The Pleasure of M (9 page)

“Precisely.
 Well
 the
 character
 is
 in
 that
 place
 at
 the
 end,
 everything
 is
 going
 his
 way,
 
the
  dream
  is
  flesh,
  and
  he
  sticks
  his
  hand
  in
  his
  pocket
  and
  finds
  there
  something
 
that
 inexorably
 draws
 him
 back
 to
 his
 own
 place
 in
 time.
 It
 is
 a
 penny
 of
 his
 era,
 if
 I
 
recall
  right.
  Well,
  when
  I
  read
  that,
  I
  thought
  about
  this
  point
  in
  the
  orgasm
  cycle,
 
and
 how
 some
 guys
 actually
 grab
 onto
 things
 to
 avoid
 leaving,
 to
 be
 brought
 back
 to
 
the
 reality
 they
 are
 being
 kicked
 out
 of
 by
 their
 pleasure.
 Grab
 a
 bedpost,
 grab
 your
 
partner.
  These
  are
  ways
  to
  thrust
  out
  of
  yourself
  these
  echoes
  and
  regain
  contact
 
with
 the
 surrounding.
 Some
 guys
 just
 go
 rigid
 for
 a
 second
 and
 then
 start
 moving,
 or
 
talking
 and
 it
 can
 have
 that
 almost
 manic
 feel
 to
 it.
 Talking
 is
 a
 good
 one
 because
 it
 
brings
 you
 back,
 but
 not
 in
 too
 harsh
 a
 way.”
 

“This
 is
 amazing,”
 she
 said
 dreamily,
 “I
 had
 no
 idea.”
 
“Had
 you
 never
 observed
 anything?
 I
 mean
 don’t
 we
 tend
 to
 look
 a
 little
 weird
 right
 
after
 the
 act?”
 
“Well,
 sure!
 But
 how
 was
 I
 supposed
 to
 know?”
 

“True,
  but
  that’s
  because
  I
  find
  it
  amusing.
  It’s
  very
  iconoclastic
  of
  me,
  really,
  and
 
that
  is
  undoubtedly
  a
  big
  part
  of
  the
  appeal.
  I
  think
  you’ll
  agree
  once
  we
  are
  done
 
that
 the
 notion
 of
 a
 man
 divulging
 to
 a
 woman
 the
 secrets
 of
 a
 man’s
 pleasure
 could
 
be
 perceived
 by
 other
 males
 as
 an
 unforgivable
 act
 of
 betrayal.”
 

“It’s
 not
 betrayal.
 I’m
 just
 starting
 to
 understand
 something
 I
 have
 been
 a
 witness
 to
 
for
 years
 and
 always
 kind
 of
 bothered
 me.
 I
 mean,
 do
 you
 have
 any
 idea
 what
 goes
 
through
 a
 woman’s
 head
 when
 she
 has
 just
 given
 her
 husband
 an
 orgasm
 and
 he
 just
 
lays
 there
 as
 if
 you
 didn’t
 even
 exist,
 doesn’t
 want
 to
 talk
 to
 you.
 Either
 that,
 or
 he
 
just
 gets
 up
 and
 starts
 talking
 like
 nothing
 even
 happened.”
 

“When
 in
 truth,
 it’s
 still
 happening.
 It’s
 quite
 a
 conundrum,
 you
 know.
 
 To
 fully
 revel
 
in
  the
  pleasure
  you
  have
  given,
  we
  must
  be
  absent
  from
  you.
  To
  not
  do
  so
  means
 
squashing
  the
  pleasure
  mid-‐course.
  It’s
  like
  a
  built-‐in
  misunderstanding,
  a
  cruel
 
irony:
 it’s
 not
 that
 a
 man
 is
 self-‐centered
 in
 his
 pleasure
 but
 that
 a
 man’s
 pleasure
 is
 
self-‐centered.”
 

