Dear Prudence,
I don’t usually write to advice columnists– actually I don’t even usually read your column– but I don’t know where else to turn. And it’s not just because the problem is sexual... well, it’s not really sexual... but it’s partly sexual. I guess you could call it sexual, but it’s mostly weird. I am writing to you for advice because I have a very weird sexual problem... but not in the kinky sex weird sort of way that people usually write to you about. This is Halloween weird.
My wife would have a hissy-fit if she saw that I wrote that. Not because I’m saying she’s weird– which I’m not– well, yes, I am, but that’s not the point. My wife would be all hissy-fit and screaming because I used the word “Halloween” to describe anything to do with her. To her Halloween is an abomination. It is a corruption of the true faith passed down through the generations from mother to daughter.
She puts up Halloween decorations and hands out candy to the kids and all that, but she insists that the true Celtic Dark Night, from which Halloween descends, is on the first dark of the moon following the Autumnal Equinox. That is when the veil between this world and the next– and the previous– is at its thinnest. Depending on how the solar and lunar calendars line up, Dark Night can be almost a month before October thirty-first. Dark Night is very special to my wife because that is when she and her friends gather to celebrate what she calls ‘Shavnah’.
That’s another way you can start a hissy-fit with her. If you transliterate the word for Dark Night from Gaelic letters into English letters, you end up with ‘Samhain’, which the supposed authority on all things Celtic, Gerald Gardiner, says should be pronounced “Soween.” But my wife is adamant it is pronounced, “Shavnah” in the original Gaelic with the last part of the word sounding like “saw”. If you say ‘Soween’, she will huff at you and say, “You might as well say Halloween.”
She will then go on to say, “My family was pronouncing it ‘Shavnah’ for generations before that man was even born. If he had taken the time to actually speak to any of the Celts in Ireland rather than just burying his face in old books, he would have gotten that– and a lot of other things– right.”
I think I need to back up and explain things a little. My wife and I are both Irish. She doesn’t like to be called Irish either but she doesn’t go all hissy-fit over it. Let me clarify a little further. We both trace our ancestry to Ireland and are as pure blood as anyone can be. I say I am Irish. My wife says she is Celtic. There is another word she uses, but I can’t pronounce it. She says it was the name of the land when the Mother of the Glen still reigned over all that was green. My heritage is Irish. Her heritage is Celtic... very, very, Celtic.
Her name is also Celtic– Díonó– but nobody ever hears that right, so everyone calls her Diana. Her driver’s license and things like that even say Diana Sidle, but her real name is Díonó Sidhé. Sidhé is not my last name. It’s not her father’s last name either. It is her mother’s last name. And her mother’s first name is Díonó. So they are both Díonó Sidhé.
Díonó kept her maiden name when we got married. That means her name is still the same as her mother’s... and her dear departed grandmother’s... and her great-grandmother’s... and every other woman that I can find tracing her lineage back on her family tree.
She says she can’t change her name because it isn’t a name, it is her title passed down to her from the Grandmother of the Stars. She told me that it means Friend of the Mound in old Gaelic. She claims that she has been called to be a Friend of the Mound just as her mother... and her mother’s mother... and her mother’s mother’s mother... and on back to before the mountains rose from the sea. I looked her name up on the internet and that’s what several of the sites say it means. A couple, however, said it could also be translated as Mother of the Fay.
I guess I have a title too... Leprechaun. Everyone calls me Leprechaun because... well, I look like one, or at least I look like that weird Leprechaun Notre Dame uses as it team mascot. I don’t smoke a pipe or wear strange green clothing or run around with my fists in the air searching for a fight, but I’m short and my hair is that same orange color and I have what people call a “Leprechaun Beard.”
With my beard in that weird pattern, everyone assumes I am trying to look like a Leprechaun, so that’s what they call me. I don’t trim it that way. In fact, I don’t trim it at all. It just grows out looking like that... very quickly. I’ve tried keeping my face smooth-shaven, but– especially since I got married– it grows too quickly and looks scruffy by the end of the day. For some reason, if I let it grow out, it slows down after it gets to the proper length.
I would probably get teased even more about my height except my wife is even shorter than I am. Petite doesn’t begin to describe her. She could shop in the children’s section and most of the clothing would look big on her.
She is small, but she has a perfect body in proportion to her size. When she is naked, she looks almost like a porcelain doll with perfectly-shaped breasts and bright blue eyes. Her nipples are bright pink, and so is her clit– when you can see it behind that thick, tightly-curled triangle of black hair. The hair on her head is also black, but it’s straight. It hangs straight down from her head all the way down her back.
I don’t know how I was lucky enough to have such a fine partner in life. I was at a party in college when she walked up to me and said, “We are meant for each other. You will be my Leprechaun and I will be your Díonó.” We dated for a little over a year before getting married on the first day of spring. I wanted to get married earlier, but she said it had to be on the Vernal Equinox.
Sexually, I am an average-sized male. I’ve looked it up on the net– who hasn’t? That is probably good since she might have a problem accepting someone much larger than me. She likes to be on top most of the time when we have sex... unless we are doing it doggy style. It isn’t that my weight crushes her or anything like that. She will probably get mad that I am telling someone this, but the problem is that her hair gets caught behind her back and when I thrust into her it pulls on the back of her head. She says that hurts, but I think it is mostly that it causes her head to bob up and down like she is continually saying yes. If she comes to bed with her hair all wrapped up and held in place, I know that she wants “on the bottom” sex that night.
I don’t have a preference. I can be more in control if I am on top, and I think I can thrust into her harder and give her more pleasure. But if she is on top, I can reach up and play with her beautiful breasts. Those pink nipples grow to at least double their length when she really gets turned on.
Her breasts are really sensitive. If I play with her nipples and massage her breasts, she starts driving herself into me with her legs wide open so her pussy slams against my body. Then as she is rising up she clenches everything up really tight so it feels like she is almost pulling me out by the roots.
That sounds like things are fine, doesn’t it? But there’s a problem, and that problem centers around Dark Night. Every year on Dark Night, she goes away with her mother to wherever it is that they go. She told me all about this before we got married and it is something I agreed to. She and her mother go out to “the glen” on Dark Night and do whatever it is that they do, and I stay home in my recliner and watch TV.