Gynophagia Chronicles: Samantha

http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/LuisCypher/

Friday, September 4, 7:15 AM

Franklin High School room 208, San Ramon, CA

From Samantha Marie Wells’ Memoirs

“So, he says to me, ‘Sweetie, you look so yummy I want to take you home right now!’ I kid you not! Those were his exact words! Right in front of my dad, and he didn’t flinch!” Reba was positively giddy.

“He knows your dad?” I asked having only half understood the speech I didn’t record, since it was about as coherent as a gaggle of clucking hens.

“Yes!” she said. “I told you!”

“And he’s single?”

“Yes!”

“Good looking?”

“Oh God, Sammie,” Reba said dreamy eyed. “I swear he’s such a hottie! You’d envy me!”

I doubted that. “Great!”

“Oh! Oh! Anyway, he and my dad were talking politics and Johnny brings up this interview you did in the paper. I mentioned we were friends and he gets very interested. He really wants to meet you.”

“Uh…” I said. “Why? To talk politics with me?”

“Yes,” he said. “He said something about Jackson doing some event at his club or something…”

Jenna turned and looked at me jealously. She was walking with Gracie and Sloan, who was in our, semi, good graces again… or as most call it: probation.

“So will you come?” Reba asked.

“Come where?”

“To my house tonight!”

“Tonight?” Laundry night was tonight, I thought. “Isn’t tonight my laundry night?”

“No,” Gracie answered. “It’s Jimmy’s.”

Jenna said: “Jesus, Grace. Don’t encourage her!”

“Seven O’clock,” Reba said.

“Okay.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” I nodded, against my own desires… “I’ll be there.”

“So,” Lauren Nichols held up a mock-up of the proposed ‘Spring Uniform.’ “If you elect me, I promise to campaign for a uniform that more closely resembles California Fashion!”

We all applauded. The drawing of the new uniform was certainly more appealing than the frumpy blouses and pleats we wore at the time. Lauren’s proposal was a halter with the midsection bare and a shorter pleated skirt.

“Miss Yates,” Miss Masters said from the back of the classroom.

“As usual,” said Andrea. “Miss Nichols is two steps behind. That drawing is ancient history, or at least two years old!” She held up another mock-up of an even more stylish version. “Now this drawing was done by one of our own students and can be made easily by anyone completing Home Economics 101. Not only is it a more modern design, it also fits our unique character. I’ll support this one, and I’ll do something else!”

Andrea pulled out a bathing suit, probably her own.

“How many of you hate, and I do mean hate running after swimming in a wet, nasty bathing suit?” Every hand went up. “If you elect me, I promise to fight for your right to doff these disgusting things and swim as god intended: in your bare skin! Think about it: you can leave the pool, dry off and be comfortable doing laps after as we all do! I say: get rid of it!”

There was some enthusiasm in the applause that surprised me. I looked back at Miss Masters who had her chin on her chest, looking up at Andrea with a look of incredulity.

“Miss Nichols,” said Miss Masters.

“How ridiculous,” said Lauren. “What possible reason would Andrea want to strip all of us of our clothing? What for? Ask yourselves, seriously! For exhibition, that’s what!” She spent the rest of her response time going off, in not so subtle a way, implying Andrea was a lesbian.

“Miss Yates.”

“I am incensed!” cried Andrea. “Miss Nichols, you have stepped over the line! I truly am astonished you would go there. This last week there was a whisper campaign against one of our finest students! It’s gone on against our finest teachers as well! Why? Jealousy. And what did it accomplish? Bad Behaviour and Tears! It was probably designed to get someone culled! It is beyond horrific that anyone would stoop this low and be this ugly!

“If elected, I promise to out anyone who starts such a campaign, and anyone who participates in it. I will name names, and report them to the student body and to the faculty and demand those students be sanctioned! These people never, ever have a basis for such smears. And so what if some girl is a lesbian? Who the hell cares? It’s not your business, nor is it mine. You, Lauren Nichols, are a jerk, and I am calling you out to apologize to this class for your disgusting smear.”

Gracie, bless her, stood up to give her applause first. The rest of us followed. Andrea won by a landslide.

Wear something nice. Wear something nice.

