FEAST OF MEN

by Ayn Dillard

  Geez, it’s me trying to get my parents to love me again. He even tells me he’s no good and that he’s an asshole—that all men want is to get paid and laid. So, why don’t I believe him? It’s that believer thing again. Believing he’s something that he’s not—that’s he’s a man capable of love and he’s not. He’s a control freak. This is exactly what’s gotten me into the bad relationships and marriages in my past.

  What does he really make me feel like? He makes me feel alone and anxious. Art’s mirroring this for me to see it and to let it go. My stomach churns thinking about it all, even my body’s telling me Art isn’t good for me. He’s the worst combination of my parents. So, I need to face this once again and walk through his negative mirror, before I can meet a positive mate. Um, brilliant, but I need to talk with Art about it before making my final decision because—I might be wrong.

  I decide to give him a call, but of course—no answer. So, I leave a message.

  Sondra and I spend time talking on the phone about Tanner because we’re both stressed. She’s has quit her job. Her parents are giving her money to live. Apparently, the universe has put us together to support one another during this turmoil. I have no desire to be her friend otherwise. I feel about her exactly what both Art and Jerry told me that they felt. They both don’t trust her and neither do I. My attorney doubts her story too, but she’s the only support I have in this matter and I need someone to talk with about it. I have suspicions that she was having an affair with Tanner and decided to end it and that is why he flipped out and blamed me.

  “Sondra, we need to make sure that we’re supporting each other, instead of draining each other with our anxiety.”

  She agrees, “I know—been feeling the same way. Getting caught up in our stress and it spirals out of control.”

  I confess, “Also, your smoking and perfume irritate my allergies sometimes so badly that it makes me sick.” She reeks of smoke and perfume so horribly that I can barely stand to be around her.

  “You need to get over it and I’ll that pray you do.”

  I reflect, what a manipulative thing to say. “I can’t get over it because I’m allergic to cigarette smoke and most perfumes. The chemicals in them drive my allergies crazy. Art had cologne on the first day that I met him and it almost gagged me. One of the reasons that we have our senses to warn us to avoid things that irritate us. I try to be tolerant, but when something makes me sick, I’m not putting myself in that position. Like my feelings for Art, after my birthday, they all fell through. I felt sick to my stomach. So, I know that I need to listen to my body. All this stuff must be being brought out for me to look at and release, either that—or it’s mercury retrograde.” I laugh.

  She laughs, “Yeah, it’s the planets. I am so glad that we can talk honestly about things—truly be friends and become closer.”

  I continue, “If I hadn’t said anything about your smoking and cologne, I would’ve pulled away and I think we might need each other right now. If I can’t breathe when I’m around you—I can’t be around you.”

  Sondra affirms, “Yeah, you’re right. I love you so much and am so glad we met.”

  “We’re definitely on some major path here together.” As I think to myself—not sure what though. I need your support, but at the same time—don’t like you. Love you—are you insane?

  Sondra states, “You’re right. I’ll throw that particular perfume away. I think it’s the same kind Jan Tanner wears because she gave it to me as a gift. Also, I do want to quit smoking and I will in the next couple of weeks.”

  “That’s wonderful!” as I ponder Jan gives her gifts and Tanner’s trying to have or did have an affair with her. How did I get involved in this mess?

  Not being around people who smoke for years except for my mother—it’s unusual for me to tolerate it at all. Anyone who can purposefully clog their capacity to breathe hasn’t hooked into my energy until Sondra, but I won’t put myself through the discomfort of not being able to breathe for anyone.

  That evening, Sondra, Tracy and I meet at Patrizio’s for dinner partly to celebrate my birthday and to just have some plain ole girlfriend fun. Man, oh man, do I ever need a night of having fun.

  Sondra has never met Tracy before this evening. Tracy is a new mother and new to the area, a dark-haired beauty who was an actress in LA before marrying. When we met, we hit it off instantly.

