“CAN WE TALK?”
“Win, it’s Lori. Can we talk?”
Turning from his computer, Winfield rubbed his eyes as he juggled the telephone.
“Win, you’re the only person I can talk to. I’ve been going through a lot this week. Brit’s in Atlanta, and I’m all alone. I don’t feel comfortable in this house by myself. Can I come over? Just to talk. I know you’re busy, so I won’t stay long. I promise. Please?”
He agreed. Winfield had been thinking of taking a break and heading to The Black Shamrock for a soul-restoring Guinness. But it had been over two years since he had heard from Lori, and her pleading sounded particularly inviting and full of promise.
Hanging up the phone, Winfield settled back, loosened his tie, and glanced at the computer screen. The lettering seemed a blur. He had spent the entire day editing the third draft of a documentary screenplay. A wealthy UW alumna, impressed by The Roosevelts, had endowed the Wisconsin Presidential Project. But since Wisconsin had never produced a president, the best alternative her overpaid board of directors could suggest was to fund the state’s leading presidential historian, UW’s own Siobhan Sapperstein, who immediately called Win. Over shots of Jameson at an Irish Seder the year before, he had claimed he had a screenplay “being considered” by Time Warner. Politely impressed, she asked him for help to bring her four-volume 2400-page masterpiece Warren G. Harding: Man of Destiny to the small screen. Siobhan’s enthusiasm for the 29th President was infectious, and Winfield spent weekends in her study poring over the collected papers—all sixteen volumes—of the Harding Administration, searching for memorable quotes. Late into the night they ate pizza and watched YouTube clips of silent black and white newsreels, selecting scenes to match their narration. Admittedly, Warren G. Harding was not JFK, and Siobhan Sapperstein was no Doris Kearns Goodwin, but with enough work and hype, their efforts to revive public interest in Teapot Dome and the President’s mysterious death (they planned to darkly suggest an international conspiracy) would be seen on a smattering of PBS affiliates, maybe even the History Channel.
Deciding to switch from Diet Coke to whiskey, Win went to the living room and checked the bar. He hoped Lori still drank Scotch. There was a full Cutty and half-liter of JB left over from his birthday party.
Lori. He first met her in college. Busty, blonde, and playful, she was every freshman’s dream. Lori. But she belonged solely to Frank. Football Frank. Fraternity Frank. Fidelity-demanding Frank. He glommed onto Lori during Rush Week, eclipsing Win’s chances forever. Throughout college, Lori remained on Win’s horizon, gliding past him in hallways, brushing up next to him at beer bashes, asking him for advice on term papers, and sitting next to him at graduation. Always busty, always smiling, always blonde, and always unobtainable.
Win ran into her in grad school, and they became fast, if distant, friends. Frank became a pal as well, asking Win for help writing a resume. Lori even asked Win to plan their European honeymoon.
Lori always remained out of his grasp. When she broke up with Frank, she moved in with two girls. Wherever she went, her friends followed. From time to time Lori invited herself to Win’s apartment, her dreary, druggy divorcee roommates trooping behind her with six packs and Valium. As Lori and Win talked about the old days, her roomies shot sullen hatemen looks at Win, dropped Virginia Slims ashes on his Persian rugs, used his phone, soiled his guest towels, and effectively blockaded any romantic overtures. Lori loved to talk, and her roomies loved to nod in mutual understanding. When Lori left the room, there was deadly silence. The roomies talked to each other as if Win were nothing more than an abandoned houseplant.
Briefly Lori lived by herself in Downer Estates, often calling on Winfield for small favors. But as always she maintained a platonic distance. He felt his lust gradually cool to compassion. His own relationship with an airline pilot was rocky, and he called on Lori for insight into the female psyche. Bonded by confusion and frustration, they went to erotic films together, listened to Dr. Ruth, and came to discuss sex with such openness and intensity so that anything physical between them would be doomed to self-conscious failure. Yet, he still pined for her.
