There are times when life deals the cards unfairly. After you read this accounting, youmight not think this is one of those times. But, I assure you it is not fair when the gods andgoddesses of captured love allocate the bounty of a woman‟s love between two sisters; sisters whomay be biological twins but are spiritual manifestations of love‟s spectral differences. It is with greatperil I undertake the adventure of writing this story; one that is at once fact and fiction. Fact is theirprovince; fiction is the fancy now buried in my heart. The defining playground against which this story is cast is the dance floor. Naturally,whenever one speaks to the ethics of dance, the Greek goddess Terpsichore‟s right, power, andauthority are necessarily invoked. The proof of this story is the lesson implicated by interpretingher plectrum and lyre as metaphors in revealing idiosyncrasies of women connected by proximatebirth, yet distinguished by passionate disparities unveiled on the dance floor; disparities keenlyobserved by me in the proper discourse of loving them. Since this story relies on my interpretation, it would be best to now seize the opportunityto introduce myself and provide a modest resume. I am Ritchie Jackson; my friends call me “ItchieRitchie” for short. I earned the moniker in high school and college days for the reason, accordingto my “Hell-raising” friends, I am always “itchin‟ to find trouble.” My life, it seems, has beendedicated to the fulfillment of this proposition. I am an educated sort, though: Doctor of Philosophy. However, it matters not for thisstory what field turned out to be Ritchie‟s bailiwick. The only emphasis requiring understanding is“Philosophy.” For it is out of my philosophical training I came to understand the ethics of dance;the very notion Terpsichore harbors her exclusive domain sequestered in the secrets of herplectrum and lyre.
It was only three years ago, after I lived a single and solitary life for what seems decadesupon decades, I chose to date. That‟s right; I made a conscious decision to find a girlfriend. Asany aspiring male in this day and age would do, I pursued finding a date on an internet “cupid”website. It turns out several realizations came to past through this undertaking. My one and only internet date, somewhat my junior at the mature age of 40, was abeautiful woman conveying a certain sex appeal. Naturally, I bit the apple. There were someconsiderations, however. First, I had to consider relationship with a woman endowed with childrenfrom a prior marriage. Now this might seem a foolhardy proposition to those resident in mygeneration; however, it was my initial foray and there were unresolved issues. Would I likeoffspring not created by me; or, equally as relevant, would such offspring like me? Waxingphilosophical just for this instant, it seems a woman endowed with pre-existing children andentering into a new relationship would seriously assess how her prospective love interest consideredher munchkins. This entire hullabaloo was immediately dispensed by the smile of my date‟s ten-year olddaughter, who opened the door when I came to take her mother out to dinner. The rapture didn‟tstop there. Considerably, she was quite the precocious fifth grader, carrying on conversationbeyond her years with “Ritchie, the academic snob.” I was sold. The date didn‟t go as well as the conversation with the daughter. Don‟t get me wrong; itwasn‟t a complete flop. We had dinner at a very chic restaurant; one not too much, nor toounderstated for a first date; great conversation the entire evening. However, when dinner was overand the clock struck 10 p.m., I said, “Well, I guess I should take you home.” She didn‟t argue.After saying good-bye to what probably seemed a trite evening out to her, I considered my datingshort-comings. “Ritchie,” I said to no one else, “you should have taken her out dancing!” Thewisdom was persuasive in reasoning until I realized, “But, I don‟t know how to dance!”
That‟s when the sunset of my life changed, writing a new horizon unending: I took dancelessons. “Damn it,” I continued philosophizing, “It won‟t happen again! The next time I get luckyenough to take such a beautiful woman out on the town, we‟ll go dancing!” You see, it wasn‟t myintention to use dance as a means to date; but to supplant dating with a romantic disposition. As time went on, however, it turned out that dancing was the source of introduction tobeautiful women; some of whom I did date. Over the course of the three years now intervening,my pedigree forced me to consider the philosophy of dance. In my lexicon, that translates I mustfirst postulate the ethics of dance, study it, learn it, and then live it. I am speaking about socialdancing, the kind of dancing where a man actually holds a woman in his arms. I am not referringto competitive dance or any form of dance that does not countenance embrace. The implicitcondition is that one must be at risk for romance arriving while engaged in social dancing. In dance where a man holds a woman in his arms, Terpsichore imposes her notion ofdance ethics. Let me briefly share my interpretation of the goddesses‟ showing for ethics fullysatisfied; a rich fulfillment to be sure. Simply, in the social dance scenario there is the music, thedance, the man, and the woman. In order to satisfy the Greek tradition, all must be in ahierarchical alignment. The man and the woman must dance as one; a living testament to heartssingularly beating. The dance, of course, must be in a language competent in the genre at hand andunderfoot. Finally, the dance must fulfill the music‟s destiny. I know it sounds simple. However, when you dance for the first time with a woman youfind to be quite attractive, the odds of violating the alignment are pretty high. After things settledown, however; the goddess and her plectrum and lyre become relevant. Stick around, thephilosophical Ritchie Jackson will expound on the metaphorical significance of Terpsichore‟s toolsof trade; an interpretation cast against loving two beautiful women who are twins by birth.
