“Oh, Iris,” I say, “do you have an extra toothbrush and some toothpaste and some floss?”
“Toothpaste and floss for sure—I’ll try and scare up a toothbrush. Do you want them now?”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll rough it tonight. But I’ll need to brush my teeth first thing in the morning.”
“I hear you.”
She makes her way through channel after channel, show after show. I get interested in something and click! it’s gone. I’m annoyed at first, but I never watch TV in bed, so I resign myself to her surfing. My mind drifts. This is the most activity—not to say fun—I’ve had in years. So this is dating in the twenty-first century! I’m in the game! At my age! By god, I’m proud of myself ….
I must’ve dozed off. Not for long, maybe ten minutes. Seinfeld is on. George and Jerry and Kramer are in a restaurant arguing. There are some funny lines and I chuckle but there is no reaction from Iris. Yet the channel doesn’t change. I look over at her. She’s asleep. She quietly snores.
I marvel at how my fortunes have changed—from the Janie/Jason fiasco to reclining in this beautiful younger woman’s bed. I study her clear face in repose and think how amazing it is that she trusts me enough to be able to fall asleep. I feel a warm glow inside.
So now I figure it’s up to me to turn off the TV. I think I could gently take the “clicker” out of her hand—I’d know which is the Power button. I reach over.
Her hand is clamped onto the remote in a death grip. I try to wrest it away from her.
“I’m still watching this,” she snaps, instantly awake and hanging on.
One click and Seinfeld is replaced by an old Law and Order.
“Sorry,” I say.
>
Never Too Early
At three in the morning, with Iris sleeping soundly beside me, I lie wide awake, worrying. I’ve been lying here wide awake, worrying, since she turned off the TV some time around eleven.
For the first half hour or so, I assumed my usual nocturnal position, on my right side, with my legs together, the left one resting on the right, my hands tucked between my face and the pillow—the fetal position. I was turned away from Iris, which seems a bit rude, but she wanted to be on my left because it was closer to her bathroom and next to the phone. I listened to her breathing, her rhythmic snores, and thought I would drift off soon enough.
As I lay there in those first minutes, I tried to replay the whole evening in my mind. I tried to remember what Iris looked like when I first saw her come into Earls in the red outfit. I tried to recall exactly what she looked like in the nude, coming toward me out of her bathroom. I tried to recall exactly what her breasts looked like, but the image was fuzzy, the way television stations blur the faces of people who are only alleged to have done something wrong. I tried to recall exactly what her abdomen looked like—amazingly flat, I thought, with a trimmed triangle of black hair—but I wasn’t sure what I saw—everything happened far too quickly. I thought how ridiculous it was to be trying to conjure up images of a body that was lying right beside me, and for the umpteenth time I was blown away by the stark reality of my being in Iris’s bed. I thought, Claude should see me now!
After about half an hour, my right leg started to ache, having to support the weight of my left leg, and I shifted the left one forward.
Lying that way, I recalled her being on top of me and I tried to remember what she looked like as she coddled me and teased me. I couldn’t get a clear picture of her face. Had I looked at her or had I closed my eyes and given myself to the feel of what she was doing? That line of thinking took me abruptly back to how we’d started out on the bed and my reaching to pull her hair aside and I was mortified all over again.
The big toe on my left foot ached. I turned the foot at an angle, causing a familiar ache to come to the tendon in the instep. I worried that I might have to stand up if the cramp got worse. I wished that I’d insisted on bedding down on one of her couches—or on going home. I toyed with the idea of writing Iris a note and sneaking out, thinking I could always come back early in the morning.
I gave myself hell for thinking I could leave. I turned onto my left side. For a while, I liked that position because I could see Iris there, sleeping, and I could marvel yet again at my being in bed with her—and we had made love, she and I, in this very bed.
