“Heart that, Terry, only a little bit. George must really be depressed. Don’t you realize, George, that Terry kissed you and caressed you without your even asking? She gave herself unrequested and unselfishly for your pleasure and enlightenment. Now what do you say?”
His face contorted nervously; he looked at me. Finally he said: “Thank you, I guess.”
“You’re welcome,” said Terry. “I like to help people.”
“Terry is unusually helpful, wouldn’t you say, Ray?”
“Yes, she is.”
“Let’s all have a drink. Scotch for you, Mr. Lovelace?”
“Yes, thank you.”
As I plodded off nude to the liquor cabinet, I found myself for the first time wondering about the reliability of our questionnaires. Little Miss T., the inhibited Catholic virgin, had showed all the juiciness and technique of a forty-three-year-old nymphomaniac. And lover-boy O’Reilly … Well, back to the old data sheets.
After we’d finished our drinks, during which we had several sporadic conversations on (a) the weather (we need snow), (b) Renaissance history (Rabelais was actually a serious thinker), and (c) religion (it’s frequently misunderstood), I said firmly to George:
“Your turn now, Lovelace.”
“Oh yes, thank you.”
Terry lay on her back to receive him, and after several youthful giggles, he seemed to enter the promised land. The doorbell rang.
For a moment I wondered if there weren’t some electronic device deep in Miss Tracy’s womb which triggered the apartment bell. It seemed unlikely, but …
I located a bathrobe this time, told the little ones to carry on without me and marched stoically to the door. There, as I leaned my slightly debauched face around the edge of the door, stood Dr. Felloni. We exchanged stares in total disbelief for five full seconds. Then she blushed so fully that I can only describe it by saying that her head, which was of course nodding vigorously, had a climax. She turned and ran down the hall. The next day her secretary phoned to say that she was attending a conference in Zurich and would be away for two weeks.
29
My experience with Terry Tracy and the results of the Columbia Copulation Caper in general were a revelation to me. After Dr. Felloni had left the apartment door that night and taken a taxi across the Atlantic to Zurich, I had returned to the bedroom to find Terry and George moiling in the bed and as oblivious of my presence as they had apparently been of my absence. I stood there watching the sheet which covered George’s behind rising and falling in regular rhythm and as the sheet shuddered I had something like a Religious Revelation. Other people also were capable of playing artificially imposed roles—and therefore dice-dictated roles. If Terry had in fact been even somewhat virginal, she was this evening demonstrating a remarkable ability to open herself to new experience. If she were in fact a nymphomaniac, she had earlier demonstrated a shyness and inhibition in marvelous contrast to her natural open-door policy. And George Lovelace seemed to be a good learner too: from clod to copulator in thirty minutes.
As I stood there I began to feel that I had only been playing at the dice man. It had been a jeu d’esprit of which I was proud but nothing more: a maladjusted man’s way of épater les bourgeois without the bourgeoisie knowing about it. But had I innocently discovered gunpowder and then used it for firecrackers, when a larger man would have used it for explosives? Or a magnifying glass which I was using to create pleasant images but which might be used to see something new?
Shouldn’t I try to turn other people into dice men? If Arlene enjoyed housewife-with-a-lech for a day and Terry call-girl-for-a-day, might not each enjoy other roles the dice might fling her way, as I had? Shouldn’t I be using dice games as dice therapy for my friends and patients?
My dice life had become almost a joke; at that instant it seemed a mission—a quest I might pursue to lift my fellow men to new heights. I had cast the dice as a bitter game I’d played against the world; now I would cast them to build New Selves, Random Men. Boredom would be wiped out with the vaccine of the dice, like polio. I would create a New World, a better world, a Place of Joy and Variety and Spontaneity. I would become the Father of a new Race: Dicepeople.
“Could you please get us a towel?” Terry asked, most of her face and body hidden by the sheet and George’s ample bulk.
Even this rude interruption did not destroy my elevation. During these glorious minutes I was taking myself totally seriously. I went to the bathroom and got them a towel and after a giggle or two they lay together silently, again oblivious of my presence. As the sheet lay limp and still over their silent forms I tiptoed to the spot where my trousers were deposited on the floor and extricated from the pocket my dice. “Odd,” I would begin dice therapy with George and Terry tonight; “even,” I would not. Confidently I flipped a die onto the foot of the bed: a six. Hmmmm. Like the good fairy who has left a dime under the pillow, I picked up my clothes and stole away into the night, the immortal words of Christ echoing in my ears: “Physician, help yourself: thus you help your patients too. Let this be his best help that he may behold with his eyes the man who heals himself.” I was determined to rip from my body the undistinguished clothes of Dr. Lucius Rhinehart and stand forth before my patients naked and revealed: The Dice Man.
