Romance: The Art of my Love: a story of betrayal, desire, love, and marriage (17 page)

She looks at me carefully, and finally decides to ask, “I guess you liked it? Did it work out well for you?”

“Uh-huh,” I manage to respond, as I feel myself blushing.

“Somewhere in here...” The woman emerges from one of the cartons and hands me a few disc cases. “This is porn made especially for a female audience. We need different things then men do, you know?” She looks at me like she considers me a co-conspirator. On one of the disc cases, even though the image is fuzzy, I recognize a young Rachel.

“That’s the woman I was talking about!” I tell her, pointing.

This whole situation feels like a parody of a movie or play, the kind in which the hero walks into a dusty bookshop in search of some rare tome, and the shop owner, a real book lover and expert, questions the hero very closely, and then pulls the sacred volume out of a hidden-away compartment. Here, on the other hand, two women discuss porn, and they search out the most compelling, most sacred film for forbidden pleasures. Why forbidden, though? Okay, I can’t imagine my grandmother ever going into a sex shop, but I’m already used to it, myself, and I’m even making friends with the owner. Life is good.

That is how I became the proud owner of a purple vibrator and a porn DVD starring Rachel. Back at home, I had come multiple times watching it. Does that mean Rachel is sexually exciting to me? No, I’m definitely not a lesbian, but when I watch her, and see how she surrenders so freely to different men and how much she delights in her own pleasure, I feel as if I’m experiencing those same sensations, as if I’ve been transported into Rachel’s body.

On my way back, I drive past Greg’s office building. I ought to say goodbye to Sue, who had fussed over me like a good mother hen. Eric, too. I don’t want to leave them with a bad impression. I find Sue in her small office, and she gives me a friendly hug and wishes me success in Vancouver. The remodeling work is almost finished now. There are workers carrying in furniture and unpacking it. I cast a last glance at my artwork, there on the wall. I still like it! My fingers itch again. I can’t wait to paint some more.

Eric is stationed at the exit doors, and it’s just about time for his lunch break. When I wave to him, his face lights up in a smile. 

“I couldn’t leave without coming to say goodbye,” I explain as he walks over. “Are you going to lunch? Can I come with you?”

We walk to the cafe next door. Strangely enough, I don’t feel at all awkward as Eric and I walk and chat together. Instead, I feel something completely new. I’m not sure yet what exactly is going on, but I think I might feel more
confident
.

When we finally sit down at a table, I try to apologize to Eric for accidentally leading him on.

“You’re really a great guy, and attractive, too,” I tell him. “I’m an artist, you know.”

Eric blushes a little and laughs.

“Yeah, you told me. You show up, all small and sloppy in your sneakers, and say, ‘Let me in, I’m an artist!’”

“In a different life, I think something probably could have happened between us,” I go on, astounded by my own courage and frankness. “In this life, though, I can’t do it. I can’t do that without love. I know it sounds romantic and snotty...”

“No, no,” Eric interrupts me. “It sounds fine. I understand. I just don’t understand what love is. I mean, you meet a girl you like, you spend some time together, then you split up. That’s it. Love, though? Can you explain it?”

Now that’s a good question. Turns out Eric isn’t quite so simple a guy. I consider the matter. I don’t want to hand him any clichés. I’ve resolved to be honest, so I need to carry this through. I think about Paul and how he makes me feel.

“At first, it’s like a punch in the stomach, or one right to the solar plexus. It hurts, you can’t breathe, and it’s terrifying. You realize there is a person, right there, who you need and who you can’t live without. The problem is that he is a different person, independent of you, and he might not even like you. It’s torture.”

I look at Eric, and see understanding in his eyes. That gives me the courage to go on.

“Then, once you’re actually together, when you know what it’s like to be with that person day and night, you still can’t forget that the two of you are separate people, that he might walk out at any minute and you’d have to let him go.”

“Is that something you’ve done?” Eric asks quietly. “You love your husband, and you let him go?”

“No. That’s something
he
did. He let me go, because he loves me.” I say it out loud and I hope I am right.

“Is he waiting for you in Vancouver?” Eric asks, intrigued.

“No. He stayed in California. Still, I hope I’ll see him soon.”

“Well, good luck,” says Eric, rising to his feet. I follow him out of the cafe.

