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Authors: Mary Gaitskill
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snake in the corners of her eyes. “Fifty?”
“You’re exactly right.” He was fifty-nine. “How about you?”
“Twenty-two.”
She looked as though she could be that age, but he had a strong feeling that she was lying too.
“Why do you come to places like this?” She lay across the bed, her head on her hand, her legs folded restfully. “Do you not get along with your wife?”
He leaned against the headboard, his naked legs open. “Oh, I love my wife. It’s a very successful marriage. And we have sex, good sex. But it’s not everything I want. She’s willing to experiment, a little, but she’s really not all that interested. It can make you feel foolish to be doing something when you know your partner isn’t an equal participant. Besides, this is an adventure for me. Something nice.”
“Is it something nice?”
“With you it’s going to be very nice.”
“How do you know?”
“What a strange question.”
She crossed the bed to adjust her body against his, to put her head on his shoulder. She stroked his chest hair. “It’s not so strange.”
“Well, I just know, that’s all.”
They kissed. She had a harsh, stubborn kiss.
She took off her checked dress, button by button, very neatly. Her body was extremely pretty: white, curvy and plump. When she took off her high heels he saw that her legs were a little too short and her ankles a bit thick, but he liked them anyway. She folded her dress over the aluminum chair and turned to him with an uptilted chin, looking as if she might break into a trot, like a pony. She was proud of her body.
Her pride was pitiful in the stupid room. It made him feel superior and tender. He gushed a smile and held out his arms. She met him with a surprisingly strong hug, the pouncing grab of a playful animal.
“Goodness, you’re healthy.”
She grinned and squeezed him. “What do you want to do?”
“We’ll play it by ear. Don’t be nervous. It’s going to be lovely.”
The way she touched became unsure. She talked to him as they touched, and her crude, frank words were like pungent flowers against the gray of her shyness. When he touched her hips, he thought he could feel her innermost life on the sensitive surface of her body.
“It was like a honeymoon,” he said to her afterward. “Just like I knew it would be.”
“Oh, it was not.” Her face was in the mirror; she was swiping her mouth with lipstick. “Don’t be silly.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Then you don’t know what a honeymoon is like.” She was right, though. It wasn’t like a honeymoon at all.
She walked him to the door and he kissed her in front of the other girls. The stretch-pants woman smiled. “Good night, Fred,” she said.
When he got on the highway to Westchester, he used his push-button device to roll down the windows and drove too fast. When he arrived home he walked through the entire first floor of his house, turning on all the lights. His wife really was out of town, and he didn’t like to be alone in a dimly lit house. The refrigerator was clean and neatly stacked with food his wife had prepared for him. He got into his pajamas and slippers and made himself a sandwich of cold cuts and mayonnaise. He stood at the kitchen counter and ate the sandwich from a paper plate with a smiling cat face on it. He thought of Lisette lying across the bed like an arrangement of fruit, her shoulder snuggled against her cheek, watching him clean himself in the bathroom with a cheap pink loofah. She had a curious, sober look on her round face. She’s an intelligent girl, he thought. You can see it in her eyes. Why hadn’t he told her that he was a veterinarian? He had never lied to a prostitute before. He made himself a piña colada, with lots of crushed ice and a tiny straw—his wife had left a Dixie cup of red-and-white straws next to the blender—and went to bed.
The next night, he drove into Manhattan to see her again.
“Boy, I’m glad
“You’re exactly right.” He was fifty-nine. “How about you?”
“Twenty-two.”
She looked as though she could be that age, but he had a strong feeling that she was lying too.
“Why do you come to places like this?” She lay across the bed, her head on her hand, her legs folded restfully. “Do you not get along with your wife?”
He leaned against the headboard, his naked legs open. “Oh, I love my wife. It’s a very successful marriage. And we have sex, good sex. But it’s not everything I want. She’s willing to experiment, a little, but she’s really not all that interested. It can make you feel foolish to be doing something when you know your partner isn’t an equal participant. Besides, this is an adventure for me. Something nice.”
“Is it something nice?”
“With you it’s going to be very nice.”
“How do you know?”
“What a strange question.”
She crossed the bed to adjust her body against his, to put her head on his shoulder. She stroked his chest hair. “It’s not so strange.”
“Well, I just know, that’s all.”
They kissed. She had a harsh, stubborn kiss.
She took off her checked dress, button by button, very neatly. Her body was extremely pretty: white, curvy and plump. When she took off her high heels he saw that her legs were a little too short and her ankles a bit thick, but he liked them anyway. She folded her dress over the aluminum chair and turned to him with an uptilted chin, looking as if she might break into a trot, like a pony. She was proud of her body.
Her pride was pitiful in the stupid room. It made him feel superior and tender. He gushed a smile and held out his arms. She met him with a surprisingly strong hug, the pouncing grab of a playful animal.
“Goodness, you’re healthy.”
She grinned and squeezed him. “What do you want to do?”
“We’ll play it by ear. Don’t be nervous. It’s going to be lovely.”
The way she touched became unsure. She talked to him as they touched, and her crude, frank words were like pungent flowers against the gray of her shyness. When he touched her hips, he thought he could feel her innermost life on the sensitive surface of her body.
“It was like a honeymoon,” he said to her afterward. “Just like I knew it would be.”
“Oh, it was not.” Her face was in the mirror; she was swiping her mouth with lipstick. “Don’t be silly.”
“Have you ever been married?”
“Uh-uh.”
“Then you don’t know what a honeymoon is like.” She was right, though. It wasn’t like a honeymoon at all.
She walked him to the door and he kissed her in front of the other girls. The stretch-pants woman smiled. “Good night, Fred,” she said.
When he got on the highway to Westchester, he used his push-button device to roll down the windows and drove too fast. When he arrived home he walked through the entire first floor of his house, turning on all the lights. His wife really was out of town, and he didn’t like to be alone in a dimly lit house. The refrigerator was clean and neatly stacked with food his wife had prepared for him. He got into his pajamas and slippers and made himself a sandwich of cold cuts and mayonnaise. He stood at the kitchen counter and ate the sandwich from a paper plate with a smiling cat face on it. He thought of Lisette lying across the bed like an arrangement of fruit, her shoulder snuggled against her cheek, watching him clean himself in the bathroom with a cheap pink loofah. She had a curious, sober look on her round face. She’s an intelligent girl, he thought. You can see it in her eyes. Why hadn’t he told her that he was a veterinarian? He had never lied to a prostitute before. He made himself a piña colada, with lots of crushed ice and a tiny straw—his wife had left a Dixie cup of red-and-white straws next to the blender—and went to bed.
The next night, he drove into Manhattan to see her again.
“Boy, I’m glad
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