How to Save Your Own Life by Erica Jong Page A

a whole afternoon of patients for me—something you’d never do.”
    Bennett looks crestfallen. “I thought that English asshole was the last.... I thought when I took you back you promised...”
    â€œI promised nothing.”
    â€œI thought your analysis...”
    â€œAh analysis—the universal panacea... The cure for lust, for restlessness, for every sexual itch... As a matter of fact Jeffrey and I used to bump into each other after our analytic sessions. That was how it started. I’d be walking out of 940 Park and he’d be walking out of 945 Park. We’d collide in the middle of the avenue, and go for coffee. After a while, we’d spend the odd Friday afternoon in his office, making love...”
    I say this coolly—as if it had been easy, as if there had been no angst, no misgivings, no anxiety. Not true at all. The whole silly little affair had been fraught with guilt and misgivings. The only good thing about it was being able to pull it out now, like a rabbit out of a hat. Talking about it was far more fun than living it had ever been. But I don’t intend to tell Bennett this. For his sake, I embellish:
    â€œJeffrey happens to be a great fuck. I even think he’s orgastic —to use your jargon. And he would try things you’d never consider —like eating apple butter out of my cunt...”
    â€œIn the office? On the analytic couch?” Bennett goes from incredulity to contempt: “Boy, you two were certainly acting out against your analysts weren’t you?—doing it on the couch ...”
    I suddenly remember that we never actually did it on the couch (Jeffrey was too superstitious)—but I won’t give Bennett the satisfaction of knowing that.
    â€œIt’s great fun on the couch,” I say gleefully; “you ought to try it.”
    â€œI have,” he retaliates. “With Robin.”
    â€œAnd I suppose you don’t call that acting out?”
    â€œI certainly do. And I certainly spent hours on it with Doctor Steingesser.”
    â€œI guess that makes it kosher, huh? Fuck first, analyze later.”
    â€œHave it your way,” Bennett says. “At least I didn’t do it with a friend of yours...”
    â€œI think it’s kind of nice that Jeffrey was willing to cancel patients for me, don’t you? An extremely gallant gesture—especially for a shrink.”
    I look at Bennett, his face set in anger, his eyes hard and narrow. I wish I had even more peccadillos to display. I wish I had fucked his entire medical school class, all his colleagues, every doctor in New York. I scrape the bottom of the barrel: “Jeffrey Roberts was in love with me for years, and then there was Bob Lorrillard when I went to Chicago to do his TV show, and Amos Kostan, the Israeli poet.” (The last isn’t even true; Amos and I once embraced in the kitchen, but never had an affair. Still, I know it will get Bennett mad.) I am feeling as helpless as a child who suddenly realizes that dirty things are going on behind locked doors and that she is left out in the cold. I would do anything to inflict the same feeling on Bennett. But he isn’t biting.
    â€œI suspected all of those,” he says defensively—“and I’m prepared to forgive you.”
    â€œForgive me! Forgive me! And what if I don’t want forgiveness? What if I want the right to my own anger?”
    â€œI understand that artists tend to be a bit unstable and I understand that you—”
    This enrages me still further. “Don’t give me that patronizing shit, goddamn you. I had one or two dumb fucks—and you had a serious passionate affair—for which you nearly left me. Don’t give me that artist crap. It’s insulting and condescending. Once again you’re playing the big daddy who deigns to take me back. No thanks! Can’t you see how controlling you are? Don’t you realize?”
    And with