When I was in high school, I discovered that, by squeezing my member, I could force it back into my body. I practiced keeping it retracted, and later discovered that I could keep it hidden with a plastic-edged metal clamp, which made it look as if I were recovering from an amputation.
A few days after my discovery, I invited a girl I was interested in to my family home. After the preliminary kissing and fondling, I turned off the lights, undressed her and continued to caress her until she asked me to undress as well. I pretended to hesitate but at last removed my shirt, slowly unbuckled my belt and finally took off my pants.
The girl was not aggressive enough to reach for me, so I guided her fingers to the clamp. She pulled away in horror. Calmly, I explained that when I was a child, during the war, a grenade had exploded near me and metal shards had torn into my organ. A surgeon had fitted a clamp to protect the chronic wound from irritation. I told her that I was barred for life from what was considered normal intercourse, and could find fulfillment only through unusual associations. I assured the girl I would respect her right to reject me as a cripple. Ashamed of her initial withdrawal, she attempted to convince me that the absence of one part of my body did not distress her. In fact, she remarked, my deficiency was really an advantage because it freed her from the danger of pregnancy, and for once she could let herself go without fear of the consequences.
In turn, I urged her to demand anything that excited her: I was an invalid, I said, who searched for sources of release others might consider abnormal, and nothing was perverted or repellent to me. She said she was willing to try, and almost immediately began to take the initiative.
I had to avoid erection during love-making because the clamp could be sprung by the growing pressure within my organ. As long as the clamp remained in place, I felt a bit of pain, but the sense of harnessed power made orgasm crude by comparison.
Later, when the girl was too aroused to be aware of what I was doing, I surreptitiously removed the clamp and shot into her without warning. When she felt me climax inside her, she screamed. First she grew angry, although I tried to convince her that withholding part of myself was not a game but an attempt to revive sexual sensitivity. I explained that, in avoiding what we had experienced so often with so many others, she and I had made the act of sex fresh and pure.
She finally admitted that being aggressive with me had released her in a pleasurable way, and had let her feel more sensual than ever before. Her manipulation of me was more exciting than her passive surrender to her previous lovers; she said that any anger or anxiety she had suffered because of my deception was a small price to pay for her new-found freedom, her new sexual identity.
I have needed to change my identity so often in recent years, I’ve come to look upon disguise as more than a means of personal liberation: it’s a necessity. My life depends on my being able to instantly create a new persona and slip out of the past. As for the others I come in contact with, my disguise is never simply a deception or a hoax. It is an attempt to expand the range of another’s perception. Confronted with my camouflage, it is the witness who deceives himself, allowing his eyes to give my new character credibility and authenticity. I do not fool him; he either accepts or rejects my altered truth.
As I once wandered through Florence, an elegant tailoring establishment caught my eye. A metal plaque next to the door announced that the shop had been founded in the mid-nineteenth century and specialized in formal wear and military uniforms. A small window above the plaque displayed photographs of some of the shop’s more prominent clients, including military leaders, chiefs of state and top-ranking diplomats.
I entered the shop and asked to speak to the manager. A Florentine with a long monk’s face, delicate hands and silky white hair came out to see me.
“I would like to order two military uniforms for myself,” I told him. “One for daytime; one for evening.”
The manager called over two of his assistants and explained that they would take the notes and measurements necessary to fill my order. “In which army do you serve, sir?” inquired the manager.
“In a one-man army,” I replied.
The manager smiled nervously. “Ah, every man’s dream, is it not?” he said. “Are you then, sir, in the reserves?”
“No, but I need two military uniforms that are not copies of actual ones, either current or historical …”
The manager stared at me uneasily before he broke into a smile. “You must be an actor!” he exclaimed. “And these uniforms are for a play or a film? Or a television spectacular?” He looked to me for confirmation, while the two assistants, pencils poised, studied me with keen interest.
