by Lee Irby
“Can I talk to you?” he blandly asks Leigh Rose, in the manner of an angry customer returning a defective item, though he remains oblivious of my existence.
“No, you cannot” is her curt reply.
I turn to face him, to confront him, to declare myself on the side of goodness. Perhaps I should’ve remained invisible, but his voice, dripping with Southern frat boy cockiness, drew me in and caused me to don my Superman cape.
Our eyes meet, and he studies me with a strange fixed gaze, seemingly mesmerized by my trucker’s hat. “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he stammers, trying to remain polite but obviously straining against the social graces that hold him back.
“Do you remember Eddie Stith?” Leigh Rose asks in a casual tone. “He’s a friend of mine from high school.”
“I thought you looked kind of familiar.” He extends a beefy hand and we shake, with him attempting to crush all my metacarpals. “Nice seeing you again. Do you still live in Richmond?”
“No, not anymore.”
“He escaped.” Leigh Rose is relishing this moment, which confuses me. I’m shaking in my boots but she’s lapping it up, an odd incongruity I’ll soon enough fathom. “He’s one of the smart ones.”
“I just need five minutes,” Jeb tries again, with a bit more tact. But his softening only makes Leigh Rose stiffer in her denial.
“I don’t want to discuss it with you.”
There ensues an awkward pause, during which I fully expect Jeb to reach down my throat and pull out my intestines. Nonplussed, I sip at my coffee like we’ve all met at the Café du Monde following a night of revelry on Bourbon Street, but even I know that this performance is stilted. It takes him no time to strike first, which he does by making an accusation I don’t altogether understand.
“Oh, I get it now,” he says with anger that borders on glee, which has the same purity as newly minted gold. “It’s crystal clear what’s going on.”
“Think what you want, Jeb,” Leigh Rose replies nonchalantly.
“This is ridiculous.”
Leigh Rose’s hand finds mine and she grips it tightly, and I can feel within her skin a pulsing heat that reminds me of being at the beach. But this display of affection isn’t intended to soothe me but to ruffle Jeb, who’s already on the verge of snapping, and her taking hold of my hand only exacerbates his already frayed nerves. I can hear him snorting in derision above me, a disgruntled god glowering down upon a recalcitrant humanity. “Go ahead and throw your life away,” he hisses. “You’ve lost your mind. You realize that, right?”
She doesn’t answer, because now she’s leaning over and nibbling on my earlobe. Her breath reeks of Colombian coffee and the effect it has on me is almost stimulating. I’d love for a woman to dump a tepid pot of java over my head and then lick it off my naked body (just so long as the lights were off). I understand that she’s putting on a show for Jeb, and what the hell, I join in with some gusto, reaching around her midriff for a loving hug. At that point I really don’t know much about the turbulent waters into which I’ve waded, but my caresses seem to be causing Jeb to grow even more agitated. Murderously so? With him, that’s entirely possible.
“Fine,” he says. “Whatever works for you. I thought you had my back on this, little sis. Guess I was wrong.”
“Oh, please. Don’t be so dramatic. And anyway I don’t owe you or anybody else an explanation.”
He ignores her and instead stares at me with the intensity of the middle linebacker he once was. “See you around, Eddie” are his parting words before he turns away and marches out, his topsiders slapping against the floor and causing the entire store to shake. Even after he’s gone, however, Leigh Rose is still holding my hand and my arm continues to loop across her chest. Our coffee sits on the table, growing cold. The pregnant women chat away in voices that sound like a murder of crows.
Leigh Rose’s mouth finds mine and we kiss.
5
The sex scene.
I’ve got a thesaurus handy so that I can regale you with interesting phrases that will better describe the passionate lovemaking that ensues. If I were stronger, more in control of myself, I’d just leave the dirty bits out of my tale. Does it really matter what I do to Leigh Rose and what she does to me behind closed doors? Will our coupling in any way alter the fundamental course of my fate? Isn’t it enough that I’m going to her house, thereby risking life and limb to reconnect with her? That alone should send alarm bells clanging.
