by Ayn Dillard
After lunch, it feels comforting to know that the boy I liked in the eighth grade saw the real me and apparently really cared about me. He gave me a gift by his sharing this and it was certainly something I needed to hear today. I did use to be so shy, never opened my mouth with the self-esteem of a mouse. Going to ballet class and spending most of my time alone in my room, dancing and listening to classical music and of course, rock and roll too. My parents criticized the very thing—ballet, that gave me my only inspiration to live. I can still hear their criticism, ‘Why do you like the ballet? We think it’s boring and classical music is awful. You’re ruining your legs by developing all those muscles.’
I try to shake off the demons as I head onto Oklahoma City, ‘happeee’ as Art would say, to be getting out of this town. Somehow and for some reason, I feel nourished being with Art and I certainly need some emotional nutrition after visiting my parents. It’ll be interesting to see where he lives.
A cold front blew through last night and it’s cold as ice in my car. The heater’s not working and I am not wearing appropriately warm clothes. I spend two hours freezing cold, even to the point of shaking as I drive to OKC. I recall the last time I was there with Boyd. Weather circumstances were similar, but it wasn’t cold at all in that rental car—as the energy of love kept us warm. Will I ever feel that great again?
After searching diligently and before actually freezing solid, I find Art’s office building. Art meets me at the top of the stairs and behaves rather strangely. I’ve just arrived and am shivering from my drive, but he continues to return several phone calls even though it’s after six o’clock on Friday evening.
“Art, I’m freezing.”
“Here Natalie, put your feet by this floor heater. You’ll warm up in no time. I just need to make a couple of calls, then we can get something to eat. I’m hungry, are you?”
I answer, “Um, a little.” I think how rude can a person be. I might as well have stayed at my parents’, but shiver in pain at the thought of it. Anywhere is better than being with them. I listen to realize, he’s calling people back who’ve inquired about his services and these calls would be better made on Monday morning. Is he trying to show off? To appear that he’s so busy, so important or so something, but all he’s doing is making me think he’s stupid and rude. While Art makes his ‘urgent’ calls, I take a look around his office. It’s spacious and ordinary—a usual office space. Nothing states that Art’s an incredible successful business entrepreneur as he brags. Surveying the artwork on his wall, “Um, a...”
Art turns around declaring arrogantly, “It’s a Leroy Neiman.”
“No, Art. It’s an O’Melia serigraph. I used to be an art broker—remember?”
Taken back by my knowledge, he returns to his calls. When finished, he exits into his restroom. He returns with some paper towels and a bottle of cleaner and begins to frantically clean his desk top and furniture.
I inquire, “Don’t you have a janitorial service to do that?”
“Yes, but they don’t do a very good job. So, I do this every night before leaving because I can’t stand for anything to be on top of my desk.”
“Um, really?” I think, geez, this is just too spooky. Here I drive for hours in the cold to see this man and he’s making phone calls then cleaning his office while I wait. I feel as if I’m still at my parents.
“Gee, you’re as good looking here as you are in Dallas.”
“Thanks, and why wouldn’t I be?”
He exclaims, “Let’s go eat. I’m in the mood for Chinese food. There’s a great buffet around the corner.”
“Well, okay.” He isn’t even polite enough to inquire what I’d like to eat, or what I’d like to do and he appears nervous.
We transfer my luggage into Art’s car. I leave my car parked at his office building.
The ‘Chinese buffet’ place is a hole in the wall with food less than marginal. Art seems to really like it and he finally loosens up. We begin to have a nice time teasing, laughing and getting back into our usual routine of banter. I am finally feeling warmed up.
After dinner, he needs to get some things for his farm. So, we head to a Walmart. This is only my second time in one of these stores, but Art appears to love shopping here. I’m a Saks, Neiman’s girl, and Art’s a Walmart man.
He gets what he needs, then since my feet are cold, he purchases some black socks for me. Gee, I’m happeee—I got some Walmart socks.
“Art, are you glad I’m here? What would you be doing if I wasn’t?”