I remember the first time I saw Rebecca. It was at one of my lesser favorite dance halls,The Blue Star. She was standing on the edge of the dance floor. The first thing I noticed (and I‟msure you‟d notice too) is just how radiant she is: brown hair and hazel eyes set in a face divining anangel‟s presence. She was poised at the entry to the dance floor as if to make a spotlighted showing just forme; or, at least I so considered. Itchie Ritchie got the itch and slipped in between other suitors andnabbed his first dance with the beautiful Ms. Rebecca. All right, if you must know, it wasn‟t aperfect statement comporting Terpsichore‟s alignment criteria. There was the music (a countrysong), the dance (Rhythm 2-Step), Rebecca, and yours truly. While the dance and the music werein alignment, the context pressured Rebecca and me to catch up. My dance instructor, Jacqueline, taught me many things regarding dance etiquette. Thelesson made poignant by the alignment process not quite right in my first dance with Rebecca isstraightforward: It was my fault. The female dance partner never falters; it is always the man‟sresponsibility to lead her alignment to blissful perfection. So, I wiped the blood off my nose andpursued the perfection. While I consider myself pretty smooth when it comes to country two-step, holdingRebecca in my arms for the first time proved somewhat unsettling if not downright unnerving. Thisprobably accounted for the misalignment (caused by me, of course). I was no longer espying herpresence from a distance; she was up close and personal—held in Itchie Ritchie‟s arms. Her right hand rested in my raised left hand while my right hand reached up under herback to hold her just below her left shoulder blade. Her left hand rested against my right upperarm; all implicating Jacqueline‟s proper dance frame. Let me assure you, however, it wasn‟t aplatonic encounter. The energy flowed, her radiance engulfed, and I found myself drowning;wanting the dance not to end.
Rebecca‟s beautiful, crystal-clear, hazel eyes invoked one of Itchie-Ritchie‟s hustles—investigate a woman‟s heart by looking straight into her eyes. The strategy is to smack her with asurprise tactic to ferret her heart‟s pleasure. My investigative report is unequivocal. Her response was Nirvana, besetting a fragranceintoxicating. That is, I found a mixture of peace, beauty, and love in her eyes now registered. Herlips were full and rich in promise; I wanted to kiss them. Such is the stuff dreams are made of. Myadvantage turned into hers. Like I said, I didn‟t take dance lessons to fall for a girl on the dancefloor; sometimes, it just turns out that way. My investigation continued, I had a lot of ground to cover before the song ended. Istudied how her hand laid in my own. It was delicate; fingers registering comfort within her dancepartner‟s offering. Her right forearm was bare against the dimly lit dance floor. The expanseconveyed a message registering electricity a fragrant, complete statement. Her waist accommodatedthe curvilinear symmetry defined by her breasts and hips—hips that hypnotized a drunken stuporwith every turning sashay. To say the least, I was mesmerized. As the dance ended, I knew in myheart of hearts I would pursue dancing with Rebecca time and again, as long as it was her pleasure(another Jacqueline-ism). As fate would have it, Rebecca and I next encountered one another at my favorite dancevenue, The Gambler‟s Hand. According to “Poor Itchie-Ritchie‟s Almanac,” the investigation mustcontinue: We danced again! It was a Tuesday night; a night where only serious dancers are regularparticipants. I confirmed Rebecca, indeed, was endowed with a persistent radiance; one ignited byclear and convincing eyes, a gaze filled with persuasion. You have to understand, while I amfocusing on Rebecca‟s eyes, there is a continuing appreciation for her interpretation as a woman tobe countenanced. Her shapeliness is sure to satisfy the hunger of the dance hall‟s most leeringeyes; her gracefulness on the dance floor rivals all oncomers.
I thanked Terpsichore for what was sure to be my new Promised Land—Rebecca in myarms every Tuesday night. Like Pavlov‟s proverbial, I quickly became conditioned to theaccounting of her presence: The Blue Star on Friday nights and The Gambler‟s Hand on Tuesdaynights. “Could there possibly be more evenings for my culinary delight?” I asked myself. I thenraced through my mind‟s eye to revisit the town‟s dance opportunities arising every other evening ofthe week; all possibilities were considered. On those occasions where Blue Star or Gambler‟s Hand consistency was not mine toenjoy, Rebecca‟s absence left my heart sunk to the bottom of the dance floor. I had to drag thisburden around when I danced with others, all the while keeping my eye on the door for anentrance demanded. Her failure to come some of those nights found me going home unfulfilled. Iwas hooked on this brown-eyed girl, her beauty, and that haunting radiance. On the Tuesday of Thanksgiving week just past, a roaring idea beset me. KnowingRebecca was newly arrived in town, I should invite her to the Jackson family Thanksgiving feast! Iquickly weighed counter-arguments for and against whether such a transaction ought to properlymaterialize. On one hand, I considered my diabolical sister, Lucinda. She would probably rat outmany Itchie-Ritchie exploits, professing superficial fun all the while intending to embarrass me infront of Rebecca. “Is that a worthwhile risk?” I propounded to no one but myself, “Or, is thehospitality extended to Rebecca the dominating preference?” I opted for the latter strategy; all to no avail. On inviting Rebecca to participate in thefamily feast, she advised she already had plans. Of course, my first thought was, “Who‟s thebastard that beat me to the punch?” I looked around the dance hall for the guilty party but couldfind no one satisfying the description of the wanted villain. So, my enjoyment of Rebecca duringThanksgiving week was limited to a couple of Tuesday night dances.
