The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday

by Neil McKinnon

  Following closely on the heels of relief, Adriana fell into a pit of despair. How could she ever love again? “In my head I had committed my entire being to Alan,” she said. “I could not forsake his memory. My love wasn’t like an old man’s erection — it didn’t go away.”

  “You mistook a mouse for an elephant,” I said. “Because love is too complex for a neophyte it was easy for you to misconstrue your infatuation. You cannot know a fine vintage if you’ve never tasted wine. Even I, a seasoned veteran, occasionally find love perplexing.”

  “I understand exactly,” she said. “When you speak, I sometimes mistake excrement for fertilizer.”

  I ignored her remark and stroked the stubble on my chin. “So what happened, my whisker-loving wench? How long did you pine for lost love?”

  “Actually, it was amazing how quickly my love boat overcame its momentum and changed course. I rebounded but I jumped too far. Perhaps as a result of emotional trauma, I leapt into my first marriage. I began a pursuit of the carnival’s strong man, Antonio Baricco. He was a tanned giant with rippling muscles and a black handlebar moustache sprouting from a rugged face. I particularly liked the way he looked in his leopard skin tights.”

  The pursuit of Antonio was difficult. Dressed in his tights, he spent all of his off-stage hours in front of a large mirror that he had mounted on the side of his trailer. He always began by smiling at the mirror. The smile gradually faded as his eyes took on the intensity of a goaltender poised for a soccer ball. Staring into the mirror, he flexed and posed. Then he posed and flexed, and whispered to his image, gradually increasing the volume until he was shouting epithets, daring the mirror to throw back a less than perfect reflection. Daily, Adriana paraded by dressed in provocative attire, but he had eyes only for the facsimile that watched from the mirror.

  Adriana has never been known for reticence when it comes to achieving a goal. She studied Antonio’s schedule. He broke away from his narcissistic exercise for only two reasons: to put on his regular act during which he performed feats of incredible strength for admiring audiences, and to chew handfuls of vitamins, pep pills and minerals which he washed down with litres of health tonics.

  “I remember the day well,” she explained. “While he was performing, I substituted pure alcohol for one of his tonics. Then I hid behind a tree near his trailer and waited while guilt nibbled at my conscience. Above me, leafy branches framed patches of sky — blue paintings that hosted soaring white seagulls. Other birds flew in and out of the paintings. One swooped low and sat on a branch, a black crow that cocked his head and accused me with beady eyes.

  “Antonio was already in a rubbery state when he arrived to begin preening. When he staggered and almost collapsed, I rushed to help put him to bed in his trailer. He weighed over 200 pounds and it was difficult to remove the tights. What followed was not what I expected. He seemed to have the right idea but every time we came close to achieving what I had envisioned he began talking to himself — at least to parts of himself. Not the parts you would imagine, but to his biceps, which he had named as if they were children. He called the right Romeo and the left Juliet. ‘Romeo,’ he muttered, ‘What for are thou? Juliet, you are neither hand nor foot … and I’m weak and loose in the head.’”

  “How long did he keep up that nonsense?” I asked.

  “Until he fell asleep, right after he sang a lullaby to each of his muscles. He was snoring when I left. However, I accomplished my purpose. Someone told him that it was me who put him to bed and he came to say thanks. We went out and two weeks later we were married. I was his first date, his first girlfriend, and his first wife.

  “But problems surfaced as soon as he realized that I intended to share star billing with his pectorals. It turned out that he loved only those parts of his body that drew ooh’s and aah’s from the crowd. The part that was crucial for our wedding night he considered as useless as ears on a deaf man — it had never brought him accolades. There was not a musician alive who could have made that organ play.

  “It took weeks to consummate the marriage and that only after I stole his leopard skin tights, recited poetry to Romeo, and told bedtime stories to Juliet. I also spent hours telling the apparatus he considered useless that it was a muscle-bound god. However, it was only after I set up an exercise schedule for it that I got any reaction.”

  “So what caused the break-up?”

  “I realized that I would never play first fiddle in his orchestra — a marriage certificate is not a deed of sexual ownership. We divorced. In spite of my planning, I was left with only a small dent in my virginity but with a firm resolve to have a major fender-bender as soon as possible. The good news is that I avoided being stuck with support payments for Romeo and Juliet.”

  “You do make mistakes,” I said. “First a mouse for an elephant and then you confused a burro for a horse. Infatuation is not love and neither is lust, although it is closer to it in an evolutionary sense. Lust is merely static that makes it difficult for one’s sexual antenna to bring in a clear broadcast.”

  “You illustrate your own point,” she said. “It’s like trying to comprehend gibberish. However, you have reminded me of something. One of the workers who set up and dismantled the attractions was an indigenous man. He was ancient and had travelled with the carnival for so long that no one remembered where he came from. He told me he had been a revered storyteller in his tribe. As you know, it is the storytellers in a society who portray and make sense of the world. His name was Torquetri and I remember him talking about love and lust. He told me this story:

  In the beginning there was confusion with bits and pieces of things everywhere, floating around and bumping into other bits and pieces. There were two deities, He-God and She-God, but they were inexperienced and didn’t know what to do. So chaos reigned and it was only after many eternities that things began to sort themselves out. Eventually the right pieces stuck together and the first women appeared. Then it started to rain. Some of the women became unglued and fell apart. Concerned, the gods put them back together but they were in a hurry, had no blueprint, and so made mistakes. These mistakes they called men. That is why today some parts of men fit together with parts of women.

