There's a cute little art gallery in our town which my wife and I visit occasionally whenever there's a wine-and-cheese exhibit opening, usually featuring a local artist. The owner is an attractive, middle-aged woman - herself an artist - who is a prominent member of the town's lesbian community. Since my wife is an arch-feminist, she loves to spend time chatting with the artist-owner's circle of friends with whom she has a lot in common on the issues of the role of women in today's society. I sometimes feel a very left out as I roam the exhibit alone while the wife engages in animated conversation with a sort of coven of man-hating harpies, who seem to smugly and privately comment on others in attendance at the gallery. I always imagine that they are making snide observations, either about the men, whom they find pathetic and laughable - or straight couples, about whom they whisper criticisms that reflect their alternate sexuality.
On this many suchoccasions, i spent some time glancing sidelong at them while I pretended to views the artworks on exhibition. I recall little isolated details -- like the black tights on one woman, that outlined her perfectly contoured thighs, calves and buttocks. On another attendee, whose back was to me, I caught a glimpse of a behind, which was beautifully outlined in skintight, pale bluejeans. A small, slim beauty in a short, pencil skirt wore stiletto heels in black patent leather. A college age brat wore dungarees with long gaping holes, with large stretches of pale flesh exposed through windows in the fabric; and stood on worn-looking Doc Martens boots. I had to steal these peeks one at a time so as to avoid being caught at staring. Nevertheless, I occasionally met eye to eye with one observant woman or other who cast a cold glance back at me.
Near the conclusion of one such gathering, my wife invited the group of women, with whom she had been chatting, back to our apartment. She told me to precede her back home to make sure the place was all spiffy to receive guests and to prepare a pot of tea and make sure there were enough cups and saucers set out for our guests. I was to pick up anything found lying around, vacuum quickly, fluff the sofa pillows, and put something interesting on the CD player. I rushed home to comply with my wife's wishes and awaited their arrival. She followed shortly after and oversaw my housekeeping efforts.
While I went about the chores she had assigned me, I tried to make conversation so as to distract from the rather demeaning situation I had accepted by carrying out the parlor preparations while my spouse looked on and issued direct and specific instructions.
"Pick that up!" and "Don't leave that like that!" and "Close that!" and "Open this!" were shouted at me as I tried my best to carry out her commands.
"Who was that new girl I saw you talking to? The one with the blond dreadlocks?" I asked out of curiosity.
"Oh, she teaches at the college," the wife replied. "Teaches Feminist History. She quite the charming conversationalist."
"And the shapely brunette? I've seen her before at the gallery.
"She just joined my aerobics class at the gym. Aren't you the observant little man?" she added sarcastically. "Keeping a close watch on the ladies, aren't you?"
"Well, you have to expect that as a man, I've got an eye for attractive women," I replied.
"Don't worry. They haven't the least interest in whether you find them attractive."
"I know that. I'm just saying. And who was that Goth chick - or was she a punk rocker? the one with the black mohawk and all the tattoos. I've never seen her before."
"She's an art student at the college. She's sleeping with the blond I caught you staring at.. Bet you'd like to be a fly on their bedroom wall, wouldn't you?" my wife teased. Indeed, I would.
"There was that old bag from the other gallery across town. She comes to all of these exhibits," I said, trying to show that not all the women held a fascination for me.
"There was a WHAT?" my wife replied sharply. "What did you call Georgina? A what...?"
"Uh-oh," I thought. I had made an indiscreet remark, or so it seemed from the reaction it got.
"Say it again," the wife commanded.. "What did you call that nice women? Not that it matters. Nice or not, you are to speak respectfully whenever you speak of women -- any woman!" The wife was angry. I didn't want to say the words again, 'old bag' but I knew that I was in hot water.
"Let me hear you say it!" My wife walked closer and pulled the dust brush from my hand. Her clear, blue eyes -- inches from mine -- drilled into me. "Say it!"
At this point I had no choice but to comply. "Old bag," I croaked hoarsely, my mouth suddenly dry, and I momentarily held my breath, trying to exercise control so as to not look totally intimidated. My lower jaw dropped and my mouth opened into the shape of an oval as I sought to find the courage to inhale.