This lovely thought didn’t last long. I suddenly thought of the other woman who’d fallen asleep beside me just days ago: Janie. In the front seat of my car. I felt guilty for abandoning her that night—virtually throwing her to the jackals, Jason and Krista. Couldn’t I have done something more honourable? I felt promiscuous, having left poor Janie that way and now enjoying myself in another woman’s bed. The wave of guilt was accompanied by a realization that my heart was thumping at an alarming rate.
Then I remembered that, whenever I lay on my left side after I’d been drinking, I’d hear my heart thumping, obviously working extra hard because of all the food and booze and activity. As slowly as I could, I turned back to my original position on my right side, but, by then, I was despairing about ever going to sleep. I heard noises in the building and had no idea what could be causing them and where they could be coming from. I remembered that we were surrounded by other apartments. I thought about all the people I didn’t know who were so close to me right now. I thought how unfair it was that they were all sleeping and I wasn’t. On the other hand, maybe I was surrounded by insomniacs. Maybe there was something about the air in the building that prevented you from sleeping. All right, then why was Iris sawing logs so peacefully?
I wondered how I could get up to go to the bathroom without disturbing Iris. I wondered why I hadn’t had to go to the bathroom so far. Was it some internal problem? I always had to get up at least twice in the night, especially if I’d had anything to drink within seven hours of going to bed. Was I overheated? Had I been sweating the fluids out? Was it being with Iris that was causing my heart to beat faster and was that creating a change in my metabolism? Did all those romantic stories of women causing men’s hearts to beat faster have some basis in scientific fact?
Such were the thoughts that kept me anxious and wide awake. Fearing that I was never going to drift off made me more anxious—without a good night’s sleep, how would I be able to perform in the morning? I tried to tell myself that one missed night of sleep wasn’t going to impair me, but I didn’t believe myself. My heart raced and my nerve ends jangled.
At one point, Iris turned over and one of her hands fell onto my arm. That sent a warm feeling through my entire body. It was as if she were subconsciously checking whether I was still there—her protector. She needed to be reassured and touching my arm reassured her. My skin, grateful to be contacted like this, felt as if it was glowing in the dark. The good feeling caused my penis to raise its head as if to say, Is it time, coach? I didn’t want Iris to take her hand away, but she did, maybe ten minutes later.
Now it’s after three and I think, What if tomorrow she expects me to give her oral sex? I’ve read in recent books and magazines that today’s independent woman demands to be pleasured in this way, but I have no idea how or where to begin. Not that I haven’t had some experience—well, a little, a miniscule amount, really, when I was drunk—but how could I know what Iris might expect? We would likely start out side by side; one thing is certain, I can’t sit up, with my legs still parallel with hers, and lean over and dip my head down. I can’t sit up and touch my toes in that position, never mind bend to the side and reach my face down there. The last time I had a physical checkup, my doctor asked me to do a sit-up and it took considerable effort to do one. I’d never try such a thing when I’m alone for fear that something might snap. But nobody, unless he’s the most supple gymnast, can sit up with legs stretched in front of him and lean sideways and down the way I’d have to. There are, I figure, two ways I could do what she might expect me to do—probably more, but two for sure—and both require me to get up from the supine position. I could
kneel at her side and bend down at an angle which would put my face upside down vis à vis her vagina, and she’d have to lift herself a little for me to get at her, and that would bring my eyes in close proximity with her anus, which I may not want to look at while I’m doing what I’m doing, and—perhaps more important—she might not want me looking at it so closely in any event. Furthermore, because of where the clitoris is situated, it’s more difficult to approach at this angle. Of course, this is the only approach if you are attempting soixante neuf. In that configuration, I would have to either a) lie upside down beside her and twist at the waist so that the part of me she needs to reach is out in the open and accessible to her, while she also twists at the waist so that together we resemble a large cinnamon twist or a rope or a braid; b) straddle her with my knees on either side of her head, a posture that might be pretty claustrophobic for her; or c) lie upside down on top of her with little regard for her comfort. Another alternative would be for her to be on top for either b or c. None of these is especially appealing, so I hope I can avoid soixante neuf. The best way, it seems to me, is suggested in a silly joke about three chorus girls undressing. The first girl has the impression of a Y on her abdomen and she explains that her sweetheart is a Yale man who forgot to remove his belt. The second girl has an H on her abdomen and she explains that her sweetheart is a Harvard man who likewise forgot to remove his belt. The third girl’s abdomen shows the impression of an F. The producer says, “I suppose your boyfriend goes to Fordham.” The girl answers, “No, he’s a fire chief. He just forgot to take off his hat.” I would, then, in the manner of the fire chief, have to kneel at the foot of the bed below Iris, and it might be best to raise her by putting a pillow under her ass. All right, that’s pretty logical, but what about all the effort oral sex would take?
