Ice Cream Man

by Charles Puccia

  “I don’t know what to say other than I’m sorry.” Sarah was using her professional voice.

  “Thanks, but I’m not here for pity. I want advice. You see, Dan’s not the only one with needs. A few months ago… uh, remember my idea about Dan and me with my UltraFit Gym trainer Ben?”

  Sarah and Betsy grunted. Back in the summer, Ginny had shared with them her fantasy about having Ben and Dan together. They had told her to drop the idea. In no uncertain terms.

  Ginny lowered her eyes for a second before looking up to speak. “I didn’t take your advice. I asked Ben if he’d be willing to pose for Dan and me. Not sex, but sexy. Remember that idea?”

  Heads nodded.

  “Ben declined. He even told me that my offer wasn’t the first. He offered to find some other bodybuilders looking for extra cash, but I said no, I wasn’t interested in a stranger, I wanted him.”

  Betsy waved her hand. “Good for Ben. A muscleman with common sense.”

  “Amen, amen,” sang Sarah. “Really, how could you think Dan would enjoy that scene? Sometimes you amaze me.”

  Ginny stuck out her tongue. “Fine. You’ll be happy to know that I dropped the idea.”

  After pausing to swallow her lie, Ginny began again. “But recently I’ve been thinking that Ben might reconsider if I say this helps Dan’s depression. Ben’s seen bodybuilders in deep depression losing a contest they should have won. Rigged. Judges influenced by money—or in other ways, if you get my drift.”

  “Every sport has skeletons. Payoffs, doping. So?” Sarah’s voice deepened.

  Giulio arrived then with their meals, and the women thanked him. Ginny drank her chamomile tea before she replied.

  “True, but it’s worse for bodybuilders, or at least it’s different. These guys take years to pack on fifty, sixty pounds of muscle. And the prize money on the way up is really small—unlike, say, for tennis pros. I mean, for a professional tennis player, you don’t even need Wimbledon in order to earn a good living. Besides, quantitative sports are judged on observables, like speed in track, for golf it’s par, and tennis the ball’s over the net. Subjective sports are much easier to fix. Ben’s won USA and Universe, but not Olympia because the right people didn’t back him. Bodybuilding politics are brutal. Ben’s even had to stay with men after losing, one guy for as long as a week, afraid he was suicidal. I feel the same about Dan.”

  “You don’t think Dan might do himself in?” said Betsy.

  “No! God, no, I don’t think so.”

  Sarah jumped in. “Ginny, take Dan to a doctor. Stop fooling around.”

  “I can’t. He’d hate me. Our marriage would be over if I forced him.”

  “And if he hurts himself, or worse? Where’s your marriage then? How could you live with yourself?”

  “Sarah, this isn’t helping. I wanted advice on how to convince Ben. Stop berating me and help me.”

  Betsy and Sarah looked at each other.

  “Think carefully,” Sarah said at last. “And please forget your sexual fantasy.”

  “I have; I told you that.” A lie, like the one she’d told when her mother found the bodybuilding magazines under her bed and asked her if she had sexual fantasies about musclemen.

  Ginny could tell neither friend believed her, though. She cursed her own denial, and her voice was loud enough to shock Giulio, who was approaching the table. He nervously piled dirty plates on his arm and avoided eye contact.

  In a soft voice, Betsy said, “Grazie, Giulio. Tutti sono buoni.”

  “Di niente. Volete altre?”

  Betsy moved her index finger from side to side with a slight movement of her wrist. “Va bene cosi.” Betsy’s college semester abroad in Italy had paid off.

  Outside Pane e Olio, Betsy directed Ginny to the side of the front door. “Here’s a thought: ask Ben to be Dan’s trainer. They’ll talk while Dan lifts. Man-to-man bonding. As you pointed out, Ben has experience with depressed overachieving men. He’s not a therapist, but that might be nearly as good.”

  “Maybe even better,” said Sarah. “I’ve had two therapists, and frankly, I wouldn’t be shocked to learn they both received their degrees online.”

  Ginny gave a faint smile of agreement. But like a chess master, Ginny was looking several moves ahead, seeing potential benefits for herself if Dan trained with Ben.

