Talking to her over those beers was a unique experience. I saw someone who was really listening to me, asking me to explain things that I had thought apparent. It was not the “politeness” one sees on first dates that I felt coming from her, but an interest and a willingness to comprehend fully and share my experiences. For that is her way. I was later to see her converse in that way with many people.
I had the same interest about her. We discovered that we had much in common. We were both involved in working with the “emotionally ill,” and had both gone through the child-rearing, broken-marriage phases.
I could write and write and write and still not explain what there was so special about this woman that made me move in with her a few weeks later.
Q: Nothing? Think hard.
A: … Perhaps it would be her full acceptance of me as I am that I cherish most. In this way she is very much like my father.
For example, when I described her in Chapter 6 as a cross between an Irish colleen and an aging Debbie Reynolds she was clearly bothered.
“Maybe it’s just my association, but I’ve always considered Debbie Reynolds to be insipid, plastic, superficial,” she said, some hours after reading what I had written. “I should like to have been described differently.”
I told her that I meant the description purely in physical terms, that I had no such tacky associations with Debbie Reynolds.
“How would you like me to describe you?” I asked. I offered Julie Harris as a substitute for Debbie Reynolds.
“No. I don’t want that. Although I’m fonder of Julie Harris, I’d feel worse if you changed the description. You’ve got to write as you see things. If I have trouble accepting it, it’s my problem to work out, not yours.”
Q: And since you’ve met her you’ve given up your philandering?
A: That’s correct.
Q: Do you now think that your adventures along the Tantric Road were, perhaps, a belated adolescence?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Or caused by your not finding enough satisfactions in your marriage to Eivor?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Or do you think you might have stopped your amorous adventures simply because you were tired and getting on in years?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Would you ever do anything like that again if the fancy should strike you?
A: I don’t know.
Q: Can’t you say anything more than “I don’t know?”
A: Not really. It’s all too close for me to have a proper perspective.
I do know that I would be reluctant to jeopardize another relationship by going through that scene again. Yet, if I felt as impelled to do it as I had in the past, of course I would follow my instincts. What else could I do?
I don’t see myself as having gone from “total unconventionality” to “total conventionality,” as you put it earlier. I am not that type.
Also, if you will allow me to get on with the conclusion of my Tantric summer, I think you will understand more fully some of my current attitudes.
XXXI-Tantric Road (concluded)
Thursday, September 3
While it was my very first convention, it was what I had always presumed a convention would be. A place far from home, where the program served as a pretext to renew old friendships and to fuck up a storm.
Perhaps my judgment is Neanderthal. It is possible that some folks learned a few new psychological gimmicks. Particularly if they were unfamiliar with the field. Yet most of the conventioneers, I am certain, knew it all before they arrived. Even if they pretended to themselves that they didn’t.
The biggest difference between this gathering of psychologists and conventions sponsored by the Knights of Columbus is, I suppose, that there were as many females in attendance as there were males. A man didn’t have to sit in the hotel saloon and revel with some professional or semi-professional bar girl. This was more of a family affair.
Miami itself is a dreadful city. At least the beach section where we were staying is. Hot, humid, and tacky beyond belief. The ocean, the temperature of warm piss. What must once have been a lovely beach had long since disappeared, submerged under the concrete patios of hotels, motels, and souvenir shops. And each section of sea fronting each hotel, fenced off from that of the neighboring residence.
What ugliness. Nature so despoiled.
And what wasteful decadence. Hundreds of over-chlorinated salt-water swimming pools twenty feet from the ocean itself.
This grotesquery was exceeded, if that is possible, by the hotel’s interior. Plastic chairs and plastic sofas. Plastic flowers and plasticized wooden tables. Garish color schemes of chartreuse and purple, blue and pink. And the style! Imitation eighteenth-century next to neo-Bauhaus—all of this sprinkled with Woolworth avant garde.
A combination Walt Disney, out-of-Bensonhurst modern. With a bit of Loew’s State Theater and reformed synagogue thrown in on the side.
The dining room menu was equally absurd. Nothing so simple as mashed potatoes. Rather, “Fluffed Creamy Earth Apples.” The creamed spinach was transformed into “Spinach Dubonnet.” And it was that way all down the line, from appetizers to desserts. You needed an interpreter to order some very basic American fare. But the Cuban waiters spoke cockamamie English.
As if exotic terminology could transform a sow’s ear into a roast duckling.
And with all of this schlock, they had the nerve to attempt to make us go along with it. By insisting we wear jackets and ties to the dining room. Of course I refused. And of course I was served anyway.
In many ways this ghastly experience alone was worth the price of admission. For I had previously believed that such stories of tastelessness were exaggerated. This is not to say that there were no pluses in Miami for me. There were.
For one, I traveled down with Chris. It was good to share meals and talks and opinions with him. For another, it was rather like old-home week. I bumped into dozens of old friends and acquaintances that I had met along the encounter circuit: group leaders, group members, and just plain groupers.
