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Chapter 3
I rose to receive
Lilly's postponed hug of greeting. Even before she gathered
me into her arms I was embraced by her delicate cologne, a
laconic scent, a little more tart than sweet, floral but with
a topnote of citrus, clean and etched as the woman wearing
it. It emanated from her entire body and from her long, weightless
hair. What a wonderful substance perfume is. Yes, I wear cologne
myself, a good, sharp, manly scent, but that's just to show
that I'm tame and suitable for service. Everyone knows that
scent is a feminine language, indirect yet all-encompassing,
gentle yet irresistible.
Even at the beginning
of time, it must have seemed the most obvious thing in the
world that women deserved the enhancement of scent. Even -
though I shudder to imagine such a time - even before they
learned to shave, women must have discovered the eloquence
of perfume. It's almost an extension of their nature, hardly
an artifice at all, and it gives them command of the very
air men breathe. It raises the coarse sense of smell to human
level and teaches even it to know beauty and revere its origin
in women. It invites every profane stranger to glimpse the
feminine mysteries - or it seems to, because it clothes them
artfully and leaves them as elusive as before. It's the net
a woman throws out over us, smartly, effortlessly, drawing
us into gracious bondage. It's the whole enigma of her body.
The whole promise, which it is not in the nature of things
to fulfill. Her vagina, that particular thing, that place
all men wish to be, do you really think it's a place, a tangible
organ, which we might take possesion of? Come on, my readers,
admit it: a woman's body is no more ours than the song that
keeps fleeing us at the edge of memory. And, most wonderfully,
her perfume says all this at every moment. Of course, it also
says something much simpler. "Kneel," it says, "kneel, all
you men, to your cunted conqueror."
But I had already
knelt to Lilly, and Julia and I had done what we could with
our gestures and jokes to make her appreciate the fact. Still,
it was hard to tell what she had taken in. I was helplessly
erect when she took me into her arms in what was, after all,
only an exuberant airport greeting. Unless a woman has explicitly
agreed to recognize a man's erection as a sign of his deference,
it's rude, isn't it, to imose an awareness of his condition
on her. Better at such a moment to be impotent than impudent.
But, of course, one reason we men are made for slavery is
that we can't control these things ourselves. When Lilly drew
me close I really did try to hold my pelvis back. It seemed
the polite thing to do, but it ends up making you seem remote
and unwilling, and so, after a moment's resistance, I let
myself fall into Lilly's body and my hard penis gratefully
lodged against Lilly's firm pelvis. Even in those few seconds,
Lilly was all-absorbing. I wanted to lose my vision in the
glowing darkness of her hair. And there, amid those clean,
sweet locks I noticed for the first time Lilly's ear-rings,
small, shimmering silver disks, slightly concave.
I could go on
about ear-rings. They are one of the world's great ideas.
They show how ironic beauty is capable of being. Fragile tissues
of precious metal, actually fastened to the flesh in tenuous,
painless imitation of bondage and cruelty. If you think about
it, this isn't such a difficult practice to understand. People
often turn the symbols of their real or imposed weakness into
badges of pride. (Isn't this just what we men have always
done with our penises in our rebellion against women's power
over us?) That's what jewelry is all about. Chains and rings
and shackles that might once have confirmed the subordination
of women are turned into precious filigree to confirm their
freedom, their dominance. The sight of Lilly's ear-rings did
nothing to soften my penis.
"It's so good
to see you, Lilly," I said, "so good to have you...I mean,
here with us."
"Stev-vee," she
said, teasing out my name in a way that somehow jolted my
erection up a few notches - I haven't been called "Stevie"
since I was a kid and the childish sound was strangely sexy
- "Stevie," Lilly said, "I think I can tell. I'm happy to
see you too. Stev-vee."
Blessedly, Julia
intervened, quietly assuring her sister that she shouldn't
mind my erection, Julia was perfectly aware that I had it.
"He's not betraying me, Lilly," Julia said, "he's obeying.
A hard-on in a man is just a kind of 'On Duty' light, sort
of like a taxi, except that for the man service is its own
reward. So use my Stevie well." And with that she told me
to take up her sister's bag. As though I had to be told!
It was Lilly who
needed persuading. Modern women are like that, a little insulted
at the suggestion that they can't carry their own bags and
open their own doors. But that's not at all what I'm saying
when I offer my assistance. I don't for a minute doubt the
strength or competence of girls. Au contraire. It's what I
adore them for, one of the things anyhow, and so it makes
me want to serve them all the more ardently. "Of course you
can do all this yourself," I want to say, "all this and much
more. You can, but you don't have to. You're a queen, a goddess,
and I'm a man. If I want to offer myself to you, I mean if
I must offer myself to you, what else do I have to give but
my male brawn? Some of us can write lyrics in praise of you,
in worship rather. But most of us just have our muscles and
bones, so that's what we offer in service. We don't know what
else to do but carry things for you. We're women's natural
porters. We begin by carrying our maleness around for you,
and we end by carrying any freight you'll allow."
