Anton Robert Krueger Anton Robert Krueger is a lecturer in the Department of English, Midrand Graduate Institute. He regularly contributes papers to international conferences on literature, philosophy and theatre. He has written and directed six plays in as many years and was nominated last year for an FNB Vita award for his Living in Strange Lands: the Testimony of Tsafendas. Besides appearing at venues all over South Africa, his work has also been staged in the US and Monaco and will also be seen this year at festivals in Chile and Venezuela. His short play In the Blue Beaker has been translated into German and Norwegian.

A Pure Intoxication

Anton Robert Krueger

Max Gibbon had less than three crumpled cigarettes in the back pocket of his jeans when he walked into the well-lit, mildly furnished room on the top floor of a building in Berea, where eleven people sat in a circle drinking coffee. They were all listening intently to a pimply man, lost somewhere between twenty and thirty-five, who was telling them all about his sex life. Max struck a match as he entered and inhaled.

“Good morning, Mr Gibbon.” Doctor Germaine Sutton extended a powdered hand as she stood up from her seat. “I’m afraid you’ll have to put that out - we have to consider the other people in here.”

Her voice was unerringly calm, light, and devoid of all emotion. Let’s be polite, thought Max, saying, “Do you mind if I finish it outside?”

“No, Mr Gibbon, I’m afraid that won’t do at all, you’re late enough as it is. Now stub it out at once and sit down.”

Any hesitation or aggression on her part, and Max might have buffed up, but her voice was so utterly tranquil, so completely assured, that he sank to the chair she indicated as a man hypnotised. Dr Sutton quietly removed the still dangling cigarette from his hand and, killing it softly underfoot, she addressed the generously bepimpled man who’d abruptly stopped talking when Max appeared.

“I’m sorry you were interrupted, Mr Goober,” she said. “Everyone - this is Maximilian Gibbon, and he’ll be with us for …” - she glanced down at her clipboard - “… three months.”

“Only three months,” sneered the pimply one derisively. “Can’t be much of an addict, can he?”

“Now, now,” soothed the doctor. “We’re not here to judge, we’re here to listen.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“However, we also need to keep the session moving, and we’ve been listening to you for well nigh on half an hour, Mr Goober. Why don’t we give somebody else the opportunity to share?”

“But,” he spluttered, “I haven’t gotten to the good bits yet!”

“Well, save something for next time. Thank you - next.”

Down went Mr Goober, and up went an alarmingly beautiful woman. Max quite forget his rudely confiscated cigarette as she stood up shyly.

“Sandra Varah is from Germiston,” said Dr Sutton by way of introduction, smoothing her dress over her knee. “Please begin.”

“Hello everyone,” said the beautiful woman sweetly, “my name is Sandra and I’m a sex addict.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the pockmarked person piped up, “aren’t we all.”

“That’s enough, Mr Goober!”

“I think I first realised there was something wrong with me when I was about … about sixteen.” She started off slowly, with many hesitations. “I think it was when I was taken on my first real date. I mean, I’d been with a lot of men, but this was the first, like, proper date.” And again she faltered.

“It’s alright,” encouraged Dr Sutton, “we’re all the same here, you don’t have to feel ashamed of anything.” The group murmured its consent, and Max Gibbon found himself murmuring too.

“Thank you,” said Sandra and brightened up a little. “He was a respectable person, not like the others I’d fu-, I mean, had sex with.” She looked around sheepishly, brushing her long hair from her eyes. Alarmingly Beautiful. “He was a really nice, decent sort of person; I think he was a student or something. I was thinking, wow - this great guy wants to ask me out! Nobody had ever asked me anywhere before. So anyway, we had dinner somewhere and it was really, really lovely. He was so sweet and I felt like somebody important, for probably the first time in my life. It was amazing, like another world ... and that was the problem, we were from different worlds. How was I to know he’d never even kissed a girl before? I was feeling all wonderful and bubbly and everything, and in the car, I remember, on the way back to my parents’ house, I wanted to show him how much I appreciated the dinner and him treating me so nicely, like a woman, not like a schoolgirl, and I was feeling so great. I didn’t give him any warning, didn’t even put my hand on his leg or give him a kiss or anything. I was so hot I went straight for his zip, unzipping with the left hand and moving in with the right.”

A chuckle of conspiratorial acknowledgement came from the group and Sandra looked down.

“How did he react, Sandra?” said Dr Sutton softly. “Oh,” Sandra sighed. “He didn’t take it too well.” There was another awkward pause, but before the good doctor could probe any further, Sandra finished her story. “He was quite upset, and I also got upset and I didn’t see him again after that. Anyway, that’s when I realised I might be different.” And she quickly sat down again.

