Two Americans in Paris

by Ritt, Julia

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  You read the first couple pages, say, “Very interesting” without elaborating, and gently return my book to its place on my nightstand.

  My thoughts turn to the many books in my room you might find of interest—lots of Spanish literature, Proust, Beckett, and my various art history tomes. At the moment, though, the most important one is my guide to Monet’s home and garden in Giverny. I long to go with you to Giverny. I imagine we would sit knee by knee on benches looking over Monet’s pond of water lilies and muse over how Monet’s garden is as much an artwork as his paintings are. I pick up the guide book and flip through the photos, admiring the sterling irises interspersed among ruby poppies on one page and a Japanese maple’s burgundy leaves hanging above coral-peach azaleas on another. I notice you looking at the pages with interest, as I hoped you would. “Here, you can look at it.” I hand it to you.

  “I was waiting for you to stop hogging it,” you tease. With the richly pigmented photographs of Monet’s flower and water gardens opened wide in your lap, your chestnut irises are tinted with a dash of the rich yellow of a tree peony, a velvety ruby from a Papa Meilland rose, a soft lavender from a water lily.

  “We should go to Giverny,” I suggest.

  “Yeah.” You raise your head from the pictures of Monet’s garden. “I went with Abroadco, but I’ve been wanting to go back and spend more time there. I’ll check my schedule and let you know when might be good.”

  You return my Monet guide to me and begin to fidget restlessly. You stand up and face me with your back to the door. The sun is setting, tinting the horizon dark pink. Faint shadows shade your handsome form in beautiful patterns of light and dark. “I have to go home, call my mom. It’s her birthday.”

  I know you’re lying because you told me a few weeks ago that you mother’s birthday is in September. In any case, it is now clear to me that you are resolved to be faithful to your girlfriend. Even so, I naively hope that if I can find a way to incite you to stay here longer, you might change your mind. “When do you need to call her?”

  “She gets out of ministry at six, so that’s twelve here.”

  “You still have time. I thought her birthday was September fourteenth. You told me a few weeks ago.”

  You give me a befuddled look. “Yeah, my grandmother’s birthday is September fourteenth, but not my mother’s.”

  I decide it doesn’t really matter whose birthday is when. I hadn’t planned on you leaving so soon and I have no premeditated ploy to keep you longer. I need to improvise a new activity, something that would keep you here as much longer as possible. “Would you like to watch a movie?”

  “What movie?”

  “Secretary.”

  “Is that the one with the spanking scene that was all over YouTube?”

  “Yes, but it’s more than that.” It is an intense love story with more sexual tension in it than in any film I have ever seen. I hope that watching it together might facilitate the expression of the sexual tension between us. “It’s my favorite movie.”

  I can tell you want to stay because you are no longer fidgeting and your body’s inclination is toward me rather than toward the door. You return to your seat beside me on my bed. I can feel your body’s heat, and it isn’t just warm like it usually is, it’s hot, like your inner radiator is on overdrive.

  So we can comfortably watch the movie, I pull out my folding chair, which is broken and not able to support much weight, and put my laptop on it in front of my bed. I set Secretary to play.

  While the beginning credits roll across the screen, I lie down on my bed and prop myself up on my elbows. I look up at your back slouched over so that it forms a broad, swooping curve. You look a little uncomfortable, so I tell you that you can lie down too, if you want, but you decline. You say you’re fine the way you are.

  As we watch the film, my pointer finger and thumb rest in a lip of fabric in your soft jeans. Only a layer of denim separates the pads of my fingers from your bare skin. The touch is so slight it seems coincidental, that I could not possibly take any pleasure in it, but a flow of energy is running between your body and my fingertips. It feels fantastic, like a steady electric charge is coursing through my entire body. You shift your leg slightly, leaving my fingertips bare and cutting off the flow of energy I was so enjoying. It would be too obvious if I were to move my fingers back into the lip of fabric in your jeans that is now half an inch away. I silently beg you to move your leg back. As if responding to my thoughts, you shift your leg so that the tips of my thumb and pointer finger again rest against your calf. The flow of energy instantly recommences and the pleasure I find in it is strengthened by my knowledge of what it feels like for it to be cut. The physical contact is meager but feels so good that I want more. I contemplate rubbing my palm down your calf but restrain myself from doing so. It would invite the opportunity for you to reject me. I’m not ready for that yet. I want at least the rest of Secretary’s length to not know whether or not we will have sex tonight. I do know one thing, though. The pleasure I am experiencing right now is so intensely wonderful that before you leave this room I must at least ask you to stay.

  By the time the film ends, tingles are coursing through my bloodstream, numbing my sense of reality. My entire body is so relaxed I feel as though I am made of rubber.

  You stand up and again face me with your back to the door. You’re not fidgeting or restless this time, though.

  I sit up on my knees and stretch, pushing my chest out toward you and turning my gaze away so you might admire my body without my seeing you look. I shuffle on my knees toward you. As I move, I feel as though my skirt is rustling through a fog of shimmery lust. My room smells of rich tree sap and the intense daydreams of desire playing through my mind.

