Mirrorwitch

It's time this mirror stopped reflecting everyone else's image and started being an image of herself...

      Jerry Rochester sat at the edge of his seat in the private studio of his Manhattan apartment and his ass was getting numb. The old familiar knot in the corner of his shoulder blade and neck was beginning to form again,despite his using the heating pad during his nap. His hair was limp in front of his thick lens glasses and his eyes were beginning to ache. He didn't even glance up as his one of a kind Darth Vader alarm clock wheezed at the hour, zinging with light saber sound effects to announce the time to be 3 AM. He was working, and he was in the zone. Besides, as his editor Davis would say, 3 AM wasn't late, it was just very early in the morning.

     He was working on his storyboard for the next issue of Starblood Masters. Only it didn't really look like a story board. It looked like an actual finished pencil draft. He wasn't using line-gridded pages, but he didn't really need them. He was good at what he did. He could see the panels on a blank sheet of white paper before even lifting his pencil. He could see the images of Lord Dressmire of the Vampire Galactic Alliance as he overtook the Argerian Armada, harvesting the empirical diplomats to be fed upon by his soldiers in a blood feast. He could see the mouth-watering curves of the scantily clad heroine Princess Beronna's body, as she battled evil vampire drones, her already not-there tunic being ripped to shreds. It was this image that he was raptly working on at the moment 

     He could almost hear her husky grunts as she swung her lazer axe down upon the vamp's skull. Her sweaty hair pasted to her flushed cheeks. Her nipples hardening with the excitement of battle. Her hair was black, but would most likely be inked and painted in as blue. Black hair was almost always painted as blue in Starblood Masters. It made the image more interesting; made it “pop”, Davis had claimed. But as Jerry sketched in tiny little circles around the aforementioned firm nipples that showed through the thin gauze she wore he thought it wasn't her hair that was making things pop. Nope. Not a bit. As his pencil swirled in those tiny little circlets, he imagined it was very much like rubbing them with a finger. The more he sketched in those little round movements, the harder the nipples appeared on the page. Like a real girl's breasts would react if he were gently dragging a fingertip over them. Quick, light little circles.

       Suddenly Jerry's blue jeans felt a little too tight at the crotch. He smirked, adjusting himself down there. This was good. This would most definitely sell books. No mistake about that. Fan service was the comic book artist's best friend. An accidental up skirt glimpse. A discreetly angled panel showing round, plump butt cheeks. Nothing he would consider pornographic, but definitely titillating and (in the best of comic books and manga) entirely unexpected. That was the key. Catch em when they're not looking for it. He definitely didn't expect to get a boner while working on an action panel, and that was what gave him the clue that he was on a role.

       There was a few drawbacks to all of this. Beronna was the most popularly cosplayed character in most of Northern America (the Japanese have yet to be won over, but Jerry had high hopes, dammit). But at the same time, most North American cons prohibited any cosplay of Princess Beronna at all. He didn't know why, really. Princess Leia's metallic slave costume showed more skin. But all the same, the half-human-half vampire princess with the tragic past was considerably sexier than Leia. Oh yeah, you better believe it. Jerry made sure of it. She had seductive powers, mind control, all the whoo-whoo business of Nosferatu. And she was hot. Every guys wet dream. To die at the fangs of Princess Beronna  was to die in a sexual cornucopia of (seemingly) eternal bliss. Not exactly La Blue Girl, but damn very well close to it. Hell, Jerry had even been accused of plagiarism by some. Never mind that the whole plot of Starblood Masters was entirely different from La Blue Girl, or that LBG was Japanese manga. They were both hot chicks with blue hair, so he “stole” her.

     Jerry tipped his head to the side until something inside his neck bone popped, then once again agonized over Beronna's ample bosom. Fans. They could be remarkably devoted at one moment, and then the next crucify you. He had found entire blogs devoted to the love of  his work, and this was thrilling and gratifying. He had also found entire blogs devoted to hating his work, which he tried to ignore, but still found it difficult. His whole life, he knew he was good. But all it takes is one hater to call Beronna  “La Blue's Kid Sister” and he would find himself falling into utter depression. When he was depressed, he couldn't write or draw. He tried not to read the blogs at all.

             Another source of discouragement for a successful graphic novelist could be You Tube. Ah, the blessed homeland of cats playing the keyboard and wannabe backyard wrestlers. Recently a dear “friend” emailed him a link to a video uploaded by a vlogger by the name of Womenspeakvoice84. This charming young woman was not only a featured You Tube partner, but a blogger and activist of great renown. A feminazi, who apparently created an entire play list devoted to ripping Starblood Masters to shreds. In her video, she not only showed slides zooming into finished print copies of the comic, but circles the problematic body parts of Princess Beronna' anatomy that she found to be a sexist objectification of women's bodies. As Jerry sat in front of his laptop, eating a Hot Pocket and watching two of the girl's videos, his emotions ranged from anger to bafflement to dejection. This young lady went on to describe how fan service characters demean women to the point of increasing statistics of eating disorders, low self esteem and depression in young teen girls who are fans of Starblood.

             Wow. That shook him up. He was responsible for teen depression? Jerry didn't entirely write the comic just for young men, even though Princess Beronna's design was admittedly fan service. But there was a female fan base that he did attempt to write for. Princess Beronna, although the most talked-about character among horny teenage boys, was not the main character. Lord Fenneg, Lord Dressmire's estranged brother was the main character. Beronna was just one of the three potential love interests that Jerry had written. But no one seemed to think about that.

       The vlogger went on to claim that Jerry was a woman-hating loser who probably was a virgin. She illustrated this with a picture that made Jerry drop his Hot Pocket into the plate in front of him. It was his high school prom picture. He was a 300 lbs freshman, pimply and grinning standing next to Mrs. Lumis, the 68 year old History teacher. He did in fact look the part of the stereotypical virgin loser. That stung.

             Jerry wasn't a virgin. Not since that night. He thought of how that little bit of information would amuse Little Miss Whats-her-name-Vlogger. She would probably jump all over the fact, wondering on You Tube if Mrs. Lumis was a good lay. That would be a riot. But seeing the picture of that night caused all sorts of unwelcome emotions to course through him. He could still hear the music playing over the loudspeaker in the gymnasium, smell the faint remnant of gym class sweat and basket balls in the air. That was the last night he was a virgin. It was also the only night in his life that he thought he might actually get to feel the happiness of being in love.

