by Henning Koch
I poured myself a drink and tried to mask my irritation with the self-satisfied prick. All I could do was hit him back with all the sarcasm I had.
“I don’t know if you have a terrific wife, Jimmy, I haven’t seen enough of her. All I know is she has a fondness for modern sculpture.”
“Oh I think you’ve seen enough. She’s the sort of woman you’d kill for.”
There was a long silence. I decided to play it straight. “So that’s what you do? You touch a sculpture, and she imagines you’re touching her body?”
“The sculpture is just an aid. She doesn’t imagine it. She actually feels it. With intensity.”
“I didn’t mean to spy on you.”
“Don’t fret, man. We knew you were there all along.”
“You did?”
“Sure. We’re kind of high on this thing, we’ve invented a new way of having sex. We want to tell the world, it could be our greatest achievement.”
“What would Billy Graham make of you, I wonder?”
“He’d hate us. We’d put him out of a job.”
“He’d find a way of damning you. Adultery is in the mind, that’s what he’d say.”
“And he’d be right.”
“Jimmy, do you never just feel like getting between your wife’s legs and fucking her normally?”
“No way. Not at all,” he said, his eyes full of waspish sincerity. “More importantly, Archie wouldn’t like it. She doesn’t like penetration.”
“That’s what she tells you?”
“We fucked on our wedding night and after that maybe a half-dozen times. Sometimes I wonder if she finds my cock uncomfortable? I pack a bit of a punch, you know.”
He moved up to the window, where he stood looking out into the sunlit glare, listening to the thudding tennis balls from a court at the back of the house. Archie, in white ankle-socks and a short white skirt, was fiercely hitting ground-strokes to an opponent hidden behind a juniper hedge. As she slid across the clay court, throwing up palls of ochre dust, I lost myself in her physical presence—her swinging hair, eager grunts, and bronzed smooth legs, lithe as Chris Evert’s at her early-career best—and reminded myself I hadn’t slept with a woman for eighteen months.
I grew aware of Jimmy blinking self-consciously at me. In a forlorn voice, he said, “Chuck, are you attracted to my wife?”
Attraction to me conjures up a horseshoe magnet covered in iron filings. Not a pair of lovers joined at the hip. “Christ, Jimmy, what’s the matter with you? Of course I’m not!”
“But you find her attractive?”
“Okay, yes, she’s attractive, I can’t lie about that, but you must have known that when you married her. Or did you think no one would ever look at her again because she was married?”
“No, but she’s very animal, and it hurts when—”
“Has it ever occurred to you that what you need is to have a child?”
He stared at me, startled, disturbed. “I’m not sure that would be such a good idea. We’re very busy. It’s a lot of responsibility.” He stopped and fidgeted. “Is that what you’d do if you were married to my wife? Have a child with her?”
“Jimmy! What’s happened to you? Yes, I would have a child with her. You’ve got money, just get yourself a Philippino nanny, enjoy your marriage! Because yes, you have a lovely wife and if you’re not careful you’re going to lose her. I mean what woman would be satisfied with this?”
This time it was Jimmy’s turn to be incredulous. He threw out his arms and laughed. “Come on, what’s wrong with this? We have everything.”
“Your wife’s not happy, okay? She’s a beautiful woman full of life and energy. And very bright too. She’s got a sexual neurosis of some kind, and you should get some therapeutic help. And then have a child.”
“That’s what you think? Interesting.” He nodded. “Because we have this problem. I mean I have a problem.”
“Yes?”
“I think she’s looking for an affair.”
“And that surprises you?” I waited a good minute, then blurted out: “Jimmy, I have to say this is totally insane. I mean, what the hell are you getting involved with, this whole mental sex thing? Isn’t it just some stupid idea you cooked up because things weren’t working between you?”
“Sigmund Freud said successful creative people sublimate their physical urges.”
“Yes, but Freud was insane.”
