Disquiet, Please!

by David Remnick

  We are now in the commodious coat closet in Todd Niesle’s foyer. Our eyes are drawn immediately to the striking composition of the skis and the parka against the back wall. This is a stunning visual statement about a man who is on vacation, skiing with his brother, isn’t it? Once again, Todd Niesle proves himself to be a master at creating a scenario that elicits powerful emotions, such as hatred and disgust.

  After you have scrolled through the caller-ID log on the phone in the study, looking for Todd Niesle’s brother’s number to see if Todd Niesle really went to Vermont, place a prank call to Sue Ann Kraftsow. She lives in Milwaukee and she’s in the book.

  Please turn to your right. Just past the doorway, you’ll see a framed photograph. The subject of this photograph has not been identified with certainty, but Todd Niesle scholars like me, Debby, believe that it depicts Sue Ann Kraftsow.

  Now go back to the gift shop and get a knife from the drawer next to the sink. When you pry the backing from the picture frame, a photograph of me, Debby, will be revealed. In the art world, this is called “pentimento.” In the real world, this is called failure to commit and to recognize undying love when you have the luck to get it.

  Compare the two images. Can you discern from the vulgar contours of Sue Ann Kraftsow’s face, the lifeless pallor, and the vague gaze that she is unworthy of even as base a miscreant as Todd Niesle? She’s also fat. The second image, of me, Debby, on the other hand, shows a woman blessed with keen intelligence and generosity of spirit. It would be unscholarly of me, Debby, to point out the obvious aesthetic differences, but you, the viewer, can draw your own conclusions.

  We have come to the end of our retrospective of the World of Todd Niesle and His Shit. You can return your Acoustiguide in the foyer. There is no charge for this tour, but if you enjoyed yourself, call Todd Niesle and tell him so. His number is 212-399-4838 and he can be reached at 3 A.M. He likes pizza, ten pies at a time, and Rizzo’s delivers. I, Debby, care not what you do with the key.

  2005

  LARRY DOYLE

  SHARE OUR JOY

  WELCOME to GwynnandDaveShareTheirJoy.com, Gwynn Paley and Dave Maguire’s Official Nuptials site. To continue, enter the GUEST ID and PASSWORD you received with your Wedding e-vitation. Please enjoy this short ad while the site loads.

  Two blushing brides,

  one rich, one poor.

  Both have their hearts set on getting

  married at the same romantic location.

  On the same day.

  Reese Witherspoon. Jennifer Lopez.

  In love and at war for

  The Wedding Pagoda.

  Opening June 14th.

  Friends and Family! I can’t tell you how excited Dave and I are that you’ll be able to join us as we Pledge our Love! Below you’ll find all the info you need to help us make this Occasion as Special and Perfect as we have planned.

  GUEST POLICY

  E-vites are for the Guest only; there is no “implied plus-one.” We’re sorry, but it’s a very small mountaintop, with limited ruins. We have gone to exhaustive lengths to achieve a proper mix of personalities, races, classes, ages, and orientations to insure a Fun and Romantic Event for all. So don’t be surprised to find that your True Plus-One is already there! (Though just one plus-one per guest, please. Do you hear me, Erika?)

  We regret, too, the no-children rule. Some of us feel that Children bring nothing but Joy to all occasions; others feel differently, and this is a discussion we’ve agreed to table until a later time. (Not too much later! Tick tick tick …) If it’s any consolation, you’ll be sparing your Little Loved Ones many painful inoculations, and then there’s the whole child-slavery thing.

  DIRECTIONS

  Upon arriving at the Aeropuerto Internacional Jorge Chávez, in Lima, look for the Aero Sendero terminal. It’s a corrugated-metal shed. Sendero, your pilot, should be there (he looks just like Erik Estrada, had things not gone so well for him). His Piper Apache is completely airworthy, and, if it comes to it, somewhat seaworthy. After my father conducts a quick sobriety check, Sendero will wing you to a private airstrip on the shore of Lake Titicaca. From there, you’ll travel via balsa de totora, or reed boat, to the island of Amantaní. Once ashore, llamas will take you up the mountainside of Pachatata (Father Earth), where you will be given a sleeping bag and assigned to a ruin.

