FEAST OF MEN

by Ayn Dillard

  “Yes, we’ll do all of that, but who knows about the making love part. I want to go to Café Pacific.” As I think to myself, or does he think another Deli will suffice.

  “You mean, ‘Cafe Specific’?” he teases, “I don’t really like that restaurant much.”

  I state, “It’s one of my favorites and it’s where I want to go. After all, it’s my birthday.” Surely, he’s teasing or is he so cheap that he won’t even take me to a nice restaurant on my birthday? Tauntingly, “I might try one of my sexual fantasies on you.”

  “Um, reeeally!” growls, “And what might that be?”

  “Always wanted to tie a man up or handcuff him then do whatever I want and it’s my birthday—sooo...”

  Panicked, “No, absolutely not! I’ll never be tied up. Never will I let you or anyone tie me up!”

  “Why not, I’m talking fun here. I’d use silk scarves, so you could get out easily.”

  “No way, that doesn’t sound good to me at all!”

  “You want me to talk sexy to you and play your little sex games. Why won’t you indulge me?” I tease—not even sure—if I ever want to have sex with him again. He’s so into control, he can’t have sex without it.

  “No, being tied up doesn’t sound good at all and I won’t do it.”

  “Oh, all right, if it isn’t fun for both of us, it wouldn’t be fun.” As I think, I just want to have fun on my birthday and I don’t want to be alone. “Also, on my birthday, I want to have some champagne. I love champagne!”

  “Well, you can have what you want, but I never touch the stuff—never even tasted alcohol.”

  “Really—never?”

  “Never—two things that can ruin a good man, liquor and a ‘bad’ woman! That’s what my daddy always says.” He says in exaggerated Oklahoma twang.

  I laugh silently, then tauntingly say, “Do you always believe everything your daddy says? Does that daddy of yours know how you made your money in college? A bit hypocritical—to do what your daddy says, go to church every Sunday—visit Aunt Bessie in the old folk’s home, then be a pimp in college and pretend a woman you care about is a hooker. I don’t drink often, but when I do—I like to have a real good time. So perhaps, you’ll get luckeee. You might even think that it’s your birthday—you’ll have such a good time.”

  “Um.” He growls. “Sounds good, honeee, I’ll be in touch before the weekend to make our plans.”

  “Great. I’m really looking forward to being with you on my birthday. We’ll have a great time whatever we do.” As I think—sex—not ever again, not ever again with this sicko, insecure, over-controlling man.

  He says, “Me, too, sweetieee.”

  Off the phone, I ponder—probably, the reason Art has never had anything to drink is because he’s too afraid of losing control. Well, at least, I’ll be with someone on my birthday. It’s better than being alone and it’s been a long time since, I’ve had a birthday celebration and I deserve one. Actually, ever since the divorce, I’ve been alone on my birthday. Paul was so cruel that in the end of our marriage, he refused to celebrate my birthday stating I didn’t deserve one. Birthdays have become a sensitive day for me.

  I love birthdays and celebrations. Sometimes, while married to Paul. I’d get a cake and fill the top with tons of candles to have an ‘un-birthday’ birthday celebration. I did this several times, when his daughter Victoria was in a grumpy mood, or it was a dreary day—to lift everyone’s spirits. Paul would eagerly participate in those celebrations, but just not one exclusively for me. He hated women. He hated his mother. He was so into control—he could only relate to a child that he had full control over. What a stunted jerk!

  Birthday celebrations around my family as an adult were mostly awful. My father would usually get drunk and say horrible things. As if he was mad at me for having a special day or one moment of any happiness at all. He always gave me a nice gift or a check, but his words would spoil it. On one birthday, he was exceptionally drunk spewing verbal abuse and I yelled back. “Daddy, it’s my birthday. Please be nice to me today!” His reply, “It’d been better if you’d never been born!” I ran out of his house crying with no one to comfort me, because he’s the one in charge and if he wants to destroy a celebration, then he does so with no one stopping him.