  Sipping wine, nibbling a Portabella mushroom appetizer talking and laughing, Sondra and I tell Tracy about our lawsuits with Tanner. We try to make light of it, but know both of us are in pain. The whole deal is a nightmare.

  Tracy inquires, “And this man is married?”

  Sondra answers, “Yeah and he has had or does have several mistresses.”

  Tracy exclaims. “What a scum! Is he attractive? And what’s his problem?”

  We answer in unison, “No, he’s ugly!”

  I expound, “He’s unattractive in every way. One of those guys who comes onto women then when not getting the response he’s after, retaliates in a manner related to the level of his insecurity.”

  Tracy says, “They’re the worst, the ones who can’t handle rejection. Natalie, didn’t you tell me that he’s written other books?”

  Sondra answers. “Yeah, he had one come out this fall. The only people purchasing it are the people in his office and himself. He sends us out to buy them daily. He gives them away to all his clients.”

  Tracy laughs, “Sondra, have you read any of it?”

  Sondra replies, “Yeah, I read a few parts. The man’s a legend in his own mind. And he’s going to think ‘legend-in-his-mind’ after my lawsuit.”

  Sondra’s comment coming after all the wine, we’ve consumed strikes us as hysterical and we laugh until we’re crying—a much needed release. Almost everyone in the restaurant glances our way.

  Sharing the events of our saga, Tracy listens intently creating a supportive stabilizing force. Our topics jump from one to another, as we cover everything and I do mean everything from motherhood to lesbians.

  Tracy shares. “When I was acting, I did a soap opera scene with the girl that ‘came out’ with Ellen Degeneres. I was playing a reporter and she was playing opposite me.”

  I inquire, “Anne Heche—that skinny blond girl? On ‘Ellen’ the other night, I thought it interesting the way they presented it and the jokes were kind of funny.”

  Sondra questions. “I get how the ‘woman—woman’ thing works, but not how the ‘man—man’ thing does.”

  I offer, “With the ‘woman—woman’ thing—it’s fingers, mouths and tongues. So that feels good—all the great ways a woman reaches orgasm.”

  We agree enthusiastically then Tracy chuckles. “Yeah, fingers—yum!”

  Sondra asks. “Sex in the rear-end deal, I just don’t get it. I mean, why? And why do men always talk about it? Always wanting to try it and say they want to make love to all of your orifices. If it’s so great, why don’t they just be with a man?”

  Tracy adds. “My husband used to be with a girl before me who really enjoyed it. According to him, she really got off.”

  Sondra states. “Don’t think I’d like it or would even ever try it. I mean, how unsanitary! I’d probably never be able to go to the bathroom again. For sure, I’ll never do it.”

  Tracy goes on, “Men, like it because they like the talking about it and the fantasy of it, because it’s you know—down dirty and nasty and guys like to go there. They want to push it or at least talk about pushing it to the extremes.”

  Sondra laughs, “Yeah, for sure, they really like to push it.”

  I state, “Seems like to me it’d hurt. Except, I’ve heard there’s a place, a gland or something—especially in men that can achieve an orgasm almost immediately and that it’s a soul-rocking experience. That’s why homosexual guys like it so much.”

  Sondra adds. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that place too. I have a girlfriend who loves to have sex that way. She says after you get past the uncomf
ortable part—it’s incredible, but you definitely need to be with a man you trust completely.”

  I inquire, “So, the orgasm’s triggered from the backside or the inside out or something like that—which makes it so appealing.”

  Tracy answers. “I think that’s the deal, but I’ll never find out Not me, never! I’ll ask Don about his experience then we’ll have more information.”

  I comment, “Good idea.” I laugh loudly then to notice a man who is obviously trying to hear what we’re talking about, as we raise then lower our voices as we whisper our provocative sexual talk. Observing him, we begin to laugh even more uncontrollably. It’s such a release and fun to talk about things that we wonder about, but rarely have the bravery to discuss. The more comfortable I become with me, the more I can talk openly about most anything—not that I’d ever try it. As soon, as judgment enters into interest and communication, it changes or curtails the free flow. Communicating is fun and it’s healing to openly explore.

