Erica Jong - Fear Of Flying

By afternoon, we were drunk and jolly. We were soused on beer. We stopped to buy peaches from a roadside farmer and found that he’d only sell them by the box, so we drove off with the Triumph loaded with peaches. A huge crate of them filling the back of the car. I began eating them greedily and discovered that nearly all of them had worms. I laughed and I ate around the worms. I tossed the wormy peach halves out into the countryside. I was too drunk to care about worms or pregnancy or marriage or the future.

“I feel great!” I said to Adrian.

“That’s the idea, ducks. Now you’ve got the idea.”

But by evening, when the beers wore off, I was depressed again. There was something so aimless about our days, our driving, our drinking. I didn’t even know what day of the week it was. I hadn’t seen a newspaper since Vienna. I had hardly even bathed, or changed my clothes. And what I missed most of all was my writing. I hadn’t written a poem in weeks and I began to feel that I never would be able to again. I thought of my used red electric typewriter sitting in New York, and a pang of yearning went through me. That was who I loved! I could see myself going back to Bennett for the sake of having custody of the typewriter. Like people who stay together “for the children” or because they can’t decide who’ll get the rent-controlled apartment.

That night we found a real campsite rather than a roadside. (Le Camping, as they say in France.) It wasn’t fancy, but it had a swimming hole, a snack bar, a place where you could shower. I was dying for a shower and as soon as Adrian had staked out our parcel of ground, I made off to the shower house. As the dirt was rolling off me, I spoke to Bennett telepathically. “Forgive me,” I said to him wherever he was (and to myself, wherever I was).

When I got back to the tent, Adrian had made a friend. Two friends, in fact. An American couple. She, coarsely pretty, red-haired, freckled, bosomy, Jewish, with a Brooklyn accent. He, bearded, brown-haired, fuzzy, fattish, with a Brooklyn accent. He was a swinging stockbroker who dabbled in hallucinogens. She was a swinging housewife who dabbled in adultery. They had a brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, a Volkswagen camper, three kids in camp, and the fourteen-year itch. Adrian was wowing the wife (Judy) with his English accent and Laingian theories (which had already worn thin with me). She looked just about ready to tent down with him.

“Hi,” I said brightly to my compatriots and co-religionists.

“Hi,” they said in one voice.

“Now what?” said Adrian. “Bed first or booze?”

Judy giggled.

“Don’t mind me,” I said. “We don’t believe in posses-siveness or possession.” I thought I was doing a pretty good imitation of Adrian.

“We’ve got a steak we were about to grill,” the husband (Marty) offered nervously. “Would you like to join us?” When in doubt, eat. I knew his type.

“Super,” said Adrian. The man who came to dinner. I could see he was really turned on by the prospect of screwing Judy with her husband looking on. That was his thing. Since Bennett was off the scene, he’d somewhat lost interest in me.

We sat down to steak and the story of their lives. They’d decided to be reasonable, Marty said, instead of getting divorced like three-quarters of their friends. They’d decided to give each other plenty of freedom. They’d done a lot of “group things,” as he put it, on Ibiza, where they’d spent the month of July. Poor bastard, he didn’t look very happy. He was repeating some swinging sexual catechism like a bar mitzvah boy. Adrian was grinning. Converts already. He could just take it from there.

“How about you?” Judy asked.

“We’re not married,” I said. “We don’t believe in it. He’s Jean-Paul Sartre and I’m Simone de Beauvoir.”

Judy and Marty looked at each other. They’d heard those names somewhere, but couldn’t remember where.

“We’re famous,” I said snidely. “Actually, he’s R. D. Laing and I’m Mary Barnes.”

Adrian laughed, but I could see I’d lost Judy and Marty. Pure self-protection. I felt a showdown coming on, and I had to throw my intellectual weight around. It was all I had left.

“Right,” said Adrian. “Why don’t we just swap for starters?”

Marty looked crestfallen. It wasn’t very complimentary to me, but the truth was I didn’t much want him either.

“Be my guests,” I said to Adrian. I wanted to see him hoist on his own petard-whatever the hell that means. (I never have been sure.) “I think I’ll sit this one out. If you want me to, I’ll watch.” I had decided to outdo Adrian at his own game. Cool. Uninvolved. All that crap.

Marty then leapt up to protest his virility. “I think we should swap or nothing,” he stammered.

“Sorry,” I said, “I don’t want to be a spoilsport, but I’m just not in the mood.” I was about to add, “Besides I may have clap…” but I decided not to ruin it for Adrian. Let him do his thing. I was tough. I could take it.

“Don’t you think we should reach a group decision?” Judy said.

Boy, was she ever the ex-girl scout!

“I’ve already made my decision,” I said. I was awfully proud of myself. I knew what I wanted and I wasn’t going to back down. I was saying no and liking it. Even Adrian was proud of me. I could tell by the way he was grinning. Character building, that’s what he was doing. He’d always been interested in saving me from myself.

“Well,” I said, “shall we watch you or just sit near the swimming hole and talk? I’m amenable to either.”

“The swimming hole,” Marty said desperately.

“I hope that’s not a pun,” I said.

I waved cheerily to Adrian and Judy as they climbed into the Volkswagen camper and drew the curtains. Then I took Marty by the hand and led him to the old swimming hole where we sat down on a rock.

“Do you want to tell me the story of your life, or just describe Judy’s affairs?”

He looked glum.

“Do you always take things so casually?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the camper.

“I’m usually a terrific worrywart, but my friend there has been building my character.”

“How do you mean?”

“He’s trying to teach me to stop agonizing, and he may succeed-but not for the reasons he thinks.”

“I don’t understand,” Marty said.

“I’m sorry. I guess I’m jumping ahead. It’s a long, sad story, and not the most original plot in the world.”

Marty looked wistfully in the direction of the camper. I took his hand.

“Let me tell you a secret-the chances are that not much action is taking place in there. He’s not the stud he thinks he is,” I said.

“Impotent?”

“Often.”

“That doesn’t make me feel much better, but I appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

I looked at Marty. He wasn’t bad looking. I thought of all the times I’d yearned for strange men, strange places, strange enormous cocks. But all I felt was indifference. I knew that screwing Marty would not take me any nearer the truth I was seeking-whatever that was. I wanted some ultimate beautiful act of love in which each person becomes the other’s prayer wheel, toboggan, rocket. Marty was not the answer. Was anyone?

“How’d you get here?” he asked. “Aren’t you American?”

“Those two things don’t cancel each other out… Actually, I left my perfectly nice husband for this.”

Now Marty perked up. A faint shock wave passed over his face. Was that why I had done it after all-just to be able to say brazenly, “I left my husband” and see the shock waves pass between me and some stranger? Was it no more than exhibitionism? And a pretty seedy sort of exhibitionism at that.