It strikes me that, despite my not sleeping, my whiskers are growing, and Iris will not want my face coming in contact with her more sensitive parts if it’s covered by stubble. Perhaps I can get up early and find a razor and some shaving cream—Iris must shave her armpits and her legs—and I can have a shave. Hell, I’ll need a shower after the cold sweats I’m experiencing. So if I get up early—wait. What time are we supposed to get up? Iris didn’t mention it. Yet she wants me to drive her to work. What time does she have to be there? How much time does she need for getting ready? What time do we have to get up in order for her to have time to fool around with me and get ready for work? Maybe she set her bedside clock. I didn’t see her set her bedside clock, the clock that now reads 4:34.
I lie there quaking. I’ve never felt so panic-stricken in my life. I should never have let her talk me into staying over.
And Iris sleeps on.
And thousands more thoughts career through my head and hundreds of aches and pains zigzag through my body, and I grimace and fight every impulse to lurch and leap up and cry out.
At 6:30, I’m exhausted and yet shaking with anxiety and I can’t stand it anymore. I slide out of bed. Iris lies fast asleep looking beautifully free of tribulations.
I marvel again at having been invited into her bed.
If only I could’ve slept!
I walk carefully to the guest bathroom. Bending down, I look into the cupboard under the sink and see a new toothbrush still in its cellophane package and a new tube of toothpaste, but nothing to shave with. I pad into the other bathroom. There’s an electric razor on the vanity; I don’t want that—too noisy, and I’ve never used one in my life. Feeling as if I’m violating her privacy, I look through the batch of feminine products, in the medicine cabinet and in the cupboard, and I do find a razor—pink and delicate—and even a small container of shaving cream.
Back in the guest bathroom, I start the shower. The sound of it is loud, muffled somewhat by the fan that comes on with the light, but I reason that, if it wakes Iris, she’ll quickly figure out what’s going on.
By seven o’clock, I feel a little better—clean and clean-shaven, with breath smelling of spearmint. I go back to her bathroom, pick up the roll-on deodorant I saw earlier and apply it. When I return to the bedroom, Iris is still asleep.
Naked and feeling more than a little randy, I get into the bed. She’s turned away from me and I lean over and whisper her name in her ear.
“Ooo,” she murmurs, as if she’s in the middle of a dream. She moves her head from side to side and snuggles back into her pillow.
“Iris,” I whisper.
“What?” she says, without opening her eyes.
“I think it might be time to get up.”
“What time is it?”
“Just after seven.”
She rubs her eyes, opens them and turns to face me.
“What time did we go to bed?” she asks.
“It was about eleven when you went to sleep.”
“Eight hours! I never sleep for eight hours in a row. Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“When I’ve been drinking, I usually have to get up to pee three or four times. Jenkins, that’s the best sleep I’ve had in years! I can’t believe it!”
“I watched you a little. You sure were sleeping soundly. I’ve already had a shower and a shave.”
“You’re kidding!” She feels my face. “What did you use?”
“I found a pink razor.”
She chuckles. “You showered. And I didn’t hear a thing. You must’ve thought I was drugged. How did you sleep?”
