Gloves Off: Round XXXVII

Sex & Death

Today we’ll be looking at The Greatest of Ease by Teri Bayus. To read the story as originally published, please click here.

The Greatest of Ease

Summer, 1976, Reno, Nevada, USA

The circus renders a distinct smell. It’s animal dander mixed with sawdust with a touch of greasepaint, popcorn, cotton candy, and the false smoke used as a distraction. That odor lives in my daydreams, my exotic reveries of a life filled with travel—and an audience.

My Comments: All good sensory detail, but consider that scene setting is secondary to hooking the reader. Would you consider, “We were saving balding children with sad smiles by slinging sugar” as your opening?

This is a very sexy story, sex juxtaposed with death—dying children, no less! The tension of death can subconsciously be driving the narrator to seek out the most healthy person around. The robust, muscular acrobat. The narrator needs to escape this town, this family, escape from the threat of mortality. Death is the subtext. The life-affirming sex, minus the abstraction of talking, is perfect, and this story should be as intense and brutal as anything by Flannery O’Connor. This is not just an “antic” story, not once you introduce dying kids.

This ought to be comic and sad. It ends with parting, it ends with loss. Don’t be afraid of those topics. And it’s interesting that we get the smells of everything except the sexy acrobat. For now, tone down the scene setting and look for something that hooks the reader. If you can shoehorn a dying kid into this intro that would be boss. A tiny wheelchair mired in the sawdust.

I was acting as a helper at the circus for a charity by selling cotton candy. The circus came once a year, and teen volunteers would sell treats that could make up to $3,000 for our charities. We were saving balding children with sad smiles by slinging sugar. Plus, we got to watch the show over and over until the sequins and fishnets permeated our souls. This act of volunteerism started my wanderlust before I knew what it was to crave travel and new places.

My Comments: No explaining. Get us into scene. If the narrator is making the most excellent wad of cotton candy, specifically for the hunky Russian, that would get us into a tangible action and setting. Once you establish that, then you can risk explaining the context.

I’ve never made cotton candy. I’ve never dry humped with a sexy Russian. You build authority if you unpack those actions.

The perfection with which the narrator makes the cotton candy will hint at the intense desire at stake. Then gradually you can show the narrator waiting in the tunnel. Show the performers passing in the dim light. Only then show the acrobat. A slow, detailed series of events/actions will be more seductive. Don’t tell us about the muscles and spandex until they come into view, okay?

Also, the $3,000 is a sort of clock. As the narrator spins the perfect cotton candy, she can ask, “What are we up to?” Another volunteer says, “One leukemia kid alone in Disneyland.” Hook with the unexplained, then move on.

Later, as the narrator is groping and getting kissed, he/she can babble, “We’re helping these kids. They’re dying and want to go places. I want to go places. We can’t save them, but we can send them to Knott’s Berry Farm…” This nervous babbling during sex needn’t be understood, it’s just nerves. But it juxtaposes sex with death.

The candy gets mashed between them. The sugar floss comingles with sweat and hair.

We sold the cotton candy before the show and during the intermission, leaving us free to gaze open-mouthed as these super humans defied gravity, tamed wild beasts, and performed unthinkable feats of daring. I snuck backstage and into the makeshift dressing rooms trying to be noticed and, hopefully, swept away with the show. I dreamt every night of an acrobat swooping down from the ceiling, his legs the only thing holding him on the bar, wrapping his strong arms around my waist, and swinging me up to the shadows. Most of the performers acted as if I was a ghost they could not see. Being so young and full of myself, it became a self-imposed dare to become noticed.

My Comments: Again, stay in scene. Don’t stray into “I dreamt every night” because you lose tension. Stay in the here and now.

One show, a young, pink-tighted man held me captivated. He was part of the “Moscow Circus,” a troupe that toured internationally. The name was a generic term for the circus shows from the USSR that traveled abroad during the Soviet Era. Their act was called “Hoop Diving.” It was a Chinese acrobatic specialty involving tumblers performing jumps through hoops stacked precariously above one another. It was mind-blowing to watch their calisthenics and manipulation of a simple steel ring.

My Comments: We shouldn’t “see” the young man until we see him in scene. Also, if the narrator is primping or otherwise demonstrating his/her intentions that would be good. Or he/she could be covertly, nervously nibbling on the candy. In the shadows of the tunnel, waiting, is where we should get the other smells as the various performers pass in close proximity. Don’t forget animal piss. Front load every sexy, musky detail you can imagine.

Keep in mind that the acrobat’s act demonstrates the threat of death. Death is everywhere in this story. The young man and the narrator both need to escape the looming threat of death.

Always, always avoid forms of “is” and “has” because they signal where you could be using a more specific physical verb.

