Mirrors of Narcissus Page 14

  “You know,” I said, “many guys have this sexual fantasy…about their girlfriends sleeping with other guys.”

  “Don’t I know it.” I could tell by her reply that she was also quite high. “But Scott isn’t the type to do anything with his best friend’s girl. He’s too much of an old-fashioned gentleman to ever betray you, even if he didn’t have his silly inhibitions about being uncircumcised.”

  “Too bad. What if we broke up? I mean faked a break-up? Then you would be ‘free.’ You could go crying to him for consolation, and in the process of consoling you, the two of you would almost naturally end up in bed.”

  “True. That often happens. But in Scott’s case, I don’t think he would. I mean, even if it was a real break-up. He would still feel loyal to you. He’s that kind of guy.”

  “Then we’ll never have him sleeping with you.”

  “If he didn’t think it was me, it might be a different story,” she said seductively, in the tone she used whenever we spun out our sexual fantasies.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if he thought I was my own identical twin?”

  “What? But you don’t have one.”

  “We make one up, silly.”

  “What’s her name?” I asked, eagerly joining in her game.

  “Justine. Ever since reading that book by the Marquis de Sade, I’ve had these delicious fantasies about a depraved alter ego of mine named Justine. The name even sounds like my own.”

  “Maybe there is a part of you deep down which really is depraved.” I knew now she was just as aroused as I was by our talk. I felt an excitement in her like an electric charge. The absurdity of her idea, or its illicitness, had captivated her. There were feelings involved here which I had no way of gauging. I knew somewhere at the core of her being was a desire to betray me, or to be “shared” between two boys. We’d talked about such topics, in a casual manner, admittedly, but I had sensed that Christine was intrigued by the idea. She wasn’t a prude. Not by a long shot.

  She was stretching her chin upward, like a cat begging to be stroked.

  “I love it when you’re like this,” I said. “So, we trick him into thinking you have a twin. What next?”

  “If he believed I was Justine, he would do it. Or even if he only believed I was supposed to be Justine. That way he won’t be going against any of his principles.”

  “You would pretend you’re Justine? But how can you actually get him to believe it?”

  She got up off the bed and whisked the curtains shut, then turned on the reading light. Picking up her suede tote bag from the floor, she went over to my mirror and began cleaning the make-up off her face with some cold cream. When I’d first met her, she’d used very little make-up, but acquiescing to my desire to make her more attractive in the eyes of other boys, she’d learned the art and magic of cosmetics.

  Now she began doing things to her face to subtly alter it. Re-applying the eye-liner in a slightly different way, and using less blusher and a new shade of lipstick, she engineered the creation of a new, more vampy look. She brushed her hair straight back from her forehead, parted it to one side and put some bobby pins into place.

  “If only I had a wig.”

  When she was finished, she turned around to gauge my reaction. Her hair looked even shorter than it was, and her make-up gave her a very different look, more confident somehow. She’d changed in some way and become Justine, her nonexistent alter-ego.

  She broke into a smile at my reaction. “I’m not Christine anymore. I’m Justine.”

  And I would have believed it if I hadn’t known better. The change seemed to go deeper than mere physical alteration, as if she’d changed her true personality. Just by taking off her usual make-up and redoing her hair, she’d become reborn as another being. It made me realize just how much of a woman was created by her make-up, hairstyle, and clothes. I envied such versatility, such flexibility. I’d never seen Christine like this, the archetypical vamp: a creature of illusion, born to illusion, and master of it.

  I was a little afraid of this new woman.

  “You even speak a little differently,” I said. “You are Justine, for all practical purposes. And what happens now?”

  She thought for a moment. “I call up your dorm when you’re out. Scott answers the phone, and I tell him I’m Justine. I’ve dropped into town to look up my sister.”

  “That sounds good,” I laughed.

  “But ‘Christine’ is out, of course. We’ll have worked that out well in advance. You and I could be on a weekend trip. So I ask him to show me around. Or knowing Scott, he will offer to take me to wherever Guy and Christine are supposed to be—say, a ski lodge up in the mountains. We meet at the cafeteria….”

  “How does he react to you?”

  “He remarks on the amazing resemblance, and on the little differences. But in my personality, there is much that is similar to Christine’s. The Justine I’ve become is so much like Christine that he feels no shyness at all. In fact, he feels as if he’s known me from way back.”

  “Which he does, of course. But is he completely fooled? Doesn’t he suspect anything? Or does he think it’s a prank and goes along—collaborating in your play-acting?”

  “Let’s say he falls for it. Or pretends to. But for whatever reason, he says nothing. At any rate, we get along so well and become so friendly with each other during the course of the evening, that on our way to the mountain lodge, he puts up very little protest when I suggest we go to a motel. I say the hell with meeting Chrissie. I can drop into town some other time.”

  “Justine is a little bit more forward than Christine. But how about you? The strain of keeping up the pretense, the deception?”

  “It would be hard. But once we’re in bed, it wouldn’t matter. Identities don’t matter, illusions don’t matter, only the reality of our two bodies against each other. I get him over his inhibitions really quick.”