“All right,” I lie. “Woke up a few times.”
“I can’t get over how I slept. It must be you. Your being here. What can I say?”
Her good feeling and her compliment stir me.
“But I sure have to pee now!” she says, tossing the covers aside. She jumps up, yawns and stretches. “Keep the bed warm—I’ll be right back.”
“Iris?”
“Yah?”
“I’m feeling sort of over-anxious—maybe I should put the condom on myself.”
“Sure.” She goes into her bathroom and I follow her. She takes a little square package from somewhere and tears it open. “Here it is—just like a little hat—this way up. I’ll just be a minute.”
I go back to the bedroom where the daylight is coming in around the blinds. Worried that, in my wired state, I might come prematurely, I take a deep breath and try to think of banal things—dish towels, dinner plates, Egg McMuffins—as I roll the condom on. I hear her flush the toilet and blow her nose and brush her teeth and, a few moments later, the bathroom door opens and she returns.
“Hi there!” she says.
She lies back on the bed and I kneel at her feet, facing her.
“You don’t want me to go down on you?” she says.
“Too excited,” I say, between deep breaths.
“I’ll need a pillow,” she says, and she grabs the one I used, and, as I think, This is it! I help arrange the pillow length-wise under her, which brings what is normally down there to a point up here within a foot of my face.
I bend to her, not really looking but sort of looking and I feel the soft hair against my lips—“C’mere,” I hear her say, maybe because she senses my lack of expertise in these matters or maybe because she senses my urgency or maybe because she’s anxious, too. She’s reaching out to me so, feeling a peculiar kind of relief, I move up to her, supporting myself on my hands like a man doing push-ups, and I give myself to the forth and back motion that missionaries have practised for centuries, and she wraps her legs around me and matches her parries to my thrusts, and she cries out, “Don’t stop! That’s it! Don’t stop!” as if she’s cheering me on. “Oh, that’s so good! Oh, yes, right there! Yessss!” So tuned is she into what’s going on in my body, she arches her body, pushing herself against me, driving me deeper, at the instant that I so joyously come.
I drop to my elbows, panting, and she hugs me, and all I can think to say, innocuous as it sounds, is, “I love you, Iris.”
“I’m glad,” she says.
I kiss her briefly on the lips and on the
ear and on the neck.
“Oh, that tickles!” she says, kind of shrugging me away.
I move over and together we pull the pillow out from under her and I collapse beside her. I’ve used every ounce of energy I had left. I know it’s stupid to feel anything but elated after what we’ve just done, but I feel confused.
I say, “You do like me, don’t you?”
“Jenkins. You wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
“Will I be able to see you again?”
“Of course! Are you trying to spoil what we just had?”
“No!”
“It sounds like you are.”
“It’s just that—when two people like each other—”
“Wait! Stop right there. You’re beginning to freak me out here. I had a long-term relationship; I’m not looking for another one. I don’t dwell on the past, and I sure am not planning for the future. It’s the here and now that counts with me. Don’t you think that’s the best way to look at things?”
“I admit I’m old-fashioned … and I could try looking at things that way.”
“Good. So did we have fun or what?”
“It’s been fabulous.”
“And I can’t believe how well I slept!”
“I’m really glad about that.”
“Okay, I’m going to hit the shower. We’ve got about an hour—do you want to make us some breakfast?”
“I make a mean poached egg.”
“Terrific! You’ll find what you need in the fridge.”
“One egg or two?”
“Two would be great.”
She jumps up and heads into the bathroom, and again I forget to tell her to stand right there for a minute so that I can feast my eyes on her bare bosom, her flat abdomen, the fluid lines of her curves and contours. I lie there, fighting disappointment. It’s natural, isn’t it, to want to plan another date with somebody you like?
If I’d give my head a shake, though, I’d appreciate having fun without commitment. Isn’t that what I should want?
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