butterfly-my-name

[butterfly-my-name]

We first met in my native Pécs, didn’t we. A group of us were crossing the square. I had looked up, briefly, and you were there ; it was that simple. Your rucksack had a badge with Alaska printed on, and a firece bear, and your forearm had three long red marks across it that looked very much like a real bear had made your acquaintance.

‘Nyari?’ A nun ahead of me, Andrea had inquired, half turning to face me, and I nodded in her direction.

Then I felt your fingers lightly on my arm. ‘Sorry,’ you said, ‘I’m a bit lost.’

Andrea looked at me, puzzled, and two or three other nuns stopped, turned. I blushed. You smiled.

‘You guys walking up there?’ You asked.

‘No, no, we are heading there, to our convent,’ I answered, my English stilted, careful, through lack of use.

‘Follow me,’ I said, to Andrea’s widening mouth and raised eyebrows.

‘Are you sure that was wise,’ she said when I got back to our imposing convent on Sesy ter.

‘I hope you’re joking,’ I replied.

It was two days later when I really met you. The Sisters of…work in Pécs hospital. We have duties similar to auxiliary nurses, helping patients dress, …

You were in the 4th bed; needed bandages changing, washing. At first you did not recognise me. When you did, you smiled.

‘Bit of a problem,’ you said, ‘some old scratches not healing like they should.’

‘They are not scratches, they are wounds,’ I answered, looking at the charts

‘Yeah, wounds then.’

‘On your lower belly.’

‘Yeah, on my lower belly.’

‘And thigh.’

‘Also,’ you smiled.

‘So, I’ll need to take the bandage off, the patches, gauze, and change them.’

‘Right.’

‘But first wash it, the area I mean.’

‘True.’

‘So I’ll just move your blanket off.’

‘Ok.’

‘And um, close the curtain.’

‘Ok.’

‘I’ll, um, I might have to take your pyjamas down a little.’

‘Yeah.’

I watched as you opened your pyjama top. I cut the gauze, cut more and tugged gently. Then I stopped.

‘I must undo the pyjamas.’

‘Sure.’

I pulled the cord but it tightened the knot. Using both hands I worked to undo the knot with my fingers, a panicked shyness rising inside me, but also something else, a sudden tingle between my legs, the surprise causing my elbow to brush something, something warm, soft, and I let go of the cord quickly, and pulled arms back.

‘Sorry,’ you said, and reached down to the cord yourself, looking downwards. After a short struggle you lifted your hips, hooked your thumbs and tugged at your pyjama bottoms, tugged again and brought them down, wincing as they grazed the white patches covering the shrapnel wounds.

The pyajama fly was open at the waist, but the cord was still tied. I pulled a bit more, and saw that trail of hair from your belly button, on your tight stomach, with the scars from shrapnel cut across, all the way down to tight black pubic hair, and the hint, a mere hint of your masculinity, covered by the flimsy striped pyjamas. I paused, talk a deep breath. You lifted your hips again. I knew I had to, in order to do my job, and tugged on the right side, then left, and the pyjama pants slid down your thighs.

I did not move for a second. Then I said it, perhaps just for something to say, to relax you, or to relax me: ‘looks nice,’ I said. It was.

Silence.

I felt my face flush, needed to run. What did I just say? I asked myself. My goodness. It was innocence expressed, surely. It was. But it was there, in front of me, just about the first I had ever seen in real life. Warm, thick, soft, head a lovely purple colour.

‘Is it bad!’ you asked, looking at me.

‘No, no, just some cleaning, antiseptic powder.’

‘Ah, ok.’ You lay back down. I pulled at my latex gloves, and wiped carefully, then did what I had to do, and lifted your, your manhood, with my fingers to clean around it, carefully, then placed fresh gauzes back, and started bandaging.

‘You’ll, uh, leave a space for me to, uh…’

‘To?’

‘Well to piss, you seem to be covering a lot!’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I blushed, again, beetroot red, surely, by now.

‘And not too many bandages, just in case I see you on the street, the bandages will rip off, and then you’ll have to repair me, in public.’

‘Oh.’

When I was finished I stood back. The feeling between my legs was exquisite, urgent, warm, and wet, and I fought to ignore it, fought to stand straight, collecting the old gauzes, scissors and antiseptic powder.

