A Penny a Kiss

by Judy McConnell

  I couldn’t figure out why anyone would choose a lifestyle that was so prohibitive and limiting that it required a constant shield of secrecy. Why would Buddy, a nice, kind man with no noticeable feminine attributes, make such a gender switch, isolating himself from the rest of society? It was apparent they didn’t fit into the conventional mold. Max was high strung and became overexcited at the slightest stimulation. Buddy kept a calm exterior, but if challenged or reprimanded tears would form and run slowly down his cheeks. They only ceased when he received a comforting squeeze, and he would turn his damp face up in gratitude.

  Both were highly sensitive, a male trait strongly rejected by society. Only with friends could they be themselves. In the business arena they were constrained to blend in with the heterosexual norm. Max was delighted when I agreed to attend a Christmas party at the hospital as his date, which would bolster his image of normalcy. He primed me ahead of time. No compliments on his tie or how handsome he looked. Rather, I was to behave in a friendly fashion with a hint of admiration thrown in whenever possible. There wasn’t a trace of fey or swoosh in his manner as, handsome in his navy business suit, he conversed with his coworkers over dinner. We both put on what we hoped was a convincing front. Everyone in the gay community did this, including, I was informed, Rock Hudson and Caesar Romero, whose proclivities were well-known in Hollywood circles.

  This was in the days when the term “gay” had just come into wide use and homosexuality was denounced as unnatural and sinful by the traditional mainstream. I couldn’t say how much of its sordid aspect was caused by forced concealment, implying evil and fostering feelings of ostracism and shame. But exposure to the offbeat and subterranean was just what Sylvia and I sought in our urge to experience everything possible beyond our restricted upbringing. I wanted to be available to anything that came my way, to seek out and accept the foreign. That Max and Buddy took to us with such openness was flattering, a privilege not open to most. I prized their friendship.

  The day after the Christmas party Max brought me six red roses and a card signed “The Gay Blades.”

  * * *

  Sylvia’s voice on the phone was trembling. She was devastated and had to talk to me! Drop everything. She would be home in twenty minutes and could I go for a drive? When I heard the rev of the MG I ran outside and we tore off towards the beach. It was a bright Saturday afternoon without a cloud in the sky. A long rain during the night had diluted the gauze of smog that usually hung over the mountains and the sky was unusually clear. I could see Sylvia’s eyes were red and her cheeks streaked with tears.

  “Oh, Judy, it’s Mother.” She bit her lower lip. “We’ve just had the most dreadful row. She accuses me of—of all sorts of things.”

  “Tell me everything. We’ll work this out.”

  That morning her mother called Sylvia into the den and proceeded to tear down her life. She was concerned about the direction Sylvia was taking.

  “She accused me of not taking my studies serious,” Sylvia moaned, “of playing at being an artist, of being a dilettante, fluttering here and there and accomplishing nothing. ‘Your dates come and go, with no stability. They don’t last,’ were her words. She says I dally with unseemly types and lack real friends. She wonders why I don’t associate with the other students at school. She says I’m neglecting my education.”

  One of her mother’s complaints was that Sylvia’s friends revolved around her. People latched on to her, followed her lead, let her run the show. They were leeches. Without being named I knew this included me. I suspected it included Paul. Who else was there? Her mother had been firm. Sylvia needed to look closely at her life, at who was contributing, and above all how her present situation contributed to her goals. Mrs. Newton admonished her to examine exactly what those goals were. Half shamed and half angry, Sylvia protested, denying everything.

  “I’ve been completely demolished.” She held the wheel tightly and a strand of auburn hair fell over her cheek. “Mother has not an ounce of appreciation for what I’m trying to do or how far I’ve progressed.” Anger flushed into her face. “I had a job. I’ve been contributing to my own schooling. I’m responsible! Maybe I’m not employed at this particular moment, but I have three good prospects, and I’m sure one will come through. It is really too much! I’m putting so much effort into everything. How could she not trust me?”

