by Barry Wolfe
I don’t know what to say to her or how to console her. I put my arms around her and just hold her while she cries. She finally looks at me with tears still streaming down her beautiful brown face and says, “Oh Izzy, I do want to love you, but I’m so frightened.” I kiss her with all the force of my yearning. “Desirie, I want to make love to you. She smiles and rapidly nods her head. “But where Izzy? Where can we be together?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll find a place. “ She grabs my hand and smiles at me again. “We better get back,” she says. “We have an exam tomorrow morning in Abnormal Psych. She chuckles and says, “This has been some study date.”
“Well, you know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Yeah, well we didn’t do either.” We walk back to the parking lot and there are three other cars besides mine parked there. One looks oddly familiar. It’s a 1959 Chevy Bel Air. It looks exactly like Bobby Kaplan’s car, but it can’t be. That would be too spooky. As we approach the car, it seems to be rocking back and forth. Funny sounds are issuing from the back seat. We hear heavy breathing, followed by moans and a familiar male voice singing out “Oh my God,”—a phrase that was painfully familiar to me. There is no doubt. Its Bobby and Judy. I tell Desirie who I think it is. We look at each other and [burst out laughing.] Desirie with wide eyes and a mock expression of anger says, “I hope you don’t have that in mind for us. I ain’t giving it up to you in the backseat of no damn car.” We both laugh. As our laughter subsides, we notice that it has grown silent inside the car. Slowly, very slowly, the back window begins to open and we see a head rising up to look out the window. First I see the familiar flattop and then Bobby’s full face with a sour expression. “Sheeyit. It can’t be you, Izzy.” Now he’s laughing his high-pitched embarrassed laugh. I can barely glimpse Judy and the sheepish smile on her face. Bobby is bare-chested and Judy is holding up some clothing in front of her torso. In a phony formal tone, I say to Desirie, “Dear, I would like you to meet my very good friend, Bobby Kaplan and his inamorata, Judy Ginsburg. Bobby and Judy; this is Desirie Jackson. After hellos are said all around, Bobby says, “Be out in a minute.” He rolls up the back window and holds a shirt against it while Judy presumably puts her clothes back on. Then he takes the shirt off the window and puts it on his bare torso. They get out of the car, pat themselves down and resume their introduction. At 5’4”, Desirie towers over Judy who is barely 5 feet tall. Bobby is an inch taller than I am. “What are you doing here?” I ask Bobby. “Well, whatever it was, you two should try it,” Bobby says with a devilish grin. Desirie’s face takes on that utterly delightful crimson and brown color. And then she laughs. Her laughter drives my own, and soon we are all laughing. The conversation divides into two. Judy and Desirie are getting to know one another.. Judy, at first seems uncomfortable talking with Desirie. She’s not sure what to say to a Black woman. But Desirie’s natural charm draws her in. Bobby and I have moved a few feet away “The irony of the situation, Bobby,” I tell him, “is that Desirie and I had just decided that we want to do what your doing, but not in a car. Where can we go?” Bobby again gives me his devilish grin. “You do know that I own and manage an apartment building around 16th and U. There’s a room I can let you use.” “Bobby, that’s fantastic. Thank you, thank you.”
“When do you need it for?”
“How about this Saturday night?” Bobby takes out a little black book and makes a note. “Done. How’s eight o’clock.”
“Great!” My enthusiasm is a little too vociferous and it stirs the girls’ curiosity. Desirie asks, “What’re you boys talking about?”
“Oh nothing,” we both say not quite in unison. The stupid grins on our face give us away. “Why do boys always lie?” Judy asks Desirie, as she moves her index finger to her chin in a mock pose of thoughtfulness. Desirie replies, “Ain’t it a shame! They just can’t help themselves. Apparently, it makes no difference whether the boys are white or black. All boys lie to their girlfriends.” I am about to launch into a serious protest, but when the girls heartily laugh and tell each other that I was about to prove their point, I shut-up.