‘Will be alright for a couple of days,’ I said. ‘Someone will check it again, or you must come back to change the, um…’ I searched for the English word, ‘dressings. Someone will do that.’

‘Now that we have been introduced, will we meet again?’ you grinned.

‘I don’t think so,’ I started. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’

[butterfly-my-name]

2

We first met in my native Pécs, didn’t we. A group of us were crossing the square. I had looked up, briefly, and you were there ; it was that simple. Your rucksack had a badge with Alaska printed on, and a firece bear, and your forearm had three long red marks across it that looked very much like a real bear had made your acquaintance.

‘Nyari?’ A nun ahead of me, Andrea had inquired, half turning to face me, and I nodded in her direction.

Then I felt your fingers lightly on my arm. ‘Sorry,’ you said, ‘I’m a bit lost.’

Andrea looked at me, puzzled, and two or three other nuns stopped, turned. I blushed. You smiled.

‘You guys walking up there?’ You asked.

‘No, no, we are heading there, to our convent,’ I answered, my English stilted, careful, through lack of use.

‘Follow me,’ I said, to Andrea’s widening mouth and raised eyebrows.

‘Are you sure that was wise,’ she said when I got back to our imposing convent on Sesy ter.

‘I hope you’re joking,’ I replied.

It was two days later when I really met you. The Sisters of…work in Pécs hospital. We have duties similar to auxiliary nurses, helping patients dress, …

You were in the 4th bed; needed bandages changing, washing. At first you did not recognise me. When you did, you smiled.

‘Bit of a problem,’ you said, ‘some old scratches not healing like they should.’

‘They are not scratches, they are wounds,’ I answered, looking at the charts

‘Yeah, wounds then.’

‘On your lower belly.’

‘Yeah, on my lower belly.’

‘And thigh.’

‘Also,’ you smiled.

‘So, I’ll need to take the bandage off, the patches, gauze, and change them.’

‘Right.’

‘But first wash it, the area I mean.’

‘True.’

‘So I’ll just move your blanket off.’

‘Ok.’

‘And um, close the curtain.’

‘Ok.’

‘I’ll, um, I might have to take your pyjamas down a little.’

‘Yeah.’

I watched as you opened your pyjama top. I cut the gauze, cut more and tugged gently. Then I stopped.

‘I must undo the pyjamas.’

‘Sure.’

I pulled the cord but it tightened the knot. Using both hands I worked to undo the knot with my fingers, a panicked shyness rising inside me, but also something else, a sudden tingle between my legs, the surprise causing my elbow to brush something, something warm, soft, and I let go of the cord quickly, and pulled arms back.

‘Sorry,’ you said, and reached down to the cord yourself, looking downwards. After a short struggle you lifted your hips, hooked your thumbs and tugged at your pyjama bottoms, tugged again and brought them down, wincing as they grazed the white patches covering the shrapnel wounds.

The pyajama fly was open at the waist, but the cord was still tied. I pulled a bit more, and saw that trail of hair from your belly button, on your tight stomach, with the scars from shrapnel cut across, all the way down to tight black pubic hair, and the hint, a mere hint of your masculinity, covered by the flimsy striped pyjamas. I paused, talk a deep breath. You lifted your hips again. I knew I had to, in order to do my job, and tugged on the right side, then left, and the pyjama pants slid down your thighs.

I did not move for a second. Then I said it, perhaps just for something to say, to relax you, or to relax me: ‘looks nice,’ I said. It was.

Silence.

I felt my face flush, needed to run. What did I just say? I asked myself. My goodness. It was innocence expressed, surely. It was. But it was there, in front of me, just about the first I had ever seen in real life. Warm, thick, soft, head a lovely purple colour.

‘Is it bad!’ you asked, looking at me.

‘No, no, just some cleaning, antiseptic powder.’

‘Ah, ok.’ You lay back down. I pulled at my latex gloves, and wiped carefully, then did what I had to do, and lifted your, your manhood, with my fingers to clean around it, carefully, then placed fresh gauzes back, and started bandaging.

‘You’ll, uh, leave a space for me to, uh…’

‘To?’

‘Well to piss, you seem to be covering a lot!’

