by Ayn Dillard
He answers eagerly, “Yes—yes I really would.”
I recall what Art said about always letting the woman make the first move. And wonder, is it because he’s insecure and unsure of himself or is it some kind of a game? Our physical closeness leads to more intimate dialogue—sharing of our feelings about relationships—what we want in life and how we’ve been hurt in the past. Time flies as Art talks about his business and monetary hopes for the future, stating that he’ll make over seven-hundred-thousand-dollars in the next few months.
He says, “Yep I make a lot of money, but have no love.”
“That’s a lot of money. I’ve lived recently with very little money. Men have married me for what they thought they could get or take, always leaving me with less. Not that I’ve ever really had a lot of money, but this last one left me totally broke.”
Art states, “I want to be able to give the girl I love everything.”
“Sounds nice, she’ll like that. Only I hope she’ll love you for you—not just for what you can give her materialistically.” Here we go into the hero deal again, but that kind of a hero would be great.
Art states, “I go crazy when I fall in love and have a tendency to give too much, then I am taken advantage of—no one ever seems to want to give back. No one cares. They just take.”
“Um, me too, I lose my common sense when I fall in love. So, I can relate to what you’re saying. In my second marriage, my husband was a blatant alcoholic and I helped him through so much. He never gave me much of anything. We even lived in a house, I had before we met. I gave him money to bail him out of a drinking situation. Now, I am glad to say he’s sober and has been for quite a while. He confessed that my divorcing him was a big reason that he decided to quit drinking. Confessed that his drinking destroyed our marriage and he apologized. So, I thought we were friends. After our divorce, I gave him thousands of dollars of artwork. I could’ve sold the artwork and made extra money, but instead I was nice to him because I knew he wanted it and was going through a rough time financially. So, I presented the art to him as a friendly gesture. Recently I was in a bad financial place and asked him if he’d help by paying the money that he still owed me from our divorce settlement. He’d just closed a multimillion dollar real-estate deal. He was bragging that he was buying a new house and about having a twenty-year-old girlfriend. He kept putting me off until, I realized he wasn’t going to help me. Appears we weren’t friends at all, unless I was helping him. I helped him when he was in need, but he didn’t help me when I was. I am certain the artwork that I gave him is hanging in his new house for his girlfriend and him to enjoy.”
Art sighs, “How sad that some men are just assholes and even hurt the best women. So, Natalie that’s why you need to take care of and protect yourself.”
I state, “When you love someone and believe they love you, you let your guard down and want to give. This is how I am and this is how I’ll always be or why bother? I do need to remember not everyone’s like me.”
“Yep, like I said most men are assholes.”
I state, “I don’t want to believe that because I still want to believe there’s a man who’ll want to give to me someday because he loves me and that he’ll have the ability to love me—like I love him. He’ll want to give because he loves me and wants to make my life better.”
Softly, “Well, maybe there’ll be a man like that. You seem to have enough hope and faith, so it just may happen for you. You know, I love to shop. I even like to buy women’s clothes and enjoy buying clothes for my friend’s wives. If I see something that I think will look good on someone, I usually go ahead and buy it as a gift. I’m usually right, too. They usually love it. I have a good sense of what will look good on a particular woman. Nothing makes a woman feel better than putting on a great new outfit.”
“That’s true.” As I think, I rarely have had a man buy me clothes—might be a nice experience.
Art suddenly asks, “Natalie are you for real?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you say everything I could ever want a woman to say or be. Are you answering questions and saying things just to impress me?”
“What? That’s absurd. I am being myself. What you see is what you get with me. Why would I be saying things only to impress you?”
“Well you seem too good to be true and you’re exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re intelligent, beautiful, have long dark hair and a great body. I can’t believe you have all these attributes and you’re petite, too. You’re exotic, unique and exciting. I got luckeee. Got real luckeee! You’re an awful lot of a woman and just what I’ve been looking for, but you seem too good to be true.”
