Over the past month, my underwear have continually bore the odor of dried cum. THe moments alone, in the bedroom, watching porn at Maxporn. Lately, a fascination with the pornstar named Eve Lawrence. Why, I do not know. I imagine a meeting between us would be tempting, because of the curves of her wild body and the desire this might momentarily inspire. The effectiveness of porn lies in the imagination. But when people speak, everything changes. The dimension of character emerges that can be very un-sexy. Of course, I'm sure Miss Lawrence is a lovely woman, but I suspect that she could not hold my attention to her.
I have at least two students now that interest me as sexual objects. The one is a fair-skinned blonde beauty. Her hair is actually a light brown, I suppose. She is generally quiet, but she stares at my during my lectures with such open, observant eyes that are generally not afraid to meet mine. Yet I must admit that Iam afraid to meet hers. I worry that my attention to her beauty might be noticeable to other students. Perhaps I overcompensate. The truth is that she is beautiful, and I have caught a few glances at her body--a sliver of her midriff exposed when she stood up and was putting on her coat--but I doubt that there could be more than that. And I would never pursue it. This is an ethical boundary I must maintain.
The other student is delicious in appearance. My mind exclaims: du siehst mir sehr lecker aus! She seems very nice. But again the reflection here is the moment. Otherwise, she is still just a student and ...
Beyond these respects, I am without sex. Over the past six months, I have had so little sex! All sex has been the eyes and the left hand and the right hand and this is it. Since Anya and I have moved in together, sex has dropped off the agenda. She is tired when she comes home and I am tired. I do not feel bad about this. I still love her as I have before, quite sincerely. Perhaps it is our domestic partners.
We are getting married in a few months and I am content with this. Yet I feel I need to tell her that I will cheat on her. But that this will not mean that I do not love her.
New Year's Eve we spent at our friend's house. The Pet, as I like to think of her. Pet and I have slept together numerous times over the past few years. Since I have been with Anya, perhaps twice, three times. When I lived in my other east-coast city, she lived only a few blocks away and our friendship involved going out to eat and drinking together, on the not infrequent occasion, and then making out in front of her apartment. Now Pet lives here.
That Eve, apart from the other guests for a minute, Pet and I made out. When Anya was in the bathroom and everyone else had left, we kissed. And days afterward, I wanted to do more. Pet, having now met and spent time with Anya, has decided that her lust cannot withstand the sense of violation, now that Anya is not to her merely a name, but a person. I suspect this will only last until we get drunk together, alone. When that will be, I do not know.
In the meantime, I will stroke my long, plump hard cock while watching Eve Lawrence, or reading Marianne's blog, or thinking about students I will never fuck.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Dream
I dreamt that Myra returned to me and told me that she wanted to be with me. It was a nightmare, I believe.
This was after a much more intense dream where Anya and I were visiting my mother and step-father. They lived, in Ohio, as if the edge of their property faced a giant body of water. I have been having more dreams recently involving a circular map of the world. But the body of water was raising and it threatened to flood over onto their land. Meanwhile, Anya and I had unwittingly managed to kill two men. I cannot remember what for. But we were trying to hide their bodies. Somehow, my stepfather was a co-conspirer. And it was snowing.
Of course, I haven't seen Myra in months. Perhaps since the summer. And I broke off our infrequent email conversations around then. But sometimes I find myself looking at her Facebook page. And I have recently thought about contacting her. Instead I contacted, pseudononymously, my cousin, who is also named Myra. Substitution, Substitution.
But Myra is no Myra. Myra first kissed me when we were children in a tent on the back of our grandparents' property. That became an affair that lasted until we were in high school. We were "kissing cousins." But we did more than kiss. My hands groped all parts of Myra's body. And she pleasured me as well. But we never had sex. The closest we came was in a closet. We were in our last years of junior high school. I had just discovered this invention quaintly called the skateboard. She stroked me until I came all over her shirt, although I'd begged her to let me "get inside of her." Then, not really knowing about the unique physics of fucking. Ironically, she declined. I say ironically because she then when on, over the next ten years, to have three illegitimate children. In other words, safe sex was not her forté.
I contacted her because I wanted to fuck her. I saw her at Thanksgiving. We are in our 30s. She is still single. But she has a lovely figure for having had three children. You see, I am fucked up.
Perhaps more on the incest prohibition soon.
