Last night, in the midst of an evening of snifters and self-examination, my co-author and I launched into a longish discussion of the gender politics noted in an entry below.
One subject we delved into was whether emotional pain, or the vestiges thereof, plays any part in a bloke's gender politics—or, in other terms, whether successive relationship wreckage leads to a testosterone-driven entrenchment of sexual dimorphism—whether successive dumping and getting dumped has any long-term effect on how one not only sees but also talks about, writes about, treats the opposite (other) sex. Whichever suits.
That was all fine and high minded (for the most part). And of course the answer is yes. Which we got 'round to in short order. Which left an opening for a perhaps ill-advised move on my part into a discussion of the sexual politics of physical pain. And a story.
A story I'd nearly to my credit forgotten, which involves, in this order, a restaurant, a waitress, a book, two bottles of Shiraz, a loathsome screen print, and a full set of fingernails.
She worked in Sam & Andy's, a bar and grill, a fixture on the Cumberland Ave. strip and a haunt of mine for seven years or so before it was knocked down to provide room for some bland chain sandwich place. Now, Sam & Andy's had provided no small amount of entertainment and diversion over the years, not the least of which was found in a goodly amount of cheap beer and the anecdotes of one David Taylor, whose stories ran to the scatalogically grotesque, especially in the company of those of more delicate sensibilities.
One feature of most of the women who tended bar or waited tables in that joint was a thick skin. They could dish it out and take it and go blow for blow with David on whatever subject. From time to time I found myself out on some high adventure with one or more of these women, often with Mr. Taylor, sometimes with Mr. Eades, sometimes, even, with odd combinations of University faculty, graduate students, and construction workers.
One particular evening found several current and ex Sam & Andy's waitresses, several construction workers (some of them current or past lovers of one or more of the girls), and various other party-goers and hangers-on, all packed into a tiny one-bedroom apartment, one building over from mine. As I arrived, an ex-lover of mine, nicely pickled, stumbled onto the small patch of lawn and, just out of earshot of the young man rag-tagging along behind, informed me that she'd be up later. She didn't of course, but it was that kind of night.
I arrived with a bottle of Shiraz and a book in hand, seeing as how one of the more bawdy waitresses had expressed some interest in Oscar Wilde after young Mr. Taylor had given a brief barroom lecture on the condition of Wilde's sheets so prominently featured at his trial. And I just happened to have in my apartment the Ellman biography. Yes, yes, I know. But what are such books for, one asks, after one has read them? The night had a certain horrifying promise to it.
In brief, the bottle of Shiraz and other delicacies consumed, the young woman and I found time to linger a bit and chat up the subject of Wilde, getting as far as the pictures before we passed out, tangled on a pile of dirty laundry.
When I answered my phone early the following afternoon, I found that I had promised to meet her at the bar and look over some of her screen prints. And more: I had also promised dinner and further discussion that evening at my apartment.
The prints were awful—giant smudges of black and brown and orange. I loved them. I said so. And paid $75 for one of them. You get the point. Trent gave me years of grief over the print, which I insisted on hanging (and making apology for) simply because I had dropped good money.
She and the evening arrived, and even then I took some pride in my ability to whip up a dinner. We were both happy and chatty when we sat down on my couch to finish off the second half of the bottle of Shiraz she'd brought over.
We can brush past the details of play fore and aft and get right to the moment, which found us in a familiar tangle, somewhat more stable of mind and on somewhat more stable a surface than the night before. And it was good.
For about three minutes. After which she began using a healthy set of fingernails to carve canals into my back. There was blood and a good deal of unmanly shrieking on my part. Pleasure-pain principles aside, I found the experience a trial. We had a confrontation, followed by my promptly and physically tossing her and the dregs of the Shiraz out of my apartment, along, sadly I found later, with the Ellman biography.
And so physical pain has had a lasting impression on me and has influenced my sexual politics. I find myself unable to shake the following prejudice: girls, trim your nails to the nub. I'm happy to have you rake your fingerprints across my back, but let's leave it at that. Claws belong on a proper kitten.
Oh yes, and one should know that the horrible print was, after some time and much heckling from my good friend, replaced by a Velvet Yoda I pulled out of a dumpster on campus. The feet are especially well crafted in a shade of green known only to invading aliens. With yellow toenails. What that piece of information says about my proclivities I'll leave to the experts.
