The Sportin' Life (4 page)

Liana once asked me if I had any fantasies and I had to say that no, not really, and that was because I had lived most of my fantasies out. I told her about the time I was in Vegas for a business meeting and my boss and I were out on the town drinking. He was this older, married guy, poor slob, and this was his once chance for some glory. We were hitting all the bars and strip joints, and really I was acting as his guide, his mentor, someone who knew the ropes in the singles
’
scene, although in actual fact I would never frequent places like that looking for women because there are so many available in all normal walks of life.

Anyway, I guess he kind of envied me because I was footloose and fancy free and everything that he was not. We went into this one strip joint and sat down at a table to watch the dancers. We ordered drinks and I could see that this was his fantasy, although I was really a little bored. It
’
s a bit tawdry, that scene.

The girls were doing their thing and he was watching them with an appreciation that I usually reserve for a fine brandy. We laughed and talked and had a little non-threatening, non-professional male bonding. The one girl in the center was rather spectacular. She was tiny and lithe, with long, curly platinum hair and the most amazing set of fake breasts I had ever seen, if you like that sort of thing. She seemed to be dancing straight at us, and that turned my boss on even more.

After she finished her set, she disappeared backstage for a moment and then reappeared in a flimsy dress or robe or cover-up of some kind and slithered over to our table and sat down. She wanted me, it was clear, and I knew how impressed my boss was by this fact. I was flattered too. Later we went back to the hotel and she spent the night with me in my room. The sex was in no way astonishing but the whole logistics of the scene were a major turn on.

The next day we were due to fly home, and I packed to go, ordering her steak and eggs from room service. I grabbed my bag and met my boss so we could head for the parking lot together. There we saw the girl coming in our direction. What was her name
—
something woodsy like Fauna or exotic like Sirena
—
and my boss tensed. I know he thought I had gotten smitten and was bringing her back with me. Actually, she had just wanted to catch up and say good-bye and to thank me for the night.

I love one night stands in faraway places. You can develop just the right degree of intimacy and feel relaxed and secure because you know you
’
ll never see the girl again. That was one of my favorites, because of the cachet of the situation and because it impressed my boss so much it resulted in a promotion. Somebody has to do the living for these poor slobs who are so tied up in domesticity that they don
’
t have an inch in which to breathe.

Liana was amused by the story, I know. I loved telling my tales of conquest to her, for she
’
d laugh and enjoy them as much as any guy, maybe even more, because Liana didn
’
t feel competitive with me the way a lot of guys I know do. It
’
s funny that I
’
m remembering Liana now, for it has been years since I
’
ve seen her and she
’
s 3,000 miles away.

Memories are the strangest thing in the whole human condition. I love my own memories more than almost anything in my life. I can look back through the pages of this mental scrapbook and recall in intimate detail all the special moments, all that I
’
ve shared and experienced, and it
’
s better in recollection sometimes than it was in fact because I can edit out all the disappointments, the recriminations, the dismal scenes of departure and the accusations made by women who wanted too much, too soon, and were threatening to choke the life out of my very soul.

In many way, Liana was the most compatible woman I
’
ve ever dated. I might have married Liana. I thought about marrying Liana every time I was with her, but of course I think about marrying them all, and that
’
s probably what has saved me so far from marrying anyone. I loved Liana
’
s apartment, not because it was spectacular in any way really, which it wasn
’
t at all, because I
’
ve been in much more luxurious, more well-appointed places owned by truly wealthy women, which Liana was not. Her place was comfortable and I always felt at home there, almost more at home than anywhere else I
’
ve been, including my childhood home and my own places.

There were cold cuts and beer in the refrigerator, which Liana kept there for me, and I felt at ease about it all. I never felt like a guest but like a pampered, beloved treasure in Liana
’
s life. Normally, such extravagance of emotion would make me uncomfortable, and perhaps ultimately it did, but while I was there it was like the best vacation I ever had.

Liana was beautiful. She had this elegant, perfect face, with each angle and plane sculpted thoughtfully and subtly. Even in a pony tail with no makeup Liana looked beautiful. Once I watched her do her makeup
—
I love that sort of thing
—
the intimacy of women and observing them in all their rituals. All she did was put on mascara and a touch of rouge. I have seen many women do their faces, and I like to think of myself as knowledgeable and sophisticated in those areas. So I asked her wasn
’
t she going to make cheekbones. And Liana laughed at me and replied,
“
Honey! Only God can make a cheekbone!
”

Liana often laughed at me as though she were witnessing some amusing cartoon about masculine foibles. Well, I pointed out to her that you can put a darker shading in the middle of your cheek and that creates cheekbones. It turned out that she knew all about this technique, but she explained to me that she already had cheekbones of her own and didn
’
t usually bother with much makeup.
“
I like my face pretty much the way it is,
”
she said.

I liked it too, although I have to say that I can be very susceptible to women with more feminine artifice than Liana, who seemed to have none at all. She took being a woman for granted and didn
’
t even act as though there were all that much difference between men and women. Maybe that was because she enjoyed the company of men so much, I don
’
t know. No matter how soft and curvy and feminine she seemed, it didn
’
t matter, for she had the sort of keen intelligence that required you to take her as seriously as any man, despite her killer looks and seductively long hair.

