Erotica Artist Ch. 07: Sex Goddess

Her director seemed to love her though. I met him in a local bar with Dana a half hour later and he spent some time singing her praises. He didn't think her magnetism was a drawback. And who was I to argue with him? He said she was 'incandescent' and would be a credit to even the most mediocre material.

Even Dana grew a little embarrassed by his effusive praise, and she deftly turned Philip's attention to me, whom she described as a 'writer of criticism and some fiction.' I found myself being invited to a literary seminar run by one of Philip's faculty colleagues.

"She's always anxious to have real poets and real fiction writers talk to her writing students, but it's difficult getting a hold of them. Would you be at all interested?"

"That's very flattering, but I'm terrible at any kind of discussion group or speech making. I'm the worst. I mean it."

I shot a pleading glance at Dana.

"Mason is very shy and modest about his work," she offered.

"You wouldn't have to give a speech or any kind of talk if you didn't wish to. You wouldn't have to read from any work in progress. The students would just want to sound out your methods and such."

"I'm afraid I would be too self-conscious," I said.

"Mason's material is highly erotic," Dana added, coming to my rescue.

"It's pornographic," I concluded, anxious for this whole line of discussion to be over. "My writing is pornography, pure and simple."

"Pornography?"

"Hardcore. The real deal."

"Then I suppose Ms. Primrose wouldn't be interested," he laughed. "Her taste runs more to Jane Austen."

"I love Austen too," Dana put in. "But I'd still love to read Mason's erotica if he'd let me."

"Then if I were Mason I'd let you. He really must be a very modest fellow to turn down such a request."

They both stared at me with calm, quizzical expressions, and I was aware, not for the first time, of a hint of something between them, a subtle current that seemed to me to have more to it than the afterglow of their recent shared public performance.

If they weren't lovers already, I decided, they could be soon. The fellow had looks, style, and intellect, and I felt dull and backward beside him. Philip also had a wife, but that didn't necessarily rule him out for Dana. She seemed to need an element of danger, or perhaps, in my own case, sordidness, in the men she found appealing. A married man might handily fit the bill.

"I'll think about it," I said at last, and I excused myself to go to the bathroom.

As I returned to the bar I caught my first glimpse of what I'd suspected from the start. Philip was tenderly stroking Dana's upper arm and he quickly leaned over to peck her on the mouth. It was over in an instant, but it was enough to set off the alarm bells in my head that never sank below a dull clamor. More warning of what I'd be letting myself in for if I fell for this woman. I couldn't let it happen. I wouldn't let it happen.

I returned alone to my quiet basement suite with a sense of serenity. It was partly a feeling of relief, of deliverance that I'd already experienced with Dana. I'd sensed pangs of desire and jealousy around her this evening, it was true, but I'd come away unscathed, and I was thankful for it.

I was also proud of my coolness as Dana and I said goodnight in the college parking lot. How many men could have resisted, I wondered, as she leaned out her car window and whispered, with her full lips freshly painted, how much she appreciated my showing up that evening.

"It meant an awful lot to me," she breathed, "and I won't forget it. Maybe I can offer you similar support at some point. Maybe you'll let me come over and proof-read your next erotic novel before you ship it to your publisher."

The teasing smile that accompanied this offer, and the four or five heartbeat pause that lingered after it could only mean one thing, I knew. Yet I remained stoic and silent, waved goodnight, and started home alone, on the way replaying her brief but telling performance, not in the play, but with Philip. Just how many men could she tease and lead on at one time, I wondered.

Well one more for sure, I learned the following week, when I ran into her at another concert we both were covering. The warm-up band that evening was fronted by her emaciated friend Glen, who played a more than competent lead guitar. Now I remembered where I'd seen him before. I hated to admit it, but not only was he a pretty good musician, but he had a kind of weird charisma that made it hard to keep your eyes off him, a little like Dana during her recent play. He came across sullen and arrogant, but then so did most of the musicians I had to review.

Dana wanted me to make special mention of the group in my piece and maybe even sound Al out on doing a separate article on them for the paper. She insisted on introducing Glen after the set, in the hope that some kind of interview would develop. But Glen remained sullen and uncommunicative.