             It wasn't with Mrs. Lumis, of course. It was with Stacy Brennan. She was a senior. Her hair was dark black, so dark Jerry supposed it would've been inked blue if she were a comic girl. Her eyes were that dark kind of blue that everyone says is violet. He was in love with her. Every boy was. She was amazing. She was too amazing to be real. And even though he showed up to the prom alone, a hot sweaty mass of tuxedo frills, she came up to him and asked him to dance. He was fourteen. She was just eighteen. But that didn't seem to matter, to her. It was magic.

             Later that night she offered to give him a ride home. As she said this, they were sitting by the punch table, and he felt her high heeled foot slide up his thigh. He froze, feeling sweat mounting on his brow. Her smile was innocent enough as she sipped her punch, but the open toe of her stiletto slid deeper and deeper into the fork of his fat legs until it landed right in the head of his already growing penis. As her toe made contact, paralyzing waves of fear and pleasure flowed through his body. His skin prickled as if he were freezing, but he was not cold at all. He glanced downward to see a perfectly manicured toe gently rub then press at the head of his member. He winced with delicious pain as his young, backed up fourteen year old's balls began to throb dully.

“I'll drive you home, then maybe we can hang out,” she smiled. He couldn't reply, as the toe peeking between red patented leather dragged slowly back and forth over the firm bulge in his polyester trousers.

             Suddenly, he didn't know what he was going to do. Should he go with her? What was she doing to him? What was she GOING to do to him? Should he let her? Was this allowed?

“My mom's coming back at ten,” he managed.

“Well then,” she said, arching a perfect eyebrow, “we can leave now and save her the trip.”

           Next he found himself sitting in her messy car that smelled of cigarettes and perfume. They drove silently down the Pennsylvania highway, her blowing used cigarette fumes out of the window, and he with his sweaty hands folded hopefully nonchalantly over his throbbing erection.

What was going to happen next? Where was she taking him? She didn't even ask him where he lived. She wasn't going to take him home, he knew that much. But where?

             She suddenly swerved the car right and drove headlong into a cornfield. Jerry gasped and tried not to scream as the car bounced and jostled them into the heart of the field. They were hidden. Everything around them was silent. She put out the cigarette and turned to him, smiling. He smiled back, not really knowing what to say or do next.

             She slowly began to unbutton her top, and suddenly Jerry thought he might be sick. He had never even kissed a girl before. And now he was about to see boobs. Real boobs. Something about this had to be wrong. When she unsnapped her bra, he looked away, his face flaming. He wasn't sure if he wanted this.

 “What's wrong, Jerry?” she asked. “Don't you think I'm pretty?” Something in her voice sounded so fragile and hurt, it made him look at her. And once he did, he couldn't look away again.

She she laced her perfect, pale fingers between his. She smiled down at his palm, dragging a red fingernail across his lifeline. Suddenly, she pressed his hand onto her soft, warm breast. His fingers curled into the smooth skin instinctively, his head swimming. He cupped them, awestruck .Dragging his thumb over the firm, pink nipple, marveling at the texture of the sensitive skin, he knew he’d remember this moment forever. 

“Pinch it,” she whispered. He blinked, pinching lightly on the spongy round nub. She shut her eyes and sighed in a way that made his hair stand on end. He winced, adjusting himself. 

She stared at the bulge in his pants and giggled. He smiled sheepishly. “Sorry.” 

“It’s cool...Let me see it,” She reached for his zipper before he could reply. 

“Wait, I-”  He jumped as her cool fingers were inside his boxers and in an instant, out flopped his hard penis. There it stood in the dim glow of the dome light of her car, a pale column of firm vulnerability.

“Whoah,” said Stacy, her eyes wide.”What they say about heavy guys isn’t true.”

He quickly turned his knees away with embarrassment, his hands flying to his groin. 

“Don’t hide it, let me see,” she said, pulling his hands.

“No, I can’t” he said, struggling to tuck himself away. His stupid dick seemed determined to stay exposed.

“Stop being a little asshole. Let me see it!” She pulled his arm roughly and stared. “It’s nice.”

He gazed down. “It is?”

“Trust me, you have a good one.”

He smiled slowly. “Yeah?”

He groaned, his crotch aching with pressure and anticipation. She reached over and wrapped her fingers around him and he moaned, strange velvet waves of pleasure blooming outward from between his legs.

 A girl. Was rubbing. His dick. Was this a dream?

He sighed with delicious agony as she stroked him. She placed his hand again on her breast and he squeezed gently. This can’t be real. 

Just as he felt himself about to burst, she pulled away. 

“Uggghhh...” He groaned, doubling over, He cupped his poor balls, blinking in confusion and breathing hard. “Why’d you stop?”

She tipped her head to the side with an adorable pout. “But what about me?”

“Oh...I’m sorry.” He caught his breath. “Do you want me to...I mean...I don’t really know how. I’ve never seen...”

She laughed. “Oh come on. You’ve seen porn at least.”

He flushed even redder. “Actually, no...”

“For real? You’ve never even seen a porn before?”

“Well..I saw my mom’s Victoria Secret once..”

“Wow, you’re kidding me,” she chuckled. 

He felt himself beginning to wilt. He shrugged, embarrassed. 

“Ok, ok. Don’t worry about it. There’s a first for everything, right? You wanna see mine?” She began stroking him again and he sighed.

“Y-yes, please,” he managed. She suddenly climbed on him, straddlling his lap.She raised her skirt, sliding her panties to the side.

A s Jerry stared transfixed at the delta up her skirt, he knew this moment will always be remembered for the rest of his life. 

“Well, what do you think?”

“It’s...it’s amazing...Kind of looks like a fortune cookie,” he blurted before he could stop himself. She raised her eyebrows.

“I-I mean, I love fortune cookies,” he stammered. She laughed. 

“Jerry, shut up.” she said as she lowered herself down onto him. He gritted his teeth, his hands in her hips, as his member disappeared under her skirt.When he felt the tip himself touch the soft folds of her, he stopped.

“Wait, Stacy...”

“Don’t worry. I’m on the pill.”

Moments later, he was again lost in pleasure, her soft, fragrant hair covering his face, and wondered if he’d ever find himself again.

           When it was all over, she climbed off of his lap and bent herself over the back of the driver's seat, her miniskirt giving a decent peak of the crotch of her pink panties between toned thighs. She was so perfect to him. He gazed at her legs still catching his breath, marveling at the way the muscles moved under her beautiful skin. When she sat back down in the car seat, she had two beers in hand. She popped off the caps and handed him one.

