Erotica Artist Ch. 02: Romance and Renun

"I wouldn't fool you. Anyone gets fooled in this situation, it's me," I replied.

She laughed out loud. And I realized suddenly that I was talking casually with a second woman, making her laugh no less, without mumbling or stumbling. And this one was gorgeous.

Maybe I was relaxed because she was in search of Nick and I could be of help to her. But at least I was communicating with a real live attractive female. I was speaking!

She appeared as upbeat and confident as the first woman was dejected. Was Nick in any way responsible for these emotional extremes?

Ten minutes later, when I checked to make sure female number one had not been abandoned, there was lively conversation and laughter coming through the still open door of Nick's room. I recognized both women's voices. A room as stark and severe as a monk's cell was full of the laughter of not one but two attractive young women, while my own room, like that of many another celibate, would-be swinger in the dorm, was graced not with any real live women, no not for this or many another year, but instead with stacks of well-worn girlie magazines.

"I just relax and try to make friends," Nick explained one day when I expressed admiration for his way with the ladies. "Girls aren't an alien species, you know. They aren't the enemy."

But for me young women, especially attractive young women, were an alien species. They had the power to deny you, to humiliate you, to hurt you. They were fearful. They were, in a very real way, the enemy.

Physical beauty, real physical beauty, not just prettiness, from very early on, the few times I'd seen it, from a distance, had always enthralled me. And whether from innate shyness or, thanks perhaps to good old dad, from a sense of profound personal inferiority, real female loveliness always seemed intimidating, daunting, unattainable to me. And it also appeared, for other reasons imaginary or real, problematical. For it so often seemed to involve vanity, shallowness, insensitivity. And of course no one was going to come close to my own sensitivity, I surmised, certainly not some incredibly lovely, highly desirable female.

I was to come close only twice in my adult life to transcendent, heart-stopping physical beauty, and both times, thanks to my over-active imagination or not, it involved some degree of insensitivity, self-absorption, shallowness or vanity.

Still, I was determined to try to make some contact with a real live female soon. I didn't want to spend a lifetime on the sidelines, looking on, like Henry James, or some character in Thomas Mann.

I'd made some progress so far this new term. I'd broken out of my complete isolation and made a male friend. But it wasn't enough. I wanted more. I wanted to break down the doors of my prison once and for all and reach out to a female who could shake me to my depths.

And reach out I did, in my own peculiar, roundabout, perhaps Jamesian way. Nothing at this stage could ever be simple or straightforward of course. There was too much self-doubt, too many years of soul-searching. And I'd spent the most critical of my teenage years in isolation, incarcerated in a weird coastal backwater.

But in my own uncertain, neurotic way, I did reach out to a woman for the first time. And shake me to my depths is what she did indeed do.

One forenoon, in my Psychology class, as the empty, deprived years of my teenage-hood drew to a close, within weeks of my twentieth birthday, I glanced up to spy a profile of such allure that I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing.

It brought to mind the classicism I'd been studying earlier that morning, but less of classical literature than of the sculpted marble of antiquity. The curve of the forehead, the chiseled cheekbones and nose, and most of all the sculpted lips and chin: perfection. I could not take my eyes off her. Never before had I been so close to real physical beauty. I wanted to study and absorb the planes and angles of her face at my leisure, in a photograph perhaps.

In subsequent days I sat on the other side of her, still several rows back, just to make sure what I'd seen was real. And I continued to gaze at her until, perhaps sensing the intensity of my look, she glanced in my direction.

When of course I looked away and feigned complete indifference, as I had always done when confronted by someone I found absurdly attractive. A line of Byron's I'd recently read in my Lit. course came to mind: "... love is taught hypocrisy from youth." You said a mouthful there, Lord B..

No, not for me the age-old smile of confidence, the clear signals of interest and invitation. Nothing so simple, so straightforward as that. I'm in the land of Henry James and Thomas Mann. I'm as fearful of showing interest as I would be of showing anything of my true feelings. They must be disguised, suppressed, for I'm ashamed and guilty for having them. I don't deserve to have them. It's always been this way, hasn't it, daddy darling?

