Master Class

Master Class

One summer not long ago, I decided to spend some time doing something just for myself and expand my perspectives as well. I enrolled in a four-week writing class in the Berkshires in Massachusetts, deciding that it would be a nice break from the stressful life that I had endured over the prior twelve months. Getting the time off from my job was only slightly problematic but this exercise only confirmed why I needed the break in the first place.

The course was not focused so much on the art of putting words on paper but more on the art of exploring the different perspectives from which any given subject could be viewed, like Akira Kurosawa's "Rashomon". The goal of the course was to give each student the intellectual tools necessary to produce a story concerning any subject that they were inclined to explore. Participants would attend lectures and workshops, and work in teams of two with each person serving as editor for their teammate's work as well as adding whatever creative insight that the two participants agreed was advantageous. It seemed like an interesting challenge and offered an opportunity for creative and emotional growth in addition to the added complexity of navigating the relationship between two people trying to produce unrelated works of fiction. These four weeks could prove to be an exceptionally stimulating time for me or four weeks of boring arguments with someone with differing interests and opinions whom I had never met before. Only time would tell.

The program took place on a college campus that was essentially closed for the summer although some selective courses and seminars were being offered, and the cafeteria, dining hall, and library still functioned to serve the people attending classes and in writing and theater programs. We stayed in the vacant student dorm rooms or suites, depending on what price level you selected, and could wander the grounds and use the gym and pool. It was comfortable in a rustic sort of way, almost a summer camp for adults.

Day One was orientation and introductions, meeting our teammates, and general discussions about the nature of the work that we would be doing and our expectations. The organization sponsoring the program took time and great care trying to match teammates who would offer different perspectives based on careers, backgrounds, age, ethnicity, and intellectual data gleaned from the survey that everyone completed as part of the application process. My teammate was a friendly, Hispanic, 28-year-old female elementary school teacher from rural New Jersey named Gabriella, Gabby for short, with a Master's degree in psychology, who was currently working on her doctorate. She seemed reasonably satisfied to be paired with a 31-year-old Caucasian male attorney from New York City, who no longer believed in Santa Claus. This was shaping up to be a unique pairing of extremely different personalities who could enjoy diversity in learning or endure four weeks of contentious arguing.

At the end of the first day's classes, Gabby and I, along with several of the other participants, had a light supper in the cafeteria and talked about the work that lay ahead. Strangely enough, there were fewer differences in the assembled group than might be envisioned by the diversity of the participants. It was almost like this program was a study on the effects of communal living in the first Mars colony. Will this experiment be a success or will it be a remake of "Lord of the Flies"?

Day Two found Gabby and me working in the library, separately but in the same space. We were intent on what we were doing and it was only during our lunch break that we actually discussed our progress, and this seemed to be typical for the other groups as well. "I hate to ask," I said breaking the ice, "but how is it going for you?"

"I would like to say fine, but that would be a big stretch of the truth," she replied. "And you?"

"I'm almost done, just putting the finishing touches on the final paragraphs of a ground-breaking short story. I am thinking of catching the next flight to Cancun for some real R&R," I lied.

"Changing your career to journalism, are you? You seem to have the right qualifications," she said with a smile and a laugh.

"To be honest, I am trying to get my head around the subject matter and figure out the best approach to take before I try to put my thoughts into the context of a story," I confided.

"Do you want to talk about it? Kick a few ideas around?" she responded, looking at me intently.

"It would be helpful but I hardly know you and feel a little self-conscious talking about something as personal as the thoughts that form the basis of a narrative. I am sure that you can understand that so maybe it's better to give it a few days," I said.

"Don't take this the wrong way," she said looking me directly in the eyes, "but you sound like one of my students. A 12-year-old boy wants to find out if a 12-year-old girl like-likes him before asking her to go see a movie. The days drag on in torment for him and while she probably would have said yes had he asked her, she now changes focus to something else, and the moment is lost. He is deflated and her self-esteem takes a hit, and the two ships have passed in the night. I don't know if I can provide insight into the subject matter of your writing, but I might. All you have to do is ask the question. Plus, after a few weeks, we will probably move on with our lives and you will never have to feel uncomfortable about discussing hypothetical topics for a story with a stranger ever again."