“I’d be driving to the farm alone. And tonight, I’m happeee that you’re here, but you could be dangerous to me.”
“Dangerous?”
“I could get use to this and...” His voice trails off. “Well, I am glad, you’re here with me and we’re not in Dallas.”
“What’s wrong with Dallas?”
“Nothing, just glad you’re here with me, instead of me being there.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing where you live.” Art is transparent because obviously he’s falling head over heels in ‘something’ with me, but pulls back because of his fear of being hurt. Oh well, he’ll either get over it or the universe will bring someone better. Boyd will come back or something. I think I could possibly fall in love with Art because I like his weird off-beat sense of humor and do find him intellectually stimulating. There’s a warm side to him that he keeps hidden, but when it shows up—it’s great. In his arms with my head on his shoulder, I can feel his tender side.
We continue to chat on our way to the country as we jump from one topic to the next, laughing and enjoying ourselves. This is helping me to release the stress from being with my parents. It’s warm and toasty in a car with a working heater. I’m feeling better.
Art’s farm is way back off the road and I’ve no idea where I am. I notice many tall trees on the winding road. We park in the carport then sit and talk and kiss a bit. The house appears to be rather modest and I’m beginning to get cold again sitting in the car. It’s as if Art’s embarrassed for me to go into his house.
“The house is a small farmhouse, Natalie. It’s not real elaborate or anything. It’s not like your house. My condo in the city is much nicer and where my good things are.”
“Then why aren’t we there?”
“Because I always come to the farm on the weekends to get away from it all.”
“Okay, but are we going to get out of the car and go in the house sometime tonight? I’m freezing!”
He takes my luggage into the house. It’s cold, dark and windy, but looking out across the land, it’s beautiful.
“Art, your property looks wonderful. I wish I could see it better. It’s so dark. but what I can see—the lake and all the trees look magnificent.”
“Yes, the property’s beautiful and you’ll be able to see it tomorrow. Let’s get in. It’s cold as a witch’s tit out here with this wind howling.”
Witch’s tit—his words are sometimes so gross. “So here I am in ‘nowhere’ land with you. Will I be found in pieces somewhere buried on your property?”
“No, I’m going to put you into a leaf shredder.” He snaps back with his usual sarcastic wit.
I laugh in glee. I am so relieved to be away from my parent’s oppressive atmosphere and to be walking into a warm house.
The farmhouse is surprisingly modest especially since he spends so much time talking about money.
“This is nice, Art. That’s a great fireplace.”
“Thanks, I had the fireplace built after I moved in. It cost me five thousand dollars.”
“Great, well let’s build a fire.” As I humorously think to myself—how nice to know how much it costs. What an idiot—so obsessed with money. It’s a cozy little farmhouse, but sparsely furnished. Art busies himself turning on music, lighting candles and making a fire, while I take my things back to the bedroom. It’s pleasant enough. I put my stuff in the bathroom, then change into my white cotton Calvin Klein gown and robe wi
th some thick white cotton socks—not from Walmart. Back into the room where the fireplace and candles are flickering, soft music plays and the fire’s beginning to roar. It’s nice to have someone prepare a warm environment after the cold harsh treatment at my parents and the torturously cold drive down here.
I comment, “How nice and cozy, I like your taste in music.”
Surprised, “You do?”
“It’s easy listening. I hope you don’t mind, I took over your bathroom with all my stuff.”
“No, that’s fine. I know how you girls are with all your beauty toys.”
I relax on the sofa to notice there are guns everywhere. “Why do you have all these guns?”
“Why not? I like to hunt and like guns.” He takes down a huge one from above the fireplace, “I made this one myself.”
I comment, “Talk about a gun. It even looks scary. Is this the part where you’re going to slice me up? Oh no, I can see it coming.” I playfully screech in terror then curl up in a ball.