At four, I still had no idea what to wear to meet Reba and her new boyfriend. I had rushed home early, hoping to get Mom to help me with my hair and make-up, but she was busy…

I found her sitting with a young woman who had a very foreign way about her. She spoke with a sing song accent and had olive skin and raven hair that cascaded around her face. She might have been Mexican or Middle Eastern, save that she had hazel eyes. She was exotically beautiful, and sitting next to Jessica Wells as she was, that is truly a complement coming from me.

This woman met my eyes and held them for a moment. She had this serene grace in her look that enhanced her ageless splendour.

“Ashima,” Mom said when she realized I was there. “This is my daughter, Samantha.”

“My goodness, Jessica,” said the woman in her heavily accented English. Her voice was soft, pleasant and womanly, though. “Have all your daughters inherited your beauty?”

“I like to think they all light up a room,” said Mom, a bit of a flush in her cheeks. “Sammie’s charm is that she’s so unaware of it.”

No, Mom, you light up a room! I just reflect what you radiate! God I should have said it…

“I’m so very pleased to meet you,” Ashima held out her hand.

I took her offered hand and did a little curtsy, my first!

“Me too,” I managed.

“Ashima is Mr. Tucker’s fiancée,” Mom informed.

“Yes,” Ashima smiled. “My family does not know if they should be happy I am marrying a good American Boy or sad that I’m not marrying a Bengali, good or bad.”

“Well,” said Mom. “I think they should be happy. You’ve no idea how much my husband respects him and how much Jake has done for us!”

At that moment, the man himself appeared, my father at his side. They seemed a matched pair, both in dirty jeans and flannel shirts.

“Now that’s really something,” Jake was saying. He was, is, beautiful in his ruggedness. Tall as my father, and only a few years younger, Jake Tucker would have tickled the fancy of any girl. But I always knew this cowboy, that he certainly was, would opt for the exotic. Ashima, if anyone was, exotic.

“You should have him bring it to the shop and use the milling stand,” Jake said.

“Seriously?”

“As a heart attack!” said Jake. “If he’s serious about finishing it. Hell, it could even be marketable.” He looked toward his fiancée. “Holy cow!” He did a double take. “Is that… Samantha?”

“Hi, Mr. Tucker!”

“My god, Matthew! You better lock her up before someone steals her!”

“Very good,” Ashima stood. “You! Come with me and put your eyes back in your head before I squash them!”

“Bye!” Jake said.

“Oh,” Ashima stopped. “Samantha, your mother said you wish to be a Journalist?”

“Yes?”

“Please call me. Your mother has our number. I may have a job for you.”

I nodded and watched as she actually took hold of Jake Tucker’s earlobe and dragged him off, even as Mom and Daddy were laughing hysterically.

“Mom. Daddy,” I said after the door closed. “I’m invited to Reba’s for dinner. Can I go?”

“Uhm,” Mom looked to Daddy. “What time will you be home?”

“She said I might spend the night,” I said.

“Are her parents home?”

“Yes.”

“I want their number…”

Johnny DeSilva scarred me. He tall and wiry, and was in his early thirties, which put him about Jakes Tucker’s age. While he was quite hansom, he reminded me of a hungry wolf rather than a perspective mate for Reba. Not the real kind of wolf, mind you, but the kind you see in scary movies, which, by the way, Reba and I watched all night long. He wore his short hair slicked back so that his bare temples showed all the way back to his crown. I expected him to be more inquisitive about my writing, but he was not, which bothered me even more. He seemed to appraise me as if he had something else in mind, and let Reba and I go about our business, which turned out to be watching movies and me listening to Reba dish about him…

In the morning, I got home about nine and found the house empty except for Mom. She told me the youngest went to the mall. Patti and Miki were at Cheerleader Practice, Daddy took Jimmy and Eric to the shop to meet Jake and his… never mind. Jenna and Gracie were god knew where, and Mom was not happy about that at all. In fact, she was quite worried about them.

I called Ashima at Mom’s insistence.

“I read your interviews,” Ashima said on the phone. “I want to try you out for a project I am working on. Are you willing?”

I was. She’d drop off the material later.

Martha Carrington dropped by at just past noon for a while, as Mom was getting very upset with Gracie and Jenna for being AWOL.

“So,” said the Banker’s wife and political junkie as I served them hot tea. “What do you think of our man Marcus? Sit with us, Sammie. Don’t hover.”

Mom nodded. “Matthew’s impressed.”