"I would feel better if your analogy involved high school kids, but I get your point," I replied. "Okay, let's see where this takes us but if you get uncomfortable, please be honest and tell me, and if you get the urge to laugh, please don't because I am extremely sensitive to ridicule," I confessed half-jokingly.

"It's a deal," she responded and held out her hand to me.

And so it began. I started telling a complete stranger my innermost thoughts and concerns, something that I had never done before, even with my closest friends. Somehow it seemed safer to do so in this setting, and she was right; we would probably never run into each other once our month together is finished and we got back to our lives.

"I like romance novels, novellas, and romance stories in general," I said. "I like reading about desire, dreams, and forbidden pleasures contemplated but not yet brought to fruition. I enjoy looking at the characters and imagining what they want, and what they long for. I need to know if I am capturing the mood correctly. I understand that I can write how I would feel in a similar situation but would another person be reacting differently and, if so, why and how? I can switch places with the characters but would that produce an honest portrayal of the emotions being experienced by a specific character or would it be another person's view of a given scenario? How do you switch personalities?"

I continued, "I have read quite a few love stories, lesbian love stories, and they appeal to me for a myriad of reasons but specifically the depth of honest emotion on both sides. They are tender, more in tune with how I envision individuals reacting to a set of circumstances, more intense, and cover a range of feelings. I would like to capture this same emotional intensity in a male love story, but I believe that most of those types of stories simply involve different positions, different settings, and a lot of ejaculation. Males are supposed to act and react, differently. The problem as I see it, is two-fold: the translation of one language into another, female to male, male to female, and since I am not a female, how do I know what a woman would experience under the given circumstances if she were a male, something akin to a Caucasian trying to write about the feelings of a black person. In my opinion, it is impossible to capture."

Gabby was staring at me and I felt like she was either sleeping with her eyes open or politely trying to figure out the best way of excusing herself to head back to New Jersey. Eventually, she spoke and, surprisingly, she appeared to have paid attention to my ramblings. "Okay, Marc, the way I see it you are overthinking the whole thing. People are not as different as you think they are. Women rationalize situations differently for sure but deep-down people have similar feelings and have similar desires whether they admit it or not. In the lesbian love stories you referenced, when one woman develops an interest in another and the courtship ritual begins, the writer shows how the protagonist tries to make her feelings understood in subtle ways, like the way she looks at the other woman, the tone of her voice, the occasional touch, a small, almost inconsequential present, something that touches the heart. Is it that much different if you were writing for a man?"

"From my point of view, I believe so," I replied. "Almost all the men I have encountered want one thing. Sex. They look to find ways to strike up a conversation and within 15 minutes want you on your knees or in bed. Feelings are rarely, if ever discussed. Friendship and companionship would come next, with love and tenderness developing over time, almost the opposite of a female love story. If I write for myself I would write with one voice, the one I want to hear. But if I write for a reader it invariably comes out differently.

"I'm sorry but perhaps I should have explained my personal situation sooner. I am gay but I do not flaunt it and I am trying to find a unique voice to tell romantic stories for a gay male readership."

"I know, about you I mean," Gabby responded matter-of-factly, "I could tell as soon as I met you."

"Oh, I see. Am I that transparent?" I said.

"To me, yes. But not to everyone," she countered. "You simply seem like an easy-going, friendly guy, a bit cerebral for sure, not a jock."

"Of course, I'm here and not at a sports camp in summer," I joked.

"What about me?" Gabby questioned. "What do your feelings tell you about me?"

I thought for a moment and realized that I had not formed an opinion about her after a day and a half and told her so. She was attractive, young, and obviously intelligent, but beyond that an empty book. Now I was the one with the blank stare.

