08-16-03 - 7:21 p.m.
it is bruce eve. for those of you who get it; nosebleed seats tomorrow, 7PM, dodger stadium. if springsteen is really god, and trust me, there are those of us who think so, then surely, after three times this year in church, i am washed in the blood of the lamb. i am redeemed.
i sit in the bath with a bowl of soggy popcorn and a bottle of 2 buck chuck from trader joe's, pretending to read white oleander, but it's his voice in my head, repeating something he said two days ago in the electric closeness of my car.
it's no good if it's no fun.
keep in mind, in the midst of my emotional neediness, this statement is not lost on me. married men, especially old ones sedated by the weary routine of their vows, do not need drama. they crave what they cannot find in the comfortable safety of home; adventurous, uninhibited, un-incumbered, free-spirited, ego-stroking fucking. forget frumpy nighties and home cooking; be prepared to bend over the arm of the couch as he walks in the door. offer plastic handcuffs and fun foam in the tub. lie under a christmas tree wearing a silly santa hat and nothing else. straddle him wearing a silky kimono and offering sushi. produce your vibrator at the drive-in and dare him to remember the plot to the nutty professor. drop to your knees each monday in the humid confines of your office and jumpstart his workweek. you are smart enough to forgo perfume, but it doesn't matter, because he'll never forget you; you have indelibly marked his memory in secret, sensuous ways she has no interest or energy for. he will shower you with gifts and sweet nothings; he will invest his divided heart and all the stolen moments his rigid life will allow, risking little, but you settle, because you love this man enough to protect him, to play by the ugly, narrow rules of adultery. which leads me to this; yes, i love and respect this man, all 72 world weary, flawed and battered years of him, and he has many fine qualities, the least of which is FUN. above all, he is a coward, and it never showed more than a day two years ago in las vegas when i flew one way to meet him on his return from a trip to new mexico. we kissed beneath the eiffel tower; we lunched at a french bistro and behaved like any other couple in love. he insisted on taking the elevator to the top of the tower. at the entrance, a hapless employee dutifully forced us to pose and took our picture. i was thrilled. in my innocence, the photo represented a moment in time with the man of my dreams, caught on film for eternity. but to a married man, it was chilling evidence of a dangerous, clandestine affair. he refused to buy it for me. i have many wonderful, tangible souvenirs of my time with the man i refer to here as patrick, but i still long for that stupid $5 polaroid. the point of all this?
it's no good if it's no fun.