Losing It

by Alan Cumyn

  “Mother! Mother!” she yelled, but she could see no one in the kitchen. The smoke was terrible. She fell to her knees, still grasping Matthew, and crawled down the hallway – where she knew the hallway to be – until she reached the front door. And there was her mother, bent over, with a lighter, flicking the flame again and again at the doorknob.

  “What are you doing?” Julia screamed, and stood, knocked the lighter out of her mother’s hand. Her mother looked up, startled, and slapped Julia across the face.

  “That was our escape, young lady!” her mother sputtered, and immediately bent to look for the lighter on the floor. “No dessert for you!” she snapped.

  Julia pulled the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her hand, grasped the door handle and opened it cautiously. “Come on!” she yelled, but her mother was intent on retrieving the lighter. “We’re free! We’re free!” Julia screamed, and pulled Matthew and her mother out the door to fresh air.

  27

  Clarity comes in a flat yellow tablet, which is rough on the tongue, porous, a bit crumbly. It tastes like vinegar and onions, not sweet at all, but bearable. It works best when you let it soak in the back of the mouth, like a throat lozenge, so that it seeps slowly. Too much clarity coming on too fast is overwhelming, like stumbling into direct sunlight after so much time down in the cave. You turn away from it, feel dizzy, crawl back to your little crouch in the darkness. Clarity is best in small doses, little drips spreading gradually so that the heart and eyes and mind have a chance to adjust to so much silver and translucence, so many reverberations.

  The sound of the key in the lock. The trembling of the hand, his perspiration, the worried edges of his voice. They all get magnified, every breath and gesture, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and his little nipples hardening under his shirt, they become your own. There is no single body with clarity, the lines begin to erase and fall away. You walk so softly, breathe as quietly and smoothly as you can. Waste no movement or thought.

  “I was worried you wouldn’t come,” he says, his eyes awash with relief and expectation, and so you reach out to embrace in the middle of the office even while you seem to be staying separate. He keeps looking at the knapsack, at what you’ve brought, hurrying, but why ruin it? It must be done slowly, must be tasted and savoured, fully understood. That’s the hard part, getting to the bottom. Cutting through the murk and incoherence. Reaching clarity.

  If you relax and let the fluids soak, softly, then the vinegar-and-onion taste recedes. Or maybe it’s that you adjust, become accustomed to the power of it, the rhythms, the milkiness that fills your body, the beauty of everything you sense around you. You know what to say to help others … because you are the others, you start to see that. And the others are you. You’re sharing your self in the most selfless way possible, helping them to become you, and, in a way, you become them. Just a little.

  You say, “I think you should take off your clothes.” Softly, with a low purr in your voice. It’s the right thing to say, because you don’t want boundaries between you.

  You say, “Don’t be afraid. The door is locked and the blinds are closed. No one will know.” And you stay where you are, by the bookcase, stand relaxed, not anticipating. Not looking, but not looking away either. He is very quiet and his fingers are trembling but you don’t go to him physically. You lend your essence. That’s the way of clarity. Send your essence across the room and his jacket comes off, his tie and shirt. He bends down to take off his shoes and socks, hesitates. The phone rings and you don’t say a word, just turn your head slightly, the least possible movement, but he knows to leave it. When it stops ringing he turns the phone off completely, without one word from you. It’s essence communicating with essence. Everything becomes smooth and co-ordinated.

  “You are lovely,” you say, and you mean it, it’s exactly what he is. His skin so babyish and new. He’s standing in his underwear, doesn’t know where to put his hands – in front or behind, on his hips, where? They keep moving. He’s a little cold, you sense that, in this heightened state; he’s shivering but he won’t admit it, and he’s too afraid to ask what you’ve brought him. It’s so sweet. He can hardly talk above a whisper, but a whisper is perfect. You say, “I’ve brought you a few things,” and his underpants spring to attention; it’s marvellous, now he really doesn’t know where to put his hands.

