All I Ever Dreamed

by Michael Blumlein

It was Flora, incidentally, who alerted me to a recent survey of Net users that found ten times as many synonyms for male, as compared to female, masturbation. She was doing research for a book on gender and technology. While not particularly surprised at the disparity, she did find it rather offensive. She was also somewhat dismayed.

  Religion, politics, and humor were common themes among the more than two hundred male-oriented entries, although a good number seemed chosen solely on the basis of alliteration or rhyme. As for women, the themes ranged from the pedestrian to the sweepingly grandiose, from the Biblical to the sublime. Among the examples: “doing my nails,” “parting the Red Sea,” “surfing the channel,” and “flicking the bean.” And, of course, that old metaphysical standby, “nulling the void.”

  Flora makes a good point. The list, while notable, is decidedly short. Is this because women masturbate less than men? A common belief, but one that is unsupported by the data. Is it because they talk about it less? Again, the data say no. Could it be that they simply refused to participate in the poll?

  Or have we been silenced? (We, I say, for I take this quite personally—an injustice to one, male or female, is an injustice to all). Shamefully silenced, I might add, our lips sewn together by the threads of inequity, our tongues disenfranchised from the very words we would use to express our self-love.

  We may not “tease the weasel,” we keepers of the flame. (Why on earth would we ever do that?) We may not “tug the slug” or “pump the python.” Nor, routinely, do we “bop the bishop” or “make the bald man puke.” But listen. We surely burp the baby, we toss the salad, we choke the chicken, we pop the cork, and at least every few weeks we whip up a batch of instant pudding. And yes, oh yes, we do sometimes have sex with someone we love.

  We’ve been silenced, I say! Robbed of speech (if not thought), cheated in all the ways we have always been cheated.

  Tickling the taco. Brushing the beaver. Making soup. Rolling the dough.

  Is this what they think we do all day? Imagine. It’s outrageous.

  We are more than homebodies. More than domestics. More than mothers and whores.

  We need to rise up. The time has come to null the void and give these words a second meaning, a meaning more powerful and self-fulfilling than staying home to surf the channel or idly flick the bean. We can brush the beaver later, ladies. The void needs nulling now.

  We need to be creative. On behalf of Flora and everyone else who has ever felt the yoke of inequality, I incite you: soar above your own Mt. Baldy. Be irreverent. Be enticing. Pound the peanut. Pick the peony. Wave to Dr. Kitty. Laugh out loud.

  Send your words and phrases, your ditties and your doggerel, your witty little euphemisms and inventions, your unchained melodies to me. Send them quickly. Send them to my web site. Everyone’s a poet.

  Send them now.

  XIII. underwaterworld

  The children were diving for hoops. Slapping the water, struggling downward to the bottom of the pool, then splashing to the surface like puppies.

  —I’m happy with my choices, she said. All in all.

  —I’m happy we met, he replied.

  She waved to one of her sons, who had succeeded in getting a ring.

  —No? he asked.

  —Yes, she said.

  —Outside of my wife I’ve never had an intimate female friend, he said.

  She waved to her other son, who was poised on the edge of the pool, building up the nerve to jump.

  —You’re a beautiful woman.

  —Don’t, she said.

  —I’m only observing.

  She fell silent.

  He told her not to worry. He was impotent.

  This interested her.

  He thought it might. Not entirely impotent, he added. Lately, he’d been having signs of life.

  She changed the subject.

  The book group had been reading Dante. She told him of a dream she had.

  —We were pilloried outside the gates of Macy’s.

  —The gates?

  —The gates, the doors. Whatever. You on one side, me on the other.

  —Which store?

  It was an irrelevant question, but somehow he made it seem otherwise.

  —The one in Stonestown.

  —Busy day?

  —Very. We were naked.

  —How embarrassing.

  —Yes. Exceedingly.

  —What was our crime?

  —Swimming.

  —Swimming naked?

  —No, just swimming.

  —That’s it?

  —Yes.