And that’s how the meeting progressed, with each person taking a turn at telling of some or other act of indiscretion in more or less lurid detail. Some spoke briefly and others carried on and on, but Max Gibbon heard no more. His thoughts had been entranced by the alarmingly beautiful woman with the glittering eyes. How sad she’d looked at the end of her story. He wondered what had happened to her. He had to speak to her. So Max sat through all the other accounts impatiently, waiting for the end of the meeting. It was surprising how uninteresting all these tales and talk of sexual deeds and misdemeanours became once the initial novelty of hearing strangers speak of such things had quite worn off.

And then, finally, after everyone had testified, once each of them had exposed and expunged and expanded on their dirty laundry, they were invited to eat some donuts and to get to know each other on a somewhat more informal level. Of the six people that remained, four ended up speaking politely to Dr Sutton about rising crime and falling exchange rates. The fifth, Sandra Varah, sat quietly reading a book. And what was Max doing there? What did he want? Just to talk to her, that was all. Just talk.

Max Gibbon thought she might be waiting for someone, so he wasted no time. At first he sat a few seats away from her, sipping his coffee casually and pretending to listen to the discussion going on about which sort of gear-lock was best. Occasionally, he tried to establish eye contact with the alarmingly beautiful woman, but she kept her head buried in her book, so he was forced into a more direct line of action. He attempted to strike a jovial tone. “Hi,” he said to her, “how long are you in for?” She didn’t look up, but he wouldn’t give up. Instead, he moved closer. “I said ‘Hi’,” he said, “How long are you in for?” She couldn’t avoid him this time.

“I’m sorry?”

“How long do you have to keep coming here?”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” She seemed annoyed.

“But I thought this programme was for, I don’t know, offenders, and that sort of thing.”

“Not all of us,” said Sandra, “it’s also voluntary.”

“Oh.”

And Sandra went back to her book.

Their relationship to each other rearranged itself. They were clearly not on the same level. Max, stumped, sat back. Why had he tried anything at all? What was he doing here? Intimidated by her, he was forced to reconsider his motives, and yet, why was it that just speaking to her had invigorated his senses, opened his pores, and altered him in some way? For instance, he felt his sense of smell heightened, everything seemed very clear. But no, he’d try nothing. He’d never meant to in the first place. And Gibbon got up to go.

While waiting for the lift to arrive, Max saw the alarmingly beautiful woman speaking to Dr Sutton at the door of the room before also coming out to the elevators. The doctor went back inside and now Sandra stood next to him. Max Gibbon stiffened. However, far from ignoring him, as he’d expected her to, she greeted him. “Hi. Listen, sorry if I seemed rude in there, but you shouldn’t be so easily offended.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you know what I mean?”

“I was only being polite.”

“You were only trying to pick me up.”

“What?”

“Which would not have been a good idea under the circumstances, considering the reasons why we’re here in the first place.”

“Well you could have been more polite.”

“On the other hand, if you do want to ‘pick me up’, there’s no reason to be polite at all. You heard my story. There’s no need for subtleties with me, you know. You just need to choose the right moment, that’s all.”

The lift arrived and Gibbon hesitated before stepping in behind her.

“Do you want me to, uh … pick you up, so to speak?” he stammered as the lift sailed down the shaft. Sandra stayed unnervingly silent. In the interminable seconds that passed, a doubtful Max wondered whether or not he had just been made a fool of, but before they reached the ground floor, she suddenly spoke. “It’s been a long session,” she said, “Would you like to come over to my place for a bit of a … coffee?”

Gibbon regarded her with suspicion, but Sandra was already striding out ahead of him by the time Max managed to muster a cautious “okay”. He stepped out of the lift as nonchalantly as possible, but couldn’t quite fake it.

Sandra Varah’s place was cool and green. As soon as she walked into her lounge, she took off her shoes and stretched out on a jade-coloured couch. Max trailed into the room after her, sweating slightly. “Would you make the coffee?” she said, “I’m too tired.”

And Max wordlessly entered her marine theme kitchen. He was used to being in strange kitchens in peculiar situations, though this immediate sense of ease on her part made him feel, well, uneasy. It was all wrong. None of the preambles, nothing unnecessary - this was a woman who got straight to the point. Max could hear soft music coming from the lounge. He thought to himself that it wouldn’t surprise him to find Sandra lying in the lounge in something altogether lacy. No, it wouldn’t surprise him at all, but why did the idea unsettle him so? In all his conquests, the very thing which had made them conquests, was the fact that he had always been entirely in control of the situation. He always knew exactly the sort of things to say and lies to tell to get a girl to where he wanted her. He always knew which move to make. But now everything was different.