The real thing about Liana was her eyes. Even now I can
’
t quite decide the color, although the vision of her face is as clear to me as if we had just been together and not as time and dozens of other women
’
s faces have intervened. They were blue eyes, or gray, or green, I don
’
t know, but they were wide and clear as the ocean and they contained this light that I have never seen anywhere else
—
knowing, aware, keen, intelligent, yet open and unafraid and filled with affection, willingness and ultimately love and approval.

Women always try to be sexy around me, and I really don
’
t know why that is, but as the cliché goes, if it ain
’
t broke, don
’
t fix it. That
’
s one of my favorite things about them. Liana never had to try to be sexy
—
she was too natural for that. She was never shy about reaching for me or letting me see how much I turned her on. Even after I left her, I
’
d lie in bed and remember how sexy she was and year for her lips, her body, her company. Sometimes I just wanted to hear her voice, because Liana had the sexiest voice, so soft and clear and precise. I would dial her number then and wait for her to answer, hoping to get her machine so I could listen to the whole speech she
’
d recorded. If she answered, I got to hear her say hello a few times before the connection was broken.

In fact, once I commented to her about her voice, and she laughed at me the way she always did and replied,
“
I know. I have a voice that can give a guy a hard-on over the phone.
”
She was right. Somehow I thought she didn
’
t know that, but the thing about Liana was that she always knew what was going on. She knew what she was all about and nothing about it embarrassed her. That seemed a little sinful to me somehow.

I keep my cards a lot closer to my vest than Liana ever did, and perhaps it was ultimately her openness that made me leave her. I don
’
t know. I never really know why I leave them, only that I feel a sense that it is time to move on and there is always another pair of arms, lips, breasts, to lure me away. What was it that she said that time? I know
—
we were sitting on a blanket in
Central Park
one day and she was talking about the beach.
“
Pretend we
’
re at the beach,
”
she sighed,
“
lying in the sand. I love to lie in the sand because I can wriggle down into it, making it curve to fit against my body.
”
I feel that way too, and maybe everyone does, but it seems somehow in bad taste to say it, and I communicated that fact to Liana. There was heat and imagination in her eyes as she looked at me and laughed as usual.

It was that heat, that willingness to realize and express her responses to the various forces of life and the desire to enjoy every one without apology that got to me. It
’
s one thing to be open during sex, and I am in no way a prude, as hundreds of women would no doubt tell you, but I like to maintain a certain degree of circumspection, and Liana never cared at all what anyone thought about anything. I could just see her confiding this fantasy to my boss while he blushed and harbored thoughts of disappearing with Liana to some island paradise where they could wriggle orgasmically in the sand together.

In may ways, my memories of Liana are pretty amusing, for I remember her as a hot, wild babe, and I bet that although she would love that description of her, no one else on the planet would perceive it in her, because she was subtle and in no way did she dress like a hot babe. I look around now at all these
California
women and Liana would be rather prim and understated compared to them. No
—
it wasn
’
t over sexuality or exhibitionism that she represented but rather freedom to respond honestly and sometimes that scared me.

Everyone I ever introduced her to, including members of my family, who
’
ve seen me with the whole parade of women through the years, adored Liana. They made a point of telling me how much they liked her, how intelligent she was, how savvy, how funny, how delightful. And then they
’
d say something like,
“
Where did
you
meet
her
,
”
as though I was some poor slob who
’
d happened on this treasure that in no way did I deserve. To this day they shake their heads in dismay if I should reminisce about her to them, as if I let my one shot at happiness get away, as if she gave me the heave-ho instead of the reverse.

I think it was the socks that finally did it. Liana insisted on wearing these sweat socks to sleep. Sometimes she
’
d sleep naked, and sometimes in some silky thing she
’
d put on for my amusement, but always those socks. At first she left them on to make love, but when I complained, she lay them on the floor beside the bed and pull them on after we
’
d finished. She said she couldn
’
t sleep with cold feet. I just thought it was tacky and kept after her about it. Finally she said,
“
Honey if you want to suck on my toes, just say so and I
’
ll leave them off.
”
She knew I didn
’
t want to suck on her toes, and I knew it too. But I could see her making an off-color comment like that in public if that was where we happened to be when I was teasing her about the socks. I just didn
’
t care for the image.

By that time I had met Paula and had been seeing her on off nights when I wasn
’
t with Liana, so I drifted away as I usually do. I like to stagger my women, so that when I leave one, there is usually another to take up the slack. Actually, I don
’
t go out of my way to do it, but that
’
s the way it just works out. Things were different then
—
a lot less complicated and a lot more romantic. You could meet a woman and spend the night with her all in the same day without exchanging sexual resumes or medical reports. Being single now is much harder. Even if I wanted to remember each encounter I
’
ve had, it would probably be impossible. I didn
’
t get my first computer until
‘
85.