“Um well really, thanks—so out of all of that which part do you like the best?”
“Your mind Natalie, your mind is incredible. You’re not like most women.”
“What does that mean?” He’s saying exactly what every other man says to me.
“You talk about so many things with much intelligence and don’t spend much time talking about the dumb things most women do. You’re interesting and you keep a man challenged.”
“Well maybe, you’ve just been dating the wrong women.”
“Apparently I have.”
I feel he wants to kiss me, but recall what he’d said—about not kissing a woman until she gives him a sign. Either he’s being really nice, shy, or manipulative—letting the woman make the first move. Therefore, he’s off the hook for any responsibility. We begin hugging pressing our bodies close together. I’m feeling warmth and a connection with Art.
I inquire, “Do you want to kiss me?”
He responds, “Yes, oh yes, I do want to kiss you.” Then he does. Kissing—we snuggle and kiss some more. I am surprised at how good it feels being close. We’ve shared intimacy in our talking, but as we’re kissing, I suddenly remember Boyd and how absolutely incredible kissing him felt. Art isn’t as passionate as Boyd. Of course, Boyd knew he loved me before we ever kissed. I may never feel like I did with Boyd again. The feelings we felt were fast and magical that doesn’t mean my feelings for Art aren’t okay. For all I know, Boyd may be kissing his wife.
Art asks, “If you met someone from out of state, would you move?”
I respond, “Don’t know—maybe—why?”
Art inquires, “Well, what if we wanted to be together?”
“I don’t know for sure, but feel, I’d want to stay here for a while for my career. I don’t know why really?”
Art states, “You can write anywhere. Where I’m going to build my house just outside of Norman, Oklahoma, you’d be able to write and look out over the cliffs. I can’t think of a better place to write, it’s peaceful and secluded.”
I respond, “Sounds nice, but I’d want to stay here for a while. Be where the action is. What would you do if the girl needed to stay here for a while?”
“I’d probably buy her an apartment at say the ‘Bona Venture’ or somewhere else, then spend a couple of hundred thousand decorating it.”
“Um.” As I think that might work. Is Art the man who’s coming for me? The one Boyd mentioned and Richard said might be a better man for me. Art doesn’t have any children, so I’d be first in his life and he appears to be successful, but what he’s talking about today is premature.
Continuing to kiss we go further in our caresses. All of a sudden, my remembrances of Boyd begin to overwhelm me. Immediately I stop kissing, get up and go into my bathroom. I feel sick to my stomach because this is moving too quickly. It feels good in some ways, but is way too fast and I miss the magic that Boyd and I shared. My connection to Art is nothing compared to what Boyd and I were.
Art shouts. “Natalie honeee, are you all right?”
“Yes, I am.” out of my bathroom, I sit on the bed next to him. “I’m getting really hungry.”
He looks at his watch and announces. “Good lord, it’s ten. We’ve been laying h
ere talking for over four hours. Time sure passes quickly when we’re together. Where would you like to eat? Do you want to order something in?”
“No, let’s go out. It’d take forty-five minutes to have anything delivered anyway. Let’s get Chinese or something else?”
He answers, “Okay.”
“Give me a minute.” I go into my dressing area—put on black riding pants, boots and a black turtleneck sweater, then just as I’m finishing my lipstick, Art walks in.
“You know, Natalie? You really put a man through the paces, but I’ll give it my damnedest to keep up with you.”
I turn and ask, “Huh, what do you mean?”
“You keep a man on his toes, but I want you to know that I’m going to give it my damnedest to keep up.”
I play dumb, “I don’t know what you mean? When not working out, I’m lazy a good part of the time.”
He responds, “No, I don’t mean that way. I mean mentally. You’re so quick and smart. You really keep a guy on his toes.”
I answer, “Um really, well several men have told me that and I really don’t get what they’re talking about. I’m just me.”
He adds, “Just being you is a lot. It’ll be a luckeee man who gets you.”
