I’ve been commissioned (well, not really as there is no pay involved) to interview one of my characters. There is one Bronwyn mentioned off her favorites list last week, that had me thinking: Gee, I want to get to know that wacky chick better. And because I always like interviewing the men, I thought I should shake it up a little and interview a female. However, this isn’t a main character female—not yet. She’s a secondary, cameo appearing character in the Faerily Imperfect series: The Mom.
The Mom has no name. Yet. I’m saying that word a lot, but it’s true. She hasn’t been given a name and we only know her as that crazy woman with a penchant for floral designs, doilies, and dildos. She adores her five children in her special spacey kind of way and is the mistress of guilt trips that circle randomly around without a starting point or an ending point. That’s right, I’m talking about Mrs. Harper, the full-blooded faery.
To understand her, you need a bit of background. She married a scientist and had five children of mixed breed. Because the faeries are known for their pranks, each child was given a faery ability only as reliable as their mother was intelligent. Since all the kids have extremely unreliable gifts, you can imagine what that says about her reasoning skills. Yet in her own special way, she’s kinda smart…sorta.
I walk into the house yoo-hooing. Her soft, musical voice calls me upstairs. My path takes me over rose and green printed carpet, across the foyer which is papered in rose and white stripes, dotted with plate sized rose heads. There’s a credenza on my right of dark mahogany and antiqued brass ornamentation. On top is an elaborately crocheted doily and a white vase holding a crazy array of pink and white Stargazer Lilies, neon yellow Sunflowers, pristine white Magnolia (which makes me want to sneeze), and brilliant orange Gazanias. There’s a large, purple Liatris sticking straight up through the middle like an obscene phallic reference among the clustered petals.
The house is older. It creaks with my steps even though the wood has been muffled by floor covering. I think about this as I tread up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. Mrs. Harper has framed several round doilies in ornate, gilded frames. Each contains pictures of one child in yearly progression, with a highschool graduation mug at the center. There are five which I climb past.
Cute, I think.
“Which one?” I hear her mutter, as I make my way around the top of the landing to the brightly lit room nearest the stairs.
“Which one, what?” I ask.
I shouldn’t have asked.
She’s sitting sideways on her bed with an impressive array of sex toys spread out on the quilted bedspread. I notice that each of the quilt squares features a different grouping of flowers. Only the throw pillows at the head of the bed are solid in color, picking up the vibrant floral tints. For that matter, each of her toys looked more like decorative accents than lewd objects.
“For the trip. I have to have the right ones. If I don’t have the right ones, I’ll wish I’d brought the right ones.”
“Is it that critical?”
She looks at me, her head tilted to one side, and her blue, almond-shaped eyes blinking at me like she doesn’t understand. Blonde hairs sift over her shoulder. Frozen like this, she’s ethereal. Light touches her from the window and Mrs. Harper seems to glow with life and energy. No wonder Mr. Harper was mesmerized. I can almost imagine gossamer wings of light and air behind her, but those are a thing of Hollywood.
“Critical? Well, of course it isn’t. I must have them,” she answers.
“So they aren’t critical?” I ask, confused.
“Wait. They are critical?”
“Yes.” She smiles vacantly and nods her head which only makes more silken hair slide over her shoulder. Her long, slender fingers are plucking the purple head of an impressive plastic cock.
I decide to take a different tack.
“What will you need them for?” Really? Did I just ask that? I can see her answering in that obvious way that all sex toys are used for one thing—sex. But what I’d meant to reason through was the distinct purpose of each item and what she intended to need. Yet, no, that still sounds somehow wrong and personal.
“Creating life, silly,” she says.
Now I’m completely baffled.
“Are you trying to get pregnant again?” I hedge.
She laughs. It’s musical and floaty. “Of course not!” Then she gets serious again, and doe-eyed. I get nervous when she gets doe-eyed. “You can’t get pregnant with a toy unless it’s blessed.”
“Spring needs an orgasm,” she says, like I should understand.
“We all need orgasms,” I decide.
“Exactly!” She sighs, happy that I understand. Except I don’t. Not at all.
“Um. Mrs. Harper? How do you give spring an orgasm?” What? It had to be asked.
“Through The Great Fucking Festival. Or Festival of Fuck. They keep renaming these things.” Her brow furrows. “You should come. You’d like a good fuck.”
I’m trying hard not to laugh. She’s so sincere and it’s mean to laugh at the insane. “The toys are for your fucking festival?” I snark.
She beams at me. “And that’s why it’s critical that I pick the wrong one so I know which one is the right one.”
“Gotcha.” I don’t.
“So which one would be your pick?”
I walk a little closer. There’s a long crystal penis with ridges in cobalt blue and ruby studs. At the base, a rubber attachment houses a bullet with a curved rubbery projection for external stimulation. “That one.”
“I love that one. It’s exactly the right choice which, of course means, I won’t take it.” She nearly hops with joy. “You’re very good at this.”
I still haven’t figured out what “this” is. Or why it is except it involves festivities and fucking and sex toys… I think.
I turn to leave because really there are no guidelines when talking to Mrs. Harper. I’m even afraid to ask her for her name. Her kids are Sage, Dill, Flora and Fauna, and Willow. For all I know, her name is Posey, but that doesn’t ring true.
“Are you going now?” she asks as I leave.
“Nope, but you’re coming,” I throw back, hoping to confuse her like she’s confused me.
“Exactly.” There’s some silence as I continue down the steps. “Mia?”
“Yeah?” I answer.
“My name. It’s Thistle.” Then I hear her humming.
She’s moved on and so should I. Strangely, I no longer want to go. I want to find out all about the Festival of Fuck and offer myself up as a sacrifice on the Altar of Cock. You know, for the sake of unity among our people. Really.