It is only Tuesday and Saturday feels like forever in the future. I can barely contain my excitement. I can’t believe it is finally going to happen. I’m going to make love to the woman I love and have desired since our junior year in high school. Yesterday, Desirie and I took our Abnormal Psych exam and found it very difficult to concentrate. With her sitting right beside me, the exam questions were overwhelmed by her presence, her perfume and her concentration-destroying smile. I’d look at the exam, then at her, then back at the exam. She was doing the same thing. It’s a wonder that we weren’t accused of cheating.
I am now in my German class and find myself writing Desirie’s name over and over again in my notebook. Ich liebe dich, I write. Even in German the phrase beguiles me. Mel Gray who sits near me is watching me write his cousin’s name over and over, and he is quietly laughing. “Aw man, you got it bad,” he whispers. “You best believe it. I’m in love, Jack,” I whisper back. Dr. Dittersdorf catches us whispering. “Herr Vhite,” he bellows. “Vhy are you not writing down vhat I write on ze board?” I finally notice that he has written a phrase attributed to Goethe about the brotherhood of man. I had it on good authority that Goethe did not actually believe in the brotherhood of man. In fact, I believe he was anti-Semitic. So I had no interest in writing such dribble in my notebook. And I make the mistake of saying so. “Dr. Dittersdorf, I am now a senior in college,” I say, “and I feel I am quite capable of deciding what I should write down or not.” This came out in a haughtier tone than I wanted, but I am embarrassed by his reprimand. A chorus of Oooohs echoed in the classroom. Dr. Dittersdorf screams out, “YOU WRITE DOWN VHAT I WRITE OR I VILL DENOUNCE YOU TO THE DEAN. Another chorus of Ooohs ensues only this time louder. I have the urge to stand up, click my heels, give a straight-armed salute and yell out, “Ja, mein fuhrer.” Instead, I meekly say, “Yessir,” and start writing furiously. The room is now filled with the tittering of my classmates.
Saturday finally comes. It begins as a rainy autumn day that does nothing to quell my heebie-jeebies. I am filled with excitement, desire, doubt and terror. What if I mess this up? What if I’m so nervous I can’t get it up? What if I’m too small for her? Maybe she’s already been with some black guys with huge organs and she’s gonna be so disappointed with my pitifully deficient prick. It is hard, hard work to fend off my self-doubts and reassure myself that everything’s gonna work out fine… if I just let nature take its course.
I don’t quite know what to do with myself. I have a ton of homework, but I have difficulty concentrating on any of it. Even abnormal psychology, which I usually find engrossing, cannot hold my attention. I call Bobby to make sure our plans are firm. Bobby reassures me that our room is “ready” and that he will meet us there around 8 p.m. tonight. Then I call Desirie to see how she is feeling. Is she sick? Has she changed her mind? Has she come to her senses? She’s fine and can’t wait to see me. I am to pick her up at 6 pm and we will get dinner in Chinatown and then go to Bobby’s apartment. We hang up and I look at the clock and it is only 11 am. The hands of the clock turn into slugs and seem to move about as fast.
In the early afternoon, the weather begins to brighten up and so does my mood. I have in front of me two books by the psychoanalyst Erich Fromm, Escape From Freedom and the Art of Loving. Escape from Freedom is helping me to understand why it has been so difficult for me to be completely myself with others. Every time I want to be myself, I feel isolated from others and the crippling sense of loneliness I feel makes me want to fit in with whatever group I happen to be involved with at the moment. This often takes place without my being aware of it. Before I know it, I’m laughing at jokes I don’t think are funny, or I remain silent when others offer preposterous ideas and beliefs as if they are certain truths. Removing one’s self-defeating internal constraints can be as difficult as freeing oneself from external oppressio
n. In fact, the two forms of oppression are related. Internal fears can lead us to oppress others and to avoid the responsibility of creating a free society. From The Art of Loving, I am learning that love is often confused with the “falling-in-love” feelings of romantic infatuation and sexual desire; that love is a decision, a commitment and that it is related to a broader capacity to love human beings in general.
Is that what I am doing? Falling in love with Desirie or have I made a decision to commit to her. I feel I want her. I need her. But do I love her in the Frommian sense of the word? The more I read of The Art of Loving, the calmer I feel. It dawns on me that “loving’ Desirie does not mean I have to impress her with my non-existent love-making skills, with my performance. Making love is not something I do to her, but rather is something I share with her. This epiphany conflicts with everything I have been told about how to Do It with a woman. The idea of “sharing with” rather than “doing to” her sounds…well, more loving. But can I do it that way with Desirie? Can I share with her instead of performing for her?
