Come Back

by Sky Gilbert

  I went down on my knees. I remember the pavement was hard and dusty and it hurt. I started to undo his pants, but without even looking at me he pushed me away. I’ll never forget the way he did it. He was gentle and apologetic, even though he was staring up at the tin roof, not down at me. It was as if he wanted me to know that he was sorry that he was not, well, up to it — and he was expressing that with this mild, almost ineffectual movement of his hands. I realized I instinctually knew all this would happen. I thought, This one is a bona fide homosexual, that’s for sure! I thought this, because, well, generally speaking, straight men don’t, in my experience, ever refuse blow jobs. So, as easy as pie, I just moved on over to the next brother — Jesus, I feel so bad that I can’t remember his name! — and started to undo his pants.

  There was no resistance there. In fact, there seemed instead to be a gentle acquiescence. But what I pulled out of his pants — there was nothing gentle about that! It was a honker. I started giving him the kind of blow job I’m usually extra capable of when I’m completely zonked out of my mind. But what I liked the most was the way he acted — so very helpless. He didn’t caress my hair like I was his pet chihuahua like some men do. He didn’t pull on my ears like I was a trained monkey. He kind of wriggled his momentous dick in my mouth, as much as he was able. It was like I had him by the dick and was torturing him. But I wasn’t.

  I don’t want you to get the idea he was writhing around or anything. In fact, it was much more like he was just giving himself up to it, weakly, even forgetfully. In fact, it was like giving a blow job to a Buddhist monk. Just surrender. . . . It wasn’t long before he came — busloads. And I was very happy to have done what I was doing. I looked up at him when it was over. He was breathing hard and his head was against the wall. He and his brother were both looking up.

  I think Peter must have known his brother was done, because I saw his hand move up to his brother’s shoulder and touch him. This made me think he must have been happy his brother shot such a big load. It was all kind of touching. I yanked myself off the pavement — which had been hard on my knees, and brushed myself off. I took Peter’s hand and we wandered out of the alley. His brother followed along.

  I never saw the brother again. I feel kind of sorry about that because I will never forget his passive acceptance. There was something gorgeous about it. And awe-inspiring. After that incident I didn’t want to have any more of Mark climbing on top of me, grunting and groaning and trying to show me his unmagnificent prowess. It was that experience with Peter Allen’s brother, whatever his name was, that set me to looking for Mickey. I wanted a passive angel who would just lie there and submit to my obedient ministrations. Because that’s what sex with Mickey was like.

  And yes, Dash’s story about his lover and the puddle of cum plucked a chord in me — zing went the strings — because that’s what my very last lover, Mickey, was like. And you always remember your last lover. And Mickey was a young man who accepted my worship as if it was his due, without conceit or pity — and almost apologetically, without inhibition. Mickey used to lie flat on his back on the bed of our little apartment in London and let me blow him. It was heaven.

  So why am I telling you all this? Is it just another one of my monumental infamous digressions? No, it’s because last night Peter Allen’s brother was on my mind. As was — you guessed it — the Doll Boy. Something about what you said irked me deeply. More like a prod than an irk. A cattle prod that zaps me with insecurity every time I think about it. There was something intimidating in what you left me with. Maybe there was even some regret? Of course, I can’t point to anything specific — it’s all a part of a hunch. But ever since, I’ve been possessed with a nostalgic hysteria to see you and confirm that you are alive — you must be! — and look you in the eye. This, I swear, was part of what drove me out of the house to the Doll Boy.

  I called Allworth, who is always willing to drop everything to serve my every need. Sometimes I think he would like to give this old dry husk a blow job — but I’m afraid there isn’t much left down there to blow. You don’t really want to know — no one does. Anyway, I told him, “I have to go to the Tranquility Spa now.” He naturally said, “What if the Cantilevered Lady is there?” I told him I would simply have to deal with her if she was. I didn’t tell him why I was going, but I think he knew. It’s nice having Allworth. He is like an unthreatening conscience. I’m sure he knows everything that goes on in my head, but he doesn’t judge. He just tries to anticipate my every whim.

