THE JULIETTE SOCIETY 2 page

That’s the way it always seems to be with us right now.

No communication. No copulation.

I totally get why. Jack was working hard all through the summer vacation at the campaign office, and now the Fall semester’s started, he’s got even more work to do. Even less time for me. It’s rare that I pick him up from the office any more.

Jack’s playful, up to a point. But try as I might, I can’t rouse his interest in taking it any further. I can’t make him show a whole lot of interest in fucking me. It’s not like we don’t have sex, or that it’s not good when we do. It really is.

Jack is sensitive, caring, thoughtful and kind – everything that makes for a great lover – and before Jack, no man had ever come near to satisfying me in bed. But somehow it still never seems like enough, because I’m wild about him.

I look at Jack and think of Montgomery Clift in A Place in the Sun ; intensely beautiful, square‑jawed, the all‑American boy. At least, that’s how he looks to me. But it’s not just about the way he looks. Whenever you see Montgomery Clift on screen, he can be doing little else but staring into the middle distance, lost in contemplation, and you can see his mind churning. That’s Jack. And it really turns me on.

When he’s not around, I masturbate like crazy, fantasizing about Jack. Me fucking Jack. Somewhere mundane, somewhere we’re not meant to. At the office, in the canteen at college, in the library, on the train. Jack fucking me. With passion, vigor and resolve.

He doesn’t have any idea about these fantasies of mine, because I do it when he’s not around and we never discuss them. But it’s getting to the point where my fantasy sex life far outstrips my reality.

We live in a tiny apartment. When things are good, it feels like we’re living in a space capsule, locked together away from the world. Our intimacy seems to make the place seem much larger than it is. When things are bad – not really bad, just the little hiccups that happen between any long‑term couple living in close quarters – it can feel stifling and claustrophobic.

On nights like tonight, when Jack comes home from class or working at the campaign office and goes straight in the bedroom to catch up on his reading, and stays there pretty much till he falls asleep, it feels like he’s locking himself away from me on purpose, and I don’t know why. I find myself coming up with reasons to walk around the apartment in my underwear or naked even more often than usual. I make excuses to flaunt myself in front of him, anything to attract his attention, arouse his desire and make him show he wants me.

I’ll decide, on a whim, that I’m going to take a shower before dinner and start peeling my clothes off in front of him. But it doesn’t make any difference because he doesn’t even look up and I think he must be blind – blind to my love for him.

I take the shower as quickly as I can, because I didn’t want or need one anyway, and it wasn’t the purpose of this little exercise. I dry myself off and cream and oil my body so it glistens and shines. And I come out naked, smelling of jasmine. And then the games begin.

When we haven’t had sex for a while, I smell sweet. Like a ripe apple or peach, dripping and ready to be eaten. Ready for someone to get to my core. I know that Jack smells me, but I always wonder if other people can smell me too. And if they can’t, how is that possible? If they just think it’s lotion or perfume. They don’t know that I’m ready and ripe and willing. And left wanting.

I’m sitting in class, waiting for Anna to show up. But she’s late.

The one thing Marcus won’t tolerate is tardy students. If ever someone arrives late to class, he goes through this whole elaborate routine intended to intimidate them into never doing it again. He’ll stop talking the second he hears the door to the lecture hall crack open. Not at the end of his sentence, in the middle of a syllable, turn his head, stare at the door, just waiting for someone to step through it.

As they scurry inside and find a seat, Marcus’ stony gaze follows their every step and he’s so pissed you can almost see the steam coming out of his ears. But he still looks cute because he has these dimples – dark hair and dimples – and it always looks like he’s smiling, even when he’s really mad. But even once they’ve found their seat and settled in, with their legal pad in front of them and their pen at the ready, it doesn’t end there. Oh, no.

Marcus will stand there in silence, bent over his desk, with his hands splayed out in front of him, staring down at his notes for a really uncomfortable amount of time. Almost as if he’s willing someone to make a sound, willing someone to give him an excuse to explode. But everyone knows better than that.

We sit in respectful silence and when he feels he’s tortured the class enough, and only then, however long that is, he’ll continue the lecture, starting up again from exactly the same syllable he left off from.