  —Swimming’s no crime.

  —It wasn’t the swimming, she said. It was the fun.

  XIV. The Art of Compromise

  Judith had been thinking. Maybe Lydell was right. Not that Ernest should be circumcised, but that he at least should be talked to. Presented with the options. Sounded out.

  She spoke to him alone one day after school. He was in his room, playing with his pet. Or rather stroking her fur and comforting her. The tumor was now enormous. The days of the entity known as Snowflake, at least on Earth, were clearly numbered.

  Ernest, unlike his brother Max, was not a verbal child. He came across as rather distant sometimes. But he never missed a word that was said. He absorbed and processed everything. His mind was as facile as anyone’s, and his inner world was deep.

  He listened patiently to his mother, and when she finished, surprised her by saying he wanted to have the circumcision done. She asked him why.

  —Because, he said.

  She pressed him.—Because why?

  He hesitated a moment.—Because I deserve it.

  It was an ambiguous statement, and one that begged for an explanation. First, however, she reiterated that in her eyes, in everyone’s eyes, he was fine—he was perfect—just the way he was.

  —I want to be like everybody else, he said.

  —The world’s a big place. Everybody’s different.

  —I don’t want to be.

  Her heart went out to him.—I understand, she said.

  He asked if it would hurt. She said it would. He said he didn’t want anyone to know.

  —Not Max?

  He didn’t mean Max.

  —I’ll have to tell your father, she said.

  —Let’s surprise him, said Ernest.

  —I don’t think he’d like that.

  —It’s my choice, isn’t that what you said?

  —To a point, said his mother.

  —It’s private, he said. Between you and me. Like between you and that man.

  —What man?

  Ernest averted his eyes.—You know.

  XV. The Sweet Embraceable

  You can put yourself in someone else’s shoes, you can even get inside their shirt and pants, but it doesn’t mean you know them. It’s guesswork who they are and what they’re thinking and feeling. Guesswork and maybe intuition. As an outsider, you do your level best, but you never really know.

  It’s what they say and do, not think. If a guy says he’s faithful, despite the fact he’s getting hard-ons plotting how to get some chick in bed, he’s faithful. If a woman says she’s faithful, despite the fact she’s sitting squarely on the fence, she’s faithful.

  If they don’t touch, they’re faithful. If they don’t think, they’re dead.

  The two of them didn’t touch. I mentioned that already. Not at the pool or anywhere else. Not once.

  Wait a minute. I forgot. They did touch. But only once.

  It happened in a neighborhood cafe. They had a date, a nighttime assignation. The kids were tucked at home in bed.

  The swimming lessons had been over for several weeks. They’d spoken once by phone but hadn’t seen each other. He was carrying a briefcase in one hand. With the other he touched her palm in greeting. Lightly, like a whisper, or a veil. Imperceptibly, she caught her breath. She let the contact linger.

  He said,—I’ve been thinking of you.

  She said,�
�Did you get my letter?

  —No, he said.

  They took a table in the corner, ordered coffee and dessert.

  —I’ve started to paint again, she said.

  —How wonderful, he replied.

  —Watercolors. I used to paint with them a lot.

  —What made you start again?

  —You, she said.

  His penis stirred.

  —I’ve given myself two hours a week. Not much, but it’s a start.

  —A start is all you need.

  —I told you in the letter. I’m surprised you didn’t get it.

  —You could have called, he said.

  She had wanted to. But in the wanting knew she shouldn’t.

  He said,—I’ve been painting, too. Drawing really. Cartoons. Of us.

  Her heart sped up. She got a little nervous. “Us” had never been mentioned before. “Us” to her meant husband and wife.

  —I’d like to see them.

  He told her they were pornographic. He’d brought them with him.

  —I think they’ll turn you on, he said.

  She felt a little flutter in her chest.—Well then, maybe not. Maybe I shouldn’t.

  —They do me, he added.

  He could have said “you,” not “they.” He had before, or almost.

  Then again, he could have brought a carriage drawn by horses. He could have brought a slipper.

