Sputterpub's Blog

I’ve had loss but it was more natural than this one. My parents are both dead, but they lived to their eighties. A few of my friends have died (climbing accidents, drug overdoses, AIDS) but those tragedies were decades ago and, face it, I wasn’t as close to them as I am to family. I almost lost Jonah when he was 13, and that accident was more life-changing for me than any other, but it didn’t make me still. In fact, when I look back on those events now – his near drowning, near-OD, and institutionalization led directly to my involvement with Landmark and Barbara and marriage and move – I’m blown away at the changes they produced. But I don’t think I’ve ever been slowly thoughtful till now.

I met my second Barbara and I married her. I like to be married. I like to be alone in a big house full of people (I’m always alone in my head). We meshed her three kids with my part-time one to two (Jonah was released to me when his term was up, because Barbara the First wouldn’t have him back again unless he promised to attend school, while I understood how toxic school can be). I moved into her house in Concord. I was pretty happy, I think. I thought.

Now my partner is dead. Now I’m 65. I’m about to see Lily again. All of this makes ideas surface like Magic 8 Ball answers floating into the little window on the bottom of the ball. What do I want to do now?

The kids are grown. My younger son is almost finished with college. Barbara’s three are on their own. Not flourishing, true, and often back for food and money, but adult, sexually active, making their own decisions. Her daughter Mary is single now and has four babies. One of Barbara’s sons is a recovering addict employed as a sales rep for copiers and the other will be okay once he figures out what’s important. My stepdaughter Norah is now married and living in the middle of the country. My first wife visits her at least once a year but I haven’t been to see her yet. Jonah is still a challenge but he’s currently in LA.

I’m not happy. I don’t like living alone in 3,000 square feet. I don’t like living alone. I’m not dead yet sexually; I want to establish another relationship. And I’m seeing Lily for lunch tomorrow; I cannot get her out of my head.

She called me after Barbara died. Back when we were together she introduced me to a financial counselor, and I continued the business relationship with Anna after Lily and I broke up. Anna and Lily are still friends and clients of one another; Anna told Lily the bad news and Lily called me. She expressed condolences. She invited me to lunch. I understand the first part. I wonder if the lunch invite is more than just sympathy. I mean, I don’t need a meal. And why feed me just once? What does she want?

What do I want?

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I wrote those words two months ago. While everyone else was advising me to sit tight and make no big decisions, my sister recommended that I start a journal. I wrote the first entry, which took much more paper and much less time than I thought it would, and then I didn’t add to it. Much like Lily’s Adam, apparently. She tells me he started a blog on the Internet, but he only produced one post.

It turns out Lily wanted some sort of reconnection. Not romantic or sexual, at least not yet, but she’s very into clarity and true memories, and she says we spent enough time and had enough significant moments that she wants my help recalling them.

Her attitude about male/female relationships is totally different than mine. It isn’t just that she started early and experimented widely – funny how adventurous I’ve been in just about every endeavor except sex – she’s a bottom-up relator.

That’s not a physical description. I’ve read about political and cultural phenomena, and I’ve learned that they’re either “top-down,” meaning promulgated from on high like law and regulation, or they’re the grass-roots type of “bottom-up” movement. Most people get into relationships by making some level of commitment and then trying to keep it.

Lily doesn’t do it that way. She’s a word person but doesn’t use words for that. She allows relationships to develop and after awhile, she recognizes them for the developed thing they are. So when she or the other person changes, she just rides with it and accepts the consequently altered relationship. She would never break up with a person just because she or the other changed. She’d exhibit some confusion at first, and then accept the changed relationship as it became apparent to her.

I don’t think it’s that she’s not jealous. In fact, I think Lily is the most passionate person I know. But she controls herself, like a proofreader/editor. She seems to feel the heat, wait for awhile, and then exhale cool steam. She used to have some anger issues, but she was 44 when I met her, and she said she’d outgrown the problem by then. Actually, she said she’d learned better. From her son.

Seems like we always talk about sons. Or about what it takes to be a man anyway. Back when we were together my Jonah nearly died. He was a troubled kid and I was too stubborn to recognize it. I guess I saw him as a mini-me. And I’d been a difficult kid too, but my problem came from a bad school coupled with my own ADD (now called ADHD). I never had low self-esteem. And after my parents put me in the private school I did pretty well.

