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It began as a joke, a little game we’d play. Ella and I would be in bed in the morning, just waking up, and, every time, she’d be eager to do things. "Not now,” I said on this particular morning just as I had the morning before and the one before that removing her slender left hand from under my boxer shorts. "But why?” Ella’s tone, typically, would be playful here, wry and sarcastic. This was a joke, it would indicate. A game. She was simply saying: Remember when we used to jump on each other in the mornings and hump like starved wildebeests? Who is this nervous, stuttering weirdo curled up next to me in the fetal position? That’s all. Ha ha. Very cute. The end. Except in this instance, I noticed a slight but unmistakable shift in Ella’s manner: edgy, caustic; here was a new, what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you, can-we-seriously-please-go-back-to-the-starved-wildebeest-humping kind of tone. Outside our apartment window the day was forming, a stunning one at that, sunlight ricocheting off polished surfaces, strange cars and people doing their thing, starting and stopping, emitting noise. Inside our apartment, unfortunately, was this.
My therapist, for the record, would have an explanation. Indeed, my therapist would most certainly bring up what she refers to as my "severe intimacy issues.” There she is, I can see her now: that sneer, the angry calm she exudes, twiddling her little pen, crossing and re-crossing her legs, and then explaining that my repeated failures at work were "breeding a cycle of perpetual self-loathing,” that had "inhibited my self-confidence,” making me feel "hopelessly inadequate,” thus rendering intimacy "impossible.” Her voice sounds automated, synthetic. Her clothes are ironed to the point where they look made of cardboard. Intimacy, my therapist would then let me know, is "a fragile equilibrium,” one that’s "sustained through time and patience.” Finally, my therapist would look me straight in the eye, which is something that makes me feel jittery and small, and sternly add that my "chronic maternal hang-ups” certainly weren’t helping matters, either.
But what’s that, really? Jargon. Psychobabble. The words of a bitter woman (I believe she is single) with too many post-graduate degrees whom Ella suggested I better start seeing or else. And so I was alone, left grasping at straws, or whatever that expression is — I can never remember — forced to search for an explanation on my own.
A week or so later, one morning, I was at the computer working. A little something to know about me as I tell you this story: I like my work. I like my computer. I like to sit and work at my computer for many, many hours. (I’m sitting there right now, as it happens, taking a break.) My work soothes; my work brings comfort. My work requires a seriousness and diligence that I, despite what my therapist deems my "repeated failures,” and what Ella deems the fact that "being unproductive is not rebelling against the productive class,” and what my mother deems "a sorry waste of human life,” take great pride in. Without delving into the private details of our first meeting and the two years that had passed since then, let me simply say this: In the beginning things were different. Neighbors, to give one small example, had once called the police on us, not accustomed to hearing, through the walls of their apartment, two young people in love shouting, "Do the dagger thing!” or "I’ll show you a lion tamer!” or "I’m dead serious, if we killed my mother no one would care!”
That is Ella, I’d think, chewing a forkful of something finely prepared and overpriced. And she is really in this vaguely French bistro with you. And look at her: so striking, the kind of woman male minds furiously invent but never expect the opportunity to process in the flesh. And she is actually reaching across the table right now — to touch your hand. Because she actually likes you.
That night, in bed, after shutting off the light, Ella slithered over to me. She kissed my neck, bit tenderly on my earlobe, licked my chest, my navel. She promised, in a husky whisper than invoked in me a hazy, uncomfortable nostalgia, to do things that would, afterward, cause temporary blindness. She told me to prepare myself, and then she slid her hand under my boxer shorts. I was aroused, immensely aroused, but felt, simultaneously, consumed by guilt. For one, I’d been so uptight lately, so preoccupied with work, and here she was, so eager, so willing, as the expression goes. And perhaps more to the point: I found myself beginning to picture one of the hot and nasty pixilated vixens from earlier, which seemed flat-out blasphemous.
"Me too.”
And so it began. What my therapist would come to describe as our "mutual recognition of the problem and mutual desire to seek remedy,” what my mother would call "sick and twisted,” what I would call, more simply, looking at the computer together for a bit — quality sites like teenwhores4u.com or thugsnvirgins.com or, my personal favorite, mommyslutsrus.com — and then going our separate ways to consummate the act. Ella would coyly scoot off to the bedroom, I’d stay there in the office, my boxer shorts knotted around my shins, mentally superimposing Ella’s parts with those of the vixens, and vice versa, amazed at the seemingly endless combinations that were possible. "I don’t get it,” Ella said when I got home and, excitedly, showed off my bounty.
Describing what happened next is difficult. You could call it a fresh start, if you’re so inclined. You could call it rekindled romance. Or you could call it going to Nasty Ned’s Pleasure Nest, a few weeks later, and purchasing a Vibrating Love Wand for Ella, and a Motorized Magic Pelvis for me, and watching Gonzo’s Gang Bang, Part 13 every Tuesday night. I really don’t care. All that mattered was that we were once again drawn to one another, purely, raptly, and that those awkward conversations and awkward moments between Ella and I were a thing of the past. A distant memory. An old joke. A game we used to play.
The room, just then, grew quiet, paranormally so: the TV faded, the mutual mechanical hums of Wand and Pelvis vanished, as if devoured by a black hole. The entire city, I felt, had taken on a vaporous, slow-motion texture. My stomach turned. I looked at Ella. She looked at me. There were the perfect hazel flecks skittering across her crystalline irises. Those bright little teeth. Her cheeks, her lips, her eyelashes. Her body, slathered in Larry’s Love Lube, naked and firm and glistening on the newly plastic-covered cushions. For a moment I felt calm, like nothing in the world could ever be all that bad, despite these times in which we live. n°
©2004 David |
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