Previously in Five Stages: 0.2 Seeking Her Kingdom— because men shall not live by dreams alone
The Woman in the Mirror
That was the end of another dream I’d been having. Not often, but exactly the same every time:
I’m in a house I’ve been in before. I know it because I know where everything is. I am standing in the doorway to a bedroom where no one sleeps. It’s night, and there is no sound, not even the sound of my own breathing. A soft, wet moonlight filters down through the summer trees, filling a large-paned window, and soaking a pale, worn rug spread upon a lacquered floor. The room is unoccupied, except for furniture that is old and familiar.
As I try to remember whose house this is, my field of vision slowly begins to move. I see the window and its far moon, the dutiful ladderback chair, the bulky armoire in the corner, the portrait of a nameless lady-in-waiting, the unwrinkled feather bed and walnut headboard, the nightstand and its small, ghostly bouquet of pearly everlasting.
With each object, silence deepens, as if in a watery grave. When I see the wildflowers, I know that the next thing to appear will be the oaken dresser. On that dresser will be a mirror. And in that mirror someone I have never seen but always known will be staring back at me.
Hair rises. Sinews freeze. Tongue cleaves to the roof of my mouth. Dresser and mirror emerge slowly into sight. A shadow moves towards me in the glass, and I feel as if I am being dragged under. I struggle wildly to escape, even to avert my eyes, but have become like one who is dead. Moonlight breaks into the room, revealing a profound and shining being of deep light, brushed over with a woman in our image, whose face I dare not look upon and live. She sees me and begins to speak in a crystalline tongue, of things which were, are not, and are to come.
I wake with a shout in pitch darkness, grasping at radio and lamp for my coordinates in a world wrapped in dreamless sleep.
I dream The Dream maybe five or six times; then one night I bolt awake. Not from The Dream, but in The Room. I look about. Everything--- window and curtains, moonlight and trees, portrait and furniture--- are exactly as in the vision. The only difference is that the one in the mirror now sleeps softly beside me. I look down, and brush back her spilled hair...
Semmy, I have loved you long before I ever saw you, before I could imagine what it means to be alive. You are so worth my deepest fears, my every scar, my longest wait, my darkest night. Just to see you this close, face to face...
I bend down to kiss her softly, and as I rise, a tear— I don’t know whose— slips suddenly down her cheek.
And for 555 days, the heavens are shut up. There are no dreams or visions.
Location, Location, Location
I spent the rest of that summer and the next between Semoira's legs. We were like those ice dancers you see in the Olympics, at the very height of suppleness and desire. You could not pull us apart. You could only imagine what we were doing to each other behind closed doors, and I am here to tell you it was all true.
Endless days on the boat. She'd come down and ride the ferry while I worked. Smile and point with her chin when the women were checking me out. I'd walk up to Semmy, kiss her right in front of them, then turn and take their fares.
Endless days at the beach, getting back into our swimsuits as we drifted ashore, only to peel them off each other as soon as we got back to the house.
Endless nights, eyes locked, destroying herself upon me in cries of ecstasy; wrists locked, dissolving herself upon my fluent tongue in watercolors that run off the bed in soft sighs of purple and green and pink and gold.
Endless weekends, walking among brick, gargoyles, falling leaves and football games. Passing I can't believe how in love I am notes across the table in the library. Her fingers and mine entwined in the library by day, Her toes and my fingers entwined by night.
Afterward, I would lie awake and stare at her as she slept, wondering what she saw in me.
She could never really say—The way you held me when I lost Kaz… that night at the beach you told me you were dying--- dying to kiss me… the warm feeling when you're coming inside me… the warm feeling thinking about when I’ll be with you again. Everything, Harv. You make me so warm inside. I can't imagine life without you.
There's something beyond language, being loved like that, by a woman like that.
It changes you. You are not who you thought you were. Others may see you differently, but who gives a shit what others think? This angel believes I can fly!
We’d be walking along on campus, she’d stop me for one of those kisses with all the toppings, and some mannish thot would give her the stinkeye. What’s that chick’s problem? she’d ask me in wide-eyed innocence.
It was too funny. We were walking on the moon. Life was too gooood.
Love Never Ends. But Is Subject To Gravity
By the spring, Semoira had become enough of a fixture on campus for the facilities manager to slip us an extra set of keys so she could stay with me while researching her senior project at the university hospital. She sat in on courses at the med school, attended lectures at the college, even bid on a research fellowship that took one or two “diversity” candidates every year. We started a campaign that included calls from a sympathetic college dean, a renowned biophysicist, and a local senator, along with a binder of amicus curae from various high-minded friends.
