Aside from our marvelous nights, what most attracted me was our harmony of rhythm. We got dressed at equal speed; we packed quickly. We leaped into the car; all our responses and reflexes were swift. There was a great elation in this for me, after living with Hugo’s slow, laborious rhythm.
His voice over the telephone is clear like a perfect bell. Some deep part of his being is unknown to him, protected by this manly heartiness.
I am happy.
“Does it make you happy to know you have brought me back to life?” I asked.
“You seemed very alive to me.”
“But sad.”
“Yes, sad. But I shall make you happier still. I have our trip all planned.”
To Dr. Clement Staff: “I fear my inadequate physical endurance. But now I know all these are fears of leaving.”
Staff: “When you are happy you are relaxed and you do not get ill; these are anxieties.”
The causes of anxiety are removed: I have not set myself to possess Rupert, win him, keep him! I have not strained after an illusion. I have been simple and truthful. My anxieties, fear of loss, are less than before; they do not strangle me as they did before.
Oh to win, to win freedom, enjoyment.
Looking back on my relationships, I feel I live in a ghostly world of shadows, of feebleness.
In Rupert there is enough physical resemblance to Bill Pinckard that I feel I am continuing my love for Bill, that I do not feel I am deserting Bill. A more hot-blooded Bill he is, a Bill ten years older.
Or will Bill always be passive and fearful?
Rupert is capable. He takes over the cooking, expertly. He repairs his own car. He does not ask as Gonzalo does: “Where is the knife? Where is the salt?”
I bought, for Rupert, my first pair of slacks.
Gonzalo comes every day. We kiss on the cheeks. He looks like a tired old lion. He works at the Press, at home. I get him printing jobs. I gave him a story, and House of Incest to do. Very little money.
MARCH 30, 1947
When I went to Hazel’s last night and met Guy Blake, a handsome young actor I had seen there before, I felt immune, unresponsive. To escape a loud movie director’s monologue, Hazel and I went into her bedroom to talk, closing the door. Blake entered. Slim, dark-haired, blue-eyed, with a lovely voice. Hazel had said, “He does not like women,” so I was not on my guard. He asked her to leave us. She closed the door. He began to kiss me and I to resist. I resisted because I knew that he knew Rupert, that Hazel would know and Rupert might hear of it. I wanted so much to be faithful, and above all not to endanger my relationship with Rupert. So I resisted. And it was difficult, because he was beautiful, ardent and violent.
As I tried to move away from his kiss, he pushed me onto the bed and lay over me. He was so violent. He took my hair into his hands and pulled it to keep my mouth welded to his.
“No, no, no, no—I want to be faithful to someone,” I said. “No, no, no, no.”
And got up.
“Let me walk you home!”
“But I have a husband. He is home, waiting.”
“It’s Rupert, isn’t it?”
“I can’t say.”
“I know it’s Rupert.”
“I can’t say.”
He was disconcerted by my resistance. He went back to the party. I repainted my lips.
Then he walked me home.
“Let’s stop for a drink.”
“No, it’s late.”
But he was willful.
We sat at the back of a bar. He said, “Will you come to my room one night?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I told you why.”
“Oh, women! I want you to come.”
“I’ll spend an evening with you.”
“Oh, no, a whole night, or nothing at all. A night and a day. I want to know you. I never cared about Hazel; it would only be physical. With you . . .”
He was like a hypnotist, using all his assertiveness. His hand under my dress. Or pulling my hair again. At times I could not keep answering his kiss. The ardor, the fervor affected me. If only he had not known Rupert. With his fingers he knew I was not unresponsive. I liked his violence. He bit me.
“Come with me tonight. I want you.”
“No, no, no.”
We walked home.
Any other time I would have yielded. But I would not risk the loss of Rupert. (Who said Rupert expected faithfulness? I want to give it to him.) Blake had said, “Rupert is a nice fellow, but a dreamer.”
A dreamer . . .
At the door he kissed me again and then held me wildly, violently. I fought to move away, but the more I fought the harder he clutched me, and this clutching aroused me; now and then I would rub against him as he rubbed against me, then tear myself away. Then he held me in such frenzy that he came, and I was still; I was unable to pull away in the middle of this frenzy.
To free myself I promised another night. Yes, I would come. He affected me sensually.
He was the first seductive man I ever resisted. I took pleasure in resisting; I was angry at his sensual power, at the way his violence aroused me. At one moment the way he pulled my hair to be able to kiss me reminded me of how I once twisted the reins on my horse when he started to run away, the bit pulled sideways to hurt him.
But what most affected me was that since the sensual barriers were removed in me how obvious it is that I could always have had this marvelous violence instead of seeking it from sickly boys, from Gore Vidal or Bill Burford or Lanny Baldwin, Marshall Barer . . .
My instinct now draws or seeks the violent lovers. What a mysterious pattern. If I had not known Rupert and felt tied to him, Blake would have delighted me. But Rupert is the dreamer—Rupert. Rupert.
Gore still has the power to melt me. It is no longer erotic, but this power to dissolve me with compassion melts my whole body so that still, if he chose to take me, I would be happy. He gives me his softness, his sickness. At the sight of his face my heart is won each time. He puts on his glasses and acts like a senator, watching my love-life as my brother Joaquín did, with a sad resignation, asking me to marry him, to bear his child by “artificial insemination.” He says when no one else wants me he will still love me.
But now I can keep them separate—even if Gore melts me, I can leave him and dream of Rupert. Violence and life with Rupert. Tenderness with Gore.
Last night Bill Burford took me out. We made our peace, exchanged confessions. At the door I kissed him tenderly, disregarding the deforming mirror of his neurosis, listening to and trusting only my own impulses.
It is the confusion of relationships that causes the misery, seeking to make them what they are not.
Everything is clear now.
I could be completely happy now if I had money to send Gonzalo to France, to travel, to dress, to make myself more beautiful.
Hugo is still completely in love with me.
All I ask is passion with Rupert—romance—a dream.
APRIL 3, 1947
A