Pined for her even now. Even after she came out of the closet and began living with a woman. Twenty years removed from that freshman September, he still ached for her, despite her chain smoking, her whiny monologues, her lesbian crushes.
Lori arrived at ten-thirty, sweeping into his living room and immediately heading to the bar. She wore white. White thin-ribbed turtleneck sweater. White stirrup pants. White heels. Barbie had not dropped by for over a week, and Win’s neglected manhood immediately throbbed with anticipation.
“Oh, Win,” she sighed, making a Scotch and water, “I’m really going through a lot. Everything’s just getting worse and worse!” Moving to the sofa, she leaned over and gave Winfield a gooey kiss on the cheek. “I really appreciate this. I need to talk. I’ve been going crazy all day sitting around the house. I just feel so confused when Brit is away. I get so lonely and worried about everything. And I was looking forward to this week because I wanted to grub around with no makeup, paint the kitchen, and do some gardening. But I can’t relax. I just feel lonely and horny and scared. It’s like I’m sixteen again.”
Slipping off her heels, she moved to the sofa, folded her legs in a lotus position and gulped Scotch. “Oh, Win. I don’t know where to begin. I’m going through so many changes. I’m seeing a therapist. The woman hates me. I pay hundred-ninety-five dollars an hour because she’s not in my HMO, and she despises me. The woman is a bitch. She just sits there and says “mmm” and looks down her nose at me. I see her twice a week. I mean women are so judgmental. And men, forget it. Whenever I tried to talk to Frank he only listened long enough to unzip his pants. Win, you are the only one I feel comfortable with.”
Win nodded, sadly accepting his status as eunuch mentor.
“When I was with Frank, I wasn’t happy. The sex always bothered me. From a physical point of view, he was equipped. Well-equipped. But it never worked for me. I tried, but I usually faked it. He was working so hard at it, I felt obligated to do it for him. I didn’t know what was wrong. I just couldn’t get into it. I always thought about women, but when I went to the bars—eee—they were all so dikey.”
She held her empty glass aloft. “I shouldn’t drink. It’s bad for your face. Makes you puffy. But I need it.” She rattled her ice cubes for attention.
Win made her a stiff drink, pouring a stiffer one for himself.
“OK,” she continued, “then I met Brit. Oh, Brit. I never thought I would meet anyone like her. What an angel. And she’s so smart. She has that web design business and all those rental properties. Now she owns shares in a Florida hotel. And being with her was so different than being with Frank. For the first time I really felt free. I could share everything with her. I mean we both went through divorces. We both wanted to be models. We both love to travel. But it’s not working lately. I’ve sensed her pulling back. And I started faking it with her. I know she is faking it with me.”
She took a hard pull at her drink. “Lately, I have been dreaming about being with a man again. Not Frank. No, not Frank.” She glanced at Winfield for a moment. “And it’s not you. It’s this guy I ran into at Kinko’s. He’s so muscular. What a hard body! I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to be him. I guess I miss that.”
Despite her Kinko’s infatuation, Lori’s admission of phallic deprivation restored Win’s masculine ego a bit, and he put his drink down.
“And there is something else bothering me more and more. I’m thirty-seven. I’m thinking about kids, and my time is running out. I was never into the baby thing, but I always could do it if I wanted to. It was always an option. Now I’m scared of losing something.”
She downed the last ounce of Scotch and held her glass up to Winfield. “I shouldn’t drink on top of pills, but I can’t relax.” She stood, stretched, and followed Win to the bar. He was getting boozy. Fatigue pulled at his eyelids. It was going to be a long night.
“The thing is, Win, I’m still a housewife. OK, I work. I make good money in sales. But Frank had his own software company. And Brit, my God. Today I got ten calls for her from Dallas, LA, New York, Tampa. It’s like being with Frank. I play secretary. I take her messages. I check her email. I go to her conventions, just like with Frank, but she won’t go to mine, just like with Frank. I was always intimidated by Frank. Now it’s the same with Brit. I’m afraid she’ll meet some twenty-year-old mall kitten and dump me. Oh, Win, it’s always something.”