What exactly did I fear here? Lack of reciprocation or outright rejection as with Martina, before I have even begun? Or just that astounding physical beauty? Her very presence does terrify me, while it's also sending me on flights of ridiculous romantic fantasy.

And so the old shyness and paralysis yet again: my birthright, my legacy, my heritage. Overpowering. Yes I'm struggling to free myself from all this, dear father, but the process is only just begun. And so knowing that I would never have the courage to approach her directly, in typically sly and surreptitious manner, I try another tack.

Since my shyness, my passivity, my fear, is all powerful, I'll remain in my cocoon and try to get a sign from her first. I will be positively Jamesian in my subtlety and restraint. Since she's so stunning, she must have more confidence than me. She must be more capable of action.

Neurosis may be a word I'm only just becoming familiar with in this Psychology class but I already know I would be an excellent case study of the disorder. To be attracted to someone and yet be too shy to look them in the eye was maybe not so abnormal, even at my age. But then to go into an act, to pretend not to be interested, not to have noticed even, the beloved object of desire: what a perversion of behavior!

All because I'm sure the open, straightforward approach would get me nowhere, even if I were capable of it, which I'm not. She would never have noticed me. Her interest can only be piqued by my indifference, so used is she to adoration: this is my theory.

And so I try a role reversal. I remain passive, since that's the only role I'm comfortable in, and I try to lure her, to arouse her interest, by my very lack of action. For if there's another thing I've learned from the sidelines in all my empty, dateless teenage years, it's that lovely girls are indeed sometimes indifferent to direct overtures, since they are so commonplace. But the one thing they are often not indifferent to is indifference. They do not like to be ignored.

And after a few days, to my profound amazement, there is a response. Or so it appears. I enter the Psychology Building and am suddenly confronted with her standing by a concrete pillar right inside the main entrance, where it would be impossible not to notice her. And she's gazing at me with cool, frank blue eyes. Something in those eyes, a seriousness, an intelligence, a curiosity. Nordic blue. And something else: a challenge.

Are you man enough to approach me? Is that what they are saying? I'm not sure. The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm not. Man enough, that is. I stumble by her completely inadequate to the challenge in those eyes. I could not have approached her, talked with her, even so much as smiled at her, to save my life.

Smiling is not an option for me at this point in my life. Not after the years-long desert of my teenage-hood. I'm lucky I'm still breathing, after being locked in my only partially self-imposed cell for so long. Freedom is so new to me and I'm ignorant of how to proceed.

And so I fail the first crucial challenge of my new life. I appear to have lured a beautiful girl into acting first, and I'm incapable of response. My heart is racing at the speed of my apparent success. But the rest of me is numb.

But it seems I have it, my first hint of interest from an exquisite young woman. And in the following days there are more quiet glances from her that quicken my pulse and yet leave me paralyzed. I have no idea what to do, how to approach her, how to strike up the meanest conversation.

Until my utter passivity brings about another surprising response. She leaves one day by the same side door that I use to head back to residence. It's an exit used by virtually no one else, and so now at last I'm sure my senses are not deceiving me. Surely now I can do something. Surely now I can act. How much more encouragement do I need?

Before I have time to think I step alongside her and speak! Some innocuous nonsense about the upcoming Christmas exam and her readiness for it. Her answers are as curt and tense as my questions. She seems just as nervous as I am! It's all over in seconds as she veers off toward a nearby cafeteria without so much as a goodbye, and I continue on my way back to my room. It would never have occurred to me to ask to join her for lunch, or to invite her to the residence dining room. How inept could I be? How totally clueless!

But I have broken the ice at last, and I am ecstatic. A common enough occurrence for your average fourteen-year-old perhaps, the first words exchanged with the girl of your dreams, but for me, nigh on twenty, an epiphany of sorts, a moment to relive, to savor, to delight in for days to come.

Except that now I've spoken to her, she's doubtless expecting me to speak to her again. And what am I to say? What am I supposed to talk about with a girl whose very appearance turns my insides molten?

She frightens me half to death, this classical goddess of my Psyche class. And yet I'm expected to approach her again and make casual conversation. How do you make casual conversation when you're on fire?