On the way to Vancouver, I ponder over those unfamiliar sensations I felt while I was having lunch with Eric. It’s not just that I felt like an attractive woman. The difference was that I actually, physically, sensed my own, female power over him. That must be what Rachel feels with men. Then she uses that power for her own purposes. How had John put it? “I alone am not enough for her. I never have been and never will be.” Then later, he had said, “We know that we will never have it better than we do with each other. Sex is just sex.” That meant they could have sex with different partners, but still be devoted to each other, love each other. I remember that Tom had mentioned that, too. “They accept each other just as they are, bless them, and they are quite satisfied with themselves. If anyone doesn’t like it or feels like judging them, that’s their problem.”

Apparently, though, Tom had never managed to separate sex from his feelings. I had been able to do it with John. I think the reason is that he took me by surprise. Since I was used to doing what I was told, following instructions, I lost my way. Had something stopped me from doing that last night? Greg had tried so hard to make an impression on me, and really, he had succeeded. A very favorable impression! I had even started imagining what it might be like to sleep with him. But things went no farther than that picture in my head.

I believe that “just sex” isn’t something I can do. I can fantasize as much as I want, it turns out, and there’s nothing dirty or shameful about that. It just fuels my creativity.

So, what do I do now? Is it time to go back to Paul? If he still needs me... 

Lorna is the owner of the gallery where I am going to work, and she turns out to look very different from Rachel. She is about the same age, but completely gray. Her long, thick, silver hair frames a kind, welcoming face, free of makeup. Lorna is dressed all in black, with her clothing rippling in layers over her body, helping to highlight her unusual hair and distract from the plumpness of her figure.

When I first arrive, she greets me warmly, offers me some coffee, and explains what I’ll be doing every day. Almost immediately, Lorna mentions that she and Rachel are close friends. They went to school together and still talk often. I can’t believe how naive I had been to think that Tom had set all of this up for me! I’m on guard now, and worried. Why did Rachel do it? First she sent me to Seattle, to Greg, and then to Vancouver. There’s no way she did it out of altruism. As I think it over, I follow Lorna upstairs, to the little apartment where I’ll be living. Lorna is still talking, and I wrench my attention back around to her, in time to catch the last part of her monologue.

“The first month will be your trial period. If we end up not getting along for some reason, or if something here isn’t working for you, you can leave. If everything goes well, though, as I hope it will, you can stay as long as you like.”

We take the spiral staircase back down to the gallery, where Lorna gives me the keys I will need. The little bell over the front door rings, and in comes a giant man who vaguely resembles a huge bear. Lorna introduces us. His name is Richard, and he and Lorna seem to be on the closest of terms. Richard looks older than Lorna, and he sports a black beard streaked with gray and a thick mane of hair on his head, also black but graying. He wraps his arm around Lorna’s shoulders, kisses her on the cheek, and they wave goodbye to me and leave. I’m alone now. I set the alarm and close up the gallery, following all of Lorna’s instructions precisely, and go upstairs to my new apartment.

After unpacking my meager possessions I head straight into the shower, hoping to scrub off not just the grime of the day, but my old life altogether. That other Emmy, the one which had always dwelled somewhere deep inside me... her time has come, and she is ready to emerge.

The new me doesn’t want to live like the old man in my grandmother’s fable, just waiting to see where life takes her, remaining as detached as possible. I tried for so long to follow my grandmother’s advice, but that never quite made me happy. Now that I’m breaking all of her commandments, I feel more alive than ever before. I don’t think my grandmother herself had ever been happy, although, to give her her due, she hadn’t been unhappy, either, despite all the trouble she had to navigate.

For me, though, it is clear that I no longer really give a damn about the big picture. I want to live and breathe here and now, see the world in full color, let myself be inspired, and create, and create, and create. If sex is what I need for that, then so be it!

I get out of the shower and rub off with a towel. The mirror is so foggy it isn’t reflecting a thing. Instead, I see the mirror in our house, in the bathroom, where I last saw Paul’s and my reflection together. I remember Paul’s hands on my breasts, his messy, damp hair, and my own arousal. I run a hand over the mirror’s wet surface. Now I can see myself in the small window I’ve cleared. I really don’t look anything like Rachel, from the outside. In my eyes, though, and in the whole expression on my face, I recognize exactly the same type of smoldering fire that I remember seeing in Rachel.

Later, once I’ve gone to bed, I imagine Paul and Rachel together. Just like that first time, in the restaurant with John. Then it had made me incredibly horny… furious, but horny. Now I’m horny again. I get out my brand new vibrator and switch it on, and start caressing myself. I can clearly envision Paul’s face, with that focused, tortured expression it has when he’s turned on. I can visualize Rachel’s naked body in detail, like in the movie I had seen. She is draped across some soft sheet, legs spread shamelessly. Some other man appears there, between her legs – John, maybe? – and licks and strokes her there. She is writhing in pleasure. Her long auburn hair is everywhere. Her plush red lips are wrapped around Paul’s cock, and she sucks it, even while her approaching orgasm makes her shudder. Paul pinches her nipples. Now my own orgasm overtakes me. All hail Rachel... and my own vivid imagination!