Two weeks before Christmas, that calculates December 11th in case you‟re wondering, Iwas invited to two Christmas parties. The respective host and hostess were both people I had cometo know at The Gambler‟s Hand. One party was hosted by Bernard Smathers. His party isrenowned for Mexican hot dogs, free beer and wine, and evening entertainment. Well, I say“entertainment” tongue-in-cheek inasmuch as while Bernard has a tent erected in his back yard fora live band; he also has entertainers perform from the local transvestite bar. Bernard‟s party is always the talk of the town and it is always scheduled to take place onthe second Saturday in December; enabling schedules years in advance. One does not want tomiss Bernard‟s holiday party. The other party was hosted by dancers who were relatively unknown to me, save a fewpeople; though many nameless faces would nonetheless be familiar. This is all relevant inasmuchas Itchie-Ritchie always reaches for the sky when it comes to dating opportunities with a built-insense of urgency. Hey, after all, closing a date opportunity is just like selling a car, isn‟t it? As it turns out, I found myself at the Blue Star on the eve of the two parties. Terpsichoremust have concluded I approached her righteous sense of dance ethics with a want of prejudice. Isay as much because on this Friday evening Rebecca was in the dance hall. Characteristically, shedidn‟t leave her radiance at home; beaming it across the dance floor in another fellow‟s arms. Ipatiently waited my turn. Well, “waiting my turn” probably isn‟t the most apt description. It‟smore fair to say I bullied my way into the implicit queue to seize my declared opportunity to dancewith the now popular Rebecca; the newly arrived east coast emigrant. I didn‟t waste time. While we danced, I asked if she planned to go to Bernard‟s party.She said she had heard of it, but didn‟t know particulars essential to attending the party. Sheadvised she was already invited to attend another party. I correctly suspected it was the otherdancers‟ party.
While coyly not suggesting she go with me as a date, per se, I suggested it would beunfortunate if she failed to seize the opportunity to attend Bernard‟s event. After all, it was alwayshailed as the “Who‟s Who” holiday party each year. I don‟t recall if I mentioned to Rebecca thepart about the transvestites performing while we were dancing; or, whether I subconsciously savedthat intentionally overlooked detail for later discourse, unsure whether her angelic face might turnsour at such an entertainment prospect. I suggested she allow me to take her to Bernard‟s partyearly on in the next day‟s evening. We decided to exchange email addresses to continue thedialogue Saturday morning. “Is that the same as successfully getting a girl‟s telephone number?”asks the “brown-shoe” Itchie-Ritchie. The next day, Rebecca and I exchanged numerous email transmissions and finallyiterated to meeting up in The Gambler‟s Hand parking lot. I met her there at 6:45 p.m.,December 11th, last year: A date that wasn‟t really characterized as a date, per se. “Hey,” Irationalized, “it‟s a beginning—of some sort, anyway.” Her radiance in tow, Ms. Rebecca and I tookoff for Bernard‟s party in my low rider pick-up truck. This is when I learned Rebecca had a twin sister—Chandler. “Yokohama!” I thought tomyself, “two of them?” Immediately, as Rebecca started describing her sister, my mind‟s eyesensed Chandler‟s presence. It‟s like I already knew her. That is, Rebecca was emanating hersister‟s energy. Chandler already had my desire panting, though I had yet to transfix my sights onher womanly attributes.
Most important and in a lexicon yet to be translated by me, I knew that while Rebeccaand Chandler were biologically similar; their female countenance defined the limit of two differentends of a romantic attitudinal continuum. All right, so that might not be the most perfectdescription, “a romantic attitudinal continuum;” but it remains my threshold crystallization ofTerpsichore‟s metaphorical plectrum and lyre. No, I didn‟t know the Greek goddess by sight; Ididn‟t come to realize her until I agreed against all demands to share this story. But, that‟s thebottom line (no pun intended): Rebecca and Chandler are biologically similar romantic opposites.I knew it; I believed it to be true, though I had yet to meet Ms. Chandler to confirm her titillatingpresence my well reasoned prognostication. Don‟t let me lose sight of the need to finish recounting the experience Rebecca and Ishared at Bernard‟s party. I suspect she may have sensed my Chandler-panting and gave me acooling off penalty period that left my romantic overtures casted upon her shores with no dock tobe tied to. I tried to recover from my faux pas and her brutal punishment by introducing Rebeccato as many folks I could; a useless effort to get her to change her frigid focus. Alas, thetransvestites! Never before at one of Bernard‟s holiday parties had I prayed rescue by drag queens.Rebecca remained curious about their impending performance; so we made our way to theentertainment tent set upon an uneven terrain in Bernard‟s back yard. It was standing room only when Rebecca and I were situated but a mere ten feet from thedrag queen holding the microphone like it was “her” phallic manifestation. While the lights weredimmed to accommodate the stage presence, I nonetheless could clearly witness Rebecca‟s face. Iknew what was coming. Come on, now, even though it was make-believe, Itchie Ritchie stillfantasized it was a first date. Would you take a lady you wanted to impress to a drag queen showon a first date? I knew I had to manage this situation.