  She had to smile.

  —Do you do drawings of your wife? she asked.

  The question gave him pause.—On occasion. Why do you ask?

  —Cartoons? Pornographic ones?

  He shrugged.

  —I don’t want anyone getting hurt, she said.

  —No one’s been hurt, he said. And then,—I don’t either.

  She wanted to see the pictures. Itched to see them.

  Equally, she was determined not to compromise her marriage. Not to act dishonorably. She wondered what behavior this allowed.

  She felt torn.

  He said,—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause you grief.

  He said,—I didn’t mean to tempt you.

  He was wearing silver that night. A silver chain around his neck. A silver earring. A silver bracelet, the same he’d worn the day that they first met.

  He had washed his hair in chamomile shampoo. He had used a scented body soap.

  He said,—I’m wrong. I have been tempting you.

  She felt the truth in this.—Why?

  —To see how far you’ll go. To test your limits.

  —Why?

  —Because I don’t trust mine.

  —And mine you do? She didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.—You’re daring me to be unfaithful? Is that it?

  —No, he said. I’m daring you not to be.

  How puerile, she thought. How unappealing and crude.

  He didn’t care for her. She saw this plainly now. Nor did she care for him.

  It came as something of a revelation. As did what followed: they cared for each other equally.

  How remarkable, she thought. How apposite.

  —Show me the pictures, she said.

  He took a folder from his briefcase and handed it to her. His penis, which had defervesced, showed signs of life.

  She stuffed the folder in her purse.—I’ll look at them later.

  —They’re yours, he said. Keep them. Look at them whenever.

  It was the last they were to see of each other. Both knew it.

  She wanted to give him something in return.

  —A hug, he suggested.

  She thought it over. Rising, she pulled on her coat.

  —I’ll say no to that, she said.

  He had risen also, expectantly. Now he felt cheated, and incomplete.

  —Take it home, she said.

  —Take what home?

  —That impulse. That hug. Take it home and give it to your wife.

  These were her parting words.

  Upon thinking them over, he found, astonishingly, that they were exactly what he wanted to hear.

  XVI. The Gift of the Magi

  Solomon was wise, but he wasn’t all wise. Lydell was crazy, but his motives were pure.

  He had the operation. He did it in secret. While he was healing, he dressed and undressed in private. To forestall questions and minimize discomfort, he slept with his back to his wife.

  Judith assumed she was being punished for her philandering. Never mind that she had resisted, that she in the end had proved stalwart and faithful. Adultery was as much of the mind as of the body. Her husband might not know the details, but he had doubtlessly suffered. Had the roles been reversed, she would have suffered, too.

  She swallowed her pride one night and asked his forgiveness.

  —For what? he replied.

  —For being so uninvolved, she said, thinking it best to break the truth to him slowly, by degrees.—So distant.

  Lydell was nonplussed.—For that I should be asking yours.

  She asked what he meant.

  It was he who had been remote, he said, impossibly, insupportably so. Remote and self-absorbed. But all that was going to change.

  —Are you going to touch me? she asked.

  —There’s a reason I haven’t.

  —I know, but are you?

  —Yes, he said. Oh yes. Most definitely.

  —Anytime soon?

  He gave her a smile.—I have a surprise, he said, with a look that made her just the tiniest bit nervous.

  They were in the bedroom. Ernest, who was still a little sore from his own procedure, was watching TV in the room next door. She’d been wondering how to break the news to her husband. Maybe now was the time.

  —I have one, too.

  —How perfect, he said.

  That would not have been her word for it. Bracing herself, she told him about Ernest.

  He was stunned. Thinking what the hell, she told him secret number two: she’d had Snowflake put to sleep.

  Before, he would have gotten angry, possibly furious, but now he simply nodded. As if to say, of course, how fitting. How right. As if he finally understood. Moments later, having recovered his voice, he told her—and showed her—what he himself had done.

  —Love made me do it, he said, bemused, contrite. And then,—I’m a fool.

