The Work Is Innocent

by Rafael Yglesias

  “I’m sorry,” Joan said. “I forgot that you don’t want to talk about the novel.”

  “Well,” Richard said, hoping the word would allow him to rediscover the logic of their conversation. “It’s just that I’m depending on it to get me out of school. I have so much invested in it that I haven’t really stopped thinking about it for months.” He put his arm back over her shoulders, resting it on the couch. She turned slightly to face him, and Richard found the tension of her lips being so close too great. He averted his face, saying, “You know, I’m amazed at how unlike myself I am—I mean I don’t act normally with you.” Richard breathed deeply and looked at her. She was beautiful.

  Joan looked at Richard with knowing, pursed lips and said, “Why? I mean to be friendly.”

  Richard was encouraged by her expression. “You know why,” he said, feeling so relaxed that he tilted his head toward hers as if to kiss her. He stopped himself, but she moved closer to him and he went on. She closed her eyes, but he did this with his eyes open, his consciousness splitting in half. He worked hard at moving his lips over hers in endearing light touches, but, despite the cold-bloodedness of his kiss, his groin tightened with pleasure. She opened her lips slightly and he wandered inside, arms tense, his head cracking with disbelief. He was kissing her!

  And it lasted. He moved his hands and rubbed her back, feeling the bump of her bra strap. She didn’t leap away. He heard their bodies shift on the couch as she settled into the kiss. His eyes wandered around the room casually, his penis pushed its way upward so that it made a little tent of his right pocket. He slowly moved one arm and put his hand on one of her breasts. She murmured her approval but he felt the material of her bra more than her breast; the kiss and her clothes made him restless. He was tilted toward her in an uncomfortable pose, his erection pulling away from his body so violently that he was afraid any more excitement might seriously injure him.

  He leaned away from her, stopping the kiss. He kissed her throat, he bit lightly at her neck and its warmth, her body’s enjoyment made her stretch out and he moved almost on top of her, his hard lump soothed by the softness of her thigh. He rubbed it furtively against her and his legs weakened, his stomach suffused with heat. This is it, he thought, and the feeling left him. He was hardly conscious of its departure while he began calculating how to get her undressed. He felt silly, almost crouched and nibbling at her neck. He could look down and see the beginnings of an inexpressible delight. He shifted uncomfortably to position his hand to unbutton her blouse.

  The awkwardness of attempting to unbutton her top with one hand pressed between their bodies made Joan tense. He felt her sudden isolation and took it as an insult. He felt absurd: perched on her like a teddy bear, a Middle-Western loudmouth necking in the back seat of a convertible. Vividly embarrassing images rose like demons with mocking, distorted mouths. He pushed away from her as if bitten by a bee.

  Her body was loose and relaxed, her clothes slightly crumpled, her eyes puffed and sleepy. She was there to be taken. That knowing mature person was warm and cozy, easily had. He answered her demure questioning look with the sophistication and sureness that she inspired. He leaned back on the couch, reached forward with one hand and gently stroked her hair. She smiled and closed her eyes. He took both hands now and carefully undid each button. He found every moment fantastic—incredible! It fell away with slow fluttering grace, and the awesome beauty of the fresh skin stunned him. There was a beauty mark on the rise of her left breast, and he found himself surrounding it with his mouth, his tongue touching it gingerly. The bra annoyed him almost beyond endurance, and he lifted her up to get it off. She sat up, however, and he released her, worried. But as she solemnly took off her top and reached back to unhook the bra, he felt the same giddiness in his legs, and even resting one hand on his own leg was arousing. Her bra came off abruptly, her breasts popping out like bull’s- eyes: it was obscene and ludicrous. Joan looked at him with shame, and since that was incomprehensible it added to Richard’s feeling of absurdity.

  She timidly rested her head on his chest, and Richard knew he must have embarrassed her. He moved her away in order to kiss her lips, and that was the first genuine kiss of his life.

  He lost himself in it, enjoyed its rhythm without itemizing his physical reactions, unsurprised by the feel of her warm breasts.