  He was at my apartment in no time flat and he hustled me out the door. We had the taxi driver who always agrees to wait for Allworth come and get me. It takes me hours. I gave Allworth lots of money to give him a humungous tip. Well, the guy must have felt my urgency, because it seemed we were going at 2,500 miles an hour.

  At the Tranquility Spa it looked like there was nobody around. The Cantilevered Lady was definitely not there. Allworth tactfully sat at the bar. I know I’m bad — and isn’t this strange? — I am now wishing that you would tell me I’m bad. I yearn for your disapproval. What’s this about?

  Your disapproval is what you withheld from me in your recent cool arguments, your words devoid of passionate admonishment. But I have to tell you, I must sacrifice myself at the altar of telling all. I am prostrate before you.

  So know it all: I didn’t even sit on the stool, I just stood, or was bent over, as is my wont, beside the bar. Allworth bought me a drink. And I made a beeline for — you guessed it — the bathroom. What did the nippleless bartender think? Perhaps he thought I was incontinent. This is one of the advantages of being the sex-crazed mega-senior who cruises washrooms in a frenzy.

  I knew that he would be there. And he was. In the same place, his pants in a puddle on the floor, leaning against the wall. He didn’t look at me. He was turned away. Or rather, his head was to the side — his perfect head — as he leaned against the wall. His palms were not pressed against it, but placed there listlessly. He reminded me so much of Peter Allen’s brother. And then of Mickey. I knew that he knew I was there. Or, paradoxically, he didn’t, and that it didn’t matter.

  I walked over to him, or struggled over, and gazed at his penis, so perfectly encased in whatever that streamlined substance was that had been used to surround it. I was not so much attracted as deeply involved in his penis. I just stared at it for a minute. He did not look at me. Then, with some effort, I raised my hand to touch it. There was something hard about the skin — or rather, there was a leather-like quality. The skin was heavier, not at all what I expected. But it was not a feeling that brought me any closer to figuring out what that substance was that surrounded it. Then, miraculously — but it was not miraculous at all because whatever this young creature’s infirmity, he was certainly young — the penis began to erect itself. I use this language because it did seem strangely unattached to his body.

  The Doll Boy did not look at me. So I touched it again, as if it were a curio in a museum that one was allowed to play with in order to execute a scientific experiment. The penis continued its upward arc, and I kept touching it. Not caressing it, mind you, just touching. The Doll Boy remained looking off to the side. It was an amazing sight and made me wonder — as an erection always does — about the amazing engineering of the human body.

  When he was fully erect, which didn’t take many touches, I asked the Doll Boy a question. It was one I wasn’t sure he would answer. “What happened to you?” I was referring to the encasing on his body — not to the feat of aerodynamics that quivered so close to my face. But he seemed to know what I meant. He turned his head slowly to me as he spoke. His voice was clear and high. Was it the voice of a boy or a girl? It was difficult to tell. “I just tried to be what they wanted!” he said.

  It all made sense. I knew exactly what he meant. All the memories of MGM came flooding back. Not just of the diets, or my own bodily transformations. I thought of the work, the endless slaving. It
was never enough — of course it could never be enough! And however homespun I’m sounding now, I will not utilize the phrase “my mother never loved me” — if only for the reason that she loved me much too much in her own hateful way. No, it was just that, for some reason, I was not only singing for my supper and doing what I was told — I was, ultimately, the good little girl.

  That’s why America loved me, because of the girl I portrayed in The Wizard of Oz. Even though the bad witch hated me and was out to get me, I was and would always be good. Wishing for what was over the rainbow was, after all, the ultimate goodness — yearning, hoping, dreaming. This might explain why it became so important for me to be perverse in my middle years — what the public saw as my death. Yes, it was too heavy a cross to bear. God knows why I would have wanted, or needed, to please all the people all the time — to be the very best at everything I did. And it’s not a vice; it is definitely a very American virtue. But it’s the kind of thing that can kill you. And the Doll Boy and his perfect body was a perfect metaphor for this dilemma.