  You again say you need to call your mom because it’s her birthday, but I don’t believe you. All you are doing is avoiding what you must know is coming next. The question of sex.

  Because you are so clearly avoiding the question, I will have to ask it, but I am unsure how I should phrase it. By this point I am almost certain you are going to say no to having sex with me. Probably you will say it is because you have a girlfriend, but I want you to tell me whether you would have sex with me if you didn’t have a girlfriend. What I say should instantly convey that I want to sleep with you. It should also sound innocent enough that I don’t come off as a total mate-poacher so we may, if you would be willing, continue to spend time with each other. The words fall out of my mouth like heavy stones I must cast even though I know they will only sink, “You’re welcome to stay.”

  You grin and shake your head. “I would . . . nine out of ten times I would.”

  I draw my body back slightly and raise my eyebrows. Nine out of ten times is not enough.

  You grin bigger, your eyes on me like pots of moonlight pooled with your warm, coffee brown irises. “Twelve out of ten times I would. But I have a girlfriend.”

  “You’ll give in eventually,” I say with conviction.

  “Probably.”

  “I can be patient.” What you do not know, and what I am only beginning to become concretely aware of, is that although I hope you will give in to me this summer, I will remain patient as long as necessary.

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to be a little more patient.”

  “I will.”

  “I feel hokey giving you hugs, because I’d like to give you more,” you say, your words wound with the desire you have chosen not to give expression to, at least not right now.

  “You can still give me a hug.” Hugs are the only physical contact we may share at the moment, and the thought of you leaving without at least hugging me is unbearable.

  I open my arms and you walk into them, pressing your hot, weighty chest against mine and resting your arms firmly against the curve of my back. Having you in my arms, even for just a moment, feels so licentiously wonderful. It’s like a teaser for the full experience of your naked embrace. I would keep yo
u in my arms, but you soon pull back. As you do, my heavy hand grazes your lower waist, the soft cotton of your shirt concealing the flesh of your torso I long to feel so much more of.

  You turn toward the door and grasp at the various locks. I get off my bed and swiftly unlock the door for you. I don’t want to see you go, but feel it is essential to show you I completely respect your decision to not stay longer.

  You walk out the door so fast you nearly walk into the wall opposite my room. “How do you get out?”

  I point you to the stairs and you bolt down the hallway. You make loud, chaotic thuds as you descend the steps as fast as you can. If anyone heard you going down the stairs, they would surely think you were being chased by something frightening. Maybe it’s my deluded state, but I cannot help but think you only felt the need to run away so quickly because the temptation to stay was so great. Any of the alternative reasons for your leaving so quickly are so upsetting I cannot bear to think them through.

  Once I am sure you are safely on your way home, I shut my door and sit on my bed. I repeat in my head the last couple things you said to me: “twelve out of ten times, I would,” and the expression that feels more genuine and therefore dearer to me, “I feel hokey giving you hugs, because I’d like to give you more.” I stow your words deep within my mind, creating a capsule of hope for our future union. I believe it is possible you will give in to me later this summer. If you do, the lust burgeoning between us will combust in a fiery, explosive display all the more magnificent for the additional fuel built up in the meantime between now and then.

  Filled with the happy chemicals of arousal, I lie down on my bed. I imagine lush ivy hanging from my ceiling and careening over the furniture, the result of all the powerful sexual tension that came to life here. I did not ever think I would feel good about your leaving with just a hug goodnight, but I am elated. I feel invigorated, full of life. There is within me an ocean of bubbling hope and optimism for all the beauty the future may hold. I may be incredibly horny right now, but I am relieved you said no to having sex with me. There will be no guilt, none of the awful consequences of cheating. If you had said yes, I could not have stopped you. My bloodstream is so drenched with hormones that it would have been impossible for me to control myself if you began to touch me more intimately than a hug allows. Although I in no way intended it to be, my careful, calculated efforts to incite you to cheat acted as a test of your morals, and you passed (what this says about my own morals I do not care to consider at the moment). You may sometimes say inappropriate things and not call when you say you will, but when it comes to the things that really matter, you do the right thing. Deep down, you really are a good guy. The fact that I can’t have you because of your goodness only makes me want you more.

  Interrupting my thoughts, my phone rings. To my surprise, it’s you. I naively wonder if you have changed your mind and want to come back. “Hey!” I say.

  “Hey. I left my backpack there,” you say. “I don’t need anything in it. I have my Navigo in my pocket. I’m already on the RER, and it would take too long to get it . . . could you bring it to class tomorrow?”

  “Sure!” I am so glad to be able to do you a favor. I have already decided that I must be the loveliest friend to you in order to keep you in my life until we may do more than hug. Right now, being friends is all that is possible.

  “Are you sure it’s not a problem?”

  “No, not at all! I don’t mind.”

  You shift in your seat on the train. “And, it’s not you.” You pause, choosing the rest of your words carefully. “It’s not even me. It’s just, I have a girlfriend.”

  “I still think you’ll give in,” I say, convinced of it. Even though I may vainly hope we will have sex later this summer, my determination to have you is so great I will do whatever it takes. The matter of time is almost negligible.

  “We’ll see . . . we’ll see . . .”

