SING A SONG OF

SIXTY-NINE

(And a half!)

After a year as roommates:

—Remarkably, they were still friends;

—Typically, Claude had come up with no less than a dozen “brilliant ideas” for getting rich without really trying—none of which did that. His latest scheme was to create soundtracks for novels, for people to listen to as they read. It did not deter him, and he said that it didn’t even bother him, that neither Moira nor Benjamin would invest in his ventures. He knew Moira loved him in spite of his abnormal ambitions; and he never expected anything from Benjamin anyway;

—Sadly, Benjamin still hadn’t started a new play. Well, he started several if you want to count all the titles he wrote down for plays he thought he should write. Mostly he cooked and cleaned house;

—Happily, Moira was working more than ever. She was in demand both in Las Vegas and on television. She was lead dancer in everything that called for one, so she had truly reached the Big Time with its Big Bucks;

—Fortunately, her salary along with Benjamin’s royalties and the insurance money from his father was more than enough for the three of them to live on comfortably. It did not matter to any of them that Claude didn’t have a penny to his name. Actually, it bothered Claude a little, but only because he longed to have one of his ideas prove worthy; he didn’t give a shit about the household budgets. All in all, they were a contented threesome.

They had gone through the customary adjustment period in which they afforded each other a forced politeness, as though each were a guest in the other’s home; it took an additional couple of months before they were able to relax into what Benjamin liked to call a “fartable relationship.” Benjamin’s thought was that the ability to fart in the presence of another person was something the body does unconsciously—i.e. you don’t decide arbitrarily that it’s okay to fart; it just happens when the relationship reaches the necessary intimacy.

There were, of course, a few skirmishes as they jockeyed for dominance: Like when Benjamin refused to hang Moira’s collection of prints because there were too many of each in existence—”Moira, art should be personal, and owning number four-hundred-and-seven of five-hundred is not very personal.” They compromised and hung just those that were from editions of two-hundred or less, although Benjamin preferred editions of only fifty copies.

And there was the morning that a very groggy Claude ordered rather than asked for breakfast, so Benjamin refused to cook for Claude for the rest of that week.

And Moira pissed off both men when she brought a puppy home with her one day, then immediately broke her promise to make it an outdoor dog.

But in time they achieved a Platonic ménage a trois, and became so accepting of each other that Moira was able to put her underwear in with the other laundry for Benjamin to do; and Benjamin washed them without self-consciousness. She and Claude even threw their “cleanup” towels (“trick” towels as they are called in some circles) in with the regular laundry; and Benjamin washed them with only slight self-consciousness—along with a fair amount of olfactory and tactile curiosity.

—Incidentally, Benjamin’s journal for that year indicated that he masturbated one-hundred-and-forty-three times (or 2.75 times per week), give or take a wet dream.

—Coincidentally, that same journal revealed that Claude and Moira had sex one-hundred-and-forty-three times that year—apparently somewhat audibly from behind closed doors. Benjamin did not actually witness the act until the Boxing Day Party:

Boxing Day is a British tradition which comes on the first weekday after Christmas, and on which affluent types pass on their lovely and leftover gift boxes to service workers such as postmen—post-persons. In the (former) colonies, it’s just another excuse to give a holiday party. No one actually gives their lovely gift boxes to anyone—they wouldn’t take them anyway: probably be insulted, anyway, and screw up your mail for months.

Benjamin had set his own tradition by giving a Boxing Day party every year for six years running. The usual guests were fairly upset, then, when he missed last year because he was pretending to look for an apartment so Moira and Claude could have the house to themselves.

But this year, Claude and Moira badgered him until he agreed to have the party. They hoped it would “stir” something up in him, throw a little life into his dull routine, get him out of his lethargy, get him out of the house.

The former regulars who were not at the party are probably more relevant than those who were at the party:

Benjamin’s mother was not at the party. She was not at the party because she wouldn’t come without her husband, Benjamin’s non-recognized stepfather, who wouldn’t come because he despised Benjamin, who “wouldn’t invite that asshole if you paid me.” And “asshole’s” children weren’t there because, separately: the boy was too young and the girl hated Benjamin because she loved him and he couldn’t or wouldn’t requite.

Benjamin’s longtime and very dear prostitute-friend was not at the party. She wasn’t there because Benjamin couldn’t find her: Her phone had been disconnected and mail was returned, unforwardable.

Konrad was not there for obvious reasons.

None of the neighbors were there because Benjamin had never met any of his neighbors.

Benjamin’s French tutor wasn’t there because she was dead.

Who was there? Dancers, actors and assorted other oddball types left over from past situations and relations. Sixty-three in all, not counting the three hosts and the three musicians,

The trio was also a tradition at Benjamin’s Boxing Day party. Piano, flute and cello—a difficult combination because very little music has been written for such a group. Fortunately, the flutist was adept at adapting from other trios, so they had sufficient repertoire to last out the evening.

Benjamin always announced the first number—a piece actually written for piano, flute and cello—because he liked saying the composer’s name: “Baron Karl Maria Friedrich Ernst von Weber!”

The house supplied food and booze; the guests brought their own auxiliary drugs.

The’ usual stuff happened. People got high. People got drunk, People threw up. People threw people into the pool. Moira danced around the pool. Claude streaked. Benjamin insulted people. Someone put a cigarette out in the crystal candy dish. Someone set a wet glass down inside the grand piano. Someone blew somebody in the bathroom, while others waited in line outside the door. Someone fucked somebody on Benjamin’s bed and didn’t bother to tidy up when they were through. All in all, an average party.