30
The first adult human being to be introduced into the dicelife by Dr. Rhinehart was Arlene Ecstein, inconspicuous wife of Dr. Jacob Ecstein, noted analyst and writer. Mrs. Ecstein had been complaining for several years of various nervous ailments which she attributed to sexual frustration caused by the sporadic nature of her husband’s attentions. Dr. Ecstein, who didn’t have time, finally decided in mid-January that she should enter analysis so that her problem might be treated in depth. With her husband’s encouragement (“Give it to her, Luke, baby”) she began analysis with Dr. Rhinehart. The first few sessions had been penetrating and Mrs. Ecstein found herself able to open up more frequently than before. Her husband noted that her nervous symptoms declined or disappeared and that her compulsive sexuality seemed relieved.
It was after a little over six weeks of this treatment (three times a week) that Dr. Rhinehart, following his Religious Revelation during the Rhinehart-Felloni Study of Amorality Tolerance, determined to begin dice therapy. He began with the quiet dignity which so marked this whole stage of his life.
“Don’t take off your bra, Arlene, I want to talk to you about something important.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“No.” He took out two new silver dice, fresh from the factories of Taxco, Mexico, and placed them on his desk. He requested Mrs. Ecstein to seat herself in front of the desk.
“What is it, Lukie?”
“Those are dice.”
“I see.”
“We are going to begin dice therapy.”
“Dice therapy?”
Dr. Rhinehart explained with great clarity the practice and theory of casting dice to determine action. Mrs. Ecstein listened with close attention although she squirmed frequently on her chair. When it was clear that he had finished, she remained silent awhile and then heaved a deep sigh.
“But I still don’t see why,” she said. “You say I might let the dice decide whether we fuck this morning or not. I think that’s silly. I want to fuck. You want to fuck. Why bring the dice into it?”
“Because many small parts of you don’t want to fuck. A small part of you wants to hit me, or wants to run back to Jake, or wants to talk to me about psychoanalysis. But these parts of you are never allowed to live. You suppress them because most of you just wants to fuck.”
“If they’re small parts of me, let them stay small.”
Dr. Rhinehart tipped back in his chair and sighed. He took out a pipe and began filling it. He took one of the silver dice and shook it in one hand and dropped it on his desk. He frowned.
“I’m going to tell you how a God was born: the birth of the Dice Man.”
Dr. Rhinehart then narrated the story, slightly edited, of his discovery of
the dice and his initial rape of Mrs. Ecstein. He concluded:
“Had I not given a small part of myself a chance to be chosen by the die we wouldn’t be sitting here right now.”
“You only gave it one chance in six?”
“Yes. The point is that I gave a minority self a chance to be heard.”
“Only one chance in six?”
“We can never be full human beings until we develop all important aspects of ourselves.”
“Only one-sixth of you wanted me?”
“Arlene, that was an historical accident. We’re talking theory. Don’t you see how yielding to the dice opens whole new areas of life?”
“I feel used.”
“If I seduced you out of cold-blooded lust you would feel pleased. Because I let chance intervene you feel used.”
“Don’t you feel anything strongly enough so that you don’t want to use the dice?”
“Of course, but I try to overcome it.”
Dr. Rhinehart and Mrs. Ecstein looked at each other for a full minute, Dr. Rhinehart smiling self-consciously and Mrs. Ecstein looking awed. At last she pronounced judgment.
“You’re insane,” she said.
“Absolutely. Look, I’ll show you how it works. I write down two, say three options. A one or a two means we’ll continue this conversation, a three or a four means we’ll end the hour right now and each let the dice decide something else for us to do for the next forty minutes. A five and …”
“And a five or a six means we’ll fuck.”
“All right, yes.”
Dr. Rhinehart handed a die to Mrs. Ecstein and after shaking it vigorously in both hands for a few seconds she asked:
“Shouldn’t I be mumbling some mumbo-jumbo as I do this?”
“You may say simply: ‘Not my will, Die, but Thy will be done.’ ”
“Fuck us up good, Die,” she said and dropped it on the desk. It was a five.
“I don’t feel like fucking anymore,” she said, but when she saw the frown on Dr. Rhinehart’s face she smiled and felt she was beginning to see the merits of a dicelife. But before she could begin to let the large part of herself go to work, Dr. Rhinehart spoke.
“We may now toss the dice to determine how we will make love.”
She hesitated.
“What?” she said.
“There are innumerable ways to engage in sexual congress: parts of us are attracted to each of these ways. We must let the dice decide.”
“I see.”
“First of all, which of us shall be the sexual aggressor, I or you? If the dice say odd—”
“Wait a minute. I’m beginning to understand this game. I want to play too.”
“Go ahead.”
Mrs. Ecstein picked up both dice and said:
“A one means we’ll make love that funny way you seem to like.”
“Fine.”
“A two means I’ll lie down and you use your hands, mouth, and Johnny Appleseed over every part of my body until I can’t stand it and demand something else. A three—”
“Or rather we flip the dice again.”
“A three … let’s see: you play with my breasts for five minutes.”
“Go on.”
Mrs. Ecstein hesitated and then a slow smile began to brighten her face.
“We must always let the dice decide, huh?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“But we control the options.”
“Very good.”
She was smiling happily as if she were a child who has just learned how to read.
“If the die is a four or a five or a six it means we have to try to make a baby.”
“Ahh,” said Dr. Rhinehart.
