Tapestry of Fortunes A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,128
you have to work on Thanksgiving,” I say.
“Oh, I don’t mind.”
“Do you have to say that?”
“No, I really don’t mind.”
“Because you know how people talk about Martha, how mean she is.”
“Did you want to order something?” the woman asks.
“Well, let’s see,” I say, leafing through the pages. “Anything in here you think is really great?”
“I’ll tell you what,” the woman says. “Why don’t you take a look and then call back?”
I hang up, toss the catalogue aside, look at my watch. Five minutes have passed. Great. I can go to sleep.
Upstairs, I sit gloomily at the edge of my bed. Maybe I should masturbate; probably part of my problem is that I haven’t been touched lately. It’s terrible not to be touched. I heard about a woman who got divorced and hadn’t had sex in three years. She went to a masseuse just to be touched, and she all of a sudden started crying and asked the therapist, “Please, can you just whisper ‘I love you’ to me?” The worst part of that story is that it was the masseuse who told someone, who then told everyone.
Well, self-love. That’s pretty safe. I have the time, God knows. I’m alone, God knows. And it’s not a sin; it’s not a sin; it’s not a sin.
I pull the curtains closed, think of what I might do to make things more interesting. Maybe I’ll put on one of the get-ups I used with David. Why not? They’re just sitting in the dresser drawer, hidden beneath my socks. If I’m not going to use them, I should give them to the Salvation Army. Wouldn’t they have fun, pulling that stuff out of the bin? “Hey, look at this!” some guy wearing a hooded sweatshirt would say, holding up one of my silk-and-lace teddies. And another, older, worker would say, “Yeah, we get that shit all the time. Price it at a buck fifty, buck twenty-five, whatever.”
Well, this is not sexy thinking. I should be doing sexy thinking. I dig through my drawer, pull out a red nightgown with a revealing top, a slit high up the side. I undress quickly, then pull the nightgown over my head and get into bed. I’m freezing. This damn nightgown is freezing! Why can’t I masturbate in flannel pajamas? Oh, but I can’t, I can’t do that, it would be like having sex with Mr. Rogers. This nightgown is sexy. I just need to wait a minute. I’ll warm up. I close my eyes, shiver, rub my hands up and down my arms. There, that’s better. And now I open my eyes, look down at my breasts.
Well, there they are, old Mutt and Jeff. Flat as pancakes. I sit up, push them together with the sides of my arms. There. I pull the nightgown up, put my hand to myself, rub gently. Nothing. A fleeting thought of some recipe I saw yesterday in a supermarket cookbook, a casserole that actually looked good, it called for spinach, feta cheese, rice, and … lemon, was it lemon?
No. No recipes. Well, what can I think about? Men. Of course, men! I envision a naked man. Not David. A new man, someone I don’t know. There he is, there’s his nice chest, his fine, muscular arms. Oh, but there’s that awful-looking equipment, just hanging there. It is awful looking, women’s bodies are so much prettier than men’s. That stuff men have, just out there. The veiny penis, throbbing away in midair as it rises to attention. And those wrinkled testicles, the way they loll about in the hand like warm water balloons. I mean, the very word “testicle” is disgusting. Clitoris. That’s a nice word. Sounds like a flower. Sounds like your aunt from England, visiting, with tins of butterscotch and yards of grosgrain ribbon.
All right. Concentrate. No testicles. The new man, with a bathing suit on. A blue Speedo, turquoise blue. Nice eyes, nice chest, nice back. Wonderful hands. I close my eyes, rub some more. Nothing!
I open my eyes, grimly pull down one side of my nightgown to stare at my naked breast, rub myself again. When I do, my breast shakes a little. It’s kind of amusing. And a little grotesque. Which is to say, not sexy.
I lie back down, blow air out of my cheeks, put my hand to myself and rub hard. Harder. Nothing. The hell with it. I’ll put on my jeans, go downstairs, and see if I can find an episode of Father Knows Best.