Anna is always late to class. I’ve never known her to miss a class but she’ll never arrive at the same time. It could be just as Marcus has started his lecture, or right in the middle, or sometimes five minutes from the end. But whenever it is, she’ll waltz in without a care in the world. Marcus will look up, see her, and then continue right on as if nothing had happened.

And I always wondered, why does she get special treatment.

So, one day, I ask her.

‘Marcus and I have an arrangement,’ Anna says. ‘I do something for him and he does it for me.’

This is how we bond, Anna and I, over Marcus. Our mutual obsession. My secret. Her lover.

What kind of arrangement, I say.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘let me put it this way. Marcus has special needs… ’

I’m wondering what those special needs could be.

Does Marcus ask Anna to lick his balls while he deconstructs The 400 Blows . Or fuck her from behind as he recites quotes from What is Cinema? by André Bazin. Does he like Anna to stick her pinky in his stinky as he debates the ins and outs of abjection theory?

I can’t wait for her to tell me. There are so many details I want to square with my fantasies of what turns Marcus on and how he fucks. And I can only think the reality is so much better than I could ever imagine.

So, after class, we grab some coffee and go sit outside on a bench, as students rush back and forth around us trying to get to their next lesson. We sit under a tree, shielded from the mid‑morning sun already high in the sky, because Anna’s skin is pale and she prefers it to stay that way. ‘I burn easily,’ she says.

‘OK,’ I say, ‘tell me. I have to know, because it’s been driving me crazy, what is Marcus’ special kink?’

‘He likes to do it in the dark.’

My heart sinks. Marcus sounds so depressingly normal.

‘I thought you said he was a freak. That doesn’t sound very freaky.’

‘Wait, let me finish,’ she says. ‘In a closet. He likes to do it in a closet.’

I’m still not convinced and frown slightly.

‘He’s really shy, you know,’ Anna says, sensing my disappointment. ‘He has this large closet in his apartment and it’s an old worn and wooden antique. There’s nothing of any comfort in his apartment, no couches, no pillows, no throw cushions, no carpet, not even curtains on the windows.’

‘Not even a bed?’ I ask.

‘He sleeps on a mattress on the floor, but we’ve never fucked on it,’ says Anna. ‘And I opened his refrigerator once,’ she continues, ‘and it was almost empty. The only thing inside was tea. Not tea leaves, tea bags. A box of value‑pack tea bags. No milk.’

While Marcus’ apartment is lacking furniture and sustenance, Anna tells me, there’s one thing it’s not short of: books and papers.

‘There are books crammed into every inch of these floor‑to‑ceiling bookcases that line the walls,’ she says. ‘They’re all meticulously arranged by subject: film and sex, art and religion, psychology and medicine. And when he ran out of space on the shelves, he started piling them up on the floor, on tables, chairs, the way a hoarder uses up every available bit of space at his disposal.

‘Plus, where the bookcases aren’t, the walls are covered in art. Erotic art. Nothing very pornographic,’ Anna says, ‘just strange dirty pictures.’

Anna tells me about the blurry photographs of couples fucking that look like paintings by Francis Bacon. Street scenes of prostitutes. Salacious cartoons. Things that don’t even look like erotic art at all – dense, sprawling collages of clippings from newspapers and magazines of faces, places and objects – but which clearly serve some erotic purpose for Marcus. And things that can’t be mistaken for anything else.

Anna says that there are two paintings in particular that have captured her interest more than any of the others. They’re hung side by side in a little alcove off the entrance hallway, right when you come through the front door, and whenever she goes to visit Marcus, she’ll just stand there and stare at them for a while.

One is of two women, the curvature of their prone bodies lying side by side, forming a pair of lips. They both wear suspenders and stockings and have pert orb‑like breasts with cherry red nipples.

‘One of the women looks like you,’ Anna tells me. ‘A brunette, with a sweet, sexy smile, who wears a lace bridal veil. But the other one, you can’t see her head. Where the head should be are two arms that emerge from the inky background of the painting like crabs’ legs and hold her nipples like pincers.’

She tells me that the other painting is so odd that it’s difficult to describe. At first, it looks like three female bodies in fishnet stockings engaged in a ménage à trois. But when you look closer there are male body parts mixed up with the female ones. Sex organs and limbs sprouting where they really shouldn’t be. Phantom hands that seem to push and pull and grope. It’s all confused and a little disturbing. She’s decided that what she’s looking at is one body made up of many, a creature of indeterminate sex.

