I'm dying; there's no point in dancing around the subject. I had my second breast removed last year, although not in time, as it turned out, to prevent the cancer from spreading to my bones. We've been married for 22 years, have raised our child and survived parenting issues, financial difficulties and the miseries of winter colds as a team, but we aren't going to survive this final betrayal by my body. It hurts, in more ways than the physical pain, though that can be fearsome. The worst pain, I think, is the knowledge that the entity that is us, Jeff and Kara, will die along with me, leaving Jeff to carry on alone. I worry about him, more than he knows.
There isn't much time left, we both know this, even though we try to pretend otherwise. There's so much we haven't done, haven't experienced. The life we've led has been one of commitment and passion, although there's been precious little of the latter for months now. We've worked through the body issues; more of a process for me than for Jeff. He's the kind of man who loves totally, completely; beyond the superficial, and beyond the fact that his wife, maimed by surgery and thin to the point of emaciation, is no longer able to make love to him. He's a kind and gentle man, and because he is, has remained faithful to his marriage vows. They say no one can really know another person, what they'd do in a given situation, but I know Jeff, know that any perception of betrayal of our love would destroy him as surely as the cancer is destroying my body.
We haven't made love for nearly four months; between the chemotherapy and the pain, it's become impossible. I've tried to satisfy him orally, but it's a poor substitution, okay for the short-term but leaves an emptiness, a vast cavern of incompleteness. Now, my illness prevents me from doing even that, and although Jeff's been great about it, I've felt inadequate, guilty; I mean, is it fair that he, a healthy man in his prime, suffer sexually as well as watch the woman he loves die by inches? No, it isn't, but I've come to realize that life and fairness don't seem to coexist peacefully, at least in our lives. And so I began thinking of ways to open his mind to the possibility of pleasure with another woman; a surrogate, if you will.
It's funny, isn't it? The thought of Jeff touching another woman was enough to send me into an emotional tailspin for many years. When we were younger, I protected my territory fiercely, hyper-alert for even the slightest hint of a come-on by other women at parties, and I believe I was physically capable of rending them limb from limb if they so much as smiled at Jeff in a flirtatious manner. Silly, now, to have wasted so much emotional energy on that kind of thing, isn't it? I mean, if he were going to fuck around, it wouldn't matter how she smiled, would it? The choice was in his hands all along.
Perhaps now it's in mine.
About six weeks ago, just after my doctor discontinued the chemo, I had the idea of a strip club, the Déjà Vu, on one of Seattle's busy streets. If I could get him in there, get him accustomed to watching other women in action, perhaps that would plant the seed. I'd watch the dancers, too, and see if there was someone in particular who he seemed to respond to. I'd know. You don't live with a man for 22 years and not know, right?
And so on a rainy Saturday night, I asked him to humor me, told him where I wanted to go, asked if he'd take me. At first he looked at me like I'd lost my mind; "Yep, right along with my hair.", I'd quipped; the mind is always first to go. He argued with me, bless him, but in the end, he capitulated. I knew he would. He's rarely denied me anything.
The Déjà Vu wasn't what I expected. Far from being a seedy dive, it was a clean establishment with a doorman in a suit and tie. The music was loud, bass thumping and vibrating into the lush carpet, and we walked down a dimly lit corridor into the stage room. A blonde woman was in the middle of her set, finessing one of the two poles set several feet apart on front of the stage, long legs in stiletto heels hugging the cold metal against her mons, small but firm breasts with pink nipples the size of thimbles. And he noticed, all right; I could feel it in my brittle bones.
"Let's find a table." I suggested, and he took the lead, toward the back of the room, choosing a table for two with a candle burning. A waitress welcomed us, took our drink orders, then disappeared, hips swaying negligibly in her black hot pants. By now, the blonde was finishing her set, down on her hands and knees, ass facing the audience as she fingered her vagina, to roars of applause from the men. I thought Jeff was going to have heart failure; sitting with his wife, watching a complete stranger masturbate herself not twenty feet from our table.
"It's okay, baby", I whispered. "This is what it's all about, isn't it?"
After about the third set, he'd begun to relax, and I moved my chair closer to his, lay my hand on his thigh and edged higher; felt for the erection I knew had to be in full bloom. Abashed, he tried to remove my hand, but I gently insisted, trying to express my love and acceptance through touch. I chanced a look at his face; guilt, embarrassment and something else. Pity?
Even now, I think that's what pushed me over the edge.
I could tell by his breathing that the sixth dancer had moved him. A lithe brunette with generous breasts, which she massaged until the coral nipples grew tight as rosebuds, she had slim hips and no pubic hair, and my husband watched her intently, compulsively. At the end of her dance, she sank to her knees on the stage floor, arching her spine as she lowered her back to the floor, exposing her orchid-pink vagina to the audience. Jeff made a choking sound, rose rapidly and disappeared down the darkened hallway.
I knew it had to be her.
