Thursday, February 26, 2004
Reading thisfish's blog about a remembered weekend affair made me want to write the story of Max and the hot tub.
I met Max at Irina's house. The moment I saw him, I wanted him. I tried to pretend that Mark wasn't my boyfriend, that I had never heard of this "Mark" person. I wanted Max.
I invited him to my birthday party - at the house I was living in with Mark. He came, and told me about his Japanese pottery - how he needed help firing his kiln, staying up all night. I volunteered instantly. He lay on the floor of my living room and let my girlfriends lay crystals on his chest and belly. All of us girls were smitten - and he let us play with him, dote on him - like a tame bear who wanted his belly scratched.
I couldn't eat or sleep for three days. I wanted him. His big blue eyes, his aristocratic face, his little blond goatee. His wild blonde hair. Wild, sensitive mountain boy. I wrote a poem about him - how he was as sweet as canteloupes. We talked on the phone and every word was nectar. I wanted him.
Three days later he called me at work. I was going in the hot tub after work and I invited him - casually, of course. He said he'd be right over. I was in ecstasy. I could feel my nipples rubbing under my shirt. My skin was tingling.
He showed up and we got into the hot tub, naked. It was February and close to freezing. He was a mountain of a man, 6'3" and made of muscle. We sat in the hot tub and steamed, then would get out and lie on the edge of it, or walk in the snow. He rubbed my feet in the hot tub. He told me I could talk to him about anything. He said he wanted to hold me. We stood up naked in the center of the water and he held me. It was so much what I wanted that I went numb. He held me for a few minutes, one hand on the back of my head, the other around my waist.
When we went back inside, he bundled me up in a towel and dried me off. He was so strong I felt like a little girl. I was shivering. He sat me on his lap and held me to warm me up. We talked a little, and started to dress. He suddenly looked at me intently and asked: Do you want to kiss me? He had just taken a drink from the water bottle and his mouth was wet. Of course I wanted to kiss him. I wanted it with every cell in my body. I had wanted to kiss him for weeks. But. I had a boyfriend. Fuck.
So I told him: Of course I want to kiss you. But I won't.
He took another sip of water, slowly, watching me, and asked: Are you sure?
Fuck. Double fuck. My panties were wet. I was shaking: I want to, but... I just can't.
We left it at that. Mark took us out to dinner with another friend. Max and I were on another planet: Planet Lust. I don't remember anything about that night - what we ate, drank, what we talked about. I just remember watching Max's mouth as he spoke and as he laughed, as he chewed and as he drank his beer, wanting.
The next morning at work, I walked past the hot tub. Frozen in the ice was a hair clip, the hair clip I had abandoned the night before, when I was naked in the hot tub with Max, not kissing him.
|
I met Max at Irina's house. The moment I saw him, I wanted him. I tried to pretend that Mark wasn't my boyfriend, that I had never heard of this "Mark" person. I wanted Max.
I invited him to my birthday party - at the house I was living in with Mark. He came, and told me about his Japanese pottery - how he needed help firing his kiln, staying up all night. I volunteered instantly. He lay on the floor of my living room and let my girlfriends lay crystals on his chest and belly. All of us girls were smitten - and he let us play with him, dote on him - like a tame bear who wanted his belly scratched.
I couldn't eat or sleep for three days. I wanted him. His big blue eyes, his aristocratic face, his little blond goatee. His wild blonde hair. Wild, sensitive mountain boy. I wrote a poem about him - how he was as sweet as canteloupes. We talked on the phone and every word was nectar. I wanted him.
Three days later he called me at work. I was going in the hot tub after work and I invited him - casually, of course. He said he'd be right over. I was in ecstasy. I could feel my nipples rubbing under my shirt. My skin was tingling.
He showed up and we got into the hot tub, naked. It was February and close to freezing. He was a mountain of a man, 6'3" and made of muscle. We sat in the hot tub and steamed, then would get out and lie on the edge of it, or walk in the snow. He rubbed my feet in the hot tub. He told me I could talk to him about anything. He said he wanted to hold me. We stood up naked in the center of the water and he held me. It was so much what I wanted that I went numb. He held me for a few minutes, one hand on the back of my head, the other around my waist.
When we went back inside, he bundled me up in a towel and dried me off. He was so strong I felt like a little girl. I was shivering. He sat me on his lap and held me to warm me up. We talked a little, and started to dress. He suddenly looked at me intently and asked: Do you want to kiss me? He had just taken a drink from the water bottle and his mouth was wet. Of course I wanted to kiss him. I wanted it with every cell in my body. I had wanted to kiss him for weeks. But. I had a boyfriend. Fuck.
So I told him: Of course I want to kiss you. But I won't.
He took another sip of water, slowly, watching me, and asked: Are you sure?
Fuck. Double fuck. My panties were wet. I was shaking: I want to, but... I just can't.
We left it at that. Mark took us out to dinner with another friend. Max and I were on another planet: Planet Lust. I don't remember anything about that night - what we ate, drank, what we talked about. I just remember watching Max's mouth as he spoke and as he laughed, as he chewed and as he drank his beer, wanting.