"I'm fine," Lilly
said. "I've gotten this far."
"He needs to do
it, Lilly," Julia said. "He's a man, remember. Besides, you
look a little travel-worn." She didn't look the least bit
worn. She looked fresh from the spa.
"Do I?" she said.
She looked worried.
"Does the Pope
piss in the woods?" Julia said. Lilly laughed. It seemed to
be an old tag-line between them.
"Okay," she said.
"I have to admit, it is one of the nice things about being
a woman that there's always a man nearby to do things for
you if you're feeling lazy."
"Exactly," I said,
"I'm on deck for you, Lilly," and Julia said, "Believe him,
Lil, he is."
And it was sexy
carrying Lilly's suitcase, which was mysteriously heavy, as
women's bags tend to be - although, when you ask them what
on earth they've brought, it always turns out to be nothing
but a little make-up, a night-gown and underwear and, oh,
yes, a few contingency-items in case they're invited at the
last minute to a ball. As we rushed down the corridor, I had
to reflect on the fact that Lilly's intimate things were mere
centimeters from me, just on the other side of the thin resinous
wall of the valise that brushed and knocked against my leg.
Within, I imagined as we trotted to the parking-lot, I myself
straggling a little behind the beautiful, mutually engrossed
sisters - within were wispy fabrics that in the mere routine
of things would stretch against Lilly's skin, matter-of-factly
conforming to her feminine surfaces and folds. Lilly's bras,
Lilly's panties, no doubt Lilly's stockings. There must be
a pair of high-heels within, I thought. Possibly a box of
tampons or mini-pads: how could I know there wasn't? Then
there would be Lilly's make-up bag, with its compact and pencils,
its tube of lipstick and bottle of blush, its ampule of lotion,
its jigger of cologne - and, of course, that sacred implement
of feminine self-fashioning, its razor.
I was born to
serve women. I've known this since Day One of my sexual life
- which began, I'd better explain, on Day Fifteen Hundred
(give or take a few score) of my actual life, when I had my
first miniature erection while staring at a reproduction of
a painting (it must have been a Titian) in which naked boy-children
who looked a lot like me, with juvenile round bellies and
tiny curved penises, waited slavishly on a company of elegantly
dressed, supercilious women (goddesses, I now understand).
I remember thinking how fine and sweet and all-consuming it
would be to be one of that brigade of boys.
The mathematical
reader will infer just how early my first fantasy of submission
and service occurred, then. And, imagination being what it
is - strange to the outsider, the most natural thing in the
world to oneself - I have ever since taken it for granted
that all males feel as I do, deep down if not right on the
surface. If they're not denying the truth to themselves, they
want nothing more than to toil in the service of women, and
when they're given the privilege, there is more consummation
in it than in the most blustery fuck scored within a lie.
What man hasn't had the experience of finding himself in straightforward
intercourse with a woman, lying atop her carrying out his
expected rhythms, and all the while thinking what a deeper
and more thrilling thing it would be if he could be abject
at her feet, hearing her orders, then leaping up and throwing
on his clothes and running out into the world to do her heavy
errands, aware all the while that the sweet mistress has begun
to think of him more as an appliance than as a being much
like herself?
In exchange for
the vision and scent of a woman's beauty, I am willing - oh,
what a tepid word, "wlling" - I am desperate to obey and serve
her and to announce my submission to the world. The cruelest
thing she can do then is to refuse to acknowledge me. And
the kindest thing, absolutely, is to let me be the porter
of every accessory to her loveliness. Could it be that her
luggage takes on that mysterious extra heft by including the
weight of my adoring fantasy of what's within? My only complaint
is that the load isn't heavier still, that the subtle tissue
of cloth and color and rippling metal that she dons so lightly
to hide or show whatever of herself she pleases doesn't somehow
gain gravity the instant it's bagged and handed to a man.
How just it would be if carrying a portmanteau of silky things
exhausted a man's body as thoroughly as the contemplation
of the beauty of their wearer does his mind....