  We have the most intimate of conversations about sexual tastes and imaginings and all three of us are totally into it. We chat about all we know, or have ever heard about this particular sexual fetish then go onto others. Getting more and more uninhibited and light-headed as we sip our wine. Tracy and I don’t drink as much, but Sondra keeps ordering. One glass of wine and I’m gone, and now I’ve finished my second glass and onto my third.

  The manager of the restaurant offers to buy us another round. We agree and adjourn to the patio to continue our fun. The evening ends too soon at near midnight. Tracy’s a new mom and needs to get up at daybreak. She exclaims as we’re walking out. “This has been so fun. We need to do this more often because I get too involved in being a mommy and I forget about me.”

  I add, “Yes, it gets us out of the rut in our minds. Also, our laughter has shifted our energy and helped to clear our stress. You know, we could do this once a month. How does that sound?”

  “I’d love it!” Tracy responds.

  “Let’s do it!” Sondra agrees.

  I confirm, “Okay, let’s do it. We can call ourselves the BFC ‘Butt Fucker Club’ and have dinner once a month, then the first one to do it—isn’t a debutante any longer or perhaps—she truly does become one.”

  We all practically bend over double in our laughter. Tracy threatens, “Okay, but no one, absolutely no one, can know what these initials stand for and if you write this in your book, I’m a guy named Jack.”

  We howl in laughter, “Okay deal, it’s our secret. Also, let’s invite any other girlfriends of like mind to join us. Maggie would fit right in.

  Sondra inquires, “Okay, so next month?”

  Tracy says, “Yeah like—we won’t talk to or see each other until then.” With full knowing that we’ll spend extended time on the phone tomorrow.

  “Goodnight Natalie and happy birthday!” Sondra and Tracy shout as we get into our cars.

  The following day—of course, we talk on the phone and make the definite decision to continue our BFC dinners at least once a month.

  I need to feel as happy and free as I did last night and much more often. Hell—how about most all of the time, because I’m so ready to mirror fun.

  The anxiety of my birthday passes and I’m back into the reality of dealing with the circumstances that I’m trying to extricate myself from. A dire reflection is that after my birthday, I have approximately six hundred dollars to my name, am a month and a half behind in my house payment, have a lean from the home owner’s association and owe thousands more in property taxes. I just got a speeding ticket, have a sexual harassment lawsuit beginning and the people who were going to buy my house seem to have disappeared.

  So, all that time I spent looking for an apartment was a waste. My parents tell me that they’ll not help me any longer because I’m a loser and nothing to them. Not to mention, the man I thought that I cared about lives in another state, is a workaholic, sexually weird and I need to dump him, then a man I felt so much for, who said I was the love of his life—didn’t come back. All of this makes me cry out ‘uncle’ to the universe. I give up. I surrender and ask for grace.

  Other than all this, the strange magic is I’m happier than I’ve ever been. It sure seems strange, but I have more peace and self-awareness than ever before with friends and acquaintances to enrich my life that give me an outlet. So, in many ways, I’m blessed and rich. Except, I want to put it all together—friends—money—creative work and be with a man whom I love and he loves me. Is this even possible? Surely, it is because I have the hope and the faith that it is.

  I go to voice-over auditions and see clients in my stress management practice. I know that what I’m experiencing right now is an opportunity for growth and the reason for my living. Except at times, my faith becomes shaky—I can barely function and my mind goes into a spiral of stress and confusion. Unable to think clearly, I become lost in my fear and lost to myself. Therefore, I must focus on faith and trust. I need only hold onto the hope that this is going to work out to a positive result—surrender to the love and guidance of the universe and release fear.

  Hope—the natural impulse arising from my human spirit’s innate knowledge of my own eternal nature. The culmination of where I am now and that it can only get better. I have the faith my house will sell and I’ll find a great place to live. I’ll make enough money to survive, then someday I might even understand what happened with Boyd. I’ll stand up to Tanner in court. God will guide me and I’ll follow the signs to the man who is the true mirror of my love. It’s all in place and in the process of happening.