‘Oh, yes, of course,’ I blushed, again, beetroot red, surely, by now.

‘And not too many bandages, just in case I see you on the street, the bandages will rip off, and then you’ll have to repair me, in public.’

‘Oh.’

When I was finished I stood back. The feeling between my legs was exquisite, urgent, warm, and wet, and I fought to ignore it, fought to stand straight, collecting the old gauzes, scissors and antiseptic powder.

‘Will be alright for a couple of days,’ I said. ‘Someone will check it again, or you must come back to change the, um…’ I searched for the English word, ‘dressings. Someone will do that.’

‘Now that we have been introduced, will we meet again?’ you grinned.

‘I don’t think so,’ I started. ‘I don’t think that’s possible.’

[butterfly-my-name]

1

O the butterflies danced when I saw Ponto Veccio in Firenze, or walked through the small street labyrinthes of Rome. But here, it was different. They seemed to float up, in a tingling sort of way, from the pit of my belly, as I stood barefoot on the warm beach. Behind me, where orange roofs reached up from the sea, the old town of cafes and patterned flowers lined railings on uneven streets. And in front of me the sea hushed up the sand, calm and serene, and the view at the beach was the deep blue horizon, an indigo dream on the edge of Europe, far from the Vatican, across the Black Sea from the Eucumenical Patriach of Constantinople.

The water rolled inwards in small waves around my toes, nails painted orange too, like the misty roofs, and its accompanying breeze that pulled at my hair, and wrapped strands onto my face, lulling me into the belief that I could sail oceans, the wind tugging harder when my thoughts became too practical. Instead I tucked my hair back into place, and looked at the landscape beyond the white buildings pressed against the seashore, balconies flickering lights in the dusk, as I let the fresh air play around me.

I felt exhilarated, and far from the distant meadows of scented grass of home beneath me, in those long hot Mecsek days and short thunderstorm bursts that soaked to the seams of my dress. And in those early summer mornings, when the last dewdrop on a blade of grass had yet to fall, I thought of the journeys I had taken to get here; a desire dawned, as the last notes of a strummed guitar by the embers of a campfire faded, my young need, then, yearning for adventure, to lie back and be swept up, taken. At those moments, with sun rays reaching from as far as I could see, I knew that for those flutters of beautiful, exotic butterflies I had sought and found the summers of sensuality unseen, those moments among tree trunks in a dark, mysterious forest just out of my reach, where alone I would feel that thrill when my skirt was lifted. But I kept sanctimoniously alert to my greater duty: salvation, to submit to a higher need.

On the beach I saw the fishermen arriving back with their catch, dragging their boats up onto the beach, muscles and olive skin wet with sweat and sea spray. I felt that sudden small tingle as I watch them pull their boats, wrap up ropes, nets and boxes, before walking up the beach. And the hunkiest one walked up the beach towards me, with just that one glance and smile in those charcoal eyes, felt those butterflies, and when I looked at his chest, his shirt unbuttoned low, I felt a warm wetness between my legs, and his masculinity rippled through me, and goosebumps sprinkled on my skin in a chilly sort of way. I did not avert my gaze, as he wrapped up ropes, nets and boxes, before walking up the beach past me. but that feeling between my legs shining like a star which turns an aimless wander in soft desert sands into a soul defining relevation.

I unwound my head dress, and took it off, and removed my habit. In the shower I watched the spray from the nozzle for a moment, then brought the shower head down my body, then slowly, hesitating, pointed it upwards between my legs, instantly feeling the stream of water spray directly, and exquisitely everywhere, in a powerful spray. I thought again of the fisherman who passed me, and I imagined him dropping his fishing trousers as he grabbed me, revealing his size as it rose, his lips on my wanting neck. The feeling was intense, I gasped, and then wet, wrapped in towel, cross hanging from fingers, I knelt at the bed and prayed.

I will always remember you leaving too soon. You haunted me in memory, richly, luxuriously, like the chocolate eclairs that we shared, that were too tasty for their own good. I wanted to tell you that I missed eating those eclairs with you, also, as well as many other moments, many of them so unseeming for a nun, well, a novice, that I wondered if I had stepped too far, a long distance from the road to nunhood I was onto clear my mind had perhaps divulged more clarity than would be good for me.