Jesse
by John Earp
A rebuttal from Caligynephobia: A Collection of Stories and Reflections
Jesse sure was cute as a baby, and as a child she learned that being cute is a good thing. She was well into her teenage years when the vibrant and unpredictable complexity of her red-haired temperament took over her life. And convinced her that she really was different from other kids. Jesse has always been attractive, but now, experienced and surviving, her natural prettiness frames the underpinning of a strong and confident young woman.
No one would call her classically beautiful. None of her individual features is “beautiful.” But each one is certainly pretty. Her nose is a round button too small; her bemused eyes could be set a shade more deeply; her pupils are two circles cut from green pool table felt. She’s got circular rosy cheeks that lack angularity and contour.
It’s from these singularly odd features that an appealing energy spills out of from an attractive personality. As a girl Jesse was cute. Now, she’s engaging and alluring.
Jesse is crowned by a shaggy wild-woman corona of hair rusty red as an Arizona sunset. Her skin is fair; the color of three-cream afternoon coffee stirred with a healthy smear of ripe Irish strawberries, and speckled with golden freckles sprinkled all over, like elf-dust.
She’s got a look that says, “Sure I’m beautiful, but go ahead, take your best shot, cowboy.”
There’s a deep strength of character in her disciplined dancer’s body (12 years of lessons, 2 years in a studio somewhere), lithe and graceful, every motion a choreograph, each gesture deliberately formed and purposeful delivered. Her hands dance when she talks. Her long calves are turned as flawlessly as a Louisville Slugger. She glides around in her body, showing it off it as though it were a living accessory. She’s at home in city or country, at ease in chiffon or short-shorts, comfortable in new designer or old denim.
Jesse is back in school at the community college, doggedly pursuing her RN. Her work on a nutritional database project is tightly engineered as a shuttle launch. She concentrates hard, but is always willing and amiable when distracted.
When she marches into the coffee shop, her laptop slung over one shoulder, her bookbag over the other, the hum of a dozen conversations drops a single barely audible notch; men’s eyes, and women’s, treat themselves to a darting, appreciative, and stealthy glance. She drinks her morning coffee black, no foam, no frou-frou. She eases into the overstuffed sofa in the corner to study. Sometimes she sits at a table with a socially well-positioned crowd. Her prettiness is a key that unlocks every door.
Walking up to Jesse in the coffee shop was an act of bravery. She’s not a complete stranger. We’ve chatted informally several times before. She knows that I write. She’s a nursing student, a mom, a veteran, and married. She’s thirty-two. But the probing and fairly intimate kind of conversational interview I was after was surely going to push the edges of my comfort zone. It’s not as though I talk extensively with beautiful women every day. Much less about fears and relationships, about uncovering secrets, about blowing the dust off of memories, and revisiting half-remembered experiences. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane comes to mind.
I make eye contact.
“Jesse, could I ask about fifteen minutes of your time for a kind of interview…some research I’m doing…”
Today she’s wearing faded jeans, a turquoise pullover shirt, and a darker blue jacket. Her golden eyebrows are the rims of copper cups. The wild jangle of red hair glows. She’s an Irish princess exiled to a small Florida town.
She lays her laptop aside, looks out over the top of her tortoise-shell glasses, and offers a genteel smile, a knowing invitation into herself that is both reserved and willing.
To her eternal credit, she quickly recognizes my not-so-well-disguised symptoms, and graciously leads me into conversational places where I had not intended to go.
“What is that word?”
“Caligynephobia. It’s three Greek words: Cali means pretty, good, or beautiful; gynne is woman; and phobia is fear. Caligynephobia.”
Her face bursts open under the energy of her smile. “I know it’s out there. And my first husband had it, I think. He was terrified of me.”
“Describe him for me, please.”
“Oh, he was a big man. Six-three, built like a linebacker. He had these dark features: Latin skin flawless and smooth, strong lean hands, and black hair that shined in the sun.
“He had the softest hands and the most seductive voice I ever heard. We met in the Service, at Fort Campbell. He’d come down out of the woods, and everything about the military was strange to him. When we were just dating he was after me like a dog chasing a car. Never gave me a minute’s rest. But he was more like that dog than he knew. What’s the dog gonna do with the car once he catches it?
“He didn’t know how to handle me. And he never bothered to learn. He was big and strong and beautiful. Turned out he was dumb as a dead stump. You see?”
A faint echo of flat vowels dragged out of west Texas balances the tuneful sparkle of her voice.
“What about you made him afraid of you?”
