“Fuck you, Robin,” said Sharon and she flipped the finger to her friend.
“Seriously,” said Kitty, “friendship is like love, you have to cultivate it.”
“Like eggplants,” laughed Robin.
They were stretched out on lounge chairs in Kitty’s back yard next to the pool. Robin stood up to look for the marinated radishes and ginger slices, which both, she now thought, were the perfect accompaniment to a vodka martini.
“Where the fuck are the radishes,” she said, pissed. “Kitty, you haven’t been cultivating your red hot radishes,” and all laughed.
“Really, do you guys think we might be gay? Like we’ve been hugging each other since middle school,” said Myrna.
“No, we’re not gay because we like to fuck guys,” said Kitty, whose house it was.
“Except for Sharon who never fucks anyone anymore,” said Myrna.
“You’d like to fuck me, wouldn’t you Myrna,” said Sharon.
“You got it wrong, Myrna. Sharon likes to fuck, but only her Hank,” said Robin.
“Hank and Sharon, Sharon and Hank, forever,” laughed Myrna, which was not as funny as she had intended it because she sounded envious.
There was a brief moment of respite as everyone lifted their glass.
“No really,” said Kitty. “Friendship is a powerful mover of human emotions. We’re lucky that we’ve been such good friends for so long.”
They were all moving around the pool now, getting refills and digging into the shrimp, and parmesan, and smoked salmon, and grapes, and raspberries and blueberries, and breaded chicken wings.
“Hey, you wanna do some skinny dipping,” said Robin. They had done it before.
“Not without our husbands,” said Myrna.
“But you don’t have a husband right now, Myrna,” said Sharon. “Maybe you could call Justine and Meredith to come and join us in his place.”
“That would be very cool, wouldn’t it, Sharon,” said Robin, curiously.
“That would be very sick,” said Myrna.
“I know what you mean,” said Kitty.
“Then we could all be best friends forever,” wickedly continued Sharon.
“Count me in,” said Robin.
“This conversation smacks of disease, as in deep-seated psychoneurosis,” said Myrna.
“Like I said, friendship and love are all over the literature and poetry,” said Kitty.
“Oh, fuck you Kitty; always trying to avoid the unpleasant. Sometimes, you really are a chicken-shit,” said Robin who was into psychoanalysis.
“Exactly, Kitty! Even the Bible talks about … well, mostly about love,” said Sharon.
“Yeah, now days love is mostly gay love, like Sappho and her Lesbian dykes,” Robin kept the neurotic theme going. “This world is getting sicker by the day.”
“Freud definitely was a lot more interesting than the bulls and cows of Wall Street,” somebody said.
“Bulls and bears,” said Robin.
“I’ve heard that athletes have the biggest hard-ons, don’t they, Sharon,” smilingly said Myrna. “I understand they get it up, spread your legs, and let you have it.”
“How would you know, Myrna,” Kitty to the rescue. “You married a dentist.”
“He told me,” smiled Myrna, coquettishly.
“Truisms from the mouth of a dentist’s wife whose husband drilled her without mercy,” laughed Sharon, now somewhat boozed up.
“Sharon, if you have something to say …” Myrna didn’t finish.
“You’re all envious of Sharon because she’s married to a big hunk athlete; a big hunk dumb ex-athlete,” said Robin, and Sharon laughed, and almost choked on her martini.
“OK, everybody stop it. Let’s do something more serious than this silly small talk,” said Kitty who as hostess was obliged to move on when things dragged, or got too vicious.
“I like small talk,” said Robin. “We all seem to like small talk. We four best friends love small talk.”
“Don’t pay attention to Robin, Kitty. Go ahead, you start us on more important things than hard-ons,” said Myrna.
After some serious thinking and with the rest in rapt attention, Kitty raised her eyebrows and said: “Barb, my mother, was a sad illiterate. Happy, but illiterate.”
“In those days, it wasn’t necessary for housewives to be literate,” quickly added Myrna. “The only thing expected of them were to pop out babies.”