  Clarity is humorous. That’s the unexpected thing. You think it’s going to be serious, a heavy trip into deeper meaning, but there’s a stage when it all looks funny. You can’t give in, that’s crucial, it has to be a secret humour, a more profound, cosmic laughter. You can let the lightness into your eyes, but you must show it as love and affection, an embrace of this comic world, a celebration of the essential silliness of humanity.

  “We need to do your back,” you say, again in a soft purr. Let the laughter resonate inside, but remain still. “I brought a shaver,” you say, and you open your pack.

  Whatever is happening now is happening forever. Not just now but for all time. Your fingers are pulling open the zipper. Your hand is taking out the shaver. You say, “Where is a plug?” and he turns, this large, nearly naked man, and starts to look for an electrical outlet. This pause in the dance, or is it? No, it’s part of the dance as well, his awkwardness in not knowing where the outlet is. He walks to the corner of the room, peers under his desk, looks along the far wall. Like a bumblebee searching out flowers, flying this way and that, confused, circling. He’s a big, hairless bumblebee, except for his back, which he wasn’t able to shave by himself. There’s a lamp and a computer on his desk; they must be plugged into something. But he doesn’t realize this right away. You watch, see everything so clearly miles before it happens.

  “There. I’ve got it!” he says like a little boy, standing there in his underpants, so excited and trusting. It’s a different moment than before, and so you change directions.

  “I’ve brought some proper panties for you,” you say, and because the boundaries are being erased, and you’re becoming him in a way, you feel such tenderness when his heart jigs. It’s such a little thing, but to him everything. What wouldn’t we give to those we love? And clarity is, above all, love. A taking-unto and soaking in the soup of our common consciousness. That’s why you have to be so careful. It erases all the lines, and so you could lose yourself, you feel so close sometimes, wonder if when he lifts his foot and pulls the fabric up his leg, and then the other side, is he going to walk away as you, and will you walk away as him? Will you put on the masculine suit and the black socks and frumpy trousers, the heavy body with such big, soft hands? Will you walk away thirty years older, in another life, with a woman and child waiting at home? Will you roam through the attic and the crawl spaces of his professorial mind? All those books, so much learning and wisdom. Would there be any room for who and what you’ve brought with you?

  “There now. That’s better,” you say when he stands up to show you. You haven’t stinted. Black satin with French lace edging, extra large. “How does that feel?”

  He doesn’t have to say anything, you can see how it feels. “Mmmmm,” you say, and you want to touch him right there but you don’t. He wants to tell you all about it, but you put your finger on his lips. “Later,” you whisper. “There are some things first.” So you turn him, have him put his hands on the desk, and then you flick on the shaver. The head is a little cold; you’re sorry, but it’s in a good cause. You use the large head first, which shears the long hairs, then switch to the smaller head, which clips off the bristly ends, brings it right down to skin. “There,” you say, in a dance, in a poem. “Now I can see you.”

  “Thank you,” he whispers. He knows better, now, what is happening. That he is becoming you.

  “Would you like to put on the top?” you ask, and he nods, just barely. He doesn’t want to admit it, how much he wants it. So you pull it out of your bag. Very slowly, there’s no hurry at all, and the blood shoots to his face, he’s so suddenly crimson and near-despe
rate, but he stays quiet somehow, you love him for that.

  It’s one of the hardest things to get used to with this level of clarity: how much you love, how deeply, how you feel like you’d do anything to satisfy and serve.

  “Do you want me to put it on you?” you ask. Coyly, just a hint of a smile. His heart is bursting out of his chest, he wants it so much. But he doesn’t want to ask. “Just nod your head a little,” you say, standing so close to him but not touching.

  He nods his head, closes his eyes, lifts his arms a little so you can slide the black satin in place. You try not to brush against his nipples but it’s difficult; he shudders once when you do and you want to do it again but your fingers smooth the straps instead, arrange the lace around his flesh. He does have some of the right flesh, and there is padding in the satin.

  “How is that?” you breathe, and he moans, a low, weak noise of pleasure.