  Joan was enjoying the embrace and she pulled up his shirt in the back, moving her hands rapturously over his skin. One hand went down and slithered inside his underpants and reached for a buttock. Richard was horrified at the image of her hands near his anus and he squirmed so as to prevent it happening without stopping the kiss. But she mistook it for pleasure and moved her hand more passionately, squeezed lightly, and allowed a fingertip to stray briefly within the crease of his ass.

  He pushed away from her with a start when that happened. His erection had evaporated in a startling and disturbing manner. He wanted to rush away, but instinct had him smooth it over—he just looked at those tender nipples and baby-white skin and he was licking them with the abandon of a loving pet. He moved his hands up and down the sides of her body, lifted her arms and relished the sight: the sloping hollows of her underarms, her firm breasts, the nipples thick and hard like knobs.

  He didn’t know what to do with it. He was eager to get his penis in. Not only because it ached to do so, but because that was fucking and he had to prove he could do it. He unsnapped her dungarees. The act was surprisingly dramatic: the snap popped loudly and the zipper wormed down halfway.

  Joan gave him yet another scare by sitting up, her face sleepy, her lips puffed and red. “Let’s go into my bedroom,” she said.

  He expected the opposite. He heard his croaking and silly voice say, “Okay.” She got up, zipped up her pants, grabbed her clothes, and tried to reach for the grass. Richard took it instead and followed her through the same hall that he had walked through in terror the night of the party. He found the business-like quality of the experience almost ridiculous. It was hard not to laugh.

  They reached her room and she went in without turning on the light. She dropped her clothes on the floor and, with her back to him, took off her pants. He felt his excitement and erection with a jolt. His stomach churned with a spasm and, scared that his erection would disappear or that she would be in bed watching him undress, he hurriedly pulled off his sweat shirt, nearly falling down as he tried to unsnap his pants while kicking off his shoes. He saw her, naked, move quickly toward the bed, pull back the sheets, and get in.

  He had to undress in front of her and he nearly decided to quit, but instead awkwardly took off his pants. It seemed to him his penis couldn’t be erect, but it hung away from him when uncovered, swollen and forlorn. Richard had his back to her, embarrassed to turn and get into the bed with it standing at attention and equally humiliated by having his ass in view. He used his hand to pin it modestly against his belly and moved rapidly to the bed, putting his ice-cold feet under the sheets.

  “You’re freezing,” Joan said.

  Richard, the blankets up to his chin, lay on his back, his arms tense, his chilling fingertips touching his thighs. He felt the sheet on his hard penis and looked out toward the door with the soft light of the hallway spilling in. He could see himself, a boy of eight, reading on the doorsill, running back to his bed and closing his eyes at the slightest sound.

  He had burned that room down.

  Why? The reason was mysterious and foreboding like his present fear. The air hung over him with loathing and ridicule. He shifted to face her and then leaned over to kiss her. There was a constriction in his chest, the kind of suffocation that doing homework produced. All he felt was the pressure on his penis against the bed. Joan just lay there, one limp hand on his back. He almost felt his soul rise up from deep within him; his parched lips roughly going over hers, the whole act without enthusiasm; his heart filling with despair.

  It was over. He moved away from her and lay down on his back. He couldn’t do it. He fel
t tears welling in his eyes, just like that December morning when an older boy stole his first baseman’s glove.

  Suddenly he felt her touch his penis. He never had a chance to absorb the sensation, because he found himself clumsily opening her legs—they seemed to resist slightly—and putting his between them. It was like getting on a bike for the first time. He got his left in smoothly but the right one bumped against her and flopped in with an embarrassing jolt. And then there he was, his face in her breasts, his penis lying on the bed as if bowing to the altar of her cunt. He knew she didn’t like this: she was tense, but he had no idea what else there was to do. Just get it in and the agony will be over.

