An Indecent Proposal

Tonight I was watching this movie. Or rather, paying attention to it, every now and again. While doing other things. Since I didn't watch all of it, much of what I will say may be pointless. But I feel confident in the purchase of my opinions. And as I have said in other venues, I don't need to see all of something to make a judgment.

There is nothing remarkable about this movie, in total. I suppose it pretends to raise these questions about money and sexuality and love and the thin lines that separate these things. The premise is that this ultimately honorable fellow, played by R. Redford, suggests that a starving architect sell his wife's body for one night for the price of $1M. Of course, the money offers opportunities that seem to outweigh the moral or emotional consequences ... or at least block them from view. The architect, of course, loses his wife to that night of calculated passion. Money for flesh. But in the end, she returns to him, although partially through the surfeit of the ultimately honorable millionaire.

I have never paid for sex. That is, paid cash for sex. I have probably paid for it in other ways. As it is, sex is always regulated by exchange, especially when we ostentatiously reserve it for those who love us. But we are sickened (when we follow the upturned nose of our moral sense) by the odor of exchange when it approaches the sexual act. Or so we say.

In the film, the wife never (at least as far as I could tell) claims that she is not merely a piece of property. Either to her husband or to her would-be paramour. In fact, she even offers herself as exchange as a sign of her love for her husband: this would be good for him and as a gesture of love she would be willing to sacrifice herself. I suppose there is a bit of provocative "social realism" in this, insofar as she is admitting that the laws governing property include her body. Yet, if this realism is not made tacit, then it merely subsists beneath a hypocritical and lying morality, of the manifest "indecency" of this proposal. The inscrutable bonds of marriage and their obligations.

An email exchange with Marianne has made me wonder about my options. I want desperately, while Myra's suitor, my colleague, is in Italy, to get in touch with her. And I too am several hundreds of miles away from my beloved. Perhaps just to say hi. Perhaps for more. Of course, more is presently impossible. I'm hundreds of miles from Myra. Until now, I must say that I have, with the exception of several drunken evenings, not suffered such a desire. At least since the event with Myra went sour. And it was a good thing that it did.

While watching this movie, particular the scenes directly following the proposal where the married couple consider it, I thought, why don't they, instead of merely considering the financial possibilities this proposal would enable, also think about the emotional and moral consequences? Frequently I have other level-headed thoughts while watching movies about men that cannot express themselves to the women that they love. I say to myself, just tell her that you love her! In fact, I think these thoughts are no less preposterous (yet again from some remove) than the wish for the characters of a horror film to turn on the lights ... or leave the room. Reflection will not save us from all of the bad judgments to which we will surrender. Reflection has its own conditions. These conditions are frequently inaccessible.

Oh Myra. Would that you read this journal. Or perhaps not. I do not know. I know that if I talk to her again, I am not sure what would happen. Things have come together with Anya in such a way, as of late, that it would be unfortunate to disturb them. And in fact, I have seen the "vicissitudes" of Myra's emotions. I know just how imperfect she is. I don't care about the fact that she is flat-chested. She has, nonetheless, an incredible body. And the face of an angel. Like Meryl Streep. Those eyes and that hue of skin. It is the way that she looks at you (me) that is killing. And her confusion around me. And the fact that this woman I'd pined for, silently, for years, wanted me. Was addicted to me.

Of course, the kiss was always strained. Never right, because of the moment. And I would never get past the waistband of those underwear. Which maybe is okay. Maybe I like the communication and the complicity more than the collision of bodies. Maybe.

A Dream of A Thousand Loves

Last night I dreamt of a thousand loves. This morning the words hung on my lips, as I carried myself out of bed. I never dream of my fiancée ... what this means, I dare not ask. Instead, I dreamt of a girl with whom I made out. A girl. Perhaps a student. Typically I dream of conscience infidelity.

I wonder if I speak of this theme continually, if my readers will observe that I am not asking for comfort or compassion or understanding. My reader, it might be better to say. Marianne. I know nothing of you, except for your midriff. One of those areas of the body that make men losen their ties and breathe more deeply, hoping to draw the odor of another part of the body.

