The Taste of a Woman Page 9

  “Naturally, you look away from her,” he said.

  I was tempted to say, “naturally,” just to mock him. But didn’t.

  “Many women long for what eludes them and like not what is offered.”

  He waited a beat to see if I got it, and then moved on.

  “A trained eye can size up a woman in three-quarters of a second - and I don’t mean her body. No reason to offend her. You feast her bones and you’ll throw the universe off kilter. Give her the big head. Make yourself look desperate.”

  He looked at me daring me to say something stupid.

  “Got to leave her wanting more,” he said.

  How I got in this one-armed discussion I do not know. I just sat down next to this amiable old fart and he just started in.

  “Sounds like trouble to me,” I said.

  “Figures,” he said. “You must be a poetic type. You believe there are no barriers. You believe attractions, physical or otherwise, should be acted upon without restraint. Goddamned Hippie! What you’ll learn is that separation and playfulness is itself erotic. Push too hard and you’ll get slapped back.”

  Even in the middle of a bar stippled with conversation, TV noise and clinking glasses, there was a silence now roaring in my ears.

  He took a long thick drink from his scotch and wiped his mouth. He looked at me with a mixture of amusement and sorrow. “Have ta earn it,” he said.

  “The way you talk it’s too much work.”

  “That’s why you don’t get laid and I do. Listen... ” He forged onward before I could respond. “... do you know the story of the Builder Birds?”

  “No I don’t know any goddamned Builder Birds.” And just to egg him on I said, “Tell me.”

  He took another swig, grimaced, partly I was sure at what he perceived to be a painful naïveté on my part. Something else he’d have to put up with.

  He checked the action around him looking in the mirror behind the bar. Contented or bored, I couldn’t tell, he continued.

  “Stupid little birds,” he said, “but they do something smart. It seems everybody’s got a mating ritual but this one takes the cake. To start with the male is drab. The female attractive.” He looked sideways at me. “Sound familiar?”

  Not waiting for an answer, again, and I, not having one that needed the force it took to speak it, he plodded on. “The males had to figure out something to get the females’ attention. They don’t exactly have shopping malls to go to, so he had to get some intelligence. Creativity with a capital C. Know what they did? The males went shopping for the females. Gathered little bits of detritus from the terrain around them, the more strange and colorful the better. Bottle caps, plastic wrist bands, scraps of a Fritos bag, glittery cellophane... They brought these little garbages back and put them in a pile.”

  “That’s not very dignified,” I said.

  “Love and dignity cannot share the same abode.”

  I looked puzzled.

  “Are you with me?” he asked.

  Rather than slow the process down I just nodded.

  “You picking up on the symbolism here?”

  I nodded again.

  “Good. Cause here’s where it gets interesting. It’s not enough to do the gathering, you see. It’s about what you make of it. So these little piss-ant birds start creating, building, putting their cheap treasures together in some meaningful, artistic manner. They make the workmanship surpass the materials. They make something designed to catch the attention and win the heart of the female. No easy task. That female has only so many eggs in her, the male has millions of sperm. She, therefore, is whoop-te-do selective about who she will honor with her nubile self. It’s not a matter of picking your mate, don’t you see, but picking your offspring. The father with the most creativity, ingenuity, spunk, perspicacity, resourcefulness... will make the best little birds for her nest. She don’t give a damn if he stays around or not. He won’t do that much anyway. What she wants is the best damn sperm in the neighborhood.”

  He looked disrespectfully at his glass and ordered another. I paid.

  “That girl over there you’ve been looking at - I’ve seen you do it so don’t tell me you haven’t - she may think she’s attracted to your clothes, your muscles, your fancy watch, your high forehead. What she really wants, whether she knows it or not, is your high-quality sperm.”

  Now it was my time to need another drink. I ordered. I paid.

  “There’s a reason for all this,” he said. “The man is always ready to jump in the sack. Always. It’s our curse and our blessing. If we weren’t willing to fuck just about anything on two legs the species would be extinct by now. But you see, it’s up to the woman to inject value into the process.”

  He looked at me cockeyed. “This getting too weird for you?”

  “Jesus,” I said. “All this just to get laid.”

  “Right there’s your problem, buckaroo. Attitude. Think about it. For you it’s getting laid. For her it’s another thing altogether and don’t ask me what it is. I don’t know more than what I told you. Beyond that it’s a matter of whim, or good taste if you want to be an optimist. The male is never going to know. His assignment in life is not to know but just keep on fucking.”

  I winced.

  “Naturally, I don’t know either,” he said, “but I’ve learned to respect the process.”

  “Look you old coot. You’re either crazy or a fucking genius. Which is it?”

  A flash of fatigue cursed through his haggard face as if to speak the obvious to a dim-wit was an exhausting process. But there was a wisp of kindness there. Maybe he was dumb once. He ignored my question.