And as she tells me about the painting, I start to think, all this time, Marcus’s sexuality has been a mystery to me but I never ever questioned his orientation, never even considered.

‘Is Marcus gay, or bi?’ I blurt out.

‘Oh, no,’ Anna says, ‘I don’t think so. He’s just really, really strange.’

‘It sure sounds like it,’ I reply. A home with no furniture, no food, but books and papers and erotic art. It sounds as if Marcus finds comfort in austerity. As if his brain is so busy that he doesn’t have time to take care of his body. And that’s fine with me. Because I would want to be fucked by his brain.

Anna says that whenever they meet, which is twice a month, Marcus has everything planned, every detail, and it has to be carried out to the letter, like a ritual. And the same thing occurs between them on every single occasion. She is told to arrive at a specified time.

‘I can’t be late,’ she says. ‘Not one minute, not even thirty seconds. I’m always right on time for his private sessions. And I have my own key to the apartment, so I let myself in.’

Now I understand why she’s always late to Marcus’ class.

Just to fuck with him.

‘Marcus is already in place when I arrive,’ she continues. ‘In the back room. In the closet. With the door closed. And he’s so silent, so still, that you wouldn’t even know he’s there, that there’s anybody else in the room. The curtains are closed and the lights are off. It’s dark, but still just light enough to see.’

She says the closet has two holes in one of the doors, like two knots of wood fell out of it. One small. One larger. One at head height, the other lower down.

‘Marcus swears it was like that when he bought it,’ says Anna. ‘But I don’t believe him.’

When Anna arrives, she’s meant to be wearing the uniform that Marcus has told her to wear. The same clothes every time.

How does he make you dress, I say.

‘Guess,’ she says.

This is a game we like to play, Anna and I.

‘Like a nurse?’ I say.

‘Nope,’ she says.

‘Like a schoolgirl?’

‘Uh‑uh.’ She shakes her head.

‘A whore?’

‘Not even close,’ she says.

‘OK, you have to tell me.’

‘Like his mother.’ She giggles.

I just look at her in surprise, and Anna can’t wait to reveal more and tells me that she has to wear a loose flowery sack dress, flat‑heeled dress shoes, flesh stockings and really, really large underwear that looks and feels like a chastity belt made of polyester. She dresses like Marcus’ mother, in clothes that used to belong to her. Clothes that Marcus’ mom owned since the fifties, wore up until her death, but still look perfect and new, as if they’d come off the rack the day before.

‘Is this getting freaky enough for you? Too much?’ she asks, smiling.

‘Getting there… ’ I say. Because now Marcus is sounding less like Jason Bourne, which is a good thing. He’s sounding less the way I imagine Jason Bourne would fuck. With the lights off and his socks on. In the missionary position. Like a real man.

And he’s sounding more like Norman Bates, which is even better, because I’ve had a huge, huge crush on Anthony Perkins since the very first time I saw Psycho and fell head‑over‑heels in love with his clean‑cut, buttoned‑up preppy look. It seems Marcus is completely in thrall to his mommy fixation, just like Norman Bates or Charles Foster Kane.

‘So let’s recap,’ I say to Anna. ‘You’re in the room, dressed like a prim fifties housewife from an episode of The Twilight Zone , and Marcus is in the closet with the doors closed and his eye pressed to one of the holes, watching you.’

‘Right,’ she says. ‘And I do exactly what he’s asked me to do. I turn my back to him and I start to undress, taking off each item of clothing in the order and way that he’s asked me to.’

‘Exactly the same way every time?’ I ask.

‘It has to be,’ says Anna, ‘Choreographed to the second. I feel like an air stewardess demonstrating safety procedures. And I’ve done it so many times now that I’ve made it my own, adding my own little flourishes, things I think he’d like.’

Anna’s not shy with the details and as she talks I can see it all happening in my head.

First she takes off the sack dress, which she unbuttons at the back, slips off her shoulders, one by one, and lets fall to the floor, stepping out of it, and looking over her shoulder and down at her feet as she does so to make sure the dress doesn’t catch on the shoes. Then she unhooks the bra, hiking it up her chest so her breasts fall out to their natural position, bouncing a little as they do. And she hunches her shoulders forward so the straps drop off them.