           He took it hesitantly. His dad had let him taste beer once and he thought it tasted like earwax. But he didn't want to look like a dumb kid, so he thanked her and took a big swig, fighting the impulse to grimace. She lit up another cigarette, not bothering to open a window this time. The smoke and taste of beer made his eyes water.

“You're not bad, kid.” The cigarette perched in the corner of her mouth. “It was pretty good for your first time. I came pretty close to cumming.”

“Thanks.” He didn't understand what she meant. Coming where? His head felt strange and swimmy. He felt great. Touching a real live girl. Being inside of her! It was nothing like he had ever imagined. The way she fit him perfectly, smooth as silk. It only lasted ten minutes, but he knew his life would never be the same. Somewhere deep in his stomach, right underneath his belly button, he felt...odd. Like something was missing that had been there all his boyhood. It almost made him a little sad.

“Stacy...” he whispered.

“Hmm?”

“I...I think I love you.” The words left his mouth before he know what he was going to say, but even as they did he knew it was the strange truth. This is what being in love felt like.

           Stacy turned to him, eyes wide. Her eyes, her amazing eyes. He felt he could fall into them, lost in a dark blue world of nauseating pleasure. Her perfectly painted red lips formed a round “O”. He wondered how her lipstick didn't get messed up, then realized quickly. They didn't even kiss. He was no longer a virgin, but he still had never kissed a girl in his life. How weird was that?

           In the moment that she gazed at him, her lovely face a perfect expression of surprise, he half expected that he would now get that first kiss. The idea made him dizzy with emotion. He leaned closer.

Instead, she burst out laughing and punched his arm. “Shut up, Jerry.”

He laughed with her.

           When she pulled up to his parent's driveway, it was 9:30. He thanked her for the ride, then watched as her tail lights disappeared over the hill. When he came into the house, his mother was watching TV in the living room.

“Oh Jer, you're back early. How was the dance-”

He rushed passed her and up the stairs.

“Great, Mom,” he mumbled. He didn't want her to smell the aura of beer and cigarettes around him. Plus it just felt weird talking to her at that moment. He slammed his bedroom door and locked it. He took off his jacket, unclipped his bow tie and lay down on his bed, placing his glasses on the night table. There he lay til midnight; staring at the ceiling, his mind a blank. What just happened? Seriously, what just happened?

****************************************************************************************************

     Jerry stood in his kitchen, swinging his arms around his back until his spine crackled. It was now 4:20AM. Time to make the doughnuts. The coffee machine purred bubbles into the dark stained coffee pot. He still had several pages to go. He could take a nap later before lunch. Or maybe after.

       He sat down again with a fresh cup and cracked his knuckles. He began the next page. He rarely went in order. He was going to chip away at the splash page because he was getting tired, and when he was getting tired, the panels took on a flat, boring look that reminded him of the little cartoons you see in airplane safety instructional pamphlets. “In case of inspirational emergency, please use caffeine and kill time on the splash page.”

       As his pencil knocked away at the Kirby dots that floated around Lord Fenneg's star cruiser, Jerry found himself falling into a meditative state. Remembering high school had kind of gotten his creative juices outta whack. At age thirty-two, one would think he'd be over those sort of things by now. But seeing that high school picture made him feel like a bumbling teen again.

       Shortly after the prom, summer vacation started. He hadn't seen Stacy anywhere at school, and hadn't been able to find her number. But he couldn't get her out of his mind. He filled his notebooks with sketches of her, and kept them in a trapper keeper hidden under his bed. On the dark, rainy weekend after prom he'd pull out the trapper keeper and gaze at the images he had created from memory, and draw more and more and more.

     He would never forget the way she looked, her perfect round breasts hanging free and bouncing as she ride him in the passenger seat of her dirty station wagon. The way pencil-thin tendrils of her hair plastered to her temples with sweat from the moment. He memorized every line, every curve. As his pencil danced over sketch paper, he imagined his fingers dancing over her skin. He wished he had kissed her. He really would have liked to share that with her, too.

       He never imagined that he would be able to have a chance with the hottest girl in school, and a senior no less, so he'd previously never bothered to find out what class she was in. He didn't have very many friends, and he mostly kept to himself for the majority of the school year, sitting alone on the bleachers drawing pictures. He had no idea how he could find her. He wanted to ask around, but he was painfully shy. He didn't really know how to go about easing into a conversation with anyone. Who should he ask?

       After school the following Friday, he spotted some senior girls sitting on the stairs. He thought he remembered seeing them hanging around Stacy during the dance. He had to ask them about her or he'd go nuts. He took a deep breath, wiped the beaded sweat mustache that had gathered under his nose, and walked up to them slowly. He stood behind them awkwardly, waiting for a lull in the conversation.

 “Deanna was pissed. Tara walked right out of the party, right?”

 “Yeah, Tara saw Rich booty dancing with Yaz, so she started crying and left.”

 “Shut up. Come on, is she really that jealous? I mean, Rich and Yaz are just friends, they've known each other since eighth grade,” said a thin blonde girl with big green eyes. She glanced at Jerry briefly.

 “I know, right? But you know Tara, she thinks everyone's out to steal her man. She's just ghetto.” The red head looked at Jerry who was standing there silently, then shot her friend a look.

 “I know...” Suddenly the blonde turned to Jerry, a tight smile on her lips. “Um, can I help you?”

 He could tell they didn't want to talk to him. His voice cracked. “Do you know Stacy Brennan?”

 The blonde frowned. “Yeah?”

 He swallowed hard. “She-she wasn't in school this week.”

 “Yeah, so?”

 “Do you know where I can find her?”

 “Not if she's not here.” She glanced at the redhead.

 “Can you tell me where she lives?”

 “Um...I dunno,” she said, her eyes widening with irritation. But he had to find out, he just had to.

 “Do you have her number?”

 “Yeah.”

 “C-can I have it?”

 “No. I don't just give out people's numbers without asking them,” she replied. She turned around, dismissing him.

 “Oh.”

 “So ANYWAYS,” she said loudly. “I called Rich and told him when Tara left...”

       Jerry stood there, dismayed for a moment longer as the two girls pretended he was invisible. Finally he wandered away reluctantly. He wasn't fully out of earshot when he heard the redhead whisper, “Who's the creepy fat guy? Some kind of stalker?”