When I pick Desirie up she looks ravishing; tan, fitted skirt, burnt orange sweater, gold loop earings. In my eyes, she’s the personification of autumn beauty. I want to make love to her right then and there, but I remember her prohibition on automobile assignations. I greet her with a passionate kiss. She responds in kind. “Mmmm, ain’t we loose, tonight.” She says this with a mischievous smile. “I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”
“I’m hungry too,” I say, leering at her. I see a flash of irritation on her face. “Izzy, would you please stop looking at me like I’m a piece of prime steak.” I exaggerate my leer and make lip-smacking noises. She laughs and punches me in the shoulder and says in an exaggerated southern Negro accent “Go on now, you hound dog, and drive this car on out a here.”
The Chinese food at the Far East is so luscious in aroma and taste that it serves to heighten my desire for Desirie. I am growing more confident that the heebie-jeebies will not seize me later and turn our love tryst into a disaster. I am able to park on 16th street between T and U Streets. We are just a little south of Bobby’s apartment house. We find the three-story brick townhouse on the corner of 16th and Carolina Streets. The building had been recently painted a light grey that make it stand out from the other brown brick townhouses nearby. Bobby’s building has one other distinguishing feature. It is the only townhouse that has windows on the side.
Bobby opens the door and gives us both a knowing, salacious grin. “Come in, come in, said the spider to the fly.” When Bobby turns his back, Desirie rolls her eyes at me. He gives us a brief tour of the house. The downstairs rooms have 12-foot ceilings that made each room seem cavernous. The three bedrooms had been turned into studio apartments on the second and third floors. There is a common bathroom on each of the two upper floors. Bobby leads us to one of the bedrooms that is not currently rented. “You kiddies have fun now,” Bobby says as he pretends to twist an imaginary handlebar mustache. He closes the door; and as he walks away we hear him making the sounds of faux diabolical laughter, “Bwa ha, ha, ha, ha!” Desirie looks at me and says with some disdain in her voice, “Izzy, your friend’s a little weird.”
“Yes, but at heart, he’s lovable.”
“You did bring protection, didn’t you, Izzy?” The heebie-jeebies electrifies my entire body. “OH MY GOD! I FORGOT A RUBBER.” Desirie stares at me in horror. “Oh Izzy, how could you?” She sits on the bed and holds her face in her hands. I sit beside her and try and hold her, but she shakes me off. “I am so sorry, Desirie.” She continues to hold her face while she slowly shakes her head back and forth. I notice on the nightstand, just beyond her, a little box wrapped in a bow. And there’s a little note attached that says For Izzy. I open the box and I find a condom. I can hardly believe that it really is a condom. I pick it up and I see that underneath the Trojan packaging, there is another note that simply says, For your screwing pleasure. I burst out into loud, manic laughter. I scream out, “Santa Claus lives!”
“What is it, Izzy? What are you saying?”
“Look, Desirie, Bobby left a rubber for me. He knew I would forget to bring one. Isn’t he amazing?”
“Why are white boys so weird?” Desirie asks rhetorically.
“Let’s not bring race into it. Bobby would be a little weird in any color.” I hold up the condom for Desirie to see it. “But, as you can see, his heart’s in the right place.”
Desirie laughs and says, “I don’t think that is where the rubber is supposed to go. Besides, I’m not talking about Bobby.”
“Oh ho ho, aren’t you the sassy one.” I take her in my arms and kiss her slowly, then more forcefully. “Wait, Izzy. Let’s get undressed and get into bed. OK?”
“Of course,” I reply. I watch her retreat to a darkened corner of the room. “Izzy, would you mind turning around. I’m feeling a little shy with you.”
