by Alicia Wag
(12/21/05)

The first time I saw Ian, he was making silly faces and waving his hands in stupid gestures.

"Who's that?" I asked Sophie. It was our end-of-summer party, celebrating the return to our last year of grad school.

"That's Ian," she answered. "And the magmadootch."

"Huh?"

I wasn't attuned to funny stuff. In my own creative pursuits, I concentrated on technique and convention. In my deep, dark subconscious I had a proclivity for melancholy and tragedy. I liked expressionist paintings. Kafka was my favorite writer. When I laughed at something, it usually involved irony and sarcasm. Magmadootch? It sounded like some newfangled product to clean penis scum.

"It's his pet," replied Sophie, alluding to the movements of Ian's hands, his fingers folding and flitting about in the shape of a creature's face. "The kids at camp loved it."

So that's where she met him. Sophie had summered as a camp counselor, in preparation for her career as an arts therapist for special-needs children. I'd spent the last two months immersed in music, blowing my brains into my flute at one elite festival after another.

"Come on," Sophie said. "I'll introduce you."

I didn't think I wanted to be introduced to a clown, but Sophie was dragging me. "Slow down," I said. "I'm gonna spill my drink." My drink was seltzer with lime. Ian's, I saw as we approached, was one of the martinis Sophie had insisted on serving. He turned from his conversation with Frank, our buddy from the running club, and smiled at us.

His grin was so strange it triggered a twang in my gut, which I immediately pushed aside. I couldn't possibly be attracted to such a motley man, with skin like a Mediterranean olive, unruly black curls for hair, a nose that wasn't so much long as it was pointy, and dark eyes that were a tinge asymmetrical.

"Ian," said Sophie, "This is Lisa."

"Li-sa," said Ian, drawing out my name in a sing-song, a-hah kind of way, saying it as though he knew all about me. "Pleasure to meet you."

Out came the magmadootch hand. I shook it, surprised by its grip, which was both firm and relaxed. "Hi," I said.

We stood silent for a few moments. I felt awkward in the dead air, though my glance at Sophie indicated she was amused. Ian looked unperturbed. But then, why wouldn't he be? Anyone who would wear a black and white striped stocking cap and red suspenders to a party must not care what anyone thought of him. That twang in my gut came back, almost like a longing.

"Oh, there's Patty," said Sophie.

I nearly panicked when she left, though I could have easily followed. Instead I stayed with Ian, feeling confused, compelled, and altogether uncomfortable. Frank had slipped away, too, so we were alone despite the apartment being crammed with people, a great din of talk and blaring music, some rock band I didn't know the name of. I didn't keep up with that stuff: Classical music was my thing, and I didn't go beyond it.

Ian kept looking at me in a mellow, sweet sort of way. I was amazed by his lack of self-consciousness. Meanwhile, my own need to break the silence was growing so strong I was on the verge of sputtering. He seemed to know this, and helped me out. Even though he had to speak loudly to be heard through the noise of the party, his voice had a soft quality I liked. "Sophie tells me you're quite the flutist."

I shrugged.

"Who's your favorite composer?" he asked.

I settled a bit, relieved at the easy question. "Mahler."

"Ah, yes," he said. "Das Lied von der Erde. Hauntingly beautiful."

A kindred spirit. Maybe. "I love that piece."

"I like it," he said. "Not as well as Shostakovich, though."

"He's a favorite of my lover's," I said, not knowing what came over me. Dante was long gone, practicing cello and polyamory in Italy.

Ian's gaze never wavered. Those dark eyes boring into me must be breaking down my sanity, I thought. Or was it remembering Dante and all the Italian women he might be fucking? Ian leaned in a little closer, a miniscule, almost imperceptible shift in distance that was enough to refuel the longing in my belly. "What's your lover's name?" Ian whispered.

"Dante," I said.

"Ah," said Ian as though he had just learned something important. "A man."

I nodded. "And what are you?" I asked.

Ian took the two fingers of his right hand, the mouth of the magmadootch, inserted them into his martini, and clamped them around the green olive inside. Out they came, the olive cradled between them. He popped it into his thin-lipped, wet mouth and ate it with quiet gusto before he answered. "Me?" he said. "I'm a mime."

Ian left the party alone, as he had come. Sophie told me he lived in a nearby suburb, caretaker of a historic house and its grounds. "Free rent," she said.

"What did he do at your camp?" I asked.

"He came for a week and did mime with the kids. You like him, don't you?"

"Of course not," I snapped.

Sophie just laughed. "Where does he perform?"

"He gigs around, and teaches. He's on the street a lot," she said, "in the square."