For the moment, Chandler‟s impending arrival was a distant consideration as I continuedto consider Rebecca‟s radiance and whether it would falter against the profane diatribe sure toensue any second now. I tell you, friend, as I studied Rebecca‟s face in that dimly lit tent herradiance continued to unnerve my decision to bring her to this place and time. It was like I wastaking the Virgin Mary to a drag queen show! As the performance unfolded I continued asking Rebecca whether her curiosityremained peaked or whether she preferred to make haste in departure. She continued advising,“I‟m all right.” “This might require further dance lessons,” I counseled my inner self as I reflected onthe foreseeable demise of a date; one now on a course toward disaster. When the first drag queen finished and the next drag queen threatened to continue thevulgarity, Rebecca turned to me and announced, “O.K., now I‟m ready to leave.” I said, “Great, let‟s go to Denise‟s party.” Denise is another dance instructor andsomeone whom Rebecca recently befriended. I know Denise from The Gambler‟s Hand; we alsohave some mutual friends. That‟s how I heard about her party in the first instance. Theconversation on the ride to Denise‟s house was subdued. When we arrived at Denise‟s house, Rebecca jetted into the foray of a more familiarcrowd. I was left to my own accounting, so I headed out to the back yard. There seemed to be alot of commotion stirring back there. Sure enough, more of Itchie Ritchie‟s dance crowd washanging outside next to the makeshift bar. Go figure. I walked up to a couple of ladies I know from dancing to say hello. “Hey Melissa; Hey,Irene, it‟s good to see you. Did you go to Bernard‟s party? Rebecca and I just arrived from theevent.” I wanted to convince at least them that my evening‟s adventure with Rebecca sounded likea date. The brilliance of the idea immediately backfired.
Melissa and Irene started giggling and in a collective and completely unserious voice theyasked, “What happened Ritchie? Rebecca was your date at Bernard‟s party; and, when you gothere she dumped you?” The giggling continued. Both Melissa and Irene had at least a decade or more on Rebecca‟s age. I would guessRebecca to be in her mid-twenties; early thirties at the outside. The giggling pair was between 40and 50. “So, I ask you, Mr. and Ms. Unbiased Reader, could there be a modicum of jealously overthe young beauty?” But, I laughed with them nonetheless and ignited the fun to the next level. “Yep,” Ijested, “we got here and she dumped my ass.” I continued, “I figure it was the transvestite show atBernard‟s party. I tell you, she was standing there watching this drag queen; Rebecca‟s face radiantand virginal. And, when that queen started talking about pussies and fucking, I figured her rapturefor my dating inventiveness took a nose dive!” We continued to laugh; but, all the while ItchieRitchie was aching inside over the elder stateswomen‟s jab. “Steel yourself, Ritchie,” I counseledme. My eyes searched for Rebecca‟s whereabouts; craving the night had unfolded somewhatdifferently. Denise‟s party was nonetheless fun. Rebecca shared several West Coast Swing danceswith others; I found a Cha-Cha with a lady I‟d seen on the dance floor but hadn‟t yet danced with.Rebecca had wanted to stay late to help Denise clean up after the party. It gave me a lot ofopportunity to study her in a different environment. It seemed the more I studied, the more sheimplicitly pushed me away. This wasn‟t one for the Itchie Ritchie record books; the death knellcontinued to loom.
Rebecca and I finally left Denise‟s place around 1 a.m. I drove her back to TheGambler‟s Hand, where she had parked her car at the evening‟s beginning. I knew in my heart ofhearts that my longing to finally kiss those perfect lips was a feasibility set outlier. I was grateful forthe hug that closed the evening. I wondered whether Rebecca would ever dance with me again. Igave the prospect of another date with Rebecca, coyly crafted or otherwise, to the ages; it layassassinated against the night. There‟s no sense hosting a hunger for the impossible. I wallowed inthe agony of defeat. Enter Ms. Chandler; the twin sister who‟s arrival was distilled by the reluctant Rebecca.She, too, is tattooed an east coast emigrant. I theorized her arrival had come to past a few daysafter the pair of parties just described. You need to know this about Itchie Ritchie: Never give up! Against all odds, rationalexpectation, and feasible hope, I emailed Rebecca again. This time I considered Chandler‟s arrivalwould renew an opportunity for participation by the homeless in a Jackson family affair: ChristmasEve supper. I didn‟t first ask my parents whether such an invitation had proper jurisdiction; Iwouldn‟t sweat such a detail unless, against all fate pervading, an acceptance was proffered by twobeautiful women. “Where else could they possibly go?” I stupidly inquired of this Jackson familyoffspring. Surprise was now resident amidst the twins‟ tactical arsenal. A few days following myemail invitation, a response came. It was entered by Rebecca: “Ritchie, Chandler and I would loveto join your family for Christmas Eve supper.”
You had to pick me up off the floor. Terpsichore‟s forgiveness must have entered intothe equation; I remained boldly assured of it. My hopeful heart found revivification a resilientretort against the December 11th failure. Actually, the lesson manifested a more careful RitchieJackson. I decided, “As far as Rebecca is concerned, there is no „Itchie,‟ just Ritchie.” Moreover,I concluded there was wisdom in dropping my coy routine. If I wanted to ask Rebecca andChandler to participate in an affair with me, I resolved, I would be direct. The revivification wasRebecca‟s gift to me, I was certain of it. “Merry Christmas, Ritchie,” said the radiant one inbetween the lines of the email studied more than once. The Jackson family Christmas Eve supper was set for Friday, December 24th, last year.On Tuesday of that week, I visited The Gambler‟s Hand, more hopeful than ever. Indeed,Rebecca was already enlivening the dance floor with her presence. Although she was held inanother‟s arms, I scripted her heart was waiting for my arrival. “Down, Boy,” I scolded Itchie as hetried to reenter the equation. Indeed, I took my favorite seated vantage at the far end of the dancehall; a position enabling the entire dance floor‟s consideration. Rebecca came over to greet me.My romantic confidence began rekindling. She wanted to find Chandler to introduce me; but, weagreed to dance opportunity beheld. Rebecca and I took to the dance hall floor, fashioning Terpsichore‟s mandate in a nowmore comfortable and flowing 2-step compared to our first. I love holding Rebecca in my arms; I‟dseize every dance if the fates allowed. Then Rebecca shouted, “There she is. That‟s Chandler!”