Coming on my own, fantasizing about Paul, turns out to be not even a little bit humiliating. These are just fantasies, right? They have nothing to do with reality. Why is it that I can fantasize about Rachel and Paul, but still have such a hard time forgiving them and forgetting about how they had gotten together in real life? I had done it with someone other than Paul, after all. Strange as it may seem, that fact had practically vacated my memory. Maybe it’s because that other man had meant nothing to me. He helped me learn what pure lust was, unadulterated with any sort of feelings. Paul must have realized that, which is why he forgave me so quickly. The connection between Paul and me is so much deeper and more serious than just sex. I desperately want to be with him again, to make love with him. Nobody else, just Paul. Where is he, I wonder?

I send Paul a text:

In Vancouver. Got here OK. Happy so far. How are you?

The next morning, I read his response:

Glad you’re happy.

The next few days in this new, unfamiliar city seem to fly by in a blur. I work hard putting together a new exhibition, calling clients and writing to them. I look at other artists’ work and paint some myself, too. Every evening I masturbate, sometimes to my own fantasies, and sometimes to Rachel’s movie. It helps me fall asleep, and it helps me create. My mind is boiling over with ideas for new projects again, and one by one I get them down on paper or canvas.

On the same street as the gallery is a bar called Lorna’s Place, owned by, well, Lorna. Richard, who turns out to be her boyfriend, runs the place. Lorna has let it slip that Richard is completely devoted to her, body and soul (I’m silently envious of her sense of confidence), so she has made the bar his job and he takes care of everything. On the weekends, Lorna’s friends gather there: artists, theater directors, actors... all the local bohemians, more or less. Many of them are involved with the nearby theater, getting ready for a performance of
Romeo and Juliet
.

My second weekend in town, Lorna brings me to the bar and introduces me to her friends. One young man stands out, the actor playing Romeo. His name is Antoine, he comes from Quebec, and he’s astonishingly good-looking. Antoine has an unusually spiritual face, narrow and sensitive, and expressive dark eyes. He wears his wavy black hair long. He could be a self-portrait of a young Rafael, except that his pale face is very much alive, and somehow tragic, unlike the old master’s face. There might as well be a big DANGER label on Antoine’s forehead. There’s no question why he was picked to play Romeo.

When she notices how much I’m staring at Antoine, Lorna elbows me in the side and whispers, “Hey, you’re not going to be another one of those girls who spend all their time mooning over our Romeo, are you?”

“You mean I’m not the only one?” I whisper, in mock surprise.

“He has hordes of female admirers, who have no idea he’s not even interested in women,” Lorna smiles wickedly.

“Ah, that’s how it always is! Anyone who catches your eye is either gay or taken,” I sigh, as if drowning in self-pity.

“Don’t worry. We’ll find you somebody who’s available,” Lorna promises graciously.

I’ve told her almost nothing about myself, and she doesn’t even know I’m married. Rachel didn’t tell her, either. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I’m not sure I want to mention Paul, because Lorna will naturally wonder why we’re not here together, when he’s coming, and what our plans for the future might be. I don’t think I have the nerve to tell her that we’re not together because her friend Rachel decided to sleep with my husband and pass me on to hers. I definitely can’t tell Lorna that both my husband and I so enjoyed that experience that we decided to do it again. Now I don’t know when I’ll see him next or what will happen between us.

There certainly are some men in Lorna’s group of friends, some of whom are quite friendly and physically attractive, too. When I look at them, though, nothing stirs inside me. No forbidden feelings or desires.

It’s almost midnight now, and I’m ready to go back to my apartment over the gallery. “Who’s going to walk Emmy home?” Lorna asks the group. “It’s late and dark and scary out there. That guy at the bar has been watching her all night, and it’s making me nervous.” I take a look around. Who was she talking about? I hadn’t noticed anyone.