“I’ve removed that rubber sort of plug Jake had a doctor put in me and I think I’ve just ovulated. I read a book and it’s told me the two best positions to make a baby.”
“I see. Arlene, I—”
“Shall I toss?”
“Just a minute.”
“What for?”
“I—I’m thinking.”
“Hand me the die.”
“I believe that you have loaded the odds a bit,” said Dr. Rhinehart with his accustomed professional coolness. “Let’s say that if it’s a six we’ll try one sexual position after another as determined from a list of six we will give it. Two minutes on each. Let the orgasms come where they may.”
“But the four and five still mean we make a baby?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Do I flip?”
“All right.”
Mrs. Ecstein dropped the die. It read four.
“Ahh,” said Dr. Rhinehart.
“Yippee,” said Mrs. Ecstein.
“Precisely what are these two medically recommended fucks?” Dr. Rhinehart asked a trifle irritably.
“I’ll show you. And whoever has the most orgasms wins.”
“Wins what?”
“I don’t know. Wins a free pair of dice.”
“I see.”
“Why didn’t we begin this therapy a long time ago?” Mrs. Ecstein asked. She was rapidly undressing.
“You understand,” the doctor said, slowly preparing himself for the operation, “that after we have made love once, we must consult the die again.”
“Sure, sure, come here,” said Mrs. Ecstein and she was soon hard at work with Dr. Rhinehart in concentrated dice therapy. At 11 A.M. Dr. Rhinehart buzzed his secretary to announce that because he was probing particularly deeply that morning and because his work might bear long-range fruit, it would be necessary to cancel his next hour so that he and Mrs. Ecstein might continue.
At noon, Mrs. Ecstein, glowing, left the doctor’s office. The history of dice therapy had begun.
31
[Being an edited tape from one of the early analytic sessions given by Dr. Jacob Ecstein to Dr. Lucius Rhinehart, neurotic. We are cutting into the tape about halfway through the analytic hour. The first voice is that of Dr. Rhinehart.]
—I’m not sure why I entered into this affair but I think it may partially be aggression against the husband.
—How have your relations with Lillian been?
—Fine. Or rather, about as usual, which means up and down but essentially happy. I don’t think it was or is aggression against Lil. At least I don’t think it is.
—But against the husband.
—Yes. I won’t use names or go into details because you know the people involved, but I find the husband too ambitious and conceited. I experience him as a rival.
—You don’t need to hide the names. You know it would make no difference outside this office how I treated them.
—Well, maybe. I suppose you’re right, but I don’t think the names should be necessary if I can present everything else honestly.
—The details.
—Yes. Although I suppose you will know then immediately the people I’m talking about. But still, I’ll omit the names.
—How did the affair start?
—I followed … a whim one night and went to her place, found her alone, and raped her.
—Raped her?
—Well, there was a good deal of cooperation. Actually, she enjoyed it more than I did. But the original idea was mine.
—Mmm.
—We’ve been seeing each other off and on now for about half a year.
—Mmmm.
—I go to her place when her husband’s away, or occasionally we meet in my office.
—Ahhh.
—Sexually it’s been rewarding. The woman seems totally without inhibitions. I’ve tried just about everything my imagination can cook up and she seems to have more recipes than me.
—I see.
—The husband doesn’t seem to suspect a thing.
—He doesn’t suspect a thing.
—No. He seems completely wrapped up in his work. His wife says he pulls off a quick one about once every two weeks but with about as much passion or pleasure as when making an extended bowel movement.
/>
—Mmmm.
—I once finished an orgasm in her while she was handing a towel in to her husband in the bathtub.
—You what?
—I was pumping away from behind while she leaned into the bathroom and talked to her husband and handed him a towel.
—Look here, Rhinehart, do you know what you’re saying?
—I thought I did.
—How could you … How could you possibly …
—What’s the matter?
—How could you possibly miss the significance of this affair?
—I don’t know. It seems just …
—Free associate.
—What?
—I’ll feed you words and you free associate.
—Oh, okay.
—Black.
—White.
—Moon.
—Sun.
—Father.
—Mother.
—Water.
—Ah … bathtub.
—Road.
—Roadway.
—Green.
—Yellow.
—Fucking from rear.
—Arl … ah … ah … artificial.
—Artificial?
—Artificial.
—How so?
—How should I know? I’m just free associating.
—Let’s go on. Father.
—Figure.
—Lake.
—Tahoe.
—Thirst.
—Water.
—Love.
—Women.
—Mother.
—Women.
—Father.
—Women.
—White.
—Women.
—Black.
—Negresses.
—Well. That’s enough. It was just as I expected.
—What do you mean?
—That was your father in the bathtub.
—It was?
—Obviously. Item number one: you associate father figure. You may consciously explain this as a result of the psychoanalytic phrase and it does refer to this, but the association also implies you associate a “figure”—naturally a female figure—with father.
—Wow.
—Item number two. You associate “fucking from rear” with artificial and you can blurt it out only after a significant delay. I challenge you to tell me what first flashed through your mind.
—Well …
—Go ahead.
Dice Man Page 17