  Betsy angled her head. “You realize though that Ben can’t help Dan’s underlying psychology. Endorphins may lift Dan’s depression, but they won’t resolve his issue. He’ll still need therapy. You get that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, but it’s a good start. Betsy, you’re a genius.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere. Now tell me I’ve lost weight, I haven’t aged since college, and I look just as great as I did before having two kids.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed at Ginny. “Be honest. Is this still about your fantasy? Because if it is, that would be a really bad idea. Promise us you’ll focus on Dan.”

  Ginny promised.

  As her friends departed and Ginny walked away, she reflected on Ben. Do I limit my explanation to Dan’s depression, as I promised? Or do I reveal our intimacy problem? If the latter, I’m the other side of that equation, and Dan knows this. Does Ben need to know?

  She had no doubt that Ben could solve Dan’s problem—and hers. Forgot her promise. Ben would pose for her—and Dan, eventually. If I’m satisfied, then it helps Dan. But she would tell Ben about Dan’s needs first; for now, her needs would go to the back burner.

  In her somnambulant walk home, Ginny passed a bus pulled up at the curb. On its side panel was a Calvin Klein ad showing a man in underwear; he had rippling abs and a chest bifurcated into twin mountain peaks. Ginny turned to the storefront window, where her reflected image was superimposed onto the Calvin Klein Adonis.

  Her hand reached out.

  ****

  It was her mother, Anna Swinburne, who had forced Ginny to talk to Dan after a month of marriage. Actually, Anna had forced the issue by blabbing about sthenolagnia and alarming Dan. Even as his mother-in-law softened her message, telling Dan that sthenolagnia obsession was probably controllable, and maybe not even a problem, Dan had grown concerned, and one night he expressed that concern to Ginny.

  Shuffling closer to Dan on the couch in their New York rental, Ginny said, “You can’t believe my mother on everything. Yes, I like watching muscular men pose, but that’s all. Bodybuilding is a sport, just like your favorites, baseball and swimming. Look here.” Ginny opened her laptop and pulled up the website for an Atlantic City bodybuilding contest. “C’mon, maybe you’ll learn to like it too. We can go together.”

  “That’s not necessary,” Dan said. “You go. I’m not interested, and I’d ruin your fun. And the truth is, I’ve done some online research. Technically, sthenolagnia is sexual arousal from displaying strength or muscles, which doesn’t exactly describe you. I know you like muscular men, to watch feats of strength, but you also like academics, films, music, opera, and me. And I’m strong, too. Feel this.”

  Dan knew the routine Ginny liked. He’d been doing it ever since their first date—on her instruction. He flexed his arm, and a round mound surfaced underneath his shirt. Ginny gently pushed him, a signal for him to move to the floor. With his sleeve unbuttoned, Ginny inserted two fingers inside.

  “I love this arm.” She straddled Dan’s chest, helped him out of his shirt, and flung it aside. “This is good.”

  Next off were Dan’s pants, then his jockeys. Ginny took hold of Dan’s engorged penis and rubbed it against her vaginal area, over her trousers. With his non-flexed arm, he pulled Ginny’s stretch trousers from her narrow waist until they hinged on top of her pelvis.

  “Slip them down.”

  Her trousers clung to her ass, pulling her panties with them. Now naked, she slid down until her firm buttocks rested on Dan’s knees, her vagina fully exposed. For a half hour their spooled bodies, corded by flexing muscle and taut skin, channeled sweat created in a fa
iryland.

  Ginny loved feeling Dan’s strength. And she loved that her stethy distracted him from his fear that he’d lose her, his freak complex. She commanded and he obeyed. “Make them harder.” “Get bigger.” “Flex your pecs.”

  From Dan’s broad smile and his tiger’s teeth on her bosom, she knew Dan was satisfied. And now he’d be even more satisfied. She spread her legs to eternity, but kept Dan at bay until he cramped. She waited for him to beg.

  “Put me inside, please.”

  She did; and once he was in, only Ginny would decide if he’d ever emerge again.

  His final spasm shook Ginny, and his hard muscles tightened. Protected and secure, Ginny had taken refuge in Dan’s striated sinew.

  ****

  The bus pulled away and the reflected Calvin Klein man vanished. Ginny continued on home, satisfied with her conclusion: her obsession helped Dan. It gave him security and sublimated his jealousy. He never quizzed her about bodybuilders she knew, or her attendance at competitions; never about UltraFit or brawny office colleagues. Yes, her obsession helped their marriage. If ever she needed to harness her stethy it was now. And Ben was her harness.