My body, on the other hand. 'Tis long. I have green eyes. I have brown hair. I have fair skin. I have small hands, small feet (need I question the "I" and the strangeness of attributing possession to it, when rather, these possessions are I!). I have scars. Or they have me. I have a scar on my crown. Several, in fact. I have a scarred bone, the bottom of the left tibia. Two fractures. I like material things that have memories, but some of my first and most powerful emotional responses were of material things that would never be the same. "The same." Philosophy has nothing to do with it.

And of course, there is your own deep attraction towards lovers, despite your marital bliss. Whom your husband does not know, no?

I don't want to speak again of Anya. I need this badness. This evil. It makes me feel strong again. A different kind of strong than the kind I have with her. The kind of strength that I have with her is of extreme quietude. With her, I am a Buddhist cow.

I have been thinking of Myra. Oh Myra. Her boyfriend/wannabe-husband has gone to Italy. I know she is now alone for the next month. And I want to contact her. He has cheated on her. With a woman (AT) with whom I have cheated on Anya. The symmetry is frightening and hilarious. Last night I dreamt of him, which was really a dream of her. He was getting into an old VW van. Backing out of the driveway of a house in Syracuse NY. Why did my dream get situated there? In his back, as he was leaving the house, literally as he was going out the door, I saw the small of her back.

This, as I may or may not have informed you, was that vital area of the body that inspired the step not beyond (le pas/pas déla). At this point, a homosexual dream would be delightful. Even merely homoerotic. But I am blind to all but women. Yesterday I walked through the supermarket. My sister has been diagnosed with MS. I am taking care of her while her fiancé travels to visit his parents in the old, old country. This just happened a few days ago. I might as well tell you that I am thinking of changing this to my regular journal. A far cry from my threat to abandon it altogether, no?

Would this mean that I would identify myself, as "Bryce," has (a moniker with which I am starting to tire) with the vile actions with which I engage, that otherwise populate only my subconscious ... j'ne sais pas.

In the shower I thought this morning, philosophy should be defined as the act of following. Whereas the poetic inspiration is what leads. Now don't be confused. I am not saying that poetic inspiration leads philosophy. It does sometimes. But while poetic inspiration may provide the initial direction, philosophy, when it is good, follows a continuous trail. There is soemthing truly creative about that. Philosophy (Kant being the example par excellence everyone says) doesn't know where it will end. Neither does poetry, but poetry dances. It leaps.

Breasts

At a distance, I regain the composure that allows me this secret expression. With her, I lose this voice. I do not begrudge her.

I just travelled back here from NYC last night. A whole day unpacking my belongings. Well, mainly just all of my books. Getting locked out of the apartment. Then in the car, to sit in traffic outside the Holland Tunnel for at least an hour. Oh, I was so clever leaving at rush hour!

Here, protected by distance, voluptuous bodies reappear in their full sensual splendor. Last night, I see the girl from the coffeeshop. I used to gaze at her body as she stood on top of a chair to change the station on the radio. She is 21 or 22. A college dropout. She is Chinese. Very beautiful.

But what floors me in particular are all of the breasts. Women passing by me here, sitting over there, etc. All of them with these breasts concealed by a bra and some suggestive outer garment.

The ethical order

i am stuck between having nothing left to say here and extending the purpose of this journal. it seems as though continuing to engage it is transgression, even without the "real life" events that match its intentions. in short, i've been a good boy. except for the drive on saturday with blythe. trying to talk her into sleeping with me. no success. thankfully.

at one point in that drive, anya calls. i talk with her for a few minutes in front of blythe. and make a point of telling anya that i love her. because that is true. then i get off the phone and talk to blythe about how i am not really conflicted, since i can have those sincere expressions, but still have a sexual need that transcends that love.

today was the last day with my psychiatrist in this fair city, before i move. not much love lost. she was nice, helpful. but in an impersonal and meaningless way. only in our penultimate session did she express an interest in teh sexual phenomena i described. -how could it be sexual without contact? -two people masturbating in front of one another.