And so again, utterly at a loss, I let days go by without approaching her, though she continues to leave by that same lonely exit. Every waking hour is spent in a romantic haze. I daydream of walking with her, touching her, maybe holding hands. Kissing her.

Strangely enough I have no erotic fantasies about her: I never imagine her naked or dream of having sex with her. She's a romantic fantasy, nothing more. I'm ravenous for romance and she's - get this - my goddess of innocence.

I try to remain cool and nonchalant, and perhaps the masquerade works, for the next time I try to talk to her, a full two weeks after the first occurrence, my breath catching and my innocent little heart all aflutter, she has something definite, if succinct, to say to me.

I have decided finally to go for broke. I can stand the tension no longer. Six years without a date is long enough. No one should have to endure a youth this barren. I'll ask her name, then try to find an opening to ask her out. What's to lose? And so, still trying to maintain the nonchalant air, though my heartbeat is thunderous and my breathing totally abnormal, and I would not be surprised if I dissolved in some kind of seizure any second, I step up beside her as soon as we've exited the side door, and I perhaps a little too casually ask "What's your name, anyway?"

Maybe it's that last oh-so-casual "anyway," perhaps it's a certain diffidence of tone, or simply the fact that I've let weeks go by since my last overture. My act has been too convincing. I've been cool and aloof for too long. Her glance is hostile and her response is curt, sarcastic, cold as stone.

"It doesn't really matter, does it?"

So much for romance! This wasn't what I'd dreamed of at all.

I walk beside her in stunned silence, wondering if I've heard correctly. And the silence continues as we move together the few yards to where we separate, she to her cafeteria, I to my nearby residence. And just as we near the point of separation, she finally adds "It's Kirsten," and is gone. Without another word. Leaving me to stumble to my room and stare at the wall till I can figure out my next move.

Whatever Psychology 100 is teaching me, it isn't how to communicate with the opposite sex. Just what was happening here? Had I read the signs all wrong? How could something so tentative, so sweet, turn bitter so quickly?

"It doesn't really matter, does it?" What could have prompted such an outburst? I'm devastated. I move through the rest of the day in a trance. Until it occurs to me that a person could only respond with such emotion - and she was really pissed off, that much was clear - could only say such a thing in such a manner if she was already emotionally engaged. Hey, maybe I'm not taking Psyche 100 for nothing after all!

The woman clearly has some fairly strong feelings here already, before we even know each other! I've made her mad! By not talking to her for so long, by neglecting her. Which can't be a completely bad thing, right? At least she's not indifferent to me!

And I return to my room at the end of the day exhilarated. Oh the ups and downs, the roller-coaster ride of young love! This afternoon I was shocked, devastated by her apparent rejection. Now I'm ecstatic and convinced she's really interested in me!

I decide to phone her the very next day, a Saturday, to clear the air, to find out exactly what she meant by those harsh words, to apologize, if necessary, if indeed I have been remiss all these days in not talking to her. I might even ask her out! By this time tomorrow we could be out on our first date! Yes, enough of delay and self-doubt. I've been paralyzed by passivity for most of my first twenty years on the planet. It's time for decisive action! Time to call up a real live girl for the very first time!

I barely sleep. I bound cheerfully from bed long before breakfast, an unprecedented occurrence. And I spend the morning rehearsing what I'm going to say. I can't eat, I can't sit still, I visit the bathroom several times an hour. I also have to revisit the Psychology Building basement, where the class lists are posted, to figure out her last name and be able to look her up in the student telephone directory.

There are three Kirstens, and I choose the one with the Nordic-sounding surname because I somehow associate her glacial good looks with Northern climes. Those cheekbones, those eyes, that forehead, chin and mouth. Yes, her name has to be Scandinavian or German.

And from the listing in the student directory I learn her address is in West Vancouver, one of the most affluent suburbs in the city. Somehow that fits also. And I'm right. One chance in three and I'm on the money. A good omen, surely. She answers the phone herself, another stroke of luck, and I introduce myself, without giving my name, as the fellow who yesterday asked her name. She immediately knows who I am and sounds almost friendly.

