Burn the incense of dragons’ bane and light the oil lamps about the altar; not of Satan does it reminisce but instead the orgiastic frenzy of pagans ritualizing the passing of seasons as we doth tend to the fires of Summer. Folds of red, black, and white satin hide the padding and eyelets for chain or rope, suggesting more desperate purpose or height of ecstasy; vines curl suggestively at the altars’ base, writhing a naturalistic boundary between the world of reality and that of fantasy. Goblets of wine, ice cubes, warm water and bathing towels surround.

She comes; her eyes flick with a hint of trepidation at the preparations, yet she does not balk. Her breath quickens still in anticipation and the thrill of sensual uncertainty, each item therein suggesting at what could, or may, or will, happen–her form already warmed slightly by an evening of suggestive dancing and knowledge that the night is unfolding in ways she has no control over–out of control, yet still within some limits, safe. Where precisely those limits lie is uncertain; she knows she will be tested, like the Spartans of old, though even in discarding she will have gained valuable insight into herself.

As instructed she begins her ritual undressing and ablutions, the lights seeming to shift and entrap with the modern world around vanishing to be replaced by a harsh land, before when Jesus would have walked; a time when both man and beast lived cheek-by-jowl in a battle of survival; a time before virtue, when a womans’ fertility made her Queen of the future and wench of the night, both used and worshipped in the same breath–man merely the purveyors of sustenance and earth–woman bearing the miracle of creation in their bodies and thus defining themselves not merely objects of creative lust. The drums beat out an archaic rhythm as the scent of crushed grass, wisteria, and incense impinge, the rustle of satin and breath of wind caressing her tender form.

In hearing his footsteps she remembers: the casual warmth of his smile; the appraising eyes, as though even in that instant of first meeting she was being measured; the caress of respectful familiarity at her waist, yet tinged with the zing of anticipation–the touch of a hot lover or potential mate; his hands on her in the dance, lingering, permitted to brush with casual tease where they normally would not–after all he had asked, “Are you ready to be the Goddess of the Earth, M’lady?”–and she replied “Yes.” The wind rustles suggesting of pages turning, or perhaps that of breath on her bare skin.

What will you find when you turn the page?