2 posts tagged “love”

Somethings are just too painful to talk about, at least right away.  So rather than do what I usually do and lie, I'll just talk about some other people's relationship.

Let me tell you about my friends Freddie and Sherlyn.  They weren't really my friends, just the kind of people you call your friends, run into them at parties, chit-chat.  In fact, I despised them and Sherlyn, at least, returned the sentiment.  Her husband Freddie however always wanted to talk to me.  He would buttonhole me at parties and tell me stuff I didn't want to hear.

He was a weasel and she was a castrating bitch, so no one was surprised when they got divorced.  After the breakup, she was bitter and at the slightest mention of her ex, would launch into a venomous tirade about Freddie and his shortcomings, both physical and moral.

I never got his side of the story.  He would still buttonhole me, but would never take the bait when I tried to lure him into trashing his ex-wife.  He would just change the subject, talk about his latest conquests, in the most distaste terms.  "See that piece over there?"  he asked me at one party, pointing out a hollow-eyed blonde across the crowded room.  "Sweet ass, but talked too much.  Soon as I finished, I gave her her walking papers.  She pretended to be all upset.  Hard to cry and wipe come off your face at the same time."  He laughed, loudly enough that people around us looked over.

And no one was surprised, or particularly saddened, when Freddie was killed.  He was drunk and slammed his Camaro into a bridge abutment.  Most people were just relieved he didn't take anyone with him, although only a few people went so far as to say it out loud.

I went to the funeral mostly for black amusement value, to see what the bereaved would think up to say to try to praise the dear departed.  The service was at a columbarium, which is to say, a building where they store the ashes of cremated bodies.  The small auditorium was half-full and every cough and shuffle echoed.  Several people stood up to talk about Freddie, mostly war buddies.  He had worked at the PX during Desert Storm and never fired a shot in anger, but he had worn the uniform, you can't take that from him.

I considered standing up and telling some of my stories about him.  Like the creepy afternoon he came over to my apartment to show me an old VHS of a porn movie he had "starred" in before he got married.  He wasn't even the star, just one of the guys getting blown in the background.  Even in the blurred copy, I could see that at least one of his ex-wife's complaints about him was fully justified.  The creepiest part was he was so proud of himself, so eager that I be impressed. I would have told that story, except that his two teen-aged nieces were sitting in the front row.  I decided to keep my mouth shut.

His second wife, a little mouse of a girl named Mary, gave a brief, stilted eulogy.  Freddie used to tell me that he liked to have anal sex with her, solely because she didn't like it.

Finally, Sherlyn came to the podium.  The betting was that Sherlyn would just give some semi-sincere crap about "the good part" of her relationship with Freddie.  Usual happy-horseshit, like Mary's speech.  But there was a chance that she would let loose with her usual profanity-laced rant about her cheating, lazy, short-dicked ex-husband.  Perhaps half the guys in attendance, including to be perfectly honest, me, only showed up for that.  If she did do it, if she did take this last opportunity to bitch out feckless, faithless, friendless Freddy, it would be, we were sure, the Best Funeral Ever.

She stood at the podium and looked out blankly.  Come on, I willed her, come on.  You know you want to belittle that worthless piece of crap just one last time.  You cussed him out at his birthday party, you threw a drink at him over an anniversary dinner, don't hold back at his funeral.  We all came for the show.  This is your last chance to mock his stupid gun-fighter mustache, his sexual inadequacy, his overpowering cologne.

Sherlyn took a deep breath and then burst into tears.  She sobbed uncontrollably until Mary and Freddie's sister came over and helped her away from the podium.

There are a lot of problems with infidelity.  Legal problems, moral problems, emotional problems, scheduling problems.  I've dealt with those. I'm mostly down to practical problems.

Actually, one particular practical problem: it's rather hard to commit adultery by yourself.  But how do you convince someone to commit it with you?

I mean, most women are looking for a relationship, and eventually marriage.  Already being married puts something of a crimp in that.  Some fraction of women might be interested in sex qua sex, but I'm not in a position to inquire directly (especially given the fairly large fraction of other women who would rat me out to the wife for even asking).

Sooner or later, I'm just going to have to take a shot.

I'm thinking of one woman particular.  I'll call her Astrid for the simple reason that it isn't her name.  She's lovely: slender body, appealing face.  My wife says she looks like Sophie Marceau.  I don't agree, but she'll do while Sophie is out of town.

The downside, and it's a biggie, is that she's my best friend's wife.  Well, not best friend, but a really good friend.  And not wife, but they've been engaged forever and I just got the invite to their wedding.  Looking forward to it.

And really, what could be lower, sleazier, than bird-dogging your friend's girlfriend?  OK, so I'm low.  I'm sleazy.  Now can I sleep with her?

Because I really want to.  Beyond my usual level of diffuse horniness, Astrid reminds me powerfully of first girl I ever loved -- a long sad story in itself, but not one I'll tell right now.  Every time I look at Astrid, I'm the nineteen-year-old mooncalf again, thinking "This time I'll do it right."

And she doesn't know.  I'm sure, totally sure, she doesn't know what a crush I have on her.  Which is great.  

And what's even better, she has a crush on me!

Really.  She loves her boyfriend, or she says she loves her boyfriend, or she thinks she loves her boyfriend, or something, but she has a crush on me.  I know you think I am just projecting but as sure as I am writing this, she has a little thing for me.

Let me give you an example.  We were discussing our favorite erotic scenes from the movies -- which is typical of the kind of conversations we end up having, by the way, but that could be me not her.  I told her my favorite scene.  It's from an old Sonia Braga movie called I Love You and there's a scene where Braga is dressed in a business jacket and short skirt, she flirting with her boyfriend, who is complaining about something, so Braga uncrosses her legs and flashes him.  Astrid hadn't seen the movie, but it reminded her of the famous scene from Basic Instinct.  No, no, I told her, that was the exact opposite.  By exposing herself, the Sharon Stone character was exercising power over the men: they wanted to sleep with her and she could allow them or deny them.  In I Love You, the same action was a sign of affection and true desire; Braga wanted her boyfriend, wanted him to be aroused so they could make love and be happy together.  It's erotic and romantic.

Astrid pick up on this instantly.  Hasn't a girl ever flashed you?  No, I told her ruefully, never.

And so she did!  We were sitting in the big easy chairs at the cafe, she had her legs folded demurely under the seat, and she just lifted one leg up and draped it over the arm of her chair.

She was wearing light-gray cotton undies, if you're curious.

I was gob-smacked, of course.  I don't think my jaw actually fell open, but it was a close-run thing.  She put her legs together again and then her fiancé came back from wherever he had been been before I could think of anything to say.

And she's always doing things like this.  Well, nothing else this good, but still, every time, she does something definite, something that unmistakably shows interest.

And she isn't doing it just because she knows I have a crush on her and she's teasing me.  I'm sure it isn't that.  I'm totally, totally sure.