crazy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean very intense women. Very jealous, or if not jealous, then kind of haunted … driven. Doomed, maybe.”
“Doomed to what?”
“I don’t know. Unhappiness. Unfulfillment.”
“Can you elaborate?”
“I’m talking about purely physical sex, now. Not necessarily … loving sex. I don’t know if I can explain. I think once you start down the road toward pure pleasure, some things get left behind. I know the PC line, how the best sex can only happen in the context of love, all that. But from an existential point of view, I’d disagree. The most intense sex takes place where there is no psychological limit. No moral limit. The word ‘no’ has never been uttered, so possibility is infinite. And that covers a lot of territory, you know?”
“Please go on.”
“I’m talking about exploration, discovery, crossing thresholds. And once you cross some thresholds, I’m not sure you can get back. Sex engages the whole psyche, doesn’t it? Self-respect is involved, and your respect for the other person. Love, lust, obsession … it all blurs. Some women do things they might never ordinarily do because they want to be unique in your experience. They want to prove they love you more than anyone else ever did or could, and they do that by venturing into erotically scary territory. And you pretend they’re unique, because to tell them the truth would probably deny you the physical pleasure of the act, and also devalue their gift to you in their eyes. Yet … these acts, these roads you travel down, aren’t a place you want to be all your life. A sexual relationship has an organic curve. The more intense the experience, the shorter the curve.”
“You’re saying you don’t have or want these types of experiences with your wife?”
“I guess I am. Maybe a taste of it now and then. But you can’t push sexual limits for thirty or forty years with one person. Eventually you run into a wall. I think you have to come to an accommodation. A nice warm place where there is heat and light, though maybe a little less fire. It sounds provincial as hell, I know, but there’s a lot more to marriage than sex.”
Lenz taps the end of his pen against his lower lip, which is gray and bloodless. At length, he says, “What are you hiding from your wife?”
My cheeks burning, I try to hide my embarrassment in anger. “What the hell are you talking about?”
He looks at me like a state trooper watching a drunk driver claim he’s sober. After tapping the pen some more, he says, “You just described a problem of intimacy with your wife.”
“Bullshit.”
Another tired sigh. “The intense sexual experiences you described are essentially adolescent in character. The aggrandizement of the self and the depersonalization of the woman in pursuit of physical ecstasy. I’ve seen a photograph of your wife. She’s—”
“Where did you get a picture of my wife?”
“A beautiful woman,” he continues. “And obviously intelligent. You’ve been married only three years and have no children, yet you recall premarital sexual adventures with more than mere wistfulness. Furthermore, you spend a great deal of time pursuing relationships with other women through your computer, acting out virtual sexual fantasies with famous actresses who have no idea you know who they are—”
“Did Miles tell you that?” I heave myself up into a sitting position.
“Mr. Cole, I suggest that there is something preventing you from fully accepting the love of your wife, and thus from entering into a fully mature and satisfying sexual relationship with her. I doubt whether anything you could tell me would do more to exonerate you of these crimes, in my eyes, than what that is.”
“Look, Doctor, I’ve done just about anything sexual I ever wanted to in real life. Do I miss sex for its own sake? Sure. Married sex is different. It gets weighted down by everyday life. I don’t care how imaginative you are. Everybody thinks he’s an expert on sex, from the frigid old schoolteacher to the great Arthur Lenz, but everybody has the same problem. Men want more sex and women want more love. We’re hardwired differently. Do Drewe and I have a perfect relationship? No. Do we have a good one? Yes. Next question.”
Lenz seems about to argue further, then thinks better of it. “Have you ever struck a woman?” he asks.
“Once,” I reply, forcing myself to lie back down.
“What prompted it?”
“She tried to kill me.”
“Why?”
“Jealousy.”
“How did she try to kill you?”
“Once with a car. Another time with a rifle. I don’t think she really knew who she wanted to kill, me or her.”
“Where is this woman now?”
“Married with kids.”
“Do you consider yourself a handsome man?”
“Handsome? In a regular kind of way, I guess. I don’t think it was necessarily my looks that attracted women to me, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“What was it?”
“I knew how to talk to them.”
A sudden heightening of awareness. “What do you mean? You were smooth? You had a good line, as they say?”
“God, no. I understood them, is all. I could talk to them like their female friends did, but probably more honestly than their friends would. You know what I mean?”
“Tell me.”
“Most guys are into things I have no interest in. Sports, hunting, like that. I mean I played sports, but I could care less about watching them, you know? Vicarious thrills aren’t for me.”
“You like to participate.”
“Right.”
“Have you ever participated in a murder?”
“Is that your idea of a trick question?”
“Will you answer it, please?”
“Hell no, I’ve never committed murder.”
“Ever thought about it?”
“Sure. I’ve known a couple of dyed-in-the wool sons of bitches who deserved it. They never get it, though. It’s the good people that get it. Right, Doctor?”
“Define ‘good people.’”
“I mean regular folks. People who try to obey the rules. Little kids minding their own business and trying just to grow up. I think anybody that purposefully hurts a person like that has forfeited his right to much consideration. People say the world’s gone gray, but that’s bullshit. There’s still a line. And anybody who crosses that line deserves whatever they get.”
“How do you feel about capital punishment?”
“In first-degree murder cases? The murder of a child, like that?”
“Yes.”
“Fry the fuckers. Instant karma.”
Lenz writes on his notepad again.
“You think I sound like some reactionary Southern redneck, right? Let me tell you, Doctor, where I live I’m considered a liberal. If this nut kills a woman down my way, he’d better get clear in a hurry. There’s still a lot of Old Testament justice down South. And I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.”
“He killed a woman in New Orleans with impunity.”
It’s my turn to chuckle. “New Orleans isn’t the South I’m talking about.”
“I