Places Dirty and Holy

Joey was ecstatic about his Flame Swordsman. He picked Tea up and spun around with her in a dizzy joy. Tea was proud that she had made him so happy. Yugi and the Spirit were proud of her too. She saw it in Yugi's open admiration, his bright shining eyes and warm smile. But while Yugi was warm and bright, the Spirit was smoldering. He had reached out and put his hand on top of hers. His hand was strong and gentle. Her whole body hummed from the contact. It turned her mind away from Kaiba, from the look on his face when she had left; from the sounds he had made; from the feel of his crawling, jumping hands on her body; from the throb of his heart.

Tea didn't want to believe the encounter actually happened. Most of the time, she was able to tell herself that it was a dream, and she almost bought what she was selling. Mostly, she just remembered the bulb hanging from the stained ceiling, burning a bright circle into her vision.

She was clean, now. She had made sure of it. She cleaned the bathroom, cleaned the kitchen, gave that dirty money to someone who needed it, and, in the giving, the money was transubstantiated into something pure. Then, she had scrubbed herself in the shower, using a washcloth and soap everywhere he had touched her. She had imagined Kaiba's sweat and skin cells clinging to her skin, just like Keith's had clung to that little piece of paper. She had been saturated with Kaiba. She watched the water swirl down the drain, along with Kaiba particles. But sometimes, she could smell him, that gingery, sweet, musk odor, on her clothes, and her stomach would lurch. She was sure that her friends would smell it, but they didn't notice anything.

When her parents got home, they gave her the money she needed, and she was able to push the afternoon further away by concentrating on begging her father to drive her to the toy store before it closed. When she had the Swordsman, she focused on making homemade wrapping paper out of a grocery bag. She cut and re-cut, folded and re-folded, sized and re-sized, until the paper fit the box perfectly. She lost time, and filled her mind with tape and paper bags. Exhilarated, almost manic, she colored the wrapping paper with markers. She hunted down ribbons and curled them with scissor blades, then tied them around the box.

When her present was perfect, she fell into bed. Her euphoria wore off into numbness. She slept, and didn't dream.

On Monday, she had hoped to get some verification from Kaiba about whether what happened was real or a dream. He didn't look at her. He didn't look at anyone. She kept as far away from him as possible, but she supposed it hadn't been necessary. He ignored her, and that was all the proof she needed to convince herself it didn't happen.

She had expected to have a bruise on her hip or thigh where he had thrust into her, but there was no mark. Her own body told her nothing.

It was now Wednesday, and, with no bruises, and no word from Kaiba, and none of her friends looking at her funny, everything seemed normal. There was one change she happily acknowledged: she felt more in love with the Spirit than ever, and she felt as if he felt more affection toward her.

She had not touched herself in the shower or in her bed since the night thoughts about Bandit Keith obliterated her libido. But as she showered after Wednesday night dance practice, she had started thinking about the Spirit again, about the look in his eyes when he gazed at her, about the feel of his hand on hers. She replayed his rich, smooth voice when he said, "You're a good friend, Tea."

She liked thinking about the Spirit, because then she didn't think about Kaiba, and what happened in that closet. It seemed less and less real to her, more like a dream, like viewing a surreal movie. And thinking about the Spirit made her warm and vibrant. It made her glow on the inside. She felt that glow in her heart, and between her legs, and on her nipples.

It was a thrill just feeling those secret nerves awaken and stir in those secret, sacred parts. When she first touched herself, she had felt a giddy curiosity and anticipation. She wasn't sure if she could handle having an orgasm, if it was as good as her romance novels described it. What if her body just came apart?

She sometimes felt afraid of her own genitals. What if they were ugly, slimy, or smelled? She only touched one area—the place just below the base of her mons, where her cleft began. She would rub the tip of her finger over that spot in little circles. Whenever she touched anything outside of the dime-sized area, it did feel slippery. When she sniffed her hand afterward—it was just once, and it was something she would never do again—she had smelled a little like buttered toast, and a little like hamburger meat. She had scrubbed her hands with soup afterward, afraid her parents would smell it and know exactly what it was.

She was worried about hurting herself. Directly touching the little bud that she could barely see would be as excruciating as touching her naked eyeball. Pulling the bud's hood –it even felt a little like her eyelid—back made her tense. Even the air swirling and flowing in the calm solitude of her room was too stimulating. It made her more grateful for her eyelids. She could bruise herself, tear herself, slash and scar with her own fingernails the thin skin and membranes that lined her insides. She could only imagine what a man could do.

Now that she had started wearing tampons, she knew more about her anatomy than she would have. She didn't know how she lived without them now, but when she first started using them, she was afraid of the pain. Her mother had explained to her that the tampon is so thin her body wouldn't know it was there, and that Tea's dancing had worn away her hymen anyway, and that she would still be a virgin. Tea thought about the abrasions caused by inserting dry cotton into such a raw place. Wouldn't it scrape the sides as it slid in? She had peeled a strip of skin off of her palms sliding down a rope in gym class She imagined that feeling inside her, and it made her shudder.

The worst part was seeing her hole for the first time. Tea almost dropped the hand-mirror when she saw it—a winking, flexing, blood-pink mouth, with a little tag of flesh for a tongue, looking stupid and hungry as it gazed down at the mirror and was reflected back up into her face. It was nasty, a dirty little secret that Tea would not share with anyone except in the dark. She couldn't bear the thought of a man's fingers or tongue encountering that. It wasn't her—it didn't look like her, or smell like her. It was nothing but a leftover from a primate ancestor—like armpit hair. She was wondering how she and the Spirit could do it with him having the least amount of contact possible with it. The only safe region was the little dime-sized area that started right where her lips split in two.

Her belly was safe to touch too, and her waist, the insides of her forearms, her inner thighs. Those parts were smooth and innocent, but still felt good to stroke and tickle.

That Wednesday night she had been thinking about the Spirit, Yami, her leaps were higher, her plies deeper. Her shampoo was extra foamy, and the soap smelled even sweeter. The lights in the bathroom were rosier. She combed out her hair, put on her t-shirt and sleep shorts, and lay back on her bed. She couldn't stop smiling. If a touch on the hand felt this good, how good would a hug feel? A kiss? A kiss with tongue?

Her shirt had ridden up around her ribcage, exposing her navel. She stroked her stomach with her fingertips—up and down, side to side. She lowered her eyelids. This was something she did not infrequently—she had to practice her bedroom eyes. She imagined the Spirit leaning over her, gazing into her eyes with his soft violet ones. He looked at her with longing and love. He leaned in to kiss her, and his lips parted. Then he paused and said something to her.

"Your skin is so soft."

It was not the Spirit's voice that came from those lips. It was Kaiba's voice murmuring on that tongue.

Tea flinched as if the flesh on her stomach had shocked her. Her body contracted, curling into itself involuntarily. Her eyes stared at the wall. The nightlight flared into her pupils.

"No, " she whispered, "No, no, no, no, no. NO." Her skin tingled and flushed where he had touched her—her neck, her chest, her belly, her waist, her face. The sensations were unpleasant in their titillation. She remembered the grinding pressure where her thigh and hip merged, the hard, bruising bluntness.

She sat up and pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. She conjured up the image of the Spirit, of Yugi, and held them in her mind. She played what the Spirit had said to her over and over in her mind. "You're a good friend, Tea. You're a good friend, Tea…"

The mantra soothed her. The closet became a hazy dreamscape again. Tea could sleep.