  Occasionally, She-God became bored. For Her own amusement, She removed pieces from what had already been created. Her favourite pastime was to steal the appendage from a man and then laugh while the man searched frantically for his missing part. However, some men were no fun — they didn’t search. These men reconciled themselves to their loss by moving into the biggest cave, carrying the heaviest club or brandishing the longest spear. Whenever that happened, She-God, in a fit of pique, would give life to the stolen item. That is why two types of males walk the earth — those with no penis but intellect intact, and penises that stand upright with no brain attached. The latter tend to frequent bars and sporting events. For ease of description I refer to these two men as Tiny Tim and Willie. Thus, She-God set into motion that which frustrates women to this day — the fruitless search for something that doesn’t exist, and the slow realization of why — that a whole man is simply the simultaneous embodiment of flesh and lust.

  He-God was envious that She-God was having all the fun. In a fanciful attempt to imitate Her pleasure, He selected a woman, removed the part called reason and breathed life into it. Thus, there began to be seen on earth, two kinds of females — those with reason alone and those who represent unscathed desire but lack the sense to mitigate it. To keep the latter amused, He-God invented diets and make-up. For ease of description I call these two women Chastity and Muffy. He-God looked at what He had wrought, saw that it was good and then, utilizing His recent experience, He moved on to create pre-nuptial agreements. Thus, He-God set into motion that which frustrates men to this day — the pointless search for something that doesn’t exist — a woman who is restrained on the street but wanton in the bedroom.

  After six days, the gods tired of their play. They moved to Saskatchewan to be with their o
wn kind, and abandoned humans to their own devices forever. From that day, four types of people have roamed the world meeting, mating, and marrying.

  The results of these liaisons are predictable: when Chastity meets Tiny Tim the only possible result is platonic romance with each secretly wondering why others have more fun, while the outcome of Tim encountering Muffy is a short frustrating affair. When Wandering Willie finds Chastity, the consequence is an unstable marriage, but the upshot when he stumbles over Muffy is always fun — fun that lasts right up until the advent of morning sickness.”

  “An interesting story,” I said. “But what is the point?”

  “The point,” she retorted, “is that I now know why you live alone in such a big house.”

  Adriana has spent an inordinate amount of time dancing the bridal waltz but I won’t bore you with the details of her ensuing two marriages, both of which occurred when she was still young. Neither lasted long. She says they were as memorable as tepid weather. Her next nuptial deserves mention, however, as it caused her to leave the midway and resulted in her eventually becoming my next door neighbour.

  “By the time I acquired my fourth husband the conjugal bed no longer held mystery,” she said. “I had misplaced my virginity so many times that Marco Polo couldn’t have found it.

  “The marriage was a terrible mistake. His name was El Cuchillo and he had a knife-throwing act. As well as knives, he liked to throw his weight around. I’m no cowering cutie but he was a big man and I did not fare well. However, he did teach me his art. I proved adept and soon the pupil’s skill surpassed that of her teacher. I became the star of the show and my bully-boy husband moved into the background as my assistant.

  That’s when the accident happened. The act always resulted in calls for an encore. To fill this demand I strapped him to a large wooden wheel and set it rotating. I then stepped back and threw sharp knives into the wheel until they completely outlined the perimeter of his body. The climax occurred when I threw the final knife high up between his legs. Unfortunately I missed and El Cuchillo suddenly became eligible for service as a soprano in a ladies’ choir. Rather than sing, we divorced and he quietly slipped away to live in a facility that housed infirm and elderly performers, becoming one of the few people ever to run away from the circus to join a home.”

  “It sounds like he deserved his fate, my neutering Nellie. I like to dine in fine restaurants but I don’t choose items from the menu that I find distasteful. Why is it that you persisted in jumping into less-than-satisfactory marital situations?”

  Adriana grimaced. “Like many women, I was raised to believe that happiness can only occur if you stare over the cereal box at the same person for all of eternity and that this state of conformity is the only heaven available here on earth. What I didn’t know was that a man is most happy when he experiences only selected fragments of a marriage. He wants someone to prepare meals but not to prepare a schedule for his day off; he desires to share his bed but not his secrets or his closet; he wishes for an admirer to gaze up at him but doesn’t want anyone peering into his bank book; he wants a hostess to entertain his friends but not a new companion on the golf course. Learning this took a great deal of trial and a lot of error.”

  I have already told you the story of Adriana’s final marriage and how she came to acquire the house next door. I have also revealed our brief visit to Passion Mountain and why it is that we no longer make that trek. What I have not explained is how Adriana fits into my life and why it is that I would become a sorry soul were she to leave.

  Adriana is one of the few women to whom I can actually talk.

