quarta-feira, outubro 01, 2003

Glove job

“Honey, what’s this?”
Susan has been living in my – sorry – our apartment for three hours now. We’ve been dating for four months, sleeping together the last three and thinking about marriage since last week. I didn’t know about that last part. That one, Susan told me while she occupied the bathroom closet, very much like the Germans invaded France in the Second World War. Only more coldblooded. Gels, creams, shampoos, lotions, color-defending foams, substance constructive treatment, unscented Carefree thong pantiliners with stay-put wings, heat activated light conditioning mist leave-in conditioner that improves condition of all hair types (who writes this stuff anyway?). At least I’ll have something to read when I use the john. Yes, because those old man magazines with barely dressed pop stars on the cover are gone. They are out of here. My used razor blades never had a chance too. And I’ll miss my cheap hotel perfume collection. But I have no problem with that, really. I keep telling myself that I love her. And I think I really do. So I let her go, doing her stuff around the house. Putting things in their place. The right way. I know that the used shocks have to go into the laundry basket, of course they do. But I had no idea that gloves and scarves should go together in the same drawer. Who made that up? That’s when she found it. And that question was asked.
“Honey, what’s this?”
‘This’ was an old glove. Black, used, kind of dirty – but in a charming way, honest – with random white spots. 60% acrylic, 25% wool and 15% polyester. One of a kind. Literally. The left pair was long gone. But I didn’t had time to answer
“Where’s the other one?”
Well, I never did use the other one. Let’s just say that it’s my good luck glove and leave it at that. Please?
“Why was it kept with the nude magazines under your bed?”
Believe me, it’s a long story. You don’t want to know.
“Oh my God. Don’t tell me…”
“Did you…? Now that I think of it, it smells funny.”
It does not. Come on, give it back.
“Only if you confess”
Ok, ok. It’s my jerk-off glove. What can I say? You caught me. Now, give it back.
“That’s kind of sick. Why didn’t you use your bare hand? Peter, are you a Michael Jackson fan?”
Yes, that’s my name, Peter. And no, I’m not a Michael Jackson fan. My father once caught me in a hand-job mode. He told me that jerking off would give callous and cause severe red spots. I was thirteen. I loved doing it, so I started using a glove. I found later that my father was full of shit - like we all eventually do. I tried without it but missed the harshness. You know, sex, pain, it’s all in the same game. So I kept it. Happy? Now, give it back.
“No. I want you to get rid of it!”
What? No! Why? I have fond memories of that glove. Isn’t it obvious?
“Look, we’re in this together. If we are going to work, I need all your love. I won’t accept less than that. Masturbation is a selfish thing. You do it alone, with your fantasies and dream-fucks. What’s my part in that? You don’t need me for that! I can’t accept it. You have to stop loving yourself and start loving us. Do you understand?”
Do I have a choice? Yes, you’re right. Between you and me, she’s always right.

Later on, at night, we went to the place where we first met. A bench in Central Park East. On that day, several months ago, I seated next to her and said, out of the blue, that we could be an awful love story. She smiled and won me over with her white teeth and bright eyes. She told me latter that she left her glasses at home and her sight was tired. I loved her ever since. Now, I feel like my childhood is being left behind with the glove. I kneeled and carefully put it on the floor. I left it there, in front of that bench. I became officially someone more interested in giving satisfaction that having it. Strange idea, isn’t it? To love her so that I’m willing to let go of the easiest of pleasures? I guess I’ll have to get used to it. Susan was proud and happy. She knew that I was a little sad from the farewell, so she whispered in my ear
“Don’t worry. I give a mean hand-job. You’ll see. I never did it before because I didn’t know you liked it so much. You are going to be blown away!”
The truth is – don’t get me wrong, she is quite good - something is missing. That nice roughness is just not there. Months later, I asked if she would mind wearing a glove, a new one, once in a while. She said she would think about it. Yes, I do love. Susan, that is.