Promises Promises

A member of a Twitter writers’ community asked how authors should present their social and political ideals in their work.

I responded to only include them if they are relevant to the story; not to hit readers over the head with them.

So I apologize in advance if you have a headache from reading this.

If you’re a troll, I’m sure you’ll find a lot of material.

Enjoy!

(not just trolls)

The part about many of them (you’ll see) living with their parents is true, as is the remark about Gandhi.

Promises, Promises

I love my parents. They’re smart hard-working people with a strong sense of right and wrong. I love my dog. He always had kisses for me as I grew up, regardless of whether I was behaving properly or not. I love my big brother. His continuous teasing goaded me to try harder, no matter what I was doing.

So with all that love, support, all that encouragement, I did well for myself. I have a combined biology/ business degree from a top-tier university, a black belt in two martial arts, a great job as a lab manager for a genetic analysis company, and a close circle of friends I can rely on. I’m empathetic, have a good sense of humor, and am comfortable with new people.

I love shopping. I don’t go in for the designer stuff; TJ Maxx is better than Nordstrom, as far as I’m concerned. I love picking out unusual things that accent my attributes without making me look like a weirdo. My latest acquisition was a kerchief with Bruegel’s painting of the Tower of Babel. The shading, the subtlety of the colors was phenomenal, but I guess it didn’t hold mass appeal. The item had been reduced from one hundred fifty to thirty dollars.

Another thing: I’m beautiful. Not Sports Illustrated Swimsuit beautiful, but that’s not the gold standard as far as many men are concerned. I have a nice hourglass figure, thick shoulder-length brown hair, bright blue eyes, a pleasant face, and what’s been described as a scintillating smile. So I’m not being an arrogant bitch when I tell you that I love myself. Some ancient rabbi taught: If I am not for myself, who is for me? There are some qualifications to the teaching, but I’ll get to them later. The point is, I’m happy with who I am, though I never stop working to make more of myself.

I also love my boyfriend. Matthew’s doing a Masters degree in Political Science and Literature, and can get quite melodramatic about anything political. We were familiar faces on campus as undergraduates, but never actually met. I got my lab job and moved out from my parents’ home when I graduated; Matthew continued his studies. He is actually in the same bed he’s slept in since he was five years old. It’s cute. He told me he asked his father to take down the Thomas the Tank Engine wallpaper in his room; his dad told him he was free to do it himself if he wanted to. He didn’t.

We connected about eight months ago. I was in Portland to meet a potential new supplier for the lab. He was in Portland to... well, I never really got an explanation of why he was there that day. My meeting had taken less time than I expected; I saw right away that supplier’s material was crap. I decided to enjoy the pleasant afternoon and went for a stroll. My awareness rose a notch when I spotted a few parked motorcycles and a few hefty men wearing bandanas. There was some kind of patch on their black leather jackets. I was too far away to make it out, but I presumed it wasn’t a peace sign. Three of the bikers were arguing with a familiar-looking man who didn’t look at all threatening. Everybody was shouting at each other, and one of the bikers shook a fist in the other man’s face. That person didn’t stop shouting but backed up a few steps.

Remember that teaching I mentioned earlier? It continues: But if I am only for my self, what am I? I jogged towards the commotion, stopping a couple of yards away. The biker patch identified them as “Rough Men.” I guess they weren’t from Mr. Rogers Neighborhood.

“Hey!” I got the attention of the ugliest biker. “Leave him alone.” The man they had been threatening frowned, and I realized I had seen him before, on campus.

“Mind your own business, ma’am.”

“This is my business. Three big rough men against one everyday type of guy. That’s not acceptable.”

The ugly biker broke out in a smile. “Lady, with an attitude like that you belong in our club.”

“I don’t think so.” He wasn’t so ugly when he smiled; in fact he was kind of cute. But I couldn’t let that distract me.

“We could use you. Hell, everyone will want you to ride—”

The guy from campus made a face. “I bet you’d like to use her.”

“When will you learn to shut your fucking trap, dude?” The biker turned towards me and put his hand on my arm. “Seriou—”

That’s as far as he got before I decked him. One punch and he was out like a light. I grabbed him on the way down to make sure he didn’t get a head injury. Okay, it was a sucker punch, but he touched me, and hadn’t asked permission. His two compatriots looked at me with a combination of awe and fear. They started to approach, and I took a combative stance.