This was after a much more intense dream where Anya and I were visiting my mother and step-father. They lived, in Ohio, as if the edge of their property faced a giant body of water. I have been having more dreams recently involving a circular map of the world. But the body of water was raising and it threatened to flood over onto their land. Meanwhile, Anya and I had unwittingly managed to kill two men. I cannot remember what for. But we were trying to hide their bodies. Somehow, my stepfather was a co-conspirer. And it was snowing.
Of course, I haven't seen Myra in months. Perhaps since the summer. And I broke off our infrequent email conversations around then. But sometimes I find myself looking at her Facebook page. And I have recently thought about contacting her. Instead I contacted, pseudononymously, my cousin, who is also named Myra. Substitution, Substitution.
But Myra is no Myra. Myra first kissed me when we were children in a tent on the back of our grandparents' property. That became an affair that lasted until we were in high school. We were "kissing cousins." But we did more than kiss. My hands groped all parts of Myra's body. And she pleasured me as well. But we never had sex. The closest we came was in a closet. We were in our last years of junior high school. I had just discovered this invention quaintly called the skateboard. She stroked me until I came all over her shirt, although I'd begged her to let me "get inside of her." Then, not really knowing about the unique physics of fucking. Ironically, she declined. I say ironically because she then when on, over the next ten years, to have three illegitimate children. In other words, safe sex was not her forté.
I contacted her because I wanted to fuck her. I saw her at Thanksgiving. We are in our 30s. She is still single. But she has a lovely figure for having had three children. You see, I am fucked up.
Perhaps more on the incest prohibition soon.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Communication of Bodies, the Words Spoken by Eyes
She was in my office, she wanted to talk about St. Thomas. She is only 18 or 19. She told me that she's decided to minor. She has a beautiful face, with long brown hair, wavy, a lovely jaw line, perfect teeth. And green eyes. Like mine. She looks directly at me, not turning away. I talk and ask her questions. I pull my chair closer to hers. In those rare moments when she looks at her book, my eyes move to her cleavage, barely visible between the open wings of that coat, like a curtain parted just enough to present the drama which will soon unfold.
When I want to kiss someone, I look at their mouth, in a way that is evident to the other person. In those moments my face betrays, in some secret language, that I understand others recognize, but which I cannot simply duplicate, the desire to kiss, to fuck. The body becomes an object in my eyes.
I can talk through medieval philosophy without thinking. But she falters, loses her concentration because she recognizes that look. She giggles and is embarrassed, but ostensibly about not being clear about what she's saying. I know that it is because there is a warmth between her legs. I lean back in my chair. My arms are not crossed, but still on the arms of the chair, beckoning, imploring.
And then she leaves. And I remain someone who has left one, professionally vital line, uncrossed. My sex begs for attention when I come home. Come home, it says. Come home.
When I want to kiss someone, I look at their mouth, in a way that is evident to the other person. In those moments my face betrays, in some secret language, that I understand others recognize, but which I cannot simply duplicate, the desire to kiss, to fuck. The body becomes an object in my eyes.
I can talk through medieval philosophy without thinking. But she falters, loses her concentration because she recognizes that look. She giggles and is embarrassed, but ostensibly about not being clear about what she's saying. I know that it is because there is a warmth between her legs. I lean back in my chair. My arms are not crossed, but still on the arms of the chair, beckoning, imploring.
And then she leaves. And I remain someone who has left one, professionally vital line, uncrossed. My sex begs for attention when I come home. Come home, it says. Come home.
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Remembrance of Things Past
"As I walked out on Bristol Street ..." the sun stared me down, reducing all to shadows. A world of ghosts. A couple walked in front of me. College students. And she walked with this tiny, nearly imperceptible saunter that magnetically attracted my vision. I could see nothing else.
And I thought of the excitement anticipating sex. When I was in college, I did not see women's butts. Maybe it was the fashion. Or maybe I just hadn't learned to look that way. I fetishize faces, I suppose, first. In this respect it does not strike me as strange that I cannot remember the body of Jodi, high school girlfriend. The virgin who gave me her virginity. But loved to suck cock. Among the things she taught me was the sweetness of the woman's sex. How it could become, far from something objectionable, as I may have anticipated it, a younger, unexperienced man, the most sublime taste.
Thinking of her I am reminded of the excitement around sex. She had a sexual appetite and she was not afraid of expressing it. She went to the local girl's parochial institution and wore skirts and knee socks everyday. Lovely.
But I cannot invoke the image of her body. In my mind's eye, all I see are skirts and knee socks, atop a fictional set of legs. For example, I want to know what kinds of breasts she had. I imagine that they were B cups. She was a small girl, maybe 5'4, 5'5. I wonder what I thought of those breasts. Those sensations are gone to me.