  I felt a strange welter of emotions in me which I couldn’t put a name to. I strongly suspected that Scott was in love with Christine, and here we were, spinning out fantasies about seducing him. I wished I could turn into Justine as easily as Christine could.

  “Do you confess to him in the morning?” I ask.

  “No, why should I? The next morning, I have to take an early flight back to New York, a little sad that I couldn’t see Christine, but happy at my little escapade. We part at the campus plaza, but not before I confess that I have a boyfriend back home, and he must never attempt to contact me in any way. He reluctantly agrees.”

  “And?”

  “And at lunchtime I’m Christine again, and run into him at the cafeteria. He doesn’t suspect a thing. But I know what’s behind that naughty little smile of his.”

  Her excitement had been transmitted to me, and I momentarily lived with her triumphant betrayal of me. If in fact it could happen—if Christine ever slept with Scott—I would be linked psychically with him, making love to him in the only way possible for me now.

  I fondled Christine’s breasts and she curled her body up in response. She purred like a cat, her signal for initiating sex. It was always she who did the initiating nowadays, she who decided whether or not we would have sex.

  I thought of Scott. Now, even as I was touching Christine, I was thinking of him. He was between Christine and me, the one who’d excited both of us; and I knew Christine was thinking of him now, too, after I’d prodded her to embroider her fantasy.

  I whispered into her ear: “You’re beautiful, Justine.” A tremor went through her. “Justine.” Another tremor.

  “Don’t, Guy, don’t,” she whispered.

  “Call me Scott,” I said.

  “Scott….”

  My head swam at the sound of his name on her lips. I slipped my hand up under her T-shirt. “You are so depraved, girl, so depraved.”

  “Yes,” she whispered throatily.

  “It would be so easy….”

  “Hmm?”

  “For
you to have Scott. Why couldn’t you go with both of us?”

  “What?”

  “Have a three-way relationship. That would be ideal.”

  She stopped. And then backed away a little so she could look at me. “What are you saying?”

  “I was just—”

  “Do you realize what you’re saying?” She rolled away from me and got up.

  “Christine?”

  “Guy, that is disgusting. Do you know what an insult that is? Do you?” In her eyes was a flash of tears.

  Ashamed at the shock I’d caused, I quickly blamed it on the pot. “It was only a fantasy, Christine. And I’m high. Maybe I don’t know what I’m saying. My mind must be skipping a couple of grooves. It’s just a sexual turn-on to think of a three-way, that’s all.”

  She gazed distractedly at the wall for a while without speaking.

  “Chrissie, I was just embroidering on our fantasy. Scott would never be able to do such a thing anyway. He’s too old-fashioned.”

  “Well, maybe I am, too. A little too old-fashioned for you, it looks like.”

  “Chrissie.”

  She said nothing for a while. Then, as if she’d been waiting for the right moment to speak, she said, “Guy, is there someone else?”

  “What?” The question caught me by surprise. I looked at her, hoping my shock didn’t register on my face. “Someone else? No, of course not. Why do you say that?”

  “You wouldn’t have said what you just did if you still cared for me.”

  “You know me. I’m always spinning out crazy scenarios to spice up things.”

  “It’s not only that. I’ve sensed it for some time. You seem a little distant recently.”

  It was true. I hadn’t been paying as much attention to her lately as I had in the early days. Since my discovery of Nightworld, there were more and more evenings when I told her I was too busy to see her. We still met about two or three times a week, but it was different. Our sex life had undergone a subtle sea-change; it didn’t satisfy me as it had before, and she probably sensed it.

  “Are you trying to push me off onto Scott? Is that it? You’re tired of me and want to break up?”

  “No, Christine, no!” This was the first time I’d seen her like this, the first “scene” we’d had, and it pained me to see her so troubled. And yet, at the same time, it reduced her in my eyes to just another girl mouthing standard phrases. With her suspicious query, she’d lost her special individuality, all that made her uniquely Christine. I was vaguely let down. However, my feelings for her remained tender; and I knew I still needed her. For me, she represented the healthy, accepted daytime world, the necessary counterbalance to that troubled underside represented by Nightworld and my love for Scott. Right now, for my own sanity and well-being, I needed both.

  When she spoke next, her voice had gone quite quiet. “If there is someone else, Guy, I’d rather know about it now than find out later on my own.”

  I tried to laugh it off. “Believe me, Christine, there’s nothing to worry about. I don’t know why you’re turning so suspicious all of a sudden, but as far as I’m concerned, everything’s still the same between us. There is no one else. Will you trust me on this?”

  She stared down at the floor for a long time, then looked up straight into my eyes. “I guess I’ll have to, Guy.”

  “Please. Because it’s the truth.”

  I thought of the way she’d whispered Scott’s name and felt a sudden throb of emotion, whether at remorse for mentally betraying her, or for my love of Scott, I couldn’t say. I held my arms open and she flowed into them, we melted into each other in the tenderest moment we’d shared since we first started going with each other.

  4

  The morning was so beautiful, and I felt in such a good mood that I decided to do some jogging. The sky above was the perfect shade of blue, the temperature just the right coolness. In my sweat suit, I kept up a good pace through the park.

