I'M IN LOVE WITH CHEKOV
by Carol Schlanger

I'm an old hippie. In the early 70's I lived on an anarchistic commune deep in the woods of coastal Oregon. Our simple, back to nature life had fierce complications.

At night, to read and cook we lit kerosene lanterns and our world was illuminated by a soft glow. Often the only outside sound was the wail of the coyotes and the wind. Inside, we were the best of friends, telling stories, reading, playing chess. Time melted. .

On very cold nights, as heat rose, all fourteen of us slept in the loft we had built by hand above the main space. Our sleeping bags were laid side by side on foam mattresses. One night, I lay in the loft on my back, reading "Black Elk Speaks". The others, including Ginger, a visiting ex-nurse, sat down stairs or rather ,down ladder, talking softly. Ginger had been married to Doc a much loved man in our circle, because not only was he an excellent dentist, but because he also worked for barter or in cases of need, for free. Doc had recently dumped Ginger for Meadow, Ginger's former best friend. Ginger was terribly wounded but did her best to put on a good face. It was clear she wanted and felt she had to find another man. Living in the remote rural Northwest is rough and lonely for a single woman and Ginger's desperation was apparent. She gave off a powerful musk as she arched her back and swung her hips seductively. Her every move cried: " Take me, take me please." We had men and Ginger wanted one, the best one she could get.

After dishes had been washed at the indoor hand pump, Ginger, decided to take a sponge bath by the light of a kerosene lantern. I watched her from my spot high in the loft. First, Ginger filled a bucket with water that had been heated on the wood stove and then slid off her Pendelton shirt. - No bra. She stood naked to the waist in her own spotlight. We could see nothing else. My heart sank. She was doing her dance for all us, but was in heat, in particular for Clint, my old man. Clint was enormously attractive to women, but Ginger could have easily settled for Guy, Rachmat, Paul, Stu, Rocky or Steve. Any man that lived with us. The general female radar was up, most pointedly mine as I had a bird's eye view, a crane shot of Ginger's solo performance.

These were my on thoughts on " Free Love": No way! Love was NOT free. I'd given up my career, my home in N.Y. and my fabulous woman's support group to be with the man I loved: nothing revolutionary about that. Mine was an old fashioned choice and nothing could sway me from it. Clint, who had been married before felt that the institution cursed the relationship and had no interest in a formal commitment. He felt that our devotion to our lives together could not be assured by a piece of paper and I totally agreed. I didn't need the state or the federal government in my personal life. Taxes were not an issue. We didn't pay any. Joint property? We owned everything and nothing together. I loved the concept of freedom of choice, knowing that every day of our lives , we chose to be together. I never wanted to marry, ever. Isadora Duncan, that consummate artist and innovator had had her children out of wedlock and I would too. The thought that her children tragically wound up at the bottom of a river and that Isadora herself was accidentally strangled by her own overly dramatic and foolish clothing choices, didn't register. My heart was married and that was enough. Until Ginger.

Ginger had the most exquisite breasts that I had ever seen. This was during a pre- silicone, pre- enhancement, pre-reduction period in the history of American women's' bodies. Tits were what God, or the Goddess had given you. There were growing creams that you could rub on daily in a futile attempt to increase your circumference, or padded bras that would ultimately disappoint. There were even daily exercises, when, usually still in high school, you chanted, " I must, I must, I must increase my bust, " and entwined your fingers, bent your elbows and pushed the palms of your hands together. So there was Ginger, basking in her glow, baring her pink, perky and perfect orbs. A 36 C with no drop, no droop, and standing tall at attention, begging to be touched.

Now slowly, oh so slowly, she dripped the warm water on her waiting flesh, sponging herself down. She then cupped herself and lifted her tits. First one then the other, sponging the underneath with her careful, nurse trained hands, and then letting the soapy water slowly ooze down before she again swept them upward for a another go around. Oh yes, yes those breasts needed a through cleaning. Everything stopped: the wind, the coyotes, the whispers and the laughter. I hung over the edge of the loft, riveted on Ginger and resisting the urge to spit on her head.

As Ginger rubbed , her nipples responded. I couldn't be totally certain how much because I was a good ten feet away and you can't be sure of nipple response at that distance. But I did see those two miniature pig snouts quiver upwards, chocolate colored and plump. Clint stopped sharpening his knife on his whetstone. A dangerous sign as having a sharp knife was very important to him. Ginger coyly glanced over her shoulder, and for a moment her eyes locked with his.

Hours later when the lanterns were doused and we'd all climbed into our sleeping bags, Ginger chose a spot on Clint ‘s other side. I was on his left and the tit monster was on his right. Clint and I, instead of sleeping separately in our individual cocoons, shared our two bags. We placed the thicker, down one on atop of us and the fiber fill, thinner one over the foam mattress to supply us with both more warmth and comfort. I curled up in my usual position, my back cuddled up against his belly, my feet touching and entwined with his. Slowly Clint began to undulate against me, his breath heavy and warm, but something was terribly wrong. As my feet caressed his, I encountered a third foot. Ginger. I turned to face him and the power and size of his erection stabbed me in the belly. " Come on baby, it will be liberating… the three of us." I was nearly speechless, but not quite:

"What? No!"

"Please", he almost begged.

"No!" I hissed.

"Carol, I'm not hiding anything from you, I'm sharing the experience-it will be OURS"

"Our what? Me getting fucked over while you fuck Ginger?"

Clint had expressed his desire to "experiment" before. I'd been attracted to no one else since we'd been together in Oregon, so the concept had no appeal. Besides, I was sure of my boundaries and they weren't to be crossed. And neither was I. Sure, Ginger had a beautiful body but I just didn't like her. I wouldn't share my veggies and brown rice with her, much less Clint. Woman on Woman? Not interested. Didn't want to go there. Clint was kissing my breasts, second rate though they were. His expert hands opening the folds of my secret crevices " Come on baby, just try it…for me."

Ginger's hand was on his joystick. I felt it as I grabbed for the one thing I knew I could control but she'd beaten me to it. "If you don't like it, we'll stop," he promised, his voice thick and deep with desire. "Okay, Sweetheart" I answered. Time stopped and then WHOMP! I kneed him as hard as I could in the gut. I didn't mean to do it, but hot fury overtook me. Clint doubled over in pain. " I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I whispered. He didn't respond. He didn't try to hurt me back. " I'm sorry too," he said and lay still and defeated in the dark, Ginger had something more to say.

"Carol, You're wrong, this isn't the way to hold onto Clint."

"Yes, it is Ginger. So move your fucking sleeping bag somewhere else."

"I really want to be friends with both of you."

"Yeah, well my friends don't grab Clint's dick. Call me crazy, but that's just the way I see it."

" Maybe in the morning, you'll see things differently"

"I'm Jewish and I come a five thousand year old matriarchy so I can assure you, Ginger, I never will."

The next morning, Ginger quietly packed her duffel bag. Her time at Flores Creek had ended. Just before she started her jeep, she hugged me goodbye. Her frame was so small and slender, I could have knock her down with a well- aimed rock.

"See you next time around, Carol"

"Not if I see you first."

Tired, old joke, but she giggled anyway. A surprisingly sweet, soft and vulnerable giggle. She was just another woman.

"I really wanted to be with you too, Carol. I think your hair is very beautiful."

"Thanks, Ginger but I'm also in love with Chekov. He's about as much as I can handle right now."

"Is he here, on the commune?"

"No, Ginger, he's in Russia. But you'd like him a lot."

"I would?"

"Yeah. Ginger, you would. A lot."