I bookmarked the website, got ready for bed, climbed between the sheets and randomly took a book from the nightstand. The Mind of Eros by Frederick Borman PhD could be a deeply psychological read, but also included sexual fantasies and experiences. I liked to skip around. I first hungrily, then sleepily, read.
The dark-haired woman sat in the centre of the small movie theatre; she seemed to be the only woman there. Men watched the screen with a focused yet wild energy. In giant close-up, a pink quivering cunt and cock devoured and attacked the other. Reminiscent of some fifties American sci-fi/horror film, sans the cheesy costumes with visible zippers in the back, slimy odd-shaped creatures wrought havoc and spewed mysterious, dangerous fluids. A large prick pumped a perfect, hairless, tanned, pink-edged wet cunt. The Maw-Creature appeared impossibly small to accommodate the Prick-Monster which inched inside it, stretching and spreading its edges.
A pink, belled tip and shaft vigorously slid through slick fingers and thumb, fingers and thumb, fingers and thumb. From its slitted tip spurted whiteness into brunette hair it ran; onto a soft tan face over heavily blushed cheeks; over cotton-candy pink lip gloss; over a delicately dimpled chin. The dark-haired female viewer looked at the screen. Recognizing her own face, her jaw slackened as the cinematic action reflected in her eyes.
I awoke and touched my face. Lying on my back in bed, I stared at the ceiling and replayed my unusual dream.
Under a skylight I crawled on the hardwood floor and arranged three-by-five cards. Breaking down a novel into key film scenes could be torture. How to effectively condense, yet retain meaning? I agonized. Many screen treatments in any case eventually suffered drastic rewrites; the further into the process one got, the less original meaning likely remained, until a work could appear unrecognizable. Casting-wise, Cate Blanchett and Jeremy Irons might devolve into… who knew? I thought the first scene would be of protagonist Claire giving direction on a film set. Scene two would begin a series of flashbacks of Claire in the early years, as continuity person and script supervisor on various low-budget location films, including the comic relief of behind-the-scenes on horror films. Relationships would be broken into love scenes, interspersed with her industry climb and disappointments, climaxing in her Cannes win for Sighs and Whispers. I gathered my three-by-five cards, mixed them up, and threw them into the air. I spun and chanted as the cards fluttered to the floor. Not bad! I thought of their reordering.
I drove west on Mountain View. It had been a while since I’d seen him – since he’d closely stood, caressed my shoulders and neck, and run his fingers through my hair. Rick was a good listener, sensitive and had a sense of humour. I’d date him, I thought, but then we’d have sex and break up, and I’d lose a damned good hairstylist.
“What are we doing today, Anna?”
“A trim and a blow-dry, please, Rick.”
Draped in plastic at the shampoo sink, I leaned back, closed my eyes and relaxed into the experience. Wet. Lather. Rick’s hands vigorously massaged my scalp, moving in circles, moving skin over bone, messaging nerves and limbs. Rinse. Condition. Rinse. Back at his work station, I sat as he precisely combed and trimmed my hair. He continuously repositioned my head, as if I were a fidgety child. At the next station a female stylist did a man’s hair. It was funny, I thought, most men came into a hair salon with a maximum of two or three inches of hair, yet the stylist could take for ever to trim a quarter-inch. She did a hair-styling dance of sorts, delicately fluttering around the man, smiling and chatting and flirting.
“Let’s blow this dry, Anna, I want to double-check the line.”
“I want volume and tousle. Every hair needn’t be in place.”
“Sure! Lean forward and flip your hair, please.” Through the fringe of my hair I noticed the intersection of his thighs and groin; his well-tailored navy cotton slacks; the tucked black cotton shirt; the thin black leather belt with the silver buckle. Stylist and patron seemed often body parts to one another, varying with the point of view.
“How is it? You like?”
I looked at my hair. It was full and wavy and not too short.
“It’s good. Thanks, Rick.” We smiled.
I drove east on Eucalyptus. Towne & Country Centre boasted an upscale grocery market. I aimed my Jeep towards the parking lot and put it in a space between a Mercedes and a BMW. Dear God, I thought, Christmas decorations were up. Red, green and gold froufrou contrasted the clean lines of the beige stucco building. The upscale neighbourhood seemed sometimes surreal, perhaps too quiet, too clean, too calm, with lurking noise and dirt and chaos threatening sudden explosion. Inside, market patrons had a weird social energy, sugary perkiness covering vitriol. Perfect suburban dolls shopped in tennis dresses, smiles drawn back over teeth that would love to bite. Suntanned champagne blondes filled their carts. Clothing fashion changed little throughout the year in Southern California; the temperature changed little, and might allow halter tops, cut-offs and platform sandals in December.
The produce department boasted obscene abundance; it seemed the vegetables had been inflated with a bicycle pump, or were futuristic monsters. The produce area smelled wonderful, I thought, as I touched Japanese eggplant, English cucumber and Italian squash. To my right a man shopped and watched me. Was it my imagination, or was he slightly smiling and smirking as I handled the green and purple vegetable shafts?
An instrumental version of “Let It Snow” played as I wandered the store aisles. At the bakery, red and green packaging contained myriad sweets. The world shimmered with candy. The muzak was seeping into my brain. I had to get out! I focused on filling my small basket. Mixed baby greens. Zucchini. Chicken breasts. Merlot. Chocolate ice cream.
At the express lane, Aileen rang up my stuff.
“Paper or plastic?” asked Kyle.
“Paper, please.”
In the kitchen I unpacked groceries and poured a glass of Merlot; it tasted fruity, plummy, spicy, low herbal. I stood and looked out my kitchen window, sipped, gulped and poured another glass. On the counter I preheated my grill. I heavily spiced a boneless chicken breast, put it on the grill and put down the lid. I mixed baby greens with extra virgin olive oil. Wine chewed at my empty gut; I drank more. My brain clicked, warmed and sweetened. I stood at the counter and wolfed down my chicken breast and salad.