But it was always a long shot. The committee probably pulled her undergraduate application and asked, Well, has she done the work? It was, in Semmy's words, a bummer, but a week later she had in hand an acceptance letter to med school in Oregon, courtesy of Roger, her dad who had graduated as a Rhodes Scholar. And an internship at Woods Hole, present from his new wife Shelley, who was a bio-researcher. It was a sweet deal. Semmy had been desperate for a break. Holyoke had been a handicap, and they couldn’t have parted ways on better terms.
Everybody came for Semmy’s graduation-- family, Island friends, grandparents, assorted relatives. We had a blast, said our goodbyes and headed back down to the Cape, ultimate destination Portland, Oregon. Because I was not up for another winter in New Haven, mastering over a thesis on obscure Scottish poets.
We were back as the Island’s summer lovers, and better than ever. Semmy dead-headed over to Woods Hole on my shift— meaning she rode for free— and we served as camp supervisors to her twin siblings in exchange for bed, board, and recondite romps in the hay.
Which I increasingly needed to get my mind off a certain uneasiness nibbling at the edges of our island paradise. I'd run into classmates on a final fling before biz or law school, and there was a driven-ness about them now. They glanced furtively about and envied my insouciance. That was the one thing about being forever in love like me. You were always living in the present, with no time for the future. But even an English major like me could see the past catching up. The summer we had sworn would never end was nearly over. And everything, simply for the time remaining to cherish it, became priceless.
Harv?
Mmmm
What are you thinking?
Nothing.
Okay. What are you thinking now?
About eternity. With you.
That’s how long I love you…Harv?
Mmmm?
What are you going to do?
Bounce you off the ceiling.
But we just did that.
So?
Harv? We need to talk.
Now? Why?
Because I’m afraid. That something’s going to happen to us.
What’s going to happen to us?
I don’t know. But you have to do something. Time is running out.
No it isn’t. Love never ends.
That doesn’t mean we can lie around in bed all day.
Yes it does.
No it doesn’t. We have to be serious. We have to think about the future. When are you going to—-What? Harv! What are you doing?
I’m kissing you. I’m a kissing turtle!
Stop! You’re tickling me!—Don’t! Please! Harv? STOP!
I’ll stop if you make love to me.
I’ll make love to you. Just don’t be a kissing turtle. Ever.
Will you make love to me now.
After we talk.
Oh no! I’m turning back into a turtle—Someone! HELP!
So I did the first best thing I could do, which was decide to get married. Semmy of course said yes. Both Roger and Ginni said okay. But it didn’t change much, at least immediately. I had no ring. We had no date. Bride was still heading West to punch her ticket for med school. Groom was still punching tickets on the ferry, while his peers were punching their tickets to Wall Street, Big Law, and Park Avenue. So we just kept it an open secret for the time being. But more than happy to tell anyone who asked.
A Pirate’s Life for Her
In July, a research spot opened up on one of the research vessels out of Woods Hole. Semmy applied and was selected, which was a big deal. These were the expeditionary projects funded by research grants from governments, corporations, foundations, etc to prove some expert hunch that the next Big Thing—cure for cancer, weight loss, solving world hunger, preventing baldness, future farming, renewable energy— lay 20,000 leagues under the sea, or just beneath its surface.
The difference between what she was doing at the labs, and what she would be doing on the boat, Semmy explained, was like the difference between mining gold and refining it— with high stakes, expensive equipment, and millions of dollars riding on the outcome. Because if you came up empty on ore, nothing else mattered. It was going to be like living on a floating pressure cooker.
And there was going to be a price—for us. Semmy was going to be six days at sea, three ashore. We’d have to work something out with Ginni, but most of the burden would fall on my shoulders while Semmy was away. But when she promised to pick up the slack when she was in port. Hey, sweetie, she nuzzled. We used to live like this back in college. We got this one in the bag! Doncha think?
She was excited, so I figured no harm in playing along. Our first parting was a little rough, but you could see through the tears she was really happy. And I was surprised by the initial results. The twins turned out to be great beach, barbecue, and shopping buddies. They were starved for a dad-like figure who could give some shape to their lives, and I was it for that summer. We had some really good times together that I still cherish, and I hope they do, too. Ginni would get out to the Island early on Day 6 to take over with the kids, while I went over to Woods Hole to wait for my bonnie’s ship to come in. Semmy would come squealing down the gangway all aglow and into my arms. Sometimes she could not wait to get back to the house to get her hands on me. And if the roll of the ocean made her that horny—Yarr!—a pirate’s life for her!