The set designer – Matt, I think, but I don’t really remember – stands up from the table. “Come on, Little Red Riding Hood. I’ll walk you home so the Big Bad Wolf doesn’t eat you up,” he offers, smiling at me. Well, this is the first time anyone has called me Little Red Riding Hood. It suddenly strikes me as hilarious, because of all the fairy-tale heroines, I think she was the one who most irritated me. The whole short walk back to the gallery, we laugh over how stupid poor Red Riding Hood had gotten in bed with a wolf she didn’t know at all, and then was surprised at what big teeth he had. We say goodbye at the stairway leading to my apartment, and I walk up. I can hardly keep my eyes open from exhaustion. I hurriedly make up the bed (the little sofa in the living room folds out into a couch, and voila, the living room becomes a bedroom), than take a shower and brush my teeth.

All of a sudden, the doorbell rings. Who could that be? Matt or Todd or whatever his name was – had he forgotten something? Or was it the Big Bad Wolf? Really, though, it is 1:00 in the morning. I don’t usually have guests at this hour. I put on a bathrobe and go to the door. There’s no peephole. The bell rings again, and then whoever it is starts knocking.

“Who’s there?” I try to keep the fear out of my voice, because all of a sudden, I really am scared.

“Open up, Emmy.” It’s Paul.

I’m dumbfounded.

“Paul? Where did you come from?” I ask, turning the knob to open the door.

A man is standing on the small landing outside my apartment. Once the door is open a crack that man pushes through and strides inside, slamming the door after him. Before I know it, he has me pinned against the wall. A giant, stinking of whiskey and cigarettes, looms over me. A pair of powerful hands seizes me around the waist and won’t let go. When I open my mouth to scream, the stranger covers it with a kiss, one that is long and demanding. He obviously wants to hurt me.

At first I try to twist away, shoving my hands into his chest to push him back. Gradually, though, I begin to recognize this body, these hands, these lips. I know them all too well. This really is Paul. My husband. Though I haven’t yet recovered from my fear and surprise, I find myself already responding to his kiss. When we break apart to catch our breath, I try to disengage.

“Where did you come from?” I ask again.

“Are you alone?” He answers my question with a question, and then grabs me around the waist and carries me further inside.

“Of course I am. Who else would be here at one in the morning?” I ask, confused. This doesn’t feel good. He’s hurting me, squeezing me too tight, and I need to understand what he’s doing here and why he reeks so much of alcohol. The Paul I know, the one who has spent five years by my side, doesn’t drink anything except beer or the occasional glass of wine. That Paul doesn’t smoke, either, but this one positively stinks of nicotine.

“Where’s the creep you came here with?” demands Paul. He throws me down on the bed and starts undoing the belt on my robe.

“That creep just walked me home. He was being nice. I don’t even know his name. Happy now? Stop it!” Now I’m getting mad. I’m not wearing anything under the bathrobe, and I’m going to have a hard time talking with Paul if I’m naked and he’s not.

I try to escape, but Paul will not be deterred. He’s a lot stronger than I am, stronger than I ever imagined. He ends peeling the robe off me. I don’t feel energetic enough to fight him, and I’m out of breath, anyway. Paul tosses me toward the edge of the bed so that my legs are hanging down. With one hand, he throws both of my arms up over my head, and his other hand yanks my thigh aside, so that my legs spread wide. Next thing I know, his hand lands between my legs.

Paul is breathing hard, not saying a word. I am, too, and I keep asking him to stop. “Wait, wait!” I beg him. “Let’s talk, please? I can’t do this! I don’t want to!”

Paul utters not a word. Instead he bends down and starts lapping at my pussy. What happened to my gentle, delicate spouse? This is some sort of animal, a monster, who doesn’t give a damn how I feel. Weirdly, though, he is actually turning me on. The tension is growing deliciously in that place just below my stomach. My resistance is starting to flag. It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man! I’m terrified, embarrassed, shocked, and incredibly aroused, all at once. I can’t quite wrap my mind around what is happening.

Now my breath is coming hard and fast, not from fighting against Paul, but because I’m close to my climax. Paul can sense it, too, but he doesn’t let me come. Surprisingly quickly, he unbuckles his belt and then unzips his jeans, pulls down the pants and his briefs, and thrusts his engorged cock straight into me. Everything is still happening so fast that I don’t even have time to catch my breath. I feel him stuffed deep inside me, filling me up completely. His hands are gripping my thighs so tightly he’s going to leave bruises.  Paul is moving relentlessly, obviously not giving a damn about me or my pleasure. All he wants is to get off, as fast as possible. I’m looking at him, but I barely recognize him. His eyes are red and swollen. He doesn’t seem to have shaved for a while, and his cheekbones are prominent under a week’s worth of stubble. Even his nose seems pointier, and it stands out against the rest of his face, which has grown thin and haggard. Usually he keeps his hair cut short, but now it has grown and it sticks out all over.