Yearn: Tales of Lust and Longing

“But you think it’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a fantastic idea. The Le Carin Collection—it has a nice ring to it.”

It did have a nice ring to it, and the more Sara thought about it the more she liked the idea of the family name being immortalized in such a manner.

They strolled past a stand where the centerpiece was a Jeff Koons–like graphic sculpture of a couple making love. Cast in shining bronze, it would have been tasteful except that there were bronze flowers sprouting from both the man’s and woman’s anuses, a motif underscored by a bronze rose clutched between the male figure’s teeth. Wistfully Sara noticed that the female seemed to be enjoying herself, with her eyes shut and her mouth open in an orgasmic cry. Unconsciously Sara found her own lips twitching in mimicry—she had been celibate for months. Without realizing it Sara sighed out loud, a long, wistful sigh that was suspiciously close to a moan, emerging far louder than she had intended.

A young couple gazing at the sculpture looked over, the girl grinning cheekily at Sara. Stephen swung around and Sara found herself blushing. With a gentle push to the waist he herded her away from the sculpture and on to the next stand.

“Sex does seem to have experienced a revival this year. I suspect it’s a counterbalance to the economic doom and gloom. A kind of finger up to grim reality,” he murmured, his vaguely peppermint-scented breath drifting across her cheek.

“Maybe in the art world but certainly not in mine.”

“I know exactly how you feel,” he replied archly, a sad smile flittering momentarily across those perfect features.

Surprised, Sara faltered for a moment: “But surely a man like you—”

“A man like me was left six months ago by the boyfriend. An older, far wealthier businessman who decided he wanted his freedom. I think it was some kind of hideous midlife crisis, from what I can glean from his behavior since, but I did love him—still do, most unfortunately.” His fingers played with the collar of his Paul Smith shirt and for the first time Sara saw him as vulnerable.

“But someone like you would have all the choice in the world.”

“I’m fussy, monogamous, and ridiculously loyal. And I do not do casual sex, absurd as that might sound coming from a gay man. All of which leads to great stretches of celibacy between relationships.”

The way he pronounced “great stretches of celibacy” made Sara think of the two weeks she’d recently spent in a retreat on the edge of the Western Sahara in hopes that such sensory minimalism would awaken some dormant spirituality and exorcise the all-pervading sense of loss the divorce had induced. In fact all the retreat did was fill her with boredom and an inexplicable thirst for B-grade horror films and popcorn, leaving Sara doubting whether she was capable of any spiritual profundity above and beyond a love of beauty.

They were now standing in front of a tapestry, a deliberately naive craftlike wall hanging with motifs of religious figures interspersed with the occasional rock god: an embroidered Iggy Pop floating over a sequined Krishna, Mick Jagger genuflecting at the feet of Inca, a demon-headed God. Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction, Sara noticed, seemed to be holding a scarlet-threaded vagina in her four upraised arms. Wondering whether her imagination had taken on a theme and she was projecting, Sara peered closer. Constructed out of meticulous tiny stitches, there were indeed miniature female genitalia scattered among the imagery. The heiress tried hard not to stare. Stephen coughed politely.

“This artist is now practically a household name, very collectible, but you do wonder whether she would have been considered as avant-garde if she hadn’t adopted the cross-dressing. Fantastic PR.”

“Spin does seem to be almost as important as the work itself nowadays,” Sara murmured. Still fascinated by the needlework, she was trying to work out whether the sequins sewn onto the tiny vaginas symbolized clitorises, or whether in

fact they weren’t vaginas at all but eyes. Either way the vagina-eyes appeared to be winking at her as if mocking her current state of celibacy, an effect Sara found very disconcerting. She couldn’t help herself; in her enthusiasm she grabbed Stephen’s arm and pulled him closer to the tapestry. In that instant she realized that she found the combination of his eau de cologne and faint but distinctive body odor disturbingly arousing. An undeniable sexual flush washed over her. She began fanning herself furiously with the catalog, hoping he hadn’t noticed her blushing face.

“Are those vaginas?” she asked in a stage whisper.

“Well, it’s been a while, but I think I’d recognize one if I saw one,” Stephen joked before peering closer, his face just inches away from the hanging tapestry. Now Sara could see the young woman looking after the stall glancing over at them anxiously, obviously nervous about their proximity to the work. Finally Stephen spoke up.

“Yes, I think we can safely presume Kali is depicted here with a superlative number of orifices. I guess the artist is making a statement about the destructive side of sex.”

“I guess,” Sara replied faintly, thinking that the only destructive aspect to sex that she knew of was not getting enough.

“Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

Pale? Sara felt as if her body was on fire. She stepped back from him, anxious that her body might betray her desire in some mortifying fashion.

“Jet lag and possible culture shock. It’s been months since I’ve been out in public and to anywhere so crowded.” She fanned herself with a glove.

“God, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize this was to be the first big outing since the divorce. June said nothing. C’mon, let’s break for a coffee or something stronger.”

He guided her through the crowd toward the hospitality area, a temporary coffee bar with tasteful white tables and chairs placed around a tree that soared up through the tented ceiling. Arm in arm, they made their way past the small gatherings of socialities and art dealers grouped around a wine tasting. A tall, rather cadaverous man in his late fifties stood alone by the tree, empty wineglass in hand. He seemed marooned by his own loneliness, exuding a kind of sad isolation. He looked vaguely familiar. Sara tugged on Stephen’s sleeve.

“Who’s that?”

Stephen turned and glanced across. “I think that’s Rupert Thornton—you know, that weatherman who made such a fool of himself a while back.”

“That’s right, he failed to predict the big storm of eighty-seven. God, he’s aged.” Sara had been in her early twenties but she remembered vividly how shocked the nation had been about Rupert Thornton’s failure to warn them of the catastrophic weather. But boy, did he look as if he’d paid penance now, she thought.

“I guess so. I can barely remember what he looked like.”