over him he found at once erotic and unsettling. He made a wide sweep of the room, hindering her momentum, coming to rest finally on a long sword and deep red Muleta, along with several sets of ears, tails, and horns that surrounded two huge paintings above the mantel: El Cid and the great Manolete. There was a careworn fire needful in the fireplace below.

“You live here?” he said for no reason.

“The setting varies,” she said “This version belongs to a friend of mine. He is away.”

“He?” said Vashon, testing the water.

“An old acquaintance, if you must know. A friend of the family. He is quite insufferable if truth be told. Though I do, at times, enjoy his company. I hope this doesn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“I’ll take that drink if you’re still offering,” he said, then offered “Your fire could use some help,” and walked toward a small pile of split wood on the hearth, the carpenter in him recognized as Black Locust, confirmed by the intense bed of hot coals he laid it upon. Above this, he gained a closer look at the artifacts on the mantle. Someone had strung, tied and otherwise woven several of these horns, ears, tails, all relics of past Encierro, he guessed, together with what appeared rawhide in order, he surmised, to be worn during some obscene masquerade orgy.

Issaquah approached an antique stand supporting a silver tray, a decanter of dark walnut liquid and several hollow crystals, then turned, her breasts prominent in profile.

“I’m afraid my old friend favors not tequila, though I’m told this brandy is sublime,” she said as she poured and then offered it to him. He took the glass, careful not to make skin contact, for that would seem vulgar and obvious.

“You seem to know all about me,” he said, “You make a habit of San Fermin’s?”

“When it pleases,” she said

“Then you must tell me, Issaquah,” trading taunts, “do you cheer the man or the bull?”

The woman considered for a moment.

“Neither, and both,” she said with no hint of emotion “I have watched bulls tortured bloody and slain. I have seen men trampled and gored. It matters not. To enter the arena is to accept what comes, the honor, the folly.”

Vashon was both repelled and impressed by her brutality.

“You are a philosopher then,” he said, meaning no joke. She took another step closer and looked up at him, her breath on his face.

“Quite. And I am a very long way from home, Vashon,” she said, again the prod, and eyed his reaction. Vashon formed the stock ‘and where might that be’ but decided instead he was done with his interrogation, choosing to enjoy the woman, Issaquah, her features proved the vision in relief sculpture that he and Elliott had but recently described.

There were no more words. She gave him a piercing look that penetrated his shield, as though vivisecting his living soul. He wondered who was the bull, and who the matador.

Issaquah turned and began up the stairs, pacing her steps, only to stop and gaze at him, most insistently, demanding that he follow. Vashon knew he would not deny her, and what fool would?

And so he followed her to where, in La Casa de Toro’s, impaling was common, though rarely fatal. As he passed the silver tray, Vashon set his glass down untasted.

It was not the night for brandy.

At the top of the stairs, they entered the bedroom. They had not yet touched. Vashon guessed this was the same she had appeared from earlier. He had then considered the dim lighting electric but then saw that there were two large candles flickering on either side of the large bed. These rested on draped furs of some once softly living creature.

She then turned to him while somehow effortlessly allowing the thin veil to fall to her feet and then stood naked, and indeed, magnificent. Vashon was accustomed to beauty, he was a beautiful man himself and knew it; he was arrogant about it: He would never deign to accept the dregs, preferring to use his hand and vivid imagination instead. But this woman! The perfect specimen in every sense and more: A maturity in her, as though she had existed for ages, had acquired the air of a matriarch. She wielded silence like a whip when others would be well into a cacophony of gibberish he would be inclined to remedy with a tongue or cock to plug up the incessant oral flatulence.

Issaquah moved as a black spider he watched, red hourglass on her belly, as she entered her spinning web and lay on her side, the palm of her hand resting on the bed before her where Vashon envisioned himself toot sweet. Make no mistake, dear reader, this was no playful invite, no coquettish ‘come hither’. This was a challenge, a provocation, a call to arms. Vashon was off his charts on the edge of a flat sea cascading into the abyss. He peeled free of his clothes and dove into the churning depths to face the Kraken broad-faced.