  While Sylvia continued to agonize, I pondered. During my month as a house guest at the Newton’s I had gravitated into her world: I lived with Sylvia’s family, adopted her chosen college as my own, kept pace as she procured the apartment and everything else, tagged along at outings with her family and friends. Of course, this was her city, her turf, and being an outsider I followed her lead. But there was no denying it, I revolved in her orbit. Was it possible Sylvia was losing something in this dynamic? Would she, in retrospect, consider that that role of diva was not such a favorable one, that she didn’t want to have to pull all the weight, and that she was lacking balance and input from me that would enhance her own efforts?

  It occurred to me I paid a price as well. As a satellite, I was subjugating parts of myself in order to adapt and reap the benefits of a life I’d always craved but might never have realized on my own. Was I so dependent on her? The answer had to be yes. Sylvia had created our artistic enclave, the social milieu in which we lived. I guess I owed everything to her. All I could do was get good grades and continue to write. What alternative did I have, now that I had committed to the same lifestyle she wanted, which was what I wanted as well?

  Still, maybe I was dead weight. Maybe I had relinquished my ability to shape a singular identity of my own.

  Maybe I’d never possessed it.

  As Sylvia continued to vent, the heat of her protest suggested that she didn’t buy into this categorization. I didn’t feel accused by her. She had turned to me, as her closest intimate, and we would share this together. The best, the only thing I could do was listen sympathetically. Her mother didn’t appreciate the transformation Sylvia was going through: trying to balance the Hollywood superficiality she grew up with, the dual demands of higher education and her artistic calling. I was convinced Sylvia possessed rare talent. She was original, ingenious, and compelling. Her haunting beauty was an asset that opened doors, but it also interfered with the hard grind of accomplishment.

  * * *

  Although we spent much time on campus, Sylvia and I didn’t fit in with the co-eds sporting plaid skirts, saddle shoes, and bobby socks and the football fans who populated U.S.C.—Sylvia, with her black cinch belts, billowy skirts, and exotic beauty, and me with my black tights, massive silver rings, and cropped Shirley MacLaine hair. We kept to ourselves.

  When I wasn’t holed up at the school library and Sylvia wasn’t out on some jaunt, we worked on individual projects. Occasionally I wrote poetry propped up against oversized pillows in bed, and Sylvia attended painting classes two evenings a week with her longtime teacher, Ada Gar. A few U.S.C. students stopped by to investigate our little studio, as we called it, and I imagined I was leading the life of a writer, which was proving to be almost as absorbing as actually being one.

  Sylvia could also write. I treasured her whimsical poems. Drat! How did she do it? Her talent was boundless.

  Sylvia

  Cracked clock hands spun still

  withered gloved fingers of fright

  flattened faces against my dreams

  boxed in laughter without light

  Me

  To poets long and sprawlèd out

  I dedicate this song;

  To those who plop the phrases out

  While lounging unstrung on

  The heedless couch of grass strewn plump

  Presuming only will

  Their humming sound so soft today,

  Their breeze-lit limbs so still.

  Me at the ap
artment.

  Perry Manheim, the young professor Sylvia was grooming for my advancement, was a regular visitor to the apartment. Perry was serious and down to earth, with a liberal outlook and a conservative manner. His brown hair was neatly combed to one side and he wore a tan jacket over a turtleneck jersey. As a recent widower he lacked female company, and Sylvia thought I could fill the gap. She promoted our attributes and suitability to each other and arranged for the three of us to dine at our favorite Chinese restaurant.

  The plan fizzled when Sylvia started seeing him herself. She often ran into him on campus or dropped into his office. They sat on a bench near the library and she read her poetry to him. As a psychologist, Perry understood and accepted our youthful yearnings. He possessed an intelligence and maturity lacking in the other men in Sylvia’s orbit. She liked his professorial good looks. In the beginning I readied myself to accept his advances. There were no advances. He was clearly enamored of Sylvia, and although his feelings were muted—still grieving his wife—his eyes followed her everywhere. He began sliding in next to her in the booth or pulled her onto his lap when three of us piled into the back of Paul’s roadster.