“Good. What about you?”

“Well,” said Mom. “The idea of protecting bisexual women is a huge deal with Matt and me. Him, because he loves me, and me, because I’m afraid for my girls.”

Mrs. Carrington nodded. “Are you bisexual Sammie?” she asked, even as Mom looked at her with protest.

“I… uhm,” I struggled to answer. “I think so,” I finally said under the weight of Mrs. Carrington’s gaze.

“Can you think of a girl you’re attracted to?”

I thought only for a moment. “Ashima Khan.”

“Really?” Mom’s brows went up.

“Ah,” Mrs. Carrington said. “Are you talking about Sanjay Khan’s daughter? The one who is engaged to Jake Tucker? She is extraordinarily beautiful, to be sure. But can you think of someone you’ve met?”

“I met her yesterday,” I said and Mom nodded.

“Oh!” said Mrs. Carrington. “Well, then… yes, she is extremely beautiful. Anyway, Jessica, the reason I came was to ask you, do you think Marcus’ cause is worth fighting for?”

“Actually, I do.”

“I’m deciding how I’m getting culled,” Mrs. Carrington said. “And I’ve decided it’s time to make a statement.”

“Oh?” Mom’s brow went up again.

“Well, a friend has a club and that club has a floor show. It’s quite a thing to see, actually,” Mrs. Carrington was obviously more than a little excited as she spoke with a great deal of body language. “So, I’ve decided to donate my body to Marcus’ cause. I’ve been putting together a big fund-raiser which will include dinner.”

Mom smiled. “Wow, Martha. That’s… that’s amazing. I hope he appreciates it.”

“Oh, yes, Marcus very much will. Anyway, I thought since Bernie is going to put you and your girls in Playpen…”

“He is not!”

“Isn’t he?” Mrs. Carrington said. “I remember him telling me exactly that.”

“But the girls? All of them?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Carrington said. “I’m sure he said all nine of you.”

“But Celine, Mara and Danielle are only thirteen!”

“So? Why is that a problem? Is it a problem for you?”

“Well, aren’t they too young?” Mom asked excitedly. “Isn’t it… is it legal?”

“Of course it’s legal, dear!” said Mrs. Carrington. “If it were not, would they have let me pose nude with my four year old daughter in 2205?”

“You did? With Astrid?”

“I did,” Mrs. Carrington said quite proudly. “They don’t often do Playmate Revisits. I can’t remember the last one. But it was wonderful posing with my children.”

“I’ll have to get that one out,” Mom said. “Sam, in my bedroom, under the window, will you bring the box labelled 2205?”

I nodded and went upstairs. Sure enough, mom’s entire collection was there in its pristine condition, well organized and catalogued in a long case with sliding glass doors. Each year was its own black box with a year marked in gold letters. When I came back down, Mara was there with another girl about her exact age and that girl’s mother.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Carrington,” the woman was saying. She was light brunette and wore these stretchy polyester slacks that were very unattractive. She also had a very strange accent that was quite American, yet not. She wore a simple white V-Neck t-shirt over her huge chest, that chest supported by an over built bra that showed through the stretched, not stretchy, fabric of her t-shirt.

“Please sit,” Mom said. “Would you like some tea?”

“No, thank you,” she said. “Rea was hoping your girls could stay over tonight.”

“Really?”

“We just moved in around the corner,” the woman explained. “My husband is a pilot with TWA anyway so we got here two days ago and Rea’s actually making friends which is a big deal to us! Let me tell you! Both of Rea’s twins got culled last year and Rea has been all alone so it would mean so much if she could have friends over her own age since her siblings are three years younger and we have no sons so there’s no danger there to your girls and…”

Rea’s mother prattled on nervously for another minute before Mom could get a word in. Celine and Danielle come down from upstairs and were looking with pleading eyes, as was Mara, at Mom.

“Can I have your number, Mrs. Ortiz?” Mom asked, and the girls began to giddily dance their happy dance as silently as they could manage.

“Of course, it’s in here somewhere oh here okay this is it…” and Mrs. Ortiz rattled off the number. Mom, ever organized, wrote it on her paper pad, then wrote her own and Daddy’s on another page she tore out for Mrs. Ortiz.

“This is our home number and my husband’s Cell,” Mom said. “Danielle, I made some oatmeal cookies yesterday. They’re in the jar. Why don’t you take all of those for tonight? I’ll make more.”

