The Married Man by Edmund White

Author:Edmund White [White, Edmund]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-76448-5
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2010-09-07T16:00:00+00:00

Julien drove them to New Haven at the end of March for his half-hour Pentamadine spray session, a treatment to prevent PCP, the “gay pneumonia.” Dr. Goldstein also examined them both. To Austin he said, “Have you noticed anything about your weight?”

“Uh, no, not exactly.”

“You’ve put on thirty pounds in two months. And you know at your age it may never come off again.”

“In Paris I didn’t have a car and here there are such big servings—”

“No portion control,” Dr. Goldstein nodded.

“And Julien likes big French meals but then he never eats anything and I end up taking seconds and thirds. Portion control be damned!”

Dr. Goldstein didn’t smile. He said, “I swim a mile every morning at six in the university pool.”

And read three books by noon and have two perfect orgasms to your wife’s four by your nine o’clock bedtime, Austin thought bitterly. Oh, and treat two hundred sick fags.

On the way home, as the dark forest of evergreens rolled past, Austin thought, I’m fat so that I won’t be tempted to have sex with anyone else. America has neutered me. No, I’ve done it to myself.

Julien said, “Do you think I’ve lost my looks?”

“Not at all. You look exactly the same. Even better. More rested. Why?”

“Because when I go to the café no one ever looks at me. Nor on the street.”

“In America only New Yorkers cruise each other. They have a special dispensation. In any other American city it’s a Federal offense.” Austin had never really thought about it before, but of course it was true. This lack of lust or at least inquisitiveness meant that no one expected anything to happen on an American street, except rape or murder.

In Paris people thought you might be a celebrity or a connection or a possible fuck—or at the very least they hoped to borrow a few fashion hints from you. In the métro Austin had seen a seated girl slip her phone number to a standing man. In a queue hands were busy—not such a pleasure for women, perhaps, although Austin had never heard any Frenchwoman complain of it except good-naturedly.

“In France,” Julien said, “we believe in the art of seduction.”

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