“Well, thanks.” As I ponder and reflect men—all say the same thing, but where is that lucky man?
It’s eleven o’clock by now and most restaurants are closed. So, we end up at ‘Friday’s. Waiting for our burgers, we continue our talking marathon.
Art shares the ending of his marriage with his Russian wife.
“I called to invite her to lunch to tell her that I was going to buy her a Mercedes Benz and a house in Nichols Hills, one of the best places to live in OKC. She told me that she had other plans and was going to a Russian party, then she never came home.”
I exclaim, “You’re kidding?!”
“No, I’m not. I called her cell phone and got no answer all night long then her phone was turned off. Naturally, I became worried. Thought perhaps, she’d been kidnapped. She’d been hanging around bars, buying everyone drinks, flashing money and credit cards. Spending over four thousand dollars in one week on shit like that—so I contacted the FBI.”
“The FBI?” Why contact the FBI so quickly? I reflect this all sounds strange, suspicious or weird, is he making this up, exaggerating or what?
“Sure, the FBI had everyone trying to find her. Next day, she calls to inform me, ‘I file for divorce, Art’.” in his best Russian accent.
“Wow, I bet that really hurt?”
“Yep, sure was a surprise. I never saw her again. I wiped her completely out of my mind. She was dead to me from that moment forward.”
“Um really?” I ponder—how unhealthy and strange. “You had no idea she was going to do that? I mean, you were thinking about buying her a new car and a house. You had no idea she was unhappy enough to file for divorce?”
“No, I didn’t! Well, except that she was out drinking almost every night, sleeping all day and spending a ton of money. Blowing over four thousand dollars in one day with nothing to show for it. I told her to cool it, to go to the grocery store and to clean the house and to act like a wife because the money was being cut off!” He shouts.
“Sounds more like you were talking to a child instead of a wife, Art.”
“Well, she was behaving like a damn child. Anyway, I was luckeee. Soon as I cut back on the money, she wanted a divorce. When there were no more funds available, she wanted out. I’ve always been cautious about money. There was a time in college when I was so down and out that I slept in a storage unit and washed up in a gas station. I left the door to the storage unit open all day, just so it’d not get so hot during the day that I couldn’t sleep at night.”
“God Art, how’d that happen?” Must be what I was picking up on earlier that this man has seen a lot of suffering. The pain in his eyes is clear as he talks. I laugh nervously to myself—of course if I don’t sell my house, the same thing might happen to me.
Art shrugs with a distant look in his eyes. “Just happened, a sequence of events—anyway I’m cautious about money and she was spending it like water. I was going to tell her about the new car and house that very day at lunch. I thought it’d make her happeee!” he exclaims in his twangy accent. “Only instead of it all working out—how I’d hoped. I had to pull the chain to hide everything. The way I have all my money off shore, I have the ability to hide it quickly. Thought, I might have to hide everything because of some business deal gone bad—not for some personal reason, like divorce. She thought she was going to get millions from me. Her Russian friends told her that she could get a lot of money from a rich American. If she’d come to lunch that day, I’d have given her the car and told her about the house. She’d have stayed married to me only for these things and then been able to take me to the cleaners in a divorce. She’d have gotten lots more.”
“You really never saw this coming? If she was out drinking all hours of the night, this alone should’ve have been a big clue.”
He answers, “I thought she just needed to be with her Russian friends. We’d even began talking after she came back from Europe about starting a family.”
“Europe?”
“Yeah, I sent her and her mother on a grand tour of Europe for a couple of months.”
“Um, so you really had no idea? Only I guess that’s a dumb and judgmental question to ask because I married men who used me and I didn’t see it until it was way too late either. I only saw what I wanted to see, or I guess—only what I was able to see at the time.”
He states, “Well, people can be real manipulative. If you could do anything you wanted what would it be?”
“I don’t know. What would you do?”
“Me—I want to build my house just outside of Norman, then retire and relax and watch the animals out my window. I want to travel, but most of all I want to get out of the rat race. I used to want to have kids, but don’t anymore. I just want to have fun!”