  He mechanically kissed her nipples, biting them lightly. She relaxed and enjoyed that, but to Richard it was no answer. How do I get in? He had the distinct feeling his erection was gone so he pushed forward toward that opening. He found his erection, it almost hurt on rebounding away from her, but he found no opening.

  Joan’s body tightened up and he was afraid she had decided not to fuck him. He had to hurry. He pushed forward—nothing, not even a hint of that moist warm place he expected. It felt as if his penis had bent backward on hitting her, so he let it rest on the inside of her thigh and hoped to discover if it was erect. It seemed to be, but, scared that it wasn’t enough of a test, he grabbed it with his hand. It was elongated but not completely hard. He squeezed it several times, fascinated that it gave under pressure. He was sure that his pressure was making it more limp and he stopped. Joan was hardly breathing. She must hate me, he thought.

  He put his hands on the bed and pushed off of it, scurried to his clothes, and violently pushed his legs into his pants. The swishing was loud and embarrassing.

  While reaching for his sweat shirt, he heard the covers rustle. Joan switched the lamp on and Richard turned to face her. She had the blankets up to her chest. “Are you all right?” she asked, apparently without irony.

  He didn’t know the answer to her question. “No,” he said, and covered his face while he pulled his sweat shirt on. The smell of the laundered cloth comforted him. But he felt just as lost when the world reappeared. He picked up his socks and sat down on the bed to put them on. It seemed like an act of great daring: the brilliant bit of business a great actor might devise to keep up the pretense of being normal.

  Joan looked at him, her eyes still sleepy, full of trust and concern. “Are you going?” she asked.

  She was a woman lying in bed, her shoulders bare, her hair loose. Richard found himself leaning over and kissing her full on the lips. “I love you,” he said, pulled away for a moment, and kissed her again. She murmured as he did so. His penis shifted in his pants like a bear awakening. He was depressed by that. The heaviness in his chest returned, welling in his throat.

  He moved away from her. Joan’s arms clung slightly to him, only hinting that they objected. “Don’t freak out about it,” she said. And even though it was apparent from her tone that she meant well, he was furious. He got up abruptly from the bed and began to walk out of the room, but was stopped by a sharp pain in his groin.

  He stood still in the middle of the room, frightened by the ache in his legs. He moved one foot forward tentatively and almost yelped from the sensation of having one testicle strain away from his body. Was it real?

  He heard the sheets rustle and saw Joan go over to her clothes. The patch of hair that formed a deep V and then the sight of her buttocks as she bent over were tantalizing. His excitement pushed his penis up even higher, and his balls felt very small and too far away. He put his hand into his pants and reached down toward them, his thighs aching, his testicles being crushed by his pants. He was tilted forward on his toes as his hand reached them. They were burning hot. He slowly pulled them up and they felt distended. It hurt. It hurt a lot. Was he really injured? It was ridiculous, he couldn’t be.

  “Oh, God,” he groaned. His throat and eyes were teased with tears of pain and frustration and defeat, but he held them back. He couldn’t face her, so despite the sharp pangs that accompanied every step, he walked out of the room. By taking very small ones he avoided most of the agony. His right hand hit the plasterboard wall of the hallway with a hollow thud as he tried to keep his balance. There were banging noises from Joan’s room as if she were trying to dress in a hurry. He stopped himself from rushing out of the apartment—hoping to escape embarrassment—only by realizing how much more humiliating that would be.

  But he didn’t want her to see him walk in that absurd birdlike step. He braced himself and walked quickly to the living room and sat down on the couch. The muscles in his thighs and groin felt like ropes pulled taut.

  “Richard,” he heard her call, with even a note of desperation in the voice.

  He didn’t answer.

  Joan came running out of the hallway in her bare feet and looked toward the door. “Hello,” Richard said in a feeble voice. Her head turned to look at him. “Oh,” she said. “You’re here. I thought you’d left.”

  Somehow he didn’t feel silly just sitting there and saying nothing. Only the ache in his groin concerned him. He was worn out and disgusted, too tired to care if he’d made a fool of himself.

