by J. D. Landis
Bridal Stairway
I was reading A Room Of Your Own again and stopped to read this to Johnny: “Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size.”
“What do you suppose she means by the figure of man?” he asks.
I pointed. “That.”
The Road to California
Tonight I had my best chance ever to tell Johnny my real name.
We were sitting around after dinner. Johnny pushed all our dishes to one end of the table. The bones from our lamb chops made question marks on our empty plates. The loft smelled like somebody had put rosemary on our pulse points. We weren’t listening to music. We were listening to the wind. And to the sleet tapping messages on our huge windows. “Hold each other tight tonight. Keep each other warm.” Johnny put out a thick hunk of Parmagiano Reggiano and opened a bottle of Amarone. The label was handwritten. I thought how lucky I was to have handwriting no one can read.
Johnny watched me take my first sip. I always love it when his eyes are on my lips. When anyone’s eyes are on my lips. I feel transgressed. There’s no other part of my body that arouses me so to have someone stare at it.
“It’s bitter,” I tell him.
“That’s where its name comes from. It’s also high in alcohol. You should sip it slowly. It’s meant for a night like this. Chill. Blowy. It’s meant for contemplation.”
“Of what?”
He tapped his glass against mine and took his first sip. “Whatever.”
“God?” I asked him.
I enjoy provoking him. Provocation is important in a wife. Before I met Ike I went out with a criminal lawyer who told me I provoked him. I told him I didn’t know what he meant. He told me that in the law provocation means something said or done that leads to murder in hot passion and without aforethought. “You want to kill me for something I’ve said or done,” I asked him. “Something you haven’t done,” he says. I not only never fucked him. Or touched him with so much as a nail clipping. I wouldn’t even see him again. He tried to break down my door one night. Then for a while he left strange messages on my machine: “If I can’t have you nobody will” sort of thing. Finally I called him back and told him “nobody will.” He made me promise, so I did which was no big deal because I didn’t think anybody would, and he told me if anybody did he would sue me. So sue me Sigh (which is how I used to spell his name in my mind even though I knew it was Sy which is short for Seymour) A few other guys who I refused tried to force me but I always escaped by finally getting them to touch themselves. I talked them out of having me. But there were times when I thought about Sigh and his “provocation” and thought I might die. Not that I think Johnny would ever kill me. But I love to provoke him to the same kind of hot passion. I don’t want rage. He never gets angry at anything anyway. I just want murder turned into lust. I want to be desired as much on the day I die as I was on the day we married. Who doesn’t.
“I wish there were a God,” he said.
“Why?”
“So we could have something or someone to blame. The absence of God puts the burden squarely on ourselves. Most people can’t live with that.”
“So what do they do?”
“Pretend to believe.”
“I believe.”
He looked at me as if I’d suddenly become more precious. Then he poured me more wine. “Your God is an It, as I recall,” he said.
“Of course.”
“What’s an It?”
“Something that sees.”
“Sees what?”
“Everything.”
“And …”
“That’s all. It just sees.”
“It doesn’t do anything? It just sees?”
“To see is to know.”
“So what does It know?”
“Everything.”
“What does It know about me?” He pounded the side of his wine glass against his chest.
“It knows you hate It. You hate It and don’t believe in It at the same time. But don’t you see—your hatred makes God real.”
“You’re right,” he said. So much for provocation. “I wouldn’t hate what I don’t believe in. God the Father. I’m always afraid He’s going to abandon me, so I disavow Him. Perhaps that’s why I didn’t speak for so long—to confront silence with silence. But He’s so very hard to rid oneself of.”
“Try mine,” I said.
“God the camera.”
Johnny laughed, but I nearly spilled my wine. How does he know these things about me.
He filled my glass quarterway. “You clarify things for me,” he said. “Have I ever told you that? With an a. Clarafication. You make everything clear. Perhaps that’s why I married you. That. And this.”
I let him take me to bed. And the whole time, as he lay atop me with my lips at his ear, I wanted to say I am not Clara but instead it was his name I called.
Barn Raising
When I handed Johnny the van Meckenem engraving and said Happy Valentine’s Day, he closed his eyes and then buried his face in his hands. “But I don’t have anything for you. I didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day. I’ve never celebrated Valentine’s Day in my life.”
Should I laugh or cry.
“Didn’t you exchange valentines in grammar school?”
He lifted his head. “Actually, I did.”
“And didn’t your mother ever give you a valentine?”
He smiled. “Yes, she did.”
“So what’s the problem here, John?”
He takes both my hands. “I forgot I had a life before you.”
“Well, you’ve made me forget the life I had before you. And that’s the best Valentine’s present I ever got.”
“May I have it?”
I know he’s not referring to my gift. It’s still on the table, wrapped. “Have what?”
“The life you had before me.”
“If you can find it,” I say. “In the meantime, open this.”
He does. I watch his face. I wonder if I know him well enough yet to know if he really likes it. He stares at it intensely. “Teach me how to see it,” he says.
So I tell him all about it. And that’s his true gift to me: opening his mind to let mine in.