The next morning at work, I walked past the hot tub. Frozen in the ice was a hair clip, the hair clip I had abandoned the night before, when I was naked in the hot tub with Max, not kissing him.
|
Monday, February 02, 2004
Today I passed an elderly man on the sidewalk, pulling an oxygen tank in a wheeled cart. It reminded me of my grandmother, who needed to take an oxygen tank with her wherever she went. In the house, she had a long tube that connected her to an oxygen machine - my grandfather said that now he could always find her! She never let it slow her down - in fact, she treated it almost like a trendy accessory. Sewing circle meeting? Throw that oxygen tank in the back of the car and let's go! Women's Church Society? She'd toss the tank in her quilted bag.
My grandmother - Shirley - had three open heart surgeries in her life. Her heart had been damaged by two rounds of scarlet fever, once when she was a girl, and again when she was a young mother. After each surgery she would recover slowly. Her docter told her to excercise, so she did, going for long walks with her cats in the fields around her house, down to the river and back.
My mother had been in Maine for almost a week, hoping grammie would recover, when the pneumonia really took hold. Mom finally called late one night, saying "Come - I need you. It won't be much longer." I panicked, threw some black clothes and some other clothes into a bag and tried to sleep. I thought my grandmother would hate for her family to wear black at her funeral. I couldn't sleep. I gave up sometime in the wee hours, and left on the seven hour journey to Maine. I drove 90, thinking if I got pulled over I would burst into tears and get a police escort.
Grammie died an hour before I got there. My mother said it was better that I remembered her alive. It was the first death in our family, so no one knew what to do. My grandparents had been members of the Methodist church for years, so the pastor and friends from church helped us with the practical side of death - choosing psalms to sing at the service, setting up tables for the reception, and so on.
I stayed in Maine, at my grandparents' old farmhouse, for three or four days before the funeral happened. No one knew what to do. We would tell funny stories about grammie and laugh and then cry - we did this over and over again, in the evenings after supper. One night I was sitting in my grandmother's chair in the living room - her reading chair - and idly picked up the book resting on the table next to it. It was a book about swans with a bookmark two-thirds of the way through. My grandmother had been reading this book just a day or two before, and never gotten to finish it. I held it, sniffed it. It seemed somehow full of meaning. I wanted a message from my grandmother, some last secret or clue.
After the funeral, back in New York, I came down with a terrible illness. I fought it off for weeks with tea and vitamins, but it never seemed to lose its hold. One evening I went with a friend to a Russian healer's office, where she did some sort of energy work. When she got around the circle to me, she gasped, and waved her hands around, fingers snapping. Just before I left, she remarked that there had been something in my lungs, something that didn't want to let go.
I can only imagine that it was the same thing that had killed my grandmother - maybe she had coughed when she read her last book about swans. Maybe she had wanted to bring her book with her to the hospital. I wish I remember the title.
|
My grandmother - Shirley - had three open heart surgeries in her life. Her heart had been damaged by two rounds of scarlet fever, once when she was a girl, and again when she was a young mother. After each surgery she would recover slowly. Her docter told her to excercise, so she did, going for long walks with her cats in the fields around her house, down to the river and back.
My mother had been in Maine for almost a week, hoping grammie would recover, when the pneumonia really took hold. Mom finally called late one night, saying "Come - I need you. It won't be much longer." I panicked, threw some black clothes and some other clothes into a bag and tried to sleep. I thought my grandmother would hate for her family to wear black at her funeral. I couldn't sleep. I gave up sometime in the wee hours, and left on the seven hour journey to Maine. I drove 90, thinking if I got pulled over I would burst into tears and get a police escort.
Grammie died an hour before I got there. My mother said it was better that I remembered her alive. It was the first death in our family, so no one knew what to do. My grandparents had been members of the Methodist church for years, so the pastor and friends from church helped us with the practical side of death - choosing psalms to sing at the service, setting up tables for the reception, and so on.
I stayed in Maine, at my grandparents' old farmhouse, for three or four days before the funeral happened. No one knew what to do. We would tell funny stories about grammie and laugh and then cry - we did this over and over again, in the evenings after supper. One night I was sitting in my grandmother's chair in the living room - her reading chair - and idly picked up the book resting on the table next to it. It was a book about swans with a bookmark two-thirds of the way through. My grandmother had been reading this book just a day or two before, and never gotten to finish it. I held it, sniffed it. It seemed somehow full of meaning. I wanted a message from my grandmother, some last secret or clue.
After the funeral, back in New York, I came down with a terrible illness. I fought it off for weeks with tea and vitamins, but it never seemed to lose its hold. One evening I went with a friend to a Russian healer's office, where she did some sort of energy work. When she got around the circle to me, she gasped, and waved her hands around, fingers snapping. Just before I left, she remarked that there had been something in my lungs, something that didn't want to let go.
I can only imagine that it was the same thing that had killed my grandmother - maybe she had coughed when she read her last book about swans. Maybe she had wanted to bring her book with her to the hospital. I wish I remember the title.
|
