Polyamorous Love Song

by Jacob Wren

  “I want to fuck you on your desk,” she said. She would give him the virus and then she would die. And afterwards he would die. Which was of course the point.

  * * *

  Jeremy and Theresa had locked every door in the house and shut off all the lights, except the one in the bedroom, when they heard the crash, violent, like a large tree had fallen in a storm, smashing into the back wall of their crisp modernist house. But there was no storm. And it wasn’t the first time they had been startled in such a manner.

  “Do we go look now? Or wait until morning?”

  He was trying to remain calm, thinking nothing could be gained by taking an already tense situation and adding panic to the equation.

  “I won’t be able to sleep if I don’t know.”

  “You might not be able to sleep if you do.”

  “It can’t be any worse that the last one.” But as she said this she also feared that maybe it could. That what could definitely get worse was their fear of never extricating themselves from such a tangle, that eventually they might turn against each other and that would really be the end.

  This was the real reason they had left L.A., though apart from the occasional outbreaks of reheated paranoia, most of the time they managed to convince themselves, and each other, that the reason they had fled L.A. was their inability to build on their initial promise to achieve anything resembling real success. But these incidents were a painful reminder of the reality just underneath their half-invented cover story, of how bad things had actually gotten in the months and weeks before they finally decided to flee.

  As they walked down the staircase towards the back garden, Theresa could sense Jeremy’s entire body tensing. Flicking each light back on as they passed, Jeremy wondered how it had gotten so out of hand, wondered what might have happened if they had never discovered the book, or if it had never interested them, or (at the very least) if they had never become so involved.

  There was a floodlight that covered the entirety of the back garden, and Theresa’s hand paused just in front of the switch, as if what remained in darkness, what remained unknown, also remained innocuous. Did she really want to flick the switch and see further evidence that they weren’t welcome here either, that their relationship with the others had deteriorated beyond repair? But of course the switch was flicked and the floodlight went on.

  What they saw was as predictable as it was unnerving. The entire back wall of the house had been covered in blood. It was difficult to imagine how so much blood could have splattered so completely.

  “What will we do?”

  “I’ll get the hose.”

  * * *

  When Silvia finally came down for breakfast Paul was still at the kitchen table, still reading, a smile on his face as he gradually teased through the story of the assassin and her boss, how they had been lovers when she worked for him, how it was in the bedroom she had first learned just how savagely he approached his work, how for him a dollar earned was all that much sweeter if earned at the expense of someone else. And then the turning point when she joins the resistance, becomes a double agent, realizes she can use the bedroom to gather information, gather whatever details he would casually drop, test the limits of how much she could safely pry, until one day, as far as her boss was concerned, she simply disappears – all of these memories rushing through her mind as she fucks her boss to death on his desk in that corner office on the twenty-eighth floor.

  “This is fantastic,” Paul said.

  Silvia was at the espresso machine. She wondered whether or not to believe him. Was he just making nice, trying to patch things up from their big fight the night before?

  “What’s so fantastic about it?”

  And then the pause, the pause that was a few moments too long, the pause, the opening, during which all of her insecurities about her work, about life, came flooding through.

  “I don’t know . . .”

  The pause followed by an ‘I don’t know,’ as if he was buying himself time, fishing for something to say, something convincing, something that would convince her that he thought her work was strong and therefore be the first step towards assuaging the tensions of the night before.

  “I like the way it rushes forward, steams through the clichés, almost breaking them open as it goes.”

  She focused on the word ‘cliché,’ on the word ‘almost,’ how he doesn’t say it breaks open the clichés but that it ‘almost’ does, how he perhaps doesn’t think her writing is good at all, but only ‘almost’ good. She pulled the espresso cup from the machine, leaned against the counter with her shoulder facing him, taking the first morning sip.

  Paul could see that something had gone horribly wrong, that whatever he said next would most likely hurtle towards another fight. He felt trapped. Trapped in his role as the one who’s always too critical, who always judges her harshly, who, when it comes to books, can’t help but be competitive, who after all these years together, couple or not, had never found the right way to be on her side.

  “I said your book was fantastic.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you seem angry.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m lost . . . What do we do?”

  She looked at him. He did look genuinely lost. She also felt lost. They were both writing books. He was almost finished his. She still had a long way to go.

  “If we’re not a couple, why do we always act this way?”

  * * *

  The wall was clean, the blood washed away. Jeremy and Theresa lay in bed, thinking, unable to sleep. They loved the book, but the other people who loved the book clearly did not love them. They hadn’t meant to make anyone angry. It just seemed so clear to them that there was a certain, very specific, way the book should be shared. And that this way was extremely different from the manner in which the others were teaching it. That people should come to the book gradually, gently, based on their own initiative, with few or no strings attached. That money and the secrets of the book should be kept separate, at least at first. The small gatherings they had in their home, during which they introduced a few close friends to the book, were certainly never meant to break a monopoly, and it seemed completely insane to them that anyone might view their small, humble efforts as a threat.