“Well, not quite, Myrna. Like today, some housewives even then, could read and write. Most of them went to school you know; but not my mother,” Kitty was almost in tears.
“Your father was an ophthalmologist, wasn’t he, Kitty?” said Myrna.
“Yes! Doctor Michael Davenport, Ophthalmologist, his sign at the door read. His office, or I should say his business, because he made all his money from eye herbal medicines … was out of Santa Monica, Wilshire Boulevard,” and there was a sparkle of deep pride in Kitty’s eyes.
“What about your mother, Myrna? What did she do for a living?” asked Sharon.
“Sharon, stop bugging Myrna,” said Robin.
“My mother was a saint, Sharon. She loved her husband dearly; so much that she died – I don’t remember exactly – but I think it was about a week after my father died. I don’t know. Why do you ask, Sharon? You were all at the funeral.”
“I meant in so far as schooling … but never mind … I’m sure they’re both in Heaven, dear,” said Sharon, and she meant it.
“Both your parents and Kitty’s parents had the foresight to leave each of you with a huge fortune,” said Robin and there were deep sighs from all the friends.
“Did you guys know that a long time ago people thought that the deep sky was Heaven and all the stars were saints?” said Sharon. “Well, that was before we discovered that the blue in the sky is really a reflection of earth’s oceans, and that just beyond the blue skyline there’s nothing but deep darkness?”
Everybody’s glazed eyes looked up and quickly dried. There is small talk and there are tall tales. Sometimes it was difficult to understand when Sharon was small talking and when she was tall telling. But then none of the friends was particularly careful of the words they chose to express their not so subtle ideas. They were long-time friends and they didn’t have to be particular about their vocabulary. Familiarity and vodka gave license to blunt simplicities and uninspired talk. They were all champions at hiding the gnawing memories of their jolted minds that required elusive performances to fend off words that they might accidentally utter and reveal their pedestrian styles.
“You know, we could write a book if we record all the things we say,” said Robin.
“What about you, Robin? Was your mother literate?” smiled Sharon.
“You all know that my mother spoke French and therefore she could not have been illiterate, for your unkind suggestion, Sharon,” said Robin who was never offended by Sharon’ beautiful face, which she interpreted as innocence.
“Your parents are leaving you a bundle, aren’t they,” half yawned Kitty now pretty mellow. She really didn’t care.
“Well, they are big time bankers; but there are rumours that your father is double timing your mother. Is there any truth to that, Robin?” said Myrna.
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Myrna.”
“It’s not me, but you, who’s in the gutter, Sharon,” said Myrna.
“Pas de probleme, Sharon. Ever since Phil left, Myrna hasn’t been getting any, and she’s been cranky ever since,” said Robin as she got herself another martini.
“You have no idea, Robin. I bet I get a lot more than you,” said Myrna.
“I bet I have a pretty good idea, Myrna,” said Sharon. “Do you know Larry?”
“Larry who?”
“That’s too bad. But I know Larry,” said Shar
on.
“It’s your turn, Sharon. Tell us about your mother,” said the hostess.
“My mother was a father fucker,” said Sharon, and she almost threw up from frenzied paroxysms of laughter.
“That’s why I love you, Sharon,” said Robin who was also laughing very hard.
“What does that make you, Sharon,” said Myrna, who wasn’t laughing; she was almost sounding threatening.
“Right now, I’m a little tipsy and I can’t tell whether it’s the vodka or you Myrna, my beloved, whom I love too much because you’re putting up with some heavy teen upbringing, what, with two vivacious teen-age daughters who might or might not be having coitus …” and she again spit out some of her vodka in uncontrollable laughter.
“Don’t change the subject, Sharon. We want you to share your thoughts on your mother. Each of us knows each other’s mothers but right now we want you to tell us about your mother,” said stupid Kitty, who chose to bypass a good story.
“Go ahead, Sharon, share with us,” laughed Robin.