  “You can touch yourself,” you say, because he’s still so shy. “Arrange the fit.” But he doesn’t move. He’s transfixed, floating in a pot of pure honey.

  “I’m going to do up the clasp at the back,” you say. “You tell me if it’s all right.” He doesn’t move, doesn’t make a sound, so you fit the hooks in place and he stops breathing. “Is it too tight?”

  Not a sign. Then, slowly, a trembling sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” you say, still purring. “But I’m going to need some financial assistance for these things I’ve bought for you. Did you bring a chequebook?” He doesn’t move at all, seems locked in a trance, and there is just a moment of uncertainty, a bittersweet reminder of the normal muck and drudgery of existence.

  But then he says, “Oh, of course,” and he moves around to the other side of the desk, the professor side, which you are inheriting just as he is sliding past the boundaries into your young skin. You walk around to stand behind him, on the professor side, and you can’t help yourself, you reach down to play with his nipples, like a professor would, pluck the fruit, it’s there for you. He stops what he’s doing so you stop, then he finds his chequebook, has a hard time filling out the date and your name. It’s becoming his name, now, too. He’s sitting in black French satin lace with his shaved legs crossed and a hand on his breast.

  You tell him the number and he pauses. He doesn’t understand. “It’s so expensive being a woman,” you say. “But it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

  He does, and he writes the number with a flourish, hands over the cheque.

  “Do you want to see what else I’ve bought?” you ask, and he does. He can hardly contain himself, but you tell him there are a few things to do first. “I need to anoint you,” you say, “it’s part of being a lady. You’ve done such a lovely job with your body hair. It’s a shame about your eyebrows.” And he stiffens, he’s full of doubt and fear, you can feel the water running out of the moment. So you say, “It’s all right. You mustn’t resist. You will never become a lady if you resist.” And you wheel him around in his professor chair so that he’s facing you. You pull out your tweezers and little scissors and straddle his lap. “You mustn’t resist,” you say, and it doesn’t take long to arch him properly, to snip and pluck. “No one will notice,” you say. “I’m the only one who’ll know.”

  And then you do his face. You kiss him once, for luck, and take away his sideburns, then bring out the foundation and blusher, the liner and mascara, eyeshadow and lip gloss. You straddle his lap and every so often your breast brushes against his bra, you rock against his rigid centre. And you say, “I think you need to tell me your story,” so sweetly, so softly. He doesn’t want to talk, and yet in a way he does want to, you know he does, and you need to hear him. If you’re going to become the professor, you need to know his words and remember them. “Please,” you say, wheedling, rubbing yourself against his satin, just briefly, just the tiniest touch. “Tell me what this is all about. Please tell me so I’ll be the only one who knows.”

  So he starts. While you’re working on his face, transforming him, he tells you about the woman who came to visit one summer when he was thirteen. “She was only eighteen, the daughter of my father’s friend from Germany,” he says, his eyes down, manner grave, he is so relieved to be telling this. “Mariana. She came to learn English for the summer, and to look after me when my parents were at work. She had enormous blonde ringlets and a wide, healthy, beautiful face, and big shoulders. She might as well have been thirty, she seemed so beautiful, unattainable. I didn’t have any sisters or brothers. I was fascinated with her. I had no clues about my own body, you see, but I was just beginning to wake up. We did things together. She wanted me to talk to her all the time in English, so I did, I jabbered, and secretly I read books way beyond my years. Henry Miller and Lady Chatterley and Simone de Beauvoir. My parents stocked the house with modern literature and I sought out all the dirty bits to learn about life in the adult world.”

  You dab and brush and cream him, soothe the spots that have just lately been made naked, and when he pauses you say something small, to keep him going. “And Mariana?” you say, and he starts again.