When Max Gibbon thought Sandra might be lying there in very little, he was quite mistaken, since when he walked into that lounge it was only to find her lying gracefully sideways, wearing nothing at all.

“Let’s see what you’re made of, Mr Gibbon,” said the astonishingly gorgeous body of the alarmingly beautiful woman on the couch. “Let’s give the coffee time to cool.”

Though this sort of scene may well have been the subject of many of Max’s fantasies, actually confronting a naked woman on a couch was something altogether different to scenes his imagination regularly supplied when he was out banging far less attractive creations than this one.

“Uh ...,” he stammered, “are you sure this is a good idea? What about the group and the … uh …”

“Come on … We’ve only just started, and there’s still a lot to learn. Do you want to or not?”

No woman had ever challenged Max to sex before. He stepped awkwardly out of his clothes ... and half an hour later he stepped gracelessly back into them again.

“Don’t you want to keep trying?” smiled Sandra.

“Uh ... love to, but …”

“You have to go.”

“I have to go.”

“I see.”

“Actually I’m meeting another woman, if you must know.”

(It was the only way Max knew to maintain his rapidly failing dignity.)

“So I’ll see you at the session next week?”

“Right you are,” said Max, and fled.

Max had phoned Dr Sutton the day before the meeting the following week to say that he was ill and unfortunately unable to attend. But what was he doing then, driving to Berea with sweaty palms? And why did it come as a surprise to find himself so disappointed when Sandra wasn’t there? Why did relief not wash away regret? Still, he wondered as casually as he could admit to himself about whether or not he should go around to her place after the meeting, and whether or not he would be welcome. Max was troubled by these thoughts throughout the session.

The therapy turned out much the same as the week before, and they were now also expected to deliver some commentary on each other’s unusual sex lives, which worked quite well for the most part, most of the participants offering sensitive, sincere advice garnered from years of toil in the hard school of experience. In fact, all of them handled it very well. All except the perpetually pimply man, who, when his turn came, would inevitably come up with some or other demeaning quip such as, “Five? My man, I’ve been in a situation where …”

Dr Sutton tried being patient, she tried being polite, but the spotted man tried harder, and eventually she was forced to the point of acknowledging once and for all that Mr Goober’s needs stood in direct contradiction to the needs of the group. And with as little fuss as possible she sent him on his way, writing “incurable” on his form, and advising him - in a personal capacity - to try his best to cultivate, in his spare hours, an interest in religion. And with that, the meeting was over.

Max stood in front of the lift feeling heavier than usual. What should he do? he wondered. Should he drive by her house, or what? As it turned out, he didn’t have to make the decision, because when the doors of the lift slid open, there she was - Cassandra - in light green eye shadow. “Hi,” she said, “wait for me,” before walking briskly past him and into the room, where he saw her talking to Dr Sutton. Max Gibbon waited elatedly at the elevator, unable to suppress the spread of the smile he felt sure must be making him look quite ridiculous. And then Sandra was back.

“Hi Max, sorry, had to apologise to Germaine, car battery flat. So, how are you? What’s with the grin?”

“It’s good to see you.”

“Good.”

And she took him home. It went better this time. He wasn’t up to his usual form yet. No, not by a long shot, but at least he gave her a bit of a go. “Thank you Max, it was wonderful,” she said when it was over. Though he knew it could have been better, Max felt that they’d at least laid some foundation for further exploration. They had at least breached the circles of their own confines and had intersected, somehow, had met somewhere in a space shared by only the two of them.

And it wasn’t long before her confidence won him over, and he felt sufficiently at ease to allow her full control of their sexual time together. And over the next three months their intimacy deepened, overlapped. They revelled together in this secret disease, this hidden, and most delightful of curses.

Max would go to the therapy sessions in Berea, where he’d learn that one should be supremely cautious within all kinds of sexual situations, that one had to follow the rules, abide by the programme, work through the seven steps. He’d write it all down, he’d study the statistics, make meaningful remarks. And then afterwards he’d go to Sandra’s place for a good many hours of wall-to-wall sex.

They spoke, eventually, about their obsession with sex, about their fears that they’d never be able to settle down with a permanent partner, about their loneliness. Sometimes they didn’t care, and then the sex was particularly good, but as week followed week, and month followed month, it became more than just sex for Max, and he found himself thinking increasingly that here was someone of his own ilk, someone who understood him, and whom he could understand. He found his other perpetual affairs and liaisons slowly tapering off, having become dulled by the endless, mundane, repetitive actions casual sex elicited, but constantly amazed at the new sensations which she inspired in him. Senseless sex with strangers seemed inane now, now that he wanted only her - Cassandra. Though he saw her only once a week, she crept into his dreams, she slid into his sleep. And he thought about her constantly.

