Rameau's Niece

So there, Edward, she thought. You see, pleasure is a state of the soul. And to each man, that which he is said to be a lover of is pleasant. Are you pleasant to me, Dr. Lipi? As pleasant as Lily was to Edward?

She continued to stare at him, speechless and without any thought of what to do next, or even that there was a next. He looked back at her, and for a moment she thought he would begin to explain to her what they were about to do, with special emphasis on the role of teeth in foreplay. But all he said was, "Margaret, you understand me."

You? she thought. What do you have to do with it? It's not you I'm trying to understand.

He reached out and held her arm tightly. He took her other arm too and pulled her up. He was standing so close to the couch, to her, that she had no room to stand, no way to keep her balance. She felt his chest against her, the gym shorts hard against her. She tipped and fell back onto the couch. He stepped back and pulled her to him again.

Margaret, her face pressed against his smooth cheek, thought, Perception must be in some degree an effect of the object perceived. The object perceived is hard and muscular. The object's hands are pressing into my back. He is rolling slightly, rolling his hips, backward and forward.

He pulled off his own shirt and unbuttoned hers. His hands were on her breasts. Her flesh against his flesh. He was kissing her neck. He kissed her on the lips. This was no longer a reflection in a mirror, not a copy of which she could have only an opinion but not knowledge. This was an actual form, of which she could have knowledge.

Slipping her hand beneath the elastic waistband in the front of his shorts and running it admiringly over the form inside—a gesture to the activity of clarification—Margaret gained knowledge of it, gasped, and bit her lip.

The soul is like an eye; when resting upon that on which truth and being shine, the soul perceives and understands, and is radiant with intelligence.

But then, like an unexpected cold, damp breeze, a sudden quiver of revulsion passed through her. Dr. Lipi? Connoisseur of the curve of the lower dental arch? A droning stranger who now had his strange arms around her? What was she doing? What could she have been thinking of?

When resting not on the truth, but on a mere copy of the truth, the soul goes blinking about, and is first of one opinion and then another, and seems to have no intelligence.

So this is probably not truth, Margaret thought, pressing her lips to his neck, running her hands over his back. It can't be, can it? Pleasure, yes. But also the distinct opposite of pleasure. I hardly know this man. He's my dentist, not my lover. I am disgusted, actually, with this absurd man who has wrapped himself around me, not without encouragement, I admit, but still—if I am disgusted, and I am, then Dr. Lipi, logically speaking, cannot be the only thing desirable, can he? He cannot be truth.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lipi." She stepped away.

Fool, she thought, looking at him in all his considerable glory. Margaret, you're a fool. Who cares if he's an idiot? And a stranger? Men sleep with idiots and strangers all the time. Yes, but I'm not a man. If Edward wants to sleep with nubile idiots with long silky hair and nearly middle-aged former-lesbian idiots with short black, tousled hair, that's his problem. Dr. Lipi, Dr. Lipi, if only the reality of you had not interfered with the idea of you, the idea of you as mere physical being. You are a mere shadow of yourself, Dr. Lipi.

"Margaret, what's wrong?" He put his hand gently on her face and stroked her cheek. "Don't clench your jaw, darling," he whispered. "Your lovely jaw."

His voice startled her. He stood before her, magnificent and now quite naked, his clothes in a puddle at his tanned feet. Oh, fool, fool. Look at this gorgeous creature, as beautiful as any statue, a man of truly heroic proportions. But statues, bless them, do not speak. And Dr. Lipi does speak. And when Dr. Lipi speaks, I remember that he and not just his perfect body and overcharged eyes exists. I remember that Dr. Lipi's personality is one of his parts.

"Margaret," he said, taking her hands and putting them on his flat stomach, then pushing them down, and then down some more.

On the other hand, she thought, "Dr. Lipi," after all, is just a name, a linguistic convenience. There is no Dr. Lipi over and above his various parts, and Margaret contemplated his various parts with increasing interest and enthusiasm.

This is not real, she thought finally. This is just an illusion of perfection. But what an illusion! She held the illusion. Dr. Lipi's hands were pushing down her jeans. The illusion was pushed between her legs.

"This is just an illusion," she said.

"Yes. It's all a wonderful dream."





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