Patty pulled the page out, put in a new sheet, and typed “Men either bore you to tears or they drive you to tears” as a sentence to begin something. A short story? A novel? A serious novel? Alone on the page, separated from her silly heroine with her silly feelings and her even sillier situation — who goes to formal balls and walks out on verandas anymore? — the sentence read grumpy; a nasty, unclever bit of whining disguised as feminism. An image of David kneeling at her feet, his tongue straining to lick her cunt, flashed into her self-disgust and excited her. She reached down and pressed her hand against her crotch. She was wet. Still wet from earlier? Or had that single image turned her on?
I should masturbate right here, she thought, and pleased herself with the devilish notion. She vividly pictured the scene: David sitting on the couch, glancing up in her direction, and seeing her, legs spread, rubbing herself to climax. What would he say? What if her silly heroine did that on the veranda after rejecting the dark Brian? This demure creature abruptly exposing herself and fingering away madly while the formal ball continued.
Damn this book, she said to herself, feeling imprisoned by it. A wave of loathing for it, for the rules of its genre, for the embarrassment of doing it, for the betrayal it represented of her sex, shuddered her resolve to write more. Patty didn’t care to identify herself as a feminist, or to get points from women for saying and believing the obvious, but still, these romance books really are beneath contempt, she decided. Writing one, forced to sit with its logic inside her head day and night, staring ahead, stony-eyed, at the narrow emotional highway her heroine was permitted, made Patty realize how much a part of the whole scene the stupid book was. She sits there and reacts to these bozos, Patty thought, enjoying her disgust. The contempt she felt was invigorating. Her brain had left a stuffy room; she could breathe the clean air of truth. It was almost as if having to think like that foolish bitch had stuck to her own brain, like cellophane to a shoe, and for months Patty had been standing idiotically on a street corner, comically shaking herself to be rid of it, until tonight, when she thought of the incredibly simple and effective idea that she could pull the stuff off with her hand.
I’m not gonna write this damn book, she decided.
She forced the dozens of questions that decision provoked out of her mind and leaned forward (I should put on some clothes. I’m freezing) and continued typing. She added to her lone sentence, writing away, without considering what her story was, concentrating instead on the scene she had imagined, namely an infuriated woman answering her mate’s insensitivity by brazenly masturbating. She was enjoying it, enjoying it the way she would have if she had had the nerve to do it herself. But as the description played itself out, she approached a fork in the road. Either her new heroine (reborn out of the ashes of sexist caricature) was fantasizing this behavior or actually doing it. Patty knew the choice would either infect or nourish the remainder of the work. Making it a fantasy would straighten and smooth the roadway, its destination sure, but perhaps the scenery would become dull and predictable. If her heroine, previously a sensible, reasonable, modestly behaved woman, was actually worn out by years of selfishness by her mate, doing it, taunting him with her own superior ability to satisfy herself … But was that true? Patty wasn’t most satisfied by bringing herself to climax. A man devoting himself to her body was her real thrill. What she had done for David was what she wanted for herself. That was the truth.
Could she write it?
Wasn’t it … in bad taste? No, she wasn’t worried about that, she was fearful of being hated for it. Men don’t want to know those things. And women, the truth is, don’t like to face them. Anyway, she reasoned, am I doing it? I have at least as much justification. Did I love myself in front of him? He’s still sitting there, stupidly reading Newstime, no doubt in an attempt to narrow his horizons even more.
I couldn’t do it. Even if I began to. I’d be too embarrassed to enjoy it. Climaxing in front of David — something she had presumably done dozens of times — seemed utterly vulgar if done by herself, especially without … without what? Without permission?
Do I need his permission to touch myself?
Jeez. I’m starting to sound like a dyke with hairy armpits. No, that’s wrong. It’s worse. That sounds like an academic who still does shave.
Sure, I need his permission to touch myself in front of him. How would I like it if he, over breakfast let’s say, opened his fly and jerked off into a napkin? Or worse, onto the tablecloth?
She burst out laughing.
“Watch it,” David said without looking up. “I don’t think those books are supposed to be funny.”
His casual, contemptuous reference to the romance genre froze her laugh. For a moment she wondered if she despised the form simply because his attitude had insinuated itself into her. No, no, I knew this was crap, she argued. David was infuriating. I should do it. Right now. Pull my panties down, and. staring into his whitish squinting face, masturbate. Who needs you, Mr. Newstime?
David tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. He stretched and then got up, avoiding her glare, and announced quietly to the floor, “I’m going to bed.”
Patty didn’t answer. She stared ahead, feeling rage, confusion about her work, a vague horniness that wandered through the other feelings like a lonely shopper browsing for the perfect purchase.
She reread her new pages. She loved them. The frank, unstylized prose, its easy access to the heroine’s emotions and imagination, the clear simple lines of character. It was real. So beautifully true. No fake adjectives about scenery she had never seen, peopled only by ordinary humans with incomes under six figures, and with a heroine who had been laid and was at least the equal of the men around her. The new words seemed like a friend, an intimate with whom anything could be said, any secret entrusted, someone to stay up all night with.
But what could she do with it? She had no story. She hadn’t even decided whether the opening scene was real or imagined. Certainly she couldn’t continue it as a portrait of her relationship with David. There was no story in that, and definitely not an interesting one. In fact, was her new character interesting to anyone but her? Who was she?
Maybe she’s Rounder’s wife? an impish voice asked. Rounder had the virtue of being at the top of Newstime, so his obsession with the job would be more reasonable and sympathetic than David’s. And Cathy Rounder was a Ph.D. and the mother of two, a much more stunning person than Patty herself. Imagine Cathy rubbing her clitoris in front of the six-foot-five blue-eyed Rounder! Send in the Marines, Cathy could say, and Patty roared at herself, followed by embarrassment at the viciousness and vulgarity of her imagination.
How could she write about a woman with two children? She knew nothing about it. I could have lunch with her, and play with the kids later, observe her daily routine. David wouldn’t mind. They might even socialize regularly. It would further his career and provide her with material for the book.