“So is everyone, Chuck. So is everyone.”
He stood there for a moment, clutching his head as if he were afraid it was going to fly away. I regretted my hard words to him. “It’ll be okay, Jimmy. Don’t worry.”
“Chuck, it’s good to have you here. Sincerely.”
He blinked his watery eyes at me, and I understood this was the moment when I had to put my hand on his shoulder and give it a little shake while making a sort of intense grimace of affection.
He hugged me and apologized for giving me a hard time, assuring me that he didn’t mean it like that. He was just stressed, there was too much to do at the office and it looked like he had to go to China tomorrow.
“China!”
“Yeah, you’ve heard of China, right? Biggest bullshit factory in the world. You get paid in cash but you’ve got to pull it out of people’s asses.”
“So what’ll I do then?” I said. “I can’t just stay here with Archie, I wouldn’t feel comfortable.”
“Why not?” he said without enthusiasm. “Stay, relax, enjoy the servants and the house and the pools and terraces. I’ll go and fucking work like I always do. I mean someone’s got to pay for all this shit. Yeah. Just one thing, Chuck. One thing, okay, and I’m not asking a lot here. If she comes to you and wants you to go to bed with her just tell her no. Tell her you’re my friend and she’s got to respect that.”
His anxious eyes pored over me, and I wished I’d stayed in London where nothing ever happened.
VI
After he’d gone, I stayed there in the window for a while, magnetized by the shining white figure in the garden. Then I opened the door to the wooden decking outside and walked down the teak steps to the path. Like a wraith drawn by a power greater than itself, I felt myself moving towards the tennis court, where Archie grew aware of me.
“Hello there, Chuck!” she called out. “You play tennis?”
I stopped by the wire netting. “No. I don’t like games.”
“Oh, you should get into them.” She smashed a forehand down the line. “Me and Jimmy are crazy about games.”
“I noticed.”
Waving to her opponent, a short, hairy-legged Sard who turned out to be the gardener, she came up to me, wiping the sweat from her face. “Jimmy’s going away.”
“He told me.”
“And so I was thinking if you can keep your wits about it, we could have an affair.”
I was flummoxed, absolutely flummoxed. It was like she’d suggested we should watch some television, or go for a walk together. “An affair? And what would Jimmy have to say about that?”
“Jimmy’s got to grow up!” said Archie. “Anyway, it’s up to you. I’ve made you an offer, and you can either decline or accept. Just think of it as a great chance to get some exercise.” She smiled.
I shook my head like a frowning schoolmaster. “You know I came out here to relax. I came thinking that Jimmy had settled down with a woman he loved.”
“He does love me. I’m not sure I love him so very much but at least I’m not leaving him. Not yet anyway.”
“You two are a fucking recipe for divorce.”
“If you don’t want to do it, that’s fair enough. You seem a sensible bloke, Chuck, and I like that.” She grabbed the wire-netting fence with both hands. “I expect you’re probably the kind of man who doesn’t like a straight offer, but I don’t have very much time. So just tell me if you want me or not.”
I looked at her and I did want her, although it was all fairly abstract. “Yes. Not very fair to Jimmy, though, is it?”
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“Oh it’s very fair. I’ll tell you more about it later. Maybe.”
She waited for my answer, and finally I nodded. “Okay, if that’s what you want.”
“Good. You’re sure?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t be sure until this whole thing’s played itself out, but I’m saying okay for now.”
Her eyes were still consoling. Now those eyes seemed to say: relax, take me, do what you want.
“Don’t make such a big thing of it. It’s really not. You don’t have to marry me or anything.”
“Maybe for you it’s something very normal. Maybe you do this stuff all the time. You know when I first met you I thought you seemed a straightforward woman with a good mind. I was a bit confused, though—do you mind my saying that?—about you and Jimmy. What you were doing with him.”
“You have a pretty low opinion of your friend, don’t you?”
“I suppose so.”