  “For her it’s a big deal. It’s a rare moment when she’ll go with you. She doesn’t even have to like you very much. But she’s gotta think you’re marriageable.”

  “Marriage. Damn.”

  “Another blessing and a curse. Look. She’s not going to marry you. She just has to think you’re worth the risk. So you advance at the periphery. Never at the center. At the same time you’re showing you have some interest you also show you can do without her, though you really can’t. That paradox is as interesting to her is it is to you.”

  “Not a paradox. It’s a lie.”

  He flashed an exasperated look. “Sure it’s a lie. Lying is just another form of telling the truth. Let me show you what I mean.”

  “First about that periphery business: If you go directly after her she’ll reject you, toot sweet. Or if you prefer, Tout de Suite. And it’s home for you, baby. Or she’ll take your advancement as harassment, even if she’s attracted to you and even if she’s sent a few come hither signals. Then the management comes in and kicks your ass out. You stay back. You stay the fuck back. Your game is to indicate interest, get a little response and walk away.”

  “How can you possibly win that kind of game.”

  “By knowing the rules.”

  “Rules. Always rules.”

  “Ok,” he went on, “what’s gonna happen if you stay? One thing bad and not much good. Things will get dicey. You’ll hit the point real quick where you’ve overstayed your welcome. And then all she’ll remember about you is that you were a beast. Whereas, if you walk away you’ll leave her with a little thirst in her mouth. That thirst, my dear boy, is the only thing that’s gonna get you there.”

  “I see this is going to take a long time.”

  “Anything worth anything does. And it is a long time, sometimes years.”

  He picked up a forlorn look on my face. “But sometimes just seconds,” he said.

  “Okay, now you’re talking. Tell me about this seconds business.”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  He looked around at the woman I was looking at earlier
and said, “Very well. I have another story for you.”

  The bartender came over. “Want a fresh up?” We did.

  “Okay. A doctor is in his office. A beautiful college basketball player comes in with pain in her chest. She was involved in an accident on the court and now three days later she hurts and wants to know if she broke something. The doctor is smashed by her beauty but he doesn’t let on. He is under professional restraint so he doesn’t let his eyes move from her face or a spot on the wall behind her head. He is determined to behave.”

  “She is very shy. She tells him the spot is right between her breasts. Now he has never looked directly at her breasts but out of the corner of his eye his powers of observation have been very active. What she knows is that he has not stroked her with his eyes. But now, at the mention of the spot she hurts, she blushes. He suppresses excitement and shows no emotion.”

  “He does not ask her to take off her clothes. Does not ask her to remove anything. He delicately begins examining her sternum bone, pressing here and there, not looking directly at her breasts. He presses her rib cage side to side, explaining if he puts pressure there pain might show up at the spot of a fracture. He draws a little diagram on the paper of the examining table to show her the spots in question.”

  “As he talks he looks away from her or sometimes briefly at her face, never too long at the spot he is touching.”

  He pauses. “Do you see what’s happening?”

  “Well, he is being discrete.”

  “Yes, what else?”

  “Professional.”

  “That most of all. But what is happening because of that?”

  I was unclear what he was after and said so.

  “Respect. He’s showing respect. And she loves him for it.”

  “This is a doctor’s office. Sure he’s got to respect her. Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because we are human no matter where we are and similar rules apply to almost every situation. Nothing happens between the two of them. Nothing will. But that’s not to say that the energies for a connection did not occur. Look what happened. She came in shy as a lamb. By the time she left she was opening her blouse herself, wanting, all but asking him to look at her. She even kissed him on the cheek as she left and thanked him ‘so very much’ for his kindness.”

  “That doctor enjoyed an eagerness from her even though it was contained within the professional environment. You see, he was respectful, kept his distance, did not become a lech. When she trusted him, she liked him. When she liked him, she wanted him to love her as well.”

  I was half way through my latest Gimlet before I noticed I was running low. I swirled the ice and slowed the pace of my consumption. “How do you last it out?” I said.

  “Nothing’s stopping you from playing more than one game at a time.”

  “Two at once?”

  “A horse never runs so fast as when he has other horses to catch up with and outpace.”

  “Isn’t that cheating?”

  “Jesus, man. Sure it is. But if you go around waiting for one woman to make up her mind you’ll get crazy.”

  “Been there.”

  “Crazy or worse. It’s a matter of survival. Besides, if she thinks you might be looking at other women it heightens that little thirst of hers. Look. It’s January. People always say Spring is the time the sap rises. I say the hormones start shaking it up mid winter, getting ready. Start now.”

  “Who?”

  “Whoever’s around. Nothing’s better than what’s at your elbow.”

  Instinctively, I looked at my elbow. I looked where the woman was earlier. I laughed a business-as-usual laugh. “No one there, I said.”

  “You’re not looking far enough.”

  My eyes drifted to the bar. Two women sat there intensely engaged in conversation.