  Theresa: When you think about it, it’s just so clear.

  Jeremy: What is?

  Theresa: That we’re the ones who believe.

  Jeremy: Yes.

  Theresa: We’re the ones who believe. And they’re the ones who deface it.

  * * *

  Paul had gone out. Silvia was alone in the apartment. They had fought and then, halfway through the disagreement, he simply left. He always ran away from conflict.

  Wandering from empty room to empty room, agitated, unable to settle, Silvia thought of packing up everything she owned, throwing every last thing into a few suitcases (she didn’t have much), calling a taxi, taking it anywhere – to the airport, getting on the first plane she could find. When he came back she’d be gone. How would he react? How long would it take for him to realize that she wasn’t coming back? Days? Weeks? She knew she wouldn’t leave, but in her mind it was the most satisfying thought she could possibly imagine.

  She wandered into his office. The apartment had five rooms. How come he wrote in his office while she used the kitchen? But she was grasping at straws: This particular instance was not a searing example of patriarchy at work. She actually preferred it this way. She’d feel claustrophobic in an office, with all the books and pictures and history staring down at her. She didn’t want a door that could be closed.

  On his desk was the manuscript. It was open to the last chapter, the part they had argued about. Had he been rereading it, reconsidering it in light of her recent critique? Probably not, he was far too stubborn for such doubts. She skimmed through the pages: Hitler agreeing to dog-sit when his neighbour goes on vacation,
taking the dog for a walk, explaining his theories of racial supremacy as the dog barks in approval, wondering if the dog might be a half-breed or worse, a Jew, buying pet food. On the last page she stopped, her gaze focusing on the last paragraph, as she began to read more closely:

  With his pants and underwear around his ankles, Hitler continued to pet and caress the soft black fur of the little mutt. The dog seemed to like this, did not seem to mind his growing – dare he think it – Aryan erection. After a generous application of lube, he entered the dog carefully, worried that its sudden, sharp squeals would alert the neighbours, but already he was too excited to stop, too excited to hold back. After all, he was the Fuehrer, instigator of a thousand-year regime, what did he care what the neighbours thought. Starting with small, soft – he even thought to himself, gentle – thrusts, his gradual petting of the animal increased, and just moments later he was grabbing, grasping onto the fur for traction, holding on for dear life as the dog squirmed and helplessly kicked in every possible direction. “Say fuck me like you mean it,” Hitler growled. He was really hammering away now, holding on tight as the dog wheezed and yelped, “Say it! Fucking say it!”

  “Fuck me like you mean it,” yapped the dog.

  5. The Centre for Productive Compromise: An Example of the New Filmmaking

  In 1975 Feldmann sent envelopes, each containing a letter and twelve snapshots, to people with whom he was personally acquainted in the local art scene. The amateur-porn style, flash photos showed the artist engaged in a ménage à trois with two women in a deep-red brothel-like setting. The letter tells that while he wasn’t ashamed to perform such acts in private, their public display was another matter. Yet, he explains, there are much more shameful, “really sickening” things, being done in public, for which the majority feels no shame.

  —Roy Arden on Hans-Peter Feldmann

  She came up to me in the bar, her shirt half-undone. Maybe not half. Maybe only a few buttons but it was clear where I was looking. She placed her drink on the counter a few inches from my hand. I also held a drink. Our knuckles were almost touching.

  “Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “In the bathroom. Fucking her other guy.”

  “How many does she have?”

  “Right now? Just the two of us. I think. For awhile it might have been up to five.”

  “Boys and girls?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But now just two?”

  “Yeah.”

  I took a half step towards her. Not even half a step. Really just sliding a couple of inches. Our knuckles were touching, as if we were almost clinking glasses but our hands got in the way.

  “If we were to go back to your place, do you think your girlfriend would miss you for a few hours?”

  I knew it was best to be honest.

  “She might.”

  “Do you care?”

  “If you can live with it, I can.”

  We were fucking on the edge of the bed when the phone rang, her back on the floor, her legs still on the bed. I didn’t quite know how I was balancing, my teeth pressed against her shoulder, one elbow holding almost my full weight. For a moment I thought it was my phone but realized it was hers. Without pulling away she reached over, grabbed her pants from the floor, sliding them towards her, sliding the phone out from the pocket without a thought. She quickly bit my neck then looked back at the phone.

  “Keep fucking me, I’m going to take this.”

  She answered the phone and I did as I was told, listening to only one side of the conversation, doing my best to keep thrusting, to guess who it was on the other end of the line. It was difficult to stay focused. I began to drift, lose interest, wondering if Melanie was still in the bathroom, still at the club. I wondered if there’d be a knock on the front door and if it would be her and what might happen then.

  Then the phone was up against my ear, her legs wrapping around my hips and she was laughing and thrusting hard up against me. I arched my back.

  “It’s for you.”

  The phone was pressed against my ear, everything proceeding naturally.

  “Hello,” I said into the phone.

  “Where did you go?”

