MANICHAEAN
01-28-2011, 12:24 PM
TO THOSE YOU REALLY LOVE.
There is perhaps nothing more distasteful and sordid than being in a one way relationship. And for the purpose of this story, I write only from the male perspective.
There was such a man; lets call him Allen, who found himself about ten years ago in such a situation. It was of his own doing, for he should never have accepted the invitation of the middle aged woman seated next to him on an airline flight to “Come and stay anytime at my place in Jamaica on the North Coast.” It was tempting, she seemed good company and it was, to be blatantly honest, convenient.
But then life’s not that straight forward, especially when there is a cross purpose between the two species. All went well at first, very civilized, very relaxing. Then the trip to Kingston to meet the brother and his wife, trip out on the catamaran to the keys and a swim, followed by dinner.
“I’ll only be really happy when I see my sister married” was the first signal raised & Allen should at that juncture have absorbed what he was getting into. He was enmeshed, as he soon perceived by good manners and social norms.
Back later that evening at the villa, the woman, (let’s call her Cecelia) was nervous. Allen realized that he was somehow expected to make a move, but he baulked. If there is no sexual attraction, then that’s it, no use fighting it. Is one supposed to don the guise of a male whore with the assumed felicity that one played as Cassius in a youthful school play?
And so there was what is termed “an atmosphere.” Allen was adamant not to perform & Cecelia took out her frustration at dusk with a machete on the garden undergrowth.
Relief came in the form of a visit the next day of Cecelia’s daughter and her vegetarian husband. A kind of peace ensued.
But Allen was restless. He spoke to the Jamaican steward. “Any place around here where I can listen to some good Reggie?” he asked.
“Sure man, up in de hills near my place, dere dis mampi girl don’t dance to the reggie man. Come on up wid I.”
It was like manna from heaven, the excuse of a cultural excursion to get out of the house.
And so Allen made his excuses, politely but firmly, that he would be back late as he was going to listen to some “indigenous” music.
Cecelia caught her under lip between her teeth and made a strange grimace, half false smile, half anguish. She’d lost control.
It was a warm Caribbean night and the breeze was coming in, slightly humid from the sea. But Allen and the steward took it slow as they climbed upward along a dirt road, up past the sugar cane into the hills of the interior. The stars in the Jamaican heavens seemed to proclaim the deliverance of mankind and back on earth, Allen quietly said “Amen” to that sentiment.
The venue once reached was a small affair. A round bar with about six drinkers and at the end a small stage with a painted red plastered wall behind. They had a couple of drinks & then the steward left to be with his family.
Allen sat and observed.
The mampi girl got up on the stage. Her face was disfigured and some teeth were missing.
But the body was perfection. An essential flame, soft-skinned and with toned limbs.
She faced the wall & gyrated. Contortions of the back, with arms placed high on the wall and tight buttocks that dipped and withdrew to the spirit of the loud music from adjacent speakers.
She finished & repaired to the bar & Allen sent down an invitation for a drink.
She came to him and looked in his face for the signs of disgust at the affliction she was so acquainted with.
“I liked your act” he said bravely and genuinely.
She gave a restrained smile, and as if an explanation was required, told how a cooker had once exploded in her face.
Allen could not but express inwardly a recognition of the depth of character of this girl, who night by night got up on stage and threw all in the face of a male audience.
“You can see a half of my body that you desire, you are fascinated and frightened by a face which you know is on the other side, a shared secret, but you choose not to look away!”
“Who has the strength?” this dancer seemed to say.
She leaned close in against Allen, “Come on up near the stage for my next performance”
His hand rested against her backside and it was as solid as the top of the bar.
That night she invited him home to her small neat house and he left in the morning as the sun was rising.
Back at the villa Cecelia was testy as if she knew all.
But it was his decision. He thought back to the dancer.
When you have loved a woman once, you never really stop loving them.
There is perhaps nothing more distasteful and sordid than being in a one way relationship. And for the purpose of this story, I write only from the male perspective.
There was such a man; lets call him Allen, who found himself about ten years ago in such a situation. It was of his own doing, for he should never have accepted the invitation of the middle aged woman seated next to him on an airline flight to “Come and stay anytime at my place in Jamaica on the North Coast.” It was tempting, she seemed good company and it was, to be blatantly honest, convenient.
But then life’s not that straight forward, especially when there is a cross purpose between the two species. All went well at first, very civilized, very relaxing. Then the trip to Kingston to meet the brother and his wife, trip out on the catamaran to the keys and a swim, followed by dinner.
“I’ll only be really happy when I see my sister married” was the first signal raised & Allen should at that juncture have absorbed what he was getting into. He was enmeshed, as he soon perceived by good manners and social norms.
Back later that evening at the villa, the woman, (let’s call her Cecelia) was nervous. Allen realized that he was somehow expected to make a move, but he baulked. If there is no sexual attraction, then that’s it, no use fighting it. Is one supposed to don the guise of a male whore with the assumed felicity that one played as Cassius in a youthful school play?
And so there was what is termed “an atmosphere.” Allen was adamant not to perform & Cecelia took out her frustration at dusk with a machete on the garden undergrowth.
Relief came in the form of a visit the next day of Cecelia’s daughter and her vegetarian husband. A kind of peace ensued.
But Allen was restless. He spoke to the Jamaican steward. “Any place around here where I can listen to some good Reggie?” he asked.
“Sure man, up in de hills near my place, dere dis mampi girl don’t dance to the reggie man. Come on up wid I.”
It was like manna from heaven, the excuse of a cultural excursion to get out of the house.
And so Allen made his excuses, politely but firmly, that he would be back late as he was going to listen to some “indigenous” music.
Cecelia caught her under lip between her teeth and made a strange grimace, half false smile, half anguish. She’d lost control.
It was a warm Caribbean night and the breeze was coming in, slightly humid from the sea. But Allen and the steward took it slow as they climbed upward along a dirt road, up past the sugar cane into the hills of the interior. The stars in the Jamaican heavens seemed to proclaim the deliverance of mankind and back on earth, Allen quietly said “Amen” to that sentiment.
The venue once reached was a small affair. A round bar with about six drinkers and at the end a small stage with a painted red plastered wall behind. They had a couple of drinks & then the steward left to be with his family.
Allen sat and observed.
The mampi girl got up on the stage. Her face was disfigured and some teeth were missing.
But the body was perfection. An essential flame, soft-skinned and with toned limbs.
She faced the wall & gyrated. Contortions of the back, with arms placed high on the wall and tight buttocks that dipped and withdrew to the spirit of the loud music from adjacent speakers.
She finished & repaired to the bar & Allen sent down an invitation for a drink.
She came to him and looked in his face for the signs of disgust at the affliction she was so acquainted with.
“I liked your act” he said bravely and genuinely.
She gave a restrained smile, and as if an explanation was required, told how a cooker had once exploded in her face.
Allen could not but express inwardly a recognition of the depth of character of this girl, who night by night got up on stage and threw all in the face of a male audience.
“You can see a half of my body that you desire, you are fascinated and frightened by a face which you know is on the other side, a shared secret, but you choose not to look away!”
“Who has the strength?” this dancer seemed to say.
She leaned close in against Allen, “Come on up near the stage for my next performance”
His hand rested against her backside and it was as solid as the top of the bar.
That night she invited him home to her small neat house and he left in the morning as the sun was rising.
Back at the villa Cecelia was testy as if she knew all.
But it was his decision. He thought back to the dancer.
When you have loved a woman once, you never really stop loving them.