       The words stung, and his heart beat angrily. Who did they think they were? He wasn't some creepy stalker. He was Stacy's boyfriend. Screw them. It was none of their business anyway. He'd find her on his own. That weekend, with a little help from Yellow Pages he was able to find her home address and phone number. He had to see her again, even if it was just to say hi. He missed her so much. Maybe they'd hang out and he could take her to dinner or something. He didn't have much money, but he saved a couple hundred from his birthday. Maybe he could take her somewhere special, or buy her a present.

 He sat at home on Sunday night, screwing up the last of his courage, then dialed her number. The line buzzed. It buzzed a second time.

 “Hello?” And older man's voice. It was her dad!

 “Shit!” he blurted.

 “Excuse me? Who is this?”

 Jerry hung up. As the phone rested in his hand, he realized that he had just called Stacy's father, screamed profanity in his ear, than hung up.

 Jesus...Jesus...

 The phone suddenly rang in his hand. Star sixty-nine.

 Fuck fuck fuck fuck...!

 In the hall he heard his mother pick up.

 “Hello?...No, I'm sorry sir. I didn't call you. I think you have the wrong number...That's alright. Good night.

 Jerry fell back on his bed with a relieved sigh. No more phone calls. He would have to see her in person.

       He searched for her again the following week and didn't see her. Finally on Thursday he spotted her getting into a white car at the end of the high school parking lot. He jumped on his bike and followed behind the car as fast as he could, and after an agonizing four mile ride, the white car pulled into a house. Her station wagon was parked in the front. This was her house. He stopped his bike across the street and watched. Why didn't she take her own car?

 Then he saw her, and his heart skipped a beat. She got out of the car and was straightening her little pink shorts. Her long hair was pulled back int o an adorable ponytail. He smiled.

       Suddenly a tall guy with bushy blonde hair stepped out of the driver's seat. Jerry thought he'd seen him around school. He walked around the car and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him. His hands slid down her waist and pinched both of her plump butt cheeks.

Anger, pain and jealously whirled up in Jerry's chest. His head felt like it was full of lead. His heart thumped with wild confusion. Who was that guy? What was happening?

       The guy walked with her into the house and the front door closed behind them, leaving Jerry standing across the street alone. He hopped on his bike and fled. Tears blurred his vision and he nearly got hit by a car twice, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything. When he finally reached his house, he flung open the front door and without closing it behind him, he sprinted up the stairs. His mother came running from the kitchen.

 “Jer? Jerry, what is it? What's the matter?"

       He ignored her alarmed voice in the stairwell and slammed the door to his bedroom, once again locking it shut. He fell onto his bed, sobbing like a small child. When the crying was finally over, he sat up and stared at his fat, puffy red face in the mirror of his bureou. He was hideous.

No wonder she...

        He looked away, hating his reflection. He reached under his bed and pulled out his secret trapper keeper. He had every intention of ripping the pictures of Stacy he drew to shreds. But he stopped after opening it. Her lovely, smiling face etched in smudgy charcoal stared back up at him from the first page. He couldn't do it. He just couldn't. It was too beautiful. She was too beautiful.

      Instead, he reached for his art kit and turned to the next blank page. Before he knew what he was sketching, an image of Stacy formed on the paper. Stacy with her hair pulled back in that adorable ponytail. Today was the first time he saw her hair like that. As he sketched, tiny droplets fell from his dull gray eyes onto the page as they stared keenly onward at his creation. A timid knock came at the door. Mom.

 “Jerry? Are you ok? Did something happen at school?”

 “I'm fine,” he said thought a horribly stuffed nose. It came out as “I'b fyde.”

 Silence. Jerry blew his nose, thinking Mom had left. But then her voice:

“What are you doing in there?”

 “Nothing, Mom. I'm just drawing, that's all.”

 And eighteen years later, as he sketched on into the bright hours of the morning in his lavish uptown loft, he sat at his art desk doing exactly that.

The princess could sometimes be beautiful, and sometimes be terribly ugly. But she never had a face of her own, and this filled her with sorrow and bitterness, for when others saw her they recognized the faces they would see, but she could never know her own self. She hid away in a dark cave, her face covered by a veil of black silk. She hid away for a hundred years.

One day, a young prince from the north came to her cave, and summoned her to come out into the daylight once more. He was a strange young man with steady blue eyes and a face that shone like silver and glass. He wore a cloak of black silk.

"What do you want?" Princess Mirror did not remove her veil. 

"I wish to see your face," said the black cloaked stranger.

"Why? So you may see what you wish, and either love or hate me based only on what you see?"

"No", said the young man, " I know not love nor hate. For my heart is made of mirror glass. I have only seen what others have wished to see in my heart. But in this I have never been able to see my own self. I seek the maiden who is also made of mirror glass. For I feel that if I might see her face, I might finally know my own heart." The stranger removed his cloak and the Princess saw that his chest was also a shining mirror.

"Perhaps if I look into his heart, I might know my own face, too." said the Princess.

And so the princess removed her veil, and the stranger saw his heart through her face, and she saw her face within his heart. And within one another they found themselves.

Within one another they saw ETERNITY. A mirror within a mirror within a mirror. Transfixed forever. The Mirror Prince and his Princess never moved from their places in front of one another for centuries; two silver statues that had eventually become overgrown by vines and weeds. Eventually, a tree had fallen upon them, shattering them to pieces.

But none of that mattered to them.

For in their own private eternity, they found happiness.

Ever since I was an eight year old little girl, I was in love with a cartoon character that gave me hope. I’m 33 years old now, and still can recall the happiness I felt when sneaking into the TV room to escape into the world of my favorite television series.

There was this cartoon series I became obsessed with called Doug. The protagonist was a shy, ordinary 11 year old boy with a big imagination, the show following the every day life of your average American kid. I never felt like an average kid...so this is what “normal” would be like? I was enthralled...

It was 1991. 

Daddy was so kind to us some days, and he’d pick me up and let me ride his shoulders in the pool.

 I can recall the Butterfly Summer, when he took us to the park every day to catch butterflies. We’d stay out most of the day, and we’d catch hundreds of them, each a different color. I remember my mother would play The Monkees cassette tapes on her portable stereo.

We would then feed the butterflies sugar water with honey, and set them free in the back yard. I stared at them in the orange summer sky as they flew all at once like dancing rainbows. 