This won’t be easy for me to write about, even when armed with a dizzying array of titillating descriptors. Because as I’m following Leigh Rose’s behemoth Chevy Tahoe, dread and fear quickly fill up all the interstitial space in my putrid soul. Now, most erotic sex scenes require a male lover who is chomping at the bit to stick his bulging shaft into some willing pudenda, but at this point I must reveal to you a rather delicate detail about myself. You see, my schlong has proven to be rather complex, if not downright elusive, a sort of shy and retreating creature afraid of being seen or venturing too far out of its shell. The “long and short” of it is, my member has developed an aversion to standing at attention, and the sight of a vulva often heralds a sudden loss of vigor. Lola has exploited my enervation for her own perverse enjoyment, evidenced by the numerous photos she texts me of her absurdly aroused lovers as a way of grinding my confidence to nothing, which is precisely and illogically what I want from her. But when ordered by a physician to wear a Velcro strip around my manhood while I sleep, lo and behold I reach such a nocturnal state of arousal that my wood bursts out of the strap like a veritable porn star’s, yet in my waking hours this turgidity vanishes and I become a ninety-nine-pound weakling. Thus, there’s no physical reason I can’t attain an erection, and I’ve been told that it’s quite rare for a man my age to experience what is commonly known as “erectile dysfunction,” a term too technocratic for my taste, as I prefer a condition known as “anhedonia,” or the inability to feel pleasure. Bev lovingly referred to my condition as the Fall of Man, as there would be engorgement, but achingly, fitfully evanescent, despite Bev’s heroic ministrations and cooing words of encouragement, as if she were nursing a very ill patient to sit up and eat. Come on, you can do it, just relax. But nothing she did could reverse my downward spiral toward oblivion.
A limp dick: nothing hints at extinction quite like that. If called upon to propagate the human race, I’d fail. Now it might make more sense why Bev ended up in the lanky arms of a highly unoriginal ceramicist, because she did take my “Mr. E.D.” personally, despite my futile protestations that I found her sexy and desirable, in body and soul. Basically, she went from blaming herself to blaming me, a fierce calculation I couldn’t fault as the problems in our connubial bed were of my making, and doubtless the talentless sculptor for whom she left me could get a hard-on, which only proved Bev’s theory that I should shoulder the blame for the increasingly comical misfires in the boudoir. Even now I can’t explain what went wrong. In bed Bev was always fervent, sensual, and satisfying. So what has defeated my groin? Worse, how in the world could I explain any of this to Leigh Rose, who doesn’t live far from the mall and at whose house we’ll be arriving any second? Then what?
Down River Road we zoom, past the Collegiate School from which Leigh Rose had been expelled in seventh grade, for repeatedly smoking on the leafy campus. A wild child even then. Took her first lover at fourteen. A senior whom she described as a “great ape” without getting into details. Other boyfriends followed, and then me. We had some good sex back in the day. Didn’t we? Or was I just a rebellious aside? As her left-hand turn signal flashes, I debate whether I should continue on with this farce.
Have I mentioned yet that Leigh Rose is rich?
Don’t judge me too harshly. I’m not after her money, even though I’m essentially penniless and perhaps soon will be unemployed, if not arrested—I don’t know what’s taking the authorities in Ithaca so long to charge me with something; just accuse me of a crime so I can confess to al
l my misdeeds and end the agony of waiting. Until then, I’ve got to suffer with my private guilt, and apparently I’ll do so in a house that’s around the size of a small airport.
Leigh Rose pulls into a circular drive and parks. I roll to a stop behind her, my mouth agog from the sheer enormity of her palatial residence. From where I sit in the front seat of my Honda, I can see basketball and tennis courts, between which sits a pool roughly akin to Lake Superior. The house itself is really a series of buildings that have been crunched together at an odd L-shaped angle, and each section appears to be the size of my house on Traylor Drive—I count four sections. The architectural style is of course the trite neo-Colonial mansion (is there any other kind around here?), and the lawns (yes, plural) are immaculate, and in fact a grounds crew is tending to the various gardens and grooming the grass with old-fashioned reel mowers.