  Why was it always my celebration that he chose to demolish? Why couldn’t he allow me a birthday celebration and to be happy one day? There were many home movies of me as a young child—up to the age of about ten—having wonderful elaborate birthday parties which showed both my parents adoration.

  When I became a teenager, things went terribly wrong. Once a pretty young girl I became awkward and felt unattractive, face broken out because of hormones, and I starved myself to be overly thin—as I focused on my image in the ballet mirror. I was going through puberty and needed a mother and parental guidance, but there was none. Mother just sat on her bed playing the card game, Solitaire for hours and hours. My parents began drinking lots and partying was their focus.

  Their dislike of me was clear and it felt as if there was no place in the world for me and surely nowhere for me in theirs. When I needed them the most, they weren’t around. Not being their beautiful little baby any longer, they had no use for me and didn’t know what to do with me. Their anger and frustration were pushed off onto me. And I accepted it because I thought something must be terribly wrong with me for them to dislike me so much. I had become nothing in their eyes.

  Well, that was a scary psychological insight. So, this birthday thing is a big issue for me. If the man I’m with doesn’t want to celebrate my birthday in some fun way, then I won’t continue the relationship. Of course, I’ve done things for myself on my special day. I usually work out, go to a movie or eat something that I want. I have even bought myself a birthday cake and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to myself then blew out candles all alone.

  The Thursday before my birthday, Art calls to inform me that he’ll be in Dallas for certain.

  “Natalie, I’ll be at your house at eleven in the morning and we can celebrate your birthday all day long.”

  “Great, I’m glad that you’re going to be with me on my birthday.”

  “Me too, looking forward to it and mostly just being with you!”

  Friday, I spend the day working, writing and looking for apartments. I step in the door of my house to hear Art leaving a phone message. “Natalie, this is Art. So sorry, honeee, but there’s been a family emergency. I won’t be able to come down to see you tomorrow.” He sounds hurried and stressed.

  Quickly, I grab the phone. “What? Are you all right? What’s happened? Is it your father?”

  “Honeee, I don’t have time to tell you about it, right now. I’ll call you tomorrow and tell you all about it. Right now, I just wanted to let you know that I can’t be with you on your birthday and am very disappointed.”

  My heart’s breaking as I respond with emotion. “Art, me too. I needed to be with you. What’s happened? What is it? Is something wrong with your sister or your father?”

  Stressed, emotional, and loud, “Natalie, don’t do this to me, honeee—don’t lay guilt on me because I can’t handle this right now! Don’t be like all other women.”

  I recover enough to think, oh yes, I don’t want to put any more pressure on him because I don’t know what this is about yet. “Art, I’m not laying guilt on you, but am disappointed. I want to be with you and am not like any other ditzy woman.”

  “You’re the only ‘ditz’ in my life Natalie. You’re the only one.” He emotionally responds, “I’m very disappointed that I can’t be with you on your birthday, honeee—but I’ve got to go now. I need to get going on this. I’ll check in with you this weekend to see how you’re doing.”

  “I hope everything is okay—whatever it is you’re dealing with.” I can feel his tension through the phone.

  “Thank you, Natalie. Talk to you, later.”

  I’m frustrated. Of course, I’m concerned about whatever it is
Art that needs to take care of, but am also concerned about my feelings. Another disappointment and on my birthday—another birthday, spent alone. Well I can make do, write, get some errands done and continue looking for an apartment. Just in case, that couple finally does decide to buy my house.

  Only God, why does this keep happening? Why does most every birthday usually be a disappointment? When is my luck going to change? I had hoped this was going to be the year. Perhaps, this is the last of the men who will disappoint me. Art certainly isn’t my guy and this is the time to stop seeing him. Weird—that he wouldn’t tell me what the emergency is, but Art doesn’t have a clue as to how much this news affected me.

  I get a grip on my emotions then go on to aerobics. It’s only a birthday after all—just another day—important to me, but not to anyone else. Besides, I’m going out with Sondra and Tracy on Monday night and my friends will be calling to wish me—happy birthday. I’ll have a nice day. Right now, I don’t know what’s going on in Art’s life. So, I won’t make any radical decisions yet. I’ll just wait and see what happens.