Once there, the sensation that he had laid beside this woman before hovered between them. They explored eyes for a long moment and then touched, for the first time, first her long raven hair, his unshaven face. Vashon moved in to try her mouth, and she let him, his tongue was allowed to find its way between her teeth and inside the cavern of her mouth where it sought pearls, encountering a moray that wanted to wrestle as well.

And then she bit him. Bit his tongue, which retreated as a confused and bewildered dog smacked on the nose for simply sniffing around. Vashon pulled back, a knee jerk reaction to an innocuous event; no blood that he could taste, but damn, woman! Issaquah did not hide her enjoyment at his confusion but did seek just as soon to remedy the cease-fire. For, by then, the man was sporting a redwood of epic proportion; she touched him there, another welcome addition to her bag of tricks: While another might take half the night boring him to frustration by wandering over his arms and chest and stomach, a sad attempt at mock titillation.

And then they came, those tedious random thoughts at the most inopportune moments which he could never seem to shake until they played out to the end. For as he stroked her skin, her thick wavy mane he was taken back to a time long before, elementary school perhaps, kissing tag the closest he had come to sex. The good-looking girls ran fast; the ugly ones allowed themselves to be caught. He would run past.

He had by then, of course, began to fiddle with himself in the bath, or his bed late at night with the door closed tight. This felt good until he got hard, then it was no fun, for it began to ache, an issue that recurred when he and his friends were into their Dad’s skin mags. Then he would stop, his friends teasing him for even wanting to look at them in the first place. Then his best friend at school, who was light-years ahead of him sexually, told him that this was supposed to happen, stupid. Then he began to go further with his nocturnal adventures. He had an animal fur, not unlike those beneath the candles, that he kept on his dresser as well that looked like it might prove useful. He began to rub himself with this, an epic discovery, and an instant standard, though he noticed that he had to stop as his pecker would begin to twitch of its own, the tremors suggesting something evil this way comes. He would stop quick, cease and desist, for that night’s adventures at least.

Some lessons are hard learned, though rewarding, as the night arrived when he went too far, crossed the threshold, the point of no return. He watched in horror as his chubby began to twitch and jerk uncontrollably, (No! No! Please…not this!) finally vomiting a whitish goo that was surely not supposed to be seen by human eyes. His head throbbed, and his ears rang in stark terror as he ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and wiped it off, flushing the obscene evidence down the toilet. He swore to whatever gods might still have mercy on a filthy wretch that if he were but allowed but to live, he would never ever do it again. Until, of course, his sex ed buddy at school advised him that this was supposed to happen, stupid. From then on, he became, and throughout his life thus far, quite the master of the rosy palm.

He moved his hand over her breasts, which were agreeably real, her nipples weapons in their own right; then to her hairless crotch, which was warm, near hot, a deep-sea vent he christened it, there and then. Then, deciding to move on to mounting and riding, he put his palm to her shoulder and gently pushed, expecting her to acquiesce and roll over on her back, the stock response he had enjoyed ad Infinitum.

But the woman Issaquah was not to be one of the many, instead holding firm as he nudged her, once, twice, three times. Vashon looked into her eyes for some reason for this deviation from protocol; she simply returned his glance, (you figure it out). He decided to beat her at her own game and, dropping his hand, he rolled over and lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, (fuck you bitch!)

Once again, he underestimated this woman and paid the price. For she frowned then and slapped him hard in the face (you give up too easily, little boy!). This second assault on his senses brought him to his knees, where his reaction was to strike her back, though this was not his way. But she saw the heat in him, the life flexing in his stomach, then an evil and approving squint fell over her face. And seeing this, he relaxed, for an instant, and she pounced, sprung at him like an enraged demon, baring her fateful teeth, were those not fangs? The rabid creature lunged open paws, knocking him over backward and off the bed to topple helplessly landing hard on the floor, bruising elbows, head, shoulders. He lay dazed for an instant and then quickly got to his feet to find the woman lying on her side again, her hand palm down before her, staring at him as before.

Bitch! He saw by the evil grin she sported now that the look of bewilderment on his face was comical. He wiped it off with a steady hand, to be replaced by a poker face he wore well. She had won the first battle; the war was far from decided.