He describes how he made this particular gun and about shooting animals around his farm. He talks about an incident about how he rescued a small animal from a larger one, by actually shooting and killing the aggressor. As I listen to this man tell me these things—it doesn’t seem to fit. He seems to have a kind heart and it’s difficult to imagine him killing. Except, this rescuing trend is prevalent with him. As I think—geez, Art rescue me. Boy—do I need it, right now.
I ask, “Tell me about when you were in Vietnam?”
“No, I don’t want to go there right now—maybe later. I do have butt holes and zippers all over me.”
“What’s that?”
“I have butt holes and zippers all over my back from being shot and wounded.”
“You do? I’ve held you and seen your body, but don’t remember feeling or seeing any. Show me your back.” He lifts up his shirt and I see there are scars all over his back and chest. I rub my hands over them. “Good God, Art. You really saw a lot of combat. They even shot you in the back. This makes me so sad.”
“Um yeah, but it’s no big deal.” He responds softly.
“Were you a prisoner of war?”
He doesn’t answer for a moment, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Natalie. I’ll tell you about it sometime later.”
“Okay, sure.” This man has felt a lot of pain and it’s a part of the hurt I can see in his eyes. He has a limp caused by the war and scars all over his back and chest. I just can’t bear to think of him being shot or tortured. He’s lived through things—really horrendous things, but won’t talk about it, or go there to release it. I recall he said that he’s never cried in his life. Hard to believe, to go through all this and never cry, but that’s what he said.
He puts the gun back over the fireplace.
“Art, will you teach me to shoot? I’d love to be able to shoot a gun.”
“Sure, I will! You’d really like to learn?” he asks in disbelief.
“Yes, I would. Once my father took me to our ranch to teach me to shoot and I thought it was exciting and empowering—just in case, I’d ever need to protect myself.”
Art is sitting in his big chair and I am laying on the sofa in front of the fire. It feels warm and cozy as we chat. This is place is ‘okay’, but I wonder what his condo in Oklahoma City is like? He talks about his Viper car on order and shows me magazines about it. He’s still excited to be getting a red one because they’re so rare.
I inquire, “When will yours be in? It’s been a couple of months since we were at the dealership.”
“Not sure. The red ones are only made at a certain time of the year. You don’t see any on the street, do you?”
I answer “Sure, I’ve seen several Vipers in Dallas. There’s a blue one whose owner must live near me, because I see it all the time.”
“Not a red one! Bet you haven’t seen a red one.”
“Well yes, actually I have.”
Demandingly, “Where and who owns it?”
“I passed it in Dallas around the Crescent Court area and how would I know who owns it, Art? I passed it on the street. After yours comes in, I want to be the first to ride in it.” As I think, this man is obsessed with these flipping cars.
“Of course, you’ll be. I’ll pick it up in Dallas then immediately come to get you.”
One thing about us—is that we’re never at a loss for words and we talk for hours.
We begin to kiss and to make love, I feel emotionally close to Art and our bodies moving together feels warm and comforting. After making love, we begin our talking marathon again with Art sitting in his big blue chair and me on his lap with my head on his shoulder. Feeling safe and peaceful, I begin to tell him a story.
“Okay, there’s this man and woman. She’s a famous writer and he’s an incredibly successful venture capitalist. They have adventures, all the time—talk constantly and laugh a whole lot while traveling the world.”
Art anxiously inquires. “Tell me the man has a red Viper? Doesn’t the guy have a red Viper Natalie?”
“Oh, yes the man has a red Viper and a blue one, too.” I oblige.
“Good—well then tell me more.”
“Okay, the man retires and they move to the Bahamas to get out of the rat race. They keep a house in Oklahoma and have everything they want. Only the most important thing is that when the woman rests her head on his chest, she feels safe and at peace. They’re happy and content together. Having all the material things they could ever want, but the most important thing is how they feel when they’re together.”
Art states, “The man loves Natalie Duncan.”
“Um, what?” I raise my head to look at him—not believing what I just heard.
Art states, “The man loves Natalie.”
“Um, really?” I rest my head back on Art’s shoulder. Sitting on his lap, I feel cared for, warm and peaceful. We silently watch the fire for over an hour then Art suggests.