“That’s so nice,” Mrs. Ortiz said.

“We had no idea we had new neighbours,” Mom said. “It’s been so long since anyone moved in, I think we’ve forgotten to look.”

“I noticed that there are mostly old men in this place,” Mrs. Ortiz said.

“Mr. Foster next door has been in the hospital,” Mom noted. “And more than a few have round the clock care. We’ve never had other children very close to us. It’ll be nice, I think.”

“Next door?” Asked Mrs. Ortiz pointing south, and Mom nodded. “That house is the one we almost picked. TWA owns it. They’ll probably put someone in there soon.”

“Mr. Foster must have sold,” said Mrs. Carrington.

“Or his family did,” Mom said. “Strange no one told us. This is one of my eldest daughters, Samantha. And does anyone know where Jenna and Gracie are?”

“They were at the mall with Sloan,” said Celine.

“And some boys,” Danielle said.

Mom frowned.

“She’s probably showing off Danielle’s work,” Mara said, elbowing Danielle.

“Oh,” Mom nodded. “Right. Danielle is practising to be a makeover artist,” she explained to the other two women.

“Well,” Mrs. Ortiz said. “I have to get back. My husband is watching the rest of my brood and he has no patience at all. Nice to meet all of you!”

When the door closed behind them, Mom shook her head with a smile.

“She certainly is talkative,” said Mrs. Carrington.

“What?” Mom asked. “Oh, yes… she is. Now where were we?”

Mrs. Carrington pulled the May 2205 issue of Playpen out of its box and opened it to the first feature.

“Here it is!” she said and pushed it in front of Mom.

“I don’t think I ever saw these!” Mom said.

“Weren’t you subscribed?”

“Yes,” Mom nodded. “But my second litter of triplets were only a year old, Sammie and her litter were two. Eric was three, but he was never any trouble. But I was a mess. I had no time to read anything. We just bought this house that year too. You know, you were there!”

“I remember.”

“It was all I could do to keep the house from falling apart!”

“And then Kara sent her daughter over to help.”

“That’s right!” Mom said in an “aha” fashion. “And then we had adult night! You know, I’ve always wondered if that wasn’t the plan, and that you two were conspiring!”

“Well, it was her idea! What were they going to do? Cull her?”

Mrs. Carrington reached forward and unbuttoned the top several buttons of Mom’s grey dress. Mom looked down, then up at Mrs. Carrington, then at me with eyes hysterically wide, then back to Mrs. Carrington.

“Martha,” Mom was pleading. But she did not stop the woman. “Not in front of Sam, please?”

“Why not?” Mrs. Carrington asked. “She wants you at least as badly as I do,” she looked at me. “Likely more so.”

“Martha…”

“You said the most charming thing about Samantha was that she had no idea how brilliantly she lights up a room,” Mrs. Carrington unclasped Mom’s bra. “Just like you,” she added as she slid her hand in to cup a breast, teasing Mom’s nipple with her thumb as Mom’s chest heaved. “She gets all that from you!” And with that, Martha Carrington kissed my mother as if she were Mom’s husband.

I was carefully standing, and moving away as quietly as possible when the doorbell sounded, shattering my senses, and, by the way my mother jumped, hers as well. Mom frantically began buttoning up her dress and recomposing herself. I waited till she was ready, then answered the door. It was Ashima, and I thanked God for it.

I went to introduce her to Mrs. Carrington.

“We’ve met,” Mrs. Carrington took Ashima’s hand. “At the Playpen Mansion last month. The Summer Fair?”

“Ah! Yes, I do remember you, Mrs. Carrington. You are one of the Playmates, as I recall.”

“March of 2195,” Mrs. Carrington said. “When did you appear?”

“I will appear in the November issue of this year. They have yet to do my photography session. It is scheduled for two weeks from now.”

“How wonderful!” Mrs. Carrington said, suddenly flustered. “Well, I’m afraid I must go. Jessica, I will call you soon. Sammie, it is so nice to see you, and Ashima, good luck on your shoot.”

When Mrs. Carrington was gone and Ashima settled Mom was breathing a bit easier. It took her a bit, but Mom finally figured out that Ashima was here to see me, not her, and went to make more tea.