Lisa was there—the very same Lisa of my EXPLORATION OF SEXUALITY WEEKEND. We spent Monday night exploring each other anew, until, heavy with fatigue in the middle of some new discovery, we fell asleep.
On Tuesday morning I spotted the Boyles. Mary was laying some incredibly heavy, shitty women’s-lib trip down on Tom, while trying to caucus some women’s contingent of disgruntled female therapists to protest some offense or other committed by us male chauvinist pigs. I talked to Tom about my visit in June, my cop-out, and our unfinished business. But he was not really up to completing it just now. Nor was I, for that matter.
That same night I met Beth. A lovely case worker about thirty years old, who had been a member of the very first on-going group that Anthos ever sponsored. We got it all together as well.
All during the convention people were exuberantly hugging and touching and coming on to one another. And having after-hour parties in various suites. One naked orgy took place on someone’s yacht.
The pussy was so plentiful, so available, so continual—day and night—that balling soon became as unimportant as dropping your drawers to take a shit, merely a bodily function that released a certain tension, but nothing more. And very little tension at that, since there was not much chance of accumulating too great a charge between fucks.
The nicest aspect of the convention—aside from the time I spent with Beth—was not sexual at all. It was, rather, a professional instance of the “Woodstock phenomenon.” It was being treated as, and feeling like, a respected and respectable member of a psychological society. For here I was no longer the pariah I had been in traditional psychoanalytic circles. Here I existed alongside similar so-called “freaks” who were freeing life and sex from the complexes that Freud had insisted they have. People who could come together, touch together, fuck together, and seemingly enjoy the simplicity and beauty of it all.
Without Oedipus. Or father fixations
. Or mutual recriminations. Or despair.
Wednesday night, tired from all the fucking, I stayed up into the late hours with Chris. I talked with friends in the hotel lobby. I went out for ice cream at two in the morning. It was as good and fulfilling an evening as any of the others I had spent.
Flying back today I came to realize why the convention wasn’t as high a point in my life as it was for some others. It was simply because I had achieved the same freedom in my everyday existence that most people allow themselves only at convention time.
Thursday, September 10
I would have preferred it if Eivor had returned with me to the city. For Labor Day had passed and the summer vacation was officially over. Yet she chose to stay at the beach for another week.
Things are quieter between us right now. No great passion, but no great strife either. Rather, it is a period of respectful distance alternating with respectful familiarity. That feels much better than the strife that was going on before, and I am grateful for the change.
Beth rescued me from the quiet loneliness I would have otherwise felt spending this midweek alone in New York, away from my sons and my wife.
Oh, Beth. You are such a sweet delight. You have the hands of an angel. The most delicate, delicious touch that I have ever experienced in my entire life. And a goodness, an openness, a sincerity that is profoundly spiritual, profoundly religious.
And you can screw with the best of them.
Who would believe that such an innocent, powerful, and uncomplicated sensuality could have survived, much less developed, through those ten years you spent as a nun? Yet how else can one account for the fact that your fingers are so sexually developed, that a light massage from you is more exciting than most of the fucks I have had in my life?
I look forward to seeing you again, Sister Jean-Marie.
Sunday, September 13
So what does it all mean—this summer, the Tantric path, this journal, life itself?
I would say that I have become progressively disillusioned by my experiences. And I mean that in a most positive sense: the abandonment of illusions. For I think that it is only through disillusionment that one obtains any semblance of wisdom.
The world is composed of pitch-men. Carnival barkers hyping the rubes: “Just step behind this tent and see the wonders of wonders.” Books that profess to be “the greatest story ever told.” Films that are the “best ever.” The Playmate of the Month, of the year, of the century.
See a psychoanalyst and achieve mental health. Become a devout Catholic and be assured free passage to heaven. Marry a millionaire and your troubles are over.
But of all the pitches—of all the illusions—I suppose that sexual freedom is the greatest seducer. Find orgastic happiness—drop your load wherever you wish—and the world is your oyster. And of course it is not.
I have seen fools wreck themselves by acting on the illusion that you can always go one better, that you can always get a little higher. To achieve still wilder heights, they fuck in threes, then fours, then by the dozen. And after the orgies they still seek another peak. All of the time. Their unwillingness to accept what the reality is leads them next into the continual use of drugs with sex. First pot. Then the stronger psychedelics—psilocybin, mescaline, LSD. Then amyl nitrate, the “popper.” Or DMT. Or “parsley.” Or any other new, freaky, untried, untested drug or letter combination on the market.
Extra added occasional spice in the sexual stew can be delicious indeed. But when one cannot savor the stew without it, the spice becomes a bitter herb.
For pleasure to exist in life or sex, one must be willing to pay the price of pain. Joy exists only in relation to something less pleasant. Continual happiness would be continual boredom. It loses its meaning. It cannot be achieved. For life is pulse. You can’t have love without hate, war without peace, an up without a down, an in without an out, or a high without a low.
And of course you cannot have a life without a death.