“Sounds good to me, I want to have fun too! Like you, I’ve been through so much in my life. There must come a time that I’ll be able to relax and have fun.”
Art continues to share his experiences and I can clearly see how hurt he’s been. This is what we mirror in each other—our disappointment in people and relationships. Looking into his eyes, I can feel his hurt because I know how terrible it feels to be betrayed. Feeling empathy for him, I’m beginning to feel closer to him.
As Art’s walking back to the table from the men’s room, he has a slight limp that I hadn’t noticed before. “Art, what causes you to limp?”
“I was injured in the war. The limp becomes more obvious when I’m tired.”
“Vietnam?”
“Yes, I was in the Marines.”
“Tell me about it? Tell me about how you got hurt?”
In a firm stress-filled voice, “No, I don’t want to talk about it now—perhaps later.”
“Come on, tell me. I want to know about you?”
“No, I don’t want to talk about it.” His voice is full of emotion.
“Well, okay then.” So, another part of his hurt is some Vietnam experience.
Walking to the car, Art takes my hand. It feels good and I find myself wanting to snuggle up in his arms and fall to sleep. It seems that we understand one another because we’ve both been hurt and betrayed.
At my front door, Art kisses me twice. “This is a little backwards, but that’s your goodnight kiss.”
“Um yes, I guess, we’re doing this all backwards. We’ve already been in a bed together and now a goodnight kiss.”
Art states, “Maybe, we could go ahead and get our divorce now. Get it out of the way, so we won’t have to deal with it later.”
“Okay, what are the grounds?”
Art laughs. “Don’t know.”
“Well, I’d tell the judge that he forces me to eat ice cream and won’t let me get liposuction. I’m getting fat, but he continues making me eat i
ce cream.”
He replies, “Okay then, that’s it.”
“So, I get everything in the marriage because you’re so cruel. Only, I never want to go through another divorce ever in my whole life. It’s so awful!”
“Me either, Natalie. Me either. Can’t handle another devastating relationship, just can’t go through it again. I’ll get a hotel room. Should I get a hotel room?”
“No, why don’t you sleep here. I know you’re not going to rape me and it’d feel nice to fall asleep in your arms.”
“Yes, I’d like that very much and you’re safe with me.”
I take a warm shower and Art goes down the hallway to another bathroom. I come out of my bathroom to find, he’s already in bed. “I’m not used to having someone in my bed.”
“I’m not used to being in a woman’s bed, but it’s nice.”
I turn the lights off then slide into bed. We snuggle into each other’s arms. It feels so nice—so right. We begin talking, kissing and exploring each other’s bodies. I struggle as to rather to go ahead—my body needs to. Sondra might be right that I’m almost like a virgin. What am I saving myself for? So, I let myself fall into it and we make love. Afterwards, I cry. I cry really hard, while Art holds me in his arms tightly and gently.
“I don’t know why I’m crying?” As I think to myself how terribly conflicted I am. I miss Boyd, but I needed physical passion and release desperately. Only I am not sure, who this guy Art is—so why’d I have sex with him?
Art comforts, “It’s okay. You probably needed to cry.” He holds and pats me on my back very gently. It feels so comforting because I need nurturing so badly.
We make love again, And I really let my passion flow, after all the talk with David—then my love and desire for Boyd—I really let it all out. I can tell that I pretty much blow Art’s countrified mind, but I don’t really see him because this is more about me and my passion. Not really seeing him, I can let myself fall into intense pleasure and the intensity of it surprises—even me. Where’s this coming from?
The next morning when I awaken, I stare at Art’s back and think. Wow, a lot happened yesterday. It’s awfully strange to have a man in my bed. What am I doing and who’s this guy anyway? His straight shortly cut hair is standing up and it looks stupid. I feel a bit nauseated and fall back to sleep. I am awakened a bit later by Art standing over me and irritatingly tapping my arm.