So when Jonah acted up I figured it was bad school. I even supported him when he got caught cutting classes. At 13. I saw the similarities but I was blind to the differences. He was trying to be a grownup: smoking and picking up an STD and doing the Goth bit to the point of mascara and black fingernails. At 13. Geez: at 13 I was like a 9 year old…

I guess I’ve always been oriented toward females. I mean, I was a normal active boy, totally uninterested until puberty kicked in, but ever since then yes, I’ve wanted to be with a girl. Sure I’ve had a few fantasies about girls in the plural, but I’m a practical person and I know my limitations. It’s enough of a challenge for me to please one woman. Emotionally.

The most interesting girlfriend I ever had was the one who got away. Maybe that’s what made her interesting. No: she was inherently so. She may have even been smarter than me in some ways. Her name was Lily.

I married my other girlfriends. I was 25 when I met Christy, and fell in fuck with her, and so proposed. She was an experienced 18 at the time. We stayed together for a year and a half, although she insisted that we open the marriage up after five months. That’s how we got the clap, and visited the free clinic, and read the flyer about the commune, and joined.

My other marriages were serious. I met my second wife Barbara at the commune. She was a single mother of six-year old Norah when Christy left. We married in the cult and had our two sons over the next ten years. Then we migrated to Oakland to recruit.

I began to move away from (which really means beyond) some of the cult philosophy. As anyone knows who’s been there, it is extremely difficult to maintain an intimate relationship when one member begins to doubt and differ.

So Barbara and I separated. I had the boys half time and maintained a relationship with Norah too. And then I met Lily. I was living in a small apartment then, just getting into big wall climbing. Lily has a fear of heights, so she didn’t join me in that (though she did learn how to belay). What we had in common, besides walking and dining and drinking good coffee and considering existential questions, was the rearing of our sons. She only had one but he was my Jonah’s age: 12 years old and a budding man.

Here’s what she told me her first husband said about the basic male perspective (i.e., libido): “When I encounter a new woman, I wonder what it would be like to fuck her; when I encounter a new man, I wonder if I can beat him up.”

That seemed primitive to me, but she insisted that her second husband felt the same way.

I don’t. I’ve never wanted to beat up anyone except my younger brother (my parents forbade it so I became an ace baiter/teaser instead).

As far as I’m concerned, I’m living half-erect most days. I’m ready any time. It’s like I prance around nagging the ambient women with “Now? Now? Can I now? Huh?” and most of the time they give me a disparaging look and as much as send me to my room. Every once in a while I get lucky. It’s like I nagged her till I wore her down. “All right,” she almost sighs. “Come here.”

At least, that’s how it is when I’m not married. At the end of my Lily relationship I joined another group. I met another Barbara. I married again. When I’m married I prance and ask permission, too, but the nature of the conversation is different.

I’m a good lay but I’m not fancy. Maybe it’s because I got into it so late, but what I do is kiss and fuck, and I do those well. I never ventured into oral sex, or anal, or bondage, or porn. It’s a little awkward when a new woman goes down on me. I don’t stop her, and sure I can enjoy it, but I don’t fully relax, because I assume she expects reciprocation, and I don’t want to, so I’m not going there. And she probably won’t say anything about that, thank whomever, but it’s a moment to get beyond, you know?

I have a long body. I have a mobile mouth. I have a good cock. I never fuck a woman without making love to her. I hug her fully. I penetrate her deeply and for as long as she indicates she wants. I don’t put my mouth on her anywhere below her neck, but I’ll pull her thighs together beneath me, to increase the genital embrace, and if she’ll rock and roll with me she won’t regret the sensation.

And I’m not one of those guys who stops the affection after ejaculation. I’m into cuddling. I’ll gladly spoon around her. I’ve always lived with people and I like a sleepover. I’m good for whispering in the night or raiding the kitchen and smuggling food back to bed.

I’m no less of a man because I lack violent tendencies. I’m competitive. I show off for the ladies. I’d happily wrestle and rough-house with my sons (if they would). When I encounter a stranger I do pay attention to gender, but I think that’s less about sex than about safety. If the person approaching is male, he may be dangerous. I check him out to see if he’s a threat. If it’s a female I check her out cause I’m male. Shit: maybe I am saying what Lily’s husband said.

I guess I should re-assess. That’s part of what this year is about anyway.

I’m a widower now. I lost my second Barbara to fast-moving cancer a month ago. Everyone advises me to sit tight for a year, make no changes, adjust to my loss and to my new circumstances. I’ve had loss before but I never sat still. The family nicknamed me “Sudden” for a reason.

By the end of that first morning, four individuals dropped out of the program. Two of them complained of back pain, and the others said the lecturing put them off. The rest of the group was fully involved in the class.

