Chapter 2

There’s been almost too much going on this semester to even begin to describe. This has been a real whirlwind of a term. For one thing, there is my class with Professor Satin. I am majoring in Performance Art and I’m in the class taught by the famous Jennifer Satin. Very exciting.

Then earlier this term, Berkeley Hays was on campus presenting. I know you know who he is. He is of course the well-known poet but also—and probably more famous for this than for the poetry—one of the principle characters in the bestselling erotic roman a clef, Story of P. He was on campus for barely a day, a day and one night, actually. The morning of his arrival, he read in the great hall of the student union and then there was a luncheon for him open to whoever wanted to attend. In the evening there was a lecture and reading in the auditorium, followed by a reception in the Poets’ Lounge upstairs in the Union. Okay, wait, I’ll get to this. Hold your horses.

Another interesting thing is that I found out that my new academic advisor, Izamar, who replaced Sabina, is Florenz’s girlfriend (polyamorous girlfriend, of course, as you can no doubt imagine). And that she is going to publish an erotic roman a clef of her own. This one will be a sort of a prequel since it relates the events of the fall semester, before I knew her, and including all those guys performing for me in Sage’s window and also her liaison with Sabina, who was at that time my academic advisor.

Then there was Durinda O’Hare’s visit to campus. This was a big year for the Notable Artist Series on campus. Durinda O’Hare, as you of course know, is a contemporary postmodern performance artist, arguably influenced by Jennifer Satin, though I don’t believe they knew each other prior to her visit.

When Sage found out I’m in Jennifer Satin’s class, he was beside himself. “Oh my God, Elizabeth Carver, you are the luckiest person in the world!”

“Well, you know, Performance Art is my concentration. And her class this term is ‘Gender Constructs in Women’s Performance Art.’”

“I’m so in love with her! I look at her walking across campus and my heart aches.”

I pointed at his crotch. “That’s not actually where your heart is, you know.”

I know you’ve all heard of Jennifer Satin. She is world famous and our school is lucky to have her. When she was younger—she’s in her sixties now—she pioneered her own brand of performance art, sitting or standing naked in the exhibition space while the spectators passed by.

It wasn’t until a while later that I got the idea of how to make use of Sage’s infatuation for my seminar project for the class. Several people had already described their proposals for the class. One woman was portraying Mary Shelley as Frankenstein—shapeshifting between the monster and the scientist. Another proposal, of course, was to portray the great hero of performance art—Frida Kahlo posing on her back on a bed. Somebody else was going to portray Gaya Dali. Another woman was going to be the Veiled Lady of The Blithedale Romance. And another would be portraying Dame Ragnelle. But it was Sage’s enthusiasm for my professor that engendered my idea.

So we are all sitting around in Madeleine’s room—the four of us: me, Sage, Madeleine, and Florenz. Sage was going on about Jennifer Satin, describing her beauty.

“Wow,” Madeleine says, “it actually is cool how much you lust after her. I mean, she’s just about half a century older than you.” She makes a quizzical face. “Yeah, she’s what? – late sixties? And you’re 18. Good for you.”

“But how do you propose to manage this—for want of a better word—affair?” Florenz asks.

“I haven’t figured that out yet,” Sage admits and we all tell him we’ll try to figure something out.

That was February and Sage and I were spending a lot of time together. In his bedroom. Tasha, who lives in the apartment across the hall from mine and has a spare key to my apartment, would come into my place with her boyfriend Daimler and watch Sage and me through the window. Tasha is in Prof Satin’s performance art class also. So this is sort of like homework.

The Berkeley Hays events transpired in late March. There was a poetry reading and then a luncheon. I went to the luncheon and that would have been a good opportunity to actually converse with him—others were doing it—but I found myself unaccountably shy. Star struck, I guess. That evening, after his presentation in the Aud, there was a reception for him in the upstairs lounge in the student union. Berkeley was mobbed. Rather than try to engage him in conversation in the midst of the mob, I sidled up to him with a glass of wine and handed it to him as I took his empty glass away. (Then I filled his glass again and drank out of it myself.)

He was wearing a heavenly suit—conservative, trim, charcoal gray. Though I guess anything would look good on this guy. He is—oh—medium height, slender, fit, and handsome. He’s thirty-five. His hair is gray or grayish and wavy—very English Regency. Really, he is, as my advisor Izamar put it when we were discussing him as we were shuffling into the reception, “He is totally Lord Fucking Byron.”

I was dressed in a special outfit for the evening: a white, flower-embroidered huipil and my hair up in a chignon, looking terribly Frida Kahlo. And every time I switched his drink glass, I gave him a lurid smile. At least I hope it was lurid—as opposed to menacingly looney. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

Shortly after midnight, under cover of darkness, I slinked over to the VIP suites/guest cottage, a one-story brick building with three units. Berkeley Hays was in the one on one end. I could see a light on inside. I rapped on the door and he opened it a crack and peered out at me. I couldn’t tell if he was surprised to see me or not. Well, I guess he must have been. But he’s a cool customer, if ever there was one.

“Mr. Hays,” I began. “I’m Bess Carver.” At this point, before he could respond, I pushed forward, one hand on his bare chest and pushed the door shut behind me with the other hand. We were both inside now. He was shirtless and in pajama bottoms. So far so good.

“Yes,” he said. “Little Frida.” As I approached him smiling (I know it sounds crazy now), he backed away—through the dark little entranceway/kitchenette into the softly lit main room, and then, as I planned, he fell back upon the bed. I was wearing the Mexican shift, a pair of slippers and—not one thing else. I posed before him with my hands on top of my head, showing off the tufts of Fridaesque armpit hair.