“My mother is a great author. She writes books, so she’s very literate, unlike your mother, Kitty. Nor is my mother sad. She loves to read and is an expert on the Bible and Christian religion in general. She finds joy and happiness being in the loving arms of Jesus,” and she again almost gagged in laughter. “She’s a true believer and thinks that Noah and his ark were real as were all of Jesus’ miracles, because they’re all in the Bible,” and here again Sharon shared a little laughter.
“Aren’t you a believer, Sharon? For a long time I didn’t believe, but now I do,” said Myrna. “How could I not believe when my husband is a monk?”
“Coitus you Myrna. Just because your ex-husband joined a monastery …” said Robin.
“He’s still my husband, Robin. We haven’t divorced yet, unlike you and your husband who haven’t touched each other in years.”
“My parents have been in love from the first day they met,” said Sharon. “And after all these many years, they’re still in love. They’re Catholic, you know.”
“Isn’t it strange that we all had loving parents,” summed Kitty.
My God, she’s unbearable they all thought.
But Kitty was doing it on purpose because, after all, she was the hostess.
It was after five pm by now, the best friends were all boozed up, the chicken wings had been consumed, but no one had the slightest intention of abandoning such late afternoon stimulating conversation with all the nuances of artful dialogue on the classical path that leads to beauty and truth. They had all emptied their bladders a few times which made Kitty’s back yard smell fresh, and again inviting to the outdoor conversation. Besides, there was nowhere else better to be than Kitty’s garden.
“There’s nothing strange about it, Kitty,” said Robin who had managed to stay relatively more sober than the rest. “We think we have loving parents because, whether we like it or not, they have managed to raise us like themselves. From the moment we are born, mamma’s whole objective in life is to raise her baby, especially her baby girl, to take care of mamma when she ages. It’s like we owe it to them.”
It was a sobering thought. Each took a minute to rehash what they had just heard, lightly scratching their heads. It sounded a little bit too personal, too Robin-like, too parochial, but on second thought there might have been some truth to it. To be brought up to be like one’s mother was not out of reason, and it probably had been noted in some book or other before. I mean, what is a mother supposed to do? Raise her child like it’s not part of her? Also, it’s got to be the mother that raises her children to be like her, and not the children who raise the mother to be like them.
“There’s definitely an intricate entanglement between mothers and their daughters,” said Myrna. “Being a mother, sometimes I think it’s my daughters who are raising me to be like them instead of the other way around. Let’s face it though, mothers definitely tend to know everything that their daughters do because they had done the same things when they were young. I suspect …”
“I hate my mother,” suddenly said Sharon.
“Hate is a bit too strong of an emotion for one’s mother, isn’t it, Sharon?” said Kitty. “Oh hell! It’s true enough, I couldn’t wait to get away from mine either. She was suffocating me with her servility to my asshole father. She was his manservant – or I should say, woman servant, abject to every one of his gutless wishes. I don’t know whom I hated more, Daddy or Mamma.”
“That’s why we’re all such good friends and have been for such a long time. It’s because we all hate our mothers and don’t want to be like them when we grow up. Jesus, that’s why we’ve been together since we were little girls,” said Robin full of Freudian insight. “We became friends because we hated our mothers.”
“More than my father, I hated my mother,” said Myrna, unversed in Freud.
“Whoa there mamma Myrna. Think about your daughters,” said Robin. “Do you think they hate you?”
“What about you, Robin? Did you hate your mother?”
“No, I never hated my mother. She’s such a pathetic little creature totally obsequious to my arrogant father. There isn’t much of her to hate. But him I hated and went all the way to Ethiopia to get away from. He smothered me and followed me all the way there, far away from him, but he continued to make my life miserable. You know, every time I take a shit, I think of him. He sent me a letter one time saying that his shadow was with me everywhere I went in Ethiopia. I wrote him back that I only travelled at night.”
“Freud says that it’s boys that have problems with their mothers. He said boys have psychosexual problems with their mothers. Can you imagine that? I never had any sexual problems with my Albert,” said Kitty.