Wheel of Chance
I did it! I got Mr. Labrovitz into bed! I’ve never seen a man so frightened. Even the boys back in junior high didn’t shake as much as he did at first. He said, “I don’t do this. I’ve never done this.” I said, “Don’t worry. You won’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I just want to see your body.” That relaxed him a bit. And it was true. Every day he wears a suit to work and every day I want to break through that suit. Even if it is Armani and looks beautiful on him. I’ve never spent so much time with one man before. Except for my father of course. I really just wanted to see him. It was driving me crazy not knowing what was under there. He’s my boss. How can I go on working for him if I can’t see him. So I invited him home. “Whatever for?” he asked. I lied. “My boyfriend wants to meet you.” He didn’t seem to care about that. He wasn’t interested in my life at all. “I’ll take a raincheck,” he said. So I said, “I quit.” That got his attention. “You can’t quit, Clara. I’m not tired of you yet.” “I’ll quit if you don’t come over.” So finally he came. And when we got here I gave him a glass of wine and told him to get undressed. He looked around. “Where’s your boyfriend?” “I don’t have a boyfriend.” That’s when he started to shake and said, “I don’t do this. I have never done this.” But when I told him I just wanted to see his body, he said, “That’s all?” “Yes.” Because it was true. “Why?” “Because I like beautiful things.” Aren’t I shameless. I couldn’t take my eyes off him while he took off his suit. His shirt. Everything else. He kept talking the whole time. But his words couldn’t stop me from seeing him. “I’m only doing this because you’re appealing to the narcissist in me. And there’s not anything in
me but a narcissist. But you seem to know that already, don’t you, Clara, you shameless thing you.” Now only his fingers were shaking, as they opened up his clothes. When he was completely naked, he held his arms out like Jesus and said, “Ta da.” His dick wasn’t hard but it was pretty. I couldn’t stop staring at him. He stopped talking. My room has never been quieter. Finally, after how long I have no idea, I said, “You look wonderful.” “Do you really think so?” “Yes.” “Inside every narcissist there’s a pessimist struggling to get out.” “Well, he should be optimistic.” Isaac laughed. (My rule in life is: once you’ve seen someone’s dick you’re allowed to use their first name.) “Tell me what you see,” he said. “Pretend I’m sculpture. Something Greek. Greco-Jewish.” His arms were at his side. He rotated his wrists so his palms faced me. Then he stood still. He was no longer shaking. “I see green eyes. Long lashes. I see your nostrils moving. Nothing else is. Your lips are red from the wine. The top one’s mean. The bottom one’s kind. Your neck is thick, but the sinews stand out, so it looks slender and strong. There’s a pulse going in it, I can see it through the skin. Your shoulders have veins in them. Your chest is so tight it looks bulletproof. Your nipples are small and clean like a little boy’s. And they almost point down because of the muscles in your chest. Your ribs make you look like someone’s hands are holding you together and your stomach has those grids in it. Your belly button’s a little white grape. You don’t have hips to speak of. We used to have cheerleaders in junior high who wore kneesocks and short skirts so all you got to see of them were their thighs. I didn’t go broadcasting it around, but I used to think those thighs were the most beautiful single things in the world. They were smooth and pale and strong and I used to long for them, I don’t know what for. I thought I could stare at them for hours on end, but of course you never got to see them for more than a few seconds at a time. Your calves bulge out at the sides like parentheses. You have very long toes. And your toenails are pristine. Also, I like your hair a little messed up like that.” His eyes were closed tight. I supposed he was trying to see himself. “And?” he said to keep me going. “And,” I said, “I’ve never imagined a cock like that. It’s very beautiful and very hard and pointing at yours truly.” “It’s the narcissist speaking. Not the man. Can you understand that, Clara? I don’t care for women. I don’t like their equipment. On an intimate level, its aesthetics are off. On the other hand, to give the devil her due, the macroaesthetics are superb. I could look at you forever. Which is to say, at least a year. But I’m never going to touch you. Is that clear. And you’re never going to touch me. I won’t permit it. Do we understand each other.” It wasn’t a question, exactly, but I said, “I understand.” I didn’t tell him what I understood—that he is the perfect man for me. And my boss all rolled up into one! We can be together all day every day and we can have sex with ourselves and he will let me watch him to my heart’s delight. “You can take off your clothes then,” he said. “Not today.” “Are you sure?” “I just want to watch you.” “Watch me what?” “Put your hand on it.” There’s no more beautiful sight than watching a man getting himself off. My breath starts coming in the exact rhythm as his stroking. I feel more connected through my eyes than if that thing was all the way inside me I guess. Just before he came, Isaac started saying, “Richard, Richard, oh Christ I’m sorry Richard,” and I said, “Now darling, now darling, now darling.” His semen gushed out just like any other man’s. All those babies flying through the air. I got him tissues. It’s not just gay men who get so fastidious right after they climax. “So who were you apologizing to,” I asked him. “This Richard because you’re with me or me because you were thinking of this Richard?” “You. I didn’t want your feelings to be hurt.” “They weren’t.” When he was clean and dry he looked down at himself. “I feel funny.” “You look beautiful.” “What do you want from me, Clara?” “Nothing.” He reached down to get his underpants. But before he put them on he swiveled around on his heels so his back was to me and said, “So how come you never mentioned my ass!” Then he laughed so loud he couldn’t hear me praise it.