"Marc, you talk about the importance of how people feel but you are closed off to your own emotions," Gabby said. "You stifle your intuition, something that women rarely do. It is the hunter/gatherer predisposition that we live with. I made my assessment of you and concluded that you are not a threat to me; subconsciously you did the same but failed to realize it. You are a hunter, but I am not the prey that you seek so you turned off your intuitive senses, a mistake if you are going to understand people. If you are going to write about sensitive subjects, you must tune in to the plasma and be open to your intuition, a bit like reading Tarot cards. The cards may have specific meanings but the gifted reader takes everything in and follows their intuition."

After a moment of reflection, I asked quietly, "So, what do you suggest?"

"I believe that you need an interpersonal exercise that tests your intuitive skills. We will see how you do and then decide on the best approach. Are you up for the challenge?" she queried.

"I am not sure but if I don't try, I will never know. Lead on," I responded.

We talked about the other participants in the program to select the appropriate 'volunteer' but I had a sneaky suspicion that Gabby had already decided on the person that I should get to know although she politely listened to my suggestions. When I made my final choice of Margaret from Vermont, she smiled and said, "No. She would be a poor choice."

"Why?" I protested. "She seems pleasant, about 10 years older than me so she could have some interesting facets to her personal story, outgoing and quick to laugh. What's the problem?"

"In case you didn't notice, she's a female. She will not relax with you and be open until she concludes that she can trust you. That could take a while and we have no time to waste," she said.

"Okay, so who would be your choice?" I replied bluntly.

"Charles, the fellow from Boston," she responded without hesitation.

I thought for a moment and then said that I would go along with her choice if she told me her logic in making the selection. "It's simple actually," she said, "he is a business owner, around 50 years old, handsome, refined, well-groomed, and he likes you. Voila. There are enough differences between you to make the conversation easy once you ask a few simple questions, plus there is an air of refinement about him which points to him being a gentleman and polite. He's attractive so he would not be upsetting to the eye, and since he owns a business you can assume that he is independent and can make decisions."

"It seems so simple when you say it," I replied, adding "How do you know that he likes me when we haven't formally met? And you are positive about Margaret?"

"Some things are obvious so trust me on that score. And, yes, I am definitely sure about Margaret. She's taken," Gabby said with a smile.

The plan was put in motion during the late afternoon break. I casually bumped into Charles and after a little chit-chat, asked if he would like to join Gabby and me for dinner if he did not have any specific plans. He smiled and graciously accepted without much hesitation. Gabby seemed to have read the room very well.

I was sitting at the dinner table talking to Charles when Gabby walked up with Margaret. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise," I said with a big smile while glancing toward Gabby. "Nice to see you again. Margaret, isn't it?"

"Yes, and you're Marc," she said, "nice to finally meet you. Hi, Charles, nice to see you again."

"Hello, Margaret, a pleasure as always," he replied with a grin.

"Oh, such a gentleman, I love running into you just for the compliments," she joked.

Charles produced a bottle of bourbon for an impromptu aperitif and, surprisingly, Gabby pulled a nice bottle of wine from her bag that we shared with dinner. After two days and some hurried introductions, our little group had come together and seemed to have the right chemistry to provide a pleasant evening.

During dinner, I watched how Gabby and Margaret interacted with each other and made mental notes of what I saw. Gabby handed Margaret her aperitif but let her hand linger for a few seconds as their fingers touched. Margaret glanced at her knowingly and the corners of her mouth went up slightly in a shy acknowledgment. When Charles passed a wine glass to me, our hands touched but neither of us pulled away, the male reaction learned over millennia had been subdued.

The conversation was lively and really good fun was had by all. Gabby was spot on with her assessment of Charles but I still wondered about Margaret. Gabby did not think that I would get adequate insight from her and when she went on to say that she was 'taken' I assumed that Gabby knew something about her personal life that I did not, but now I was not so sure that I understood her correctly. In any event, after dinner was finished and the wine bottle was empty, Margaret said that she was a bit tired and that she would leave 'us guys' to burn the midnight oil. Gabby said goodnight as well and the two of them walked in the direction of the lift to take them to their rooms.

