Alternatives to Sex

by Stephen McCauley

  “No, I’m not cooking. I’m sitting in the living room. I’m alone, reading. At some point I’ll probably wander into the kitchen and pop a frozen dinner in the microwave.” I wasn’t sure why I bothered lying to Edward about Didier since he seemed to suspect everything anyway, but I hated facing his disapproval, and I felt that talking about it would put me in a weaker position for the next subject I wanted to bring up. “You never responded to the message I left you a few days ago. You didn’t even acknowledge receiving it.”

  “I was doing you a favor. You left it in a moment of sentimental weakness. I didn’t take it seriously and I won’t hold it against you.”

  “But I meant it seriously. I don’t want you to move.”

  “Why not?”

  “You won’t be happy there. You won’t be happy working for Marty. You’ll miss your apartment, your friends, a few of the things you actually like about Boston, and everything you hate. I promise you.”

  “You’re so selfless, William. You’re always thinking of me and my needs, never about your own.”

  “But I am thinking about my own,” I told him. “I’ll miss you. I miss you already, and you haven’t even left.” I had a strange feeling that I was being pulled along by a strong current, although the direction I was headed wasn’t clear to me.

  “And why is that?”

  “We’ve got a lot of unresolved issues, you and I.”

  “Oh, really? What are you talking about? Your commission on the apartment? Books I borrowed from you that I haven’t returned? That forty dollars you loaned me last year?”

  “I’m talking about emotions, Edward. I’m talking about friendship. I’m talking about love.”

  Love is such a small, shapeless word, so easy to throw around, but it takes up an enormous amount of space in a conversation. I heard my voice becoming choked with feeling or, as Edward had called it, sentimental weakness. I heard Edward’s long exhausted sigh. What I didn’t hear was Didier picking up the phone in the next room.

  “I always hate to interrupt, Mr. Collins,” he said. “But your dinner is ready.”

  Ulterior Motives

  “You ruin everything for me,” I told Didier. “You rush in at the worst moment and make endless complications for me.”

  “I did not ruin the dinner,” he said.

  That was true. The food was a smashing success, even if his announcement of it had caused Edward to hang up his phone without saying good-bye.

  “So who is this you were proclaiming love to on the phone?”

  “It was my friend Edward. You’ve heard me mention him a few times.”

  “Yes, of course. He is the center of your life. And if you’re so in love with him, why aren’t you fucking him? Oh, I forgot, you aren’t fucking anyone. You have become celibate for reasons that no one knows, especially you.”

  “I have something for you,” I said. I pulled out of my pocket the little bottle of scent Sean had made and passed it to him across the dining room table. He took it out of its velvet sack, uncapped it, and waved it back and forth under his thin nose. “It was made especially for you, Mr. Didier. I told the perfumer a few of my impressions, a couple of the very few incontrovertible facts I know about your life, and this is what he came up with.”

  He passed the bottle under his nose once again, this time with greater interest and concentration. “If that is so, Mr. Collins, then you told the perfumer I’m a dirty person. My soul is soiled.”

  “Your soul?”

  “It’s all here in this bottle. Well, thank you for the compliment. But why give me a bottle of expensive perfume if you don’t want to keep me coming back, if you don’t want to be my lover?”

  “It’s a gesture of friendship,” I said. “Can’t someone give someone else a present without an ulterior motive, especially one involving sex?”

  “There are always ulterior motives, Mr. Collins, and they always involve sex. There are no other ulterior motives.”

  I thought about this for a minute. “I disagree, Mr. Didier. There are all kinds of other ulterior motives. There’s money, for example. There’s real estate, which I suppose is the same thing. There’s chicken. In some cases, there’s love.”

  He recapped the bottle and slid it into the tight front pocket of his pants. “Yes, love. There is that. But not for me, Mr. Collins, and probably not for you, either. Wait here while I get dessert.”

