RETHINKING DIRECTIONS:
The door opens at my approach. He greets me and extends his hands. I deposit my portfolio in one and a package in the other. He turns to lay them aside. As he stoops I marvel once again at his perfectly sculpted form. In that simple act, his muscles flex effortlessly, showing the beauty of well-defined lines beneath flawless skin, exuding warmth. A slight sheen of perspiration tells me that as instructed, he is toning that body. The result is not hard on the eyes.
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| May I mix something for you tonight? |
But tonight, I want Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. As I listen he’ll wash my back. To the gentle tenderness of the piano, he'll add the cadence of falling water. And he'll knead my muscles into uselessness.
As I raise the glass, my tongue moistens my lips. I inhale the aroma and touch his elixir to my lips. It washes my taste buds and I marvel at his work. He waits. Peppermint schnapps, hot chocolate, a splash of coconut milk, whipped cream. This is good. From the sparkle in his eyes, I know that he senses my pleasure.
Sometimes I think this man reads my mind.
I tell him to keep honing his skills and one day, he will be the man who mixes the perfect drink. He smiles.
I step past him and lead the way to the kitchen. I ask about supper. Tonight, sautéed lamb with seasoned with Herbs de Provence – that, roasted potatoes and haricot verts with roasted walnuts and goat cheese.
‘And from the wine cellar? ‘A fine Chateau,’ he says.
I cannot help it; his voice sets the rhythm of my heart. He is not quite a base, except when his words trail off at the end of a sentence. He speaks in baritone, but it is a rich and deep baritone. His words seem infused with dark chocolate, mixed with spice, all very good. Clear and effortless, they resonate as if spoken in a large, empty hall. They come out sounding both rough and soft, and his pitch changes continuously with a rolling quality that is soothing and delightful. Yes. That voice moves me.
In the kitchen, I ask, ‘what lines have you learned?’
He pauses a moment and says:
‘O my Luve's like a red, red rose’
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly played in tune.’
As the third line begins, I join in, spoiling the flow of the meter. My voice raises, his quiets. He falls silent as I rattle off the second stanza like a school girl desperate to return to her seat and to invisibility.
‘As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry:’
His face falls. Mingled hurt and shame make him look like a little boy. I cross my legs allowing him a glimpse of what he’d like to see more. He notices and his demeanor changes. ‘Yes, Robert Burns can be lovely, and I do appreciate your effort’ but this is Friday. Tonight, I want to feel mischievous.’ I pull my shoulders back slightly and run a hand through my tresses, as if tidying them. ‘Can you …’ I pretend to hesitate and wait for him.
A moment later, he starts again. I am not displeased with his response. And as he begins speaking, his hands begin moving with practiced precision, preparing the paste for the lamb. His hands perfectly compliment the tone of his well-sculpted body to achieve a beautiful effect. His hands are also beautiful.
‘Continually he dreams his forehead sprouts;
The truth of reveries he never doubts.
But this I would not fully guaranty,
For he who dreams, 'tis said, asleep should be;
And those who've caught, from time to time, a peep,
Pretend to say--the jealous never sleep.’
His forehead sprouts: the horns of the cuckold. I watch his lips move and find myself wondering what else he could do with those sweet, warm lips. Could he put horns on a husband’s head?
‘A MAN who has suspicions soon will rouse;
But buz a fly around his precious spouse,
At once he fancies cuckoldom is brought,
And nothing can eradicate the thought …’
Cuckold angst, with all its enthralling power and burning intensity; it is a most displeasing place to forget his lines. This I am about to chide him when he turns and explains apologetically that there is too little Herbs de Provence to make this meal a success. I am not pleased but I restrain myself and wait to see if he can recover.
He had checked the previous Friday to confirm that the needed ingredients were available. ‘Someone else cooking for you must have used this …’ He begins to apologize. I tell him that this doesn’t help dinner and ask what he intends to do about it.
His brow furrows as his mind works. In his mind, an idea forms and his face relaxes.
‘Well?’
‘I’ll make more!’
‘Make more...’
‘It is an easy mix; I’m sure everything is here...’
His face changes as his mind works. Then I see his arms move as he begins pulling bottles from the spice rack. He lines up the bottles on the counter. Basil, marjoram, summer savory, thyme, bay leaf, a few fennel seeds, white pepper; and to finish it off, he frisks the cooler for an orange. He rubs the orange across the grater, producing zest for the spice mix. I cannot conceal a smile as I get to see what I resentfully missed when he prepared my cocktail. He measures proportions by sight and quickly he returns to the lamb.
He knows his way around a kitchen better than I do. Just that easily, he begins again ...
‘At once he fancies cuckoldom is brought,
And nothing can eradicate the thought;
In spite of reason he must have a place,
And numbered be, among the horned race;
A cuckold to himself he freely owns,
Though otherwise perhaps in flesh and bones.’
‘GOOD folks, of cuckoldom, pray what's the harm,
To give, from time to time, such dire alarm?
What injury's received, and what's the wrong,
At which so many sneer and loll their tongue?
While unacquainted with the fact, 'tis naught;
If known:--e'en then 'tis scarcely worth a thought.’
He stops his dinner preparations and prepares another cocktail. He asks to be excused to draw my bath.
This stop was well timed so that those lines might be weighed rightly. What is cuckoldom’s harm? When undiscovered, it is nothing. But when it is known, great scandal ensues! And when it is revealed, why do men respond so differently? A few leave, vowing never to see his wife’s face again. Others are smitten by blatant arousal. They are addicted to the thought of his wife’s unbridled sexuality. Others fall between these.