It was like sex dancing. Chandler oozed it. I instantly recognized my prognostication ofChandler‟s energy was in perfect alignment with some goddamned god or goddess‟s agendasomewhere in some culture. Philosophy must always prevail, even in the most heated moments. Iwas holding radiance in my arms looking in a mirror of her sensual equivalent. Radiance andsensuality; my philosophical mind began its study. It was like two opposing forces assaulting thesame beachhead. I had to understand this phenomenon. “Why would the gods and goddesses of the great Greek tradition empower this momentfor Ritchie, Itchie or not, to define radiance cast against sensuality for time immemorial?” That wasthe Ph.D. in me propounding investigation. It was like the heavens parted and Wisdom demanded, “Ritchie, bring this realization tothe fore so all humanity can understand and appreciate Our Majesty in fashioning a woman‟spresence.” Do you have any choice when Wisdom demands? Naturally, I agreed, “Yes, YourHighness, it is so ordained.” It wasn‟t much past the next song when I found myself dancing with the effervescentChandler. She‟s a woman wired for 240 volts; a mere 120 wouldn‟t start her engine. Not only didshe ooze sensuality, she spoke it. This girl‟s total purpose was to ignite Ritchie‟s passions, I wassure of it. At least that‟s the way she made me feel. Transferring her energy to me, I was electrifiedby the heated Ms. Chandler. I can‟t remember ever holding such a live wire in my arms on thedance floor or anywhere else. Damn it! The moment did give me pause for thought, though. I was hoping like hell there weren‟ttriplets. After all, a guy can only take so much from sisters whose presence is scripted in the hallsof the Greek Mountain Kingdom.
I must admit a modicum of cowardice. I only scored one dance with the sexuallyenergized Chandler that first night. At our next meeting she cornered me, demanding there were atleast two dances yet owed her from that first night. It was like facing the gallows. You knew whather energy was going to do to you; it couldn‟t be avoided. Running from it may have been thebetter strategy; I must‟ve needed time to regroup. On leaving The Gambler‟s Hand that evening, I considered my desire for each twin:Rebecca‟s radiance and Chandler‟s heated sensuality. Back and forth I went. “I want this one; no Ireally want this one.” Confusion was my clouded despair. I wanted to taste both women, consumeeach of them in their own regard. My desire was indeed confounded. The R.J. Ph.D. properlynow invoked, I realized I must consult the gods and goddesses for counsel in unconfusing my stateof mind. That transformation would be my key to surviving the competing ends of radiant andsensual beauty, now foisted upon me with confidence unyielding. My next encounter with the radiant Ms. Rebecca and the sensual Ms. Chandler would bethe Jackson family Christmas Eve feast. That brought to mind the need to persuade the parents myinvitation already accepted by the twins was a monument to the Jackson family concern for thewelfare of others. I tried to avoid standing before the judge by first approaching the prosecutor, myMother. The goal was to orchestrate a plea deal she would negotiate with the judge. She wouldhave nothing to do with it. She sent me directly to my Father. I stood before his 85 year old carcass and played the only trump card I had. Isaid, “Daddy, wait „til you meet these girls! They are young and beautiful! They will adorn ourfamily feast the most lively to be remembered.” On providing a most detailed description ofradiance and sensuality, Daddy-tightwad lecherously granted his approval by benevolently ordainingmy already accepted invitation.
At such affairs, I am the family‟s chief cook; but not usually the chief bottle-washer.However, this Christmas Eve affair and the twins‟ presence would change that to an all-inclusive,multi-tasking Ritchie Jackson. There would be no transvestite experience recurrence here. I wasalready half in love with Rebecca and completely overwhelmed by the demanding Chandler. Ididn‟t want to blow this gift from the Heavens previously unknown. When Rebecca and Chandler arrived I did the smartest thing first. I introduced them tomy Father. Indeed, they energized him into a reminiscent youthful vigor. “You are indeeddiabolical, Ritchie,” I concluded my earthly wisdom. Then I introduced them to Mother and otherfamily members present. The whole evening, my Mother kept asking, “Now, are you Rebecca or Chandler?” I thought to myself, “Mother, can‟t you tell the difference between Ms. Radiance and Ms.Sensuality?” That‟s when I realized the obvious. The radiance and sensuality had been intendedby the respective originating source for the consumption of yours truly and mine alone. “Make anote of that, Ritchie,” I lectured myself, “Surely, Majesty will want that realization to be part of myfinal report covering the fashioning of a woman‟s presence.” Throughout the entire party, both Rebecca and Chandler were the salvation of theJackson family Christmas Eve party. Moreover, they rolled up their blouses and pitched in heavy-handedly in both the preparation and the clean-up. Both the standing rib roast and the Turduckenrequired carving; sauces required preparation. We set up a buffet for the rest of the family toenjoy.