Lunch was light but abundant. Attendees were encouraged to meet others as they ate vegetarian fare beneath shading canopies. Massage therapists were available for those with urgent muscle aches. The leaders circulated a few times while the students ate, but spent most of their time away from the group, fine-tuning their afternoon plans and taking their own food. “We just lost four, but I think that will be it for fall-off,” she commented as she spread mashed beans on a cracker. “This group seems to be catching on fast.”

Her husband drank cool tea. He offered to give her his own version of massage then, but she slapped him down and continued speaking. “I’ll start the afternoon lecture with half the group, while you show completed projects to the other half. Unless you’d rather?” He agreed with her plan and soon took four dozen students on a tour. She held forth in the eating area.

“Is everyone feeling nice and loose? Isn’t this wonderful?” she began to the tired but satisfied students. “Listen. I’m going to talk about recruitment. This is the first time you’ll hear about it but it won’t be the last. Its importance can’t be emphasized enough, although it usually takes awhile in the class before a student comes to understand that.

“One person can’t do this work. It would take hundreds of years to complete one structure. And without another to share the experience of the labor, it would be nothing but labor. No difference between it and abject servitude.

“Two people aren’t enough for this project. Nor are four. In fact, I’m looking at four dozen folks, and there are another four dozen with my partner right now, and the hundred of us are barely enough to work here today.”

She put both hands on the table before her, and leaned toward her audience. Her posture conveyed intense sincerity. “We need people. We need them to build with, to sweat with, to share with, to love. It’s all too easy for those of our class to become isolated in luxury and convenience.

“My partner recruited me into the program. Me and many others. The more the better. But it would have been enough for him to recruit only two, as long as those two did at least as much.

“Each of you must recruit at least two others. Each of your recruits must do the same. I don’t have to draw you a picture of the shape we’ll produce; in fact, we’re building that shape outside.

“Your recruits will be your apprentices, at least for a time. When they outgrow you, you’ll recruit some more. You’ll get back co-workers, progress on construction, acknowledgment of your leadership, companions in joy. You’ll lose nothing.”

She looked around the group then, and her dark eyes found mine. She nodded at me and smiled slightly. I stood and she introduced me.

“Here is our scribe for this session. He’s a former recruit of mine who has already brought in eight of his own. I’ll let him share his program experience with you.”

I expected this. Such sharing was part of our general procedure and required of every volunteer. I stood and told them how the class had changed my life. I’d tell the story to the other half of the group soon. And the next day I’d travel to Alexandria, to file this report in the library.

We want a permanent record of our program, and that library is built to last. Long after our pyramids have crumbled into the sand, the library at Alexandria will be maintained and will hold this record of us: this and all succeeding chapters. Our project is too important for us to risk misinterpretation by posterity.

For the next hour, they led the group in gentle exercise. Now she, then he, often both together, took the assembled class through systematic relaxation and muscle awareness, on to stretching and limbering movements, and finally to light calisthenics. They didn’t talk as much as demonstrate, but they inserted personal recollections about exquisite work experiences.

They called a break to pass water around, and then had all class members, at once, introduce themselves to at least three strangers. By now, their maid and the other volunteers had joined the group, and they shared their own memories of first class experiences and their progressive involvement in the program. Between the hour of exercise, the milling around during this break, and the introduction of intermediates who had experience but no authority, the enrollees relaxed and began to enjoy themselves. They were ready to leave the amphitheater when they were led away from it toward the primary work site.

The area was huge. It was also largely unsheltered. There were a few tent-like structures with tools and sustenance, but the project was in full sun. Everyone could understand why it wouldn’t be possible to work in the hottest part of the day. It was already warm, but they were watered and limbered and wearing light loose clothes, and they were ready to work.

Some hauled, some pushed, others went ahead to place rollers. Together they moved the huge blocks. Of course the work proceeded slowly, but the site was already far enough along to take shape and offer promise. The construction had reached the height of a three-storied building, so they had to haul/push/roll the blocks that high above the ground’s surface. Perspiration flowed freely, but because it was happening to everyone, and with ample water to drink, the experience was more cleansing than uncomfortable.

The leaders weren’t building then. They had broken the class into four crews of about twenty-five each, and they were talk-teaching one crew at a time. That cycle meant that each participant was getting a rest fifteen minutes out of every sixty.