Only when I get out of my car do I notice a FOR SALE sign.
“Home sweet home,” she chirps. “At least until I sell it.”
“How many people live here?” I ask, still stupefied by the sheer gigantism of the dwelling. “A hundred?”
“Trevor liked everything to be the biggest and the best. This is his house all the way. Whatever, time for a fresh start. I’m moving downtown. Get over here.”
I shut the car door and follow my legs over to her, where she’s standing by a flagpole that seems to reach the heavens, an obvious phallic symbol that does nothing to quell my unease. I trip over a slate paving stone and fall into her waiting arms, a dork move direct from a B movie.
“Careful.” She laughs, hoisting me up with surprising strength. She must spend a good amount of time in the gym, and now I wish I’d stuck to my vow to get in the best shape of my life, an unfulfilled goal that is going on twenty years old.
“You’re buff,” I tell her, and her eyes glisten as she arches her head back. We kiss again, our bodies pulled close together, though the stifling heat is making us sweat. Little beads of perspiration dot her forehead, and the relentless sun dogs us from above.
“Let’s go cool off,” she suggests, taking my hand and leading me to the front door. She has to deactivate a complex security system by pushing an assortment of buttons, which she does with practiced dexterity. “Something else about this house I hate,” she grouses. “My husband loved gadgets and stuffed all kinds of crap in here. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve set off this alarm. But did it stop the maid from stealing my jewelry?”
“I’m guessing no.”
“Of course it didn’t! If it was up to me, I wouldn’t even put locks on the doors! Locks only keep out the honest.”
We’re inside now, and the first thing I notice is the dramatic staircase that sweeps upward, looking like an exact replica of the one Scarlett O’Hara gets pushed down in Gone with the Wind. A huge chandelier drops from the high ceiling, its crystals shining like a torrent of diamonds. Beneath my feet is an expansive Persian rug of exquisite quality, with a paisley motif of red and green. On a wall is an enormous portrait of a regal-looking man with a mane of snowy white hair sitting atop a chestnut Arabian horse, and he looks like he’s about to send out the hounds.
“And that is?” I ask, nodding at the garish gilt-framed monstrosity.
“Trevor’s grandfather, who didn’t even own any horses. The man was a dolt who made a fortune in latex. Condoms, actually. But then it turns out they were defective, just like Trevor. Oh, that’s too mean. We were happy, I think, after we got married and before the children came. My adorable daughter used to cry all night. Why are we still sober? I want a drink, and I hate to drink alone.”
“I guess one won’t kill me.”
“Depends on the bartender. Come on, this way!”
She takes me through the dining room, past a landing strip of a table that seats twenty, and into the “Smoking Room,” a term Leigh Rose delivers with a devilish chuckle. “It’s a man cave, but he was so pretentious he hated it when anyone called it that,” she explains as we step inside. There is a bar of burnished teak, a flat-screen TV mounted over a fireplace, posters of various football heroes, and a Kappa Alpha fraternity paddle (from Tulane University). Leigh Rose ducks behind the bar and quickly produces two tumblers. I take a seat in a high-backed stool, feeling slightly voyeuristic, a little like a cannibal, for relaxing in the sanctum sanctorum of a dead man’s personal space.
“Pick your poison,” she calls out with dramatic flair. “I’m drinking vodka.”
Pick your poison. Are you paying attention? Aren’t you even slightly curious how Trevor, her badly behaved hubby, met his untimely demise? At that point I don’t even know or much care. I’ve entered a woozy, fuzzy state of mind, and giddiness has dulled my usually sharp critical faculties. A drink before noon? Not since college for this forthright academic, this toiling intellectual. A role model. A shaper of young minds. A caresser of young bodies.
“I’d venture to guess that Trevor liked a nice bottle of scotch,” I surmise with elbows propped up on the bar, thinking that some music might be in order. It’s what brought us together in the 1990s, after all.
“I know just the thing.”
