Mercedes Sayagues:BODY LANGUAGE
I saw my ex-boyfriend for the first time in the 10 months since we broke up. We live in different cities and I went to his for a reporting job so it seemed natural to look him up for a friendly chat.
As we sat over a ridiculous, formal lunch where we talked about his areas of expertise and his professional achievements, anything except ourselves, I was filled with regret. Deep regret. Tidal waves of regret.
Regret that I didn’t fuck the brains out of three attractive, Aids-free men who popped into my life during the years I was going out with this man. One was a Cuban dancer who was teaching a four-month course in Harare. One was a Corsican whom I had lusted for while I was living in Rome. The third was a Cuban general I met in Luanda while working on a TV documentary. With each the chemistry was intoxicating. To each I said no. Why? I wondered, between spoonfuls of crab soup, while my dear ex pontificated about forestry laws.
On account of what misplaced loyalty, of what stupid misguided moral notions had I denied myself those pleasures?
I thought at the time it was to keep my sexual tension, my focus on one object of desire. And to save myself some hassles because I didn’t want to lie. Now I know otherwise. I did it to protect his fragile ego. Because he couldn’t take it.
At lunch, as I sit listening, I am still protecting his ego, being polite instead of telling him to buzz off. I don’t want to have another argument. I want to be nice. What nonsense.
I remember once, when our relationship was already on departure lane, we had our last romantic weekend together before the final breakup. He mentioned he had not had sex with another woman because, “When they experience this [and he kind of brandished his penis] they will come for more.” I had to stuff my head in the pillow to repress the giggles.
He reminded of a camel trader I once saw near Port Sudan. As I rode by, he pulled his dick from underneath his djellabah and slapped his camel left and right. I don’t know if that was an insult or a compliment to me, or if he was dusting off his camel or his prick, or if he had been bitten by a scorpion. I went by quickly without looking back on this bizarre scene.
But instead of saying to my boyfriend, “Mr Cro-Magnon chauvinist pig, if that is all there is to good sex, a vibrator will do nicely, thank you,” I mumbled appreciatively, “Yes, other women would love it.”
Why are we women forever supporting male egos instead of calling their bluff? Why do we deny ourselves pleasure to boost their self-esteem?
The Cuban dancer stripped naked, lay on my dark green velvet couch and said: “Woman, look at me long and closely. One day you shall regret that you didn’t take me.”
I looked and agreed. Little did I know that my regret would flow so soon and so poignantly.
The Corsican brought me jazz music and Italian goodies and was sweet and charming. Fate had it that my phone went dead and we couldn’t call a taxi so he had to spend the night in my guest room.
In the lobby of a hotel I tore myself from the general’s embrace while he whispered Spanish words in my ear and I fled into the lift. One more kiss and I would have disappeared with him into Luanda’s steamy night. Sheer discipline and moral restraint prevented me. Upstairs, I sat on my unrumpled bed, turned the TV on and felt sad. What a fool I was.
Denying myself sex with the general did not prevent him from creeping every night into my bed through my dreams. He still does. Maybe if I had gone with him that night he would have become not a ghost but a memory.
Now I roam the streets of this city, haunted not by the body of the man I had, but of those I did not have. Those I chose not to have. On my boyfriend’s account, not mine.
The conundrum is not as Henry Higgins says in My Fair Lady: Why can’t women be more like men?” Rather, it is: Why are we women so nice to men?
Resolutions for the next millennium:
l I will take my pleasure when it comes, fending off AIDS, not desire. I will lie through my teeth if need be but I will guard my secrets. I will call male bluff when I see it.
l I will not sip crab soup like a nice girl listening to self-aggrandizing tirades simply to avoid an argument.
Nice girls go to heaven. Bad girls go everywhere. And so shall I.