‘He likes to see the bra slide down my arms,’ she says. ‘Then how I catch it and swing it free of my body.’

At that point, she’s naked from the waist up, standing in dress shoes and flesh stockings held up by suspenders. And I’m imagining Anna’s near‑naked body. Her round ass and breasts that are just too big for her frame.

There’s only one thing wrong for me about this fantasy, Marcus’ fantasy. She’s wearing an old‑fashioned girdle that covers just about four‑fifths of her ass, giving a slight peek of those large polyester panties with the broad gusset seam that firmly grip and hold her cheeks like rubber. Which is just the way Marcus likes it, but next‑to‑useless as jerk‑off material for anyone else.

‘He likes me to extend one leg out and bend over it as I unhook the suspenders,’ Anna continues, ‘all the way over, so he can see my tits hang. I let the suspenders ping up around my thigh, one by one, then wiggle my tush as I peel off the girdle and step out of it.’

And then she peels off those large, ungainly underpants, but slowly because she says, ‘Marcus is an ass man and, for him, it’s all about the long tease.’

That’s as far as she’s meant to go. Marcus wants her to leave the stockings and the dress shoes on. And a long string necklace of pearls, alternating black and white, that hang down between her breasts. ‘They’re his mother’s pearls,’ she says.

While she’s doing all this, she’s not allowed to look in his direction. ‘Marcus is very firm about that,’ she says. ‘I snuck a glance at the cupboard once, out of the corner of my eye. And I saw this large eyeball pressed right up close to the door, framed by this ragged knothole. And I think he caught me because it didn’t know where to look.

‘The eyeball got embarrassed. It moved from side to side, up and down, frantically scanning the room, looking for somewhere to hide. And it wasn’t Marcus. I didn’t register it as Marcus. It was just an eyeball in a long narrow wooden slit. And I was so weirded out that I never looked again.

‘But’s the only way he can get fully erect,’ she adds.

I think of Doctor Alfred Kinsey, because from what I know he could only get off in one way too. This is the bit they left out of the movie. Kinsey liked to stick things in his pecker. Stuff that didn’t belong there. Objects that didn’t always fit. Items that didn’t appear anywhere in the data he meticulously compiled, ordered, tabulated and analyzed. Grass, straw, hair, bristle. Anything long and flexible that tickled.

I’m listening to Anna’s story and realizing that my fantasies of fucking Jack in his boss’s office are pretty tame. That all my fantasies are so, so tame.

Anna says that once she gets down to her underwear, she’s allowed to turn around and look. She picks up the clothes that are gathered in a heap at her feet on the floor, and takes them over to a wooden chair on the other side of the room, near the cupboard. Lays the dress over it, hangs the bra from one strap over the back, and neatly folds the girdle, suspenders and panties, placing them on the seat. And that’s when she’s meant to look towards the cupboard.

‘I’m supposed to gasp,’ she says, ‘and Marcus told me it has to be the perfect combination, in equal measures, of horror, surprise and delight.’

The object of her attention is Marcus’s erect penis, which she sees slowly inching its way out of the lower knothole in the closet, like a snail emerging from its shell.

Anna’s supposed to stay there, rooted to the spot, staring, open‑mouthed, until almost the entire shaft has presented itself and his balls pop out from the hole and hang over the door.

‘His cock twitches, as if it’s beckoning to me,’ says Anna. ‘So I sit down in front, and lick it the way you lick melted ice cream that’s dripping down the cone. I imagine I’m licking drips of cherry ice cream.’

And this is just foreplay, right, I ask.

I just want to be certain, because it all sounds so involved.

‘Yes,’ says Anna, ‘just foreplay.’

She says that even though she’s right on the other side of the door from him now, Marcus doesn’t make a sound. She can’t even hear him breathe. No little gasps of excitement to let her know she’s doing the right thing, just little twitches in his cock as it bobs away from the attentions of her tongue. Little reflex motions, the way your knee shoots out from underneath you when the doctor hits it with his little silver hammer.

So how do you know when to stop, I say, so he doesn’t come.

‘When he’s had enough, when he’s good and ready, the door opens,’ she says. ‘It’s kind of creepy.’