  I’m sorry to say I left him like that. I did not commit any sexual acts with him — unless merely touching his penis is a sexual act. I did only touch it. But what I want you, and need you, to do is to talk to me. And be yourself again. Sit beside me when you speak to me, as you once did. Right now it’s as if you are going away or perhaps have already gone. . . .

  I cannot lose you, cannot live without you. I know this is something one should never say. Come back. Come back from wherever you are about to go or have gone. I can’t ever bear to have you away from me. There is never anyone who will precisely be with me the way you were. And the fact that we were not lovers is only an indication of the depth of my feeling for you. Jesus Christ, words do seem inadequate. Don’t leave me; never leave me. I cannot be alone. You are the only one — my only one. I need the sweet taste of your passionate admonishment! The tender caress of your disapproving eyes! I need you to tell me what to do. I will obey as best I can. And because I always make mistakes, you will chide me. And for you — well, I know I will always represent the imperfections of the world. Come back. I know you need me — for this reason — as much as I need you. For who does not need to be reminded that the world is imperfect? That’s what makes us gods. We love the world anyway, despite its endlessly frustrating, ultimately endearing flaws. Come back. Before I do something rash. But what could I do? Enslaved in my brittle bones and dry opaque skin, bluish with bulging veins that anachronistically pulse with life? Just promise me you will come back.

  Please, I’m begging you now. I can’t stand it any longer.

  ... and Mark said something the next morning about how we he didn’t want to take that acting job and so I said, “Honey, please!” And he went on about his career. And I almost said, “Why don’t you start talking about a career when you have a career?” But I didn’t. And he said it was a bad script — that he didn’t have any respect for the writing. And I said, “Do you think I liked the script of I Could Go On Singing?” I mean, I couldn’t even read the damn thing. But I did. And why did I do it? Because I had to work. Because that was my job and everybody has to do their job. “So get off your fat ass, Mark!” I should have said, but I didn’t. “Do the fucking job. And you know what your job is? To make it fucking brilliant, baby; to make it fucking brilliant no matter how bad the fucking material is! If you don’t make it brilliant, you have failed as a craftsman — as a craftsman — because acting isn’t an art, it’s fucking work. So don’t get so fucking pretentious about it.”

  But he did look so yummy in his dressing gown.

  Where am I? I’m not sure exactly where I am or where I went. And part of it — most of it — has to do with the fact that I can no longer trust you, or what you tell me. I know you are sitting in front of me now. Explain it to me again? Tell me why you couldn’t send me your picture for so long, or visit me? And why now you’re sitting in front of me? Is it you? Really you? Can I touch you?

  I don’t know what you mean that you’re a fog. Okay, your “body is a fog.” That upsets me. All I wanted was you — all I wanted was you back with me, trying on my dresses again. Remember what happened the first time I made you dinner? Neither of us will ever forget that. Remember when I made you coq au vin because it is the only thing I can cook? Or, at least, the only thing I thought I could cook. Because I made it for you. I really did fall in love with you even though you were a woman who liked to be called a man, and you didn’t have the important appendage. I really did, and I would have done anything for you — and then you moved away. Why did you move away? You’re telling me it was all about your transformation — about becoming what you are now. And what are you? The same thing I am? And what am I? But I stopped cooking coq au vin after that because you said, “Isn’t it just chicken stew, after all?” And you ranted on about connoisseurs, and how horrible they are. Then, for dessert, I served you blueberries and cream — but they were grapes. They were grapes! We were both eating grapes and that was a laugh, I’ll never forget that. As always, you were so stern. And I loved that sternness. It’s a sternness that takes reality so seriously.