  “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow in class! With your backpack,” I assure you. “Bye!”

  “Bye.”

  I look at the shadow beneath the hood of my umbrella and there is your forgotten backpack. The fact that you forgot to take it with you is proof of just how quickly you wanted to get out of my room. It wasn’t just my imagination that you left so fast. While I put my dried umbrella away I find your umbrella, still wet, on the floor. I open it to let it dry so I may return it to you tomorrow well-cared for and clean.

  I sit back on my bed and look at your backpack, determining what to do with it, if anything. Never have I been so obsessed with anyone as I am with you. If I wanted to, I could easily open up your backpack and study your things. You would never know. In the movies, doesn’t the hopelessly-in-love, obsessed lover always pilfer through their beloved’s things when they have the opportunity? Yet what I want is not in your backpack. Besides, it would invade your privacy and would therefore be immoral. Inviting you to cheat is more than enough immorality for me today.

  What I want is to feel your weight pressed against mine, to hold you in your entirety in my mouth, to feel your girth deep inside me. My body is sparkling with little tingles, hormonal rushes are flashing up my abdomen, and my bestial desire to have you here with me sends my mind running off on a wild fantasy of what would have happened if you had not left. I could masturbate, but doing so would not satisfy my cravings, and in any case, the various hormones coursing through my system feel amazing. Giving myself an orgasm would only drain them away. There must be another way for me to express my desires and abate my incredible longing. I eye my laptop, its screen glowing in the dark, and feel an impulsive need to write. I open a blank Word document, shut my eyes, and let the thoughts coursing through my mind flow out freely through my fingers.

  The sex you most want to be having is the sex you should not be having.

  -Sigmund Freud

  Every surface of my skin is covered in sense. I want it all and more and over again.

  If you were in love with her I wouldn’t mess. But you are mine. I have you between my fingers hard and slick and salty, between my teeth, sour and sweet and huge.

  You are inside me already. Too soon. Far more late than the train that already started.

  If I were more stupid I could give you myself completely and already. Miss me and sing of sage of sage sing. I could love you even if it’s everything I’ve already tasted, below my wizards and above every cumulation.

  My teeth. Your tongues. Every slide of your inside. This is it. This is how it always was, better than think, more than a pulse. Squirrel. Horse. Nut. Eat divine and lay your every egg. Harness me deeper and let it grow. Out and round and puncture the wound.

  I can’t take it. Come now closer, how shit it is. Fuck me sickly warm and hot. Flick and seed. Miss me madly.

  It’s all over. But I’ll always love you, too, on that list of lovers. But one day, I’ll forget your name, forget your face, and miss you in the thoughts.

  Feel me madly. Singe me bust. Flom and bust, marble and rust. It’s all over.

  Close your eyes, little child, and hold them tight. O mind oh heart.

  Bloom and bust.

  Again and again. Brush paint full wet toxic dream. Wet. Full wet toxic dream. Soak. Blew blow bloom. Eruption erosion explosion. Flame burn. Savage sauvage. Feel me deeper, deeper, deeper.

  I am end now. Oh yes. Because I satisfy. But it’s all the beginning, the raw ends exposed and turned down to begin new threads and ever more. More boom bust dust ploufy suns. This is lust. And lust is hier. Speak to me of you. You are all I ever wanted and more than I could ever have wanted. Stay and I’ll sing you to bed.

  This is all I ever wanted. There are sexual sections in my head. Chemical bath in my brain. In my belly. In my legs. In my arms. In my toes. In my palms. In my fingers and tips. In my knees and the soles of my feet. In my everywhere.

  The shared demon, the twisted toe. This is Eros, tapping you on the shoulder, smearing arrows through your heart. This is all you can do to make life m
ean, to make living, to high hell and back.

  I will know you and you will know me and in our physical bodies unified into a writhing schism…

  What did I do last night? I wrote. I believed myself to masturbate to high heavens—several times, with the most intense orgasms I’ve ever had. But no. I wrote. I wrote for two hours or more. This is freedom. I was in your place.

  For this? For this I would skin kittens alive and eat them, too. For this I would lift mountains with my fingertips. For this I would skewer the innocent and release the mad. For this you are mine, your min, your every drop of seem and sum, your sun and winter, your cold and rain. For this you are kingdom come and will be done, how art thus it is in heaven. Give us…daily bread, the kiss of lovers passed through cross sections and down corridors, the small tricycles, the bicycles, and the rain. The wet. For this is it. My Truth, my revelation, my own.

  I read what I have written several times. Although my mind is a very vulgar, crazy place right now, there is hidden in the gobbledygook a jewel of beautiful truth: the realization that I have written my feelings out. The writing is cathartic, functioning as an outlet for my feelings so I do not damage our friendship with them. The writing is therefore a part of my determination to keep you in my life so that we might one day be more than friends.

  I shut my laptop and go to bed, but cannot sleep. My drowsy, lustful mind plays the thought of your hot weight pressed against mine, your ragged breath in my ears, my legs twisted around yours for hours, until finally my fatigue outweighs my unrequited desires.

  CHAPTER 12

  A thousand white lilies run from her eyes and dance like sugar plum fairies through the weave of your mind