I imagine a door creaking open in one of those really old black‑and‑white haunted house movies that play on TV at the dead of night and there’s no one and nothing behind it, just an inky blackness.

‘That’s my cue to step inside,’ she says. ‘And I can feel my heart beat faster every time, even though I know exactly what’s going to happen and who’s behind the door.’

She steps inside the closet and she closes the door behind her. And now she can’t see a thing, because Marcus has plugged the holes with tissue paper so no light can get in.

‘It takes a while for my eyes to adjust,’ she says. ‘Even then, all I can see are shadows in the gloom that move like vapor trails and feel like hallucinations.’

‘How big is the closet? Doesn’t it feel claustrophobic?’

‘Big enough for my feet to be the only part of me that touches the sides,’ she says. ‘It’s scary how quickly I lose track of the space around me. And it’s also super hot in there, a steamy‑wet dry heat like in a Turkish bath, because Marcus has already used up so much of the air, and I feel myself starting to sweat almost as soon as I’ve stepped inside.’

‘What happens next?’ I say, eagerly.

‘Then I feels his clammy hand on my breast. And you’d think that’d feel real creepy,’ she says, ‘but it actually turns me on. Really turns me on. Being touched like that, by someone I can’t see, in a confined space.’

It makes all the other stuff worthwhile, she says, the annoying preamble that Marcus insists has to be carried out to the letter.

‘And anyway,’ she says, ‘once we’re in the closet, in the dark, with the doors closed, and he’s initiated physical contact, there are no more rules. He’s not shy any more. Marcus fucks like a madman, like a beast, like a different person entirely. And the closet rocks on its feet.’

‘But how many ways could you fuck in a closet?’ I wonder aloud.

‘You’d be surprised,’ says Anna. ‘We must have gone through the entire Kama Sutra five or six times by now,’ she says.

‘One time,’ she says, ‘he was fucking me so hard the closet fell over onto its side. Onto the door. We were trapped inside. Marcus didn’t care. It turned him on even more. We fucked for hours. Then he punched out the top and we crawled out, naked and bruised.’

After they emerge out of the closet, there’s one final duty Anna has to perform. She has to wash him. So they move to the bathroom.

She says it’s a really old bathroom with a tiled floor and paint peeling off the walls from damp. And Marcus has one of those old‑fashioned ceramic tubs that looks like a dinghy, with a shower hanging above it at the top of a long steel mast that extends up from a spout.

‘Marcus only ever takes a shower, never a bath,’ says Anna.

‘Why?’ I say.

‘He told me people drown in bathtubs.’

When Anna says this, I let the comment pass but I wonder if she realizes he was quoting Cassavetes.

Once they’re in the shower, Anna soaps and lathers Marcus, vigorously scrubbing his back, his chest, around his thighs, under his arms and behind his balls. But after she’s toweled him dry, he walks out of the bathroom without saying a word. Leaves her there alone, to dress and make herself up. And when she’s done, she lets herself out.

‘This is the way it always is,’ she says. ‘Without fail. And never any other way.’

‘Did you ever fuck in a closet?’ she asks, matter‑of‑factly.

I have to admit to her that, no, I never did. And, after hearing all this, I feel so depressingly ordinary.

We sit there under the tree for a few minutes, in silence. And a line of dialogue pops into my head that Marlon Brando says in Last Tango in Paris , one throwaway line that I’ve always loved from the monologue he delivers to his dead wife, as she’s lying in the casket in front of him:

‘A little touch of mommy in the night.’

And if that’s what Marcus likes, I’m fine with that. Because a lot of great men had mommy complexes.

I’m taking in everything Anna’s told me. I take a sip from my coffee and wince when I realize it’s almost gone cold because we’ve been here so long.

‘Did I ruin all your fantasies?’ Anna says. ‘I hope not. Underneath it all, Marcus is really rather sweet.’

Oh, no, I say. Absolutely not.

Now I want to know even more. Now it feels like I can read Marcus like a book and find out something new about him with every turn of the page. And I wish Marcus could teach me what it means to be freaky.

But then I realize Anna could teach me a lot about being freaky too.