  Praying for a Relationship

  ADRIANA COMPLETED HER STORY AND CARRIED her glass to the kitchen, a signal that I should go home. But I was not about to leave. She waited for a moment and then poured us each another brandy. “What is it, my cute cadaver? Has rigor mortis set in?”

  “No it hasn’t. Your story has triggered a memory, an event that happened long before I learned that a mature person prays for a relationship rather than an orgasm.”

  She handed me my drink. “Let’s hear it. I might as well be entertained while I chaperone.”

  In those days, I frequently found strong drink a pleasant alternative when God ignored my prayers. One particular evening, while riding my favourite bar stool, I ruminated on the distance that my life had traversed since I had last enjoyed the sheer anticipatory pleasure of even the possibility of an erotic encounter. Wallowing in self-pity, I decided that even a quick glimpse of a naked woman would be infinitely more gratifying than the full frontal nudity displayed by the ice-cubes in my glass. Consequently, I proceeded to Bronco Bananas, a nearby nightclub that advertised itself by displaying large posters of exotic women in various stages of undress.

  I entered, acquired a table near the stage, and ordered a drink without ice. Soon after I sat down, a lady, dressed in a fashion that told me she was one of the performers, sashayed across the room. She was tall, full bodied and had long red hair. As she passed, my mouth acted on its own. ‘Hello beautiful,” it said.

  “Hi yourself, gorgeous,” she replied. “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Please do. You’re as welcome as a cloud burst in a drought. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I don’t drink before a show, but thank you anyway. Please go ahead.”

  I ordered another. Soon our words flowed at a brisk pace and we began enjoying ourselves.

  “My name’s Barbie,” she said. “Have you seen my act?”

  “No, I haven’t. My name’s Alberto and I can’t wait.”

  “Do you have a wife or a girlfriend?”

  I’m afraid that I have been blessed with neither for a very long time.”

  “Then what do you do for pleasure, Alberto? Surely a dashing individual such as yourself has little need to sit alone in an establishment where the only audience participation is wishful thinking.”

  I felt my chest swell. Clearly, Barbie was someone who recognized talent. Our conversation became intimate and she suggested we move to a booth for privacy. I ordered another drink for myself and a tonic water for her.

  As soon as we were in the booth, she leaned over and fastened her lips on mine. Her eyes shone through her eyelashes and I felt her hand pass across my lap. It did this a few times and then rested there rhythmically squeezing the front of my trousers. She broke the kiss. “Who is this gentleman that stands in the presence of a lady? Does he have a name?”

  “I like to call him, Old Faithful,” I said. “Although he doesn’t erupt on a regular basis.”

  Adriana had been trying to erupt on a regular basis since I started my story. She found her opening. “Old Faithful, my backside! He should be called, Sense of Humour because his main role in life is to amuse.” She punctuated her statement with a loud bray and a spray. I ignored the former and wiped away the latter before I continued.

  Barbie smiled, displaying even white teeth. I felt the unzip before she disappeared, out of sight below the table. I kept drinking and tried to look nonchalant, hoping other patrons would think that she had gone to the bathroom. Because of my advanced state of imaginary anticipation she did not have to stay out of sight for very long.

  I ordered another drink to recover. “I feel that I should reciprocate,” I said.

  She raised her eyes as she applied fresh lipstick. “I’d love that but my show is about to begin. I’ll take a raincheck.” She gave me a kiss, stuck her tongue in my ear and said, “let me know what you think of my performance.”

  Her dance was elegant and daring at the same time. She owned the stage, cavorting, teasing, exotic, erotic — every man in the place lusted. She disrobed while using a large fan and her long red hair to conceal her exposure, offering the audience only brief glimpses of an exquisite body. I felt myself falling in love.

  At the finale she came to centre stage, and removed the fan, the red hair … and her breasts! Barbie was a man!

  I was stunned. How could this be?
I had no advance warning that I was a homosexual.

  He exited the stage and the next act, a comedian with a trained monkey, started his routine. I was curious. What was there about myself, an individual whose gender bucket was overflowing with heterosexuality, that would cause Barbie to think that I drove on both sides of the street. I waited but he didn’t return. When I enquired, I was told that it had been his last show and that he had gone home.

  I, too, went home but I was unable to sleep. The experience had not been unpleasant. An old refrain of my father’s replayed itself in my memory: You can be anything that you aspire to. I had always aspired to be heterosexual but it wasn’t working for me. I thought, why not aspire to something else?

  The following evening I bypassed my usual watering hole and returned to Bronco Bananas to see Barbie. We sat in the same booth. “Barbie is my stage name. My real name is Benito. How did you like my act?” he asked.

  “You have influenced me and now I want you to teach me. I have decided to become a homosexual.”

  He laughed. “I’d love to but I’m afraid it may be impossible. You either are or you aren’t. It’s like becoming an Irishman. You can’t just decide to be one. You must start out that way.”

  “I disagree. Anyone can become Irish. All you have to do is drink more. I think it’s like religion. I know Catholics who have become Protestants and I’ve even met a former Anglican who became a Buddhist.”