For three days after the party, I dealt with Dante, racking up astronomical phone bills, crying as he told me about Luisa and Filomena, how he had done them both, separately and together. He was impatient with my sadness. "Lisa," he said. "I love you. Isn't that enough?" I didn't know what to say. Dante thought it was jealousy, but it wasn't, really. When he told me he'd found two beautiful lovers in Rome, it just filled me with that confused longing I'd just as soon avoid or only confront where it could be contained, in the otherworldly space of Mahler's music, or looking into the tortured world of Egon Schiele's paintings.

Even as Dante remained at the forefront of my mind, the idea of trying to see Ian lingered in the back. I told myself it was because I wanted to get at Dante, but there was more to it than that. I had already fucked two different men, at two different music festivals, both older, both well-known, one a conductor and the other a teacher. I was waiting to tell him, hoarding the knowledge like the selfish little wretch I sometimes felt like.

One night I wandered into the square, looking for Ian among the singers, jugglers, and street performers, but he was nowhere to be found. As it turned out, I didn't have to look again. He came by in the middle of the week. I opened the door, on my way out to buy my books, and there he was, arm raised, hand in a fist as though he were about to knock, even though we had a doorbell.

"Hey," I said.

He dropped his arm and smiled. "Hi." He was wearing a cap, two-toned with black velvet and a purple, satiny material.

Another awkward silence. Ian seemed to enjoy them. I broke it by saying, "Sophie's not here."

"I didn't come to see Sophie," he said, leaving the words and their ramifications hanging. I found myself settling into the quiet. The need to find something to say was lessening, and that was nice. After a moment Ian said, "Would you like to come over tonight?"

"Yes," I answered without thinking.

"Okay," he said. "I'll pick you up at seven thirty." Then he smiled and put his right foot forward, pivoting in the most extraordinary way, every sinew and muscle working as efficiently as possible to turn his body and walk away from me.

We got into Ian's old, rickety Saab convertible at 7:37. Cheerful red-and-white Hawaiian print covered the seats, and I settled onto it gratefully. I had just showered and thrown on a pink cotton T-shirt dress. My brown hair was still wet, but drying quickly in the breeze.

I let my head fall back and closed my eyes. Earlier in the evening, I'd talked to Dante, letting him know there were things I needed to tell him about the summer, but in person. He claimed it wasn't fair to bring it up and not follow through, and further justified his anger by pointing out that he told me everything.

"I'm not you," I said.

"You fucked someone, didn't you?" he said, with what sounded like relish.

"I'll tell you when I see you."

"Did you like it?" he asked.

I hadn't, actually. The encounter with the conductor was boring, a quickie backstage while I leaned over and took it from behind. The teacher was a bit more interesting -- we made it in his office a few times, once with me on top, and I even sucked his cock a couple of times. But I hadn't come all summer except for masturbating.

I told Dante he'd just have to wait, but he wouldn't give up and tried to move from an argument to phone sex. I hung up on him.

I fell asleep in Ian's car, and woke to impending darkness and his whisper in my ear: "We're here." Above us, the world looked fiery and brilliant, orange streaks and pearlescent clouds giving way to the night sky. We were parked on a dirt road. In the distance was a large, handsome farmhouse.

Ian got out of the car and came around to my side, opening the door for me. I felt like a lady in a 1950s movie. I emerged demurely, instinctively taking the hand Ian offered, then slipping my arm through his as we made our way to the house.

"It's so quiet," I said, listening to the sounds of birds and insects -- and something else. "Is that frogs?"

"Yes," he said. "There's a pond on the other side of the house."

I laughed, thinking of when I was a girl, walking to the pond in my neighborhood and watching intently for tadpoles, frogs, dragonflies, and sometimes even a great blue heron.

Ian had a room downstairs with a kitchenette and bath, separate from the rest of the historically preserved farmhouse. It was like stepping into a different world -- from austere 19th century simplicity to quirky modernism. The bed was a single futon on the floor, covered with torn, turquoise satin sheets and multi-colored pillows with ornate sequins and tassels. On the back of the door was a life-size poster of Charlie Chaplin, and on the walls, haphazardly placed postcards of all sorts from all over the place -- Florida, Iowa, Cancun, Japan, vintage photographs of Cary Grant, Marilyn Monroe, Buster Keaton, and art cards of some of my favorites: Wyeth's "Christina's World," Rousseau's "The Sleeping Gypsy," and Munch's "The Scream."

"Sit down," Ian said, gesturing to his futon.

It might have been presumptuous to immediately direct me to the bed, but the only other chair in the place was a swivel stool at an old wooden desk in the corner, covered with mounds of papers, envelopes, and candles. There were candles all around the room, including on the night table by the futon, which also was home to a Tiffany lamp.