  I cut along University Avenue heading toward the bay. There was very little traffic at this hour of the morning, vehicular or pedestrian, and my jogging was going smoothly. At a red light I jogged in place waiting for the green. There was a church facing the intersection on the opposite corner, and apparently the service had just ended; the minister was standing at the door having a few last words with individual members of the congregation as they were leaving.

  “Guy, wait up.”

  I turned around. Someone else in a sweat suit was jogging up the sidewalk, and as he came up alongside me, I recognized Professor Golden.

  “Good morning,” he said. He was puffing a little, but seemed to be in very good shape. “Mind if I join you?”

  “Not at all. I’d be honored.”

  The light changed and we continued jogging together. To his credit, the professor didn’t look too ridiculous, as so many middle-aged joggers do. It was obvious that he was, unlike me, a regular jogger. He kept up quite a good pace, and his form was excellent. I would have to be careful not to show how winded I was.

  We reached the bayside park, cut through it and took the path along the water. On our right was the park itself, where people were walking their dogs or strolling. It was peaceful. On our left was the bay, where we could see ships at anchor. Some sailboats glided silently over the choppy waves, the people on them bright splashes of color.

  At the end of the path we came to a locked gate. Having no alternative, we turned around and headed back to the park. As we approached it, we slowed down, and Golden suggested we sit down for a little while. I was glad he’d suggested it, as I was secretly getting quite winded.

  We found a nice spot beneath some trees from where we could look out over the water.

  “How is Christine?” Golden asked, wiping his face and head with the small hand towel he’d had around his neck.

  “Fine. She’s working this morning. Part-time job at a drug counseling center.”

  “Lovely girl. Very intelligent. I was quite impressed with her.”

  “Yes, I remember.” I felt vaguely irritated at the way he kept harping on Christine’s virtues when I knew he was really interested only in me.

  “She seems to be very open-minded about homosexuality. Seemed quite interested in it, actually.”

  “She’s a psych major, so I guess it’s in her field.”

  “Meaning you think homosexuality is a psychological disease?”

  “Oh, no. Of course not.”

  I was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. I unzipped my sweatshirt. My running had brought out a sweat, and an odor like musky, just-cut grass lingered hotly about my skin. It was a smell I’d always found very sexy—it reminded me of the boys’ locker room after football practice. As I pulled my sweatshirt off and laid it on the ground, Golden looked away and pretended to be absorbed in the sight of the sailboats out on the bay. I knew he was feeling self-conscious about my body. I surreptitiously brought my nose down to my armpit and breathed in its enticing tang.

  A thin film of sweat encased my arms, causing a faint, glinting sheen to hover about the surface of the skin. My sleeveless T-shirt was drenched and clinging to my torso, and as his glance flicked past my chest I actually felt a tightening sensation in my nipples. The dumbbells I worked out with every night in front of my mirror had filled out my chest with a solid plate of muscle, making it look as if a pair of smooth shields was thrusting out against my wet cotton T-shirt.

  When I looked up I saw his eyes quickly dart away. He’d been eyeing the tiny spray of golden-brown hairs which peeped from under my armpit. At this moment, I felt we were no longer professor and student. He was merely an older man who was attracted by my youth. Feeling a surge of power flow into my tired muscles, I leaned backwards, resting my weight on my elbows, and closed my eyes. I was in a languorous mood and didn’t care what happened. To relieve my muscles I arched my back and stretched, then began rubbing my hand lightly over my stomach, bringing it gradually up to my chest in languid, circular motions. I was well aware
that I was putting on a show, provoking the older man. For me, it was a sort of a revenge, to punish him for his pretense of interest in Christine.

  He was old enough to be my father, yet I found him strangely attractive. Occasionally, when I thought about him, my feelings for him were distinctly sexual—perhaps inevitable, given his intelligence and strong character. I’d always been drawn to dominant types. Though he was past his prime as far as looks were concerned, his personality almost made physical attractiveness seem unimportant. And there was the seductive thought of his power—he was a full professor while I was just a freshman boy.

  He was silent for a minute, and seemed to be thinking about what he was going to say, and then went ahead and said it. “You’re not gay, are you?”

  “Me? No.” My answer was automatic, almost a reflex action. I was taken aback by the bluntness of the question, though I should have expected it.

  He laughed. “You needn’t look so offended. I was only curious. Do you have a good relationship with Christine?”

  “Yes,” I said, then hastened to add, “There’s no trouble there.”

  He chuckled. “I didn’t mean to imply that there was. Tell me, Guy, may I ask you an even more personal question?”

  “Sure.” I was afraid I knew what he’d ask, and braced myself for it.

  “Have you ever had a sexual experience with another man?”

  “Well….”

  “Come on, don’t be shy. We’re both adults here. Nothing you say will be repeated. Trust me.”

  I knew I could trust him completely. I was only wondering how much I should tell him. I decided that my adventures in Nightworld would be a little too much. I thought of Mark Warren, the boy I’d had an experience with back in high school. I nodded. “Yes. Once. With a friend in high school.”

  “And what did you think of it?”

  “I guess I was a little ashamed of myself. Because I never saw him again.”