“No, I am not an actor. A one-man theater, more likely,” I replied, but this time got no smile in return. “The uniforms must not link me to any particular country or military branch, but they must create the impression that I am a high-ranking military official.”
He seemed suspicious of my motives. “Before we proceed further, sir,” he said rather coldly, “may I inquire how you would like to pay for this order?”
“In Swiss francs, if you don’t mind. And in advance.”
He was relieved. “We have made uniforms here for over a century,” he announced, “but I doubt, sir, that we have ever had a request like yours. You see, a uniform is a uniquely designed garment worn by persons to provide a distinctive yet easily recognizable appearance. A uniform is as definite as a date on a calendar, while what you seem to want is …” As he searched for a description, I interrupted.
“What I want is what you have already described, easily recognizable, distinctive. Just make it undefinable. It’s difficult, but I trust the artist in you.”
The manager nodded, and, after a pause, ordered the attendants to bring over albums containing sketches and photographs of all important uniforms designed in the last quarter-century.
He sat down next to me and prepared to take notes, as both assistants hovered nearby.
“Exactly what mood do you want your uniforms to convey?” He stressed the word “mood.”
“Power, but restrained power. Importance, but subdued importance. I will always wear my uniform with a shirt and tie, but never with medals or ribbons.”
He jotted down what I had said, then waited for me to go on. I began turning the pages of the album marked High Command: Twentieth Century.
“To compensate for my narrow chest, I need wide lapels, as in this British uniform.” I pointed to the sketch, and both assistants scribbled down the number. “But I want the lapels spread a bit wider to reveal more of the tie, as in this Italian uniform.” I indicated a second drawing, which the assistants noted instantly.
The manager picked up another album and opened it. “Pockets as in this Swedish uniform?” he suggested.
“Fine. But to make my neck appear shorter, I would like the back collar kept high so not too much shirt will show above it.”
He perused a third album. “Perhaps the collar from the Brazilian Air Force?” We both studied it carefully, but I wasn’t satisfied. We finally settled on a collar from a NATO uniform and on sleeves from a Chinese one.
“Epaulets?” he inquired.
“How about these Warsaw Pact General Staff epaulets?” I suggested. “They’re large and will make my shoulders appear broader.” He agreed.
The cap posed problems. I explained I wanted a tall one to balance out my long nose and to extend my forehead.
“There is nothing wrong with your face, sir,” he objected politely.
“It never matches what I wear,” I retorted. “Since I can’t change my face, I can at least design a uniform to go with it.”
“Yes, of course. The German caps of the early forties would best suit your face,” he volunteered.
“Too familiar. And too many associations by now, don’t you agree?”
He nodded. “Yes. A bit much.”
We finally decided to crossbreed the German cap with the Soviet Cavalry and the American Air Force des
igns.
I chose the best khaki twill in stock for the daytime uniform and dark blue flannel for evening. My uniforms were twice as expensive as the standard ones, but I paid without complaining. The delighted manager escorted me to the door, and, after telling me that the first of my five fittings would take place the next day, he said, “Of course, it’s not my business, sir, but may I ask why you need these uniforms?”
“To please a woman,” I said. “I excite her only when I’m in a uniform.”
“She must be quite a whimsical woman, sir,” he murmured.
When I returned to the shop for the first fitting, I was ushered into a large room and told to stand in front of a three-way mirror. Looking around the room, I saw tailors and assistants fitting men, some of whom stood like mannequins, often in uniforms I recognized, some in various stages of undress.
I glanced at a military man who was just leaving the room. From his epaulets, I gathered he was a colonel, but I did not know what country or branch of the military he served. When I turned toward the mirror, our eyes met.
Even though the jacket was still sleeveless and I wasn’t wearing trousers, he must have decided my rank was higher than his and he saluted first. Only after I saluted back did it occur to me that my salute, like my uniform, should be a military hybrid. After some experimenting, I adopted a greeting that consisted of raising my left hand rather casually to the visor of my cap, as though my right arm had been wounded. It was a salute that I felt reflected the spirit of my uniform and of the man who wore it.