Perhaps one of the reasons Benjamin, Claude and Moira had become and remained friends was they were all skilled at surviving, and thriving, at parties. They would frolic for hours with the gayest of abandon, but then along about two or three ayem, they would feel the need to talk, to discuss profound things, to argue.

The customary topics of all such late night encounters were theirs as well. Human rights, civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights were their usual starters, upon which they’d get their emotional fervor up for the personal honesties which would follow. The increasing intensity of these discussions was directly proportional to the rate of guest departures, so that by the time they got down to the nitty-gritty, they were usually the only ones left.

And so it was on this particular Boxing Day—the last guest went home during the following exchange:

“Goddamnit, don’t do that!” Benjamin shouted.

“Do what?” Claude asked.

“Tell me what a fucking word means. I’m a fucking writer! Remember?”

“But it does. I looked it up. Ambivalent means indecisive, wishy-washy.”

“Had you read further in the definition, or used a grown-up dictionary, Claude, you would have discovered that the actual meaning, the deep meaning, the true meaning, of ambivalence is the simultaneous attraction to, and repulsion from, something.”

“That’s indecision.”

“Indecision is indecision. Ambivalence is the advanced art of standing there helplessly as your soul is being ripped apart by a rampant dichotomy.”

“Still sounds like . . .

“For instance, the scene in that Warhol-Morrissey film where the mother throws her screaming baby out the window: Your spontaneous laugh at the comic relief of it is immediately overwhelmed by the tragic horror of it, and by your own guilt for laughing.”

“I didn’t laugh.”

“The hell you didn’t. Everybody did. And we were all torn by our ‘simultaneous attraction to and repulsion from.’

“Oh I get it, you mean like you crying over Konrad after you drove him away?”

“Cute.”

“Not fair, Claude,” Moira said.

“Bullshit.”

“It’s all right,” Benjamin said. “I don’t mind talking about Konrad, You’re the one who banished his name,”

“And perhaps we should leave it that way.”

“No, let’s exorcise it,” Claude suggested.

“It already is.”

“Oh really? Is that why you’ve been dating so much lately?”

“You think I should be promiscuous?”

“You don’t have to be a whore to play the field. Just sleep around moderately.”

“What if I prefer celibacy?”

“Do you?” Moira asked.

“Yes.”

“Bullshit! You’re just scared,” Claude said.

“Of what?”

“Getting hurt again.”

“Must you simplify everything? Well, perhaps you do. It was I who hurt him. It was I who used him. Not the other way around as you two like to think. It was convenient to have a lover. Didn’t have to go out looking; didn’t have to play that awful game, going through the pretense of sincerity in endless small talk that makes me want to puke. It was easy. It didn’t matter who was there in the bed. Anyone would’ve done. And Konrad, smart boy that he is, finally realized it. That’s why he had to leave.”

“Now you’re the one who’s oversimplifying. What you say may be partly true, but the fact remains that he did use you to get the part in your play. And he did start most of the fights you guys had—at least the ones we saw. And you did pine for him when he left you.”

“Pine?” Moira asked.

“Just because I missed him doesn’t mean that I really loved him. Habits are habits, after all.”

“Okay, Benjamin, have it your way.”

“Not my way, just the way it is.”

“Well, they do say that sexual frustration excites the writer’s genius,” Moira said.

“It doesn’t seem to have done so here.”

“Perhaps one needs to be reminded what it’s like in order to evoke the frustration,” Claude suggested.

“Does one forget?”

“It’s called atrophy.”

“I thought it was supposed to be like riding a bicycle.”

“Doesn’t help if you don’t have a bicycle.”

“Then you have to go out and get one.”

“The game. The pretense. The small talk. The—”

“All right! Let it shrivel up and fall off!”

“It already did.”

“Prove it.”

“I have to do the dishes.”

They did the dishes together, with Moira and Claude goading Benjamin, trying to get him back into an argument, but Benjamin wouldn’t even speak. It ended up with their tickling him until he got so mad he went to bed, leaving them to finish up the pots and pans.

He couldn’t see the clock, but it felt like hours later, when he stumbled out his door into the hallway and to the bathroom.

As he entered the game room, he heard a sound. His eyes had been mere slits till that moment, but the noise startled them to wide open and focused.

He saw two naked bodies on the game room floor: one male and one female; one Claude’s and the other Moira’s.

He watched with horrified fascination as these two naked bodies performed, in rapid succession, a menagerie of sexual feats, most of which he would’ve thought defied human capabilities, and some of which he was quite sure defied gravity. The tumbling act then came to an abrupt halt, with Claude lying on his back on the floor, his knees up, and with Moira straddling his head with her knees, one hand on his chest for balance and the other wrapped around his cock. She leaned down, making little popping noises with her lips as they neared their target, and she lowered herself until she was actually sitting right on Claude’s face. Claude let out a muffled whoop.

Benjamin gawked, unable to move.

It was at that moment that Claude started to sing! Up inside Moira! Benjamin thought it sounded very much like “Tiptoe Through the Tulips,” but he was sure it couldn’t have been: Claude detested puns.

Benjamin laughed. Out loud. Very loud.

Moira and Claude both looked up at him. And they started to laugh, too.

Benjamin ran to his room, slammed the door, locked the door.

He sat on the edge of his bed, and muttered to himself, over and over: “He was singing up her pussy. He really was.”

His bladder was still full—that great motivator—but he wasn’t about to go out there again. Maybe ever.

He found a pad and pen, and began to write a play about a man named Thom who was haunted by—driven crazy by!—his failures at love and by his ambivalent sexual desires.

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