  Intentions

  I insisted that I drive Kumiko to the yoga class to avoid the ridiculous expense of her taking a taxi, hoping she might pass the savings on to me. I also wanted to make sure we arrived at the studio together, since I also dreaded the idea of walking into such a place alone for the very first time. We met at the appointed hour in the driveway, and she spent several minutes arranging her props in the backseat, making sure I understood the favor she was doing me by loaning me some of her Styrofoam bricks and canvas straps. As soon as I closed the door on the driver’s side of my car, she placed a disapproving hand on my arm and gave me a stern look. “What’s that smell?” she asked.

  “Smell? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I smell something. Cologne, aftershave, strong soap, hair spray, shampoo, scented laundry detergent, mouthwash, shaving cream; I can’t tell exactly what it is.”

  “I don’t wear perfume,” I said. “Nor do I wear aftershave or cologne, or hair spray. If you’re accusing me of shaving, showering, or washing my clothes, I’m guilty.”

  “You’re coming from hostility, William.” She stared at me with a look of wounded indignation. “I can’t bring you into the class if you’re wearing perfume. It invades other people’s space. Some have allergies. People go to look inward, into themselves, and if someone’s there gobbling up all the oxygen in the room with their chemical odor, it’s a distraction and potential health hazard.”

  “Speaking of invading someone’s space,” I said, “I’d rather we didn’t discuss the smell of my body right now.” I revved the engine, put the car into gear, and backed out of the drive at a reckless speed.

  “I don’t feel comfortable paying for someone who’s wearing perfume. It’s against Dotty’s rules. She owns the school.”

  “Don’t pay for me,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’ll pay for you, unless that would make you feel compromised, too.”

  “Dotty prefers we pay for the entire semester in advance, so that’s what I did. But I appreciate the offer. I want you to know I feel terrible about missing the last payment or two.”

  Since Kumiko had missed the last fifteen or twenty payments, I didn’t see any point in responding.

  The yoga studio turned out to be less than a mile away from the house, a short pleasant walk, especially if you were on the way to an exercise class. Upon entering the place, I felt a new wave of resentment about the perfume conversation; the sweet smell of incense was so strong, it would have been impossible to detect anyone’s body odor, no matter how many layers of scent they were wearing. Kumiko greeted several other students with clasped hands, a shallow bow, and a word that was undoubtedly meant to be Sanskrit. A simple hello was obviously inadequate here.

  In its previous incarnation, the studio had been an insurance agency, and there was something recognizably corporate about the gray wall-to-wall carpeting and the vertical blinds over the windows. One aspect of my spiritual quest I had not considered was that I’d have to stand in a room with Kumiko and expose my long arms and legs. I don’t know why it bothered me so much, since I had no compunction about entering a stranger’s house and exposing my entire body within seconds of meeting, but partial nudity always makes me feel more vulnerable than full disclosure.

  Kumiko spread a mat on the floor, neatly lined up some of the props, and ordered me to settle in by pointing her finger.

  There were a couple of dozen other people in the room, an admirable assortment of ages and sizes, most of them folding themselves into peculiar shapes, staring into the distance with a look of studied calm, or do
ing some form of deep, sonorous breathing. I tried my best to achieve invisibility by closing my eyes and contemplating my reasons for being there. The reasons were related somehow to spirituality, I remembered that much, but the specifics had already grown dim. I was haunted by Didier’s comments on love, which I felt were accurate but insulting, and related to the spiritual question, although the connection was again foggy.

  I was saved from further contemplation by the sound of a gong and the sudden appearance of Dotty at the front of the room. She was a fleshy woman with a crestfallen expression, a rumpled face, and a mane of gray hair. Not the specimen of youthful physical perfection I had been expecting, but that made me feel more comfortable in her presence and certain that she had something profound to offer. She lit a small cone of incense and seated herself, Buddha-style, on a round pillow.