  A FEW TRAVEL TIPS

  • Do not let Sendero sell you any cocaine. We have made an exclusive arrangement with another supplier. Anybody wishing to partake of this local fare must contact Dave’s brother Drake. If you fail to do so, we may find ourselves short a best man.

  • Lake Titicaca is a sacred Inca site. Their god or something rose out of it. Mocking its name, or the name of nearby Lake Poopó, is considered incredibly rude and has resulted in spontaneous stabbings.

  • Since Pachatata is 13,615 feet above sea level, you may not be able to breathe. We will have oxygen on hand, but in limited supplies, so, unless you are absolutely certain you are going to die, please be considerate of others.

  • If you look directly at your llama, it will spit in your eyes.

  THE CEREMONY

  You will awaken at 2 A.M. (it’ll be too cold to sleep anyway) and llama it down Pachatata and then up Pachamama (Earth Mother). We should arrive at the peak between 4:30 and 5:30, depending on bandits, in time to witness the first light of the Solstice, at 5:58. The Incas believe that if you stare into the sun as it rises on this day you will be Reawakened to the Ancient Knowledge of the Cosmos. Hopefully this will distract you from the sound of the seven llamas being slaughtered. (Some of you will have to walk back. Sorry.) Following a brief sacrifice to the Dragon Fertility Goddess (don’t tell Dave!), we will enjoy a traditional breakfast of potatoes and mate de coca, which is basically boiled cocaine and which I’m told puts Starbucks to shame.

  The ceremony will take place at noon, officiated by a Genuine Quechua Shaman and, at the insistence of Dave’s mom, Father Mulcahy, who has promised to keep his pagan comments to a minimum. First, Shaman Klaatu will ritually purify the Bride and Groom (good luck with that!), and then we will exchange Personalized Vows written by me with input from Dave. In Andean tradition, the marriage will be sealed with an exchange of shoes. (Luv those Incas!)

  THE RECEPTION

  The reception is scheduled for 4 P.M., or whenever the llamas are done. We ask that after the ceremony you gather as much firewood and wild potatoes as you can. In lieu of champagne, we will be serving chicha, made by the island’s women, who chew up corn and other things and spit it into an earthenware pot for fermenting. It takes a little getting used to, but consumed in vast quantities, as is the tradition, it can sneak up on you. Accordingly, the Shaman will remain on hand to perform additional marriages as necessary. Unfortunately, Dave and I will have to leave early in order to make our plane to the Galápagos. And please: If anybody ties beer cans to the back of our getaway llama, I will cry.

  ONE FINAL REQUEST

  A lot of hard work and patience and tears and sexual compromise went into making this a Wonderful Celebration of Love. This is the wedding I’ve dreamed about ever since studying pre-Columbian civilization in the fifth grade. If you cannot enjoy and experience it appropriately, I ask that you strongly consider staying home with the rest of Dave’s buddies. (That doesn’t apply to you, Dave!)

  2007

  THE FLESH IS WEAK

  E. B. WHITE

  FRIGIDITY IN MEN

  A LEAF FROM A SEX BOOK

  I HESITATE to approach the subject of male unresponsiveness. Frigidity in men is a theme sociologists have avoided. Frigidity in women, on the other hand, forms a vast chapter in the sex research of today; the part it plays in marital discord is known to students of sociology as well as to the lay reader, although probably less well. It has occupied the attention of many noted writers, and has taken the lives of such men as Zaner and Tithridge, who carried some of their experiments too far. (Tithridge especially.)

  Any discussion
of frigidity in men calls for an unusual degree of frankness on the part of the writer, since it entails such factors as the “recessive knee,” “Fuller’s retort,” and the “declination of the kiss.” Sex is less than fifty years old, yet it has upset the whole western world. The sublimation of sex, called Love, is of course much older—although many purists will question the existence of Love prior to about 1885 on the grounds that there can be no sublimation of a non-existent feeling. And that brings us to our real theme, namely, frigidity in men.