During supper, I sat next to Chandler and across from Rebecca. My phantom hand wasclearly perched on Chandler‟s left thigh, massaging a romance for my ethereal pleasure. Shecomplied; it was in her smile and beset in her approving eyes. That‟s when her demanding sensualsynergy allowed a brief moment considering: Chandler is devilish against Rebecca‟s angelicpresence. It was in her speech, her laughter, her everything about her. Chandler was themanifestation of the devil in a woman: A lusty hussy. As I looked across to Rebecca‟s face, I could sense a troubled realization. Rebeccaknew, probably from experiences past, Chandler‟s exuding sensuality would drown out herradiance; the time now spent with Ritchie Jackson being no exception to their tradition. It tendedto diminish Rebecca‟s radiance. “Why?” I asked myself, “Why would Rebecca surrender herradiance set against her sister‟s sensuality?” This is another realization ripening my maturing reportto Majesty. I concluded Rebecca needed some loving from yours truly. Don‟t get me wrong, I lovehugging both Rebecca and Chandler. But, there are hugs that are generic in nature and there arehugs undertaken with a specific purpose. The next time I hugged Rebecca that evening Iinventoried all the love I could give her in my embrace, letting her know I wanted to keep herforever. Eventually, her radiance returned, having graciously digested my intention. Rebecca and Chandler were among the last of my parents‟ guests to depart. I didn‟t wantthem to go; it seemed they shared the sentiment. I already knew the next few days held no realfeasibility for dancing, the holidays being what they are. That would make it five days before Iwould see either Rebecca or Chandler by natural consequence of what would otherwise be viewedan innocent activity: Dancing at The Gambler‟s Hand. I couldn‟t wait.
To tell you the truth, though; I can‟t remember dancing the week following Christmas upand until New Year‟s Eve. It‟s not because dancing during that period was so uneventful; it‟sbecause of what happened on New Year‟s Eve day that obliterates all other considerations. Now, ifI propose something happened between either Rebecca or Chandler and me, which would youguess; Rebecca and me, or Chandler and me? On New Year‟s Eve day, I agreed by email exchange to aid and abet the Rebecca andChandler move from temporary quarters to a newly leased residence. Remember my low riderpickup truck? I put it to use to aid the damsels in distress. The most interesting thing happened. Iexpected both Rebecca and Chandler to be present when I arrived at their temporary quarters.However, I found only the radiant one. Now you know the answer to the last question. Theradiant one proclaimed her sister would soon join us. Understand, the girls are moving from one residence to another. It is unreasonable toexpect either to be dolled up like they‟re going out on the town. However, in fulfilling Majesty‟sreporting chore there are times it is necessary to consume what a woman gives you in her “everydaylook.” For her own account, Rebecca transparently intended to return fire against her sister‟sChristmas Eve challenge. Rebecca was radiant. Don‟t misunderstand me on this point: But, damnit, she was sexy, too. She had her hair tossed up with a clip in the most casual, sexy display of awoman‟s descending neck. Her lips remained rich and full with that first kiss yet promising; all thewhile cast against a face then totally devoid of a scintilla of make-up. It was like she was confessing, “This is it, Boy; do you want it?” She was comfortedagainst the chilly afternoon air with a baggy sweatshirt. However, the most tell-tale asset was the pairof tight black stretch-pants she wore with a casual yet deliberate intention. She left no doubt inItchie Ritchie‟s mind‟s eye: She was sexy. I mean to tell you this woman illustrated a sexy ass inthose tightly stretched pants like it was history‟s seminal definition (again, put the pun aside).
In counseling my memory bank in preparation for penning this story, I realized, beyondthe reeling by which she cast me into Nirvana, the radiant one was making her own sensualityshowing. It was an enlightening moment. Not only because she created my unending desires toinvade the privacy of her undergarments, but because she had taught me an important lesson all thewhile causing me to suffer through her titillating, choreographed tightly stretched black pants. There is a continuum in defining a woman‟s presence. The limit of one end of thecontinuum is defined by a woman‟s radiance, her innocence personified. The limit of the otherend of the continuum is defined by a woman‟s sensuality, the essence of her sexual heat. Rebecca‟steaching goes on. When I first met her, she gave me her radiance, her innocence to behold and digest. Inhind sight (those puns have a life of their own); she implicitly challenged me to find her sensuality,the heat of her sexual existence. Believe me when I tell you, partner, she drove that ignited passiondeep into the back of my skull in the illustration of those tight black stretched pants. The key is that over the course of my interaction with Rebecca, whether inspired byChandler or not, she allowed me to unlock her chastity belt and become intoxicated by a sexualitynow demanding. She was driving me further over the edge; further into the submission of lovingher completely. Indeed, before Chandler arrived to aid the move, I was completely lost in lovingRebecca. But, the fact is, Chandler did finally return to aid the move. As you can imagine, thingshad changed. The triumvirate equation was transformed. Rebecca fought back against her sister‟steeming sexuality and, as recognized by Greek philosophers long ago, defined the continuum in acrystal clear mandate; at least in terms of the (radiance: sensuality) migration. Forgive this pointedacademic characterization, but it does eventually lead to understanding that goddess of dance andher metaphorical tools of trade.
I‟m sure Chandler sensed her sister‟s rebuttal. It was probably tell-tale in my malebravado now conquered; beaten into submission by beauty relentless. However, Chandler wasgracious in her sister‟s victory; she allowed Rebecca her moment in the sun. That considerationreveals the love they have for one another. As the move concluded in the now warming afternoon sun, the subject of whereeveryone was spending New Year‟s Eve surfaced its own agenda. Once brokered, I responded Iplanned to go to the Blue Star. They seemed to host the best deal. Moreover, Itchie Ritchie hadbeen cultivating another dating interest on Blue Star Friday nights. Whether this other interestwould survive the twins‟ unmitigated beachhead assault remained to be seen. Sometimes you justhave to go with the flow and let the gods and goddesses materialize philosophy into reality. The twins agreed they, too, would attend the Blue Star that New Year‟s Eve, at least forthe early part of the evening. They planned to go to another dancers‟ party. They had alreadymade the invitation A-list; at least in some circles. I‟m sure as time passes; their invitation A-listinclusion will reach greater heights: Two beauties for the price of one admission. That evening, Terpsichore‟s demands for alignment seemed to be satisfied. My otherlove interest was a New Year‟s Eve no show; pleading obviously had fallen on deaf ears. However,the twins, now radiant and sensual as ever, were the delight both of the dance floor and my heart.Ever the popular choice, they had to fight off dances to enjoy their specially prepared Blue Starmeal (specially prepared owing to dietary considerations). First, I held (radiance: sensuality) in my arms; then heated lover held dancing‟spassionate conference. The cycle tended to repeat itself. Each and every time, Itchie Ritchiethanked the Heavens for the evening then passing. Tell me friend, where could such a feastpossibly be replicated? I understand your silence.