The more I get to know her, the more I start to think of Anna as the best friend who understands you and everything that goes on inside you. I can tell her anything and she can tell me exactly how I’m feeling and why. It’s like we’re two heads with one brain and a shared consciousness. Sometimes she can even finish my sentences before I’ve started them.

We’re thick as thieves. And we complement each other perfectly. You could say we were made for each other. We get so close, so quickly, people say we could be sisters. I can’t see it myself. Anna has the jump on me in most things. She is everything that I’m not.

She’s the beauty. I’m the brains.

I’m the smart girl. She’s the popular one.

She just makes me laugh. She doesn’t have the filter between her brain and her mouth that most people have. She can look at some random guy in class and, apropos of nothing at all, will say cute inappropriate things like,

‘I wonder if he’s cut or uncut.’

And, ‘I’d say he hangs to the left.’

Or, ‘I bet his come tastes of lemon jelly.’

But she doesn’t think it’s at all inappropriate. Just something that needs to be said at that particular point in time. She’s so pure and uncomplicated and free in that way. Sex is as natural as breathing to her.

I’m so into Anna, and everything about her, that I contrive an excuse for Jack to pick me up from class so we can have lunch together. Because I want him to meet my new best friend.

Afterwards, I play our game.

What did you think of Anna? I say.

‘She’s nice,’ he says.

Do you think she’s cute? I say.

‘I guess,’ he says.

If you weren’t with me, would you be with her? I say.

‘I don’t think I’m her type,’ he says.

You didn’t answer the question, I say.

‘Yeah, I did,’ he says.

But is she yours? I say.

‘She could be,’ he says.

She has nice tits, don’t you think? I say.

‘Sure,’ he says.

Do you like her ass? I say.

‘Where is this going?’ he says, frustrated.

Well, would you like to fuck her? I tease.

‘Catherine, let’s talk about something else,’ he says firmly, and it’s not the answer I want.

Marcus has set, as homework, a screening of Belle de Jour , the Louis Buñuel movie that stars Catherine Deneuve.

I’ve never seen the movie before. I know nothing about it. I have no idea what to expect.

I sit down in the theater on campus and I’m not alone but, when the lights go down and the darkness closes in around me, I might as well be. This is how I like to experience movies. In a theater, in the dark, as a one‑on‑one communion between me and the screen. As something approaching the quiet contemplation you feel when standing in front of a great painting that awes you into silence.

I sit down to watch a movie and expect to be transported on a flight from reality into another world. I expect, at the very least, to be entertained, maybe enthralled, even appalled. The last thing I expect is to see myself up on the screen.

Bear with me, I’m not completely deluded. I know I’m not the star of this movie, even if I do share a name with the lead. I’m not even a supporting character. But somehow, some way, something about it connects with me deeply. Even if I only have one thing in common with its protagonist, a frigid, upper middle class, French housewife who harbors secret masochistic desires about sex.

Her name is Séverine. Latin for ‘stern’. Imagine going through life, your entire life, and having people decide they don’t like you even before they’ve met you. Just from hearing your name. Séverine. Severe. Stern.

Imagine lumbering a kid from birth with a name like that. You might as well call it, ‘No fun’.

No fun at all.

And it’s not as if that name doesn’t suit Catherine Deneuve’s character in Buñuel’s movie. In fact, there’s isn’t another name that suits her better because, to be honest, she isn’t a whole lot of fun. She’s icy‑cold and dispossessed of every quality that could make you like her, stripped of almost everything that makes her human. Everything except her morbid fantasies of humiliation and punishment. Because you’re not meant to like her or even identify with her.

And yet, somehow I do.

Séverine. No fun. No fun at all. Married a year and she’s never let her husband fuck her. Married a year and she won’t even let him sleep in the same bed. Married a year and he hasn’t even seen her naked. Her husband; devoted, protective, dependable and so, so understanding.

Séverine. A virgin in reality, but a whore in her imagination. And it’s her imagination that leads her astray.

Remember. Plot, always subservient to character.

And Séverine, always in thrall to her desires, never in control of them, floats through the movie in a trance. Floats through her life like it’s a movie. Until a friend of her husband’s, an older man, devious and sleazy, who seems to see right through her, implants the idea in Séverine’s head that there is a place where women like her – repressed, immoral, insatiable – can fulfill their fantasies in private and maintain their reputation in public.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 658