Every choice man makes he pays a certain price for. And each must decide what he can afford. When I was younger I was faithful to my women. And they were more likely to be faithful to me. But the price I paid for that was the feeling of imprisonment. I also came to resent the jailers that I voluntarily chained myself to. And when the bars seemed too oppressive, I would break free of them, only to find another captor.
With Eivor I am free. No prison exists for me at home. I have known her for nearly eight years now, longer than I have stayed with any other woman. But the cost is an occasional Phillip. Or her periodic bouts of unavailability. Or impatient contempt.
Still, I am willing to pay that price.
For I have come to know some lovely people. And touched them deeply. And been touched in return. And that is enough. And perhaps all that there is.
What do I have to look forward to? Some fun and games, such as films to make and books to write. Serious books—whatever that may mean. On psychotherapy. On prisons. On some of the social issues of the day. But I doubt that I shall ever submit this journal for publication.
I would like to see it in print, if only to destroy the notion that privacy is necessary; that there are things that are better left unsaid; that sexuality is somehow sinful and ought to occur only in unlit rooms or in the locked-in recesses of the mind. Still, such is the hypocrisy of the times (or is it merely the reality of the day?) that I fear my professional credibility will be discounted. As if a therapist who enjoys and is open to guilt-free fucking cannot make any relatively objective comments in that or any other “respectable” area.
And then there are other Gestalts that ask for completion in the future. A sexual encounter with Tom Boyle is a minor one. More important is the death of my father and my own demise. I do not look forward to either one. But I suppose there is no sense in dwelling on the matter. Nature will arrange these events at her own convenience.
As for my life with Eivor? I do love her very much. I also find that should fate—or her own will—take her away, there are many other people I could love and live with. People I love right now. Paradoxically, the more I find myself capable of loving others, the more I am determined to hold on to what I have with my wife. For we have a long history with one another. And that is something very special indeed. And children who can profit from our differences of view, from our squabbles, and from our togetherness.
Yet, if only she were cuntier toward me.…
XXXII
Last week, Judy and I were invited to a party given by Ben, the same Ben who attended my couples’ workshop last summer. I spent the entire evening talking to Judy.
As we were about to leave, our host—a smile on his face and a drink in his hand—told me that he was very disappointed in me. “Here I invite you to my house thinking that you’re a big sexual swinger, and all you do is sit in a corner and talk to your girlfriend. You’ve really copped-out. You’re like any other married man. What happened to you?”
“I haven’t changed a bit,” I answered. “If you saw me before as a ‘swinger,’ or see me now as a Reader’s Digest homebody, you’re missing the point. What I did last summer I did because that was what I wanted to do. And I’m still doing what I want to do tonight.”
A semicircle of people had formed about us. I could see that Ben felt let down. He had invited me here tonight not only because he liked me, but because I was a “celebrity” of sorts, a sexual guru, a man who would lead the way and spice up his party.
Liking Ben as I do, I stood at the door for another twenty minutes—Judy snuggled beneath one arm—titillating and teasing his guests with stories from The Love Treatment.
“Do you go to bed with people who see you?” one Long Island housewife, wearing “hot-pants” asked.
“I haven’t gone to bed with anyone but Judy in the six months I’ve known her.”
“How come?”
“I haven’t felt like making it with anyone else. It isn’t worth the hassle. For one thing, I’m phenomenally well taken care
of. And for another, I wouldn’t want to jeopardize what I have. Or cause Judy pain. Because I love her.”
“How would you feel if he slept with someone else?” asked Ben.
“If he wants that, he should do it,” Judy steadfastly explained. “I want my man to have every experience he can before he dies. If it disturbs me, it’s my problem to deal with it, not his.”
Our performance over, we went home.
Judy.
I’ve saved you for last. You are the dessert at the end of the meal, the treat I’ve promised myself for working on this book. It is easier to write about you than about all of the rest.
We are so much alike in many ways. You could no more stand the ass-kissing required of an actress than I could stand the ass-licking required of a therapist.
You take care of business. If there is something you can do on your own, you don’t like to ask someone else to do it for you.
You are a proud woman, but not sassy about it.
You are self-conscious about calling yourself a drama therapist, yet you are a far better therapist than I am.
You admire my writing, yet for writing, too, you display more talent than I.
Your humility is both your greatest virtue and your greatest vice.
You return from your work at the hospital and tell me of all the inanities practiced by one of the psychoanalysts there. When I tell you that you ought to lead groups regularly, you say that you don’t have the answers. And that’s what makes you so good. That, plus your instinctive compassion, empathy, and ability to say what you feel.
The only difference between us is that I am more willing to be arrogant about my ignorance than you are. You needn’t know what IS. To know what is not is sufficient.
You are honest. I know where you stand.
You are half my size and half my weight. Yet when we lie in bed, we are equals.
I don’t consider you a “sexy” woman. Yet I have done more touching and been touched, done more fucking and been fucked, done more loving and been loved, than at any other time in my life.
The Reluctant Exhibitionist Page 20