I know that I thought, despite the slight naiveté in her eyes, that she was beautiful. Her skin was fair, like mine, but she had strawberry blond hair, blue eyes. These things I can still see quite clearly, albeit through the mnemosyne of a black and white photograph that I captured on the beach in Massachusetts. Jodi had a voice that was not high, but could get high when she was excited. Luckily, that did not happen very often.
I recall three or four sexual experiences with her, in some detail. Our first was in her mother's house, the night of our second date when she asked if she could do something and then took out my handsomely large penis, which impressed her quite a bit, and gave me "oral pleasure." Also, a rainy night in the summer when I traded virginities. How strange it is for two bodies to come together like that for the first time. We didn't know about how our bodies needed to approach the other. The operation was merely sticking this into that. She was in pain and I was a total gentleman, concerned about her pain, although I think I filled that little condom with my cum. Also, a surprise visit to her dorm room in the year following, when her roommates were gone and we could be alone and naked. Also, just after our breakup, a furtive night spent convincing her to have sex with me, in the back of my car behind the junior high school. I recall that time in particular savoring the taste of her wet pussy.
These are remembrance of things past becuase, I have not savored sex in that way. I do not any longer feel the pleasure anticipating sex. Anticipating sex would last for hours, perhaps days, during which I maintained a hardon and rubbed the fabric of my pants across it, subtly, no matter where I was, to pleasure myself. Now the anticipation had been reduced to a few minutes preceding the act, or the text messages that I send to a lover with whom I never have love.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Moments in which Nothing Happened
Returning from Florida, here in my old home for a few days before return to the city. And I have stories of denial and rejection from the past seven days.
Myra: I went to visit her, knowing her beau was out of the country. It was the evening and I stopped by on my bike. She looked out through the screen window when I rang the doorbell and couldn't see who it was, although it seemed like our eyes connected for a second or two before she asked who it was. Then she let me in and we sat on that couch together, separated by a foot, perhaps, their dog, and a newly-found resistance on her part.
Myra's skin is fair and her hair is blond, she has blue eyes. We spoke, exchanging basic small talk for a while. She was making stuffed animals for some novelty shop owner, I can only assume, in the city. Bears with their heads cut off. I left shortly because the atmosphere was so anodyne. And I couldn't tell if she wanted me to leave. Although she told me to stop by again sometime. I went to the bar and then received a message from her saying, that was a bad idea, that I'd freaked her out, that I shouldn't stop by. So after the bar I rode back over to the bar. We sat for a few moments on the stoop. My back to her. Nothing could come of this. We wouldn't be forgiven this time.
Blythe: my mind works methodically. Since Myra would not sleep with me, I knew not what to do. At least at first. Then yesterday when I was masturbating, the thought of lovely Jewish ex-girlfriend, so well endowed in all of the best ways, Blythe. We texted, planned to get together tonight.
We have a ritual. We spend hours talking about sex with each other. A little about the sex we've had with each other. But more about her sex life. Who she has been sleeping with. I have found vicarious accounts of her sexlife arousing since I first met her and she told me about being fucked one night by her boyfriend and his friend. Last night it was about the new guy she's been hanging out with. They won't have sex, apparently, meaning intercourse, but other things are game. This means that she gets down on all fours, while he is seated and sucks his cock arching her back as much as possible to present that beautiful lilt of flesh from the small of the back to her bottom. Or so I imagine.
I spent the night with my eyes trained on her cleavage. Occasionally imploring her to show me more. Finally, we started talking about my indecent proposition. Primarily indecent because it was such a paltry sum. I wanted to kiss her, to have her disrobe before me, for her to get down on hands and knees before me, turning towards me at first engorging my cock in her mouth, and then turning away from me as I fucked her from behind.
She let me give her a backrub. The rub is, that I mean too much to her. If we were to do it again, it would immediately lead to some emotional complications, because, as I have said in an earlier post, sex is our language. Now you can see to what degree.
As I walked down her stairs, to the door, she leaned over the ledge above, watching me leave. Her wonderful and full, so full breasts hanging just slightly over that ledge. During sex she would, after I showed her that I liked this, pull my face into her breasts while she was riding me. Then I would come inside of her. All of my future into her.
Myra: I went to visit her, knowing her beau was out of the country. It was the evening and I stopped by on my bike. She looked out through the screen window when I rang the doorbell and couldn't see who it was, although it seemed like our eyes connected for a second or two before she asked who it was. Then she let me in and we sat on that couch together, separated by a foot, perhaps, their dog, and a newly-found resistance on her part.