“And of me as well?” She loomed over me when she said that, the sun catching the shine of her black hair.
“I don’t have a low opinion of you at all.”
“Thanks.” She stuck her finger through the netting and wiggled it at me. “So you want to go ahead with this thing?”
“I told you yes. Just stop talking about it like some sort of project. But I’m not getting involved in this whole mental sex thing. I make love normally, so don’t bring some damned sculpture to bed, because I’ll walk out. This is all a bit of a mind-fuck, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“Chuck, get out of the taboo, get inside the emotion. Okay?”
Christ, this woman had spent too long in America! I stared at her, then tried to control my disquiet. “When do you want to start?”
“Tomorrow. We’ll have a light supper at about six, then we’ll rest for a half hour and meet here on the terrace afterwards. One other thing, Chuck. Try to remember that I will be working through a number of different sexual attitudes.”
“How do you mean, attitudes?”
“You’ll see. I won’t be myself. Not quite.”
“Like a role-play thing? Will you come in wearing black leather and thigh-length boots?”
“Would you like me to?”
“No. Not at all. Just wear the red dress you wore last night.”
VII
The next day, after we’d eaten and Jimmy had left and said his despondent farewells, I almost sighed with delight when I saw her. She’d conspired to look exactly as she did the first night I saw her. Women understand these things. Her hair was up, revealing that soft arching neck with the soft earlobes pierced by gold rings. Even the tiny piercings excited me, the way they broke through the soft rotunda of flesh. Her lips were slightly tensed—sexual excitement or just plain nervousness?
“So. Here you are. In your entirety,” I said.
“Not quite,” she said. “Remember, flesh is a veil. Come over here, sit down. Take a closer look at me.”
I sat down beside her. No longer forbidden fruit, she now seemed a woman like any other. Certainly beautiful, but otherwise perfectly ordinary. When she leaned back and smiled invitingly at me, I felt coerced by the situation. She noticed immediately.
“You preferred me when I was not available?” she said.
“Oh, infinitely.”
We sat in silence. Then she shook her head. “You see. Words are such a turn-off.”
After that we kissed for a while. To be frank, I found her slimy tongue rather repellent, the way it insistently pumped in and out of my mouth. She maintained this for about ten minutes, then put her hand on my crotch.
“Archie. This is not working for me,” I said.
She gave me a murderous look, slid down on the floor, unzipped me and parted my legs, then fellated me until it became necessary for me to issue a little cautionary note, which she ignored, keeping her eyes firmly drilled into mine throughout the whole ghastly experience.
She rolled onto the sofa, sighed with relief and rested her head in my lap. “That was the first part,” she said. “I can file that away now. For later use.”
I was still hyperventilating. “Mental sex?”
“Correct.” She looked at me. “I may never need to suck cock again for as long as I live.”
I smiled, finding myself a little more at ease with her, and the situation. “What would Jimmy have to say about that?”
“Oh let’s not talk about him.”
After a few minutes she started peeling off her clothes. She was every bit as exquisite as I had thought. Her dun skin was velvety, and down below, her dark hair had been carefully shaved to reveal a dusky, sensitized ridge.
Before long she was straddling me, revolving her powerful haunches and grinding herself against me. Surprisingly, I revived instantly. I felt her pubic bone, her sharpness against my crotch, as we contracted and pulsed together.
I was a man of forty-four, but never in my whole life had I had such a powerful erotic experience. Yet however hard I worked, Archie never seemed quite satisfied. She would roll onto her back, parting her legs as if to cool the super-heated gates to her musk-scented kingdom.
At one point when I was brazen enough to suggest we might take a coffee-break, maybe with a few biscuits or a leg of lamb or something, she grinned at me and said, “Fine, but first I could go for another go.”
I felt myself glaring at her, in disbelief. “Don’t you ever get tired?”