It was only towards the end of Max’s three months of therapy that Sandra turned to him in bed after a particularly poignant encounter and said softly, “I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely honest, Max.” Max, drawing deeply on a cigarette, half expected to hear an admission of love, of affection, confirmation of the fact that it was not only their bodies, their flesh, that had been meeting here each Thursday afternoon. He had been thinking along precisely these lines himself and was ready to devote his very life to her.

And yet, Max harboured a vague premonition that she might be speaking of something entirely different. Perhaps she was breaking it off. Max panicked.

“I’m not from Germiston,” she began, and Max was relieved. It wasn’t going to be an emotional issue after all. What followed would most probably be another story about her past, the quiet confessions lovers are wont to make; an indication of a growing closeness between them, which was surely a good thing. He remained unconcerned, even when she said, “I hope this won’t upset you too much.” But when she said what she said next, he sat bolt upright, spilling ash onto the bed.

“I have a grant from the Kinsey Institute of Sexuality, and I’m out here doing research,” is what she said. And as she said it, Max detected vague strains of what he thought might be an American accent floating beneath her otherwise neutral tone. And a “what?” lodged itself in his throat.

“I’ll be joining another group in Cape Town tomorrow morning, so I’m afraid that this is the last time we’ll be seeing each other.”

Max felt the corners of his eyes itch. His forehead felt strange.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about it before, but it was necessary to keep you in the dark for a while, to authenticate the results of the experiment.”

“Experiment?”

“You’ll be paid, of course, for your contribution. Germaine and I both think you’ve responded fabulously ... and been really helpful on top of it. We’ve tried to arrange a little something extra for you.”

Max couldn’t stop himself from automatically mumbling, “Thank you,” as his fumbling fingers accepted the brown envelope rustling with money. He wanted to speak, but no sound came out. “Now I’ve recorded all of our sessions here. If you look closely, you’ll see a tiny camera lens in the corner there. Of course, it’s up to you if we can actually use this material. I do hope you’ll let us, though; some very interesting things came out between us. And you’ll be well rewarded, of course.” Then she smiled, “As if you haven’t already been rewarded enough.” And she nudged him in his suddenly conspicuously naked ribs.

Max wanted to protest, wanted to tell her it wasn’t like that at all, that this had been different, that he loved her, but all he managed was a somewhat strained whimper. Sandra reached under the bed and pulled out a clipboard similar to the one Dr Germaine Sutton used.

“Here are some things you need to take a look at,” she said. “If you agree to participate, there are some details we need to get from you, and some other forms you need to sign.”

“What’s your real name?” Max Gibbon gasped at last.

“Oh Max, you know I can’t tell you that. Our relationship has been purely professional and I’d like to keep it that way. I’m a married woman, I can’t have you running after me, trying to track me down like some sex-crazed maniac, you know.”

“Don’t you care about me? What about …”

“Surely you of all people know it’s possible to separate sex from emotion? It’s society I care about, and it’s been necessary to go through with this for the sake of others, and for the sake of furthering our knowledge about human behaviour. It’d be really petty of you to start worrying now about your own personal feelings - no, no, no. You of all people. I thought we could rely on your neutrality. You seemed the perfect subject. Please don’t tell me that we misjudged you and that you’re honestly affected by any of this. Come on Max, I know your history. What on earth were you expecting of me?”

“Oh Sandra, but I … I …”

And somehow Max knew that the rest of his life was going to turn out quite differently from what he could ever have imagined it to be.

boontoe

© Kopiereg in die ontwerp en inhoud van hierdie webruimte behoort aan LitNet, uitgesluit die kopiereg in bydraes wat berus by die outeurs wat sodanige bydraes verskaf. LitNet streef na die plasing van oorspronklike materiaal en na die oop en onbeperkte uitruil van idees en menings. Die menings van bydraers tot hierdie werftuiste is dus hul eie en weerspieël nie noodwendig die mening van die redaksie en bestuur van LitNet nie. LitNet kan ongelukkig ook nie waarborg dat hierdie diens ononderbroke of foutloos sal wees nie en gebruikers wat steun op inligting wat hier verskaf word, doen dit op hul eie risiko. Media24, M-Web, Ligitprops 3042 BK en die bestuur en redaksie van LitNet aanvaar derhalwe geen aanspreeklikheid vir enige regstreekse of onregstreekse verlies of skade wat uit sodanige bydraes of die verskaffing van hierdie diens spruit nie. LitNet is ’n onafhanklike joernaal op die Internet, en word as gesamentlike onderneming deur Ligitprops 3042 BK en Media24 bedryf.