For her part, Ashima brought treasure. She handed me a Sony sat-cell phone which I took and looked at as if I were holding something made of porcelain, and a brand new Sony Voice Recording Steno-PDA worth at least 800€. It was the top of the line Steno-PDA, the very same one used by court reporters across the country and by reporters everywhere. The phone was also very fancy: it had a video camera, WiFi enabled and would be a hot spot if I had no WiFi which would work with the PDA. If there were no cell towers, it would connect to the satellite network. It was worth very nearly 1500€.

“There are three boxes of reading material for you in my car, “Ashima said. “All of which you’ll need for the two assignments I hope you will take. For each, you will get 500€ if we like them and possibly a full time job. We will, of course, negotiate on that, and make accommodations for your schooling.”

Mom served tea and smiled.

“Is everything al right, Jessica?” Ashima asked.

“Yes, why?”

“That woman, Mrs. Carrington, she seemed to have you very upset.”

“Oh,” Mom said. “I’m just worried about Jenna and Grace. My eldest girls. They’re AWOL… absent without permission.” She went to the front door and looked out through the diamond shaped window embedded in it.

“So I can use these?” I asked, indicating the phone and the Steno-PDA.

“Those are yours,” said Ashima. “If you work out, we shall keep the service going.”

I sat thunderstruck. A Cell Phone was a luxury that was beyond my parents ability to pay. Daddy’s cell phone was in Jake Tucker’s name.

“Ashima,” Mom said. “Who’s sitting in your car?”

“That is my mother,” Ashima said.

“Your mother? Ashima, please invite her in! I’ll get more tea.”

Ashima looked as if Mom had asked for the world, but stood and made her way out the door. I followed, of course, as I had boxes to get.

Inside the tiny car was a demure woman, about my mother’s age, mid 30s, anyway, who had the look of a frightened animal.

“Mother,” Ashima said, with a bit of annoyance in her voice. “Please, come inside. Mrs. Wells wishes to serve you tea!” The woman replied in Hindi, or what might have been Hindi. “Please, Mother! This is Samantha who I came to see.”

“Hi,” I put on my friendliest smile.

“No, Mother! They are not going to strip you naked and eat you! They would tell you first! This is America, they are very polite!”

We managed to get all three boxes in and Mrs. Khan without too much more elbow grease. Mrs. Khan seemed very nervous entering our home, and clung to her sari she had wrapped around her and over her hair. She even held it so it veiled her face. By the time we arrived at the dining room table, Mom had the good china out.

“Mrs. Wells,” Ashima said. “This is my mother, Fatima Khan. Mother, this is Jessica Wells. It is my mother’s first hours in America, Mrs. Wells, so she is a bit shy.”

“Welcome to our home, Mrs. Khan,” said Mom, making great effort to be as cordial as possible. Mom put her hands together and bowed in the Hindi fashion, which Mrs. Khan likewise gestured.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wells,” said Mrs. Khan in a very small voice. “You have a lovely home and a lovelier child. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”

Mom pulled out a chair and offered it to Mrs. Khan at the dining room table, and began to spill details about us and our family as if she were speaking with an old friend…

“Listen, this is very important,” Ashima said. “This man is very powerful and very dangerous. But he is willing to talk to anyone about his views, he is not shy. However, I would like you not to tell him you are with Zenana. Tell him you are with the Amador Herald instead. It is not a lie.”

“Okay,” I said. Not lying to a subject was a good thing, right? “But why not have an Indian do the interview?”

Ashima sighed. “Indians think they know him. They have very set opinions on him, so many will not ask the fundamental questions, and those questions they will ask will be very biased one way or the other. I believe that an American, who is far away and curious, is the best option here. If you seek clarity, all will be clear. Do you understand?”

I did. The logic was some of the best I’d heard. I’d bring it up to Miss Masters the next week.

“It has been said that sometimes we need outsiders to teach us about ourselves,” said Ashima. “This is all the material I could find on Jakim Golguli.” She referred to a file box that was overflowing.

I began looking through it and heard laughter. Ashima’s jaw dropped. Fatima Khan’s veil had come off her head and she was laughing with my mother over some small private joke.

“And I thank god every day I only have one red-headed girl!” Mom declared which caused howls of laughter from Mrs. Khan.

“Your mother is magic,” said Ashima. “My mother is so shy I expected she’d never converse with any American. It takes her months to trust anyone!”