“Let’s go to the bedroom. I’m exhausted.”
In bed, we continue to talk. Art tells me stories from when he was in college. “When there’d be a carnival to raise money, I’d come up with the craziest ideas. I’d make the most money with my ridiculous ideas.” He chuckles.
“Like what for example?”
“Like a booth where I’d charge to let them spit on me.”
“What?” I screech then howl in the laughter of disbelief.
“Sure, you know, the other kids, would have kissing booths and other ordinary things, then I’d come up with these off the wall ideas that’d make the most money.”
“How in the world did you think up something like a ‘spit on me booth’?
“Easy and that’s not even the best one.” He’s laughing and obviously having a great time in his recall.
“Okay, I’m afraid to ask, but what was the best one?”
“The best booth was the, ‘Sit on my face and I’ll guess your weight’ booth.” We both burst into laughter.
I sit straight up laughing hysterically. “What? What—you’re kidding? They let you have a booth like that at OU?”
“No, but I sure tried to and I know for sure it would’ve made a lot of money.”
“Art, you’re so bizarre.” Um, how would he have come up with the ‘spitting on him’ idea, if he didn’t think he deserved to be spit on? His self-deprecating humor reflects pain, distrust. contempt for himself and others.”
We talk and laugh more about Art’s college antics, then we make love again and again.
Art really likes to get into sex talk. So, we do. I enjoy talking sexy sometimes while making love, but Art needs it.
“Natalie, I’m so glad you like to talk dirty during sex.”
“Yeah occasionally, it’s fun, but it’s also nice to be quiet and feel.”
“Well, I like to talk during sex because it really makes me hot.”
Perhaps, one of the reasons Art enjoys talking during sex is because it distracts him from his feelings. Talk
ing and listening with his mind, he’s less likely to have to feel anything emotionally and more able to turn off his heart. He has a need for games, in order for him to really get off. Already, I’m becoming bored. While the sex is nice, I am not feeling much real passion from him to me or from me to him. Hot sex is fun, but I want more and I can’t really believe that I’m even doing all this with him. It feels enticingly wicked and fun, while at the same time nothing at all. It’s going against my morals and ethics, but right now, I don’t seem to care. Having morals has gotten me nowhere because it seems no one else cares or has any. Anyway, it’s better sex than I’ve had with most men, certainly the ones I was married to. It’s about time I have some adventurous sex.
Suddenly Boyd pops into my mind and it freaks me out. How can I be having sex with Art, if I love Boyd? The way I feel about Boyd is nothing like I feel about Art. Well, I really don’t know what or how I feel about Art. I was always true to one man, even if he wasn’t deserving of my fidelity and now this. I meet a man who’s the most powerful connection that I’ve ever felt and am now having sex with someone else—that I really don’t know what I feel about. I must be a slut, loving one man while having sex with another. This isn’t like me. What am I doing?
If Boyd returns, I’ll never let him know about Art, or will I? Why do I think I need to tell the man I love about everything in my life? No one is this honest. It’s stupid and serves no purpose. Honesty and love don’t necessarily go together, or do they? My father’s advice sucks concerning telling the man you marry everything. Why did I believe him anyway?
He only pretends to be honest with mother. It’s all a game—a facade. Perhaps, one of the reasons he’s so miserable. The purest ideal of being able to tell the one you love everything is enticingly noble, but my father would’ve served me better instilling the belief to be true to myself, instead of being so honorable to others—especially men. No one has ever been that unselfish or honorable for my well-being, or for the love of me—including him.
Except if Boyd hadn’t left, I’d have never met Art. Boyd and I aren’t in a committed relationship anyway. Plus, he told me to date. Boyd’s married anyway. The whole damn thing is absurdly crazy, but why did we meet and why did we feel so much for one another and so quickly? Perhaps, even if Boyd does return, I’ll want to be with Art. My God, this could be a triangle—my first. Talk about an adventure and how will it all play out?