Charles Bock - Beautiful Children

“Symbolism, Link. Gender power structures.” Lorraine explained she did not have a problem with putting it in her mouth, per se. “It's just, if I'm going to have it in my mouth, I need the act to be organic. Not to have it in my mouth because you want it there, but because the beauty of the moment dictates that my mouth is the natural and correct place for it to be.”

Lincoln had listened. He'd nodded. He'd even refrained from cracking how having it in her mouth felt pretty damn fine in the beauty of every and any given moment.

Right, is what he'd said. Great.

“Except, um, is there any timetable on just when this beautiful and perfect event might take place? Any ideas on when those planets are going to align? Because, sweet darling, from my side of the fence, that particular special's been dropped from the menu.” The way Lincoln saw things, the mere option, the thought that Lorraine could if she so chose put it in her mouth, this no longer entered her mind. He went so far as to wonder if there was any chance that Lorraine's gag reflex was more mental than physical? “Maybe?” he prodded. “Just maybe?”

How clear it seemed to him now. As far as mistakes go, that particular ditty had fallen somewhere between President Announces Tax Hike and President Admits Getting Rim Jobs from Male Intern. Not just because Lorraine would not look at him, but had sat there, arms crossed so tightly that they squished what, in better moods, Lincoln still thought of as perfect breasts. More important, it had been a mistake because Lincoln had given her the perfect opening and justification to get all indignant and self-righteous the way she liked to. And simple as Simon, just because his brain had locked for five seconds and he had inserted his ass into his mouth, the subject of conversation no longer was Lorraine getting lovey on his nuts, nor was it Lincoln's urges, nor even the undiscussed but not-insubstantial problem of Lorraine only liking sex in the missionary position. The subject was not that Lincoln would have given his left testicle for something besides plain one-scoop vanilla sex and it was not the sheer volume of Lorraine's hesitancies and it sure as hell was not Lincoln's fear that all of these hesitancies pointed to deeper issues that needed to be addressed in this marriage, questions about limits and boundaries and how far she was willing to go to please. No. Because of a blunder that Lincoln, dumbass that he was (he was such a dumbass), knew better than to make, things had firmly and irrevocably moved into Bad Man Makes Girl Cry Territory. Pig Territory. Which was a howling shame. A minor tragedy. Because when he got to those pearly gates and Saint Peter opened the book on his life, Lincoln Ewing was more than a little sure the record would show he took great pains to be supportive of Lorraine, understanding of her emotions, sensitive to the slightest movements of her moon; the record would show he was a loving husband, a proud parent, a first-rate provider, one of those guys who lived on that intellectual and emotional plane where sexuality was merely a part of his larger marriage and family structure. Never bitched about stretches where he and Lorraine were not intimate (if he did, it was usually good-natured). Never moaned about junctures where the intimacy was perfunctory and did nothing for anyone's libido. Without question he respected the value of privacy in a marriage, understood an individual's need to maintain his or her sense of self, yet at the same time he did not want limitations on honesty, nor boundaries on intimacy. He made all these concessions and he aspired to all these things, and what did it get him? Not a hummer on a crisp summer night, that was for goddamn sure. What he got was trapped in another Politics of Marriage Conversation, one more evening tactfully countering Lorraine's points and defending himself, apologizing and then pleading and then groveling.

When he got down to it, when he'd calmed down and was off somewhere nursing a good stiff drink, Lincoln was introspective enough to admit this dynamic was nothing new, but in fact went back to when he'd first noticed Lorraine. He'd been a lightweight, twenty-two, just another former athlete turned glorified salesman. Hadn't even known better than to give convention reps those souvenir pens with the dress disappearing from off the showgirl's body. He used to bring prospective clients backstage to the Lido show — corporate reps were always thrilled to get introduced to the dancers, the combo of sex and glamour and exclusivity was just the thing for greasing a deal. The chorus girls were used to it, they'd received attention and kindness from men for so long that they took a certain amount for granted. It was not all that uncommon for showgirls to use their sexual allure, hustling themselves clothes and jewelry and a run of the high life. Only, where they'd turned haughty and jaded, Lorraine appeared genuinely conflicted by the whole routine. She did her part, glad-handing and smiling big as per orders from above; however, it seemed to Lincoln that she was uncomfortable with her sexual power, at odds with the attention it drew. Backstage, he'd watch her shake hands and smile and give nothing of herself, saw that she was holding back, guarded, defensive, sometimes even hostile toward this part of the job. They'd discussed it over the years, carrying out a running debate over whether she'd been there to be a dancer or a consort; what was the harm in acting decently toward people who were in a position to keep your employer's business successful. The issue never had been completely put to bed between them, their debate never concluded. Equally unsettled were Lincoln's attempts at getting beyond her natural recalcitrance, his perpetual mission to satisfy and — why not — please her. Somewhere along the line, this had found its own life. Without either party paying attention, the dynamic had grown into one of the sustaining patterns of their marriage, its own game, replete with its own rules — Lincoln trying harder, making Lorraine more unsatisfied, which in turn made Lincoln more determined.