Charles looked over at me and said, "And then there were two. It is not terribly late and I still have half a bottle of this nice bourbon so how about a nightcap in a more comfortable setting away from these bright lights?"

I smiled at him and replied, "That is a splendid offer and I would enjoy taking up a bit more of your time and your bourbon. What do you suggest?"

"Well, I seem to have had the good fortune to be given the suite formerly assigned to the Dean's mistress I am told, so it is quite comfortably appointed and has a small terrace overlooking the garden. I propose that we adjourn to my quarters and see how much of this bourbon we can finish before dawn," he said with a chuckle.

"It seems like a wonderful idea, but you must promise not to think ill of me tomorrow," I replied.

"I will if you give me the same assurance," came the good-humored response, and with those words we rose to leave.

Charles was accurate in his description of his suite of rooms. It was a very comfortable space, both in size and appointment. Obviously, this was not a professor's apartment, and how he managed to get it was never discussed. After a quick tour, Charles poured bourbon into two crystal glasses, added an ice cube, and handed one to me, his hand lingering against mine.

We had a brief toast to new beginnings, clinked glasses, and both took a healthy sip of the fiery liquid. Swallowing the bourbon, I looked at Charles and then leaned over to kiss him on the lips, holding the contact for several seconds. "Thank you for the nice evening," I said softly, "you are a lovely gentleman."

"It honestly is my pleasure," he replied before kissing me again. "Come, let me show you the garden."

We walked out onto the terrace and enjoyed the view of the garden in the soft moonlight. Charles put his arm around my shoulder and held me to him, while I put my arm around his waist. "You know, this has been the best night in a very long time for me," he said, "and I am afraid of spoiling it."

"I feel the same way," I replied. "I like you, more than I thought I would after such a short time, and I want to savor the moments just a little longer. Am I being too sentimental?" I asked.

"No, you are being just perfect," he replied. "Let's make a deal," he continued, "we will look over the garden until we finish our drinks and then we will say goodnight. We will meet for dinner tomorrow evening, and you can tell me how you feel about another nightcap. No pressure."

I leaned over and kissed his neck, whispering, "With one caveat. Gabby is my partner and I do not wish to exclude her from dinner plans. Is that agreeable?"

"Absolutely, I would have been disappointed if you did not include her. She is charming and quite a sexy lady, and I so enjoy the company of erotic women," he said with a laugh.

I finished my drink, took his head in my hands, and gave him a long, hot kiss on his lips. "Until tomorrow, Charles," I said, "goodnight."

"Goodnight, Marc, I will think about you tonight," he replied with a sly smile.

"Please do," I said as I walked to the door of the apartment, "I will do the same."

I was making some notes on a pad over breakfast when Gabby joined me, coffee in hand. She was smiling and looked well-rested, ready to focus on the matters at hand. "Good morning, Gabby, sleep well?" I said in a cheery voice.

"Hey, Marc, fine actually, and how are you this lovely day?" she replied.

"Very well and happy to see you," I said.

We chatted a bit about the beautiful morning and the lovely weather before putting our heads together for actual work. As much as I tried to avoid pointed questions about the events of the evening, I eventually had to ask her how she was so perceptive about Charles and what she managed to learn about Margaret. Gabby was straightforward about Charles saying that he carried himself well, and had confidence and her intuition indicated that we would be a good fit as a couple. About Margaret she was a bit coy, not wanting to say too much. "Margaret is very nice, soft-spoken as you could tell during dinner, with an interesting back-story and a lovely, well-toned physique," she said nonchalantly before sipping her coffee and looking away.

As I looked at her while letting the last comment sink in, she glanced at me and commented with a sly smile, "Oh dear, was I not supposed to say that? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be rude."