“Let’s talk about the shape of our structure,” began the first discussion. It didn’t matter whether she or he took the topic; either would lead the group through an examination of building shapes until all concurred on theirs. They agreed that an obelisk would impose, but they didn’t think it would leave a big enough footprint. A sphere would impress, but it would be impossible to stabilize. They sought the shape that would use the most land and be the hardest to topple. They meant to make a landmark. The leaders led, and the group members cooperated by knowing the answers in advance, but everyone took pleasure in the process of discussion and agreement.

The leaders had a moment during the changing of the subgroups. They used it to touch briefly and to compare impressions. As long as they agreed they continued without interruption. And they continued to agree.

“We build first for the sake of working, and secondly for the sake of building,” boomed the opening statement of the second discussion for all subgroups. “But we also build for the sake of entertainment afterward. Let’s plan a party.” With that, he smiled around and relaxed his posture. They took the group through the beginning of a session on recreation after labor, a talk that they continued during the third break. The idea of an internal maze appealed to everyone. Also the theme of night-time thrills: skeletons; dark corners; hidden rooms.

The fourth and final small discussion break was about building techniques. Most of the work was brute labor, as the attendees knew ahead of time by word and then by sweat and muscles. But there were some elegancies that enabled the huge construction. The slow but steady method of moving the blocks into place rested on the simplicity of many small wheels. The aligning of the planned or random passages was enabled by starlight. The attendees came to understand that, given enough people and time, they could build anything.

She brought her yogurt to the porch and watched the sunrise pink ahead of her. It was going to be too warm to work in the afternoon; she figured she’d go to the site soon.

Then her husband appeared in the doorway of their cottage. “There’s fresh yogurt,” she offered, hoisting her bowl toward him.

He said no: he’d wait for hot cereal. But he joined her on the porch, half-sat on the stone wall around it, sailed one sandaled foot out and back. “You’re looking pleased with yourself,” she smiled at him. Her dark hair caught the sunshine and she leaned toward him until her hip touched the wall. “And you’re the reason,” he grinned. He slid his right palm up and over her hip beneath her shift. “Last night was awesome.”

Their maid approached them with bowls of steaming grain and cups of fresh juice. She set her tray on its tripod and left them to their breakfast.

“The new group looks promising,” she said after a sip of orange juice. “It’s a big one; we’d better greet them together. I don’t think we should do any touring this morning. It’ll be too hot to work this afternoon, so we can tour and talk then.”

He left the wall and walked to the food. “I love working with you. You make a great job better. I’m a fair hand at cranking them up, but you’re magic at it.”

“That’s partly because I believe it. We really do feel better when we work. Resting after labor feels wonderful. And labor itself can be cathartic, mind-emptying.” She set her cup down and opened her arms wide. She spun slowly to look in the sunshine.

“You don’t have to sell me, angel. You don’t even really have to sell them. You just have to distract them from figuring out they could do it themselves.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” she countered. “You’re the one who taught me that. There’s an energy created when people work together.” She glanced at her empty cup on the tray. “I’m restless this morning. I think I’ll head over. You?”

“I’ll be there.” He paused before his next spoonful to accept and return her kiss. Then he sat on the wall again and watched her walk away. He smiled at her trim back and neat movements.

The sun was fully above the eastern horizon. Its rays lit the opalescent stones of the cottage with all the colors of sand. His wife’s form was two hundred yards distant when he set down his bowl and began to follow. He reminisced as he walked. It was only two years ago that he recruited her. He recollected his first sight of her: one face among many listening to his words, but with open dark eyes that encouraged him to speak more expansively. As much as he tried to direct his speech and gaze evenly over the attendees, he found himself returning to her visage too often.

His mentor had warned him of this. He knew that the class-generated energy produced quick infatuations and often marriages. But it would never be appropriate to direct that sort of attention to someone who wasn’t even enrolled. He worked instead to comport himself, led the attendees through one of his most inspirational introductions, and enrolled almost all of them, including her.

They grew close during the ensuring two-week class, and they found that they teamed better than with any other partner each tried. Now they recruited together. He’d been brought in by his mentor, he became hers, and at this point they each mentored others. All of the benefits of recruiting – the giving back what they’d received, the communality of effort, the group energy, the muscles – were better for being shared.

He counted his blessings and collected his charisma as he walked the last fifty yards to the already-assembled group of new enrollees. His wife spoke first. “Welcome to your new class,” she began, “in all senses of the word. We’re here to build together, and to grow in the course of that building. My partner has been a member for years now, but I’m relatively new to this. Let me briefly describe what brought me in and how it has been for me.”

