The Diary of Ellen Rimbauer: My Life at Rose Red by Ellen Rimbauer Read Free Book Online Page B

the sheets that my husband
    and I have soiled with our activities. (I dare not ask where
    John has learned all that he is “teaching” me—his term.) She
    couldn’t have been over ?fteen, if she’s a day. Petite, and fairskinned
    with black eyes and a strong back. Oh, yes, I studied every
    inch of her as she worked. She saw me watching and seemed to
    take great pleasure in it. Giggling. Provocative. She knows not
    what she does to me! I had a kink in my neck that I tried to work
    out—there are no pillows here to speak of, only ?rm square mats
    with cotton slipcovers. I sleep ?tfully, if at all—in part because
    John’s appetites are insatiable (he drinks heavily into the night
    41
    and then arrives to our rooms in a desirous state). Our maid took
    note of my efforts and indicated that I should turn around. She
    touched my neck with her small, warm hands and I jumped, a
    source of great amusement on her part. Then, for the better part
    of a quarter of an hour or more, she kneaded my tight, knotted
    muscle and sculpted it, restoring it to a state of complete relaxation.
    I am told this form of massage is Asian, Japanese or
    Chinese in origin, and spilled down the archipelago over the
    thousands of years of commerce that has come and gone in this
    remote area of the world. I was quite taken by the magic of her
    hands, and I tipped her generously, which she clearly enjoyed.
    But listen, Dear Diary, there’s more! This young beauty then
    indicated that I should lie down on the bed. In her unfamiliar
    tongue and sign language, she ?rst locked the door and then
    motioned for me to disrobe. (I am certain this was the meaning.
    It needed no translation.) She indicated with her hands that she
    would continue her work, the Asian massage with which she had
    soothed me. She appreciated my generosity, no doubt, and saw
    clear to the idea that she might expand on that gratuity by
    increasing the canvas, if I may adopt an art analogy. I declined, of
    course, thanking her profusely, which I’m sure she understood,
    and getting out of it as best I could. I suppose she meant for me
    to remove my dress, and only my dress, so that she could continue
    her work through my undergarments, but given the level of
    undress these natives undertake, my thoughts went elsewhere. I
    had visions of disrobing, becoming naked in front of this young
    girl.
    Even now, many hours past, I ?nd myself excited at the
    prospect. Dare I confess this? To be touched by another woman,
    someone of my own sex, who would know the aches and pains of a
    woman, where to touch, where to relieve the back pain that comes
    of the corsets, the foot and leg pain that comes from the shoes.
    42
    Nothing more than this, you understand! And yet, even this
    seems a sinful act. One woman with another, one in full undress.
    The bright-eyed young girl had such a problem accepting no
    from me, either being driven by the desire for another tip or
    being culturally unfamiliar with such a refusal. This island and its
    simple people are so very foreign to me.
    I am troubled by my desires. There, I wrote it down. Perhaps
    that will help to purge me of them. Perhaps if John included me
    more, allowed me out more often, my mind would have elsewhere
    to go other than to the physical pleasures that have entered my
    life for the ?rst time in these past few weeks. The dark secrets of
    satisfying a man that John continues to reveal to me. But my days
    are just this: food and carnal pleasure. The honeymoon is for me
    more a horrormoon. I have prayed—to both sides—for release
    from this depravity of thought, for increased independence from
    my husband, for the freedom to walk the sands and visit the markets.
    I have prayed for his drinking to temper, for his earlier
    return to our suite, as some nights he does not return until three
    or four in the morning, sweating, smelling of liquor and cigars—
    and—dare I say it, for I am not absolutely certain?—other women.
    He snores as I cry. He