I remember the episode when Doug took a hike with the Bluff Scouts and wondered if a butterfly might have gotten him his badge...

Daddy once in a while took one of us out on what he called a “date”; just the two of us. I’d wear my prettiest dress and we’d get ice cream. He told me “This is how boys are supposed to treat you if you ever go on a real date. They are supposed to treat you like a princess because you ARE one, always be kind and respectful, and never mean to you. Tonight, we’re practicing for when you grow up!”

And I would watch on television how much Doug adored Patti, and how he saved her ketchup packet...how he longed for a date with her, but he was too shy and young to do anything about it. He would treat her just like a real princess. I smiled, wondering if someday anyone would feel this way about me. Could I someday be someone’s muse? Could I ever be someone’s Patti Mayonnaise?

And then there were other days in 1991. Days when Daddy would be drunk and of a foul temper, and throw things and curse and chase us out of the house. I recall watching him drag my sister across the room by her hair. Being pushed down a flight of stairs for spilling water on the bathroom floor. Having to wear full length skirts to school to hide the welts and bruises on my legs that hurt if we wore pants. Getting backhanded in the mouth for not being able to buckle my mary janes fast enough for church. He would mock and laugh if you cried after he hit you, calling you a “worthless piece of shit”...a phrase that still haunts my adult mind. 

And I would feel a painful truth in those moments...I would never be anyone’s Patti Mayonnaise...For who could ever love and adore worthless piece of shit? 

My mind is a broken mirror in places; a silver spiderweb of repeated, distorted images that only make sense if one squints and concentrates hard enough and tips ones head to the side...

When my father would have one of his fits, we were frightened to come near him, and he’d cry and wail like a child, begging us to forgive him and love him again, and he’d buy us candies and presents to make up for it. I recall one particularly dramatic scene where he literally threw himself on the ground at my feet, kissing them and weeping, begging me to forgive him for crushing my hand with his fist until the little bones in my knuckles crackled.

There were days in 1991 that he was a prince. There were days he was a monster. We never knew which we’d get, and my mother said to never get too comfortable. 

The day he left us to go live with his mistress was strange. I watched my mother and sister weeping on the living room floor because Daddy left us. I didn’t fully understand what was happening, being the youngest. But something inside me secretly was glad he left. I was tired of the confusing way he shook up my world. I hoped he would divorce my mother, and then he wouldn’t be able to hit us anymore. When I said so, my mother shook me, enraged, saying “Don’t you say that, don’t you ever say that!” 

One day, however, he came back. I didn’t know why, but when he tearfully announced that he would move back in I felt such foreboding, I cried myself to sleep. We were supposed to pretend to be happy, and never tell anyone about what happens with him when he gets upset. 

We were always thought of as such a good, Christian family. 

Years later I discovered that he was arrested for assaulting his mistress and threatening to kill her with a gun in her mouth. He ran back to the house that night, hiding from the police. My sister and I were fast asleep upstairs. The police came and took him away in cuffs. They interrogated my mother, asking if he was ever previously violent. She lied and told them no. 

My aunt and grandmother paid his bail, and the family banded together to have his police record “expunged”. He spent 16 hours in jail and was released to come home to us. His mistress went to a counselling center for battered women so that she can “heal” from her abusive boyfriend. My mother took him back, and we would be “happy” again...

He said that God changed his heart, that he would turn over a new leaf and stop being violent. He lied, of course...

I once watched these neighborhood boys slowly kill a bunch of lizards they had caught. One kid covered a lizard in gold spray paint and laughed as it wriggled across the pavement before it finally died.

There was this kid down the street who used to call me a whore. I didn’t know why; I didn’t even know him. My friends all said boys are mean to you when they like you. When they are cruel, it’s because they love you...

Once in a while, the girls I knew talked about how cute he was...I didn’t think he was very cute. He was mean, and so were the other boys. They all were. 

My mother got drunk one night and warned me to never fall in love. “Men are all fucks...Every last one of them...” Her mouth sagged, her eyes closed, and she stayed on the couch til morning. 

All men are fucks...

All men are fucks...

Every.

Last. 

One.

I loved that Doug’s world was so clean and innocent. Nobody’s dad ever went to jail. Nobody’s mother ever drank themselves into oblivion and had to be put to bed. I couldn’t imagine a kid like me ever existing there. 

 The first time I was ever allowed to wear makeup to school, I was nearly Doug’s age. I wore red tinted lip gloss, blush, pink eye shadow and mascara. “I wish I was allowed to wear makeup! You look so pretty! You’re so lucky!” said the girls at school. 

I was wearing makeup because Daddy had pinned me to the bed and punched my face the day before. I had a bruised jaw. My mom smeared foundation under my chin, muttering “Motherfucker...That goddamn motherfucker...”

I was so lucky.

I wanted to be in Doug’s world. I wanted my biggest problem to be that I had to get a hair cut, or that I was nervous about a school project or wearing the right shoes. 

But most of all, I wanted someone to love me the way he loved Patti. From what I witnessed in life thus far, it didn’t seem very possible. My world wasn’t clean and innocent. It was ugly and dirty. I had no reason to believe that even if people like Doug ever existed, that they’d want anything to do with me. 

But even as I grew older and entered high school, I wanted someone like him with everything inside of me. The wholesomeness, the goodness, the honesty and will to do the right thing. He’d never hit me.He’d never call me a worthless piece of shit (even if I am one). I had to believe he existed somewhere out there. It was all I could do to hold on to in my shattered mind. 

It’s silly and strange, but then again I’m a very silly and strange woman. 

But that show gave me hope that better things existed. Even if I never get to see them, even if I don’t deserve them, just knowing that they can be out there somewhere was enough to keep believing.

Looking back, I am proud that I held on to the hope of goodness and innocence, even if I myself am not always good or innocent. 

Holding on to that hope is what led me to finding my husband. I am going to write about him in length someday, but for now I will simply say this. 

He had a teacher named Mr. Bone. The girl he pined over in school liked him only as a friend, but her name was Renee instead of Patti. He had a secret super hero alter ego I adore that he’s too embarrassed to talk about now. And the first photo I saw of him as a kid was of him in a dorky little sweater vest, only it was blue, not green. He is All American Apple Pie. He keeps my shattered mind from falling to pieces. He is my light amidst darkness and chaos...

