Jill Emerson - I Am Curious (Thirty)

“Two men at once?”

“Yes.”

“You mean one right after the other?”

“I mean two at once.”

“I don’t see exactly what sort of thing they would do.”

“Well, use your imagination.”

“I’m sorry, I’m stupid tonight. But they couldn’t both get into her at the very same time, could they? I don’t see—”

“There is, how to say this, there is more than one aperture in a girl, love.”

“Oh, one in the mouth.”

“Or one here.”

“I never thought of that.”

“Haven’t you there?”

“Never. It’s painful, isn’t it?”

“Not if you know what you’re doing.”

“I’m not sure I see the appeal.”

“You weren’t sure about the calamari, either.”

“Touché. I must admit I’m interested. I don’t know if I’m personally interested or if it’s just that I like to hear what different people do in bed. They would both make love to her?”

“And to each other.”

“Oh, then they were queer?”

“Everybody’s bisexual, they say.”

“Do you really believe that? I’m not sure I do.”

“Well, that’s the new sexual freedom. The new morality. The kids coming along these days are very open about it. They do whatever feels good.”

“I don’t think I could ever have anything to do with a girl.”

“Maybe that’s your hangup.”

“Maybe.”

I put out a cigarette, and looked down at him, and he was quite urgently erect. “Oh,” I said, and he chuckled, and we made love quickly, just a rapid urgent bang, and I made it seconds before he did.

Then, lying together facing each other, I looked at his now-little penis (his is absolutely tiny when it’s soft but respectable enough when it’s not, a complete transformation) and I thought how innocent it was now, how soft and innocent, and I looked up at his face, and all at once I knew.

I didn’t stop to think it over or I might not have said anything, but instead voiced the thought as soon as it came along. I said, “You were one of the men. With that girl. You were one of the two men.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It just came to me. I don’t know why. It’s true, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And you would want me to do that. With you and another fellow.”

“Maybe you would like to think about it.”

“Oh, God. I really don’t know.”

“It excites you, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, damn it, yes, of course it does. Anything sexual excites me if it’s just a matter of thinking about it. I don’t think I could do it. I really don’t. I don’t even think I could let anybody screw me In the bottom, as far as that goes. I don’t think, oh, I don’t even know what I think. I can’t imagine being in bed with you and having you do things with another man. What do you do with him, anyway?”

“The usual things.”

“I just can’t take all this in, Arnold.”

“Why don’t we have some wine and talk about something else?”

“Yes, maybe we should do that.”

And we did, and he hinted that he wouldn’t at all mind sleeping over, it being cold outside and all, and I said no, that I had to be independent now and that I had made up my mind that one part of my independence was that I would not spend the whole night with anyone. That this was one of the things I had been running from when I left my husband. I had not previously decided any such thing, but I didn’t want him to stay overnight I guess because I wanted to be alone when I woke up and also because I frankly didn’t want to hear any more about group sex until I had a little more chance to digest what he had told me.

The independence aspect went down well, though. Made perfect sense to him and he seemed to respect me for it. He had a last slug of wine, lit himself a cigarette, and away he went into the night, leaving me with more new thoughts to echo around in my head than I had room for.

He is really weird.

Two men at once? I don’t think I could relate to that sort of scene.

Or is it that I don’t want myself to enjoy something like that?

I am still recovering from the other night with Arnold. What a strange effect it’s been having.

I find myself looking at people differently, and almost blushing for the thoughts I’ve been having. All sorts of thoughts. Sexual, of course.

I will see two men deep in conversation, and in my mind they become a pair of faggots who do all sorts of unspeakable things to each other. And then I find myself enlarging on this and imagining things. Myself with them. Doing what?

Everything.

Or with a girl. I saw a girl on the street this morning. Dark haired and slender, much the same physical type as I, although I rarely see that sort of similarity in others. And I honestly didn’t have any sexual desires for her, not as far as I can tell, but I found myself, oh, thinking.

What do girls do with each other? Primarily eat each other, I think, although I suppose they could have dozens of other things that they do and that I have never thought of.

Being eaten is nice. If you can just give yourself up to it. If you can make yourself completely passive and just take a bath in feelings.

Howard never liked to do it. He did it, but he didn’t like to. He did it, I think, out of a sense of duty, and not well. He did it until I got sufficiently passionate to be an interesting fuck, and then he would stop eating me and climb aboard, which usually was the last thing I wanted him to do. And I suppose he made it obvious that he didn’t like to do it, just as I suppose I made it obvious I didn’t care much about returning the favor, and neither of us did it very well, and so we didn’t do it very often, or want it one from the other very often.

What a stinking shitty marriage. What an absolute complete farce of a marriage.

Incredibly, I don’t miss him at all. Sometimes I wonder where he is, what he is doing, if he has found someone, if he has moved permanently to the city. As you might wonder about some old friend you hadn’t seen in years. But as far as caring about him or what he is doing, I don’t.

At least I don’t think I do.

Would it be different to be eaten by a girl? How?

Could one just have that or would one be expected to return the favor? It would seem that there ought to be girls who would prefer to eat, while others like oneself would instead prefer to be eaten. Is there a whole body of rules of etiquette for this sort of thing?

And why do I care?

Do I?

I don’t think I do. This is silly. I’m not a lesbian, I don’t want any girl or woman touching me, I don’t want any of that.

Or do I?

Sometimes it seems as though I just don’t know anything anymore. As though all I really get in my travels through whatever it precisely is through which I’m traveling is more confused than ever.

If I have reached the point where I can write sentences like that last one I think it is time to stop.

Eric spoke to me this afternoon. I looked up from a Nero Wolfe mystery to smile at him, as I often do when he comes in, and he gave me the smile back and came over to my table.

He said, “The Mother Hunt? I think I missed that one.”

“You could borrow it when I’m done.”

“I’d appreciate it. I enjoy Nero Wolfe. I prefer to believe that he exists, you know, and that some day I could be invited to that West Thirty-fifth Street brownstone for dinner. And then I would know that I had made a success of my life.”

I laughed pleasantly. The one time I would have liked to say something bright, and all I could manage was a laugh. Eric smiled somewhat warmly and then went on to his usual table.