And then—voila! I had this all rehearsed. I undid a tab behind me and my shift fell in a puddle at my feet, eliciting just the reaction I was hoping for. I stepped out of my slippers and put my hands on my head again.

Then before there could be any awkward pauses, I tossed my lithe frame atop the prone poet, feeling like Claire Clairmont, to continue the Byron analogy.

I wrapped myself around him, nuzzling and kissing his face—like a puppy, I’m afraid. To his credit, he embraced me and returned the kisses. I was in heaven.

For as long as it lasted. For then there was a rap on the door. And a voice: “Berkeley,” cried a woman’s voice softly from the other side of the door. “Berkeley, it’s Jennifer.”

Oh my God! It was my performance art professor! Berkeley wriggled into a sitting position as I rolled off the bed. I grabbed my dress and scuttled into the closet. Berkeley shoved my slippers after me and I shut the sliding door of the closet, standing as I was in the corner of it, leaving it cracked so I could see the room, huddled as I was in the darkness. Professor Satin sashayed into the room and turned to face Berkeley. She stood there looking at him. “Well, well, well, my former student has made good.”

“Fern!” Berkeley exclaimed, smiling at her rather adoringly. Oh God! Professor Satin’s nickname is Fern! And I’m the only one on campus, I guess, who knows this. A revelation to be sure.

And now a scene similar to my own is reenacted. Only Fern is wearing underwear. She unbuttons her coat dress and drops it to the floor, standing now in her bra and panties and—gasp—a garter belt and stockings!

Propping her legs up one at a time, she divested herself of the stockings and garter belt. Here is when I appreciated Jennifer Satin’s appeal for Sage. Not only is she beautiful as one might say for her age, her age is part of her ripened beauty, mellow and effulgent.

Naked now, her large firm breasts with just the right amount of alluring sag. The texture of her flesh—exuding succulence in a way that a college lady’s cannot. Ripe and inviting. Her stomach and hips—not fat but exhibiting an earthy fullness.

Now, looking at her, I actually felt and still feel that I look forward to being 60 and having such deliciously ripened skin.

She pulled down the PJ bottoms and then, much as I had done (does this happen to him all the time?) pushed him onto the bed and lay atop him. I watched them as they made the beast with two backs. Then she was astride him, flying like a bull rider at the rodeo, her breasts hopping and twirling. Then on her knees as he thrust himself from behind as she grunted like a beast in heat, her fleshy udders wildly flapping and spinning. I masturbated as I watched.

My legs vibrated uncontrollably. I came twice and the second time was absolutely explosive, explosions coursing through my body, my legs shaking and jumping. It was to be hoped that I did not create an audible disturbance and as it turned out, the couple in question were too enveloped in their own orgasmic gyrations to hear mine.

At last it was over. I watched in awe as Professor ... uh ... Fern resumed her apparel, kissed the poet where he lay, or rather sprawled, upon the bed, and then she left the suite.

I emerged from the closet, pulled on my shift and my slippers and gazed—I have to admit lovingly—at the naked body of my would-be lover. I bent down and kissed him on the lips. He remained fast asleep. I guess that’s what happens to 35-year-old men. I went into the bathroom and took a whizz. And then left. Professor Satin was just pulling out of the parking lot. She has one of those ancient Volvos with running boards.

The next morning I was at the train station hoping to get one last glimpse of the poet as he absconded from Pleasantville. (That’s not really the name of our town: I just made that up.) What I was afraid of was that his attention would be consumed by Fern so that I wouldn’t be able to exchange a fond farewell. However, Fern didn’t show, probably because she didn’t want to let on that she was copulating with the help.

But as it turned out, when I arrived, Dean Wasserhouse was handing him his suitcase and shambled away just as I sashayed up to him. His face brightened when he saw me. “Little Frida!” he called out. “You came to see me off. Thank you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Hays.”

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to know each other better,” he said, wistfully, setting down his suitcase. “Or maybe we did, and I just slept through it.”

Standing on my tiptoes, I put my arms around him and planted a passionate kiss on the poet’s mouth. We stood embracing and kissing until the train began to huff and he released me. I picked up his suitcase and handed it to him as he turned and mounted the steps into the train car.

On the way home, just before reaching my building, passing my polyamorous neighbors’ house, I saw Belinda on their front porch. It’s one of those open front porches with classical columns. She was sitting on a rattan divan and motioned for me to join her there. Sitting next to each other, we could feel the breeze from the giant elm tree that shaded the front of the house.

“I just saw Berkeley Hays off on the train,” I told her.

“The poet? Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Was there like a committee or something to see him off?”

“No, actually, it was sort of just me, which is pretty funny considering what happened last night. I mean, Wasserhouse brought him there and then darted off just as I arrived. And so I went up to him and actually we ... uh...”

“What? You threw your arms around him and kissed him on the lips!”

“Yeah.”

“What? I was just making a joke. You really did that? And what happened last night, Lizzie?”

I took a deep breath and then related the whole thing in detail.

“Wow, that’s really a serious piece of performance art right there, isn’t it?” She bit her lip thoughtfully as she is wont to do, and continued, “Though I guess you can’t do that for your class.”

“Yeah, not really, I guess. And the thing is, I need to have something ready in a few weeks and I don’t know what I’m going to do. Last week, one of my classmates did her project on the veiled lady.”

“From Hawthorne.”

“Yeah. She—and I don’t know how she did this—it’s as magical as the original story—she would raise the veil and be beautiful and then raise it again and be a ghoulish, skeletonized ... ghoul, absolutely repulsive. Then she would reappear as beautiful.”

“Okay, Lizzie, what you need is a tableau that illustrates the female gaze. I mean, your classmate’s project is just more male gaze. Didn’t you guys read that old essay from the 80s--’Is the Gaze Male?’”