There were about a hundred people assembled, but she had no trouble being heard in the natural amphitheater. She described her former luxurious but empty life, her progressive realizations through the class, and her present happiness and fulfillment. “We’re all well-born here, so we run the risk of emptiness. Undisciplined luxury comes at a very high price. The fact is, we feel better if we use our bodies wisely several hours a day. We grow stronger, our bodies function more smoothly and give us more pleasure, our minds achieve necessary room. The fact is, avoiding good labor means avoiding happiness. “But we’re under some constraint. It will be too hot after noon to work the way we want, so we’re going to start now, and explain later.” She panned the audience with her warm eyes, and smiled. “Ready?”

That Thanksgiving she met Larry. She knew she wanted to give him her virginity as soon as they started dating; she was that grateful for his attention. She needn’t have been – anyone could have told her that she looked good and he was a bit of a pig – but Sheila wouldn’t have listened. She was too used to her old self image. Sure she’d lost weight, but her naked body looked haggard to her. Her skin sagged beneath the new clothes. She was self-conscious about being with Larry but eager to have some of what she’d read about so much.

They did it in his car. In a way that suited her just fine, because it was dark there. He drove an old Chevy and the back seat was huge. And since the sex was no great shakes for her, it didn’t bother her that they had to hurry.

Larry was a bad boyfriend. He never gave compliments or presents, and he didn’t pay attention to what Sheila said. A couple of times she tried to get a little foreplay. Once she even said no, but Larry didn’t listen.

Meanwhile, things at home could have been better. Her mother was still happy with the weight loss, but she was disappointed that Sheila wouldn’t consider a sorority. She went through that winter buying clothes for Sheila and complaining. Her father no longer nagged her about exercise but seemed too interested in what she and Larry did when they were together. Most evenings Sheila found that three ounces of seeds just weren’t enough. She’d have two servings. Or a package of cookies. She liked herself too much to throw up afterwards; she knew she’d never be bulimic. But she disliked herself too much to treat the consequent heartburn; she always figured she deserved it, and toughed it out.

Sheila will never forget the half year after Larry. She had 16 lovers before she grew too large. There was even one night with three different guys, from curiosity rather than any lust, none knowing about the others. But by the end of her freshman year she was near 200 again, the rash was back, and she took herself out of circulation. She read-and-ate, she studied, she played hours of solitaire (with cards — she didn’t get into it on the computer until 1998, when she racked up a $92,051 purse at TriPeaks in 13,292 games).

She got her bachelor’s degree in English in 1999. She’d picked the major because it meant reading fiction. She took a job at an insurance company. She weighed 310.

Sheila knew where she could get guys, but she didn’t want those guys. She’d heard about the fat groups: women’s clubs with names like Perfect Plus. They had support group meetings, shared tips on where to find fashion in sizes and how to fully appreciate whipped cream. And they had annual conventions that attracted strange men who lusted after fleshy women. She could just imagine some diminutive Filipino diving onto her, searching through folds to find an orifice. No thanks.

Her other option was an obese partner. But she knew about that too, and she didn’t find the prospect of vertical sex romantic. She stayed busy, did her job, and tried to diet. By the time she was 25 she weighed almost 500 pounds.

At that point she had to work out a way to telecommute. Fortunately her employer was big enough to have the resources to accommodate her and also the legal department to worry about not accommodating her. She was allowed to work from her condo. She bought a custom chair. She had groceries delivered. She stopped leaving home.

Sheila’s mother had given up hope but still felt obligation. She visited sometimes. Sheila’s father had become pretty large himself. His blood pressure required medication and he’d also taken up drinking. He didn’t feel well most days and he was headed for liver and kidney failure.

Sheila weighed 589 on her 26th birthday. She had heartburn which she tried as usual to ignore, but her belly hurt so much she squirmed. She couldn’t leave home; her mother found a way to bring a doctor to her. He looked and palpated and then called for some fancy sonogram machine. They had to fly it in from Nevada. “Usually the patient comes to the equipment,” he explained to them, “so not many places have portable devices.”

The doctor suspected that Sheila was hosting a large ovarian cyst, and the sonogram showed it. They had to remove her front door to get her out of there, and her first adventure in years was an ambulance ride. She wasn’t then in pain; she actually enjoyed the trip. Her mother was with her, and for once she was kind.

Sheila’s surgery was not a record breaker. Some woman named Gertrude Levandowski had a 308-pound cyst removed in 1951. That operation took 96 hours, and reduced the patient’s weight by half. Sheila’s surgery ran 18 hours, and her cyst weighed 257 pounds. She left the hospital weighing 332, so she only lost 44% of her weight. But that was a great start on her next diet.