“I’m supposed to be doing something important,” I said, in frustration, to the Mormon. “Helping. Healing people or something.”
He took a drag on the joint that we were sharing to ‘sort me out’ for the ride that I’d given him to Wanaka. His sense of justice was strong. I stared out at the opulent mountains across the lake, itching to break up with him and not knowing how.
“You’ve helped me empty my sack,” the Mormon replied, his smoke rolling long into the persistent Otago wind.
Otago’s steep, barren mountainsides and wide, dry plains sharpened to crystal perfection in the winter. Clouds often loomed low, and their desolate grey chill insisted upon multiple layers of socks and sweaters. Cobalt shadows washed over snow and stone langorously throughout the short days, reluctlantly ceding the majestic landscape to the sun’s blond rays for only a few hours a week.
I found a refuge quite close to the Mormon’s trailer. It was a simple lodge with a reasonably priced double room, situated within 2km of the tiny farm that he called home. I thought that I might find a nice balance between a healthy lifestyle and regular sex if I could keep the Mormon exactly at arm’s length.
The Mormon had worked at the restaurant attached to this lodge about a year ago, and he introduced me to a few of his old co-workers: an unimpressed matron at the front desk, a short Indian fellow with a Turban, and a tall, pretty blonde woman behind the bar who didn’t have time for his grandiosity. I was still too close to the Mormon’s world, but I carefully carved time out for his sex on my own terms so that I could have the majority of the day to sink into my own world and write.
The lodge had a shared kitchen where I could cook vegetables without the Mormon’s disdainful side-eye. On the very first day, I burned my pumpkin curry, sending Turban sprinting into the kitchen to shut off the wailing smoke detector. He kindly waved aside my apologies.
There was a block of bathrooms that was only 30 or 40 steps away from the main building, so if I was quick and clever and didn’t mind two minutes of the frosty pre-dawn air on my naked skin, I could resume my daily ritual of full-body oil massage. I allowed the Mormon into my space only after I claimed it with a good rest, a comforting morning ritual of oil and meditation, and a mildly-burnt meal. After the Mormon and I fucked in the clean white sheets, I took a warm shower, revelling in the spaciousness of the cracked concrete cubicle. The water pressure was hard and enjoyably soothing to my neglected clitoris.
I returned to my bedroom, where the Mormon was idly tapping at the screen of his phone. Dropping my towel and revealing my nudity caught his attention, and he stopped me before I pulled my underwear up over my knees. I’d shaved my pubic hair a few days ago. The Mormon caressed this new genital topography, and his fingers stumbled over an ingrown hair at the top center of my pubic mound.
He picked and picked painfully at the ingrown hair with his long, wolf-like nails until it bled. I watched dispassionately. Holding a thick forefinger over the tiny wound, he looked up at me.
“That’s going to leave a mark,” the Mormon said, his English mouth holding the roundness of his vowels fully, like they were eggs in a basket. “I guess I’ve scarred you forever.”
“You certainly have, sweetie.”
That little scratch was nothing compared to the long scratch that ran down my right butt cheek, about two inches away from and perfectly parallel to my crack. An outdoor tryst with him in the warm days of early autumn had been responsible for that scar (probably some stick or rock cut a groove into me while I’d see-sawed back and forth in Missionary). Subsequent outdoor fucking had peppered my ass and legs with dozens of sandfly bites that left constellations of discolored dots to remind me of our fulfilled desire. The wounds in my heart and mind are already scabbed over, so I’ll let that intangible substance heal in its own way, without disruption.
I destroyed the Mormon’s assumption that he’d be spending the night here in the lodge with me. If he wanted a warm, comfortable bed and a hot, healthy meal, he’d have to pay for it himself. This wide bed was all mine. The Mormon earned his bed by planting garlic, and I’d earned this one with an 11-year marriage.