The Wages, An Illustrated Story | 11. Masterstroke | Pictures at an Exhibition
One night while babysitting the sleeping Wilson twins, I got bored beyond comprehension. I had already replayed Mrs. Wilson’s dozen doo-wop records and a couple of current disco compilations on the wooden entertainment console in the living room. I went to the den to explore Mr.Wilson’s silver stereo and his huge trove of bombastic classical LPs that his wife hated. I put on headphones to not wake the twins while I made it through one side of Mahler who jumped between fairyland and a factory calamity every 20 seconds.
I slid more records out, and discovered ten skin magazines behind the LPs. Anybody could get classical music from CBC radio, so I took off the headphones to keep an ear for the door while I focused on the curious novelty of Penthouse and Playboy.
I was let down that the writings were fantasies when I needed information on how to not destroy a sexual relationship. I was surprised that the luxurious décor and fashion in the photos made these bastions of manly voyeurism seem a little gay. I thought that the scenes of women posed as if getting it on together might come from a fear of looking at men—while betraying a fascination with same-sex action. I found a couple of scenes with men but was disappointed not to see an erection as I was curious what that looked like. I had already had a female lover in real life and I had hoped to learn other things. I wondered how Mr. Wilson had chosen the magazines and if each had a woman that looked a bit like Mrs. Wilson, but I got overwhelmed by contemplating my employer’s subconscious motivations.
An imaginary companion would help me feel safer in this murky exploration of masculine desire. I would have been the same age as some of the models, but I could not dream they would have one friendly word for a dorky and backward food-court server moonlighting as a babysitter.
I had not yet lived on the road and crossed paths with chatty strippers who just wanted to lament a hotel’s complimentary stale muffins, or tell another woman how worried she was about her favourite aunt’s breast cancer diagnosis.
Instead, I was convinced I was leafing past an army of cool and confident mean girls.