  So, what, seriously, are you telling me? Are you telling me I’m dead? You keep saying, over and over, that I’m not dead. But you also say my body no longer exists “as a carbon-based entity.” What’s that supposed to mean? What does that actually mean? And now you say, “I really don’t know why you were attached to it; it wasn’t really yours anymore; it didn’t work properly; it wasn’t very efficient.” Jesus, I come from a time when the criteria for liking something wasn’t just whether or not it was efficient. Do you think I love you because you are efficient? Actually, I suppose I do, a little bit. But you know what I mean. I guess the only affection I had for my body was that it was real, that it was mine, and that it had imperfections. I loved those imperfections as much as I said I hated them.

  And now you say I have given all that up. You say it’s about acceptance now. Listen, this is all happening too fast; it’s all happening too fast and I don’t understand it. Where am I? What am I? Am I a copy of me now? Am I all my data uploaded into a computer? But there is no computer. When I look down I don’t see a computer. I see my body — not young, certainly old, but younger. When it still looked like a body and wasn’t twisted. What’s that about?

  And why do you say I’m not supposed to use words like computer anymore?

  Back in my day we used to be suspicious of people who said things like that. In fact, it sounds suspiciously like — if I may be postmodern — the idea that words do shape our perceptions of things. You said it yourself, there is no there there. But if I hold on to words, if I ask questions like, “Am I a computer?” then it means I am still utilizing the concept of computer. And as long as I do that, computers exist. But you say they only exist in my mind. But do I have a mind, if that’s all I am?

  Because I swear I’m looking down and I’m seeing a body.

  Please don’t tell me my body is a fog. And no, I don’t know if I like my body or not. Because, well . . . what a strange question to ask. Not that strange, I guess; I spent my life worrying about my body, hating it, wishing there was less of it. And then irony of ironies — now it’s gone. No, I refuse to accept that it’s gone. What have you done with it? What have you done with my body? This is anti-the-body, do you understand? Don’t accuse me of being anti-technology; I don’t have to be anti-technology just because I’m pro-body.

  I see it all now; it all becomes clear. Most of the twentieth century was about making the body disappear. It was about erasing it, and that has come to material fruition today. The body no longer exists. Except that can’t be true. That’s murder! You murdered my body.

  When was the funeral? I want to see the corpse.

  That’s when it all started, really. In the nineteenth century — in the Victorian age. People began to resist the body. Actually, I think it started before that, in the Renaissance. It
began with toilets. When people began to flush away their refuse, they were well on the road to forgetting that their bodies existed. Ugh, get rid of that mess — flush, it’s gone! And then along comes Queen Victoria — the disaste for the body, bodily functions, children tortured for masturbating. Graham crackers and Kellogg’s cereals — dull foods will stop children from masturbating. Did you know that the whole cereal industry was built on an anti-masturbation campaign? Usher in the twentieth century. The destruction of the body happens faster. Faster. Everything is faster. And exponential. You like that word: exponential. You say it’s key.

  I’m talking now.

  How are you able to interrupt my thoughts? Yes, I look at you and you are talking, but your thoughts seem to be going directly into my head.

  Do I still have a head? You say you’re looking at it. But should I take your word for it?

  To continue with my thoughts: In the twenty-first century, we say goodbye to death and funerals. It’s as if death no longer happens. Nobody wants to go to a funeral. Nobody wants to celebrate the dead. When I died for the first time . . . is this the second time? Do all the other times I wrestled with my body, and life, and death not matter, in the modern sense?

  Back in the sixties, it was all about youth culture and being young. No one wanted to look at the old. And gradually the old — though their numbers swelled for a time — began to cease to exist. Older people began to replace their body parts with younger parts. And there was porn. And body fascism. And what I went through with Louis B. Mayer. All this is very much a part of that. Because all the talk about the perfect body and health was very big at the end of the last century. And so was going to the gym. But why is an obsession with health and fitness anti-body? A contradiction! Well, it is, even though it might not seem that way, because bodies are not perfect. When you are obsessed with youth and physical perfection, you grow to hate the body. Real bodies get old; they die, and then . . . Wait.