  “Oh, Christ. Not them.”

  “Neither can the wave that has passed be recalled nor the hour that has passed return again. And why not them?”

  “First of all there’s two.”

  “Well you don’t expect a woman to walk into a bar alone.”

  “Second they’re happy doing what they’re doing.”

  “Doesn’t matter. They can be happy doing something else.”

  “Maybe they don’t want to.”

  “Man, you are something. No wonder you don’t get anywhere. Women always are interested in checking out the men. If not, they’ll let you know. Besides, you’ll never find out sitting on you’re ass. Let me tell you something. Women are just as interested in sex as men are, maybe more. To them it goes beyond the gratification of the act itself to a glimpse into the mystery of the future. Take adultery, for instance.”

  “Now you’re talking scary.”

  “Pleasure always contains a little anxiety. People think adultery is what men do. Women do it just as much. What makes anyone indifferent to their spouse is they can see them anytime they want. That works for both men and women. And do you know when a woman is most likely to commit adultery? During ovulation. What does that tell you? That she’s looking for that magic sperm.”

  “You’ve got to be wrong about that.”

  “Check it out sometime. You’d be surprised. And I’ll tell you something more. Who are the men that women search out to have adultery with? The rich, the muscular, the powerful, the tall, the well-dressed, to sum it up, the successful man. You see? They want that success to trickle down into their offspring so they have the best chance of survival in this world. It’s in the genes to act that way. It’s biological.”

  “And third, in case you remember your question, it doesn’t feel like the right time.”

  “At times it is folly to hasten, at others, to delay. The wise do everything in its proper time.”

  “For sure, but how to you know the proper time?”

  He looked over at me in disgust then said, “Sometimes you don’t. But if you stand waiting for a signal the signals the lie under the surface will never have a chance to come forth.” He looked over at the women then turned back to me. “Watch this,” he said. “I’m going to play it out for you step by step. Here goes:”

  He turned his hand, palm up, toward the women. “I walk over to the two women with determination. The bold adventurer succeeds the best. I interrupt their conversation and, not waiting for them to scold me, I say, ‘My friend and I noticed you sitting here and wondered if we might buy you a drink.’”

  He continued. “They will hesitate.”

  “I will do a little soft shoe, make a little bow and say, ‘it’s painless and the best thing is it’s on us.’”

  “The younger of the two will look around at her friend and not finding strong disapproval there will shrug her shoulder will say something like, ‘Why not?’”

  He pauses and after a few beats, I realize he is finished.

  “Sounds like a cook book,” I say.

  “Well it’s a cook book if you call it that. And you can do it that way, by the numbers, that little step by step method which makes it feel like you’re following a recipe or... you can get there naturally.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whether or not you start out that way it ends up being about respect. You see, you don’t want a woman to feel like she’s your latest conquest. You want her to feel like she’s just received a blessing.”

  “Man this is getting deep.”

  “You don’t realize how deep it is. You think the vagina is the best part. The best part is what’s around it. You may think all you want is to get laid but it’s always more than that. Here I am, an old black man, getting more hooch than you ever laid eyes on. What’s the difference between us? You think I’m crazy but I know that this is not a game. This is going to startle you... and it sounds scary... but it’s really about love.”<
br />
  “Now you are scary.”

  He looked at me with centuries of disappointment in his eyes. “No matter how you play it, it’s the slow dawning of love.”

  “Maybe I don’t want love just yet. Maybe I just want sex.”

  “It’s got to be more than that.”

  “Than what?”

  “Getting laid.”

  “I don’t know... I could put up with that night after night.”

  “You’d think so. But it gets old after a while.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I know what I’m talking about. I did that for years. Then I observed that what I remembered most about a woman was... ”

  “Her ass?”

  “... her personality.”

  Silence.

  “So it has to be about more than just sex or eroticism,” he said, “right?”

  “Does it?”

  “Remember, sex is animal, eroticism cares nothing about the personality, love. . ”

  “Now don’t go there.”

  “I figured you’d fade from this discussion. But I’m here to change all that.”

  “I’m still in this discussion. I can take anything. Even an old man’s dotterings. I’m just not sure I believe you.”

  “Where belief is painful, men are slow to believe. But believe it or not, that’s what it’s really about.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Nothing else lasts. Think about it. We have nothing that is not perishable but what our hearts and intellect endows us with.”

  I was feeling suddenly like talking to someone, someone other than this old guy, and someone of the opposite sex. Someone beautiful and sexy. I looked around. I was ready to spring from the barstool. But while we were talking so long all the women got up and left.

  Damn. Here we were in the middle of opportunity and while philosophy interceded, they got away.

  I looked at the old man. He looked at me.

  “That’s the way it goes, all talk and no action. The prayers of cowards are never answered,” he said. Then he downed the dregs in his glass.

  “What’s your name, old man?”