8:19 a.m. - 2005-06-08
Prude Rant
Why was it that I was drawn to cruel, narcissistic men? My father was controlling, yes, but very humble and devoted. Still, I could be in a room of kind and endearing men and leave with the one who was self absorbed and mean. It is an unresolved mystery to this day. Of course, Mark loved the poem. It lauded his domineering attributes, sang praises to his stature and fed his already bloated ego. He invited me to his office, telling me I had obvious literary talent, inviting me to assist him with a book he was writing on Adlerian therapy. I was so excited that someone had finally taken my writing seriously, recognized my faint voice. I leapt at the chance. I felt like a favored child, calling Barbara to tell her that I was at last going to be a real author. We squealed like the adolescent girls we emotionally were. Mark scribbled directions to his home, just off campus. He was in his fifties, a psychologist as well as professor, married with two teenage children. I brought a purple spiral notebook along with a sincere and naive expectation. Very little writing was done at that initial session. Early on, he directed me into his room and attempted to seduce me there on his wife's bed. As though I was expected to know that the writing had been simply a ruse and we both knew what I was really there for. I resisted and was called a prude, a title I knew well since being with David. I felt shamed and exposed. Clearly, I was the problem. He sent me home crying and the only real writing that was accomplished that day was a self-scathing poem entitled "I am Sandra fucking Dee". I berated my hesistency to casually betray my own and his marriage vows. The world I lived in bore no resemblance to the world I grew up in, with comittments honored and affections safely in context. The culture reflected Mark's values or lack thereof. Donna Summer extolled the virtues of "Bad Girls". The mirrored disco ball reflected back the fractured faces of soulless clones. My generation teetered on its platform shoes, looking down on our parents' provincial standards. The one edict was to avoid at all cost becoming 'them'. And so, I recinded. I would meet Mark every Wednesday at his friend Don's apartment in Studio City. I would read Anais Nin in preparation for the debauchery, filling my mind with erotic images to override Mark's actual physical presence, which was stout and hairy. And so, I degraded myself weekly for a handful of cashews and a little Blue Nun. Ater the obligatory sweating, I enjoyed the only part for which I actually allowed myself to be fully present. We would lie on the bed and I would listen to Mark tell me that, next to me, all women are misshapen. No one is as talented or beautiful or smart. And I would gently pet Don's cat, Ladybug. And I would look outside the window at the red tile rooftops and pretend I was in Andalucia, Spain at Hemmingway's own villa. Don's apartment was full of glass fairies and mermaids and interesting books left on the bedstand. The closet, left open, was full of shirts that could have been David's, various colors, in plaid western style with snaps for buttons. There was a photograph of Don in one of those shirts on the pine dresser. He was tall and lanky with shaggy dark hair. I began to spin a fantasy about Don and one day left a poem for him on the pillow. He responded with his own poem, which was truly beautiful. One Wednesday, there was a sealed envelope addressed to "Lady". He was quite ready to betray his friend for me. Not wanting to be a prude, I responded. We met at a sushi bar he where everyone knew him. He plied me with exotic fare, raw and slimy. Back at the apartment, Don did not offer wine, but rather what he called "Sensimea". He said he had been saving it for our first encounter. I wasn't a smoker and didn't really know how. But, not wanting to be a prude, I inhaled deeply the musky fumes. Minutes later, everything went scarlet. I could visually watch the blood throbbing in my veins. I tried to focus on the gray tiles he used for a bookshelf, but the pattern of the concrete became a part of the red kaleidascope that was my new world. Then Don decided to show me his gun collection. Terrified, I tried to appeal to Ladybug, to the coven of fairies dancing in dark corners of the room, to the sirens that beckoned from the balcony. Nauseous, I began to spew half digested sushi on his earthtone carpet. "What can I do for you?", he asked in wavy tones somewhere very far away. "Call my husband," I pleaded in stacatto. Now HE looked scared, there behind the red, red curtain of my mind. "Is that cool?", he asked timidly. "Call my HUSBAND!", I said with authority. And David arrived, appeasing Don with stoner chatter about what a lightweight I was. I think they even shared the remainder of a joint, but I couldn't swear to it. I was melting into the sound of David's voice in the distance, the voice of protection, the familiar crazy voice of my real life. On the ride home, he stopped to get me a Three Muskateers. He spoke in soothing, melodious tones. Gently, he helped me undress and laid me reverently under the soft covers. He asked no questions, but kissed me on the cheek, smoothing my damp brow. He never mentioned it again. And that is what I know of sacrificial love.
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