  After Paris, she’d make another request of Ben. And this time he would agree.

  Chapter 12

  French Connection

  American Airlines Flight 103 from Kennedy reached its assigned bay at Charles de Gaulle airport on time. Ginny was out of her seat at the initial chime. She and Dan sailed through immigration to retrieve their luggage from the baggage carousel.

  From the bathroom, Ginny’s voice fluted across Le Meurice Hotel’s large living room suite. “What will you do about JJ?” She used the American shorthand for Jean-Jacques, their friend and Dan’s Paris counterpart at DV&N.

  “I don’t know. I feel like a fool.” Dan looked out across the Jardin des Tuileries to the temporary structure erected for Ginny’s “Bloomies” fashion show on Espace Ephémère Tuileries. The hotel was too far from DV&N’s Paris office, which was in the prestigious sixteenth arrondissement, to allow for a quick drop-in.

  “You’re acting foolish, Dan, but you’re not a fool. JJ was the best man at our wedding. He and Marion are our best friends.”

  With their suitcases nearly unpacked, Dan sat on the edge of the bed. “Did you have to invite them?”

  “How could I not? The papers, TV, and fashion magazines will cover the show. I’ll be interviewed. How would I explain to our closest friends we hadn’t invited them? Tell them you weren’t in the mood? It won’t be me who ends a friendship.”

  Ginny was right. Her friendship with JJ was a long one—a byproduct of Harvard’s MBA program. JJ and Ginny had been classmates, and after Dan started dating Ginny, he became good friends with JJ too.

  Placing his suitcase in the walk-in closet, Dan parked himself on the edge of the hotel bed, allowing his closed eyes to help him maintain his semi-hypnotic state. Dan’s prevailing thought ever since they had left home had been the same: Ginny’s in charge of my life.

  Before the trip, Dan had even hinted that he might stay home. And now, here he was in Paris. Two days until the big gala. Ginny would be busy preparing for the show, while Dan would be left to roam the museums and wallow in his depression.

  Dan lay back on the bed. He was exhausted already.

  ****

  The ten solid minutes of applause affirmed the show’s success. Models had spiraled a figure-eight runway that was designed to avoid gridlock, while flames had shot from a panoply of kettledrums. The cheers had rivaled those at a Springsteen concert.

  Dan had never doubted that Ginny’s show would be a huge success. And he was happy for her. But her success contrasted too sharply with his failure. She had overcome her challenges: Bloomingdale’s management had taken a chance on her inexperience because of her unbridled confidence. Dan had taken the opposite path: despite his qualifications, he had blown his chance due to fumbling and nerves.

  In prime runway position, Marion sat between Jean-Jacques and Dan. JJ stretched across Marion: “According to the catalog, a blouse can cost six thousand dollars; whole outfits run eighty-five-thousand or more. I hope Marion doesn’t ask for one.”

  The light banter, along with Marion’s voice, the sexiest Dan had ever heard, had distracted Dan for much of the show, but the crowd’s roar of applause had awoken Dan from his apathetic torpor. On the runway, Ginny was bowing to cheers, and her 3-D Amalfi-coast curves made her stand out among the plastic, wafer-thin supermodels. At the moment, Dan hated Ginny’s cheesecake smile.

  “Great. Ginny, that was fantastic. Very good,” he whispered.

  After the fireworks died down, JJ pulled Dan aside outside the tent. “What’s the matter, my friend? Why so glum?” But before Dan could answer, they heard shouting behind them.

  A short, compact man had stormed up to Ginny and was letting loose with a series of curses, first in French and then in English. “You slut Americans think you can come and take control of the French fashion industry! Americans are all whores and cultural imperialists. Look at the crap you showed today!”

  Dan and JJ hurried back to Ginny’s side.

  “I’m sorry you didn’t like the show,” Ginny said. Her hand was on her necklace and her voice was unsteady.

  The man screamed, “You offend me, you whore!”

  Ginny moved backward. Dan stepped forward to catch the man’s eye. Even without having exercised for the last two months, Dan could have picked up the smaller Frenchman and thrown him aside, just as he’d done with the ill-mannered swimmer.

