Succubus Dreams
The dictionary told me a succubus is a demon in female form, or supernatural entity in folklore (traced back to medieval legend) that appears in dreams and takes the form of a woman in order to seduce men, usually through sexual activity.
I said to myself, said I, well duh. But couldn’t she bake buttermilk biscuits and fry me some eggs beurre noir? At my age that would seduce the heck out of me! I’m so old now the other thing is only remotely possible — absent demon Viagra.
And why was I looking up succubus? Because the news suddenly is full of some female preacher talking about demon lovers. As if they’re a real thing. The poet Coleridge wrote of the male counterpart, an incubus, in his opium-fueled poem about a pleasure dome:
“A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!”
Odd the connections that occur to me sometimes. Once upon a time I was a bureaucrat in a powerful government agency where the question of bribes came up. When a lawyer representing the underworld hinted I would be welcome at an exclusive hunting club, hell yes I was tempted. The debbil always knows the right pitch. But I saw the slippery slope implied in the proffer, and declined. Get thee behind me, debbil, and keep your pheasants and Canada geese. When I disclosed the approach to our top lawyer, who occupied a key position to interfere with hoodlum operations, he sighed and lamented: Heck, nobody ever offered me a damn thing. I feel left out!
Not an exact analogy for a sweaty night visit by a succubus. Where before you can say you’re not that kind of a guy, you are that kind of a guy. But with demon-lovers in the news, I found myself lamenting I never was so accosted over a long and misspent life. Not even back when I could have showed her a good time. I know I was ready; heck, I was born ready.
As proof I offer the wee-hours barracks kiss.
I was a horny young GI between assignations at the time, sleeping in a barracks full of healthy, horny, mostly frustrated males. Except for the kid from New York’s garment district, scion of a clothier empire, drafted for Vietnam like the rest of us. Except he had a car, he had folding money, he had a way of finagling off-post privileges to take advantage of wheels and cash. He always had girls, sometimes two at once, and loved to flaunt his bounty. He had a casual contempt for the rest of us, considered us intimidated by females. So one night he directed his squeeze of the moment to slip through the darkened barracks and plant lip locks on sleeping GIs. He gleefully anticipated shock and dismay.
I thought I was dreaming. Warm, mobile lips molding to mine. My tongue answered hers instantly. My arms lifted to encircle her before I was fully awake. The kiss — ah, the kiss — was sweet as it was brief, as she pulled back. An errant gleam from the mess-hall night light next door fell across her features. She was smiling softly, a little surprised, seeming reluctant to break the moment. I reached for her…
Ah no, no, no, came the garment-district kid’s nasal tones. He tugged her away, put his arm around her, and spirited her away as I climbed out of the rack in my skivvies. I wasn’t entirely awake, and she was gone as magically as she appeared. Only the taste of her lips remained to prove I wasn’t dreaming. So I went back to sleep. It was only next day I got my review from the jokester. Man, I never expected anything like that! Like you were just waiting for her. She shook up the other guys. Not you. Geesh. And she said you ain’t a bad kisser. Good thing I got her outta here or I mighta lost a girl friend.
Mr. Cool had developed a new, wary respect for me. Bring her back anytime, I said. Not on your life, and you get no invites to my parties, either! You’re dangerous…
Close as I ever came to a succubus. Old as I am now, all I can hope for is biscuits and eggs beurre noir. But that kiss remains a sweet memory of what might have been.