If any of the creators ever read this, I have a message for you. While you were creating this show, there was a little girl out there watching. As she grew to womanhood, there was every reason for her to turn into a mess, and in a lot of ways she is one. She drinks too much at times, had a stint modeling which led her to dabbling in the adult industry, and has moments of murkiness in the recesses of reason in her mind. But when she was little, she hoped and dreamed for better things, better people.Thank you for giving her this gift of hope when she had none to hold on to. And sorry for all of the swear words...She didn’t have the best background...

When I remember my wings, I can go anywhere. I’ve seen so many things and even still I’ve not seen nearly anything close to nearly all there is to see. The only thing that stops me from seeing it all is most likely two things: First, I’m almost certain there is no end to all there is to see, and I’m just a small little Mirror Witch with wings, and can’t possibly see it all over the span of my lifetime. Second, I have a terrible habit of forgetting I have wings all together, and am prone to foolishly waste time on things that are not of consequence. 

In any case, ever since I started writing my thoughts here on Tumblr, I’ve been able to fly in small spurts (that is, between rehearsals for The Rocky Horror Show and working at my day job selling crisps). Recently I was able to reunite with a fox friend of mine (She isn’t really a fox, but a Pooka in disguise.). She was reading a book written by a Frenchman whose name I have trouble saying out loud. The book was called The Little Prince, and it was a very strange story. But after reading it, I remembered my wings, and I started this blog. 

And so I traveled, soaring through the clouds and stars as I had done when I was younger and less afraid of falling. Of course I wished to return to my beloved Caramoox Island, to see my beautiful city of sparkling towers and spires that is called Umbra. But it isn’t easy to find Caramoox.

 I did manage to get myself lost, as I always do when I remember my wings, and was growing quite tired of flying through endless stars with no food or rest, and was very close to wasting a good deal more time. But as I passed through a rainbow nebulae, I saw something in the distance.

It looked like a tiny asteroid. I would have passed it by all together. But I heard the bleating of a sheep. I grew curious, and came closer to inspect it, and I saw a tall bush with dark green leaves and a white picket fence around it. The little sheep that had been bleating was climbing across the little ball of stone, nibbling away at the grass and any other green thing that should sprout up from the ground. I watched, fascinated. as the little sheep finished its meal and retired to a little white box, where if shut its eyes and fell fast asleep. 

I figured if a sheep could rest its head on this funny little bit of rock, why shouldn’t I? And then perhaps I could get my wits about me and find my way back home as fast as I could, because I didn’t want to miss rehearsal.

I alighted upon the tiny little world, folded my wings and sat down. I unzipped my backpack, pulled out my little flask of spirits and my script, and began going over my lines. I’m having trouble learning the lyrics for “Science Fiction Double Feature”; I keep getting all those old names mixed up, and I never saw all those old movies. 

“...Dana Andrews said prunes, something about runes....Who the hell is Dana Andrews, and why is she giving everybody prunes?” I grumbled to myself, sipping my flask with a grimace. I can handle being lost forever in the expanse of space, but flubbing the lines for the opening song in the show put me on edge. 

“Who are you?” said a soft, sweet voice. I jumped. 

“Who said that?” I asked. I glanced around myself and didn’t see anyone there but the tall green bush with the fence about it. So I got back to practicing my song.

“..Whoah oh oh ohhhhhh....at the late night, double feature, picture show...” The key was too low for me.

“Who are you? Please stop making that noise. It sounds terrible...”

Now that greatly offended me. Because I know I can sing fabulously; I studied classical opera and musical theatre in New York, and I once had a record label...It wasn’t my fault the owner of the company’s partner got them into debt. 

“It’s not my fault,” I protested to the disembodied voice, “This song was originally sung by a man, and I’m a Soprano. And all these stupid names...Who are you, anyway?”

“Begging your pardon, but I asked you first, and you never answered me. You can’t simply land on a planet without introducing yourself, you realize. You are very rude...”

I stood up and looked about me and was surprised to see that the great bush behind me had but a single large blossom. A bright red rose, about as big as my head, with dewdrops so large and shining they looked like diamonds. 

“Hola, Senora,” I said with a curtsey. “ Perdoname...I’m just a mirror with wings, and I had only stopped here to rest. 

“Oh, you’re a mirror. Come closer, so I may check and see that my petals are in place...”

I came closer and she smiled. The rose had a lovely face, with dark eyes and red painted cupid bow’s lips, and shining wavy hair covered in a black lace veil that reminded me of the one worn by my great grandmother in a picture I saw when I was very small. She straightened her petals carefully.

“There...That’s much better. Now, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, I was just resting as I passed by. Are you a queen?”

“Well, I would be, but I can’t leave this white fence that surrounds me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Would you like me to take it down?” I offered. 

“Oh, no. It stops that bothersome little sheep from nibbling at my tender leaves.”

I glanced in the direction of the little sheep. It wasn’t very big, about the size of a terrier, and it had a little blue collar with a silver bell.

“Who does the sheep belong to?” I asked.

“Why...Me, of course,” replied the rose. “There is no one else here but me.”

“You...own a sheep that might eat you?”

“Yes...of course, the sheep DOES eat away at the baobab sprouts that may overtake this little world and split it into little bits...but it is still a bothersome little thing that doesn’t have the sense to be afraid of thorns...”

At this point, I was so taken with the strangeness of this small place that I had forgotten completely about practicing my song. I sat down underneath the fence, looking up at the giant rose above me.

“To be frank,” continued the rose, “I don’t mind it all that much. I am safe and protected here, and the sheep and the fence were a gift, you see. From someone I love dearly...” And here the rose became very sad, her petals drooping, allowing the great glittering dewdrops that adorned her to fall and splash on my head like enormous tears. I scrambled out of the way, not wanting my script to get wet. 

“Who gave you the sheep and the fence?” I asked. 

“My dear, sweet prince. He left me a long time ago, but sent me a sheep to take care of weeds from coming into my bed, and a fence to protect me from the sheep. You see, he would think of these things and did everything he could to ensure that I would thrive here...but all I truly needed was to have him come back to me...”

It was at that moment I realized that this was all the story of the Little Prince, written by the French man whose name I can’t pronounce. I put my script away in my backpack, sipped from my little flask, and listened carefully to the Tale of the Rose. As I listened to her, I realized that she was a very vain, selfish flower, and it was probably for the best that she was surrounded by the fence. 