  THE first symptom of frigidity in men is what I call the “recessive knee.” Simply stated, the phenomenon is this: occasions arise sometimes when a girl presses her knee, ever so gently, against the knee of the young man she is out with. The juxtaposing of the knee is brought about by any of a thousand causes. Often the topic of conversation has something to do with it: the young people, talking along pleasantly, will suddenly experience a sensation of compatibility, or of friendliness, or of pity, or of community-of-interests. One of them will make a remark singularly agreeable to the other person—a chance word or phrase that seems to establish a bond between them. Such a remark can cause the knee of the girl to be placed against the knee of the young man. Or, if the two people are in a cab, the turning of a sharp corner will do it. In canoes, the wash from a larger vessel will bring it about. In restaurants and dining-rooms it often takes place under the table, as though by accident. On divans, sofas, settees, couches, davenports, and the like, the slight twist of the young lady’s body incident to receiving a light for her cigarette will cause it. I could go on indefinitely, but there is no need. It is not a hard push, you understand—rather the merest touch of knee to knee, light as the brush of a falling blossom against one’s cheek, and just as lovely.

  Now, a normal male in whom there are no traces of frigidity will allow his knee to retain its original position, sometimes even exerting a very slight counter-pressure. A frigid male, however, will move his knee away at the first suggestion of contact, denying himself the electric stimulus of love’s first stirring. Why? That is what my research was conducted to discover. I found that in ninety-three per cent of all cases, the male was suspicious; in four per cent he was ignorant; and in three per cent he was tired. I have presented these figures to the American Medical Association and am awaiting a reply.

  It is the female’s subtlety in her laying-on of the knee that annoys the male, I found. His recession is for the purpose of reassuring himself of his own integrity and perspicacity. If the female were to juxtapose in a forthright manner, if she were to preface her gesture with the remark: “I am thinking of letting my knee touch yours for the fun of it, Mortimer,” she might gain an entirely different response from the male.

  It was a young Paterson, New Jersey, girl by the name of Lillian Fuller who let drop the remark that has epitomized, for the sociological and anthropological world, the phenomenon of the recessive knee. “Fuller’s retort” is now a common phrase in the realm of psychotherapy.

  Miss Fuller was an unusually beautiful woman—young, accurate, sensitive. She was greatly attached to a man several years her senior in the buffing department; wanted to marry him. To this end she had laid her knee against his innumerable times without a single return of pressure. His frigidity, she realized, was gradually becoming prejudicial to his mental health, and so one evening after experiencing for the hundredth time the withdrawal of his knee, she simply turned to him with a quiet smile playing on her face and said: “Say, what is the matter with you, anyway?”

  Her retort somehow summed up the whole question of frigidity in men.

  THE second great symptom of frigidity is the “declination of the kiss.”1 Many men have told me that they would not object to sex were it not for its contactual aspect. That is, they said they would be perfectly willing to express their eroticism if it could be done at a reasonable distance—say fifty paces. These men (the frigid-plus type) found kissing intolerable. When they had an opportunity to kiss a young lady, they declined. They made it plain that they would be willing to blow a kiss across the room from their hand, but not execute it with their lips.

  I analyzed scores of these cases, questioning both the women and the men. (The women were mad as hornets.) I found that a small number of the kiss-declining men were suffering from a pathology of the eyes—either astigmatism or farsightedness—so that when they got close enough to kiss a girl, she blurred on them.2 The vast majority of cases, however, were quite different. Their unwillingness I traced to a much subtler feeling than eyestrain. Your true anti-contactual, or kiss-decliner, is a very subtle individual indeed.

  In effect, he is a throwback to another period in history, specifically to the Middle Ages. He is a biological sport. (Note: this is very confusing, calling him a “sport,” because the ordinary “sport” is not a kiss-decliner at all, anything but. If there are any of you who think you are going to find the use of the word “sport” in this connection so confusing as to make the rest of the chapter unintelligible, I wish you would drop out.)