  Only even as I proclaim this, my mind and emotions continue to swirl in a competition full of questions. After surviving all the loss that I have in my life—will I end up alone and living under a bridge somewhere? Haven’t I gone through too much for a negative final result? I am doing all I know to do to change this situation for the better. Only negative tapes from childhood keep playing in my head filling me with fear and make me feel like giving up.

  My father repeatedly reminds me that I’m a complete failure. I have no money—no ‘real’ job, am not married and have no children—rather no ‘grandchildren’ for him. When I think this way, I feel like dying, like giving up and that I’m nothing in this world and there’s no place for me. I don’t seem to fit in anywhere. Surviving all the heartbreak doesn’t seem to matter, if I can’t pay my bills. Seems the most important and difficult and stressful work a person can do is—to earn little—have little to no money, or recognition on this earth plane. Becoming more recognizable to myself—this is the work that I’ve been doing. I need to put my heart back together again and get in touch with my soul, before I can breathe—much less go on.

  My own mother never earned a dime, but being married to a materially successful man for fifty years. She is considered a success even if she suffered a major breakdown and was a neglectful wife and mother. The façade that the people create around her and all the material possessions appear like success to the world. I am judged as a failure, because I’ve no facade to hide behind as I face my obstacles daily and mostly alone.

  I’m busting through the facades because I can’t stand to live behind or in one. I would think my mother would be compassionate and supportive of me considering her own fragile mental health, but she can’t or doesn’t know how to be. It all doesn’t make any sense because, if she’d endured even a tiny portion of what I’ve lived through, she wouldn’t even couldn’t have survived. Undoubtedly, she’d have collapsed into alcohol or been committed to an institution—which happened anyway, even while she lived in what appeared to be an easy existence compared to the one that I am in.

  Internally, I’ve grown, healed and accomplished much, except not having external power of money and success in their eyes—my parents look down on me as if I was dirt under their feet. Mother behaves as if she’s better than me. My father in his drunken narcissistic rages shouts how ashamed he is of me. I understand that he’s not able to see or to lo
ve himself, therefore not able to see or love me. Once the golden child, but when not giving them what they wanted from me, I have become the scapegoat of the family—the one who is projected with all their anger, insecurities and frustration. I know this intellectually, but it doesn’t help the hurt in my heart. As I survive it all sober and trying, I receive only insults from the very people who couldn’t have done half as well with my life’s challenges and heartbreak.

  I wonder will their treatment of me change, if I ever have some success they can relate to? Will they then consider me worthy enough for an invitation to their yacht?

  I recall as a child when I showed happiness, my father would demand in his loud gruff voice. “What the hell are you so happy about? Do you know something, I don’t?” Responding in my meek low voice in an effort to not displease him further, I responded, “No daddy—no reason, I am just happy.’ His response, “You make no sense. There has to be some reason to be happy and a loser like you has none.”

  Chills run up my spine to remember this now. I learned to act unhappy—so perhaps, I wouldn’t draw his attention and anger him more and be yelled at. How pathetic! I, also recollect him gruffly inquiring, “Who pulled your chain?” when I would try to express an opinion. Any belief other than his was always wrong. Nothing I did was right—even as I acted unhappy—when I wasn’t—in order, to please and be loved. Then the confrontation, if they thought I was keeping something from them. My father stating repeatedly that a good daughter tells her parents everything, just as he warned I must do the same with the man I marry. Thus, taking away my boundaries and leaving me open for exploitation. His advice, hampered my ability for discernment when he admonished me to always tell the truth and I obediently obeyed. My being so good, honorable and truthful leaves me open to being exploited—naively thinking everyone does the same and are like me—when most aren’t and don’t. Even today, I am fearful, at times to feel happy and to speak up. I have fear that if things are going well or I feel loved that it’ll be taken away and it always is.