No glutton for punishment by design Vashon would in any other instance, have pulled on his trousers and left. But… God damn it…this woman! This infuriating dragon! He must, here and now, know her game, come hell or high water. If he left bloodied and bruised, it would all be well worth it, scars and all if he could just remember where he had known her, and how his cock felt inside her, just where mattered not. For Christ’s sake, had he not run before the raging bulls of Pamplona, had survived the seven seas, he would survive this night and be a better man for it.

Once again, Vashon mounted her bed, though this time warily, and laid down beside her where they eyed each other, two contenders in their neutral corners, both eagerly awaiting the next round. This time Issaquah made the first move, extending her long neck to put her lips on his, and he let her, though neither closed their eyes. Vashon kept his hands ready and away, and simply allowed the new curtain to unveil as it would.

The woman placed a subtler hand on his shoulder and urged him back down. His first thought was to mimic her treachery, but this seemed petty and wrong. Vashon allowed it and, falling onto his back, his head now on a large pillow, watched as she climbed atop him and sat for a time. Still, her hands supporting her on his strong abdomen. Her long hair draped over him, tickling the skin of his chest and throat, his face tingled with the feel of it. He was not inside her, but he felt her wet vagina kissing his rigid member. She moved in this way for an eternity that Vashon could easily have endured, for this was mana from another world. He held her waist with both hands now, then held her breasts, which bobbed just above him as soft Bota bags tight with sweet Spanish wine.

Then, just when he was about to grab his spear and impale her, she stopped and opened her eyes, which had been closed in apparent ecstasy for some time, and looked at him as if to read his mind. The woman then looked to the side and the candle beside the bed, and back at Vashon. Oh hell! He thought, the hot wax! Issaquah reached over and yanked the fur from beneath the candle, toppling it, sending wax and flame toppling to the floor. Then, holding up the dead animal as if she had just then ripped it from the bleeding carcass, worried herself down Vashon’s legs, so his cock was now poised directly before her.

She looked at it for a short while, then, taking the fur, touched it to his wood, just a touch mind you, then looked back at Vashon for some reaction. Content with the astonished look on his face, she wrapped the fur around his meat, reincarnating the beast, and began to polish it slowly, ever so slowly, as Vashon shuddered at the sensation, and the memory. Issaquah worked it, and working it, her face but inches away, watching, waiting for the moment, and then the sorceress stopped and let the fur fall, as his penis began to quiver and jerk, she would not touch it and pushed away his hand when he tried. It came of its own, ejaculating violently a steady gob of semen that landed his undulating stomach muscles until it stopped, finally, and his body relaxed, consumed.

Issaquah looked up at Vashon, who was watching her, wondering at her next maneuver, when she extended her long tongue to dip it in the ambrosia, moving her face up and down slowly, burying her face in his gut. He groaned as he felt her lips and tongue lapped at his flesh, seeking every bit of the that which she had so skillfully extruded until there was nothing left. Then, putting her mouth on his withering member, she breathed back life until it stood once again, the proud soldier, ready once more for battle.

Having achieved this task Issaquah rose and mounted Vashon again, taking his mast in hand, took it well inside her and began again to move up and down, this time for herself, groaning low and lustful, at first, her rhythm, her time signature as she grit her exposed teeth, turned her insatiable head in heartfelt rendering, began to chant through well-set jaw in a language unknown to mankind for millennia.

Vashon held her in a death grip; claws dug deep the mid quarter of his bucking prey. He would not let this soul escape him, now or forever, and forever a past brought to life by a word, a silence, a fruit once bitten, then awake and aware, listening to her tongues. And, odd to tell, understanding more than a word. And in the word he saw then a shadow in the dark, a clue to the riddle of that evening: It was not this Helen of Troy hiding in the fringe that he remembered, but her temper, her demeanor, her violent acts so patent, so reminiscent of another. Not the body, no, but the soul, the spirit, behind the mask of this the beautiful demon.

Yes, he did know her, had known her, a thousand lifetimes ago. All of her posturing, her innuendo and accented spite, all her reckless sex was but a ploy to coax a mere memory, that he and she had lain together in another place and another time.

And he had loved that woman.