Chapter 8
Birth of Obsession
Janet and Rebecca dropped in on me the next morning; they were brimful of energy and good spirits and they wanted me to go with them to "show Rebecca the sights."
I went. And for three days straight we showed Rebecca practically every "sight" that Los Angeles had to offer. It was an exhausting tour. But I enjoyed it. Rebecca was tireless. She kept us running from one attraction to the other, and her enthusiasm seemed to grow with every passing hour. She had a keen curiosity. She'd cock her head to one side when we were showing her something or explaining something, and you could tell by her eyes that she was absorbing all of it. Her questions were never trivial, nor was she given to the usual platitudes, such as: "Isn't that magnificent?" or, "Isn't that amazing?" or, "What'll they think of next?" In fact she rarely commented on anything; she'd merely nod slowly, as if she were digesting the information by some silent inward process of her own.
But as we went from place to place, and I'd steal glances at Rebecca's graceful hips, or purposely bump against her when we were walking, or press my thigh against hers when we were riding, or touch her hand when we were having lunch, or catch her pungent redolence in an elevator, or look into her fathomless intense eyes over a cocktail, or deliberately stare at her breasts when I knew she was aware of it, or at her mouth when she wasn't aware, of it ... I realized that (like seven years back) I was once again bordering on obsession. The ubiquitous little gal was becoming my raison d'etre, my very reason for living.
Sitting across from her at lunch I would say something that would provoke her gay laughter; then I'd bend close and catch the gusts of her exploding breath and breathe them into me and hold them, reveling in even this tenuous absorption of her. I'd listen to her voice with the rapt awe of a music student listening to a Bach fugue. Or gaze at her calves with the fascination of an art lover perusing the original Blue Boy. Or watch her mouth when she talked, as avidly and attentively as a deaf mute. Or walk beside her step for step and feel a joyful empathy in our mutual rhythm and in the knowledge that we were moving together in like fashion. Or walk behind her and watch her hair bounce, and imagine my face pressed against that hair. Or touch things she'd touched (deriving a cogent thrill the second day when she'd been unable to finish a sandwich she was eating and had given it to me). I had lingered over it, chewing it slowly, masticating each bite until it dissolved to a mere paste and then swallowing it with regret. Crossing streets I would hold her arm and glare malevolently at motorists if they approached us too closely. I was her protector.
The odor of her was as provocative and fresh and pleasurable as freshly opened coffee. It was an exotic odor. The scent of faraway places and strange, forbidden concoctions and incense. At times, in close places, her scent was rather unpleasant. Pungent, like wormwood. But even then I breathed it in in masochistic reverence. And once, in the car with my thigh pressed firmly against hers, I caught the unmistakable acrid scent of aroused sexuality. I had been unable to talk for awhile; I'd answered several questions by nodding knowingly or shrugging stupidly. And Rebecca had recognized my state; she'd teased me by crossing her knees so that her skirt had pulled high. And she'd laughed mockingly.
During those three days I became as familiar with Rebecca's face and body as an artist becomes familiar with his model. Even though she was fully dressed (and I'd seen her before without clothes) I studied her outlines and hollows and contours with such an all-engrossed intensity that she might as well have been quite naked (my memory as well as my imagination combined and filled in details with the efficiency and exactness of a camera).
Her throat was a bit long, and yet as full and vital as a Mogdiliani subject. Her shoulders were of medium width, softly rounded, far back, giving her an erect posture and causing her breasts to jut out flagrantly. Her waist was ridiculously small. I've never seen a smaller waist. And it was as lively and pliable as a willow-branch. (It was the slimness of her waist that gave you the illusion that she was a bit too large in the hips and breasts.) Her breasts, as I've said, were exceedingly high and firm and large.