  “Before we begin,” she said, “I have a couple of brief, important announcements to make.” She had a weary, heartbroken voice, and she spoke in a stage whisper that had the curious effect of drawing you towards her, physically. “Next Monday, there will be no six-thirty class, but there will be an extra class on the following Monday at seven-forty-five. On the Tuesday of the first week, to accommodate the people who can’t attend the Monday makeup on the second week, the usual five-forty-five class will be held at six-thirty instead. That means, obviously, that the seven o’clock class will be canceled on that first Tuesday. Unless I decide to cancel them both, plus a third. I was going to print out a new schedule, but I don’t want to be forced to pass that expense on to you.” She took a tissue out of a box beside her pillow and blew her nose. “Given the number of makeup classes I’m considering holding, I cannot offer anyone who has prepaid for the semester a refund. Now, a couple more quick things. On Wednesday, Shira will substitute for Chandra. That means, obviously, that Shira’s regular class that morning will be canceled. The makeup Shira class will be the Chandra class, so there will not be a refund for that cancellation. Please call first because I’m thinking about canceling all the classes at the end of the week due to a peace vigil I might be holding.”

  I couldn’t tell if anyone was absorbing this information, but most of the other students were listening attentively and at least making a noble effort at appearing engaged. As far as I could tell, everything had been canceled and no money was being refunded. Dotty settled herself into the pillow, getting ready for what turned out to be round two of the announcements.

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Mika Panjellini’s hamstring workshop on the second Saturday of next month is going to be canceled again. She’s back in the hospital.” This announcement was greeted with a collective groan of sympathy that I joined in on so that Dotty wouldn’t think I lacked empathy. “If you’ve already prepaid for the workshop, I can, if you insist, either refund you some portion of the four hundred dollars or apply a bigger portion of it to a full-day workshop on shoulders I might be thinking about offering next June. And by the way, Tony and I are trying to find a place in Truro for the month of August, so if anyone has a three-or four-bedroom house on the ocean they’d like to loan us for the month, see me after class. Now. Shall we begin? We have one newcomer today, and I hope you’ll all welcome him. What’s your name?”

  “William Collins,” I said.

  “What is it again?”

  “William Collins.”

  “I’ll try to remember. It’s easier if you’ve prepaid for the entire semester and I have it on record. Don’t compare yourself with anyone else, just follow along as best you can and be in the posture you’re in, not the posture you think you ought to be in because I’m telling you to get into it. Is that clear?”

  “Absolutely.” Her words were addressed to me, but she was making eye contact with everyone else, the more reliable paying customers, I suppose.

  “Unfortunately, I won’t be able to explain everything and slow down the entire class and change my whole plan for this evening simply to accommodate one person who’s never practiced yoga before and is paying for the class strictly on a drop-in basis.”

  “I understand completely.”

  “I’d like the people who’ve prepaid for the entire semester to move up to the front of the room so I can give you more attention.”

  Once the bodies had been reshuffled, Dotty again struck a gong.

  “Close your eyes and choose an intention,” she advised. “Why are you here tonight? What is it you’d like to accomplish? Identify it. Commit to it. Breathe into it.”

  Whatever thoughts I’d had about enriching my spiritual life, or even, more fleetingly, about coming to terms with the question of love, had been pushed aside by Dotty’s rambling monologue. The front wall of the room was covered in a mirror and when I opened my eyes, I saw Kumiko standing in the first row, glaring at me.

  “Lift your shoulders,” Dotty instructed, “and open them like a big, multicolored umbrella. Your head is a proud, strong flying saucer. Bend from the waist like a wide-brimmed hat. Think about a stained glass window and breathe into it. Do not forget your intention for the evening. Why did you come here? What is it you want to get out of this class?”

  I looked back at Kumiko and mouthed, as clearly as I could, “I want the rent.”

  So So

  “That was so, so unyogic of you,” Kumiko said as we drove home. “You used me. You claimed you want spiritual fulfillment and you dragged money and commerce into the class. I don’t know if I’ll be able to go back.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I’ve worked in advertising and real estate, and in neither field have I heard so much discussion of finances as I did in that class. I have a question for you.”