“No problem.” I turn around and begin undressing. I can feel the beginning of heebie-jeebies trying to take over my body. But I remind myself that I was about to be with, touch, feel, and love the woman that I have desired for so long. This thought relaxes me and melts the heebie-jeebies in its tracks. “OK, Izzy. You can turn around.” I am only halfway undressed, but I turn around to see the most beautiful sight in my life. Desirie stands shyly in a diaphanous white nightgown that completely reveals a rich, dark chocolate-colored perfectly formed female body.
Desirie’s coloring is so rich that it dispels any thought that might bubble up from my fetid racist unconscious. I see no hint of dirt or mud. I fear no oozing of any Negro miasma ebbing onto me. There was nothing repellent in this figure of exquisite beauty. “Desirie, you are beyond beautiful.” Desirie is embarrassed and she quickly jumps under the covers. “Get into bed, Izzy,” she commands. I do as she asks. I am not even flustered by the full erection that I already have. But I catch her staring at it. “I’ve never seen a white one before.” “I don’t think it’s very different than a black penis; maybe smaller.”
“Oh Izzy, don’t bring that hang-up in here. Not now. You’re not that small and besides it doesn’t really matter. Not to me at least.” She leans over and gently takes hold of my penis and begins to lick the shaft. She places her mouth on the head and begins to swirl her tongue. Within a matter of seconds, the sensations overwhelm me. “Oh, Oh God, Desirie, I’m coming.” The milk of creation bursts forth on to the bed. I am crestfallen. “Oh Desirie, I am so sorry. I couldn’t help it. I so much want to please you.” She places her hand over my mouth and tries to calm me. “Shh, don’t worry, Izzy, we have all night. I’m already happy to be with you this way. You know I’ve wanted you for as long as you say you’ve desired me. I’ve been so afraid… of the consequences; of what people might think; of what you might think. My worst fear is that you’ll have your way with me and then conclude I must be a slut. Then you’ll leave me, and my reputation in ruins. I hate this male logic and find it incomprehensible.”
“I don’t think that way, Desirie. I’m in love with you. Leave you? I’m terrified that you’ll leave me; that I won’t measure up.” I begin kissing her face, her neck, and her ears. She begins to moan. I want to tour her entire body with my mouth. I kiss her breasts and her moans grow louder. But as I move toward her pubic area, she stops me. “No Izzy, not there; not yet.” I begin to get hard again and want to quickly enter her. “Not yet, Izzy. Touch me here.” She grabs my hand and leads it towards her clitoris. I try to be gentle in my stroking. She is becoming more aroused and her wetness begins to cover my fingers. A few moments later, she says, “Now Izzy, now.” I try to enter her and I make the same mistake I made with Maureen. I miss the entrance. “Ow!” She cries. She grabs my penis and guides me in. The embarrassment almost makes me lose my erection. She prevents that with her body’s undulations, and I begin to catch the rhythm of her movements and respond with complimentary movements of my own. I meet her breath for breath, moan for moan, cry for cry. Soon I lose the sense of whose v
oice is crying. I feel completely merged with her. We begin to move faster and faster toward one another, more urgently, both of us desperate for a release. We come together with a mutual cry of joy. I am not sure, but I think I hear the faint sound of applause from another room. I look at Desirie with great love and gratitude. She seems to be mirroring my expression. Her tear-laden smile warms me at my core. Our joy is so great it hurts. This is a revelation for me-- that joy and pain can be so closely linked. And in this merger of body and spirit, joy and pain, someone has finally captured my soul.
As we leave Bobby’s apartment, we sing out in unison, “We’re leaving.” The only response we get is joint laughter-Bobby’s high-pitched giggle and from the unknown female, a conspiratorial cackle. On the drive home, I occasionally steal a glance at Desirie. Each time I catch her looking at me and we crack up laughing. I don’t think it is possible for me to be any higher or to feel any happier. I’ve just made love to the woman I truly love; the woman I want to be my life partner. And the gleam in her eye tells me she wants the same thing.
Desirie and I sit in my car parked in front of her dorm for the longest time. We just hold on to one another not wanting this life-changing night to end. The thought of separating is unbearable, as if parting would open up a massive wound inside each of us. I have never felt so close to anyone before. Desirie, finally, slowly, painfully pulls away from me. “I really have to go in, Izzy. If I bust curfew again, there’ll be hell to pay.”