During one of the many times we were seated around a table and not all on the dancefloor, I considered Chandler. She appears to be slightly more endowed than her sister. Not onlythat, but Chandler is accomplished at releasing the fury of her sexual heat and desire in the passionof her breasts; whether it be the electricity of enlacing nerves or the transparent heat of bloodengorging. Simply put, Chandler has hot breasts. Not just because they are shapely; the girl‟sbreasts radiate heat. It is part of her sensual signature. I had to force myself not to get caughtstaring. The strangest events then unfolded. Chandler struck back. I announced my decision toleave the dance hall for the evening; well before the midnight transitioning event. As I did so, Ihugged Rebecca good night; her head turning slightly, moving her lips away from opportunity. Onthe other hand, I approached Chandler straight on. She didn‟t flinch. The time had arrived; herunyielding declaration. Rather than hug her, I simply leaned forward and kissed her lips adieu!Damn it! Chandler‟s lips were slightly moist with anticipation; a softness inviting a returnengagement. The hint of heat permeated their disposition, as well. That was it; the ice was brokenin loving Chandler. However, in the back of my mind, I knew Terpsichore was waiting to kick myass if I didn‟t get it right. I knew as I walked out the dance hall door that night there was yetanother lesson to be uncovered in only hugging Rebecca but kissing Chandler good night. WasChandler intentionally more forward than her sister? What about those tight black stretchedpants? Wasn‟t that showing an invitation to finally kiss Rebecca‟s lips? Romantic confusion againplagued my night.
The next morning, New Year‟s Day, Rebecca reminded me to attend a party at Denise‟sboyfriend‟s house. I knew I was dominated by the curiosity of loving two women; twins by birth butromantic opposites. My interests were indeed romantic; but I realized the key to the romance wasunderscored by a philosophical solution. Else, the relationship would quickly turn platonic and theinvitation into two hearts pining would dissipate. Beyond fun and dancing on the garage dance floor while at the party, a couple ofinteresting things transpired. First, I was engaged in conversation with other fellows in the livingroom when Chandler came in and sat next to me. With her presence now romanticallyjuxtapositioned, I allowed the conversation with the other guests to be interrupted as I turned toChandler and remarked, “We fell in love on the dance floor last night, didn‟t we?” She agreed andwe kissed again for the second time. Her lips were ready with her message of love. It wasn‟t aheated love, though. It was a loving invitation to find her. As the conversation continued and a fewkisses later, Chandler‟s heat began to resurface. Then, later, Chandler and I were engaged in conversation with two other guests (Melissaand another male guest); Rebecca was seated nearby, herself engaged in conversation with twoother male guests. First, I pointed to Chandler and openly said, “You are the devil, aren‟t you?”The look in her eyes admitted as much while her lips confessed the truth: “Yes.” That‟s Chandler.
To make my point, I recounted the evening Rebecca accompanied me to Bernard‟sparty. All present knew about Bernard‟s party, except Chandler. Her arrival in town came afterthat fateful event. Accordingly, Chandler listened with unequivocal interest to the story now beingimparted concerning her sister‟s exploits immediately prior to her arrival. I retold the transvestitestory, save the profane expletives. I particularly emphasized Rebecca‟s virginal radiance challengedby drag queen temptations. Then Melissa and I began to recount how Rebecca subsequentlydumped me on arriving at Denise‟s party later that same December 11th evening. We all laughed.Seemingly, I sensed Rebecca found the laughter to be expensively hers. That is, I‟m sure Rebeccaoverheard the conversation. Later, when I sat in the very chair she sat in during the retelling of this story, she came upto me and, without saying a word, demanded some lovin‟. She was standing next to me. So, whenI put my arm around her, I was holding her waist; her hips offering repose for my nestled face.Her arm wrapped around me. There was energy transcending; a message Rebecca carried forth as I held her. I knewwhat it was. The electricity in her body; the heat of her flowing life support all reached a tell-talecrescendo. Her womb was transmitting an entrancing melody; the music of ageless beauty. Themusic of her womb is the hallmark of a woman in love; the mating ritual ordained by Heaven‟sangels protecting. I could only absorb the moment. When we mutually unwrapped ourselves,Ritchie Jackson, Mr. Ph.D., could only manage to say, “Thanks for the loving.” She acknowledgedthat, indeed, is what had transpired.