  —No, you’re not, she said. No more than I am.

  They both were fools. And both, she felt, deserved a place of honor in their marriage.

  She hugged him close. He hugged her back.

  —It doesn’t hurt, he said.

  She was glad of this.

  —It feels nice, he said.

  She felt the same.

  XVII. The 17 Questions

  How is a story told? With flesh and blood people, and a beginning, middle and end.

  How is it held together? Imperfectly.

  With what is it held? Epoxy and wire and glue, balls of string, strings of words, paste.

  For whom is it told? The willing.

  To what value? Submission.

  At what price? An hour’s worth of television.

  Is there a purpose? Yes.

  What is the purpose? The purpose is hidden.

  What are the prominent symbols? The foreskin stands for the natural wold and the untrammeled innocence of man. The circumcised penis is lost innocence, civilization. The skullcap is the foreskin re-found.

  Are there other metaphors? Yes. The pool is the Garden of Eden. The rat is Fate. The multiple short chapters represent our fragmented world. The varying voices are false prophets. The title, Fidelity, is the name of a bank.

  Can we read this story in parts, at separate sittings? It is inadvisable. Like foreplay, there is a cumulative effect.

  Why all the sexual references? This is Biblical.

  What happens to Judith and Lydell? Both are strengthened by their trials and tribulations. Judith lands a lucrative business contract. She and her book group tackle The Prologemena to a Future Metaphysics by Imma
nuel Kant. Lydell visits Israel. In a bizarre case of mistaken identity, he is abducted by a group of Palestinian freedom fighters, then later released.

  And the boys? Max becomes a lawyer. Ernest, a veterinarian.

  What about Wade? Wade is currently back on drugs and doing quite well.

  And the rat? She lives in Heaven.

  And the moral?

  Life and death are ruled by Nature,

  Foolishness and faith by man.

  Between the God of Moses and Temptation,

  You do the best you can.

  STRATEGY FOR CONFLICT AVOIDANCE

  Memo to George W, Our Commander-in-Chief

  Dear Chief,

  If you watch an animal long enough, it’s going to fornicate. This is a scientific fact, and it was reinforced to me one night while I was observing two small ants in a bird’s nest I had found that day. The nest was beside the road, wedged in the crotch of some intersecting willow branches. It was soggy from a recent rain but otherwise intact. It looked quite sturdy and strong. I was tempted to take it home for my collection. I weighed the pros and cons of taking something that might still be in use, and then I did take it. This was my reasoning: sitting there so close to the road, the nest was in a risky spot. Not everyone’s a careful driver, and even the careful ones have bad days. I was protecting the young of whatever bird used that nest from falling out and getting hit, and besides, there was no saying that, using it once, the bird would use it again. Some birds build new nests every year. I was doing a good deed for that bird, a service. I was being a good citizen, not one of those guys who goes around randomly stealing nests.

  The ants were in the cup part of the nest, the inside concave part, on a minuscule stick beside a little leaf. When I first looked at the nest, I didn’t see them. They were there, but since I didn’t expect them, I didn’t see them. I had just finished examining the skull of what I believed to be a cormorant, which I’d found the day before, along with the rest of its skeleton, on a promontory jutting out into the bay where I was staying. There were other remains and partial remains of birds on that spit of land, smallish birds that were prey to the kites and hawks that patrolled that area, but the cormorant had not been eaten by a bird. Its body was intact, and cormorants, as far as I knew, had no avian predators. It had died some other way, and I was left to wonder what that way was. High on that bluff, surrounded by bushes and grass, seemed a strange place for a cormorant to be. I’d only ever seen them flying like ducks above the water or perched on rocks beside or in the ocean. I wondered if the cormorant was old and had lost its eyesight. I wondered if it had got confused and had flown one way when it should have flown another. I wondered if it had been carried there. I wondered if it was like an elephant and had gone there on purpose to die. I wondered all sorts of things, but I had no answers, by which I mean that all my answers were speculation.