As I walked, people passed on the street without speaking. They were minding their own business or just not caring about yours. I wondered about their lives. What secrets did they have? Did they have a dark side also? Could they relate to my Midwest upbringing and reconcile that with the orgiastic Vegas night? Maybe we all have dual lives; some we only enjoy vicariously in our imaginations, others we experience for ourselves. If the people I passed had secrets, they did not share them with me. I was left to my own devices to fathom or invent them.
I meandered a bit along the back streets with no destination in mind until quite suddenly the landscape changed. Before me was an urban park with a vast stretch of lawn, mature trees, and a stream coursing through the center. I realized I was at the back of the university campus. Somewhere over there Visnow has an office and classroom I thought to myself. Somewhere over there Visnow may be entertaining a student or faculty wife or who knows whom.
I had passed the main entrance of campus several times but rarely saw it from the back and never felt inclined ventured on to it. I followed the edge of the campus as the road curved gently to the left away from the afternoon sun until I came upon an entrance at the bend. On the far side of the street was a dual-equestrian statute, notorious for some reason that escaped me. A couple lingered around the base while their children tried to climb the side and touch the horses. I gazed beyond the entrance at the large sandstone building facing south over another section of the park. The steps fanned out from the entire width of the building to cover half a block where they met the sidewalk. Large columns marked the front. Hanging from the columns was a blue banner with white lettering proclaiming 'FREE ADMISSION'. It was the art museum.
The Art Museum! "Could this be where Visnow is hopping today?" I mulled the idea for a bit. If he is, he is; if he isn't, he isn't. I decided to go in. 'No backpacks. No cameras.' Read the sign above the door. I checked my coat.
The entrance hall was a huge square open area rising clear to the top of the building. The second-floor balcony overlooked the Rodin's Thinker positioned squarely in the center. I had seen several pictures of this masterpiece but never up close, close enough to touch it. In person it is a powerful work of sculpture, muscular and commanding. I felt intimidated. The crowd admiring him spoke in hushed tones as if they would break his concentration. "What is he thinking about?" a child asked. I posed that same question to my mother several times as a youngster. Her stock answer was "where he left his clothes". While face to face with the statue I suddenly realized how trite was that answer.
I did not pick up a catalog of exhibits nor did I use the audio tour; I just decided to wander about the halls, directionless. I feigned interest in several large, and old, paintings. They were interesting but not to me. I was just meandering but still felt obliged to at least look. At the base of the staircase to the second floor I looked up. There suspended by a nearly invisible wire, a large mobile floated. I stood to the side and stared. I was mesmerized by the delicate suspended arms, all in perfect balance. The rising heat from the radiators and the slight draught, created a current which caused it to sway, almost imperceptibly, with all the components in scripted harmony.
I remained transfixed on the graceful sway of each element until I heard a whisper behind me and off to my right, "That is a Calder." I turned in the direction of the voice to espy a tall, slender, elegantly dressed woman pointing with her left hand at the mobile. As she extended her hand the light caught the stone on her ring and shot a laser like flash across the room. I stared as the light flared and danced with each subtle gesture. If her attire did not presume wealth, that gem sure did.
The girls were equally well outfitted, fashionable, and expensive. The taller, I would have said older, but I could not distinguish their ages, appeared genuinely interested in her mother's, I presumed mother, litany of facts about the artist and his works. The other, slightly shorter one, attempted to be interested but an air of indifference showed through her demeanor.
I surreptitiously studied the girls; high school students, private school no doubt, sophisticated and mature for their ages. All the attributes I never possessed back then. Did those girls have secrets they did not share with their mother? How about the mother? Beyond the facade of elegant wife and mother, did have a hidden side, known only to a discreet consort? Were they virgins? Perhaps. Did they give head? In high school, that was the Holy Grail that every guy was looking for. Getting laid was an accomplishment but also an exaggeration, but getting a blowjob was worthy of real bragging. A girl that sucked cock was dirtier, easier, and more desirable than one who just had sex.
I recalled Mimi the high school vixen. She had it all; popular, attractive, willing, and experienced. She had a reputation which was, by her own account, much deserved. Although I lacked the qualifications, too scrawny, undersexed, late to develop, to be a member of crowd she hung around with, two afternoons a week we did work together at the local produce market. Together we walked from school to the shopping center where we worked unloading and stacking produce, waiting on customers, and generally making ourselves useful.
During our workplace conversations she talked openly about oral sex and freely admitted to partaking of it. She relished the title 'cocksucker'. If someone ever let the phrase slip in conversation she acknowledged with a knowing smile. I was just the opposite; inexperienced, shy, and easily embarrassed even by clinical references to sexual behavior.
Biology class explained the roles of male and female in the reproductive process. The female produces the egg and the male ejaculate his sperm to fertilize it. Ejaculate: the word had a religious connotation and I never associated it with orgasm! From text books and lectures I imagined the event as a sterile, biologically exact reaction completely devoid of sensation. However, Mimi had firsthand experience what it was like, the heated, throbbing, pulsing eruption that spewed warm, thick come over her hands, clothes face and hair. It was all prosaic yet mystical to her. One day she causally described taking an erection in her mouth and coaxing it with her tongue, lips and teeth until the magic moment and then slurped and swallowed until completion. Her descriptions scared yet tantalized me.
I turned back to the girls and tried to gauge their level of experience. Were they cut from Mimi's or my cloth?
'I sure have come a long way from the produce stand to the Vegas night!' I thought almost audibly. The image of Mimi lingered as I continued my amble about the museum. 'If she could have seen me Friday' I almost laughed at the thought. Besides tempting me with lurid talks of her sexual adventures, Mimi also continually tried to set me up with dates. I always demurred fearing the guys would assume that since Mimi made the arrangement, I would behave like her. Then there was Bobby.