“What do you want me to do? I like fucking. I like fucking with you. Amazing, isn’t it? Poor old Scrooge, he can’t accept the good things life offers him.” Her gorgeous amber-hued eyes glowed at me. I felt I had never seen anything quite so beautiful in all my life. I inclined my head and pressed my lips reverentially to her hand.
These antics continued for several days, all heady and new. I didn’t need any encouragement, almost felt I was receiving an education. I found myself confronting a sort of prurience in myself, confirming something I had always known: I am no sexual explorer. For instance, it gave me no great pleasure to have to penetrate her from behind, whilst she straddled the floor like a dog and exposed her odoriferous rump. Call me a prude, but I have no great regard for such practices.
In the evenings, after these sexual marathons, we ate plenty of beef and seafood and salad, then slept like Trojans.
After a week I was exhausted. By the seventh day, the mere sight of her made me feel like a galleon slave at the approach of the Empress.
VIII
Finally, we had the post-mortem.
“I think your feelings for me have abated somewhat,” she said.
“I’m tired, I suppose.”
“It’s so much more than that, Chuck. Isn’t it?”
“It’s exhaustion.”
“No. It’s matter.”
I looked at her, interested in spite of myself. “What do you mean by that?”
“The inherent imperfection of matter.” She flashed a sudden smile. “The old dualist problem. The body is the abode of the incarcerated soul, doomed to wait for its release. Every sexual act, even within the bonds of marriage, is a spiritual transgression.”
“Are you serious?”
“The way I see sex is, it’s a degrading act between two people looking for misplaced ecstasy. In the end, the unfortunate by-product of sex is another imprisoned soul subject to the very same pull of Lucifer; and so the world of matter prolongs itself, like an alcoholic who can’t stop drinking.”
“Does sex really have to be so very degrading? I mean, are you sure you’re not exaggerating all this. Is it really so bad, so awful?”
Archie pursed her lips. “Look. For a week we fucked each other’s brains out. Now what? What is there between us?”
“Physical intimacy?”
“No. When you met me you thought me wonderful. You said so to Jimmy. You admired me. Now I’m no longer any use to you. You don’t even like me particularly.”
“I do like you perfectly well, Archie. But it’s all been a bit impersonal, hasn�
�t it?”
“Chuck, I don’t think you’ve ever felt for any woman what you feel for me. You have to be much more honest emotionally if you want to avoid the fate of millions of your fellow Englishmen. You know, all those sad blokes down the pub drinking bitter
and pretending they care about the cricket scores.”
That was the last meaningful conversation we had for a long time. The only tangible result of the week was that my stomach seemed flatter and I had to take my belt in a notch.
Soon I was packed and gone. London received me in its cool, disinterested embrace. I was back on Pudding Island, eating muffins and drinking Darjeeling with acquaintances all apparently eager to discuss David Hare’s latest play. There were chestnuts roasting outside the British Museum and, on every street corner, free newspapers stuffed with information about those fascinating princes Harry and Will, the rigors of Afghanistan and Robbie Williams’s Ferrari collection.
Oh dear, oh fuck! What a load of second-hand nonsense.
I always wanted the world to be a little wilder than this.
IX
The trouble with sexual experiments, however consensual, is that they tend to destroy friendships.
I didn’t see Jimmy and Archie for about a year and a half after the events I have related. Then I bumped into Jimmy in Berlin, at an art fair. By then Jimmy and Archie had divorced, and Archie had spent several months living in Sai Baba’s ashram in India, before coming back to Europe, weighed down by dubious spiritual baggage.
Jimmy’s attitude to me was vaguely hostile, but not as much as I’d expected. I ate a hell of a lot of humble pie, while he stood there smiling at me then cut me off in the middle of my apologetic ramblings.
“I knew what she was planning all along, Chuck. She’d already told me she liked you.”
“She had?”
“Yeah. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her. She said you were perfect because you wouldn’t get too involved. Or pester her afterwards. The perfect English gentleman. She had you figured, Chuck.”