“No, lady, we don’t want to fight you. We have to take care of our friend.” The other bikers, standing in the background, started approaching as well.

I grabbed campus guy’s arm. “Come on; let’s get out of here. I can’t fight off a biker gang by myself.” We retreated a couple of blocks and he led me into a Starbucks. Nobody seemed to be following us.

“Are you always so violent?”

I had expected “thanks,” or some variation thereof from campus guy. “Only when I need to be.”

“Did you really need violence this time?”

“I think you needed me to be violent.”

“Ever hear of Gandhi? Passive resistance?”

“I think so. Isn’t he the guy who held women responsible when they were raped? Who addressed Hitler as his ‘dear friend?’ If I remember right, he said that black Africans were savages. Is that the guy you’re talking about?”

Campus guy turned red and spluttered. “Well, I mean that—”

“You’re welcome.”

“What?”

“I probably saved you there from a serious beating. You should be thanking, not lecturing me.”

He gazed at my chest, then lifted his eyes to mine. “You’re right. I sometimes get a little pedantic. Thank you for saving my ass. I’m Matthew.”

“Jennifer. We were in college together.”

Matthew raised his eyebrows and stared. “Yeah, you do look kind of familiar. Were we in any of the same classes?”

“I did a joint program in biology and business. I think we just saw each other on campus.”

We chatted for another hour before exchanging contact info and parting company. A week later we had our first date. A couple of months later we were sitting at a Starbucks patio.

“Jennifer, we need to talk.”

Uh-oh. “Really? I think we communicate pretty well through sex. Words get in the way.” I enjoyed messing with his head.

“Uh, yeah, well... I’ve been trying to tell you something with our love-making, but I’m not sure I said it properly.”

“What were you trying to say?”

“I really enjoy being with you.”

“Yeah, I got that message.”

“I want to be with only you.”

“What do you mean?” I didn’t think he was proposing.

“I think we should have an exclusive relation.”

I hadn’t had an exclusive boyfriend since high school. That relationship ended when he tried to take my best friend’s cherry at the graduation party. I only had one black belt back then, but last I heard, chances of him ever having children were not great.

“Matthew, I take being exclusive very seriously. Are you sure you want that?”

“What’s so complicated? You’re the only girl I date, I’m the only guy you date. You promise you won’t touch other guys; I promise I won’t touch other women. I don’t mean that we possess each other- ‘I belong to you, you belong to me.’ That would be cheapening our love by making it into a business transaction, a part of the capitalist—”

“Don’t start with the political shit, Matthew. I’m happy when you fuck me, not when you lecture me.”

He reached across the table and took my hand. “I like educating you.”

I glared at him, not saying a word.

“I like fucking you too,” he said.

I continued to glare.

Matthew put both of his hands in the air. “Okay, I promise not to lecture you. I’ll fuck an education into you rather than use my brilliant words.” He took my hand again, raised it to his lips and kissed it. “One last thing though. I’ll never forget what you did to that biker over in Portland. Please promise that you won’t kill me if you get upset with me; that you won’t even injure me badly.”

I laughed. “How about you don’t ever get me upset?”

“No, seriously. We’re different people. We’re bound to have disagreements, even arguments. But I’m a peaceful guy, and you’re clearly an expert in using violence. Can we agree... promise to keep violence out of our relation?”

“What are you so afraid of me getting upset about?”

“Nothing specific: I might choose the wrong restaurant, politics, I bump into you accidentally...”

“I love when you bump into me. Especially with, you know.”

He stood up, walked around the table, bumped his arm lightly against my shoulder, kissed me and sat back down.

“The truth is I abhor violence. The fact that I am so good at it has prevented a lot of pain. Think of what would have happened to you in Portland if I hadn’t shown up. I promise, Matthew. I promise not to beat the shit out of you if you upset me. Even when you deserve it.”

“Kill. What about not killing me?”

“Jeez, you’re demanding. Okay, I promise not to kill you, but I want something in exchange. You’re a lousy fighter, but a great fucker. You have to promise to fuck the life out of me, and you have to do it regularly or our agreement is abrogated.”

Matthew didn’t hesitate too long before accepting my proposal. In the weeks and months that followed I would often find him waiting outside my office. We would go straight to my apartment so he could fulfill his obligation. He did it well and he did it often. Our feelings for each other deepened.