Myra's skin is fair and her hair is blond, she has blue eyes. We spoke, exchanging basic small talk for a while. She was making stuffed animals for some novelty shop owner, I can only assume, in the city. Bears with their heads cut off. I left shortly because the atmosphere was so anodyne. And I couldn't tell if she wanted me to leave. Although she told me to stop by again sometime. I went to the bar and then received a message from her saying, that was a bad idea, that I'd freaked her out, that I shouldn't stop by. So after the bar I rode back over to the bar. We sat for a few moments on the stoop. My back to her. Nothing could come of this. We wouldn't be forgiven this time.
Blythe: my mind works methodically. Since Myra would not sleep with me, I knew not what to do. At least at first. Then yesterday when I was masturbating, the thought of lovely Jewish ex-girlfriend, so well endowed in all of the best ways, Blythe. We texted, planned to get together tonight.
We have a ritual. We spend hours talking about sex with each other. A little about the sex we've had with each other. But more about her sex life. Who she has been sleeping with. I have found vicarious accounts of her sexlife arousing since I first met her and she told me about being fucked one night by her boyfriend and his friend. Last night it was about the new guy she's been hanging out with. They won't have sex, apparently, meaning intercourse, but other things are game. This means that she gets down on all fours, while he is seated and sucks his cock arching her back as much as possible to present that beautiful lilt of flesh from the small of the back to her bottom. Or so I imagine.
I spent the night with my eyes trained on her cleavage. Occasionally imploring her to show me more. Finally, we started talking about my indecent proposition. Primarily indecent because it was such a paltry sum. I wanted to kiss her, to have her disrobe before me, for her to get down on hands and knees before me, turning towards me at first engorging my cock in her mouth, and then turning away from me as I fucked her from behind.
She let me give her a backrub. The rub is, that I mean too much to her. If we were to do it again, it would immediately lead to some emotional complications, because, as I have said in an earlier post, sex is our language. Now you can see to what degree.
As I walked down her stairs, to the door, she leaned over the ledge above, watching me leave. Her wonderful and full, so full breasts hanging just slightly over that ledge. During sex she would, after I showed her that I liked this, pull my face into her breasts while she was riding me. Then I would come inside of her. All of my future into her.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
the anthropologist
Being in Florida I have had the odd occasion to think of the anthropologist: lcb. Her family was from this state. I cannot remember where. This was years ago. Now she teaches up north. She was quite beautiful, albeit frazzled. But I suppose I have no room to speak on such matters. She had this birthmark that stretched across her shoulder.
I met her through my closest friend in the world. She was his exe and he thought, given our interests, we might have things in common. We started exchanging emails. She was then at the Harvard of the South, I was in Independence Land. I remember she sent me lifted lines from Emily Dickinson and this, in particular, seduced me. Our emails were fanciful rather than direct. Oblique. I wrote about pressing thumbs, about Jean Genet. She wrote about the fork and the spoon. I am not even sure that we were really writing about ideas at the time. It was more about the intuitions of ideas. This was early in my training and coming out of a literary background, I could still speak in that register. It would be dreadful to think how we might talk now. Now I am afraid that my authority would drown those possibilities. This is the effect of training.
We first met at the Met. It was December 1999, I think. This was after several months of exchanged emails. She was going to NY to visit relatives. I had just broken up with MC and had no idea that the latter was carrying my child. Which I would only find out a month later, after she had aborted the pregnancy, and despite my political convictions, I would tarry with the guilt. We walked through the ancient exhibits, aimlessly. I think still petrified by the fact that we had just met this other person who had produced so much desire. When we left, about an hour later, we kissed, standing by a park bench. That night we went to a bar and drank a lot, had dinner. And then I drove her to Queens, where I left her.
I was 26 when I met her. She came to visit me several weeks later. To stay with me. Which was fine with me. I was smitten. But I was curiously wholly impotent around her. I remember her naked on my bed, on all fours with her back arching and I was completely unable to plunder to fuck that incredible ass. Instead, I touched her all the other ways I knew how. I am sure that my lips spent a lot of time between her legs.
Several months later, despite the disappointment (and surprise, for me) of that incident, she invited me to visit her, deep in the South. It was strange being there, if not particularly because my grandfather had just died, only months before, in that Southern city. She picked me up at the airport in her cheap car whose climate control was stuck to unbearably hot.