Which is to say,
I relished having to lope through the airport and down among
the cars with Lilly's luggage in hand just as much as I'd
have relished still being up at the gate, holding Lilly in
my arms. Just as much? More, in fact, because this was true
service, not a high-toned promise, not a greedy erection willing
to barter more than I own for another second or two of feminine
pressure - this was the pith of service. Not glamorous, not
super-human, but no holiday either. I know there is the theory
that female-domination is a kind of recess strong men take
from their hectic, pressure-ridden lives. Yes, my sly and
tireless shuttle-diplomacy has averted war in the East, and,
yes, on the way home I agreed to stop off and cap a blazing
oil-rig, and now, exhausted by my own heroics, I just need
the refreshment of being flogged by a girl in a corset and
jack-boots. What rubbish! Strain and even pain - they're nothing
but signs that a man has lost his will to resist and is putting
on his destined livery. The practical test is work. I felt
the pull of Lilly's suitcase on my arm, the burn in my muscles
produced by the constant need to maneuver the ungainly thing
through crowded passageways. Under normal circumstances, this
would not be a pleasant sensation. But this wasn't mere freight
I was carrying. It was a woman's things, Lilly's things, the
manifold complements of her beautiful limbs, the needs of
her skin, the companions of her secrecy. Such a thought is
enough to turn any labor on the woman's behalf into something
milder than repose. Ache, fatigue, the hint of torture inherent
in carrying things: in a properly wired man - and the reader
knows I'm one - these "painful" sensations are converted into
lovely arousal. They become as sweet and satisfying and, most
important of all, as arousing as the woman's actual caress.
I mean, they go from the bicep directly to the penis, and
the gnawing ache in the upper arm becomes a delicate titillation
elsewhere.
All that's necessary
to complete this enchanting circuit is the woman's own recognition
of what one's strain and pain mean. Even if she understands
them as no more than conventional gallantry, her sense of
herself as a being whom men must serve is confirmed. I think
Lilly got the point on a deeper level still. And, more important
than that, she rather liked the lesson. As we hurried through
the terminal, the women gaily chattering and I lurching and
dodging a few yards behind, Lilly turned back now and then
to give me an apologetic look - from which Julia quickly diverted
her with the reminder that "he's a man, Lilly, he's a man."
And Lilly would throw up her hands comically, as if to say,
"How silly of me to forget." So the lesson was taking. Julia's
good spirits and her occasional wink in my direction told
me that she was happy with the progress of things.
Behind the wheel
I relaxed a bit. The women sat together in the back seat celebrating
the waning of Lilly's romance with Mark, that shit, while
I, their chauffeur, allowed myself a revery on the intimate
features of the Bergman girls. Of course there was nothing
but adoration in my thoughts, but it's hard not to feel a
little ashamed at the knowledge that, while your poker-face
seems blankly fixed on the traffic, your mind's eye is roaming
over soft triangles of pubic hair and moist flanges of labia.
"Men would be
lining up around the block just for the chance to hear you
say hello," Julia was explaining to Lilly. "They'd take numbers,
camp out in th rain...."
"....Walk barefoot
to Palestine on hot coals," I interjected.
"Stevie's sweet,"
I heard Lilly say before I drifted back into my revery. It
seemed only minutes later that we were at the gate awaiting
Michelle.
Michelle appeared
entirely in white. It looked like medical school had gotten
to her, although she was hardly in scrub-clothes. Her creamy
shirt was made of silk, her skirt was white linen. She wore
white straw sandals with delicate straps and high heels. Michelle
was about the same height as Julia, and there, on her charming
face, was the family mouth, at that moment a full, smiling
rectangle filled with perfect teeth. Julia and Lilly seemed
enthralled themselves, and a little startled, by the chic
and sexy vision that darted gracefully, despite a large valise
and high heels, from the gate. Michelle had had her ups and
downs in recent years, but the young woman before us was all
competence and vivacity. Lilly called her "doc," and Michelle
said, "Just give me three years."
There was another
round of boisterous hugging, quietly attended by the erection
that displays of sisterly affection always seem to rouse in
me. Michelle was fairer-haired than her sisters, and she had
slightly larger breasts. You could see the frail straps of
her bra through the light silk of her blouse. I was riveted
to the sight while her back was to me. I have a weakness for
bras seen from the back; even the outline of slender straps
under a woman's shirt fills me with tenderness for the woman
wearing them. I love the taper of the back-strap, its slight
funicular dip lending at one and the same time a suggestion
of tenuous adornment and working physics. The bra is an elegant
piece of engineering which also happens to be an absolute
symbol of femininity. Of course I love the breasts to whose
comfort and form it lends its ingenious aid. (And it's hard
to look at Michelle's high, round, angelic versions of these
orbs without dropping a tear of yearning.) But it isn't the
cue that there are breasts ahead that in itself so affects
me in the back-straps: it's the notice that a general obligation
has been , an obligation that goes with being a woman, and
just so happens to include having breasts, but might for this
purpose include any old feature at all. Just as a woman's
hip-bones elicit my special affection just because, not being
organs, their entire function is to serve as unequivocal signs
of femininity, so the straps of a bra, seen from behind, are
in a way absacted from their practical purpose and become
(in this case) the artificial, hence chosen, signs of the
feminine. Supposedly neutral areas of the body, the shoulders
and the back, become steadfast in the cause of gender. Each
time a woman closes the clasp, she is briskly saying, "I am
a woman, I accept the fact...I mean, the privilege."
When my turn came
round to receive Michelle's hug, I made sure to plant my hand
beneath her shoulders.
end of part three
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