Matthew invited me to his home for dinner. We had been together for about six months, and his parents wanted to meet his girlfriend. When he picked me up he warned that Terry, his father, was both sarcastic and conservative. He seemed embarrassed to tell me that his mother was a great cook.

“What’s wrong with your mom being a good cook?”

“The kitchen is women’s institutionalized place.”

“You told me she owns a logistics company.”

“Yeah, she’s a successful capitalist.”

I gave Matthew the benefit of the doubt, and assumed he was praising his mother when he called her a successful capitalist. “Did you make tonight’s supper? Help keep your mom out of the kitchen?”

He shook his head. “I can’t cook.”

I put my hands on my hips and glared at him. “You don’t want your mother to cook, you can’t cook. What do you expect to eat?”

His lascivious grin and wink made my heart skip a beat. I ran into his arms, gave him my hottest kiss, then climbed into his trusty, rusty Corolla.

The introductions were quite relaxed. Terry gave me a gentle hug, his mom kissed both my cheeks and admired my Brueghel kerchief. Gretta was indeed a good cook. The soup had flavors I had never imagined possible. The braised beef, the roast potatoes were to die for. There wasn’t too much conversation at first because we were all too busy savoring her masterpieces. Eventually Gretta got around to enquiring about my work. When I mentioned genetics, she asked my opinion of the work of a Russian geneticist who wants to use CRISPR technology to fix the genes of human embryos. He was targeting a specific mutation that caused deafness in millions of people.

“He should be shot,” Matthew said.

“That seems a little extreme,” I said.

Gretta shook her head. “If there’s an extreme position, Matthew will find it.

“It’s foresight. I’ll explain why it’s not extreme. Firstly, it’s insulting to deaf-diversity, implying that being deaf is a disease, a flaw that needs to be fixed. We need to look at deafness as another expression of being human, rather than something that needs to be gotten rid of.”

Terry looked up at the ceiling and exhaled loudly. Matthew ignored him.

“But what’s more important is that it’s a grave threat to women’s rights to control their bodies.”

“Huh? How do you figure that?”

“What’s the point of healing something that the mother may decide she doesn’t want? Treating the defects of embryos puts them into the realm of being human, and the system will hesitate to get rid of a human from the womb. If embryos are people, women lose their rights as people.”

We all remained silent, stunned. What could you say to that kind of reasoning? There was some internal logic to it, and I had to credit Matthew for creativity. I was blown away by the deaf-diversity idea. What about smallpox diversity, or multiple-sclerosis diversity? Should we treat all ailments as just other ways of being human? Except being an embryo, of course. That tiny being was a threat.

Gretta turned to me. “Jennifer, what’s your opinion?”

“I don’t know. It has wonderful and terrible implications.”

“Yes, like interfering in abor—”

“Hey Matthew, we’ve heard your opinion. How about letting your girlfriend speak? Or do you believe women should be kept silent?” Terry nodded to me to continue.

I shrugged my shoulders. “There’s no clear-cut answer.”

“You’re a wise young woman,” Terry said.

I shrugged again. “Thank you.”

“My position on abortion comes from PJ O’Rourke,” Terry said. “Ever hear of him?”

“No.”

“Abortion shouldn’t be illegal or legal, but retroactive. If your kid is twenty-six, jobless, feckless, and drinking coffee in Starbucks, then wham.”

It was pretty funny, but Matthew had a sour expression on his face.

Gretta reached for her son’s hand. “Matthew’s twenty-six in a couple of months. He doesn’t appreciate his father’s sense of humor.”

The rest of the meal proceeded with minimal chatter. It was a combination of wanting to avoid any arguments and savoring the delicious food. As I stood up to leave Gretta beckoned me to the side.

“Terry and I are going away for a couple of weeks next Wednesday. We’ve left Matthew alone many times before, but this is the first time we’re gone that he has a serious girlfriend. I don’t know what he’s got planned; most likely nothing. I think you have a lot of common sense. Please use it, and don’t hurt him too badly when he screws up.”

“‘When’ he screws up? You don’t have a lot of confidence in him.”

“He’s a brilliant young man: passionate and compassionate. He lets his emotions sweep him away, and sometimes he does foolish things. We hope that one day he’ll learn, and the lesson won’t hurt him too badly. He says you share a passion for social justice, though I can see you’re more practical.”

“He said what?”

“That you became friends while at a demonstration. Not true?”