in fact, melissa took all of her clothese off. i hadn't even kissed her. she laid on her back on the floor and i stood over her. she never had a problem coming quickly through self-stimulation to orgasm. i unzipped my pants and pulled it out and stroked myself before her. also coming quickly to orgasm. i think i wanted her to lick the cum off my cock. but the quick appearance of guilt intervened before i could utter this intention and i made my way to the bathroom of that empty apartment.

otherwise, the doctor seemed unwilling to enter into my fantasy life. to allow me to narrate and pause over the salacious details.

i told her that i was going to start a journal in which i daily meditated on my life of infidelity. that it would be a project towards saving myself and those i love from the heartache that my tendencies fumble towards. i am considering the idea that this past is not an inevitable future. this does not mean i am looking for "conversion," as adrienne and i spoke about today.

one of those posts was to speculate on the event of anya's discovery. what would happen. perahps if i flesh out the details of this terrible proposition, it will reinforce the potential consequences of my actions.

Unethical ponderings

The trajectory of this blog has been aimed confidently towards the perverse: namely, what stood outside the conventions of typical behavior. For a long time, I think, my own story has made me reject those mores merely because of the complications and the failures that I have seen. I have rejected morality out of hand. But morality has a ghosting effect: it always returns.

What I have wanted to voice here, but which has no longer any truck with the musings of the past, are the vicissitudes that do not linger over sexual titillations. The pathos of immorality (named conscience, perhaps poorly). I need condemnation more than adulation. And yet, I provide that for myself. In short, crisis seems imminent. My own consciousness of it is merely an intuition of its concrete expression. Which is not to suggest that there is anything unconcrete about the consciousness. Especially when this sadness seems to color each and every single part of experience.

But the sadness, really, just started today. There were other incidents, like an encounter with Adrienne and her refusal afterwards, which prompted this. Then I realized how manipulative my behavior has been. How much I had pursued my own desires without any regard for those of others, especially those with whom I am so close. My friends. My fiancée.

Why this self-destructive behavior? After my session with the doctor today I walked home but also looked up "sexual addiction" on the phone-computer. The Wikipedia entry is surprisingly thorough. There is no DSM entry for this pathology. And so there are questions about its legitimacy. Considering the unique status of sexuality in our culture, pace Foucault's comments in the History of Sexuality, Vol. 1, it is difficult to make judgment on this issue.

I guess I have been thinking about my friends and their responses to the incident with the heartland girl. The most troubling, is from my friend James, who on hearing it writes me off, claiming that it is too exhausting and too consistently pathetic. The upshot is that a person that cannot control these urges is simply to be forgotten about. What do we do by alcoholics and drug addicts. I have known in my life. The drug addicts have killed close friends, ended marriages, lost property. The alcoholics ... well, not as many. But they have not faired well, as far as I can tell. My friends say, we are sorry that you have done this, but we still love you. But the truth is, I think, that they are saying that we will love you until your problem affects our relationship with you. At that point, this love will reach its limits.

We intervene with addicts. Why don't they tell me that I must get help?

God, I am experiencing the most profound vertigo right now. Actually, it is always the same. I am falling over backwards. Like I did years ago, down cement steps, to the bottom of the steps.

Furtive gatherings

In the taxi on the way to the house of a colleague, we sat next to one another. I'd already told her in the bar my intentions. Comments on the day's occurences: congratulating each other on our achievements. We were celebrating! And then I grabbed her with my left hand softly on her jaw (she was on my left) and my right hand pulling her head, her lips, toward mine. She too grabbed, pulling desperately, her tongue in my mouth. This desperate sense of pleasure struggling to be experienced. But there was a strange complexity to it. When we paused, our lips grazed the face of the other, softly planting kisses. My right hand traced the interior of her thigh. And then we arrived and the fun was over.