She bounces lightly in her seat, curls one long-muscled leg underneath, and opens her conversation like popping a top, “Well, I mean, I need some romance. I like to go out dancing. Country bars are best. Fun music you can move to, hunky guys in tight jeans, pretty women at ease in their bodies. I love that stuff. Cold beer, shined boots, and that kind of sexy slow dancing where you flop all over each other.”
“The two of you enjoyed going out dancing.”
“Before we were married we went out all the time. I’m not what they call high maintenance about it, but I do need a lot of attention. So when we got married he just quit. Sort of forgot I was there. I never did like being ignored too much. But between you and me, we both knew I was the best woman he would ever be with.”
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“What happened?”
“It got to the point where he wouldn’t take me dancing. He didn’t want to dance with me, but he got crazy jealous when some other guy would ask me to dance. He’d just sit there, all gloomy and mad, drink too much and get mean-hearted. And then he would bring that awful attitude home.”
“Were you too beautiful for him?”
“I guess. He hated it when other guys would look at me. Made him nuts. We didn’t have a lot. We were both in the Service. Maybe he lacked experience. Whatever. He made a fatal mistake. A mistake no guy should ever make. I’d been with men before him, you know? Not a lot. I’ve got my standards. And he knew that, but it ate at him like dry rot. He never came right out and asked, but he wanted to know how he compared to those other guys. He imagined…certain things about me. If he were to touch these things, have them and hold them, and look at them, he would crumble like an eggshell, shatter like plaster.”
“So he was unsure of himself going in?”
“He never accomplished much in his life. I guess I was his biggest and only trophy. So, if I told him the truth about my other relationships, he’d be crushed. I mean, he was a decent guy. We had some fun. But what would happen if I told him, ‘Yes, baby, you’re the best’? How’s he gonna hear that? Does it mean that he’s conquered me? Would he get a gold star for his masculine triumph?
“See, if I told him a lie, he’d know I was lying, and that would crush him, too. A girl can’t win in that situation. Whatever he might imagine about me would be worse than if he knew the truth. I told him, ‘Jimmy, there comes a time when you’ve got to make yourself be honest.’ So what’s a girl gonna do?”
“So it ended.”
“We parted friends. We send Christmas cards, you know? But living with him was like living in Neverland, a place I couldn’t believe in. And the less I believed in it, the more it faded away. Eventually he was sitting alone by the wall, the music was playing, and I danced right out of his life.”
“Why do we men behave the way we do? Why are we afraid of you?”
She props her head on her folded hands, answering not only my question, but also one of her own. “I think men are intimidated by their own imaginations. And for most of them it’s about sex. I mean, just because a guy is good looking doesn’t make him a good lover, or a good husband, or even a good person. He just looks good. My first husband proved that. But it’s the same with women. Sometimes hot girls are cold. But men are brittle about it. There’s so much self-worth involved in the whole dance of the sexes. I think that’s part of their fear of beautiful women. Strong, beautiful women don’t put up with brittle men for very long.”
She takes a sip from her cup, holds it as though omens are ghosting up in the steam. “Here’s what I would tell a man looking at a beautiful woman: Be yourself. Be strong, kind, and thoughtful, and beautiful women will fall at your feet.”
“And that’s it?”
“Women have to learn how to handle…what’s that word?”
“Caligynephobia.”
“Right. I swear to God, if men were just a little bit less fabulous, I’d be gay. At first, you want to rescue them from their shyness, or their fragile ego, or whatever it is. It’s their fear of beautiful women. They’ve all got it. And it makes us girls work hard. A man gets intimidated. And where there’s intimidation, trust goes out the window.”
“That’s really true. You said a wise thing.”
Jesse’s voice brightens. She sits up straight. “But, you know, at some point I got it loud and clear: I’m a beautiful woman, and I have to be earned. I try to put out there that you have nothing to fear from me. Just step right up. Now, here’s a note to all the men out there (Hey, y’all!): you can earn beautiful women in a thousand different ways.”
Jesse is married to her second husband, who she refers to as, “The man I’m married to now,” or “my present husband,” as though her life isn’t nearly over, as though she suspects she might capture a whole platoon of lovers before it’s all over.
Jessie Conway lives in Winter Haven with her husband, Mark, and young daughter, Nicole. This interview was conducted at Richard’s Coffee Shop, downtown at the library.
John
Earp
Author of "Sweet Heavenly Daze", a lighthearted, witty, profound, and poignant glimpse at religion that is a little different from popular faith.
John's website: SweetHeavenlyDaze.com is a delight to explore.
Thanks John for the fun. I enjoyed the bantering... J.
Wolf
