The Dirty Book Club(34)
With that in mind, she pulled Gloria’s letter from the inside of the book and began reading it aloud, desperate to cover the material before the bell rang and she lost them forever.
THE DATE: Thursday, January 10, 1974
THE DIRTY: Fear of Flying by Erica Jong
THE DETAILS: By Gloria Golden
I was in the checkout line at Safeway, flipping through one of those women’s lib magazines when I learned about Fear of Flying. The review claimed that Isadora Wing’s erotic fantasies—along with her affair—proved that women love sex just as much as men. And I thought, Now this, I have to read.
My plan was to start tonight’s meeting with a poll: Hands up if you think women love sex as much as men. I needed to know if anyone else disagreed with this statement. If they, like me, didn’t love sex as much as men, they loved it more and thought there was something wrong with them. But Marjorie asked if anyone had had a real-life zipless fuck (as if she didn’t already know), so we ended up starting with that.
Liddy, Dot, and I had not. Of course, Marjorie had had several. There were a few at Woodstock, one in the back row during The Poseidon Adventure, and Flight #645: New York to Heathrow.
Liddy said, It was Marjorie, in the lavatory, with a pilot, like we were playing Clue.
I wondered why anyone would want to have spontaneous sex with strangers. To me, making love without the love part was the same as preparing meat loaf without meat. What was the point?
Pleasure, Gloria. Pleasure is the point. (Marjorie.)
But Isadora loved Bennett, I said. And they had pleasurable sex. So why did she cheat?
Because Adrian made her underpants wet enough to mop up the streets of Vienna.
So?
So, love has nothing to do with it, Marjorie said, like she was Dr. Joyce Brothers or something. Lust and love are different. I love lust. Which is why I’m never getting married.
Liddy, of all people, agreed with her. She said that most people get married because society makes us think it’s the hip thing to do. And if magazines and movie stars said being a spinster was cool no one would do it.
Dot said: Speak for yourself, floozy. I couldn’t wait to marry Robert. Society had nothing to do with it.
Then I said: Maybe it’s genetic, like some people are born wanting more sex than others . . . Like me.
Marjorie practically choked on her cigarette smoke. You want more sex than Leo?
Be grateful you even have a libido (Liddy), Patrick and I are trying so hard to get pregnant, my Mother Mary is red, raw, and stuffed as a nose in flu season. I think I have a penis allergy.
Marjorie raised an eyebrow as if to say, I told you she was a lesbian.
Robert and I do it four times a week. Five when Jenny spends the night at her grandparents’. (Dot)
What about you, Glo? (Marjorie)
Once.
A day?
A month. Leo’s always at work, and by the time he gets home he’s too tired.
They looked at one another like they had a secret.
Have an affair, Marjorie suggested as if offering me a second slice of pie. That’s the groovy thing about Isadora, she shows us that it’s okay to spread our wings. If men can fly, we can fly, too.
Isadora isn’t groovy, I said. And she shouldn’t be spreading her wings. She’s married. And now poor Bennett has to spend the rest of his life wondering why he’s not good enough. I could hear the despair in my voice, taste its vinegar on my tongue. I wasn’t sure where it was coming from. Maybe the vodka. Anyway, why does anyone have to fly?
Marjorie told me to ask Leo.
This time everyone looked at her, not like she had a secret, but like she spilled one.
What? Marjorie said, all big eyes and innocence. I assumed it was one of those things we all knew but never talked about. Like how Robert would rather be in Vietnam than work another day at his father’s grocery store and that Liddy is gay.
I am not gay! I’m married to a pastor!
Marjorie opened a new pack of Camels and didn’t even offer us one. Then she said: I thought when you’re best friends with someone for twenty years you can speak the skinny, but I guess we’re still pretending here; so, Glo, about that Durex wrapper you found in Leo’s racquetball bag. You’re saying that was yours?
You know about that?
They nodded.
We also know about the Chantilly on his dress shirt, the crumpled-up receipt from the Biltmore, the mysterious midnight phone calls, and those autograph pictures. (Liddy)
One for every pot roast that went to waste. (Dot)
I became angry and told them to stop; angry because I expected them to pick up these tidbits of information like a fallen Cheerio—dump them in the trash and move on—not come to conclusions behind my back. I was also angry at Leo for making me look like a fool. Angry with myself because I didn’t cook like Julia Child or look like Raquel Welch. If I did maybe Leo would think I was enough. But most of all I was angry because they were right. I knew Leo was messing around. I had always known it. I was just too scared to admit it, because once I did, then what?
What am I supposed to do now? I asked while they rubbed my back, lit my cigarettes, refreshed my martini. We have four kids and three fund-raisers next month. What will I tell my parents? How will I face the neighbors? Who will hold my hand at the movies?
I bet a romantic vacation will help you two get back on track. Hawaii or maybe even Florida. (Dot)