Monday, May 11, 2015
My First Try at being Anton Chekhov.
For years, I have been an admirer of Anton Chekhov, the implied naration, implied sex, Cherry Orchard couples in scenes of sublimated, unhappy sex. Wow. For a midlife crisis guy, this was my meat. I had to become a Chekhovian at once. Disappointment. Here is something out of a first draft, largely autobiographical that to me seemed to read like porn. ................ On the C-shaped chesterfield again, the two of us, sighing, content. She touched my arm and presently excused herself to go off and fiddle with something in the kitchen. Then, just as quickly, she was back. We had gotten quite used to being with each other. "Are you hungry? No? Well, let's just keep drinking." Tout. Suddenly she was on me with a flash of what appeared to be alcohol-inspired dry-humping that took all the blood out of my head. She just jumped on top of me and pumped and pumped, like a sex-obsessed virgin bride. I had a flag of passion the size of the CN tower and it was driving me fairly nuts. Lover's nuts. I turned to reverse positions, looking right at her maddened face. I cradled her lovely blonde head in my right arm, my left hand moving toward the the tight zipper of her little dungarees. I passed the fiery angel at the gate, having discovered she had no underpants at all and I was soon inside her pretty little vagina. "Pretty smooth," she whispered to me, but here face showed some alarm. I stroked her as gently as I could. She had taken to being very still. There is an audience here, somewhat murky, somewhat Jungian. A trickster god is asking me to ask her, half-grinning , "Am I doing you any good?" The answer came in some really nice muscular action. I had to get those damn jeans off her. Nice work if you can get it. Married a long time and later used to going with women my own age, I knew nothing at all about removing sixties-style women's jeans. There must be several schools. One is to pull the top down and have her wiggle out; the other was to have her sit facing your left hand and flipping open the stud and then peeling down. I did neither of those things, awkward son of a bitch, trying to pull the skin-tight pants off from the cuff ends, dragging the poor woman halfway across the chesterfield, no doubt giving her one hell of a rash. When all else fails, the direct approach, crude but effective, the one-liner from the talk show, "If you don't want to have sex, do you mind if I do?" But I had forgotten that she was just as much on fire as I. I had zipped down my on fly, being careful, for some survivalist reason not to drop my pants, pulled out my major appurtenance, which, having no comparison, seemed large and erect, put her delicate hand on it and she masturbated me, skillfully and effectively. And then it all came apart. Dear Lord, how drunk were we? She stood up, me on my back on the chesterfield. I seemed to have her transfixed with the eye contact. She went to kneel over me like a beautiful madonna, but I saw, in my mind's eye another sort of icon, Zeus on fire with Semele. I put both hands on her shoulders, her kneeling on the rug, and stopped her. I could not do it. She was just too beautiful, this blonde madonna with the prettiest lips going down on me. Besides, I would have left a load on her clean white chesterfield. Missionary position or nothing. I went again to remove her jeans, in the same awkward fashion only to have her zip them back again, turn from me and go into her bedroom. She came back with something for me to drink. I took it absent-mindedly and asked if I could have more vodka in it. She was still in jeans. Distressed, frustrated, I told her I had to have a good stiff shot to fight off cramps, lover's nuts and all those things that come to plague teenagers and grown men. One sip and the room began to spin. I watched her disappear in some sort of hazy Barmuda fog. All the lights in my head went off. Sheer black. I came to to find her in my arms, just as before. I was fondling her erect breasts, the nice little ones with the protruding nipples and she was staring into my eyes, point-blank, asking me if she reminded me of my wife. "Yes you do, Lana," I told her and she used a face-to-face visual trick that my own wife had often used, the eye-to-eye forehead contact, peering head-to-head into the other person's eyes to have them become huge cartoon eyes with their comical blink, sheer intimacy, head-to-head intimacy. Love. Something made me turn my eyes aside. Then she was suddenly on my lap and I massaged her breast some more. But whatever it was she had given me, it was hitting me again. I was just so suddenly tired. Dead tired. I wanted to go to sleep, just sleep. She lifted me from the sofa to stand groggily in my stockinged feet. She measured herself against me. "You know, you're not so tall" She eyed me critically as she stood against me. "We little people have to try harder." She kissed me. "I don't think I'll take any more courses from you." My head is spinning. I know I can have her right now--if I hadn't already had her in my blackout spell, hypnotized, perhaps out of being able to remember; I can have her right now, but I am oh so tired, so tired. I begged to go to sleep in the spare room. "Come with me. Lie down with me." "No," she had said. :"You know what will happen." So she had some control after all. She stood in the open doorway of her bedroom a pale light streaming bewind her while I made for my own alotted room. I think it was about five a.m. I went to the bathroom for a pee and she was still standing there, like Socrates in a catatonic trance. Certainly like a beautiful Sphinx on the head of a coin. I woke up with a feeling that my friend Deighton Ronning complained he often had:" I went to a whorehouse and couldn't get fucked. I knew everything except how much things cost and I sure as hell did not pay for her. You had to will yourself into getting laid, even if it were offered for nothing. Or did she really want to get laid? Or had she actually had sex with me, but not before leaving me with some sort of strange implant during my blackout? By morning, I felt empty and sterile. She had, somehow, taken something from me. I sat on the shank end of the chesterfield and watch her before me. She has sitting now in her long paisley dress, knees together either in a virgin pose or the look of a woman who wants to get laid, but the Lothario is just too dumb. "I think we have been spending too much time together. Let's go back to the writing circle. Let's go out with other people." I was crestfallen. Merde! She gave me a flash of eyes. "I hope you don't think I'm a loose woman." If I did, your box would be shaved, the trickster Newfoundlander in my head is hissing at me, down there, deep inside. I had learned so much French over there, at Port au Basques She had to go to work. She drove me to the bus terminal. In spite of the strange night, I felt as I'd been loved more thoroughly than ever before. I felt it all day, right down to the time I masturbated to her memory before going to sleep in my room in Toronto. There appeared to be a small needle prick in the crook of may arm. And the next day, I woke up feeling like a fool. I had not connected. I had failed. Back to Title Page C ................. HM. This doesn't read like Chekhov at all. Like the great man, with his "The Seagull", I feel like a failure. But Chekhove did not fail of course. (I should join that rock group, The New Pornographers? lol