I had a chance to use the salute frequently during later fittings: any time a military man caught sight of my uniform, he promptly saluted. One was a heavily decorated general who was having his uniforms let out because of the weight he had gained. He took a look at my costume and saluted me with the warm smile of an old soldier passing the torch to a younger man. I was saluted deferentially by a young captain, who, my fitter told me, was the son of an aristocratic Spanish family. The captain paid me the respect that the new guard shows toward the veteran.
At last, the finished uniforms were delivered to my hotel. On the left breast of each jacket, where military ribbons would go, I pinned two thin cardboard strips and carefully hung both jackets out on the balcony. After they had bleached for a few hours in the Florentine spring sun, I removed the strips. The areas they had protected were now slightly darker than the rest of the cloth, and I further darkened them with a dye.
I bought fake insignia in a theatrical prop store, selecting jet fighters braced by two Cupids for my caps and turtles for my epaulets.
I donned my khaki uniform and prepared to leave Florence. When I returned my room key to the concierge, he was so hypnotized by my uniform that he didn’t recognize me. I gave him my name and he sprang to attention as if both of us were in the military, then apologized. “I didn’t realize that you were in the Air Corps!” he exclaimed, accepting the key from me with reverence.
“I’m not,” I replied solicitously. “But at one time or another, all of us wear uniforms.” I punched his arm lightly and pointed to his own impressive outfit. But he refused to accept the comparison and insisted on carrying my luggage out to the car.
The hotel parking attendant saw me in my uniform and brought my car without being asked, ignoring five or six other guests who had been waiting ahead of me.
I drove across Europe wearing my uniforms. Often a traffic policeman, noticing the insignia on my cap, would promptly halt all other vehicles, wave my car through the red light and salute me as I passed. In return, I raised my hand in my own unique salute. One day, I decided to visit the ruins of a medieval fortress in a remote hill town. I simply brought my car to the local police station, parked it directly in front of the door and went inside. At the sight of my uniform, three policemen jumped up, saluted me and struggled to button their jackets.
The men remained standing at attention, although I attempted to put them at ease by explaining that I was just a tourist anxious to spend some time inside the fortress. I asked if they would mind keeping an eye on my car while I was gone. The police chief hastened to assure me he’d assign one of his men to guard it.
In restaurants with long waiting lines, I would simply walk up to the headwaiter. One glance at my uniform would cause him to order the waiters to move in an additional table or speed up a clearing. In a matter of minutes, I would be seated and served, the people in line staring at me wordlessly.
If an airlines flight I wanted was filled, I would approach the ticket counter and ask for a seat. Almost invariably, I would get a place. Once a clerk took a look at my insignia and began to apologize profusely, stammering that the only place he could assign me was a spare service seat at the back of the plane. I assured him that it was perfectly acceptable. He issued the ticket at once and called for an airline car to drive me from the terminal to the plane.
As I climbed the boarding ramp, the pilot came out to welcome me on board. He saluted and apologized that my seat was at “the wrong end” of his aircraft. The stewardess, obviously impressed by my presence, escorted me to my seat and throughout the flight paid special attention to me.
The seats on both sides of the aisle in front of me were occupied by a Ruthenian family, who talked loudly among themselves. I soon gathered they were emigrants on their way to a new country, and that the family consisted of a married couple, their six- or seven-year-old son and his two grandmothers.
The boy was sitting directly in front of me next to the window. Since mine was the last seat in the plane, it did not recline, and I was forced to stretch out my legs under his seat. The moment I tried to nap after takeoff, the boy began jumping up and down, and every bounce made the seat bang into my shins.
I leaned toward the window and called to him in a whisper. The child turned and saw me peering through the narrow space between his seat and the window. “What’s your name?” I whispered in Ruthenian.
“Tomek,” he answered.