Naturally, I revisited all moments shared with Rebecca now arriving this alignment oflove‟s confession. She rested naked in my embrace, unabashed in the delivery of her message. Itwas Rebecca‟s completion of the (radiance: sensuality) continuum migration. The beauty was sooverwhelming in its confirmation that after a night of making love we were sure to awake the nextmorning as much in love as the night before, or more so. The music of her womb insured it. This,I considered, was the ageless test. I found her innocence; she unlocked her passion to allow me towitness heated sexuality, not for any nefarious purpose, but for the beauty gifted by gods andgoddesses however defined. The inextricable nexus was her musical composition now revealed. You could probably guess my next hypothesis: Would Itchie Ritchie come to realizesuch completion in loving the counterbalancing twin sister—the effervescent and ever sensualChandler? Terpsichore demanded as mush; else Itchie Ritchie was sure to face the Greektemptress‟s worst punishment. I knew it in my heart of hearts. But what circumstances wouldbring me to such a conclusion? Chandler‟s heat tends to mask her fragrance, her innocence.Being able to find her innocence would prove the ultimate test of residing in the struggles of thehuman condition. As it turned out, several days would come to past before opportunity would present itself.Rebecca, Chandler, and I attended a local chamber of commerce mixer. I wanted to promote theirarrival in town by introducing them to potential employers; whether I had known the employerbeforehand or not. Following the mixer, we parted company. Rebecca took off for a West CoastSwing event. Chandler and I decided to have dinner and then head over to The Gambler‟s Handto dance.
It was a Mexican restaurant. Her appetite was more brazen than my own. I had more ofthe snack foods at the mixer; she arrived a little later and probably didn‟t have the sameopportunity that Rebecca and I had to sample the fare there. She luxuriated the meal; finishing atake-home box. Finally, the time came to proceed to burn off the calories just consumed. On arriving at The Gambler‟s Hand, Chandler adorned her dancing shoes and we hit thedance floor. The entire time we were there, I only danced with her. We chatted a lot on the dancefloor. As fate would hold true, there were songs that slowed things down a bit. I had theopportunity to look in her eyes; she seized the moment to investigate mine. At times the romanticinclination took hold and we kissed. Several times it seemed the unspoken communicationinvolved an invitation to sleep together; an implicit authorization she tenderly tendered. Therealization is overwhelming. I can‟t avow that Chandler and I would have slept together on that evening. But, I canavow my love for her is stronger than my urge to jump into the sack devoid of philosophicalsignificance. There are two explanations for this. First, Chandler‟s sensual heat is so strong I haveto fight through the limitations of my own physical existence to find her innocence. Alternativelyand second, I considered whether Chandler had yet empowered me with a showing of her aromaticdisposition, her unique musical signature. Why is this important, you ask? Implicitly, I revisited Rebecca‟s lesson. She caused me to migrate from her fragrance tofind the heat of her sexuality. She capped it all off by allowing me to know the music of her womb.That is, Rebecca enabled me to traverse the continuum in complete satisfaction of Terpsichore‟smandate. Accordingly, I believe if Rebecca and I now slept together, the morning would brag anenhanced love over the night before. I have yet to ask her perspective on this matter; coward that Iam. That day will hold court on its own merits.
I realized by my experience with Rebecca I wanted the same musical score fromChandler. Don‟t ask me why. It is my natural philosophical bent. If I didn‟t love Chandler, theeasiest thing would be to take advantage of the situation, fearing only Terpsichore‟s correctingconsequences. That is, the goddess baits the unwary and then discerns whether the lessons of herplectrum and lyre have been harvested. The lesson translates the necessary condition thatChandler empowers me by musical invention to ensure loving beauty‟s heavenly progression. Else,my love for her would be a false confession. The Beatles captured the notion that it is a necessary condition that one look throughfirst instance sex unfolding to foresee love enhanced when awakening the morning after: We said our goodbyes (ah, the night before) Love was in your eyes (ah, the night before) Now today I find you have changed your mind Treat me like you did the night before Were you telling lies? (ah, the night before) Was I so unwise? (ah, the night before) When I held you near, you were so sincere Treat me like you did the night before The Night Before. The Beatles. The Help! Album; August 6, 1965.
That brings me to the Greek goddess of dance, Terpsichore, and the metaphoricalimplications of her plectrum and lyre. The Greek goddess‟s lesson is clear: A woman‟s music is anenabling necessary condition providing a dawning love as sweet as it was the night before. First, the enquiring investigator realizes the phallic-shaped plectrum, the pick used topluck the lyre (those damned phonetic metaphors), and lyre are mutually coextensive. The natureof this relationship implicates the existence of a continuum; the two extremes, in the limit, enjoy aninextricable nexus. The shape of the plectrum being what it is defines the continuum‟s sensual end.On the other hand, the lyre holds the promise of emanating tones. That is, it metaphoricallyrepresents the radiance limit of the continuum. Together, the goddess‟s two instruments make music. Prevalently, the gods andgoddesses of Greek mythology use the notion of music to implicate the beauty of a woman‟swomb—the embryo of all creation. Thus, the Greek goddess‟s lesson has been discovered in lovingRebecca and Chandler. Making love only renders love unconquered when the woman‟s musicalcontribution bridges the night before into the morning after. That begs The Beatles‟ piningdemand: Treat me like you did the night before. Rebecca and Chandler are twins in the human condition, endowed with commonbiological traits. However, the Majesty of the universe brought them into my life to appreciate theirphilosophical disparities so I might understand how to reconcile them in the beauty of loving awoman. No matter what happens to Itchie Ritchie amidst the passions of Rebecca and Chandler, Ihave discovered the beauty of loving them true in ageless dimension; according to the wisdom ofthe goddess of dance, Terpsichore, and her metaphorical plectrum and lyre. I am now ready towrite Majesty‟s report now due. Go forth my friend, and accordingly celebrate the real beauty of awoman‟s presence in your life.