The waitress returned to our table, and I asked the dancer's name and her schedule. When Jeff returned several minutes later, quiet and smelling of soap and water, I told him I was ready to go. Driving home, he was distant and couldn't seem to look me in the eye, but once at home, I forced the issue.
"You want to hear that I had to go to the men's room and jerk off, Kara? Because I was turned on by the sight of another woman? I don't understand you."
"No, my love, but I understand you," I told him, "And it's all right."
The next weekend, I asked him to take me again, and the weekend after that. Lauren, the dancer he'd responded to, was working both nights and the third night, I requested a table dance at one of the booths lining the far walls of the stage room.
Seemingly undisturbed by the prospect of dancing for a man while his wife sat at his side, she began to move to the suggestive beat of Def Leppard's "Pour Some Sugar On Me", maintaining eye contact with Jeff the entire time. A glance at Jeff's groin told me he was totally immersed in the moment, and the sight of Lauren's taut nipples, the right pierced with what appeared to be a half-caret diamond, indicated that she was enjoying herself as well. As the song reached its crescendo, she moved in to straddle Jeff's leg, pebble-hard nipples mere inches from his face. I followed Jeff's hot gaze down her sleek body, to the juncture between her legs.
With the absence of pubic hair, the moisture glistening at her labia was unmistakable, and I felt the sexual tension as strongly as a sucker-punch, felt Jeff's desire as clearly as though we shared a body. Caught up in his desire, his hands raised to cup her breasts, but she shook her head with a smile, brought her own hands up to caress her nipples and said, "I'd love it, but you aren't allowed to touch me.", even as she rubbed her vagina over his thigh, leaving her intimate odor, her very essence on the psyche of a man too long without the comfort of sexual release. The song wound to a close, she straightened and reached behind her where a sheer robe hung on the brass bar separating our booth from the next. I paid her; paid with my soul as well as the fifty- dollar bill that passed from my hand into hers. Thanks, she said, with a smile, slipped into the robe and was gone, fading into the darkness.
Jeff and I sat silently for a long moment, then he spoke in a rough voice, "I've gotta get outta here." I followed him out of the building into the night, thumping of the bass diminishing as we walked further into the parking lot.
"What are you trying to do to me, Kara? Dammit, do you think I'm made of stone?"
No, my love; just trying to open your own eyes to that fact.
We went to the Déjà Vu twice more, requested private dances with Lauren each time, and I watched my husband's resistance crumble into glittering shards of stark need. We'd moved beyond the abject misery of his guilt at viewing the nudity of other women, and were able to actually dialogue about the performances; what he enjoyed, why he enjoyed Lauren, in particular. And I knew that the time had come for the final performance in this intricately choreographed dance of love and letting go.
Occasionally it's necessary for Jeff to travel overnight, and such an opportunity came my way during the next week. He'd balked at going, was unhappy at the thought of leaving me alone, but I appealed to his sense of responsibility to his company and reminded him that I could always take a pain pill if I needed to. I have so many pills; morphine derivatives for the knife-twisting pain that visits like a bitchy old aunt whose presence you've come to despise, Demerol for the run-of-the-mill, day in and day out pain that has become a nearly constant companion. And so he went, after leaving me the number at his hotel in Chicago, fussing around me until I lost patience and showed him the door.
The pain has been more intense this last week, and I visited the medicine cabinet after summoning a cab; I haven't driven since the summer. It would be a grim irony to lose control of my vehicle in my drugged state, possibly injuring someone else in the process. I gave the cabbie the address for the Déjà Vu, ignored his quickly masked expression of surprise. We drove through the fog, and I asked him to remain. He reminded me that the meter would be running; as if I cared. Money's something I have plenty of; if only I could tell him how quickly and without a moment's hesitation I'd gladly relinquish all I own to have the chance to live my life another year, another month. To make love to my husband once more, to welcome him into an intimate embrace and tell him, with my body, of my love; the only part of me that will live on.
I paid my cover charge, and asked to speak with Lauren. The young doorman disappeared, returning a moment later, asking me to follow him. We passed through a locked door to the right of the main entrance, down a bright corridor into a large mirrored dressing room filled with young women in various stages of undress. Upon seeing us, Lauren rose from one of the mirrors, garbed in a University Of Washington Huskies sweatshirt and red silk boxers. Her hair was damp, and she related that she'd finished a shower dance moments before and was still trying to warm up, punctuated by running her hands briskly up and down her arms. Her face had showed a moment of surprise as she recognized me, but she graciously led me to a small table in the far corner of the room, attempting to set me at ease. I discovered that she was a first-year medical student at the University, worked two nights a week at the Déjà Vu to augment her student loans, and planned to become a psychologist. She was well-spoken and had a hint of old-school manners that indicated she'd been raised well. I knew somehow that she'd be good at her chosen profession, and I told her so.
I told her why I had come, what I had come to ask of her, and she rose abruptly, eyes hardening. "I'm not a whore."