  I work out, talk to Sondra on the phone, write, read some then fall asleep. On Saturday—my birthday, I spend all day looking for apartments and running errands then go to a movie and have a big bag of popcorn with M&M’s sprinkled in it—get a hamburger—come home—shower, then get into bed.

  A junk food birthday and I am grateful that I had enough money to go to a movie and have popcorn. I always have fun being with myself, but I ate too much. Clearly, I was stuffing my feelings.

  It’s a beautiful evening and if Art had been here, we would have had so much fun, but how do I even know that because we hardly ever see one another. He doesn’t take me to nice restaurants, preferring Delis—hole-in-the-wall Chinese places & hamburger joints. He won’t allow us to spend enough time together to get to know one another. It crosses my mind that Art might have canceled my birthday plans on purpose because he was afraid that I’d tie him up and drink a bit too much. I laugh as I visualize Art naked and tied up—or he’s too cheap to spend money on a nice restaurant. Why am I even interested in him? Truth is—I’m really not. I’m just lonely and exhausted after the all the emotions with Boyd and everything else and Art’s someone to talk to. Boyd left me wanting for love and attention because we shared so much together.

  I am so tired of emotionally unavailable men. Tired of coming last after everything else in a man’s life and I thought that I’d broken through that pattern. Art’s a cheap workaholic bigot and an emotionally closed down man. Isn’t it time to find a man who can say, ‘I met you at exactly the right time—I love you—let’s be together, live and have fun’?

  The phone rings, “Natalie, happeee birthday honeee!”

  “Hi Art, thanks. How are you? Did you get whatever it was worked out?”

  “Yeah, it’s better. It’s okay, I guess.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it later. Let’s not talk about it right now. Okay, what have you been doing today? Tell me about you.”

  “I ran a bunch of errands, looked for apartments, went to a movie and now am in bed relaxing. Had a nice day, but was alone.” As I say this, I am thinking, this creep cancels my birthday and won’t tell me the reason.

  He continues, “I wanted to be with you and I miss you. Did you find an apartment you like?”

  “Yes, I found two that are really different, but each one would work. Just hope this couple will come through concerning buying my house. I lowered the price and they still haven’t made their decision. They stated that they need to move in the first part of June. That’s why I’m hustling to find a place to live. Now, I don’t hear anything from them. So, who knows? It’s frustrating and I really need to sell this place.”

  I lose track of time as we bounce from one subject to another, teasing, then serious—even delving into sex talk.

  “Natalie, you’re so sexual. I hope you’ll let me take you to a new place in your sexual experiences. You might just be sexy enough to go there.”

  “What in the world are you talking about?” then I recall a previous conversation when he mentioned trading partners with other couples. He thought that it’d be fun—that he’s met a couple who does this and are happily married. He said that it wouldn’t mean he wanted anyone else or loved anyone else. It’d only be for variety and the experience, then we’d go back to our usual lives. I thought, at the time that he was off his rocker and told him so. My opinion is any married couple who partakes in this type of game playing doesn’t have a committed relationship. This type of behavior is nothing that I would ever participate in.

  I continue, “Art, I can fantasize about most anything, but actually doing it is another thing entirely. Are you talking about your trading partner’s fantasy?”

  “Well sure, but that’s not all of it.”

  “Really, tell me another of your fantasies.” As I think to myself—what a jerk!

  He asks, “Really, you mean that?”

  “Sure, why not?” again, I think—slime-ball jerk.

  He continues, “Okay, you asked. I always wanted the woman that I love to pick up someone and have sex with him, then I come in and make love to her after he does—then she tells me that I’m the best and she loves me.”

  I inquire, “So, you wouldn’t mind, if the girl you loved had sex with another man?”

  “No, not if it was just sex and she loved me.”

  “But I thought you were all pushed out of shape because your ex-wife might have cheated on you and that she was a whore.”

  “She was a whore!”

  I exclaim, “You’re frigging twisted. I’d never do anything like that and you’re disgusting.”