He smoked incessantly and looked even meaner than the first time I had seen him with Dana, if that were possible. When he condescended to speak at all it was only to slag reviewers in general and Al's paper in particular.

Dana came to Al's defense, and my own, calling me a 'fair and perceptive' reviewer. She was about to elaborate when she was embraced from behind by a tall, gaunt fellow with slicked back hair and an overbite. The bird of prey driver of the smoke-gray Corvette. He pulled up a chair and slid in beside her with a confident, proprietary smile.

Glen groaned and gave up on the interview. He sucked on his cigarette and disappeared into the crowd. I wondered if I should make my exit too. There was clearly some past history to Dana and the Bird-man. But with an unembarrassed smile she introduced him as Vince, a 'very old friend' of hers.

"I see I've upset cry-baby Glen again," he grinned, displaying two awesome, fang-like canines. "I can't do anything right around that boy, can I?"

"He just doesn't want you as his band's manager," said Dana. "Mason and I have just been offering him free publicity, which he insists he doesn't want, and then you show up."

Apparently Vince had recently offered Glen his services as manager/promoter, his previous experience in this area being with strippers working the local bar circuit. This last was an aspect of his career that he was in the process of 'phasing out.'

"And speaking of phasing out," he continued, "when are we going to phase out Glen? He didn't piss off because I offered to manage him. He left because he can't stand any other men spending time with you, Dana."

"He's a very jealous, paranoid type," Dana agreed. "I admire his talent and want him to be successful, but he makes it tough sometimes."

"You just have to cut people out of your life once in a while," Vince said. "Especially if they're assholes."

"Even talented assholes," I agreed.

Dana shook her head.

"I think talented people who are confused and frustrated are worth supporting in spit of themselves. Like you, Mason..."

"Oh please..."

"Seems to me Mason is doing just fine on his own," Vince said. "He's writing about what interests him most, music and sex."

He said this in such a pleasant and disarming manner that I didn't know how to respond, though I did begin to wonder how much Dana had discussed me with people like Vince and Philip, and why.

"It must be great, writing about sex all day," Vince went on. "Do you ever run out of ideas?"

"Never."

"Well if you ever do, just come to me, because I've got some doozies. And if you ever want an interview with any of the bands I manage, just say the word. Or the strippers for that matter. Just kidding, Dana honey."

He began to list the bands he managed, and as he spoke I was struck with how physically repellent he was. He had an aquiline nose with a bend in it, and with his swept back, thinning hair and his overbite, he resembled some weird desert predator. He was so repulsive that I found him oddly appealing. To carry the burden of such ugliness, and yet be so animated and confident and open with people: this was an accomplishment I appreciated.

So too, apparently, did Dana. She studied Vince closely as he told me how much he liked my reviews. And I was left to wonder yet again if this was the main man in her life. Just who was she involved with anyway? How many male admirers did she have?

Or female, for that matter. Later that evening I saw her deep in conversation with a stocky, butch woman with short red hair. They spoke for some time and were clearly on very familiar terms. The talk was finally broken up when a delicate little blonde woman, who looked like she weighed maybe eighty five pounds, extricated the heavy lady. Was I imagining things or was the butch redhead definitely enamored of Dana? Was Vince her present lover, or Philip, or neither or both? And where did the hapless Glen fit in at this stage?

Only one thing was for sure: I myself did not yet belong on this list of possibles and potentials. I wasn't going to let it happen. How sad, how pathetic these poor saps were, I thought, sniffing and wriggling around her, waiting for her to fit them into her heavily booked schedule. What possible consummation could be worth the amount of anxiety and jealousy involved?

Vince seemed pretty content with his place in the current scheme of things, but then he was hardly a sensitive soul. And did he in fact know of the existence of Philip, or any number of other men on her list? Did Philip know about Vince or Glen?

I told myself that I didn't much care. I was just so glad to be out of the competition myself, happy to be no more than an observer of these odd proceedings. I felt my now familiar relief as the headline band strode onto the stage to a tremendous ovation. Dana picked up her camera and was gone. Vince disappeared just as abruptly. I was left alone in the dark with my notebook.

