August 8th, 2022 - A Duet

Dear TNY,

This Monday finds me near the end of this long road trip I’ve been on for more than two months, and I just read “A Duet”.

I was initially reminded of something that my youngest son (recently turned 13!) said about the movie Nope.  He said, “You know what was good about that movie, Dad?  They didn’t explain anything.  They didn’t say why the thing was happening.  They didn’t say where it came from.  Or if there were more.  Or anything.  They just trusted that we would go along.  I like that.”  So we had a conversation about that and literature, most notably including “The Metamorphosis”. 

My son, he’s a smart feller. 

This story?  It doesn’t understand that fucking concept at all.  Like, stop.  Stop fucking talking about everything.  I don’t need all the boys’ school shit.  I don’t even need the fucking Cuban Missile Crisis.

More on the CMC.  Who fucking cares about this shit?  Like, who is fucking reading literature right now for a greater understanding of what it was like to be a boy during the CMC.  Fuck the fuck off.  It’s fucking nonsense.  How fucking dated is that shit?  This didn’t add a goddamn thing to that conversation.

Anyway, most of this story was just fluff.  Anytime the author would crack his knuckles and start to impress us with his bullshittery, I skimmed.  Because it’s fucking irrelevant.  This shit was more than 8500 words.  Dumb.

Now, let’s talk about sex. A touchy subject to wade into, indeed. 

I’ll start with something positive. The following passage could admittedly be compressed, but this ideal, the farce, this fucking made up civility, is spot fucking on. Humanity, get it together. LET’S FUCKING ORGY ALREADY.

It seemed as if he had been shown a hidden fold in space where there was a catch, a fastener, and that as he released it and peeled away the illusory everyday he saw what had always been there. Their roles—teacher, pupil—the order and self-importance of school, timetables, bikes, cars, clothes, even words: all of it a diversion to keep everyone from this. It was either hilarious or it was tragic that people should go about their daily business in the conventional way when they knew there was this. Even the headmaster, who had a son and a daughter, must know. Even the Queen. Every adult knew. What a façade. What pretense.

Goddamn. That’s what’s up.

And now, for some…conflict? What happened to the MC was one of my fantasies growing up. I think a lot of boys’ fantasies (and I’ve asked a lot of adult men; don’t ask me why). I wished that a teacher would have taken a liking and we’d have done some sexy time stuff.  Now, with a child’s imagination, that makes a certain amount of sense.  It lacks wisdom so it cannot see the pitfalls.  But as an adult, whom that did not happen to (sadly, Mrs. Sterling, third grade was too young for us all, but my heart still swells for you), even with that wisdom there’s still a kernel of me that wishes that would have happened to me.  Now, is that wrong?  To imagine it did? No. Is it wrong that it happens out there to real people? Yes. Was it wrong that it happened in this story?  It was wrong of that teacher. The MC admitted to baggage years later because of her actions.  But, here’s a counterargument of sorts:  Who out there doesn’t have a fucked up sex life, with or without your piano teacher taking your virginity? I sure fucking do. And I think there’s so many fucking others that do too. Late bloomers, early starters, sex shamers, shy and afraid, don’t give a fuck and open, used, unused, humiliated, not humiliated, etc.  Now, with this counterargument, I’m not saying we should touch kids because we are all fucked anyway. That’s dumb. I’m also not speaking about anyone but me when I say that maybe it should have happened (it should not happen in the world (to anyone but me, if it did happen); but the part of the counterargument I think still stands is that I do feel like the US, in particular, is fucking repressed as hell because of fucked up sex trauma, no matter where it came from (fuck you, religion; Jesus wanked with olive oil while eating Mary M’s hairy asshole like a fucking aardvark on ants!)).  I do not condone adults touching kids.  I don’t think that’s good.  There’s a whole host of trauma there. Likely unresolvable.  Hell, I have sons of this age and I would be beyond outraged if it happened to them.

What I’m saying is sex is complicated and fucked up and we almost all (if not all) get broken in that arena. And what I’m also saying is that I don’t know a lot of adult males that haven’t expressed the wish that this had happened to them. And I know a lot of women that have expressed a “rape fantasy” would be desirable as well.  That’s something to pay attention to. There’s something up in our psyche, “our” being adults (and young people as well, let’s be honest), men and women, that makes us think about the things we shouldn’t want or have.  That’s all I’m saying.  Do they need to happen? No way, Jose. Not of that magnitude, anyway. But I’m saying this shit is up there and should be recognized. Does it mean anything? I don’t fucking know. I’m just as fucked up as everyone else. I’m a writer for chrissakes; I shouldn’t be trusted.

So, does the author kind of explore that?  Sure.  But he just shit all over the experience at the end. Dismissed it as trauma outright.

And yet, my father was 11 when he lost his virginity to the 17 year old babysitter and loved to tell the story. No apparent trauma (my mother likely would say otherwise).  But, devil’s advocate, some of his last words were, “I’ve seen more pussy than a toilet seat.”  So take that for what you will.

Maybe what I’m saying is that content-wise, there is contention covered by the author.  Maybe.  But the contention is two part.  First, he wants it bad.  And second, years later, he regrets it.  What I’m saying about that is I don’t believe that he didn’t jerk to that incident for the rest of his life, in secret desire, in the dark, not every day, but every so often, maybe sometimes years apart.  I’m saying this story lacks that kind of contention.  Like, I read a story once in which the female character was pissed at her vagina for being so wet when she was being raped.  That kind of fucking contention. That seems human to me. Real to me. Also, horrible. 

I don’t think it’s as simple as “I want it” and “I don’t want it anymore and wish it never happened”. I just don’t think humans are that simple. Nor do we have that much command over our psyche. I think it’s really fucking nuanced, and complicated, and especially inside the experience of the person it’s happening to and happened to, they may not even fucking understand what they feel or why they feel it. And this story felt like it was black and then white, and never grey. And with regard to not being sure of things, black or white, I’m not even talking about sex when I say that. Life seems to be a series episodes in which the mind fucks us with its wants and not wants. If life was as black and white as this felt, it would be easy.

And maybe I’m just jealous of this MC (which this has got to be fucking autofiction, so the author is who I’m jealous of). I’m not too blind to see that.

I don’t fucking know man. Sometimes, when you are a kid or an adult, you just want someone to fucking touch you and you figure you can deal with the consequences later. And you know what? You can’t. And you can. And you can’t. And you can.

Who fucking knows anything.

Anyway, the story was too long.  By thousands of words.

And now I’m afraid I sound like some kind of rapist pervert.  I hope I’m not, sheesh. But, spoiler alert:  I think everyone’s a fucking pervert (not rapist) and they live these secret fucking lives and if they ever slip up and let that shit out they get shamed by other shy perverts and most people end up sexually repressed, judgy douches.

Well, here’s to hoping I don’t get cancelled.

Nick