  He states, “You’d enjoy it.”

  I reply, “You’re whacked out of your mind because I’d never do anything like that—ever!”

  “Well, we’ll see. Picture this, we’re on a fabulous vacation and you take a tennis lesson wearing one of those cute little white outfits. You have sex with your instructor than come back to the room and have sex with me.”

  “You’re a freak. I’m a one man—woman, period. I’ll go there in fantasies, but that’s it.”

  He states, “You never know—until you try something.”

  “I’ll never try anything like that. Besides, does doing something like this really fit with going to church every Sunday? What would your daddy and Aunt Bessie think? Think about what it says in the Bible about fornication—it’s a sin against your own body.”

  “No one ever said I was perfect. Do you want to have phone sex tonight?”

  I lie, “Oh sure, Art.” I chuckle silently as I think this man is a freak. I begin talking sensually and he responds. While I’m laughing inside, not turned on at all, even disgusted and bored. How ridiculous, needy and disgusting Art is. I fake orgasm sounds, while Art reacts so pleased with himself. It’s utterly stupid. I laugh internally at him. I just had fake phone sex with a red-neck and on my birthday—pathetic!

  Relieved to be off the phone after three and a half hours of talking, it’s now one-thirty in the morning. I have a sick feeling in my stomach. And know that I am sick, tired and done with Art—both he and his fantasies make me feel ill. I guess, we’ve all eaten lies when our hearts were hungry.

  We hardly see each other and sex is feeling like just another way for him to control. His latest fantasy about a woman that he cares about having sex with someone else, then with him is vile. Probably comes from being a pimp in college and watching boys have sex with those unattractive and lost girls that he manipulated. Geez, he’s twisted. What a dumb, disgusting birthday—fake phone sex with a hick with a country twang. I am a sensual and sexual woman, but this man is making me lose sexual feelings fast. I feel dirty even thinking that I ever had sex with him. Although, pretending to be a whore or a courtesan has a certain seductiveness about it. I chuckle, perhaps I was something like this in a past life.

  Sex is sacred. Sexual e
nergy is sacred—I have always known this. So, what am I doing with Art? It’s making me feel ill on every level. I also know to be careful who I associate with because you can tend to become like them in ways and I sure don’t want to become like Art. DNA is exchanged during sex and I don’t want any part of Art’s DNA. I want nothing of his imprint on me.

  I am lonely for the rest of the weekend—angry with Art, also myself, and know that it’s way past time to end it. The relationship is weird and I don’t really understand my attraction to him because actually there is none. I was lonely when we met and made the mistake of having sex with him and it temporarily attached me to him by stimulating my hormones and oxycontin. I need to stop any communication. Only I like to tell a person my feelings and end it in an upfront manner to bring complete closure. Plus, I want to give him a piece of my mind. I need to think about it a bit more before I do though—because I might miss interacting with him. I feel so alone just now—like no one is on my team. Except, if I’m loving and caring for myself, I’ll do what’s going to make me feel safe and secure. I will take care of me. And if I have a man in my life, I want one with the ability to love with a sexual appetite that excites and nurtures me, or what’s the point? With the Tanner sexual harassment ordeal—right now, men and sex are becoming a complete turn off.

  Art probably tried to force his Russian wife to live out his fantasies and that was the real problem and issues in the marriage along with his perversions, and his constant cleaning—no wonder she never wanted to be at home. He’s a combination of ego, insecurity, manipulation, obsessive-compulsive behaviors and dislike and distrust of women. He’s cheap, talks a good game about sex and other things, except doesn’t deliver and in my opinion, has bizarre sexual fantasies. He always talks about someday, ‘when he has or does this or that’, then he’ll retire, build a house, or get all the cars he wants. He’s mostly all bullshit. Perhaps, the only reason—I’m even attracted to him is his ‘on again off again’ style that arouses my emotions then deflates them—like my parents and ex-husbands. His obsession with money and business is like my father and his penny-pinching side reminds me of my mother. That’s the familiar hook and why I feel like I am ‘home’ with him—because it feels like all my other ‘homes’.