But the vibrations from Dana continued. It seemed that the longer I remained aloof, the more piqued was her interest in me. Which struck me as odd given the number of men she already had in thrall. Why should she want to add me to the list? What could I possibly give her that she wasn't getting from Philip, or Vince, or Glen, or any number of others? Was she so vain that she had to have me in love with her also, even though she had no real feelings for me?

I was having none of it. In this I was determined. I steadfastly refused to join her herd of rutting males. I didn't have the style or the intellect of Philip or the weird charisma of Glen, and I wasn't shady and semi-dangerous like Vince. I did not want to compete with these men for her affection, her sexual favors, or her basic attention.

This wasn't a straightforward situation, with sex the only outcome, as it had been with Nicole. Then I could jump in wholeheartedly, knowing emotional involvement was remote, given how little we had in common. Dana was a much, much trickier proposition. I was pretty sure I could fall for her heavily, and I knew exactly what would happen if I weakened: I would get burned.

I would rather be alone for another three, five, ten years than get involved with such a person, She might be intelligent and literate and charming and lovely beyond belief, but she was also superficial and self-absorbed. I suspected also that she was probably irresponsible and callous to any but her own feelings. On top of this, she was surrounded by men. Who needed this? She was trouble.

But the fact that I didn't make a pass or even ask her out did not seem to deter her interest. As long as we remained just friendly workmates at the paper, the situation was tolerable. But then there were changes.

At first I thought I was being overly sensitive. It was none of my business, after all, that she often wore provocative clothes to the concerts we covered together. If I had to ignore a plunging neckline or a soaring hem, I would do it. What was increasingly difficult to ignore was an overt change in her dress and behavior in the office, when we saw each other in the light of day.

It was summer, and she had every right to wear shorts and halter tops, but there were times her short summer dresses rode up so high I expected to catch glimpses of her underpants, and her tops became so brief her breasts damn near oozed out of them.

From the start, in a wild example of life imitating my own particular form of art, she'd brought to mind one of my eager and willing sexpot heroines. Now she began truly to personify my ultimate sex fantasy woman. She became the real-life embodiment of the sirens in my wet dreams.

And yet, and this I hated to admit, she was a romantic ideal as well! A walking wet dream who reads Henry James and Chekhov! It was enough to drive a guy mad!

The breadth and depth of her reading always amazed me. One day she asked if I'd ever read that ultimate challenge of twentieth century literature, the masterpiece that made 'Ulysses' seem like pleasant light reading, Proust's 'Remembrance Of Things Past.' I confessed that a decade or so ago, in the days when I forced myself to finish whatever book I started, regardless of the frustration, I had indeed plowed through all seven volumes.

Dana said she was doing the same thing, since after conquering several of James's most challenging books, most recently that piece of total lunacy, 'The Sacred Fount,' she was intimidated by nothing.

"What I can't fathom," she told me, "is how anyone can be so obsessively jealous and possessive of another human being. For page after page, book after book. The narrator would really like to keep poor Albertine locked in a cage, like some exotic animal. He wants nothing less than total possession of her."

"Have you never been in love, Dana?" was all I could say. Though I thought I knew the answer already.

"I don't think I have, no. But if I was in love I still can't conceive of such neurotic desire."

"Maybe that's because you have so much confidence in your own attractiveness. Maybe you can't conceive of anyone ever betraying you. You've never been jealous, Dana? I suppose no one's ever given you cause. Am I right? No one who's ever fallen in love with you has ever fallen out."

What I felt like adding was that she was too superficial and self-absorbed ever to have experienced such emotions, but of course I didn't. What was more to the point were the reasons for her discussing jealousy and neurotic possessiveness at this particular juncture.

Was she really just now absorbing Proust and in need of a sounding board for her thoughts? Or was this stuff on her mind because of Glen and his particular brand of jealousy? Or was this a warning for myself, a not-so-subtle hint to allow her all the freedom she required?

Why should she feel the need to do that? Had I acted in an overtly jealous manner for as much as a minute? Wasn't I the world champion at hiding my feelings, if I had any for her, which I swore I didn't?