They were wrapped in pink, skintight leotards that showed every bulging muscle. I wormed my way into the “tunnel” after their act, swinging my hips to catch the youngest performer. The tunnel is the main entrance for all acts; it is simply a load-in dock. But when the circus was in town, that tunnel became magical. Elephants lumbered, tigers roared while being pushed in their tiny steel cages, and graceful flyers donning heavy velvet capes pranced through to the center ring.

My Comments: Great. Good. Here we’re finally getting into scene, but it should come at the beginning—unless you choose to open with making the candy. Move from one specific physical act to the next. It’s of no real importance whether this takes places in Nevada or 1976, those details buy you nothing. They’re abstracts.

If the narrator nibbles the cotton candy then realizes that her lipstick has stained the candy, and it’s wrecked her lips or make-up, that would hold the reader much better than backstory. Or, if a passing camel tried to eat the candy. Or, if a passing creepy clown stopped and mimed a creepy hubba hubba… there is so much real action that could take place here. All of that would build tension. And tension is all foreplay for sex. All of that can precede the appearance of our sexy guy.

I hid in the shadows and then jumped out to offer my cornered Russian acrobat a free paper container of spiderwebs of sugar. Startled and delighted, he told me his name was Emile and he spoke no English. His form-defining sequined pants; long, flowing mane; and sapphire blue eyes drew me in to see if he would ignore me too. He did not. Using hand gestures and raging pheromones, I lured him into an afternoon of flirting and testing the hormonal ricochet we were both experiencing. We made out under the grandstands during the second act. Amongst the discarded popcorn tubes and Coke cups, no words were needed—only lips and secret touches. He would scurry out when he heard his music crescendo to cue the single trapeze with his sister. From my crawl space on the sticky floor, I could see the scorn on her face as she saw his swollen lips.

My Comments: Don’t piss me off here. I’ll never get a shot at a sexy Russian in tights, so you’d better give me that experience. No soft-focus “flowing mane” or “sapphire blue eyes.” Pluck some candy. Put it into his mouth. Feel his stubble. Kiss and taste the shared candy.

He laughs and steps back shaking his head. He looks down. The narrator’s eyes follow his gaze to an erection in his tights. He’s still got to perform. That’s tension. All of this is still while we’re inside the Freudian tunnel.

The term “peter tracks” comes to mind. Now, how to resolve that erection? Don’t pull your punches. If you’re going to tease us with a sexy acrobat, you’ll have to pay off.

Two glorious days of being with an exotic boy were more intoxicating than stealing my mom’s Blue Nun wine. My lips were bruised from so much kissing. It was my first heartache when he left, even though forty-eight hours prior, he did not exist. I cried myself to sleep, soaking my Cookie Monster pillowcases. I got a postcard from him in our barnwood mailbox that showed the Missouri Arch. He wrote “Hi! Emile” on the back. My heart miraculously healed, and I read every possible version of meaning into “Hi,” including “He loves me and wants me to join the circus.”

My Comments: Wait! We still want the sex unpacked, even if it’s just sticky kissing. There’s that erection. Spandex + erection = tension. And the glaring sister needs to walk past us. We need his smell, and the guilt that could be expressed in the babbling about dying kids. Slow down. You can do this without getting pornographic. His feet nudge the narrator’s feet apart. He puts his mouth on her neck. Over his shoulder the narrator sees a dying kid. Then the narrator sees his/her fellow volunteers. Or the narrator sees his/her own parents! This allows you to alternate the release of sex and desire with the burden of illness and death. The terror of a teenager who might be stuck in this small town.

Because Emile speaks no English the narrator can confess anything to him. He/she can breathe in the smell of his sweat. Feel his erection. Taste his mouth and say very, very personal things. “I hate it here. I want you to help me. I need you.”

The “gun” is his penis. Once it ejaculates the tension is over. All of this is built into the story already, and the reader will be frustrated if it’s not fully explored and resolved. What would Flannery O’Connor do? I’ll tell you what… she’d fuck the guy. She’d get knocked up. She’d name the baby Emile. Then she’d never tell the father.

Also, the sister is a gun that never goes off. How can you use the sister for better effect?

He stayed working in the States, and we became pen pals. His postcards came from every town in the United States and Canada and tiled my walls along with Michael Jackson and David Cassidy posters. My letters to him focused on my teenage angst, droning on about my friends, school, and horrible parents. Although I wrote weekly, they were sent to him in batches twice a year, as the main office of the circus only delivered mail at the beginning and end of the season. He learned to write in English, and I treasured his letters and vision of America through Soviet eyes.

My Comments: Consider that if you built to a bigger scene, then this quick tapering off would feel heartbreaking. The generalizing would stand in stark contrast to the very physical, intense preceding scene. That summary and pulling back from the moment would signal a kind of giving up. It could show the narrator giving up on his/her dreams of a bigger life away from home.

You’ve created the basis of an incredible story. Now slow down and honor all of the elements you’ve got at stake. Yes, that’s scary. Slow down, and this story will be magnificent.