My wife then reached up and gripped my face, her thumb on one cheek and her fingers on the other cheek, then squeezed my cheeks together so that they met in the middle, creating what I knew was a completely ludicrous facial expression and at the same time making it impossible for me to reply or even to protest. Above all, I couldn't comply with the order to pronounce the objectionable term 'Old bag.'
"Don't. Ever. Let. Me. Hear. You. Say. Such. A Disrespectful. Thing. About. A. Woman. Ever. Again!" she exclaimed, shaking my face and my whole head with each syllable she uttered. I tried nodding in agreement even as she maintained a grip on my face, but couldn't say a word with my lips distorted into a tight figure-of-eight. She released me with a final, "Did you hear me?"
"Yes" I replied. "And I'm sorry. I apologize."
"You haven't heard the last of this." With that, she placed the dust brush back into my hand and told me to quickly finish.The doorbell was ringing and the guests were arriving.
First to arrive was a blond, executive looking woman about forty wearing a light blue sweater that highlighted the twin peaks of her forward-thrust breasts, almost like those of a 1950s pin-up model. Right behind her were a couple of rather "butch" women. One had a dark, black Elvis-type pompadour and faux sideburns created by letting wisps of the close-cropped hair of her temples to lay loosely on her soft, feminine cheeks. The other had a head of platinum hair that was thick on full on top, but sharply tapered to a peach-fuzz stubble in back and on the sides. After them came the gallery owner, Lidia, slender and attractive at fifty-plus years of age and shoulder length, wavy, salt-and-pepper hair. She was followed by the mohawk-tressed punk who wore a tattered, white, sleeveless concert tee-shirt that had generous arm-holes where the sleeves should have started, such that one could look right inside to behold the outer sides of each breast. She smiled wryly when she noticed my doing so. The fabric of her shirt undulated in waves with the swaying of her unsupported, ample breasts.
Several more arrived, one in the super-tight pale bluejeans and fancy ankle-high black leather boots; another with a tight, pencil skirt that stopped well above her knees, and wearing smoky, sheer, black stockings, leaving me ardently hoping to be seated across from her at some point. She had a full head of shoulder-length light brown hair and librarian-type, old-fashioned, horn-rimmed eyeglasses.
Without so much a introducing me, my wife bid them welcome and asked them all to first be seated and then second, to tell "him" (that would be me) how each wanted their tea prepared.
Some asked for some asked for lemon, some for milk, some for sugar or sweeteer Each lady told me to how make her a tea. None seemed in the least bit uncomfortable or surprised to be treating me like a servant. I wondered if my wife hadn't already prepared them to understand the situation that way.
After I had served each their tea, there was no place for me to sit.
"You can go to your room," my wife suggested. "Or if you want to stay here, you can sit there," she added, pointing to a place on the floor. Since that would provide me the much desired view for which I was hoping, I took my place on the floor.
The conversation that these women engaged in centered mainly around the stupidity and boorishness of men they encountered at work, in school, and in their families. Occasionally, when discussing some particularly egregious male behavior, one or more of the guests would dart hostile looks in my direction, as if I shared the guilt of somebody's bullying boss or chauvinist professor. The topic turned to offensive speech. Each guest had their own story of a male acquaintance who liked to offend by taking down to women; or a repulsive jerk who talked about his intimate anatomy as if a woman should want to hear about; or a fool who engaged in "man-splaining" when his ignorant explanations were consistently stupid. I grew increasingly uncomfortable because I sensed what was to come. After each of these women had her say, it was time for my wife to speak up.
"Take this dick-head," she began, pointing directly at me. Why don't you tell these women what you called Georgina a few minutes ago?" I felt my face blush hot with rosy color, and my heart began to race.
"Aw, come on." I told you I was sorry."
"What did he say," asked one after the other. "What did he say?" each chimed in.
"Go ahead. Tell them," she commanded. I couldn't bring myself to comply, mainly because I had lost my voice.
"Okay, then I'll tell them. He called her an 'old bag.'"