For
  many
  days,
  Catherine
  found
  her
  mind
  drifting
  back
  endlessly
  to
  this
 
conversation.
  In
  fact,
  it
  was
  a
  bit
  of
  a
  reality
  check
  when
  one
  morning
  in
  a
  rather
 
unusual
 non-‐sequitur
 her
 husband
 asked
 “We’re
 not
 having
 any
 more
 kids,
 right?”
 
seemingly
  wanting
  to
  dispel
  any
  fears
  that
  the
  recent
  marked
  increase
  in
  sexual
 
activity
  in
  the
  house
  was
  not
  hiding
  some
  dark
  purpose
  on
  her
  part.
  This
  had
  the
 
perverse
  effect
  of
  imposing
  upon
  him
  a
  period
  of
  abstinence
  which
  he
 
misinterpreted
 as
 punishment
 for
 his
 remark
 whereupon
 he
 proceeded
 to
 convince
 
himself
 and
 then
 her
 that
 if
 she
 did
 want
 more
 children
 he
 would
 be
 thrilled
 and
 if
 
she
  didn’t,
  well
  he
  would
  be
  thrilled
  too,
  and
  generally
  made
  an
  ass
  of
  himself.
 
Catherine
 did
 not
 want
 more
 children,
 she
 simply
 wanted
 to
 be
 able
 to
 observe
 him
 
during
 his
 little
 death,
 but
 she
 could
 only
 tell
 him
 the
 first
 part.
 
 

Michel
  for
  his
  part
  alternated
  between
  mild
  bemusement
  and
  pronounced
 
amusement.
 The
 bemusement
 stemmed
 from
 the
 realization
 that
 it
 would
 be
 rather
 
difficult
 for
 a
 woman
 to
 find
 out
 what
 pleasure
 is
 like
 for
 a
 man.
 Straight
 men
 do
 not
 
talk
  about
  sexual
  pleasure.
  They
  have
  been
  known
  to
  talk
  about
  sexual
  acts,
  over
 
and
 over
 until
 they
 are
 blue
 in
 the
 face,
 but
 not
 about
 their
 pleasure,
 and
 not
 even
 to
 
themselves.
 Michel
 remember
 this
 odd
 episode
 in
 high-‐school.
 They
 had
 just
 learned
 
the
  definition
  of
  the
  words
  endothermic
  and
  exothermic
  in
  chemistry,
  and
  having
 
pondered
 them
 a
 while,
 he
 asked
 a
 friend
 in
 the
 course
 of
 casual
 conversation
 if
 he’d
 
noticed
  that
  ejaculation
  seemed,
  as
  counterintuitive
  as
  that
  may
  be,
  to
  be
 
endothermic
 at
 the
 level
 of
 the
 balls.
 “Impossible”
 exclaimed
 his
 friend
 dismissively
 
which
 surprised
 him
 into
 repeating
 the
 experiment
 with
 several
 friends
 with
 similar
 
results.
 Why
 did
 these
 young,
 healthy
 and
 sexually
 active
 heterosexual
 young
 men
 
not
 touch
 their
 own
 balls
 during
 an
 orgasm?
 To
 start
 with,
 they
 were
 clearly
 missing
 
something
 though
 admittedly
 it
 is
 a
 delicate
 matter
 requiring
 some
 care
 lest
 some
 
very
 unpleasant
 sensations
 occur,
 but
 there
 was
 clearly
 pleasure
 to
 be
 tapped
 into
 
there,
 in
 holding
 them
 just
 right,
 in
 a
 loose
 fist,
 during
 the
 repeated
 cannon
 fire
 of
 
the
 orgasm.
 But
 secondly
 it
 implied
 limits
 to
 their
 self-‐awareness
 that
 he
 did
 not
 feel
 
bound
  to,
  and
  this
  still
  amazed
  him.
  Were
  men
  supposed
  to
  assume
  the
  gift
  of
 
orgasm
  as
  being
  sacred,
  being
  wholly
  formed,
  as
  if
  god-‐given
  and
  never
  to
  be
 
questioned
  or
  studied?
  Was
  this
  the
  one
  area
  where
  men
  were
  not
  supposed
  to
 
distinguish
  themselves
  from
  the
  primate
  brethren?
  He
  soon
  retraced
  this
  thought
 
given
 that
 bonobos
 appear
 to
 be
 much
 more
 in
 tune
 with
 their
 sexuality
 than
 that.
 
The
  pronounced
  amusement
  stemmed
  from
  visualizing
  Catherine
  pleasuring
  her
 
husband
 every
 single
 night
 just
 to
 watch
 him
 ‘die’.
 