  No one can quite comprehend the motives and the successes of a kiss-decliner who does not recall his counterpart in medieval history. In the Middle Ages, when men were lusty and full of red meat, their women expected as much. A baronial fellow, finishing his meal, made no ado about kissing a Middle Age woman. He just got up from the table and kissed her. Bango, and she was kissed. Love had a simple directness which was not disturbed until the arrival, in the land, of the Minnesingers. It got so no baronial hall of the Middle Ages was free from the Minnesingers. They kept getting in. They would bring their harps with them, and after dinner they would twang a couple of notes and then sing a frail, delicate song to the effect that women should be worshipped from afar, rather than possessed. To a baron who had just drunk a goblet of red wine, this new concept of womanhood was very, very funny. While he was chuckling away to himself and cutting himself another side of beef, his wife, who had listened attentively to the song, would slip out into the alley behind the castle and there the Minnesinger would join her.

  “Sing that one again,” she would say.

  “Which one?”

  “That one about worshipping me from a little distance. I want to hear that one again.”

  The Minnesinger would oblige. Then he would illustrate the theme by not kissing the woman but dancing off lightly down the hill, throwing his harp up into the air and catching it again as he went.

  “What a nice young man,” the baron’s wife would think, as she slowly turned and went in to bed.

  The kiss-decliner of today is a modern Minnesinger. He is a sport in that he has varied suddenly from the normal type—which is still baronial. By the mere gesture of declining a kiss, a man can still make quite a lot of ground, even in these depleted days. The woman thinks: “He would not dream of embracing my body; now that’s pretty white of him!” Of course, it would be wrong to ascribe motives of sheer deliberateness to the frigid male. Often he is not a bad sort—merely is a fellow who prefers an imagined kiss to the real kind. An imagined kiss is more easily controlled, more thoroughly enjoyed, and less cluttery than an actual kiss. To kiss in dream is wholly pleasant. First, the woman is the one of your selection, not just anyone who happens to be in your arms at the moment. Second, the deed is garnished with a little sprig of glamour which the mind, in exquisite taste, contributes. Third, the lips, imaginatively, are placed just so, the right hand is placed just so, the concurrent thoughts arrive, just so. Except for the fact that the whole episode is a little bit stuffy, it is a superior experience all round. When a kiss becomes actual, anything is likely to happen. The lips, failing of the mark, may strike lightly against the end of the lady’s nose, causing the whole adventure to crack up; or the right hand may come in contact with the hard jagged part of the shoulder blade; or, worst of all, the man’s thoughts may not clothe the moment with the proper splendor: he may be worrying about something.

  So you see, frigidity in men has many aspects, many angles. To me it is
vastly more engrossing than frigidity in women, which is such a simple phenomenon you wonder anybody bothers about it at all.

  1929

  1. Now we’re getting down to business.

  2. Incidentally, I might say that this blurring of the female before the eyes of the male is not entirely unpleasant. It’s kind of fun.

  ROGER ANGELL

  THE NEW YORKER ADVISOR

  (INTIMATE COUNSELING FOR OUR TROUBLED READERS, MORE OR LESS IN THE CONFIDENT MANNER OF PLAYBOY, PENTHOUSE, AND OTHER CURRENT JOURNALS OF PHILOSOPHY)

  SMALL TIME

  Dear Advisor:

  I have hesitated for some time before writing you, but I don’t know where else to go for help. I have a problem which can’t be entirely unique, yet I have not been able to find any reliable scientific data that would put my mind to rest. To put it plainly, I have a very small organ. I know, of course, that there is no “right” size in these matters, and I sometimes suspect that my judgment may be unduly subjective in this estimation. Still, I have made covert observations and comparisons whenever the opportunity presented itself, and there is no doubt in my mind that mine is the most modest instrument in our entire suburban neighborhood. My wife gets very impatient whenever I try to discuss the matter with her, and assures me that she has absolutely no complaints. The others in my family feel the same way (we are a modern household, and we believe in discussing everything quite openly), and my teen-age son and daughter keep telling me that I am hopelessly bourgeois and insecure to keep brooding about this. “Forget it, Pop,” they say.