“Well, I suppose you could describe our meeting that way, but no. I am not into social justice or politics like he is. I have a job with responsibility and support myself. I don’t have the time or energy for what he does. I admire his dedication though.”

Of course, Matthew tried to grill me on the chat as he drove me home. I was non-committal, describing his mother’s concern for his well-being.

“They’re always meddling in my life.”

“So move out,” I said.

The rest of the ride home was in silence.

Once his parents left town Matthew upped the ante on fucking the life out of me. We alternated between my place and his; I really got off on having my pussy eaten while gazing at Thomas the Tank Engine. We spent the first weekend in his bed, punctuated only by my getting up to prepare our meals. On Sunday evening he complained that there was something lumpy under his pillow. He had a wicked grin on his face; I wondered what he was up to. It didn’t take long to find out.

“Hey, look what was under my pillow!” He pulled out an engagement ring. “Any idea how it got there?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I don’t know what to do with it. I can’t leave it under my pillow; I won’t be able to sleep. How about I put it on your finger, and you wear it for the rest of your life?”

“I am—”

“Wait, Jennifer! Don’t answer yet.” He slid his face under the blankets, between my thighs. He only resurfaced after my orgasm, stroked my cheek and said “you can answer now.”

“If I say yes, do you promise to keep doing that as long as we’re married?”

“You mean forever?”

“Yeah, if we get married, it should be forever.”

“If? You really mean that?”

“Okay, ‘when’ we get married. Does marriage release me from my promise not to beat the shit out of you?”

“Don’t be silly. Can I put the ring on you now?”

I stuck out my finger and he did. We were now engaged.

Matthew said “let’s celebrate.”

“How?”

“Want to try something different?”

“What do you have in mind?”

He got out of bed, went to his closet, and came back with three neckties. He proceeded to tie my limbs to the corners of the bed, using my kerchief for the fourth. When I threatened to kill him if he damaged it he laughed and said “Can’t. You promised.”

It was a night of ecstasy, topping even the pleasures of the weekend. When morning came though, I had trouble getting up. I rushed to get dressed, rushed out of his home, and barely made it to work on time. Matthew had told me that he had some important meetings over the next couple of days, and I looked forward to having the opportunity to recuperate from a wonderful exhausting weekend.

In the evening I called my parents and told them the news, asking them to pass it on to the rest of the family. I promised to introduce them to my fiancé within the next week or so.

Being engaged brought up some difficult questions. How and when was Matthew going to earn a living? He still had another couple of years to finish his Masters’ degree. What’s more, what kind of income could be generated by his expertise in political science and literature? Matthew didn’t seem as concerned as I was. Maybe it’s because his parents were both successful businesspeople, and the idea of lacking something vital, like food, water, or the latest Xbox was not part of his life experience. He mentioned something about becoming a political intern, attaché... Maybe he wanted to be the next Monica Lewinsky.

I may be a pragmatist, but it’s not all I am. He might not have great job prospects, but Matthew had been willing to stand up to a group of bikers. I admired his resoluteness, his passion. He was deeply committed to social justice, and within a few weeks of my rescuing him, he had become deeply passionate about me. Despite the misgivings, I felt the same way about him. He didn’t have a big dick, didn’t work, and could be very annoying. But his heart could go on forever, and that tied my soul to his.

By Tuesday afternoon I had recovered from the weekend’s activities and wanted more. Sex on the altar of Thomas the Tank Engine was something I craved. My call went straight to Matthew’s voice mail. I left a seductive message, and figured I’d hear from him before it got too late to head over.

I had figured on us dining together but when I still didn’t hear from him by seven, I made myself an omelette, small salad, and tried him again. Still no answer. What was he so involved with? He usually returned my calls within half an hour. Did he get a job? My heart raced, joyfully imagining that he was finally getting serious about adult responsibilities.

I was half asleep when the local news came on at ten-forty, but the lead story jolted me awake. Masked Antifa rioters had attacked a member of a local motorcycle/service club, tearing her clothes off and groping her in the middle of the street. One of the self-ordained ANTI-FAscists gleefully displayed the Rough Men jacket he had ripped from her. Portland police were looking for the attackers but given the history of their kid-glove treatment of Antifa, success wasn’t likely. Fully alert now, I pulled out my phone, and re-watched the video online, pausing to see that all the attackers’ faces were well hidden behind kerchiefs.