But are the divisions solid? Might ‘men in the middle’ be led and molded, teased and tempted, enticed, seduced and outright goaded to accept this ‘and numbered be, among the horned race; a cuckold to himself he freely owns?’ Some have. Others resist but can be led easily to that place. Others are brought there only by difficulty and great patience. Granting that men are different, what patterns might be discovered among those who initially resist but eventually acquiesce and take the cuckold’s horns?
‘Your bath is ready …’ I did not see him enter the kitchen. His voice penetrates and jars me from my thoughts.
Approaching the door to the bath, I am greeted by the scent. It is not heavy or overpowering, but it is clearly lilac. The sweetness bids me breathe deeper, and I do. He opens the door and I enter. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. He follows and closes the door behind me. The bath would be in darkness but for the many candles that burn throughout the bath.
I tell him to look only into my eyes, to fix his eyes on them and not to look away. He does. I tell him to prepare me for my bath and to continue with his lines as he does. He thinks a moment recalling the place. His hands move and he continues:
You think, however, 'tis a serious grief;
Then try to doubt it, which may bring relief,
And don't resemble him who took a sup,
From out the celebrated magic cup.
Be warned by others' ills; the tale I'll tell;
Perhaps your irksomeness it may dispel.
Slowly, his fingers unbutton my blouse, first the top, then the next. He frees the silky material from my waist. His breathing becomes deeper, huskier. Still looking into my eyes, he slides the garment off my shoulders. I hold his eyes for a full minute. I want him to kiss me. I want to kiss him. I want to feel his lips, firm yet soft on my own. I want to tempt his lips and gradually pry them apart with my tongue. I want him to know desire, and I want him to desire me more than he has desired anything in his life.
BUT first, by reason let me prove, I pray,
That evil such as this, and which you say,
Oft weighs you down with soul-corroding care;
Is only in the mind:--mere spright of air:
Your hat upon your head for instance place,
Less gently rather than's your usual case;
Pray, don't it presently at ease remain?
And from it do you aught amiss retain?
Not e'en a spot; there's nothing half so clear;
The features, too, they as before appear?
I turn my back to him. His thumbs slide into my skirt and slide them over my hips. It falls to the floor. A moment later, he removes my brassiere and panties. Now I feel on my back his warm breath. I step into the tub.
No difference assuredly you see?
Then how can cuckoldom an evil be?
Such my conclusion, spite of fools or brutes,
With whose ideas reason never suits.
The temperature is perfect. In a moment I am accustomed to the change and my body begins to relax. He stoops to my side and hands me the drink he prepared. ‘May I do something else?’ I tell him come and to bathe me when dinner preparations are complete.
When he leaves, I return to my private thoughts.
‘Perhaps your irksomeness it may dispel.’
That seems a good plan. The making of a cuckold compares as nothing beside the reaction of some men to it. As for the act itself, that can seem to be the most natural thing in the world. Could that realization be why some men seem ready to accept it, as if this is Nature’s intention? The explosion of jealousy, the display of outrage and indignation, what are these beside an act one might do every night had you married your lover in your husband’s place? ‘Then how can cuckoldom an evil be?’ Yes, social expectations are real, although they are certainly changing. But why acquiesce to fools or brutes, with whose ideas reason never suits?
The warmth of the water, the sensation of weightlessness, the music and the lilac make me forget. I revel in the beauty of it. In what seems like a moment of time, the voice rouses me again. Dinner in 20 minutes! I give him a sponge and lean forward for him to wash my back. He does. Without being prompted, he begins again:
YES, yes, but honour has, you know, a claim:
Who e'er denied it?--never 'twas my aim.
But what of honour?--nothing else is heard;
At Rome a different conduct is preferred;
The cuckold there, who takes the thing to heart,
Is thought a fool, and acts a blockhead's part;
While he, who laughs, is always well received
And honest fellow through the town believed.
Were this misfortune viewed with proper eyes,
Such ills from cuckoldom would ne'er arise.
I feel his hands move to my shoulders which he kneads expertly. I find myself wondering, ‘what if society simply agreed to see this “misfortune” through differing eyes.’ What if society conceded that social responses to cuckoldry separate the fools and blockheads from those who laugh and are received well? He works down my back, using pressure and compression in a hundred ways, always firm, yet always gentle.
Another question comes to mind. What is wrong with this picture? My answer is, ‘absolutely nothing.’ What woman would not love to come home to this for a birthday an anniversary or some other occasion! What a beautiful, special night!
But what if this was not so much a special night, but the norm for the relationship every night? After all, which party brings the greater emotional involvement to relationships?
Many women could wish for a relationship that is more like what this post describes and less like what they have. And where such relationships exist, it is the woman who took responsibility to lead and shape that relationship. She resolved to exercise her power, to take responsibility, to guide the relationship. She resolved to lead and make decisions. In short, this concerns woman led relationships.
Women who are willing to resign themselves to the lives they now live can have little reason to expect much more from life. They will have correspondingly little to contribute to, or to glean from this blog.
But women who know that they want more, women who resolve to plan actions and take charge, who are willing to initiate actions and test boundaries in their relationships, who are ready to share stories, efforts and strategies – they will have much to contribute. And by so doing, they can assist likeminded women who want more in their relationships, and who are prepared to demand it from the men in their lives.
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Clever