"I was wondering," I begin, my heart fluttering, my mouth full of ash, "you seemed upset yesterday. I was wondering if I'd upset you in some way."

It was a start. An opening. A topic of conversation. Something. My excuse for phoning. Without it I'd have had nothing to say. And I was after all curious as to why she'd reacted so negatively. Had my approach really been that clumsy? Had my indifference been so irritating?

And I had to admit something else to myself: a twinge of complacency about my goodwill, the effort I was finally putting out, my willingness to apologize, if necessary, when in fact I'd been the one snubbed. I am magnanimous, willing to put our shaky beginning behind us and proceed to the next step in our glorious future together.

"Oh no," she answers, and then delivers the explanation, the absolutely last thing I would have expected. "It's just that I'm going steady with someone."

Silence from the trembling young suitor. For the second time in twenty four hours I am stunned into speechlessness by this young woman. My heart freezes. I clutch the phone and imagine myself slumping against the concrete wall of the residence phone booth, then sinking down it slowly to the floor, as if perhaps I'd just run into it at high speed. I can't speak. I have nothing more to say. I am reduced once more to mute status.

"Hello? Are you still there?" she asks.

"I'm still here," I reply. But I'm not really there at all. I'm a million miles away, or wish I were. I want to be anywhere but there in that phone booth having this conversation. Yet I'm unable to say anything to end it. I'm unable to hang up.

"How did you get my number?" she wants to know, after what seems like an hour has passed.

She doesn't want to know my name, she doesn't want to thank me for calling, or to say any number of little things she might have said to make me feel slightly better in this, my hour of need. She wants to know how I got her damn telephone number. In other words, perhaps, how much trouble did I go to in order to contact her? How hard was I willing to work to get something off the ground with her? This is all she's interested in knowing as I slump there limp against the phone booth wall, the wind knocked out of me.

So I mumble through an explanation of how I'd looked up her name on the class list etc. etc. etc. I now feel myself collapsed in a puddle of wasted emotion on the phone booth floor. I stare up the deep cylinder of the cubicle to the ceiling, which appears to be receding by the second.

"Well," I croak at last, bringing my unintelligible explanation to a close, "that's why I phoned. I just wondered if I'd upset you in some way."

Talk about redundancy! But I have nothing else to say. I'm a blithering idiot. I have lots to think about, in the empty weeks and months ahead, but I have no more to say. I just want to get off the phone. It seems like I've been talking for hours. I want to revert back to my mute state for the next year or so.

"Oh no," she continues blithely. The devastation of her news doesn't seem to have phased her one bit, though I'm a crumpled mound of bones on the phone booth floor. "I don't even know you."

I almost groan out loud. This last pretty much sums things up, as far as I'm concerned. She might as well have added "You mean nothing to me. How can you possibly have upset me when you mean absolutely nothing to me? I don't know you and you don't know me. What's more, you never will. I'm beautiful beyond description and I live in the most exclusive suburb of the city, if not the country. And so does my boyfriend."

It seems like the ultimate coup de grace. My imagination runs wild again and I picture her as the glorious Nordic maiden, dressed perhaps in black leather and spiked heels.

This last line, the last words she would in fact ever say to me in this lifetime, the final twist of the stiletto in my quivering heart. I was finished. I was done.

Or not quite done. In a queer ironic turn I did have the last word myself. And what was it?

"Yes. Well. Thanks for telling me. Bye," I mumble, hanging up quickly, before she can twist the stiletto further.

I actually thank her for this delightful little conversation, thank her for the useful information about the boyfriend. Thank her for shattering my romantic little fantasy almost before it had begun.

And the numbness I felt after her snubbing the previous day is nothing compared to what I feel now after hanging up. Now I really do sink to the floor of the phone booth, and I stay there with my knees up beneath my chin for the better part of half an hour, until someone rattles the door and asks me what the hell I'm doing in there.

I drift back to my room in a total fog and at my desk try to absorb this new information. It won't sink in. It makes no sense. A lovely young woman acts for weeks as if she's interested and available. I wait for weeks, making absolutely sure I'm not about to make some colossal blunder, taking my time to the point where she gets totally pissed off with me.