Coffee. Win sipped and listened, his mind overloaded. It was nearly two am. He was exhausted and Lori—thankfully, thankfully—was finally winding down. Dozing, his head bobbed like Reagan’s during a cabinet meeting. When Lori excused herself to use the bathroom, his eyes closed and he rocked forward, almost pitching into the glass coffee table. He woke with a start, catching his balance just in time.
Lori returned, yawning.
Time for bed. Winfield crossed the room, took Lori’s arm and guided her into the bedroom. He pulled back the comforter, then began to undress. Lori slipped off her pants, leaving on her sweater and pantyhose. She climbed into bed. Win snapped out the light, sleep having overcome any erotic urges. Lori wrapped a smooth thigh over his and nuzzled close to him, her breasts jutting under Winfield’s chin. Lori’s small palm stroked the bulge in his briefs. Winfield sighed, gave her a brotherly hug and settled into his pillow to dream.
Lori sat up, knocking Winfield against the headboard. “Win, this just won’t work. I can’t sleep. I have to talk.”
He rose, snapping on the light.
“No, Win. I feel so embarrassed unloading all of this on you. But I have to talk to somebody. Look, you’re tired. Can I use your phone? I need to talk.”
Win pointed to his study.
“Sleep, darling, I won’t bother you.” Planting a soft kiss on his cheek, she switched off the light and walked through the bathroom, closing both doors behind her. Alone in the darkness, Win drifted. He dreamed. His consciousness rose and fell on ocean waves, moving from coma-like stupor to light awareness of Lori’s voice. Her whispers, stifled giggles, tearful sobs penetrated his dreams. Toward dawn, Winfield awoke. His normal morning state of arousal was particularly intense, stimulated no doubt by the choked orgasmic moans coming from his study.
A few minutes later Lori crawled into bed with him. Gazing at him with a blissful smile, she sighed and closed her eyes. She pulled closer, nuzzling her breasts under his chin. When her exploring hand encountered him, she offered a whispered rebuke and a sleepy, patronizing frown, “Oh, Win.”
They slept until ten. After a cold shower, Winfield made coffee and toast. Lori was all apologies.
“Win, I want to make this up to you. Come over for dinner. Brit will be home in two days. She likes you. Maybe Saturday? We’re going to have friends over. And I want you to feel welcome. I appreciate the fact you didn’t try anything last night, not even hint at it. I mean that’s class. Most men just aren’t that understanding. My sister went to a therapist for marital problems, and the guy exposed himself. Right in his office on Park Avenue. In front of his bust of Freud and his aspidistras and everything. I mean this guy was on The Doctors talking about trust and commitment, and the first time my sister sees him, he pulls it out. And he wasn’t even hung. I mean if you’re going unreel your hose in public have at least eight inches. Otherwise, it’s just pathetic.”
That weekend Winfield joined Lori and Brit for a pool party. No fewer than four very straight-but-tired-of-being-hit-on-by-jerks females were in attendance wearing only thongs. Lori introduced Win, profusely praising him, and by the third round of low-cal wine coolers, he had collected two promising Skypes.
Three weeks later when he opened his phone bill, Winfield assumed there had been a computer error, a misplaced decimal. It was impossible, despite his calls to Wall Street for Frederick Douglass Savings and Loan, his weekly call to his parents, and the FAX’s he sent to the Wisconsin Presidential Project, to have run up a $612.97 bill in a single month. He was about to call customer service for an explanation when his eye caught the dot matrix lines under ADDITIONAL CHARGES:
10/122:21 am1-900-555-8989 CHATLINE 900
WOMYN TO WOMYN LINE
138 min $3.99$550.62
4:40 am1-900-555-9595 CHATLINE 900
STUD LINE 900
3 min$1.99$5.97