  “Met someone. Didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “Of course not. You know me. My middle name is ‘we have an arrangement.’”

  I realized that talking to Melanie changed something: I was thrusting harder now, could hear my voice speaking into the phone, short of breath. I tried to steady myself.

  “Why didn’t you call on my phone?”

  “Thought it would be more fun this way. Anyway, if I’d called your phone you wouldn’t have answered.”

  She had a point. The girl from the bar, still holding the phone to my ear, had managed to flip me over and was on top. I realized I was really enjoying this now, the phone grinding and scratching against my ear as she slammed down into me.

  “Call me when you’re done?”

  “You know I always do.”

  “Not always, sometimes you fall asleep.”

  She laughed and I could feel myself getting closer. I wanted to cry out but stifled it.

  “You wouldn’t by any chance want to join us.”

  “In your dreams.”

  As she hung up I started to come.

  * * *

  The drug we took to remember phone numbers had a side effect. Not quite telepathy, it somehow allowed us to intuit the phone numbers of the people we were with and, if we took a lot, too much, also intuit the numbers of the people they were with, as if the telepathy could jump first into our friends and then keep going, jumping into their friends as well. We took it because programming your phone seemed so fucking old- fashioned, so much smoother to actually punch in each digit. But the real reason we took it was the side effect – the ability to phone anyone on any phone. Then things could really begin to slide.

  * * *

  Steve, on the couch, his pants around his ankles, looking exhausted, drained. Some guy whose name we didn’t know perched on top of him, sucking his cock, doing a pretty good job.

  Eric was a few feet a way, watching, not watching, he barely knew.

  “Eric,” Steve said, glancing loosely over at him, “it just drives me into the ground.”

  “What?”

  “My own fucking ambition.”

  Eric didn’t answer but Steve didn’t give him a chance.

  “Success, new successes . . . I want each one to cure my loneliness. But they don’t. Exactly the opposite.”

  The guy sucking Steve’s cock paused for a moment, looked up at Steve and grinned, then went back to work.

  Samantha entered, surveyed the room. Steve was taken so she went over to Eric, sat on his lap saddle-style, nuzzling up against his neck. Eric liked Samantha, she was relaxed, ready for anything, took everything else with a grain of salt. And with women he never got hurt. They couldn’t quite scratch away at his heart the way men did. He looked over at Steve and slid his hand up the back of Samantha’s shirt. Her back was smooth and warm and he felt the first twinge of an erection. They kissed as he felt the familiar disappointment. He whispered in her ear: “Maybe later.”

  She smiled and laughed lightly. “I know, it’s like flipping a coin,” she said as she slipped off his lap and went over to fix her hair in the mirror.

  It’s like flipping a coin was our slang for realizing what you really want. If you flip a coin, it comes up heads, and you suddenly feel that twinge of regret, realizing that what you actually wanted was the tails option – in the end the coin did in fact help you decide. There was a lot of slang like that. Filmmaking meant to really go for it. The Centre for Productive Compromise meant a really good fuck. There were others I can’t remember right now.

  Eric stood up, walked over to the couch, tapped the blowjob giver on the shoulder. The blowjob giver looked up at him and grinned stupi
dly. “Do you mind taking a break,” Eric said. The guy whose name we didn’t know looked over at Samantha who smiled at him. He got up off the couch and walked over to her. Eric looked down at Steve. “Let’s find somewhere private,” Eric said, “and keep your pants off.” Steve pulled himself up off the couch as well, coming to life a little for the first time since the opening three days ago. He stood up, almost stumbling on the pants still wrapped around his ankles but at the same time pulling one leg free, regaining his balance. If he stumbled at all it was only to fall forward into Eric. They wrapped themselves around each other. They kissed.

  * * *

  The cocktail was the drug to remember phone numbers, the drug to suppress jealousy, the drug to keep you hot and bothered and a little something extra to keep you going all night. The proportions could vary wildly. We all took the cocktail every day, and others who joined us in this practice could quickly enter the stream. The places were The Knife, The Sauna, our various beds and kitchens.

  * * *

  Maybe Steve had heard about it first or maybe I had. But there was no question: it was the lecture we had been waiting for. We had lined up for tickets, not knowing that not everyone was as enamoured with her as we were, not knowing that it wouldn’t even come close to selling out and therefore waiting in line was unnecessary. We didn’t care. We took turns making out as we waited. A few others joined in. They didn’t take the cocktail (yet) but we didn’t mind. If they were willing, we were willing. We had tickets and we went, the auditorium three-quarters full as she took the stage, as we applauded and didn’t want to stop. But we stopped because more than anything we wanted to hear her, hear what she had to say, how her thinking had or hadn’t changed, how she felt about everything that had come since.

  “Many of you might already practice what I like to think of as the new filmmaking,” she began, and we glanced at each other along the aisle, smiling half-secretively, as if she knew, as if she were speaking to each one of us personally, or about us as a group. “This, for me, is a practice as rich as it is diverse.”