He left very quickly. I’m sure he’s worried about confronting me in the morning at the gallery. Next time I’m going to let him see me.
Courthouse Steps
Sometimes I think the best thing that ever happened to me was my father taking the pictures. Because if he hadn’t I wouldn’t be a virgin. One thing would have led to another and I would have started fucking those boys. Beginning with Andy. Even though I loved him I know I would have fucked others. My mind is too full of fucking even now, and I haven’t fucked anybody. I don’t even know what it’s like. Sometimes when I’m watching a man touch himself, I feel my eyes are magnets and they aren’t just attached to him but they pull him toward me, into me, and I can almost feel the flesh I’m watching disappear within my body. But what does it really feel like. That’s the mystery.
I don’t want to know. My curiosity is not as great as my contentment. I feel so pure. I feel like a heroine. I am what American girls are supposed to be. I am untouched. I am innocent. I am immaculate. I am alone.
I don’t mean I’m lonely. I mean I stand alone. I’m apart from everybody else. Here I live in this city where when you just walk down the street you bump into strangers with your shoulders and your clothes brush and sometimes the backs of your hands touch and still my flesh is not tangled up with anyone else’s. That’s what I mean by alone. I am totally unto myself.
Everyone should be a virgin. Forever.
Cookie Cutter
When we were making love tonight, Johnny said, “Clara.”
I didn’t know if it was a question or what.
“Clara,” he said again.
What does he want?
“Clara.”
It was my name, and it wasn’t. I mean, Clara, Carla, both of them are my names and they’re not. Nobody’s born with one. It isn’t like a nose. It’s no more attached to you than a scarf. It isn’t yours, not even when you chose it for yourself, like me.
If I were the only person in the world, I wouldn’t have a name. I wouldn’t need one. And if there were only 2 of us in the world, we wouldn’t need names either. When he spoke, I would know it was to me.
He and I are the only people in the world, when we make love. There are no others, except as we imagine them, and they aren’t real. So each time he said my name as he said it over and over, he took my name from me. He pulled it from my body, from my skin, from my lips. Clara. Clara. Clara. Clara. Each time he said it ground me deeper into the mattress. And pulled him deeper into me. My name was leaving me. It was a bird above the bed. I didn’t want to let it go. I turned beneath him, side to side. I shook my head. I struggled. But he said, “Clara. Clara.” It became a name I didn’t recognize. A sound I didn’t know. It wasn’t me. And that left only me beneath him, a stranger, nameless, new. It was like being born. It was the most exciting, joyous feeling in the world. And the world was empty, truly empty, of anyone but us.
When Johnny fell asleep, I got out of bed. I don’t usually do that. I usually stick some tissues between my legs and hold him in my arms. I write in here before. But tonight I got up and sat down here to write about this. I wanted to think about what happened to me. I wanted to try to understand it. I wanted to describe my ecstasy. I wanted to say this about it
Wild Goose Chase
He asked me, “Would you rather love someone more the first day you meet or the last day you’re together on earth?”
“The last day we’re together on earth.”
He held out his arms to me and we danced. No music was playing.
Lazy Daisy
I finally have a girlfriend. (Not to mention a new job) I lost all my girlfriends when I got interested in boys. I thought I’d have millions of girlfriends when I got to New York. I pictured myself leaving boys behind and walking down the avenues holding arms with girls. But that turned out to be a hair commercial. First of all, I didn’t leave boys be
hind. I just don’t let them touch me. And I don’t touch them. Secondly, I had forgotten how to talk to girls, if I ever knew how in the first place.
Then I get hired to work at the Labrovitz Gallery and I walk in to start working this morning and there’s another girl sitting at what I figure is my desk, since it’s the only desk there. It’s the only place to sit there.
“May I help you?” she says.
“I’m starting today.”
“Starting what?”
“Working here.”
She looks bewildered.
“What are you supposed to do?”
“Reception. Catalogs. Hang paintings. Artist relations, whatever that is.”
“I’ll tell you what that is. It’s telling painters that their latest work’s the best thing they ever did.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“They’re artists. You lie. It’s the only language they understand. Except money. Money talks.”
“What does it say?”
“Fuck you.”
I didn’t know if she was saying that to me or telling me what money says when it talks. So I didn’t answer.
“So who hired you?”
“Well I went through an agency. But—”
“Have a seat.” She got up.
“I don’t want to take your seat.”
“It’s yours now.”
“What about you?”
“I’m fired.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the same thing happened to me.”
“What?”
“I walked in here and told the girl sitting here that I was starting. That’s how he does things.”
“Who?”
“Labrovitz. He doesn’t like confrontations.”
“But it isn’t right.”