I could clearly see that if given the freedom to spread, she would have been just as out of control as the baobabs, and eventually would have demolished the very home she depended on. She would then have nowhere left to grow, and would have eventually faded away in the stars as nothing more than dust. The Little Prince wouldn’t have wanted that, of course. 

I’ve come to know many people like this; who destroy their world without meaning to, and are eventually left with nothing. 

“I was foolish and proud,” the rose said sadly. “And I drove him away. I hope that he will someday come back, so that I can tell him how sorry I am, how much I loved and missed him...”

     I  wondered if she would have once again taken the haughty attitude of a queen and perhaps driven him away all over again, if it happened that the prince should return someday on the wings of seagulls or by clinging to the tale of a comet. I remember seeing an episode of Dr. Phil where he called this sort of thing a “negative pattern” in something called a “toxic relationship”. I also remembered reading the end of the story, of how the Little Prince grew tired of earth and took the bite of a snake...and noted that the Little Prince wouldn’t be returning.

 But the rose was so beautiful in her remorse that I hadn’t the heart to tell her how the story ended. So instead I said:

“I hope your prince someday returns to you, Miss Rose.”

“Please, little mirror. If you are out there flying among the stars and see my dear Little Prince, please tell him how much his rose has grown, and how much she misses him...”

“I will...”

The rose smiled at me so tenderly that almost all of the proud haughtiness of her demeanor melted away into motherly, warm loveliness.

“You know,” she said sweetly, “You are quite a beautiful little mirror. Almost as beautiful as a rose...but not quite, of course, for mirrors are fragile things that shatter easily, and roses like myself are strong and have thorns. But perhaps someday, you’ll meet a prince of your own. One who fancies mirrors...”

I smiled, thinking of my husband. “Oh, I already have...”

“Wonderful! Now do listen to me carefully, because you are very young and ignorant, and I am much older and wiser than you. Promise me that you will be kind to your prince. For if he truly is a real prince, he’ll love you and shelter you. When he cares for you, be grateful and never cruel. For princes can leave if you are unkind...”

“Si, Senora Rose. I promise.”

You're flying, though you don't exactly know how you're doing it. You're heart is beating as if you were running a marathon. You feel the blood rushing through your veins, and you breathe hard and steady. You see below a Winn Dixie, looking like a large white box. Not far from that is a Wal Mart. Shining cars are place neatly between the hair thin white lines across the parking lot pavement. Roads and houses look like circuit board. You can't even see the people walking in the sidewalk because they're so incredibly small. Mists come into view as you begin to enter the cloud level. You know it's cold and wet, but the flight keeps you warm as long as you keep moving. Very soon, the mists cover your entire vision. You can no longer see the world below. It's gone in the whitish gray that is surrounding you.   

      You realize that you had wings all along. But every day you stay away, you didn’t use them until one day, in the image of yourself in your mind, you had forgotten them entirely. When you look in the mirror you see how you’ve gained weight, the tear in your shirt, or how you have a pimple on the end of your nose. But you don’t see your wings. You’ve hidden them from yourself so that you can face this world every day without weeping...Until now. Now you are strong, and you’re going home.

      Your ears pop. You're inside a cloud for just a moment before you emerge into the brightest, warmest light you've ever imagined. When your eyes adjust you see before you a landscape of white clouds going on forever. Here and there they separate and beneath you see nothing but blue and the curve of the dark gray horizon.

      You pump your body harder, with a cry of effort that lifts you even higher. Before you is the blinding gold circle of the sun. You fly toward it, and you are forced to close your eyes in the bright hotness. You feel that you are gaining speed and altitude as the skin on your face presses back. You work harder, your breath chugging, your mind transfixed.

You feel cool moisture spray your cheeks and you open your eyes. You see a large black cloud before you, looming in contrast to all of the bright whiteness around you. That's the one you're looking for. You move towards it, wisps of clouds whipping past. But the cloud doesn't seem to get any closer. Your wings pound the air about you like angry pistons, and for a long while nothing seems to change. The sun is behind the black cloud, and after a time you notice a ring of rainbow encircling your vision. You fly onward.

      All at once, you see nothing but gray as the cloud envelopes you. You shiver at the the feeling of leaving this world and entering another within this cloud. A world where nothing ever begins or ends. A heavy world of wetness and dull light.

      Suddenly, you veer sharply to the left as the bushy head of a palm tree whizzes past you, nearly missing you by only a few inches. Moments later, it happens again. Soon you are darting between a forest of palm heads, their long, thin trunks disappearing into the dark mists of the cloud. Then the gray fog parts, and you find yourself in the warm sunlight again. You are no longer high above the clouds, but soaring low over a great valley of hundreds of waterfalls. The falls look like white satin draped over the rich mountainous landscape bordered by gray clouds just like the one you emerged from. Beyond these a thick green rain forest canopy. Columns of steam rise from between the trees. The forest is hot and humid. You fly just over the canopy. The mountains look like large shaggy green shapes before you. You fly onward.

      You reach the edge of the rainforest and come to open grasslands dotted here and there with enormous banyan trees. You startle a herd of antelope and in their fleeing they follow your flight pattern over the open green. They disappear from view as you gain speed, coming to a winding brown river. Suddenly you hear an earth-shaking roar as a troup giant creatures come into view. Large reptilian heads at the end of long, snakelike necks reach the higher branches of the banyans to feed off of the highest leaves. Some of these creatures are drinking from the river, raising their long tree trunk-like necks lazily to watch you soar past. The brown river becomes a vast swamp.

      Moments later you see smoke rising ahead, and find yourself in sight of a strange little village in the swamps. The little thatched huts are round and on stilts with porches, and there are rope bridges snaking between them. A dark-skinned old woman with thick blue hair is scraping leather on the porch of one hut. She pauses to wipe the sweat from her brow and glances up at you. She waves, then turns back to her work.

      In the distance, you see a glimmer up ahead. A mountain range comes into view. It looks as if it is a shining crown set upon the landscape. You come to a great white beach surrounding a large blue body of water, and as you soar over you see sandbars and tiny islands of mangrove trees and even a pod of dolphins chasing your shadow below you.

The glimmer grows brighter, dazzling you. And then you see it. Shining, oddly shaped towers taper into the sky, stark white at first, but changing to green of hue, then bright purple, then blushing pink as the iridescent stone catches the light of the sun. Below shining like soap bubbles are the beautiful silver domes crowned with spires that shine like columns of crystal. These structures seem to shine as the jewels of the crown of the mountain range.

