Joseph McElroy - Women and Men

The wiry voice was Kate’s friend, Rima, a learner certainly, with a lot of balls, who would never give a guy the worship that would take him out of circulation on a permanent basis so he would never know if he had a personality or not, and who had come to three sessions of a workshop and dropped out because she had to check out some similar operations and the Esalen trip on the Coast. Rima was phoning like every week to ask Grace’s opinion. What was the real, bottom-line, everyday effect on "one’s" sexuality of one’s parents (like, what had gone on in Grace’s home?); or, what was the breakdown of activities at swings in terms of preferences (well, Grace had begun to orgy-out, desiring regular hits of solitude, one day a week of silence, for, you know, Silence = Rest, if, as the Chilean woman Clara had said weeks and weeks ago, Rest is Silence — wasn’t that what she had said? although the A. A. friends still got together — yet more for raps than sex); well, was it helpful to the women in the workshops (that is, was it really sharing information) to have heterosexual demonstration as part of the format? (you dropped out too soon, honey!) — and did "self-sex" as Grace called it, as versus either s-s in company (you mean jerkeen off with others?) or one-on-one, conserve energy for someone on the way up in a demanding executive position? But what was Rima’s new name, it was sort of feminist-literary as if she had gone Muslim, but it was a real pen name. But she was asking all these questions, she’s in some crisis but maybe inviting others in. The crisis didn’t feel so personal. Awkwardness bled into Grace from somewhere.

Now Rima had surfaced after a month, etcetera — obviously O.D.’d on work like Maureen O.D.’d on the science of sprouts, catching them at their life point to maximize duodenal flow to make the body feel concept. When Grace said, "What’s going on? — how was the Esalen trip? — are you taking time for self-love? — I’m planning on a rich Arab once a month who knows his place," she sensed in the easy breeze of her own words that this call was different, and knew another self or body had come into her to warn her that this Rima might be O.D.ing not on work but on good old patriarchal-facsimile exploitation.

THE PROFIT SYSTEM MAY LEAD INEVITABLY TO WAR BECAUSE

MEN SEE BUSINESS AS TOTAL VICTORY OR NOTHING. HOWEVER,

TO GIVE THE SYSTEM A CHANCE, WOMEN MUST NEVER DO ANY WORK

WHATSOEVER

EXCEPT FOR MONEY.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Rima asked, and Grace knew that some trip for herself was just around the bend and wanted to be off the phone and watching the black dudes sling their hammers at the new carpet.

"What if I say Yes I do mind if you ask me a personal question?"

"I would understand, Grace."

"Why would I mind when you’ve been doing it for weeks?"

"It was sharing information, I thought."

"It’s definitely information, dear. Listen, I got some people here."

What followed wasn’t "in" either of their minds. Still doing workshops? seriously thinking of running for President? Yeah, yeah, on an orgasm platform, you know me, right out there in Macy’s window. But did Grace mean a single-issue platform? Oh an everything platform, an abundance platform, we’ll even include a department of patriarchy, and Rima could be assistant media secretary while we give the fields back to the people so we can do the grazing, and we’ll bring Maureen back into public life to be commissar of agriculture. "Listen, I got some guys here."

"Is it true you’re going into men’s workshops, Grace?"

Coming close now, and what was Rima’s new last name? Grace was supposed to be good at names. "That’s right, wall-to-wall: tonight’s the night."

"Aren’t you making problems for yourself? — I mean with nudity and the emphasis on sex."

"It’s 1977, dear. Can’t wait. Body-Self, remember? The men have more problems being with themselves than we do."

"Does this mean that you’re reversing your ground on segregation of the sexes?"

"Hey man," Grace heard the younger black man in the next room say softly and knew he was pointing.

"That was never my trip," said Grace. "Just a nationwide moratorium on relations, that’s all. How are you doing, Rima?"

Everything was wonderful, she heard Rima say.

"Every one of them is different," said the younger black guy in the next room, and Grace heard chuckling.

She should have this woman in front of her, she sounded about as orgasmic as her neighbor with the lonesome dog who couldn’t let go of the leash when the elevator door closed abruptly, leaving the dog on the lobby marble pointing (the right direction) toward a fantastically thin-bred gray monster-beauty leash-less and masterless and at the ready, while the leashed dog began to strangle and the elevator alarm went off. Pets needed to be jerked off too —but off, that is.

"So what are you doing with your spare time, Rima?"

"Oh you know me, Grace."

"Oh shit, Rima."

"Grace, I’m glad I’m a woman; I wouldn’t want to be a man."

"Well, whatever it is, I hope you’re doing it every day."

"I never know what’s kidding and what’s totalitarian."

"Oh, you’re either a top or you’re a bottom, dear."

"When’s a new women’s workshop starting?"

If she had this woman in front of her, she could lay a gentle hand on her, for God’s sake. "Next week. It’s not full. I’m broke. Lucille’s helping out. You don’t know Lucille; she’s got more brains than all of us."

"Is she in with you?"

"No, she can’t handle that. She’s a hospital administrator. I’m working on her."

"But what happened to the nationwide women’s bathhouse idea?"

"I decided to be President instead. I’m going into consultation at a decent hourly rate, Rima. We don’t get paid for what we know."

"Hanging out a shingle?"

"Sex consultation mainly. You know me, Rima."

"You don’t need a degree, Grace. Therapy with demo."

"Any information that needs to be shared, Rima; you can understand that."

"How’s Maureen?"

"She’s doing fine."

"That’s what I heard. I heard Cliff’s working with you?"

"For me," Grace said, and the hammering resumed, and she thought, Of course. Cliff standing nude except for a Nikon, like nose-box binoculars, taking photos like his own life depended on it — the long gray page-boy streaked with brown, her oldest New York friend and still a ram (ask him) especially when he said he wanted Grace to wear the pants and what ram ever went around wearing pants, he inquired, with words, words, words.

"I’ll let you know about the workshop, Grace. How many men are coming tonight?"

"Nine brave men, one of them a part-Sioux Indian he says — plus two reluctant flashers who are on the fence but may go the limit."

"How do you feel about a woman running a men’s nude workshop?"

"I’m glad it’s me."

"Have you checked them all out? Is it the Anvil Chorus?"

"You’ve got me on the chorus but we don’t divide the rodeo stars from the fence sitters."

"I meant the Anvil downtown." Rima just wondered if Grace knew what she was getting into. "Thanks for talking to me, Grace."

"I’ll send you a bill." Grace saw Rima lying down, a naked horizon, but it was Grace’s.

RENT IS THE PRICE YOU PAY PER UNIT OF TIME

FOR THE SERVICES OF A DURABLE GOOD.

"Do you think swings are consistent with socialism, Grace?"

"You mean you think the state should be running them? I’m pretty well orgied-out."

"I mean in their emphasis; that’s what I meant. I mean it isn’t exactly one big happy family."