But they were far more than that. They had that jaunty air about them that made you really crave to take them in your hands and lift them and jiggle them and pinch them. Their shape had that taunting quality that caused even women to turn and stare quite openly (which irritated me beyond measure). They bounced just a little when she walked, and (though they weren't that large) they seemed forever to be on the verge of bursting right out of whatever she was wearing. Her hips had the most succulent flare ever! They were deeply dimpled and her skirts molded to their rises and hollows as smoothly as wet silk. Her thighs were large. Some would say that they were too large, even fleshy. But even through her skirts you could tell they were as firm and lean as choice ham-hocks. Her calves were large too. But here again there was none of the softness or flabby excess that one associates with largeness. They curved down into tight, small ankles, and her tiny feet added to their allure. But it was her mouth that my eyes turned to again and again! That sensual droop of lower lips! Those small, gleaming-white teeth! That red, lascivious tongue that kept peeking out at you and teasing you and making your own lips twitch with nervous need! When she'd laugh her upper lip would tremble and sort of pucker out at you. And when something displeased her the corners would draw down a little and her chin would tremble like a spanked child's. When she'd say "Oh," she'd pucker both lips way out, in the fashion that a young boy drinks soda-pop. And when she'd say "yes," you'd get the whole treatment: her lips would part, her tongue would flirt with you for a brief instant, her lower lip would stretch and widen and she'd look for the moment like a devious pixie. (It was towards the end of the third day that I saw her yawn; her mouth opened wide and rather crookedly; her lips pulled back over her teeth and quivered there for a spell; then she closed her mouth slowly and set her lips primly. And I reeled! I actually staggered! Suddenly that simple yawn had represented the epitome of oral sexuality and it set me back on my heels like a slap in the face!) We stopped at a drive-in a little later and ordered chicken-in-a-basket, and watching her bite into a drumstick and then quickly flick her tongue out to remove some crumb from her lips was sheer torture.
By the evening of that third day I knew that I was really dangerously near obsession. Rebecca occupied my every waking thought. I could pretend to be considering other things; when Charles talked to me I could focus my attention long enough to give him some sort of answer. But it was all pretense. A curious thing, though. Now that I'd admitted to myself that indeed I was becoming obsessed with Rebecca I no longer seemed to fear it. In point of fact I was smugly satisfied (even happy) that I had chanced upon such a delightful raison d'etre.
It's occurred to me since, that at certain points in our lives we welcome any vast change (even negative ones or terribly dangerous ones; such as, for instance, when a man runs off to war. Boredom is what kills us in the end, and we instinctively turn to any diversion (even perversion) to escape the noisome monotony of a seemingly meaningless existence. Rebecca, with her breathtaking loveliness and strange, compulsive personality, offered me release from boredom. And the physical fact of my bisexualism made it natural and easy for me to turn to her for the change I evidently sought.
Every need for change implies a discontent. Rebecca then was the "winner" of my discontent.
I've said that Rebecca had begun to occupy my every waking thought. And so she had. But I've neglected to mention that she haunted my brain in that lurid limbo land between wakefulness and sleep. Once asleep, fully asleep, I don't recall ever dreaming of her. But then I've never been an active dreamer. (At least I can seldom recall having dreamt when morning rolls around.) But in that drifting haziness that divides wakefulness from sleep my brain conjured up Rebecca and laid her out in every frame of sexual reference. Charles' sleep-warm form beside me was metaphorsed; I was with a wildly willing Rebecca, and we dallied as persons can only dally in day-dreams. By some perverse alchemy I was even able to change Charles' masculine odor into the acrid scent of Rebecca in heat.
My bacon and eggs of a morning were ingested with nebulous surds that whispered "Rebecca". I did dishes and then dusted and cleaned and all with a rhythm and beat that repeated "Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca". I saw her on TV; she was every lovely heroine and every lusty lass that commercial medium could vaunt. I injected her name into songs and sang them while I showered and moaned them while I ... something else. But had I known then, had I the slightest inkling, that Rebecca could be idolized or worshipped or loved only in the sense that a statue or other work of art might be idolized, worshipped or loved ... I would've perhaps had the sense to quit before I began. But I learned the hard way. And I learned ... well ... that's the rest of my story.