Oh, the sex they used to have working their tempers off on each other! How she used to wail! Sitting upright, Lorraine wrapped around him; her body convulsing; Lorraine sobbing, weeping in release, finally giving herself to him, finally his. If there was something inside her that needed to be won or taken, then something inside of him also needed to win her or take her, and once he had, once all barriers were broken through and all games had been played, then there were no limits, no constraints; rather, there was the way he rolled her around in his mouth; the music he sent through her body; the first time she stuck her finger in his ass at just the right moment….

In the days that had followed what Lincoln came to think of as the Argument, he'd mused wistfully on the complicated dimensions of his wife's sexuality. Cute little skirts kept power walking into his office, relaying and picking up the latest departmental memos, and Lincoln had watched their twitching backsides with conflicted interest. It's not like there's ever a good time for your marriage to go through a sexual crisis, but the onset of summer in Las Vegas certainly wasn't ideal. The Consumer Electronics Show bids were also coming up, and Lincoln was the hotel's point man, responsible for coordinating myriad schedules and agendas into a coherent game plan, something that would uniformly hypnotize companies attending the show, convince them to book the Kubla Khan's hotel rooms, its convention spaces, its banquet halls. Under optimum conditions, it was a grueling burden, with deadlines on top of deadlines. There were teleconferences. Videoconferences.

In the wee small hours, Lincoln would ease his sedan through a maze of sweetly named capillary roads and into his moderately prestigious neighborhood. Leafy and fruitless trees provided camouflage for the cul-de-sac of spacious ranch-style homes. Usually the house was dark and silent by the time Lincoln got back, with moths congregating around the near streetlights, and a private security guard parked on a side street, curled asleep in the backseat. Pulling up usually woke the neighbor's dog and set it barking, and Lincoln would turn off the fuzzy sounds of a long-distance baseball game that had kept him company for the drive. His ass dragging down to the cement, his shirttail untucked, Lincoln would trudge up the stairs and find the door to the master bedroom shut — Lorraine was a light sleeper, it was true, she was susceptible to tossing and restlessness, and had been known to shoot up out of dreams, awaken to the lightest peck on the cheek. Still, a certain promotions and marketing executive would manage, even after ten hours of mind-numbing work, to ease the bedroom door open without any creaking. He'd slip under the minority of covers that she had not appropriated. Maybe he'd be daring and kiss her shoulder. Lincoln would stretch out in his bed and look up into the darkness of the ceiling and soon enough his mind would begin to unwind and unpack. And underneath the down comforter and the one-thousand-thread-count linens, his feet, at the toe and ankle, they'd kinda, of their own accord, twitch. And if neither the neighbor's barking dog nor the creaking bedroom door nor even the peck on the shoulder had awakened Lorraine, then the twitches were sure to do it; and by the same token, if all the noise and activity already had roused Lorraine, well, his vibrating feet sure weren't going to help get her back to sleep. And so, one night toward the end of May, it simply had been easier for Lincoln to retire to the guest bedroom. The more considerate thing. This although the bed in the spare bedroom had been unfamiliar and unforgiving. This despite the fact that Lincoln truly enjoyed sleeping with the mother of his child, despite the fact that everyone and their sister knows separate beds are a barometer for a relationship in trouble. Lincoln headed into that spare bedroom and he inserted himself upon that crappy fold-out, and whatever sense of independence an expanse of mattress might hold when you've been keeping to your side of the bed for twelve years, whatever sense of freedom might come with being able to wrap yourself in as many sheets as you please, these were small consolations indeed.