Jan 28, 2019 | Blog - Mary Marcus
We had just made love in the afternoon, in the big king size bed in the master bedroom facing the back where huge trees, none of them palms, a rarity in Los Angeles, had been growing for decades. And where there was a rose garden with mature roses, a little bench, a fountain, quite a set up for a “lonely bachelor” as he called himself when he showed me around the place. Actually, since I’d done my research: he’d been married and divorced four times, and had grown children. Was he close with any of them? Was he generous with his money? Did he love them? Did they love him?
I knew it was going to happen today, because I was going to make it happen today. And, after all, we are consenting adults: I am early fifties, he sixty-three. He’s pretending to be around fifty now. There’s a prescription for the pills in his medicine chest—I checked that out when I went in to pee forty minutes ago. He had done the same five minutes before that. The pill takes a quarter hour or so to activate. It says so right on the label. Sounds like a missile about to launch, doesn’t it? As in, ready set… I felt like asking him, “Are you seeing blue?” That’s one of the side effects.
Photo: Joel Goodman
It was my freshman year of college. We met at a mixer. I had half a dozen real dates with him before he did the dirty deed. He wooed, he tickled, he licked, he caressed, he bought dinner, he discussed, made sure the proper birth control was in place. On the night when “it” happened, he moved in for the kill swiftly, like a cat, total focus, breath drawn in. I remember opening my eyes with him above me, the terror of the thrust itself—the pain—then he moved off the body, got dressed and drove the corpse home, still dripping.
I came from a strict, religious family. It wasn’t anything like today: no Internet, no helpful sex education, no cell phones, it was a simpler time.
I was the only virgin in the dorm, my most experienced friend had told me to get it “out of the way.”
I didn’t get it, that I was going to get deflowered and dumped and that’s what it was all about. His game. I certainly thought I’d see him again. I didn’t see him again until after three weeks of wondering what happened and no phone call. I saw him at a mixer going through the same motions with a girl he had gone through with me. I watched him from the dark fringes of the room, music blasting, coming in on her. I did what I always do when something pierces me to the very core. I simply went dead, zoned out.
Left my body.
It wasn’t until years later, after I married, after I had children, and after the children were grown, when I was getting my hair done, and the young girl who was working on me told me about the ring she was wearing. “My father gave it to me. We had a ceremony, I pledged my virginity to him.” When I looked at her trying not to gasp, she said, “In our religion, we have a ceremony and our father gives us a ring. Then when we get married, we take off that ring and our husbands give us another.”
“They hand you off!” I was fascinated.
And then I realized what had happened to me all those years ago and what had happened to the others, I’m sure there were dozens of us.
This person who had just made love to me, and nicely too—had once been an assiduous cherry popper: an ancient ritual, as old as man and woman themselves!
Soon after, my own long marriage ended. My children left home. I had a short and very unpleasant brush with death. And decided since I was in remission, what I’d do with my remaining time.
We lived in the same town, after all, different neighborhoods, his much more plush. I found myself obsessed with killing the man who took my virginity like that. Yes, to get even with him. Do something to him. Why? Because he deserved it. I could probably even get away with it.
I bought a pretty little gun, a Smith and Wesson “Lady Smith”. The salesman assured me it would be lethal if the need arose. They were so helpful at the gun range and I learned to master the recoil and hit the target.
Last week I made a first attempt. I made an appointment pretending I was a journalist. He’s famous enough to have not thought it weird. But I chickened out.
Today I came back, seduced him, and he swallowed a pill that did or did not make him see blue, and here we are…
I’m not going to kill him today, I didn’t even bring my little lady gun. But I’m going to break his heart before I break his neck, or do something really awful to him. The bastard. He deserves it.
“That was wonderful,” I said, stroking his arm. “You’re such a stud, so manly!” I saw him smile in the dying light of the afternoon. The gloaming the English call it.
I got up. Went for my clothes, and heard him asking, “Don’t go, stay. We’ll have dinner!” And at the door his rapt expression, “When can I see you again?”