  “We went to the beach one time,” he says. “It was a hot, hot summer day, just the two of us, and she had on a wonderful red one-piece bathing suit with a little skirt at the bottom. It seemed to hide nothing, especially when it was wet. I could see the outline of her rigid nipples, her areolae. I could see the indentation of her belly button and where the fabric stretched between her legs. She didn’t shave her underarms. I was shocked. She looked so manly for that, I thought. But she also had fluffs of black pubic hair showing between her legs, on her swimsuit line. I couldn’t keep from looking. It had never occurred to me that women could have hair there too. All I knew was from the few Playboy centrefolds I’d seen, which back then never showed any private hair, it was pink glossy skin all the way up and down. The pubic area was always coyly hidden, but I never knew that. It was a rude awakening. I couldn’t believe it. I thought she must be a mutant or something.”

  Brush and daub, careful with the colour. You pull the wig out of your bag, slowly too, so he can see and enjoy every stretch of it, get his mind around it: the long black curls, a little crimped in the pack, but they’ll brush out well. His eyes widen, he can’t find the proper words, but sits still, very ladylike, while you fit him and then brush. “Mariana,” you whisper again, and he doesn’t want to talk any more but he must. It’s part of the package.

  “When we got home she hung her bathing suit in the bathroom to dry,” he says. “I took it down off the bar just to examine it more closely. It didn’t look like much. It seemed small, as if it might fit a child. I made sure the door was locked, and I didn’t know really what I was doing, but for some reason I stepped into it. You see, we were about the same height, although I was much skinnier. I pulled it on and stretched the straps over my shoulders and looked at myself. I was so turned on, I didn’t know what was happening, I just started touching myself, rocking back and forth … and then …”

  You brush and wait.

  “Then, of course, I came right in Mariana’s swimsuit. I thought somehow I was peeing, but it wasn’t that, it was utterly, utterly sweet, and I was terrified about the mess. I rinsed it out and rinsed, but the semen was so sticky, of course. I tried soap and hot water. I scrubbed. Mariana was asking me through the door if I was all right. I was fine, I was brilliant. I never recovered.” He says it ruefully, a touch of a smile and of sadness, and you can’t help it, you love him for it, and you love Mariana, that’s the clarity working in your mind.

  “You look so lovely,” you say, “you need to see yourself.” But there is no mirror in his office; it’s a male professor’s office. “Will you trust me a little more?” you murmur, still brushing his hair out. “I’d like you to be able to see yourself.” Yes, he trusts you, he’s already taken his heart out of his chest and placed it shivering in your hands. So you pull out your camera and he tightens. It’s a terrible, frightening moment, both of you on the verge of shattering right
there. “It’s all right,” you say, “don’t worry. It’s digital. There’s no developing. I just want you to see in the viewer.” So you snap, quickly. You’re nervous, despite the clarity. The glassiness of the moment is still sharp in your gut. And you show him. It’s so tiny, the LCD screen, but it’s something. He’s transfixed by his image, like Narcissus. And all of a sudden it’s the perfect thing, the camera, it’s absolutely what’s needed, he can’t get enough of it.

  Every new bit of clothing you bring out, he wants to see himself. You pull out the strapless spandex body liner. He squirms into it, can hardly keep his hands from running up and down himself. You almost forget the stockings, he’s so excited, you’re so excited. He wants the red leather dress, my God, he’s paid for it, he wants it, he’s almost drooling in anticipation. He almost skips the stockings but you get him to slow down, not be time’s fool. It will be over in a second anyway, in half a thought; you have to linger, not be taken in by the rush. “A lady is allowed to be late,” you say. And so he stretches out his leg, points his toe, and you roll the stocking up to his thigh, then do the other, and he’s a little disappointed you bought stay-ups, no need for a garter belt. But it isn’t serious. When he’s had more time as a lady he’ll realize the fasteners are tedious, that the thick, lacy elastic hugging your upper thigh is far sexier.

  “I want this to be a Mariana kind of moment,” you say to him. “I want it to reverberate through the rest of your life.” And he smiles, is speechless, but it’s perfect. “I want you to replay every moment, to have this in your mind forever. Is that too much to ask?”