The night after, I helped Adrienne celebrate her birthday. The first day's celebration was not enough. I came late, after teaching, to meet her and a friend at a posh, well-to-do restaurant on the west side. Eventually the friend left. Adrienne expressed misgivings at me coming home with her. I meant to help her break a 3-month streak of abstinence. It has been literally years since I have gone that long, or even two months, without sex. But I talked her out of her misgivings. She said, do you want to come with me. And I said, is that an invitation.

In the taxi she leaned against me. I had my arms around her. Out of the taxi, into her door. I take off my jacket and we walk back to the bedroom. We talk listlessly as she prepares for bed about books. Or rather, I'm asking her about the books on her shelf. We are academics and thus, there is nothing else. Except what happens after the lights go out.

Some people's smells. Her's has always had an immediate effect on me. We kiss, not merely desperately, like the night before, but still deeply. We can kiss softly, her lips just touching mine. And then harder, with the surfaces crossing, trying to find a groove where they can fit and stop. Tongues breaking the barriers between the space that is mine and that is hers. Surreptitiously, she'd gotten in bed with a t-shirt and boxers. I did the same. But I stripped off her shirt quickly and then took off all of my clothes. There was nothing I could do to take off her lowers. My teeth bit her nipples. I close down on one and then move my head back and forth so that it travels from side to side between my teeth.

Adrienne makes so much noise. And I haven't even touched her holiest of holies. I cannot help, as I pulled her body against mine, trying futilely to unveil her lower parts, but thrust myself against her. I am hard and I want penetration. Eventually, I digitally penetrate the lower boundaries, reaching inside to feel her IUD. They are peculiar devices, aren't they? Like divining rods, really. She was pleasured, to some degree. She fumbles with me, violent as though I'm a teenage boy, when all I really want is for her to take me into her mouth.

I dream that night of the other Michigan girl. That I cum and she will not lick it off. Among other things.

I have to help myself, sadly, the next day, by myself, on my bed. Fireworks of solitude.

Pathomeme, Episode 418

I've only read a little about Richard Dawkins' theory of memes. A materialist theory of ideas, yes. Or at least this is the way that my imagination fashions it, at this distance in time and space. I haven't read Dawkins in years and not even that book.

When I was in my tweens, I think, I broke my leg for the first time. Skateboarding injury. Launch ramp, poorly constructed, meets young virile body, well constructed, equals broken leg, deconstructed. This was the beginning, I suppose, of a life of the mind. Is the life of the mind about secrecy and suspicion? The mystery is generally a tawdry genre.

My investigations first took me into the closet of my father's bedroom, where on the shelf I found old books, he'd purchased when. My parents were divorced then. Photographic erotica, adorned with the drawing of a woman's public hair between tightly shut legs. Funny books, I think in retrospect. My Secret Garden. Ribbons of my cum needing to be cleaned off of my clothes, other surfaces.

Curiousity eventually discovered a journal. I knew no boundaries and the private self meant merely that it had not yet been uncovered. My father's journal (my father, a minister) told me that he had met women at these summer retreats he'd gone to, when my mother, sister and I went to a family camp, without him. He slept with these women. Names that now sound funny. But they are merely the names of women from a generation older than mine. My father never gave many details. Which is probably best. But he was an adulterer, clearly.

Now I retell his story. My story is much better. I have exhausted the anxiety of influence. I am not a minister, so my story lacks the sense of public scandal. But my brashness makes up for his stupidity, his failure with words, his poor handwriting.

He left the journal underneath the coffeetable in the living room of the house that he lived in alone, now that we had left him. But my sister and I still visited him. How could he have overlooked that potential for disaster? I at least use pseudonyms and immediately delete the history of my browser. I've told none of my conquests the address of this journal (although I've told many of them about it) and I will not.

Love, until my Friday appointment with Dr.C, concealed this glaring stupidity. I felt like the one who had betrayed his trust.

I know now, having doubled my years, that, in the words of Detective Doyle: "That's a secret, private world you're looking into out there." With only few exceptions, I respect other's privacy. But perhaps I respect it most because I've felt the bite of its violence.