Over the
next few days, Bitumen divined that Tyne was the source of her newest
irritation. Her retaliation took the form of informing Tyne, by rumor
and inference, that Campus Security planned random inspections, to
catch recreational drug users. To this intelligence, Bitumen added
that Frank was under suspicion, and he should be avoided like the
plague. The resulting scrutiny squeezed off Frank's drug supply.
Unable to
obtain his chief tool and means of manipulation, Frank was soon back
at Karyn's door, suing for pardon to lift the intimate sanction of
her displeasure. He invited Karyn to dinner, at a restaurant of some
refinement.
They met,
and Frank's etiquette was adequate at least for protocol. This kind
of thing was as practiced for either of them, as a piano recital or a
toast might be. However, in an oversight typical of the male of the
species, Frank had forgotten why Karyn was angry at him.
In classic
counterpoint, Karyn found herself equally helpless to articulate the
fundamental fault that animated her malice toward Frank. In her mind,
Karyn felt that if she exerted herself to describe Frank's specific
offense to him, it would initiate a chain reaction that culminated in
Frank capturing the initiative, and forcing Karyn to maintain a
perfect defensive posture, while Frank used the derived advantage for
sport. All the while, he would fail to perceive that his victory was
distal to the central character of his problem. If Frank were pinned
down to admit a failing, Karyn feared that his temper would
misrepresent correction, while he immunized himself against
escalating appeals, until he finally drove Karyn away, rather than
acknowledge the flaws Karyn wanted him to rehabilitate.
If Karyn
successfully corrected Frank, he would be servile; she would not be
able to respect him. There is no social penance that can purchase the
commodity of respect in the absence of some excellence.
If Frank
proceeded to become a corporate raider, Karyn might deplore the
practice, but preen that such a swain was hers to attend.
The
conversation might have been chiseled in Latin text, at the base of
some old statue:
“Why are
you mad at me?”
“You
wouldn't understand.”
“If you
explained yourself, I would.”
.
.
.
“Oh; So
now it's the silent treatment?”
Frank was
being called to impress. He could choose his own arena.
“You know
you all want the same thing,” Frank essayed. He reasoned that this
would titillate, if not electrify.
While this
did constitute “busting a move,” Karyn was too cerebral to be
swayed by it. The underlying cause of Frank's current banishment was
arrogance. Arrogance could not be mitigated by mere virility. Karyn
retreated to the ladies room in disgust.
She was
standing at the mirror, idly re-touching her lipstick while she
thought this over, when two women entered, whom Karyn proceeded to
regard as shockingly out of place.
“It was
this porno,” one was telling the other, “and it was this tiny
thing, taking it from a tall black buck. But it wasn't just, long,
you know. It was, like, deformed long, and she had to twist to one
side, and take it up the tube, just to get it to fit.”
“They
couldn't get some large boned chick to take it, who would properly
enjoy herself,” the other marveled. “How big WAS it?”
Karyn paused
at this, and quietly retired to an empty stall to eavesdrop.
The first
interlocutor laughed. “They're not ALL big, but think about that
gay web site 'X-tube.'” she replied. “There's, like, hardly any
very small one's on it, but the really huge ones don't need to make
videos.”
No small
ones? Really huge ones? This seemed, to Karyn, superficially to argue
for a homogeneous distribution. She could just imagine her statistic
professor pointing out, “It's one web site, and the pictures are
all put there by individuals who wish to exhibit. Exhibitionism isn't
universal. There are a number of selective processes at work here; it
won't do for a statistical study.”
The two
women at the mirror snorted a line of cocaine, and continued their
conversation. The second participant voiced a different question.
“What about the people who say they're all the same?” she asked.
The first
scoffed. “My boyfriend looks down, he sees it; he looks in the
mirror, there it is. He strips down in front 'a me, I know what I'm
gonna get, and when we, well... you know.” Apparently it was still
possible to imagine some notion of embarrassment, even after being
that impossibly explicit.
The second
followed up persistently. “Well you know and I know, but what about
the people who never agree?” If this second woman was curious about
the opinions of others, she clearly did not doubt the underlying
facts of the discussion.
“What they
don't know won't hurt them,” the first speaker avowed. “Besides,
there's no prizes for waking the baby. They're just gonna get mad, 'n
hate you. Why waste your time?”
Karyn had
concluded that these were ladies of easy virtue, and while it was a
social affront to find them here, she was forced to admit that they
must speak from experience. Her thoughts returned to her own
experimental phase. A full grown adult male furnished more for the
accordion lining of an adolescent female vagina, than the same organ
could afford her now mature frame. She had been fifteen, and she
realized that she would probably never recover the high of that
physical accomplishment. Now, the prospect of being serviced like a
mare made her salivate. She could imagine what it might be like, and
the prospect was enticing. But how would she assure herself of
satisfaction. Karyn wasn't interested in a social fiasco.
When Karyn
rose to return to the table, she was weak in the knees at the
thought. “Frank is a dog,” Karyn reasoned. “If I can't do
better, maybe I should placate lust with a virile villain!” A fiery
curiosity envisioned tantalizing possibilities.
Over the
course of the next week, the idea came and went, like a mirage
floating inverted, over a desert horizon. Tall men became
fascinating, like skyscrapers are to the addict who has yielded to
needles. If white men seemed less likely to be sporting an anaconda,
black men were more obtainable, and less discriminating.
Karyn
eventually found an excuse to be in the company of black men, the way
a puppy finds a way under the fence. If she felt wild and desperate,
she had never felt more alive. She was almost relieved, when a good
looking pool player, named Terrell, invited her to a game. She didn't
have to do anything to pique his interest. He stalked her like a
panther.
At his third
shot after the break, he commenced the hunt with the jocular
accusation. “You're prejudiced,” he pronounced. If Terrell had
done this once, he had done it a hundred times.
“I am
NOT!” Karyn responded breathlessly. “I'm down here socializing
with YOU, am I not?”
“Oh, you
society women, you like to parade around, like giving money to
charity,” Terrell retorted, “But you don't really
want to have anything to do with a black
man!”
Karyn was
primed. “Try me!” she demanded.
“How about
a blow job then?” Terrell asked. He was cold, and showed no real
concern for her.
“Yeah?
Where?” Karyn was indignant, but the motive that drove her here to
begin with, commandeered half of her concerns. If this is a field
goal, can I convert it into a touchdown? It wasn't as if she was
unprepared to go all the way.
A reptilian
disregard was practically a prerequisite for Terrell's society. To
his friends, “hard,” was not a sexual term. In fact it
connoted more to players in the drug trade, than it did even to a
marine.
Terrell was
legitimately hard, and the physical result was to use Karyn like an
eighteen hole golf course.
When a golf
player is in the zone, he thinks only of his swing, his control, his
ruthlessly stunted emotions. He gives no thought to divots. He does
not cast about, to compare himself to others. His entire being is
given to maximizing his performance, by governing his affect, and he
incarcerates exultation. Jubilation is for the club house, after the
game.
When Terrell
sent Karyn on her way, she was persuaded that this was one thing, of
which not everyone could be convinced.
