Barry was my first experience with a man who talked me into orgasm, looking deeply into my eyes as I pleasured myself in the easy chair across from his bed. I would then massage his back and he would roll over so I could lift his small member out of its nest and place it into my mouth. In just a few seconds he would squeal and orgasm, thanking me over and over as I wiped and powdered him like a baby on a changing table. After reapplying the Noxzema to his always-sore anus, I covered him with one of his velvet caftans and he rested. I was then free to help with chores, work outside with Madeleine, or write in my journal in the quiet, cool solitude of my rustic cabin.
Barry had told me of the many Hollywood beauties he had dated and that he had always “scored.” He was successful, which appealed to any actress, but he also knew how to connect with the heart and soul of a woman. I understood now that for Barry scoring meant he got to see and touch and taste a woman while being pleasured himself. Intercourse was not in his repertoire.
Barry’s meetings at the Hollywood studios were frequent, and I became his driver. I would haul Barry, lunch, and anything else he might need in my new Dodge van, where he would lie in the back on a big futon with Indian print bedspreads draped all around for the full-day excursions into Los Angeles. We laughed and talked, Barry entertaining me the whole way. We stopped on the coast so Barry could breathe in the scent of the sea with all the van windows open wide, and we’d visit his favorite seafood drive-in and feast on calamari and fries or fish and chips. He never left the van for these picnics, as walking was the most difficult thing in his life and he needed to save his energy for the meetings in Hollywood. When we were ready to head “back to the ranch,” we’d call Madeleine, who would tell us what to pick up for dinner.
One day, a woman named Mira came to visit the ranch, and she fell in love with our zany, creative family. Mira was a burnt-out fashion designer whom the Levines knew, and she was ready to leave Los Angeles and live a quieter life. We offered her the empty bedroom in the old ranch house, just around the corner and a few steps down from the Levines’ suite. The family was growing.
Mira quickly fell into step as our helper in service to all of the family needs. She tie-dyed the fabric we used for Barry’s caftans and made colorful wall hangings and slipcovers. She never accepted Barry’s invitations to relieve him of his sexual tension, but she loved him and waited on him in every other way. I adored Mira as I adored Madeleine and Barry.
Evenings now saw the four of us getting high, telling stories, and listening to Madeleine play guitar. Recreational excursions into altered states of consciousness were a regular part of our lives. Barry and Madeleine were quasi-hippies, like Mira and me, and we took our share of mescaline and LSD, loving the magic of our times together. Barry didn’t believe in alcohol or cigarettes, and we had to sneak them, a small thrill, as if we were kids hiding our pranks from Big Daddy. I used a lot of mouthwash and mints to cover my smoking habit.
In stolen moments, Barry and I played with our sexuality in our precious but limited way, always watching to make sure we didn’t get caught. That was a big part of the excitement. And we escaped being caught in the nick of time more than once. I don’t remember much about my own sexual satisfaction with Barry, but my heart was full and I felt needed and loved beyond measure. He only penetrated me once in those two years, proudly, with his few inches of love and a heart full of vulnerability. Somehow he miraculously heaved himself on top of me and thrust six times before falling over in post-orgasmic bliss.
One of the great gifts of my time with Barry was that I began to understand that sexuality expressed along with genuine love is essential for me. It is what makes me tick—it is how I expose my vulnerability and experience my totality. With Barry, I thought of myself as a healer. I knew the power of love, and I knew how to transmit my love through my hands, eyes, and body. I also learned how to receive love through my eyes. This was our primary foreplay—our eyes did most of the kissing, fondling, and caressing that prepares most people for sex. I was pioneering sexual loving before I had a clue that this was my spiritual work.
And what a relief it was to discover I could choose another family after having left my own. I felt nourished, integral, and I was aware for the first time of my freedom, even the freedom to create more family. The Levines and Mira welcomed my daughter on visits and graciously entertained Johnny, Rick, and Arnie, and even my dad and his wife, Marty, when they came once to visit. For the Levines it was enough just knowing they were my kin and my duty to them was paramount to all.
In 1977, two years after I’d moved to the Levines’ ranch, I decided it was time to find out if Rick and I had anything worth salvaging. We visited, and our passion for each other was magnetic. I asked Rick to live with me at the Levines’, with Madeleine and Barry’s blessings. Within months I bought a house, a typical suburban house with a swimming pool, just a short walk into the town of Ojai. We moved in. When Rick asked me to marry him, I said yes. His emotional wounding from Vietnam and from his early childhood concerned me, but I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted a life of ease, and that seemed possible with Rick now that I knew more about loving, communicating, and relating in a successful way. I believed in the healing power of love and trusted that Rick would get all he needed with my love and greater commitment. The future was filled with magnificent dreams.
Chapter Four
Angel Sister Lover Friend
I was married again, and this time I wasn’t going to do everything my husband’s way. I wasn’t having the burgers and beer of our last round. I insisted that Rick eat salads, sprouts, fresh vegetable juices, and nuts and seeds. While Rick looked for work, I went to yoga classes, took long bike rides and hikes into the surrounding hills, visited the Theosophical Library to immerse myself in the metaphysical and mystical, and kept up my commitment to a healthy way of life. We got a second Golden Retriever and named him Jake, and both dogs stayed home with Rick while I drove into Los Angeles to give massages in clients’ homes, mostly people in the film industry. I hauled my table up many long staircases into grand mansions to help and heal the movers and shakers of LA. I don’t know how these people found me, but they did and they kept asking me back.
Back at home, Rick couldn’t seem to find a fit for himself. This time, I wasn’t feeling the struggle of going along with him—I was feeling the strain of supporting him. When Robin was a pre-teen visiting us in Ojai, the two of them would get along as I always had wanted to with her—talking, laughing, swimming in the pool, hanging out like friends. I would clean up after them, feed them, and be the parental adult, a role I did not like. Resentment grew as I once again assumed the role of caretaker, structure- and rule-maker, with what felt like a family of two children rather than two adults and one child.
We were growing more restless and irritated. One day Rick bounded into the living room, where I sat curled in a chair, reading. His eyes were bright, the way they looked when he had a good idea. “Kern, I was thinking,” he said, dropping into the chair next to mine. “Let’s drive to Carmel Valley and see Jet.” He kissed me. “It’ll be good for us. We haven’t seen him since he moved.”
I considered it for a minute. Why not? Jet managed a few galleries in Carmel that featured handmade arts and crafts. Maybe seeing him again would inspire Rick to get something more going on here at home. “Let’s go,” I said.
In love with spontaneity, we threw some things in a bag as the dogs jumped into the back of the pickup, sensing as they always did that we were going somewhere and it might be real fun for them. We drove the five hours north, arriving at Jet’s after dinner. We got acquainted with his new place and settled into our futon in the art studio. It was cold with the electric heater, but we made our own heat. The vacation was off to a good start.
In the morning Jet gave us a tour of his studio, showed us his recent paintings, and made us a pot of coffee to take out to the porch. “So there’s a party tonight,” Jet said, settling back in his chair, his big legs stretched out straight before him. “This woman named Gigi.”
Rick grinned. “Uh huh.”
“Her thirtieth birthday. Come with me. You’ll love her.”
Rick winked at me. “Why not?”
I