“Can you see me, Tomek?” He nodded. “Can you hear me?” He nodded again. “Now, Tomek, listen carefully,” I said. “Do you see that huge engine on the wing outside?” Tomek looked through the window, then turned back to me and nodded. “Good. Do you know what would happen if I fed you to that engine?” I asked solemnly. The boy’s eyes grew wide.
“What would happen?” he whimpered.
“The engines would chop you up and churn you out like a long, thin sausage that would fall to earth and there be gobbled up by dogs.” Tomek looked at me in terror. I leaned closer. “If you jump on your seat and wake me one more time, I will feed you to that engine.”
The boy flushed and turned away. “Mama, Mama!” he screamed, shaking her until she woke up. He pointed in my direction. “This man says he will throw me into the engine and turn me into a sausage.”
I pretended to be asleep, with my cap resting on my knees. The woman looked at the cap, then at me, and whispered loudly, “Stop this nonsense, Tomek. We are not in our town anymore. This officer cannot speak our language. Stop making things up. Be quiet and try to sleep.” She turned away from him.
Tomek swiveled around again and watched me. For a few minutes, I pretended to be asleep, then I opened my eyes and leaned forward. “Stop making things up, Tomek,” I said, “because if you don’t, I’ll turn you into a long, thin sausage and no one will know it except the dogs that eat you.”
Tomek’s face went white. “Mama, Mama,” he screamed again. “This man says he will throw me into the engine. I don’t want to become a long, thin sausage. I don’t want to be eaten by dogs.”
As his mother woke up, I shut my eyes again. “Stop that, Tomek,” she shouted. Then, afraid she might wake me, she continued in an angry whisper. “No one talked to you. Stop making things up. One more lie and I’ll spank you.”
I waited a moment before I opened my eyes again. Tomek was staring at me, clutching the arm of his seat. I moved closer and whispered, “Your mother doesn’t believe you, Tomek. No one will. Perhaps
because they don’t want to see me. Am I speaking to you?” The boy, his lips trembling, shook his head in denial. “Am I here, Tomek?” Again he moved his head from side to side. “But, could I still turn you into a sausage?” He nodded that I could. “Good,” I said. “I am going to sleep now. Don’t disturb me.
I closed my eyes and fell asleep. During the rest of the trip, whenever I woke up, I saw Tomek peering at me from around the seat. I smiled at him, but he did not smile back.
I saw him with his family at the airport. He was carrying a big Mickey Mouse doll he had been given by the immigration service hostess who greeted his family.
I approached him at passport control and, smiling, said to him in English, “What a nice Mickey Mouse you’ve got. I hope you have a good time here.” The hostess translated what I had said and his parents and grandmothers acknowledged me with a smile, but Tomek’s face remained stony and he looked through me as if I were invisible.
“Say ‘thank you’ to the nice officer,” said his mother, putting her arm around him. Tomek looked at her wild-eyed. “What officer?” he screamed in a fury. “I can’t see an officer here.” His mother looked pointedly at his father, who promptly reprimanded his son for misbehaving. As they bent over Tomek and the Mickey Mouse doll, I raised my arm in a stiff salute. I walked off, accompanied by Tomek’s unyielding gaze.
I have always been fascinated by the strange psychic strength that allows acrobats and stunt men to defy death easily. I find it equally fascinating that, while their professional lives demand continual risks, in their private existences they take no chances.
I once stayed at a gambling resort famous for its variety shows, which included many stunt acts. I would usually dine watching a floor show at a lavish hotel, and afterward would stroll downtown to the third-rate nightclubs, snack bars and coffee houses. As I walked through the district one evening, I noticed that one club was featuring a father-and-daughter act. The brightly colored poster showed a photograph of a man tossing a gigantic horseshoe at a young woman standing opposite him. The camera had captured the horseshoe in flight six feet above the stage, midway between the couple. The slender, shapely woman posed with arms outstretched as she faced the oncoming horseshoe.
Cockpit Page 14
