The Experiment
If I’m honest something in me is drawn to their ugliness. I caress the moles on their backs and stretch my tongue to meet theirs. Their desires splay outward into eternity; this is their lucky day. That’s all I ever wanted, was to be the best thing that’s ever happened to someone.
But don’t think about the money; send it quickly and forget about it. Let’s pretend I’m in love. Let’s pretend your body is a revelation, like nothing I’ve seen before- and I can’t get enough of your touch until one day I discover it’s true. In some strange way, I really do love you.
*
Once I met Gabriel at his apartment for a three-way with another girl, a skinny blond with a fake tan and swollen lips. Gabriel is paralyzed from the waist down and is usually in pajamas, propped up by pillows. A blanket on his lap hides the catheter tube. But for a special occasion like this he was sat on top of the blankets and dressed smartly, his legs stuck out in front of him like a doll’s. And this girl, Daisy, I could tell she kept herself busy because her body didn’t respond to touch anymore. When she purred it was mechanical, on a predictable rhythm, rather than the chaotic moans and sighs which come from real pleasure (and believe me does Gabriel know how to give pleasure). Or maybe she just has better boundaries than me; she can detach; she doesn’t have to make herself fall in love even a little bit in order to get through it.
Both of us knew how to make Gabriel orgasm by kissing the erogenous zones on his neck and chest. So after he ate both of us out, and we put on a show eating each other, Daisy and I set to work on either side of his neck. Biting, breathing, licking. Daisy stayed somewhat apart from his leathery torso. But out of habit I laid against, my fingers stroking from chin to chest the way you’d pet a dog.
*
Some days I choose to see only what is tender and tragic in them. What is bursting with love; they have love to give if only someone will accept it. And I’ll accept it, I’ll mirror it back. Kiss their bodies like I’ve found a real treasure, thank God it was finally unearthed. Even if all that’s left of their youth lays shining in their eyes. Gabriel’s are bright blue with the long thick lashes of a babydoll.
My friend says he’s not sure any genuine writing will come from my clients because I only use them as characters to laugh at; I’m too wry and detached. But I don’t know how to tell him about the sacredness of the exchange, about the sanctuary inside of me which can be entered but never fully acquired, not by anyone. But to let them try, to generously allow them a glimpse is the only thing in the world that matters.
*
On my days off I go to the monastery by the river. I attend their services but it’s not what you think, I’m virginal there. I just happened to discover some solid footing inside that cave. I absorb the rainbow light from the windows. I sing in falsetto, cup my hands for bread, bow before the figure of the dying man. He didn’t die for the reasons I was always taught. He died during an experiment testing how far he could take love. And it was successful; he found that love is more real than anything solid.
I like the monks because they are magicians with their long black robes and ancient sandals. It’s not about renouncing anything at all; it’s about diving headfirst into their project. Their project is to polish the stones of their thoughts in the tumbler of love. Their thoughts are more real than anything solid. I know this because I can feel the structure of them, refined slowly and patiently over time, undergirding that place. There is peace and benevolence in the chapel which we all gulp down as much as we can. And they are so kind to keep pouring it out endlessly; where does it come from?
I don’t even think they’d care if they knew about my clients. Wasn’t Mary Magdalene the only one who stayed beside the cross the whole time? If I’m not more careful I’ll cry every time I step in there, not out of sadness but because my heart breaks open and I become a fountain. But I don’t want the monks to worry about me too much. Only some days I can’t help it. Two of them will be dressed in white robes and seated by the alter, like kindly angels about to narrate a story. And I never knew that that was all I needed. I needed so badly to see them walk shining into this room and sit back on those little stools in unison. They’re saying mysterious things about a consuming fire, about becoming a child. Their deep voices are rising in song and I can’t stop the tears. I keep sniffling and tripping over my shoes all the way to communion.