But I think it had more to do with the air than the water. Semmy would speak of a roll-the-dice, do-or-die atmosphere populated by larger-than-life characters fanatically into what they were doing. They had taken her under their wing and given her important things to do— because there was a mission, a deadline, and not one pair of hands to spare.
The director, she told me, was laser-focused on burn rate— boat, equipment, parts, maintenance, fuel, food, water, scientists, assistants, crew— and how much more sample they could squeeze out per dollar. She said it reminded her of a film location or a photo shoot—Semmy had done some bit parts and modelling back in high school— but without the film. This was real-life, same work-hard, play-hard ethic, all-about-the-results attitude.
Knowing How to Handle These Things
One evening as they were pulling into port I fell into a chat with a newly-minted researcher out of Oregon, coming aboard to replace one of the scientists who was punching out. I told her Wow, my fiancee is heading to med school out there and, hey there she is! Semmy was waving from the top of the gangway. We’re having a farewell-welcome party, she called. Welcome aboard, Dr. Singh! Harv you’re invited, too!
We ascended to the deck to find things already cranking. Kegs of beer, bubbly, and laughter already tapped, and spilling more easily by the minute. Bio-researchers were blowing off steam after a week on the high seas, over hors d’oeuvres and tall tales of laboratory high jinks, sprinkled generously bio-innuendo. Dr Singh was greeted enthusiastically by a phalanx of PhD’s. Apparently everyone knew or knew of each other through the tangled web of conferences, forums, fellowships, authorships and projects cross-pollinating the life sciences.
Semmy pulled me aside for some PDA, which she promised to finish off below deck after introducing me around. She was obviously the darling on board that year. All had a hug and encouraging word for her, and a sincere congrats for me. I got into a great conversation with the radio operator, whom I’d spoken to several times weekly. Semmy had persuaded him to set up a ship-to-shore phone patch so we could talk while she was at sea. I thought I was doing a decent job following his solution design when Semmy whispered in my ear, Don’t move! I want you to meet our director and principal investigator. He’s world famous!
She turned and attached herself to the penumbra of a hirsute Dos Equis-like guy in a starched shirt holding court in front of the cargo elevator. Tower of power, I tell myself, this is going to be a while, and I’m liking this radio stuff. Next thing, I look over and she’s got Dr. Dos Equis’ undivided attention, his arm roped generously about her waist, hand cupping her tit.
Jet engines roar in my head. I turn from my radio guy as blackness begins eating at my field of vision, until all I can see is Semmy returning Dr D’s patronizing grin, not missing a beat as his fingers tentacle about her nipple. I see her flash that pouty I know what you’re doing and you need to stop it look. I see her lips soundlessly say fiance. I see his deep-set eyes dart toward me and—BOOM!— world famous director is down on the deck, blood spurting from his nose, wondering what just hit him. With a war cry, I’m yanking him to his feet, slamming him like a crash dummy against the huge cable spool that runs the elevator.
Screams, chairs, and glass fly, legs trip, hands grab, and next thing I know I am being dragged backwards across the deck, and cordoned against the gunwale by able-bodied researchers and seamen. Sir, calm down! Calm down! It’s okay! It’s all right!
I keep struggling to break free. I had to know where Dr. Dos Equis was hiding. Sir, you’ve got to to calm down! This is not our ship! That’s no excuse, I shout. That’s no fucking excuse! Where is he? Where’s your perv principal investigator? I’m not done with him! Semmy slips through the scrum, and is in my face. Harv, it’s all right! Harv! He does this all the time. And he’s always sorry. He doesn’t mean any harm. Harv, look at me! Am I outraged? Am I losing it? Sweetie, calm down… please!
At some point she must have nodded to the crew to get me off the boat, because next thing I remember I’m sitting on the pier, Semmy looking desperately into my eyes for signs of life as I stare vacantly up at the bouncers atop of the gangway.
Harv? Harv! Are you listening? You’re not getting back on that boat without me. And I am not going back unless you agree to apologize.
Huh? Apologize for what?
You didn’t have to do that, Harv. He didn’t know it was you.
And he always grabs your boob like that?
Only when he’s drunk. Harv, I know how to handle these things. You have to apologize.
Apologize for WHAT??
For overreacting. Was he trying to kill me? All you had to do was take him aside. Not attack him in front of everybody!
So you want Mr Deckhand to take Dr World Famous aside for a little sensitivity training?
Harv, I have to work with this guy.
I don’t want you working with this guy.
