The He and She of It Barry Spacks A ‘50s tale, seen from today, of two male poets in love with a demanding muse, both willing to do whatever her Dionysian heart desires — three gleeful and wounded hearts at play, sympathetic, ambiguous, engagingly human. For some, the decade of the ‘50s played out as an erotically turbulent era. So it was, for noted poet Elton Gold, who looks back on a life-forming affair in the with intense, queenly Gloria Zissic, a generative figure to him and to his British fellow-poet Andrew Norton as well. These three gradually find themselves experimenting with combinations and cohabitations that their conservative university can't allow, as they grow in strength, affection, and wit by insisting on being who they are: a literary-savvy folie-a-trois. Their days together form lifetime patterns for each, their adventures in and out of bed challenging timid norms in a work embellished by the poems of the smitten poets and the formidable powers of Gloria, their muse.
Praise for “The He & She of It” “I loved this novella from start to finish. It has tremendous zest and lift, the embedded poems enriching the story, le mot juste at every turn, the voice never flagging in its convincing recreation of the ’50s, seen both as happening in real time and in retrospect from the present day. This is inspired work.” — Bob Brill, author of Hibiscus Sex and Old Man on a Tricycle A daring confession of relations between two young poets and a sexually liberated 1950s-era feminist provocateur, this story takes us on quite a trip through a labyrinth of youthful Eros and bravado. Marked by taut and shimmering prose, The He and She of It is wise, witty and wondrous. — Tai Carmen, author of the prize-winning poetry collection Pollen
Act I
Several times I played rough with Andrew, but this was the worst. "Remove that robe," I ordered, clenching my eyes. "I'm to remove my robe?” "You got it, buster." Movie-level talk takes over in a crisis. "Exactly what did you have in mind?" At those words, Gloria let out a snort of laughter, struggling to shrug on her peasant skirt while I wrestled the ridiculous robe from Andrew's concave-chested, ribby body. Below, he wore only blue briefs. The style's now called "Speedo." From within Andrew's Speedo came a certain bulging. "Off with the shorts," I commanded. I wasn't about to make this happen with my own hands. "Do it, Andrew!" I bulked up at my most threatening. I've sometimes been compared, in my hairiness and menace, to a bear, and, truth is, I wasn't much of an admirable guy back then, not the sort of person I'd enjoy running into today. We're involved here, Reader, with a shameless confession masquerading as a piece of fiction. Andrew let down his blue undershorts and everything turned blue. Released from the constraint of the garment, perhaps stimulated by my threatening ways, who knows, a veritable Andy of a projectile lofted as with the sound of a sprong. The display was impressive not exactly what I'd intended. Gloria laughed, clasping her bra behind her, and for a moment, I almost credited their improbable claim that she'd only agreed to model for him in his room. But even that much intimacy unnerved me as if I were suddenly churned to an inner soup by a stonecrunching-machine. I'd found my girl naked in another guy's room and was instantly reduced to a surge of primitive emotion. I haven't told Gloria to this day — now that we're back in contact a bit by e-mail — how much the sheer excitement of her madness had meant to me at the time. I hated the thought that any part of her might have been shared, even with a nice, talented guy like Andrew, and let's
say only visually. In my self-important twenty-seventh year, there in his room in the graduate dorms, a brute impulse took me over. "I warn you, I'm feeling kind of outraged, Andy." "Elton, keep calm," Gloria whispered. "Nothing happened!" Meanwhile Andrew's hands tried comically to fig-leaf his unsheathed groin. "Just thought we should have a little viewing of the golden boy," I told her. "What were you thinking, Gloria? Jesus! That I'd assault your lad? Ruin your evening?" "May I put my robe back on? It's chilly..." "...Shut up. Lie down on the bed." He did. One-masted. What next? Well, what more? I controlled myself. "Enjoy your little experiment," I spat, and got out of there. But not before I'd impulsively grabbed from his desk a sheaf of Andy-papers that proved, on inspection, to consist of many of his early poems. Those priceless, handwritten manuscript pages — with their substantial influence on my own developing style — he never saw again.
Note the Goddess-smile on this insanely gifted girl admired by a street-singer as she moves along. Does this dear person with her upwardly mobile nipples her soul brightened by lust and fabrication wonder if time's come round again for another Mary? O, do not blaspheme, do not condemn nor control nor besmirch, thou ginger, thou cruel! she holds her men to her heart our breasts, steel breastplates, hers the will of a vast hunger dissolving armor
About The Author
Barry Spacks in the author of two novels — Orphans and The Sophomore — plus various stories and ten collections of poetry. He’s taught writing and literature at MIT and UC California at Santa Barbara for many years.