  The Frenchman turned to Dan. “What do you want, you fucking American? You going to defend this bitch?”

  The man extended his arm toward Ginny, clearly intending to shove her, yet Dan didn’t move; it was JJ who acted. He stepped forward, but was farther away than Dan, and before he could reach Ginny she had stumbled backward in her high heels and fallen to the ground.

  Only then did Dan grab the Frenchman and pull him away.

  Dan had only frozen for one second at the most; he could have blamed it on reflexes. But that’s not what it was. For an instant, Dan had looked directly at his wife. The woman with whom he was no longer intimate. The controlling woman. The woman who made him believe that he was all she wanted. The woman who really wanted brawny oversized masculinity.

  And for that one second—for only that one second—Dan was hoping Ginny might be punished. It was a shameful thought, he knew, and he regretted it immediately.

  But worse, Ginny knew, too. In his delay Dan had seen Ginny’s face contort, her eyes lock on his with understanding and clarity. She knew that, if just for a moment, her husband had cheered on her attacker.

  She began to cry.

  JJ shouted French expletives at the man while Marion called security. Dan held Ginny until Marion returned, then Dan gave the guard his eyewitness account. Over his shoulder, Dan caught Ginny’s scorn reflected in her tears.

  With the man removed, Marion rubbed Ginny’s shoulder. Ginny’s wish to abort their dinner was countered by Marion: wine and food would give Ginny respite. Yet Marion’s winning point was unintended: “Don’t worry, we’ll leave you plenty of time in bed with your magnificent husband.”

  Dan watched Ginny, knowing his wife subtracted the restaurant time from that in bed with him.

  JJ and Marion struggled to keep up the conversation. The four strolled across the Jardin des Tuileries. Dan and JJ, a few steps ahead, had heard Marion implore Ginny to forget about that little French merde of a man. Ginny promised she would.

  I’m sure she will, Dan thought. Because she’ll be concentrating on her merde American husband.

  ****

  The early morning street clamor awoke Dan. He saw Ginny stretch, her silk negligee revealing full breasts, her nipples clinging to the fabric. Dan’s bent knees hid his arousal.

  “I’m meeting Marion today for lunch,” Ginny said. “I’m sure you can find something to do with yourself.” Cool words.

 
A year ago, the day would have started with a gentle coo of, “Hi sunshine, I love you,” followed by, “You look gorgeous, come back to bed.” Then sex. Then a shared shower and wetter sex.

  Now they spoke with answering machine “leave a message” intonations. As Ginny walked out the door, there was no kiss, no “I love you.” Just: “I’m going. Meet in the hotel restaurant for dinner. Bye.”

  The door had closed before Dan’s words tumbled out: “Ginny, I’m sorry.”

  ****

  The small bistro where Dan met JJ for lunch was in the eighth Paris arrondissement, an easy ride on the Metro from the Musée d’Orsay where Dan had spent the morning failing to distract himself from his problems. JJ greeted Dan with the traditional three kisses, then suggested the wine.

  “Fine with me. As long as it’s high in alcohol,” replied Dan from a face that hardly moved.

  “Oh, mon ami. Ça va?”

  Uncertain how to begin, Dan stuttered in imperfect French, “Ah… ça va… ça va…” He stopped abruptly.

  “You’ve forgotten your French. Not to worry. We will speak English.”

  Speaking English was fine by Dan, but talking about himself was not. So JJ asked instead about Ginny’s well-being and her state of mind. And in an effort to cheer up his friend, he reviewed the better insults he and Marion had rained upon the stupid Frenchman.

  But regret limited Dan to giving perfunctory responses, and his shame prevented him from giving JJ full disclosure. Dan had intended to reveal how his meanness had knocked Ginny over, but he couldn’t. So as JJ reviewed his better curses, Dan accepted them as if they were meant for him.

  “Enough delay, Dan,” JJ said finally. “Tell me what those fools are doing at headquarters. No one here can understand what happened. As you New Yorkers like to say, spill the beans.”

  Dan gave JJ the long version: the missing data, the last-minute date change, his sloppy presentation. For the first bottle of wine Dan focused on himself. With the second bottle, Dan speculated. He drew inferences from observations, things he hadn’t forgotten. He told JJ about Linda’s hand on Bill’s shoulder; about his belief that Linda had fudged her data.