  One morning, Sylvia showed up after an intimate dinner at Perry’s apartment bearing a Polaroid photo of her wearing his pajama top. She commented on his lovemaking. I accepted this. After all, he had shown me no more than sincere friendliness. Sylvia kept her options open. Perry was well aware that she kept up dalliances with other men. He hung around but maintained his cool. By now he knew her only too well and held hopes that some time, some day, she might become disenchanted with her capricious lovers. But Sylvia was being drawn in new directions and saw both of us less as the weeks passed.

  The following year I received an invitation to Perry’s marriage to a woman I had not heard of. I did not attend.

  * * *

  Paul hung around constantly. As he sat on the couch drinking cream soda, I drank in the sight of his soft green sweater and striking black hair. I was intrigued by his tall suppleness, sensuous lips, and the sweet expression he had when he looked at me. But he showed me no preference. I continued to enjoy our silly antics as the three of us drove along the road to Carmel harmonizing “Side by Side” or improvised swirling dances on the sands of Santa Monica beach under a spotlit moon. Paul presented me with an amber necklace nestled in a black enameled box for my birthday, and I gazed into the reddish depths of the stones, fascinated by their ruby hues and the hint of his soft eyes in their depths.

  Sylvia was fixed on the idea that Paul and I should sleep together. One night she invited Paul over, tucked clean sheets into the bed, and served up an abalone and squid dinner she prepared herself in the tiny kitchen. The three of us sat cross-legged on pillows around the black marble table, plucking morsels of meat and rice from our plates with chopsticks. The squid was tough and tasted like motor oil, but I gamely swallowed every bite without chewing, hoping my stomach would cooperate—experiencing new things was now my watchword. A long swish of wine after every bite helped.

  While I did the dishes, Sylvia disappeared into the bedroom and Paul put on an Amália Rodrigues Fados record she had collected from her job at the music store. Just as I sat down at the Formica desk and switched on the swivel-necked pole lamp Sylvia emerged, overnight case in hand, informed us she wouldn’t return until the next day and quickly slipped out of the apartment.

  I moved with my wine to the couch, the only comfortable seat in the living room, where Paul was leaning back with eyes closed, his head against the Chinese throw. We listened to records and spoke in a desultory fashion about this and that over the throaty tones of Amália Rodrigues. He told me about his Mexican grandparents and their move to California when his father was an infant. When Paul was a youth his father was killed in a machine accident. His mother, determined that her children would make it in the land of opportunity, scraped to give them private lessons and pushed them to exert themselves. At the age of eleven Paul took up acting at a local children’s theater.

  When I tried to find out about his personal feelings, he was less forthcoming. Finally I ran out of things to say. We sat listening to “Boeuf sur le Toit,” “Bachianas Brasileiras No. 1,” and “Carmina Burana.” The low haunting strains combined with the warmth of the wine, the scents of oil paint and clovery perfume lingering in the room lulled me into an agreeable inertness.

  But in the midst of the soothing quiet, I felt sparks of nervousness. Implications of the evening were clear to both of us, but we said nothing. I hadn’t the slightest clue as to Paul’s feelings, whether he was interested in me or how he found the idea of our making love. He didn’t seem to be objecting. Maybe it appealed to him, as it did to me, despite the obvious setup. We liked each other and, besides, the idea of embarking on a sexual experience had its own enticement. His slender form stretched out beside me looked more and more appealing as I absorbed the impact of his nearness.

  After finishing our third glass of wine he leaned over close to me. “I’d like to kiss you,” he said softly.

  I looked at him, feeling suddenly shaky, wondering what demeanor to assume.

  “I would like that.” I kept my tone noncommittal.

  He appeared gratified and stretched an arm around me. I inched closer. He then bent his head, looked at me with a soft gaze, and slowly, without withdrawing his eyes from my face, placed his mouth on mine. The kisses were sweet and gradually grew more intense. I floated into a dream world of ruby wine and soft green pillows.