“But maybe he did with you, Kitty,” said Sharon.
“Are you serious, Kitty? Isn’t Albert currently calving cows in Nebraska?” said Myrna.
“Nobody knows the trouble I’m in, nobody knows my sorrow …” Sharon sang in faux cowboy baritone.
“He still calls me the apple of his eye,” said Robin.
“You guys are mean,” said Kitty.
“Just kidding, Kitty. You know we all love you very much; just like Albert,” said Robin.
“Well, I love you all as much as you guys love me,” said Kitty.
“Kitty, do I note a little sarcasm in your voice,” said Myrna, smiling.
“Just kidding,” said Kitty. “I really do love you guys.”
“Which brings us back to the original question: are we friends or just lovers?” said Sharon. “Kitty just said that she loves us as much as we love her. Does she love us because we are good friends or because she lusts after us?”
“Sharon, sometimes you are goofy,” laughed Robin.
“Well, Robin, your stale mouth is corny to the point of exhaustion,” said Sharon.
*
Having consumed a fair amount of vodka and an even fairer amount of white wine the four best of friends joyfully succumbed to the mellow spell of the Southern California warm afternoon caresses of Hypnos, the god of sleep, who had arrived just for them from ‘beyond the gates of the rising sun’. Together with Morpheus, he took them up to Venus’ Mount, otherwise known as Brentwood, and they were soon merrily running and dancing alongside the nude mad Maenads of Dionysus. Myrna, being the most amenable to happy dreams, was leading the way. Morpheus pointed them out to her, and she saw Claudio and Hank fast furious following the best of friends, clawing their way up to catch them with their panties down, and she understood their lustful intentions. In a heightened sexual desire, in her dream, she persuades her best friends to tear their husbands apart and devour them, including David who now belatedly appeared. Like ferocious lions, they attack their husbands and rip their heads off. They then feast on their husbands’ remains. This lasts a lifetime and reach an intensity that can only be satisfied with u
ncontrolled bouts of sex. They were four beautiful brides of the woods who in their lusty peak and in the fury of their wantonness any male would do, though the more acquainted the male, the more receptive the fury. And there among the sweet odors of the pines there came a procession of big hunk athletes from the fantasies of eternal time. Brainless big hunks like Zeus and Hercules and Hank and Mark and David ejaculating low IQ semen into the orgiastic screams of adolescent virgin princesses and daughters of kings and other nobles who naturally didn’t want to think of the reality of the event. And like in all dreams the most pleasurable of moments was the climax.
*
Snoring on their deck chairs, and deep in their sexual frenzy, oblivious to any reality, Claudio arrives home and is pleasantly surprised by the sprawling scene. He takes a couple of minutes to size up the situation: showing all, the girls are all commando. Sharon’s breasts are hanging out defiantly, most inviting, and there are bare thighs and asses galore; bottles and stem crystal glasses everywhere, a true Bacchanal orgy. He smiles and immediately understands the festive occasion that preceded it. At first he wants to wake them up but changes his mind. He goes into the house and brings out four silk bed sheets and, carefully not to wake them from their deep drunken stupor, covers the girls.
He then goes in the house and calls Hank.
“Hank, your wife is passed out on my deck,” he laughs lightly.
There’s a slight hesitation at the other end.
“Did you say that my wife is passed out on your dick?”
Hank liked to make fun of Claudio’s sometimes Sicilian accent.
“Yeah, maybe you like for me to take care of her,” suggestively laughs Claudio.
Another hesitation on Hanks part.
“Claudio, if she says it’s OK, it’s OK with me too,” said Hank.
“Maybe we could swap sometimes,” anxiously suggested Claudio.
“Well, Claudio, with that swap, that’ll leave only Robin out of my snare,” said Hank. “That bitch is never in heat.”
“You dirty dog! You mean you’ve been humping Myrna too?”
“For a couple years now.”
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