When we arrived back at her apartment, that eve, we went into her dark apartment. I put down my stuff and sat on her bed. She started kissing me and within minutes she was mounted atop me. I had no trouble this time. And no plastic sheath separated her holiest of holies from my cock. For the next seven days we fucked continually.
We took apart her bedframe and put the mattress on the floor because it created such a racket. Since I could not come in her, I would pull out and she would then put my cock into her mouth and swallow all of it. Once while she was working at her computer, I crawled beneath her legs and kissed her. My tongue struggling to press inside of her. She made me stand in front of her, still seated. She unzipped my pants and licked my cock up and down like a popsicle. It became so hard in her mouth, with the head turning darker purple. We went into the bedroom and I sat down on her chair. I was still so hard and she did not mount me but turned around, casually, as if she was going to sit in the chair as if I was not even there. She slowly lowered herself onto my cock.
How sublime was this crude turgidity and the sharpness of sensation it enables, as my cock pushed into her. My hands were on her hips and pulling her down upon me. The curve of her back, how it narrowed and then swelled on her hips. The line of her spine pointing down to the tip of my sex.
"You're fucking me so hard."
"I want you to fill my pussy with your cum. I don't care. I want all of you in me."
"I want to feel the pulses of your cock and the warmth of your cum in me."
I was in love with her. I wanted the abomination that mirrors and copulation share.
I met her through my closest friend in the world. She was his exe and he thought, given our interests, we might have things in common. We started exchanging emails. She was then at the Harvard of the South, I was in Independence Land. I remember she sent me lifted lines from Emily Dickinson and this, in particular, seduced me. Our emails were fanciful rather than direct. Oblique. I wrote about pressing thumbs, about Jean Genet. She wrote about the fork and the spoon. I am not even sure that we were really writing about ideas at the time. It was more about the intuitions of ideas. This was early in my training and coming out of a literary background, I could still speak in that register. It would be dreadful to think how we might talk now. Now I am afraid that my authority would drown those possibilities. This is the effect of training.
We first met at the Met. It was December 1999, I think. This was after several months of exchanged emails. She was going to NY to visit relatives. I had just broken up with MC and had no idea that the latter was carrying my child. Which I would only find out a month later, after she had aborted the pregnancy, and despite my political convictions, I would tarry with the guilt. We walked through the ancient exhibits, aimlessly. I think still petrified by the fact that we had just met this other person who had produced so much desire. When we left, about an hour later, we kissed, standing by a park bench. That night we went to a bar and drank a lot, had dinner. And then I drove her to Queens, where I left her.
I was 26 when I met her. She came to visit me several weeks later. To stay with me. Which was fine with me. I was smitten. But I was curiously wholly impotent around her. I remember her naked on my bed, on all fours with her back arching and I was completely unable to plunder to fuck that incredible ass. Instead, I touched her all the other ways I knew how. I am sure that my lips spent a lot of time between her legs.
Several months later, despite the disappointment (and surprise, for me) of that incident, she invited me to visit her, deep in the South. It was strange being there, if not particularly because my grandfather had just died, only months before, in that Southern city. She picked me up at the airport in her cheap car whose climate control was stuck to unbearably hot.
When we arrived back at her apartment, that eve, we went into her dark apartment. I put down my stuff and sat on her bed. She started kissing me and within minutes she was mounted atop me. I had no trouble this time. And no plastic sheath separated her holiest of holies from my cock. For the next seven days we fucked continually.
We took apart her bedframe and put the mattress on the floor because it created such a racket. Since I could not come in her, I would pull out and she would then put my cock into her mouth and swallow all of it. Once while she was working at her computer, I crawled beneath her legs and kissed her. My tongue struggling to press inside of her. She made me stand in front of her, still seated. She unzipped my pants and licked my cock up and down like a popsicle. It became so hard in her mouth, with the head turning darker purple. We went into the bedroom and I sat down on her chair. I was still so hard and she did not mount me but turned around, casually, as if she was going to sit in the chair as if I was not even there. She slowly lowered herself onto my cock.
How sublime was this crude turgidity and the sharpness of sensation it enables, as my cock pushed into her. My hands were on her hips and pulling her down upon me. The curve of her back, how it narrowed and then swelled on her hips. The line of her spine pointing down to the tip of my sex.
"You're fucking me so hard."
"I want you to fill my pussy with your cum. I don't care. I want all of you in me."
"I want to feel the pulses of your cock and the warmth of your cum in me."
I was in love with her. I wanted the abomination that mirrors and copulation share.
Friday, July 11, 2008
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.
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.
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