  “More demands. What more can I do for you, William? What?” She looked out the passenger side window, driven, apparently, to despair.

  “It’s a simple question. Your real name—what is it?”

  Automatically, without realizing what she was doing, she said, “Esther.”

  I gloated silently the rest of the way home, and then, as we were driving up the hill to my house, I said, “It’s a very pretty name. Esther.”

  Uncluttering

  “I don’t understand why it’s taking you so long to clear out the marine’s condo,” Deirdre said at our next staff meeting. “I thought she’d agreed to the plan for uncluttering it.”

  “She has,” I said. “It’s a complicated situation. I had to rent a storage space and a U-Haul. She had to get prepared. Then she threw out her back. Then she had some hip problems. Then there was an ankle issue.” Even for Marty, the litany of health complaints seemed excessive. I’d begun to wonder if, despite her initial enthusiasm for selling, she was stalling for time. Her whole relocation plan struck me as ill conceived, perhaps more a product of Edward’s coercion—fueled by his desire to make changes—than anything she’d thought through seriously. “The newscasters haven’t lost interest, have they?”

  “Not yet,” Deirdre said. “They’re fiercely tenacious. Like a couple of hideous leeches.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve lost interest.” Mildred tossed the listing sheets onto the conference table. “This is the hottest real estate market in history, so if you can’t unload this place, William, something is wrong. I resent the amount of time we spend at these meetings on this place. I have a psychotherapy practice I have to attend to. I have a family.”

  I was certain that everyone else in the office was tired of discussing Marty’s condo, but fortunately, there was more general resentment of Mildred than of me, and the mysterious newfound respect of at least a couple of my coworkers.

  “You seem to be implying,” Deirdre said, “that you’re the only person with a family here. And just how do you define family? As I understand it, William is deeply involved in family life.”

  “More than one family life, in fact.” Exactly what Jack thought he meant by that was unclear to me, but I was touched by the fact that he was willing to rush to my defense.

  “The apartment will be cleared out this
weekend,” I said. “You can arrange the newscaster showing for Sunday morning.”

  “Fine,” Deirdre said. “I’ll stagger the appointments so no one’s killed during the walk-throughs. And you don’t need to be there, William, if you have something else to do.”

  “I’ll be spending quality time with my families,” I said.

  I ended up hiring a couple of teenaged brothers who lived down the hill from me to help move out Marty’s excess belongings. Like most of the teenagers you saw these days, they were unaccountably tall and big boned, as if they were the products of genetic tampering. Their father was a plumber, a grim man who was significantly younger than me and always appeared to be covered by a thin coat of dust. He spoke exclusively in the form of complaints, apparently irritated by life’s every detail beginning the minute he woke up. I liked listening to him complain, mostly because his disapproval of everything and everyone else made me feel he liked me. “They’ll do it,” he said when I asked him if his kids would like to make a few bucks. “They’re lazy and unreliable, but if I tell them to do it, they will.”

  They showed up that Saturday morning, tall and droopy-eyed, as if they’d just been dragged out of bed. Although one was reportedly two years older than the other, they looked like twins and had identically taciturn personalities. The three of us crowded into the front seat of the van I’d rented, and as I drove them to Marty’s, I tried to make conversation. It wasn’t until I started nattering on about real estate that I realized I knew nothing about the subjects that might interest them—sports teams? cars?—and that the substance of my usual friendly small talk—the housing market primarily—was completely outside of their world. Fortunately, my existence didn’t register on them. They communicated with each other in mumbled, sleepy insults, most of which came out as garbled variations on “Shut up” and “Fuck you.”

  Edward let us into Marty’s apartment. He and I hadn’t been in touch since Didier’s unfortunate interruption of my phone call with him, and I was so happy and relieved to see him, I went to throw my arms around him. But halfway into the embrace, Charlaine rushed in from another room and growled at me with such conviction, I retreated.