I don’t have a choice. Just say, Hey I had a little too much to drink and kind of overreacted. He’ll take it from there. He knows he can be a jerk. He is more embarrassed than anything right now. Do it for me, Harv. PLEASE!
HE needs to apologize! To me—AFTER he apologizes to you—in front of everybody!
Negotiations broke down. The following week, Semoira was back on land, back in the labs, and back on my boat… where she belonged, if you asked me. No farewell party. If there was one, I never heard about it. I guess I made an impression. Because the make-up sex was off the charts in every category. When I finally fell off her it was August, and time to book our plane tickets.
Muscle Memory and Bad Advice
The original plan was to fly out into the sunset together, but both of us failed to read the fine print. Semmy had to be on campus for classes starting end of August; I had to work the decks through Labor Day, then help Ginni close up the house. We were not going to be together for nearly a month. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been alone for that long. I probably could have if I’d tried, but didn’t particularly want to. Life is like that when you’re with the girl of your dreams. There’s a kind of unreality to your prior life. It takes on a dreamlike state. Like, did that really happen? Was I really that stupid? Was I that much of a simp?
You forget.
But you never lose the muscle memory. And for me that core competency was a knack for figuring things out— so advanced that the only thing that really got my attention was bad advice. It occurred to me that I should do a little traveling before heading West. I’d always wanted to go to Africa and see what that was all about, and this was probably my last chance.
A blonde classmate whose father was an airline pilot said she had spent a summer in Kenya teaching, and had made enough money to pay for senior year. Nairobi was a boomtown, she told me. Money was falling from the sky. You didn't need a degree. All you had to be was Western educated and you could name your price. She gave me the name of a foreigner-friendly hotel and some people to contact when I got there. You could live really cheap in Kenya. And jewelry, she rolled her eyes, was jaw-droppingly cheap.
So instead of buying a one-way ticket for Portland, and a car when I got there, I told Semmy I had decided to buy a round-trip ticket to Nairobi, and return with a ring. She smiled and said that was awesome, couldn’t wait to see it, and continued her packing.
So maybe it was not much, but at least we had a plan.
We spent our final weekend in New York. Ginni stayed out on Island with the twins so we could have the place to ourselves, which was romantic but not as erotic as hoped. There was something hanging about the apartment that made mind-blowing sex out of the question, and only the most trivial of things could find expression. So we didn’t spend much time there.
Finally, at the gate, she said it.
Harv, I love you but I don't know what’s going to happen to us.
Nothing is going to happen to us, Semmy. We’ve done this before, remember? We’ve got this in the bag! Doncha think?
Things are going to change, Harv. Everything else is. Everyone else is.
We won't, Semmy.
How do you know that?
Because love never ends.
It ended for my parents.
For the first time since I'd met him, Harv was speechless.
Semmy, I don't know much about that, I heard Harvey finally say. But I know you and I are different.
She smiled wanly, unconvinced.
Sweetie, I pleaded, it's only for a few months. You are starting your medical career, a whole new chapter you’ve wanted all your life. All I will be is in the way. You need space to land, find your way around, get settled. I'm going to pay off some bills, sock away some coin, and come back with a stake to start for our new life together.
I took her face between my hands and started kissing her until she smiled that I'm-so- in-love-with-you smile.
It would be better to have you with me, she said wistfully.
It will be better, I promised. And I will be with you. And if you get worried, call. I'll hop on a plane and be there in twenty-fours!
She felt better when I told her that. I could tell.
Then I kissed her deeply, and said, Semoira King, I have loved you forever, long before I ever met you, and always will.
I turned and walked away, biting my lip, trying not to look back. Because if I knew that if I did, and she was wearing that shattered look she had on the night we first met, it was all over. Everything would change.
Finally I could stand it no longer, and turned, ready to renounce right there before angel, God and man the many sins of Harv and the wickedness of his ways.
But she was gone.
Next on Five Stages: That’s My Soul Up There—because how could love ever end?
You’re reading Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0, by Harvey Oxenhorn. Subscribe here to join the journey, and get subsequent posts mailed to your inbox and on your mobile app. And feel free to comment below with any feedback, questions, or requests.
Harvey Oxenhorn, is a cybersecurity consultant, author of The Five Stages of Unf*ck, Red Pill Journey to January 2.0. for the millions of men mangled by years of unchecked and unquestioned feminism, globalism, and Woke. He is also founder of Malwords Weekly, and author of the upcoming book, The Atrocity Algorithm, How The Media Became The Enemy of The People. Follow him on Gettr, Gab, and MeWe @HarveyOxenhorn