  The next morning, in the bedroom, we lay quietly side by side, observing each other’s nude bodies in the pale light from the window. I liked the feel of Paul’s arm against my shoulder as I lay stretched on my side and the way he ran his fingers along my body, breathing words of admiration for the female form. I guessed he hadn’t had much experience with lovemaking, maybe no more than I had. We smiled at each other, both quite pleased with the stepped-up activity in our sex lives.

  After Paul left I lay on the couch listening to a Kabuki record, mulling over my womanly status. As of last summer I was no longer a virgin—first Don, now Paul. I beamed at the ceiling in satisfaction. After a while it dawned on me that something was not right. The demise of my virginity had been a philosophical choice, and I carried this latest intimacy like a prize. But the act itself I found lacking. Where was the pulse and passion of former high school embraces in the back seat of a Valiant? Now that I was over the threshold something was missing. It was puzzling.

  I regarded the raft of drawings and oils papering the walls of the living room—Sylvia’s work, streaked by shafts of morning light that filtered through the bamboo curtains. My mind reeled with indecision. Shouldn’t there be more bonding? More emotion? All I knew was that the old thrill wasn’t there. Somehow this did not seem, in one sense, like progress.

  I didn’t discuss this with Sylvia, aside from mentioning I had liked intimacy with Paul and wasn’t sure what would be next. Sylvia and I didn’t discuss sex, bound by the strict code of female privacy prevalent in the fifties.

  Paul continued his drop-in visits. He felt at home in the apartment, draping his legs over the cushions gracefully, listening to Sylvia relate the story of her latest escapade. He didn’t attempt another encounter between us. The probable reason for this hadn’t escaped my notice. During the drive the three of us took to San Francisco to celebrate the Chinese New Year, it became obvious Paul was devoted to our mutual friend. He hung on Sylvia’s words. He beamed at the commanding way she addressed him and complied with her every wish without complaint.

  Journal Entry

  Paul is impossible. He follows Sylvia around like a dog. He will do anything. She bosses him and he jumps. Can’t he see that she takes him for granted? How can he let himself be walked on, how can he be so easygoing, without backbone? He is too boyish and unsophisticated for her. Too easy. She has so many irons in the fire, even though up until
now most of them have been pure chaos.

  Paul and Sylvia dramatizing at the apartment.

  I let go of any expectations that might have emerged from our night together. Paul was too pliant. He revolved around Sylvia like a limp puppy. Maybe—did the thought enter my head?—we were too much alike. Both of us hovered about Sylvia, caught up in the web of mystic fantasy and un­bridled experi­mentation she created.

  Sylvia was her own most suc­cessful creation. The impress­ion she made was primary. Her favorite expression was, “It’s not what you are that counts, it’s what people think you are.” In my total endorsement of Sylvia and everything she stood for, I slipped this concept into my pool of ignorance. If this was how she was so be it; my admiration for her talent, her assertiveness and knack for un­covering the un­expected out­weighed all else. I wanted to be more like her. I knew she admired and stood by me, and that was all I needed to know.

  As the months passed, the tone in the apartment began to subtly change. I first noticed it one evening as I was preparing to go out and Sylvia lay stretched on the bed following me with her eyes.

  “That skirt doesn’t go with your top at all,” she remarked as I entered from the bathroom, “And those shoes are too mealy. They won’t do.”

  I felt a rush of irritation. I’d heard these critiques before.

  “I’m only trying things on to see if they work. Wait until I’m done before commenting,” I snapped. I pulled on a different blouse, a shade lighter than the skirt I was wearing.

  “No, no, all wrong,” she exclaimed. “That bracelet is too shiny; it looks cheap. Try something bronze.”

  I shot into the bathroom and slammed the door. Sylvia had determined I had no taste. Usually I surrendered to her objections, but this time I pushed back. I had to admit that my discernment did need a bit of refining. I knew little of exotic foods, the various types of Italian fabrics, or the difference between Afshar and Saraband Persian rugs. Once I purchased a decorated plate that was too corny (“A smiling girl with a daisy in her hair—really!”). Except for White Shoulders, which had wafted for years from the folds of my mother’s dresses, I knew nothing about perfumes.