She reaches into a cabinet and pulls out a wooden case about the size of a shoe box. In it, much to my delight, is an unopened bottle of Glenfarclas 1955, which I’m guessing retails somewhere north of eight grand. “He got this at a charity auction and was saving it for a special occasion, and I don’t like scotch at all. What the hell, Eddie. Let’s live a little. I’m officially calling this a special occasion.”
“Are you sure? That costs an arm and a leg.”
“I’m so tired of money, you have no idea. Here’s mud in your eye.”
She replaces one of the tumblers with a snifter emblazoned with a family crest, pops the cork, and releases a beautiful stream of nectar whose amber tone hints at the oaky taste that awaits me. I could get used to this lifestyle, but hovering above me is the disembodied voice of my own former spouse, and Bev is telling me that this sybaritic excess is obscene given the income disparity that roils our nation. How many hungry children could that bottle feed?
“Inshallah,” I toast, lifting the glass to my lips. The first sip causes my entire body to glow like a white-hot brick of charcoal. Only one thing can elevate my mood even higher. “We need some tunes! I see speakers over there. What are you into these days?”
Leigh Rose is slurping down a huge gulp of straight vodka on the rocks but stops when I mention music and her entire face lights up like a Christmas tree. “I am totally consumed by Neko Case! I love her voice! Oh my God!” She bounces up and down excitedly, grabbing her phone to cue up the album. Her phone is synched to the speakers, and seconds later come the first twangy chords of a guitar. Then Neko Case asks: What drug will keep night from coming? Leigh Rose closes her eyes and melts into the song.
“She’s really talented,” I say cheerfully. “Great sound. Reminds me of Lucinda Williams.”
“Did you see her on Letterman?” Does she honestly think that I watch network television as the clock approaches midnight? Lola would never allow such mundane media to reach her screen, as we invented our own form of adult entertainment.
“No, I missed that.”
“She killed it. Oh my God, she was amazing.”
Leigh Rose appears to be deliriously happy, drink in hand, favorite jam blasting, and it reminds me of the time we listened to Portishead’s first album together, in the very same basement confines where I’m currently bedded down, and we screwed to some funky trip-hop, and now she mistakenly thinks that I’m still that impetuous, strong-willed boy, just like she once saw rebellion in my ripped jeans and Cobain sneakers. She’s probably also thinking that I can still get it up, which she will soon learn is incorrect, and in time she’ll come to see that all her impressions of me are as illusory as a Disney hologram. But the scotch is going down smoothly and I really don’t care what comes next.
“Let’s go make ourselves comfortable,” she purrs, reaching across
the bar and stroking my forearm.
“Are you sure?”
“Trevor told me before he died that he wanted me to be happy.” Then she groans in mock despair. “Listen to me, I’m such a bitch. He did say that, though. Where have you been all my life?”
“That’s a great question. Didn’t you break up with me?”
“Did I? Well, I think I know how I can say I’m sorry. I’ll kiss it and make it feel better.”
She fetchingly traipses over to the largest of the sofas, which looks soft and plush, with puffy throw pillows, and she launches herself onto it like a swimmer diving into a pool. Most red-blooded men would have dropped trousers right then and used their protruding boners like a divining rod, but instead I gulp down one last swig of the best drink of my life and tell myself: If you can get hard, dude, all this will be yours.
“Aren’t you coming?” she asks, after noticing that I haven’t moved.
“I hope so!”
A girlish giggle bursts forth as I carefully slither to where she waits for me. I’m hopeful that the Glenfarclas will magically repair my stubborn penis, which even after fifty lashes won’t perform the usual tricks. There are remedies for my condition, purple pills and such, but my problem apparently goes deeper than that (my urologist wants to write a paper about my case for a medical journal). And what did Bev say? I don’t care about sex that much anyway. Don’t do anything to jeopardize your health. Our love means more than that. Not four months later, our marriage was over.
“I’m so sick of the men in this city,” Leigh Rose whispers as I position myself next to her, with the studied determination of a student driver learning how to parallel park. “You’re like a breath of fresh air, just what the doctor ordered.”
“Luckily for you, I do house calls.”
“What procedure are you going to perform on me?”