by Adrianna de la Rosa
(07/31/02)
She met him when she was finishing up her Master's degree and writing her
thesis. He didn't know it, but he was integral to this work. She was
writing about the film, The Piano, and taking a depth perspective of this
film. A kind of psychology of women when they can no longer speak, and
become mute in their marriages. He was her Harvey Keitel. The lover that
she longed for. Someone who could reach her deeply and find her
interiority. Pierce through to something yet unfound about her, using her
skin and her sex.
She took a break to write to him, and out of boredom and fancy and because
by then he had kissed her lips both high and low, she sent him about forty
lipstick kisses which were her trademark of sorts. She got out every
lipstick she had and kissed the paper repeatedly with each one, and then
wrote out all the names for each color, with subtext for her favorites.
Exotica, Very Currant, Rosewood, Redwood, and so forth. These were all
different brands and types from her huge collection.
She loved lipstick. Especially all the endlessly glamorous reds. They
spelled out an allure from an earlier time, like certain perfumes also do.
She always wore Dolce Vita mixed with 4711. Trademarks of sorts.
Then he did something with unthinkable intimacy. He bought her a lipstick.
No man had ever done this before. No man would traverse a cosmetic
counter for her and buy something to bathe her lips in. Lips that were
going to be kissing him later. She was speechless at this gesture. But
then again, she was speechless when it came to many things about him.
Things she couldn't name, really. He always cut right to the chase. The
shade was perfect. Deep red with tiny flecks of gold. Tapestry, it was
called.
He was always looking long and hard at her. Maybe trying to figure
something out. She wanted to parade around in front of him wearing
lingerie and heels, posing with her breasts thrusting forward toward him.
Sometimes she stood in doorways like this, just having him take her in.
This had never happened before, and she loved it. She liked to arch her body
toward him, full of desire. She liked to watch his myriad expressions.
She wanted to wear her black lace for him, thinking about how he might go
wild at the sight of it. Encased in lace with a floral pattern stretched
out before him so he could do what he wanted. But that isn't what happened
exactly. He sat in his chair by the bed and she felt something was amiss.
Because they could always talk about everything, he told her the lace was
intimidating. Maybe she was too, and didn't know it. She had gotten it
especially for him, but he preferred her in the nude without artifice and
extravagant coverings.
She wanted garters and stockings from the 1930s. She wanted his hand to
slip up into her this way, between her legs all dressed in lace. She
wanted the caress up and down her thighs, just stopping short of the places
that made her quiver. She wanted to be kept in suspense by his fingers,
never knowing where they planned to travel next.
You can be madonna or you can be whore and never the twain
shall meet. You have to fall into one or the other category as a woman.
The patriarchy made these rules for you a long time ago. You have to
decide, which will it be? If you are one thing, you can never be revered as
wife and mother. If you are the other thing, you can assume the pose of a
goddess in black lace. You can be Aphrodite in all her glory. Otherwise
you have to wear pink flannel and be sure you know the recipe for Toll
House cookies. It is never fair. Yet as women we know these things
deeply in our flesh and bones.
He never wanted to hear about prior lovers and how poorly they stacked up
against him.
She chose to be a courtesan. She chose to dispense with notions about her
role.
She wanted to tell him about the immensity of her freedom after shedding
the pink flannel. But she felt he was afraid of what he might find in her
core. Her deepest deep self. So she lay down in front of him exposed in
black lace. And he wanted her to take it off. So she did. She let him
strip it off her, so that he could feel more comfortable.
Man in the Moon is a continuing series.
Man in the Moon
Man in the Moon: 2 Baths
Man in the Moon: Lace
Man in the Moon: Gazing
Man in the Moon: Valdez
Man in the Moon: Naked
