Nude Men

makes me pretty confident that my choice is not something to be ashamed of. I believe that We Are the Taurus gave Henrietta a favorable opinion of my taste in films. Not much happened in the story, which I am again refined enough to know is always a plus. Additionally, the ending was unhappy, which I know is a must (a European trait and therefore excellent): The woman the toreador loved got pierced by the bull’s horns, and the woman who loved him stopped loving him once her rival was dead. In his grief at the unfortunate perforation of his beloved (who by the way did not reciprocate his affection), he gave up his superstar career forever.
    This ending, although appropriately somber, is, as you can judge, a tad too action-packed, which I can assure you made me glance at Henrietta apprehensively, even though I did have the excuse of never having seen the movie before. Still, insecure as I am, I do feel the need to reassure Henrietta of the soundness of my taste by making her aware that I am aware that the boo-boo in the ending is indeed a boo-boo. So when we get up, I tell her, “Not a bad film, but the ending was a bit much, wasn’t it.”
    “Really? I sort of liked it,” she replies, giving me gray hair over the sudden, budding, but thankfully still debatable realization that perhaps my taste is too good for my own good.
    She walks over to the O.I.M. and starts talking to him. I am not close to her, so I can’t hear what she’s saying at first. Becoming indignant, I move closer.
    She turns to Laura and me and says, “Good night, you two. Jeremy, I’ll see you Saturday.”
    Ark! She’s leaving me alone with Laura! Ark, berk, peu, spl, gerk. “Don’t you want me to take you home?” I ask.
    “No, thank you. This gentleman will take me home,” she says.
    The man is looking at her with big watery eyes. And his mouth is wet too, probably with lust.
    She gives me an intimate smile and raises her eyebrows, sort of saying: I have just found my next model, I must paint him tonight, please don’t spoil my inspiration.
    I smile back at her, and she leaves the theater, accompanied by her O.I.M.
    I turn to Laura. “Are you taking a cab home?” I ask.
    “Yes, I think that’s the easiest way.”
    We walk out. To avoid having to share a cab with her, I won’t ask her if we live in the same direction. I hope she won’t bring it up, and I hope a cab will be easy to find, so we don’t have to make small talk.
    As if by magic (the most magical thing of the evening, in fact), a taxi comes immediately and stops in front of us before we even raise our hands. Laura climbs in and is driven away. I hope I never have to see her again. I did not appreciate getting matched up, especially by the very person I am interested in.
     
    W hen I get home, my cat, Minou, says, What is heat?
    I look at her apprehensively, because I recently discovered that heat may have something to do with sex, and I don’t know how to go about discussing that subject with my cat.
    Where did you learn that word? I ask.
    Someplace. What does it mean?
    You know very well what it means. Heat is what comes out of the radiator.
    Oh, Jeremy, spare me. What does “to be in heat” mean?
     
    I n the meantime, my girlfriend, Charlotte, has been saying that she wants to live with me. I don’t have the strength or the interest to fight her, so I let her move into my apartment, but I ask her to keep her own apartment in case one of us ever wants a break.
    I can imagine Charlotte as being the snoopy type, and I do own a few things that I would not like her to see: my boyhood diary, the Playgirl magazine containing Henrietta’s painting, and a pair of handcuffs that I bought a while ago because I wanted to be a person who owned a pair of handcuffs. Being such an owner changes one’s personality slightly, and for the better, I believe. It makes one more exciting, even if only in the subtlest way. When people see me, I want them to think: Now, this man has the personality of someone who owns a pair of handcuffs. He’s an exciting person.
    And my self-image changed a bit too. It became: Me, Jeremy, the owner of a pair of handcuffs.
    I need to find a good place to hide these three things. After much deliberation, I decide to take advantage of Charlotte’s habit of never looking up. I nail my belongings to the bathroom ceiling.
    One isn’t likely to be lying on one’s back in the bathroom, unless one is taking a bath, but in that case the highest level