I kicked off my sandals and sat Indian-style on the futon, noticing the smell of Ian's room, its tinges of familiar things -- patchouli, sandalwood, pot, cucumbers. Ian took off his cap. His hair was matted to his head on top, but long enough that his dark ringlets flew free in all directions, like wild vines seeking territory. Without the hat he looked serious, more grown-up even, and the warmth in my belly, that started every time I saw him, grew. He methodically pulled down one suspender, then the other, unclipped them from his black jeans and hung them on a nail. Then he took off his white T-shirt and tossed it into a pile with some other shirts. Is he going to strip? I wondered as he leaned over and unbuckled his Tevas, kicking them aside. But he stopped there. He wasn't as hairy as I thought he would be, which I liked -- just a tuft of black in the center, where his heart might be. His nipples were dark and hard, and the sight of them sent the warmth in my belly lower. He wasn't well-muscled, but he was firm and taut and elegant, almost feminine.

"Do some mime for me," I said.

I watched as he created an imaginary table and served himself tea. I found myself laughing. "How do you make it look so real?"

"Come here."

I got up and stood beside him.

"See this wall?" He gestured into the empty space in front of us.

"No," I said.

"It's here." One palm, then the other, walked up the wall of air, looking for a way out. Ian pressed one hand firmly onto the surface, and took my arm with the other. "Feel it," he said. But when I put my hand there, my fingers slipped right through.

Later, when we were kissing on the futon, our lips sliding wet against each other and our tongues intertwined, I reached for the hard cock I could feel pressing against me through our clothes. He pulled away and stood up.

I watched as he reached for something imaginary, something tender. "This is your breast," he said, cradling roundness, gently squeezing, finding the nipple and placing it between his two agile fingers.

"I'm going to suck it," he whispered, leaning forward with his mouth slightly open, closing around the exact spot his fingers had been. I watched him lap at the place that was my nipple, tug at it gently with teeth, dart at it with tongue.

Meanwhile, his magmadootch hand slid down my imaginary belly. I could almost feel it brush my very own skin as it traveled lower, the two fingers dipping forward now, and I let out a moan.

"This is your pussy," he said, working at it. "It's wet." His fingers pushed forward, slipped inside, the thumb staying behind and working the pretend clit. Between my legs my real pussy gushed. "It's so wet," he said. "Wet enough to fuck."

He let go of my imaginary pussy and pulled off his black jeans, taking his cock out of his navy blue boxers, pulling the fabric back so that his balls were exposed. It looked like a portrait -- "Erect Cock against Dark Background." I took in the sight, its thickness and slight curve, the dark brown oval of a birthmark along the shaft that looked like a splash of chocolate.

"I'm going inside you now," he said, moving forward. He held his cock in one hand and rubbed it against the clit and lips for a moment, his eyes watching my imaginary pussy as though looking at something amazing and beautiful.

"You are so ready to be fucked," he said. He slid his cock toward the entrance of my pretend pussy, slowly, tauntingly.

"Fuck me back, Lisa," he said, bringing his sex up again and rubbing the head of his cock on my imaginary clit. My real clit was swelling the way it only did when my vibrator touched it. "Come on," he said. "Fuck me with your wet pussy."

I slipped off my underwear and pulled up my pink dress, then leaned back against the pillows on the bed and spread my legs wide.

"Now," he said. "I'm putting my cock inside you." It slipped into the imaginary hole. My eyes could see his shaft, yet I knew it had disappeared into a moist, dark chasm. Ian's head was back now; he was moaning softly. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes," I said, reaching for my clit, sliding my fingers inside myself, all hotness and cream. I could feel Ian's cock, the pressure it made in my cunt, my cunt walls stretching to welcome it. Ian pushed all the way into my imaginary pussy, and my own hips pushed back.

We started slowly, then upped the rhythm. I watched his cock fucking the pretend pussy, my hips thrusting along with it.

"I'm going to come," he said.

I felt the bud of my clit pulse and explode at the moment Ian's cock released white liquid into the air, onto the exposed wooden floor in the space between us. He collapsed on his knees and took me in his arms, hugging me so tight I almost couldn't breathe. He whispered my name, kissing my hair, my sweaty forehead, my eyelids, my lips.

I looked over Ian's shoulder at his room, the candles, the posters, the colors. It looked like a Klimt painting. And there we were, wrapped around each other like one, too.

Being on the inside wasn't scary, the way I thought it would be. There were edges, after all. I lifted my hand and placed it against them, tracing the space Ian and I occupied. Ian's breath streamed warm and moist on my neck.

My hand, having found the borderlines, came back to circle his very real cock. I guided it inside me.

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