“You obey too literally what I say,” he stated, commenting on our inability to get together, do things together, spend time together. Was he asking for more initiative on my side? Was he asking for me to force his hand, overcome his evasiveness, intrude?
I was not sure but I took his remark seriously. I flipped it around like one of those toys with a piece of lead taped at the extremity. “Maybe,” I muttered, “you take too literally what I don’t say,” realizing how timidly, how prudently I always expressed my desire (of getting together, doing things together, spending time together).
As if it should come from him first… desire, mine as well. As if I didn’t own it, therefore I couldn’t pronounce it. I had to wait for circumstances to express it, in the passive state of an infant, a baby. Thus I usually remained quiet – and he took such lack of directions at face value. I asked nothing… he didn’t reply. What impeccable respect. Who did it serve indeed?
*
What did he guess about the extent of my devotion and longing? Maybe he guessed it all… my adoration and my shyness. It might have been a kind of perverse pleasure. Thrilling. Obviously he wasn’t responsible for it, since it was my fault.
How does it feel someone dying for you yet tongue tied, hand tied, arm tied, all tied by her incapacity to formulate passion?
Normally these roles are reversed. “Normally” women are those stringing around their wrist (what a pitiful sight) those deflated balloons called “suitors” – among other names. They are officially followers, incapable of action, devoid of initiative.
They never take the lead but they are useful: they provide a characteristic backdrop to female identity, making a woman’s power of attraction manifest. Confirming her status of desirability in view of more consistent parties.
*
Strange that I gave myself that appointment, generally confided to unhandsome and especially un-wealthy males, moving like melancholic dolphins in the train of high-heeled beauties.
When the role is taken indeed by a female, she must be in bad shape: too old, too young, lacking the most basic sex appeal. Otherwise, most women would try their seductive skills at one point or another. And they would be sure of succeeding… at least getting a primary form of satisfaction.
My case, though, was desperate. I adored in silence, swallowing the bread of my bitterness at each missed opportunity… missed for I didn’t take it. I even avoided it, mystified by emotion and panic. Waiting for his invitation to dance, I was the perpetual wallflower, withering in my silken ball dress.
And he won’t invite me, of course, though he probably liked me… my shape wasn’t bad and I didn’t lack the needed erotic attributes. But he enjoyed the game better: it made him a constant winner, at no risk. He had the upper hand without the effort of lifting it. Without any muscular strain.
*
Did I draw any advantage from being a perpetual loser? Yes, though the gain wasn’t planned on, that I knew… But if nothing happened, if I didn’t openly play my cards, taking risks, frankly asking things that could be frankly denied… I’d keep something virgin, untarnished. Not my hymen, that in the meanwhile I had got out of the way with absolute nonchalance. But my hope, but my dream intact. That I’d carry to my grave. What for?
*
Don’t ask me. Think of those laced nightgowns passing from a trousseau to the next, until they yellow and fall apart. Grandmother’s beaded purse, the one she wore once to the Opera. Those too large river pearls, mounted in white gold, mother locked in the velvet box then she lost the key. Or were they stolen? They belonged to grandaunt, the one who never married but once went to Paris. I’m sorry if it sounds remote…
There are things too precious for use. There are things you can’t handle. Look in awe but don’t touch. You just sense that if you brushed your fingers on them, disaster would be as granted as unforgivable. Did I sense that about him?
Somehow. Somehow he felt larger than life. That he were or not doesn’t matter. He was more than my narrow life could contain. I had to save him for something wider, way wider. Eternity, for instance.
Toti O’Brien was born in Rome and lives in Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in Journal of Microliterature, Synesthesia, Wilderness House and Litro NY, among other journals and anthologies.
The post VIRGIN by Toti O’Brien appeared first on Microliterature.