 

The
 growing
 bond
 between
 them
 was
 fed
 by
 the
 pairing
 of
 his
 joyful
 openness
 and
 
of
 her
 willingness
 to
 follow
 anywhere
 he
 led
 because
 the
 places
 he
 wanted
 to
 go
 to
 
were
 always
 wonderful,
 surprising.
 She
 shared
 openly
 with
 him
 in
 reciprocal
 bliss.
 

Friday
 evening
 finds
 me
 gardening
 in
 the
 backyard
 when
 my
 daughter
 unexpectedly
 
announces
 that
 she
 is
 going
 out
 for
 a
 few
 hours.
 
 Carpe
 diem
 -‐
 seize
 the
 day,
 or
 in
 
this
 instance
 a
 few
 hours.
 The
 evening
 is
 warm
 and
 humid
 and
 I
 am
 very
 grateful
 for
 
the
  air
  conditioning
  that
  greets
  me
  as
  I
  re-‐enter
  the
  house.
  Before
  ascending
  the
 
stairs,
 I
 seek
 a
 cold
 drink
 in
 the
 form
 of
 a
 frozen
 daiquiri
 (I
 keep
 a
 container
 in
 the
 
freezer
 for
 just
 such
 occasions).
 The
 icy
 mix
 is
 heaped
 into
 a
 martini
 glass.
 I
 grasp
 
the
  stem
  and
  carry
  it
  up
  to
  my
  bedroom
  along
  with
  the
  front
  section
  of
  the
 
newspaper.
 While
 the
 ceiling
 fan
 lazily
 swirls
 overhead,
 I
 remove
 all
 of
 my
 clothes
 
and
  linger
  a
  moment
  before
  the
  large
  mirror.
  Au
  naturel,
  glass
  in
  hand,
  bed
  in
 
background.
 My
 skin
 is
 cool
 and
 slightly
 damp
 from
 the
 outdoor
 air.
 I
 pull
 back
 the
 
sheets
 and
 stretch
 out
 to
 my
 full
 length.
 I
 begin
 to
 relax
 as
 soft
 jazz
 and
 the
 chilled
 
rum
 work
 their
 magic.
 
 

Imagine
 now
 that
 you
 have
 taken
 the
 place
 of
 my
 husband.
 You
 come
 into
 the
 room
 
and
  find
  me
  reading
  the
  newspaper.
  I
  am
  totally
  nude
  except
  for
  the
  paper,
  which
 
has
  been
  strategically
  placed
  to
  beckon
  you
  closer.
  You
  stand
  by
  my
  bedside
  and
 
begin
  to
  remove
  your
  own
  clothing.
  It
  is
  no
  surprise
  to
  me
  to
  find
  you
  fully
  erect.
 
You
  slowly
  remove
  the
  pages
  from
  my
  hands
  and
  gaze
  hungrily
  at
  the
  sight
  of
  my
 
naked
 body.
 Starting
 at
 my
 toes,
 you
 let
 your
 fingers
 gently
 travel
 along
 the
 side
 of
 
my
 legs,
 my
 hips,
 my
 torso,
 skimming
 the
 very
 sensitive
 area
 around
 my
 breasts,
 up
 
over
 my
 shoulders,
 to
 my
 neck
 and
 lastly
 my
 face.
 I
 shiver
 in
 delight.
 I
 roll
 onto
 my
 
stomach
  so
  that
  my
  mouth
  is
  level
  with
  your
  cock.
  You
  stand
  absolutely
  still
  -‐
 
waiting
  expectantly
  for
  the
  warm
  and
  slippery
  touch
  of
  my
  mouth.
  I
  feel
  and
  hear
 
your
 sigh
 as
 you
 allow
 the
 resulting
 sensations
 to
 wash
 over
 you.
 

Do
  you
  think
  we
  might
  arrange
  a
  few
  minutes
  to
  talk
  this
  week
  before
  the
  week-‐
end?
 
Yours,
 
 

She
  very
  much
  appreciated
  the
  way
  he
  weaved
  their
  relationship
  through
  their
 
correspondence,
  as
  if
  composing
  an
  ornate
  and
  delightful
  piece
  of
  chamber
  music,
 
both
  of
  them
  weaving
  counterpoint,
  occasionally
  introducing
  new
  themes
  while
 
using
 leitmotifs
 for
 depth.