Right now, I’m performing in Rocky Horror as Magenta at the Andrews Living Arts Studio in downtown Fort Lauderdale. It’s a small theatre owned by a friend of mine. It has been on my bucket list to perform in O’Brien’s most popular play. For many it’s a Halloween tradition; every midnight you get to dress up in glamorously bizarre costumes and scream and throw things in a theatre full of friends. It’s a chance for what would otherwise be ordinary people in normal, ordinary life, to let their hair down and indulge in their secret desire for the strange and unusual. Straight men who might be otherwise afraid of it are permitted to experiment with lipstick, heels and corsets (”B-But I’m not really interested in that sort of thing; it’s just the show’s tradition, honest!”). To others, it’s a mark of progressive recognition; acceptance of the gay community as a legitimate place in society. And even still , to others it’s a nostalgic piece; the comparison of 1950′s era style with the glittering dizziness of Glam Rock of the 80′s. To be honest, however, I’m about to admit something that no actor would ever have the nerve to admit, no playwright would ever dare to utter. 

I’m not a big fan of Rocky Horror Show as a musical play...

“WAIT!....I CAN EXPLAIN!”

I always found the storytelling aspect of it unclear. Major plot points are two or three lines in a loud, raucous song that is so overwhelmingly hypnotic and fast that you don’t hear it and are left confused.

”Wait...who was the guy with the motorcycle? Why was his head bleeding? Why did Frank kill him? Does this mean Brad was really gay? Why did Columbia get moody all of the sudden? Why are they all dancing in drag? Wait, they’re all aliens? I thought this was Frankenstein... What is R.K.O?  WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING?!!”

But despite my criticisms of the writing (nothing is perfect and I’m sure someday I’ll receive criticisms of my own work)...

I’ve always wanted to be a part of a production of the show because of its glitz and glamorous costumes, it’s horror theme, but mostly for its message of sexual liberation and the risk of excessive indulgence. 

The message of two “healthy” kids experiencing pleasure in a way that is otherwise frowned upon in society is a two edged sword; a lesson of freedom but also a warning of caution. In this day and age, what with the legalization of gay marriage, it’s hard for me as a front of the line millennial (I personally feel that I have more in common with Generation X but 1983 was the very first crop and is eldest of the Millennial generation, as it spans from 1982 to 2004) to imagine what it was like to exist in a world where being gay was considered “unhealthy”. It’s now only uneducated bigots who discriminate against gays, and considering that the law is now fully on the side of those who love differently (if you feel discriminated against as a gay person, there are plenty of lawyers that would love to rush to your defense).

However, being brought up as a conservative, I can see how under the pain of being brainwashed, one might come to the mistaken conclusion that being different is somehow wrong. I recall a time in my life when I honestly believed that if I did not force my friends to “get saved”, they would burn forever in hell. So as a foolish child I begged them to come to church in hopes of rescuing them from the wrath of God. I remember crying into my pillow at the idea that my best friend who lived down the street would someday be placed in a world of torture and anguish. I cared about her deeply, but all the grown ups told me if I didn’t get her saved, she’ll be sent to hell and it will be all my fault. So I tried and tried my best. I remember sadly reporting to a Sunday school teacher that I was unable to “save” my non Christian friend that week. To date, I don’t think anyone has ever converted to Christianity on my account. In earlier days the thought of that filled me with pain and dread for those whom I had failed. 

I am a steadfast creature, and resisted as best as I could to saving myself  (’Well I’m sure you’re not spent yet!”) for my wedding day. But inside of me, my natural instincts were ready for far much more. Years later as I look back I find these naive aspirations to be laughable. Now a woman of 33, I not only have been a former nude model for 3 alt erotica websites, but have also performed at the burlesque scene, I often “tip at the elbow” (a term a dear friend uses to describe to drink), enjoy the occasional bowl of burnt herbal entertainment, and have seen much more of the world. 

Long story short (too late?) I understand how it is to be told that desire is wrong, and to repress it until it bursts like a broken levee. The sad issue that I find Rocky Horror illustrates beautifully is that when one represses oneself to that extreme, when they finally are unable to hold it any longer, they are a dangerous loose cannon that can actually do harm to themselves in the long run. It’s not wrong to give in to pleasure and enjoyment, as long as no harm is done. 

Brad and Janet were repressed, forcing themselves into traditional roles of society. But this repression near cost them their lives. If Brad and Janet had made love before that night, perhaps enjoyed themselves a bit more, they wouldn’t have partied so hard that they found their relationship and very tender natures destroyed by their own indulgences. They both were unfaithful and found that in their naivete they were easily manipulated and taken advantage of by the more wily FrankNFurter, a creature who had indulged so much that he allowed himself to create a man for the sole purpose of satisfying his lust. 

To me Frank represents those who have chosen to live a life of abandon; he is never happy or satisfied. He doesn’t think, he doesn’t feel. He only seeks to indulge and in doing so, loses his respect for life and kills without a second thought. This is why Magenta and Riff Raff punish him; his toxic nature has spread to the inhabitants of Earth (turning Brad and Janet into heartless pleasure seekers and forgetting their love for one another).

When I think of the character of Rocky, it saddens me and reminds me of my own innocence lost. Rocky is a child, not permitted to escape the brainwashing of his creator. Very much like Brad and Janet (and myself); a prisoner of the imposed ideals of those who came before him. Janet sleeps with him out of spite because she discovers Brad’s unfaithfulness, thus only objectifying poor Rocky as Frank had done.  Rocky was never allowed to have thoughts or feelings of his own. FrankNFurter did not care about Rocky as a person. To Dr. Frank, Rocky was an object, and perhaps someday when he grew bored of Rocky he would toss him aside as he did Eddie and Columbia.

This, to me, symbolizes the cruelty of those who are knowledgeable, taking advantage of the naive innocence of youth. I wish I could steal Rocky away, become his mother, put clothes on him and teach him to read and write, get a job and think for himself, so perhaps he can someday find his own happiness. 

The vengeful action of using Rocky as an object made Janet as cruel and selfish as FrankNFurter, which is why Brad (despite his own betrayal) dumps her first.

The night exposes Brad and Janet’s hypocrisy and the hypocrisy of the society that raised them. They were not “healthy”; in fact, they were very much far from it.

From this show, I learned two lessons:

1. If we engage in pleasures, it isn’t wrong. But to only do so without the care and respect for others makes us inhuman.