“Soon,” I replied. “Very soon.” And I closed the door firmly.
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Jan 10, 2019 | Blog - Mary Marcus
Photo: Joel Goodman
I
“I can’t make love with him. I can’t use words, I can’t ask for what I desire, it is something like what it was with the fool I married. Only the man who wants to marry me isn’t a fool. And I would like to marry him.”
Tatiana told me this in her slightly accented English that like nearly everything else about her was so sexy. She reached for my hand…
I’m a yoga teacher and Tatiana’s brother had come to one of my classes last year and after class convinced me to meet his sister, and become her sexual surrogate. Maybe he thought that yoga teachers have some special sexual expertise, or maybe he heard that yoga started as a sex cult.
She had been married briefly, found the whole physical aspect unsatisfactory and wanted to learn how to have pleasure. I was broke; lots of bills were coming in. I agreed to meet with her. She was beautiful and I guess we sort of fell in love.
My face was burning. I was aware of being jealous.
“Have you said you’re going to marry him?”
“No.”
I didn’t inquire, “Has he seen you without your mask on?” Tatiana had always kept the dark holes covered where eyes should have been, until the last time we got together. Then I saw what she hid so skillfully. I’m still ashamed at the horror I felt that day.
“It takes time to learn anything, Tatiana, the body needs practice.”
“You and I needed no practice.”
“True. We were special. It isn’t always so easy.”
“Your wife?” she asked in that soft sexy voice. “Sometimes I’m jealous of her.” Then she added, “I know she is beautiful and rare, as you are.”
I didn’t say anything. My wife is no longer as outwardly beautiful or as young as Tatiana.
I nodded my head, knowing Tatiana couldn’t see me and my wife couldn’t either.
We were sitting in the living room of Tatiana’s luxurious Westwood high-rise apartment with incredible views of mountains, rooftops and the green of the Veterans Administration campus a half a mile away. Ironic that she couldn’t enjoy the view.
“I thought, perhaps, you could teach him!”
“Teach him what?”
“What you do. My brother says you’re a teacher. I was content to go online, but he didn’t like the idea and found you.”
“Tatiana, honey, that’s different.”
“What’s different? You’re a teacher, you impart knowledge!”
I thought of the difference the money had made, the bills paid, the Christmas presents last month. My yoga classes were not getting as many students as they used to. And to be honest, here was something I knew how to do, that paid well, but it was bad for my head, and worse for my marriage.
I took up a handful of pecans and threw them in my mouth. They were spiced and delicious. At home we never bought things like this.
“You’re so quiet. What are you thinking about?”
“It was wonderful with us. I don’t think it could happen that way again. Even between us.”
She put her head to the side and rested her cheek against her own hand. Her dark glasses were askew. Her gesture seem to say, with us it would always be wonderful.
And probably she was right. As long as she kept her eyes covered.
“How do you see this happening?”
See. I was aware of the word I used, as I wasn’t usually aware of words. When you are with a blind person, you think about see, you think about pointing, you think about all sorts of things the rest of us take for granted.
She made it sound so simple. “You watch us, and you tell us what we do wrong. How to do it better. Is there such thing as a sex coach?”
“Probably, but I’m not one. And I don’t think I want to be one either.”
“I will introduce the two of you. And you’ll have sessions like you did with me.”
I wondered if it would be the same price as what I did with her. Her brother of course, would make all the arrangements.
Once more she took my hand. She placed it on her round firm breast.
“You know I had implants.”
“You told me that. I remember.”
“You like them, yes?”
“Yes! Very much.”
She was urging herself toward me, both of us so hot; you could cut it with a knife.
I stood up; her poodle Lancelot sprang to his feet too.
“You would be doing me the greatest favor in the world!”
I headed for the door. “I’ll think about it. Happy New Year!”
II
I decided I couldn’t do it, and I texted her brother. That’s the end of that, I thought, but it wasn’t. He showed up at class a few days later, looking exactly the same as I remembered: the very best yoga clothes, black hair
like Tatiana’s with a good haircut, a body in excellent shape except for a small gut, and the very white teeth that you see mostly in women.
