January 1, 1987
I had such high hopes for this evening. For the first time, Maris invited me to her home. I'm ashamed to admit that I thought, for a moment, that she was asking me... well, that she was ready to consummate our relationship. Obviously a vain hope, when I look back on it - the woman allowed me to kiss her for the first time barely two months ago, did I really believe she was ready to take the relationship to the next level? - but, after all, we have been seeing each other for almost seven months now. And my humiliation knows no bounds as I am forced to relate that I actually went to the bookstore and bought a book on sexual technique. The Joy of Sex. (The echo of Betty Crocker in the title somehow made it seem less sordid than the rest.) I had to drive out of the city and several towns over before I could feel comfortable making the purchase, and even then I felt as if I might simply keel over from embarrassment as I presented my purchase to the (very) female cashier; if I'd been trafficking in nuclear weapons I could hardly have been more circumspect, or more ashamed. But I needed to do it. I can't let on to Maris, when we do finally make love for the first time, that I'm a virgin. She needs someone who's able to perform with skill and finesse in bed. Not some fumble-fingered terrified first-timer...
It was all useless, of course, because she had had nothing of the sort in mind when she invited me to her estate. I couldn't get over the place when I first stepped inside. Cavernous rooms. The most exquisite of Orientals in many of the rooms; in others the hardwood had been polished till it gleamed. Can you believe that she has three grand pianos scattered throughout the mansion? And she doesn't even play. Of course, I didn't exactly get a tour - I suppose that would have taken the better part of a year. But it was quite a walk from the front door to the sitting room, where we spent most of the night. I swear, that house spans several time zones.
As for what we did, I can't help but be rather disappointed. We watched the Times Square celebration on TV for most of the night. I sensed that Maris was excruciatingly bored - or perhaps that was transference of my own soporific ennui onto her. I felt that I should do something to entertain her, to be a better companion, but I didn't know what to do. She wasn't in the mood to talk, that was clear - well, but when is she ever in the mood to talk, exactly? That must be my fault as well. Surely a better conversationalist would be able to draw her out. And almost certainly a better psychiatrist would be able to break through that wall she's built around herself. Sometimes I'm alarmed by the degree to which I think of Maris in the same light as my patients. The only real difference is that she seems more severely damaged than any of them. There are times when I feel that this relationship is more like a project than an actual romantic connection. She's so damn needy. And as I think about it, that's one of the things I've always liked most about her. Maybe I should be seeing a psychiatrist myself.
But am I really considering throwing this relationship away simply because - because - because, oh, hell. I don't even know why I would think that, to be honest. I hadn't even realized I was considering it until I wrote it down. This woman cares for me. She's not very demonstrative, but I can feel it. And it is the only long-term relationship I have ever had. My thirtieth birthday is coming up next month. If I dump Maris, I will almost certainly spend the rest of my life alone. It's a miracle that any woman could care for me, let alone the absolute pinnacle of Seattle haut monde. My current confusion is very likely nothing more than the standard jitters which any man would feel upon embarking on a serious relationship for the first time in thirty years. I know I can get through to Maris, melt through that film of ice which encases her. Recently, Dad compared her to an ice sculpture. I was too furious to reply (it's not as if I would have introduced them in the first place if I could have helped it; he happened into Cafe Nervosa one time when we were together, and what was he doing there?) Maris is not an ice sculpture. I chose the word "film" very carefully. Underneath that thin skin of frigidity, there is a warm, passionate, loving woman. I'm sure of it. And if I can be the one to melt that layer of ice - if I can be the one to help her to experience the world wholly for the first time - then her heart will be mine, and I will have found myself a soulmate with whom I can share the rest of my life.