And we weren't even lovers. We were barely friends. I hadn't made the slightest move on her the whole time I'd known her. And it wasn't that the temptation wasn't stupendous.

Still playing the literary walking wet dream role to perfection, as if she were making a conscious effort to drive me insane, she passed over my last inquiries to begin once more to ask about my erotic fiction.

"What are the girls like in your stories? Are they whores?"

"Never. In erotic fiction there's no one less sexy than a prostitute, with the possible exception of a drug addict. My heroines are everyday women who happen to love sex and have no desire to be paid for it. Females from real life that a reader can identify with."

"Females like me?"

"Never like you. Male readers of this stuff don't like their women to be too smart or articulate, or in any way threatening."

"You find me threatening?"

"Amazingly so. You scare me half to death."

"I don't believe it. How so?"

"Your sharpness and intelligence are intimidating. Your style is intimidating. Your talent is intimidating. And as for your looks...."

"What about my looks?"

"Dana, you don't need me to tell you that you're gorgeous and could have any man you want. You know this already."

"What do they wear, these fantasy women of yours?"

"What do they wear?"

"Yes. They're ordinary, every day women, yet they're figures of fantasy. I'm curious how you dress them, as well as how you undress them."

"They wear the kind of thing you've got on right now. Skirts that are too short and tops that are too low-cut."

"You think I dress like a tart?"

"I didn't say that. You dress provocatively, and I sometimes wonder why. You don't need to. It's overkill. You already have all the attention you need."

"Not from you."

"Why do you need it from me, Dana? Why?"

"Maybe I want to inspire you to write more erotic fiction. Maybe I want to stimulate your creativity."

"You said yourself that sexual deprivation stimulates creativity, not sexual fulfilment."

"Consistency was never my strong point."

"You already have more boyfriends than you know what to do with. Why are you doing this to me?"

That smile again. That mouth.

"I think I enjoy a challenge. But tell me what else your heroines wear. Do they use skimpy lingerie and garter belts and such? Do they wear this kind of stuff?"

From the voluminous bag that no doubt still contained Dr. Edel on Henry James or Proust's 'Sweet Cheat Gone,' she hauled a mail order lingerie catalogue which she dropped onto the desk in front of me. It fell open at the center page, where a stapled order form had already been partly filled in. I could see at a glance that she had ordered garter belts of varying shades.

"Enough," I protested. "Enough of this incessant cock-teasing Dana."

"I don't think cock-teaser is an accurate description of me at all. That term refers to women who lead men on with no intention of delivering the goods."

I gazed at her.

"What's the matter, Mason, scared of the competition?"

"Of course I'm scared. I don't want to compete for you because I suspect the losers end up shattered."

"That's a terrible thing to say."

"Sorry, it's just my sense of things, based on past experience."

"And what experience is that, exactly? Sitting alone in a room with a typewriter and your dick in one hand? Maybe it's time for you to show a little daring, a little guts, and see what happens. Think of the rewards."

"So this is a direct invitation to your bed, is it?"

"I don't think you're ready for that yet. I just want to give you something to think about."

"Like how you can show me a time between the sheets that I'm never likely to forget?"

"Partly."

"And what do I have to do, make a reservation? Do I get in line behind Vince and Glen and Philip?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well just how many men are you intimate with at any one time, Dana? Two? Three? More?"

"Not that many."

"Even one extra would be too much for a guy like me. Leave me alone, please, hon. Enough cock-teasing, okay? We work together. We like each other. Isn't that enough? Let's leave it at that, all right?"

She walked away subdued, and I thought that I'd gotten through to her at last. In fact I thought maybe I'd gone too far, and she wouldn't want to work with me or even talk to me again. I was surprised when she called me up two days later and invited me to a party she was giving.

"I never go to parties, Dana. I loathe parties. I'll do practically anything to get out of attending one. I'm a very antisocial person in many ways. I love my solitude."

"You can make an exception for one night. It's my birthday and I'll be very hurt if you're not there."

I didn't respond.

"Just come by for half an hour. Ten minutes. Please. Besides, I won't be able to deliver my prints to the paper that night. You can do that for me, can't you? Pick up my photographs and save the day?"