Like before, we went outside and sat in the little seating area off the parking lot. The day was cold for LA, the sky was the unreal blue of postcards and swimming pools. I thought about my parents who had moved from Boston to North Carolina because it was cheaper. Both of my brothers lived near by and their wives were caught up in the family madness. I had come west to escape that and them. I was the favorite son, what would they think of me doing what I had done with a woman for money?
“So I hear you have turned my sister down.”
“Yes,” I replied, looking at the ground. He had on leather sandals, really nicely made expensive, no doubt. He had a noticeable fungus on both his big toes.
“If it’s not enough money, I’m prepared to double your fee. I’m imagining five sessions should do it. This is very important for my sister, she wants to get married; she wants to have children. She genuinely believes you can help the situation!”
“Chemistry is chemistry,” I told him. “If it’s not there, it’s not there.”
He started to try and persuade me again. He’s spoiled, I thought, he has to have his way. And maybe Tatiana whom I halfway worshiped was more like him than not. I felt like shouting out childishly, “you’re not the boss of me!” Instead, I watched the owner of the studio exit the door, raise his hand to me and smile. I waved back and called out, “Happy New Year!”
III
“What do you think about prostitution?”
“I don’t really think about it.”
I was asking my wife this question later that day, toward evening. We were in our little kitchen, she was at the counter; her back was facing me. Unlike me, she never worked out. And now it was beginning to show.
The smell of onions and garlic in the black pan filled the small place. Tonight when we went to bed, the smell would still be there in our bedroom. I didn’t like that, like I didn’t like so many other conditions of our life, but I had to lump it.
“Do you think it’s bad?”
“Hey, I’m not one to judge. It’s not the kind of job I could do, but who knows?” She turned to me and smiled. “You thinking you might become a prostitute? You could probably make a ton of money, but wear a rubber,”
she laughed.
IV
I hated Tatiana’s boyfriend, Christian, on sight. We met at a neighborhood café, near the studio, a place where a cup of coffee costs four bucks. And where the tip jar is often filled with as many fives and tens as ones. I recognized him by his description: blond, five-eight. He had arrived first, and stood up to shake my hand firmly with the shake that I’ve noticed business people make: firm to the point of crushing.
His voice was a surprise as well. He obviously came from way below the Mason Dixon Line. A voice I always associate with good manners and racism. I couldn’t imagine Tatiana with this guy. No wonder the sex wasn’t
happening. Maybe I should pick someone out for her. I was glad the meeting was just the two of us, so I could get the feel of the guy and see if I could actually do this. At the moment, I was still thinking no way – what kind of guy takes instruction on sex from another guy?
“Would you mind telling me about your relationship with Tatiana and her brother?”
I looked him in the eyes: “I was going to ask you the same question.” I took a few breaths trying to steady myself.
“Tatiana wants me to teach you about the birds and bees.” I said this sarcastically, hoping he would be insulted, tell Tatiana it wasn’t going to work and get me off the hook. Though why was I on the hook? I owed her nothing and she owed me nothing. We’d had an affair of sorts, we obviously still felt close to one another, I had paid a few bills as a result of this relationship, and that was that.
“You were her sex partner, correct?” He said this softly, I was glad for that as who knows when someone I teach or might teach would walk in the door.
I nodded my head, “I guess you could call it that.”
“Did she ever talk about her work?”
“No,” I replied. “She told me she’s a linguist, I assumed she worked for UCLA or one of the universities.”
Just then, the owner of the studio walked in the door. The last time I’d seen him was with Tatiana’s brother when we were sitting outside at the studio in the parking lot. He was with his girlfriend—not his wife—and I pretended not to see him or him me.
Christian drew his wallet out of his pocket and laid a card on the table: a very official government ID with a gold seal. And the famous initials FBI.
“Tatiana and her brother are agents for a foreign government.”
To read an earlier chapter of this story, see my blog post, Blinded by the Light
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