THE RENAISSANCE WOMAN
Dreamed 1997/7/3 by Chris Wayan
I live in a cooperative whorehouse here in San Francisco.
Prostitution's part a job for me and part therapy--I was abused, and it helps to practice feeling safe with sex, being in control (not to mention getting paid). I still don't have a great sex life on my own though. I'm working on it. Some awkward affairs with other girls. But nothing's really worked out yet.
A lot of us here are witches, and I do make a lot of progress learning magic. At last, on Beltane, I open a time-door and summon a famous courtesan from centuries ago--a whore who ran one of her generation's great social and literary circles.
Yep. A Renaissance woman.
She's wonderful--all I hoped. Warm, witty, relaxed about sex, unscarred by our century's nasty little gender wars. In bed with her, I start to relax and really come.
She decides she'd like to stay here, in our time. With me. My Renaissance girl. My housemates universally like her; they vote to let Ren join the co-op. I'm in paradise.
Late one night we're all sitting in the kitchen talking. Our house madam for the month (we rotate) praises Ren for her patience with the late night shift, that the rest of us always complain about. She laughs "But that's no effort! I always worked the night shift in the Renaissance, too--born a night-owl...
"'Tis funny, is't not? Here I've flown centuries, yet it's only a few hours that truly matter. A child of Mistress Moon, not Master Sun. Ah, well. Never ask a lark to do the owl's job, my chicks."
I giggle. "You're my Wren, and no one else does what you do for me."
"Ah, my dove," says my Renaissance girl wickedly, "I'm touched that you praise me... above these turkeys."
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