  Joan obviously didn’t know what to say to him. She stood there, bewildered for a moment, and then walked over to an easy chair facing the couch. She sat with her feet curled beneath her. When she looked at him again, the hardness of her normal self had replaced the look of tenderness on her face. It seemed to Richard his own face had sagged into a disgruntled frown. He knew then it made no difference if he’d humiliated himself—he hated her anyway. “I have to go,” he said.

  His voice was abrupt, almost threatening. She looked away and said, “Okay,” quietly. He groaned and got up, taking his novel. He was furious he had brought it. He goose-stepped to the door to disguise his pained walk. Richard stood in front of it and waited for her to let him out. But when he turned in her direction, he saw she was still sitting. He turned the lock, opened the door, and left.

  He took a cab home, afraid of the train in his hobbled state. Slouched in the back, watching New York’s lights pass by, he felt very small. The cab crossed Central Park: dark and motionless, it seemed like a trip through outer space. And when they finally reached Broadway and were going uptown on it, Richard looked at the people strolling the streets. Some in costumes pretending to be pimps, or junkies, or whores; others, young couples looking like they were in love, older couples looking severe. He thought they all had to be kidding. And at times he’d see them look curiously, almost mockingly, at him.

  Fumbling with his money, he paid the driver and got out of the car awkwardly. The group at the twenty-four-hour grill looked at him. The wino who was trying to stay out of sight of the cop getting coffee and the cop waiting in the patrol car all seemed fascinated by Richard. He hurried into his building and reached the elevator just before it left. A few people were in it. He didn’t look at them, but their presence put a tangible pressure on him. He felt his embarrassment deepening as each floor slid by. He got out with no relief, because it was early and his parents would be awake.

  As he opened the door, it occurred to him that his parents weren’t aware that he was supposed to have lost his virginity. That he had assumed they would know amused him enough to face them cheerfully. They were both reading in the living room, his father leaning forward eagerly, resting his elbows on his legs—a big man looking oddly like a schoolboy—his mother with manuscript papers littering the couch.

  “Well,” Aaron said, drawing the word out. “My boy, you’re back early.”

  “Yes, I’m very dutiful.”

  “Oh ho,” his father said, amused. His mother had twisted about to look at Richard. She seemed merely bewildered. He had wanted her to appreciate his comeback.

  “Hi ya, Richard,” she said with sudden cheer.

  “I’m going to make a cup of tea, shall I make you some?” Richard felt very clever and good about himself for offering. They did take it as a
charming novelty. He was thanked with pleased smiles, but they declined. He went into the kitchen and put water on. His father called in. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You took your ms., eh?”

  Richard showed his head from the kitchen and drawled his words pretentiously. “Yes, I thought I’d show it about, you know, impress the rabble and all that.”

  “Really?” Betty said. “Somebody read it?”

  He was in trouble. “Uh, yeah.”

  “So?” his father said. “Don’t tell me she didn’t like it?”

  “Did you really go and see a girl tonight, or is that just what your father’s been telling me?”

  He almost blushed. “Yes, I did. I went to see Joan.”

  “Betty!” Aaron said. “Don’t ask him embarrassing questions like that. You don’t want him to think you’re just a nosy Jewish mother.”

  “Oh sure,” she said to Aaron. “I’m very worried my son, my darling son, is ruining himself with a tramp.” They laughed. “You know,” she went on, “my mother used to insist that all my brothers bring home their dates.”

  “Because she was worried they were tramps?” Richard asked, relieved to be on another subject.

  Betty laughed and Aaron said, “You don’t remember Mama?” Richard shook his head no and Aaron went on. “She was a marvelous woman. Betty is always acting as if she were Mrs. Portnoy, but she was really very sophisticated and very funny about her children.”

  “She liked you, Dad?”

  “Oh, God,” Betty said. “She thought he was the greatest.”

  The pot whistled in the kitchen. After making his tea, Richard was able to go to his room without any further questioning by his parents. He turned on the television and let it soak up the recurring, shameful memories of his love-making.