Alcock’s Autobiography 2.1
5 May 2011
With L___ things changed. We were still in the infatuation stage, reveling in discovering how our bodies could fit together, in exploring the possibility that this was it— the true love that, like all other common fools, we hoped against hope to find. We were both in the early, optimistic stage, ready, eager to cut each other slack, to forgive sour notes, to see hints at future discord as quirks of a fascinating and essentially lovable personality. This may have been the only time I could have accepted criticism that cut to the core.
By seeing through my disguises and remaining immune to my ruses, her words stuck. As with all real teaching, the student is most important. He must be in a receptive state; it is not a matter of shoveling stuff, nor a matter of enforcement, à la public school. Lessons do not come fully developed, out of a box. Real lessons are not yet lessons, but potential lessons, and they must fall on fertile ground to bear fruit.
L___’s lessons stuck. They would germinate because she first worked the soil, loosening it, exposing the big weeds, and the found soft, fecund places to plant her thoughts in my mind. The soil was dominated by clay slabs of greed, rocks of hatred, and weeds of delusion. Once she showed me where the big rocks were, I could remove them. Aware of the clay, I could loosen and mix it with good sandy soil, releasing its nutrients and trace minerals. Acknowledging the extent of the weeds, I could root them out. And knowing where to find her fledgling plants, I could help them grow.
We were lying in bed. I was telling her the story of the scars on my arm, amused, full of myself. I had mentioned cherry-picked chunks of the Anna affair, showing me in a good light. I had already told her about several other women in my sexual past, including my ex-wife, ignorantly or purposely avoiding any prick-size aspects.
[Dick. Recall that before I began Alcock’s memoir, its relative size was a taboo subject for me. I did secretly bemoan my fate, and fantasize about how great a full-sized member must be, but until the past year or so I never, even jokingly, talked about it out loud. Uncle M.]
In a small, soft, intimate voice as nonthreatening as a voice could be, while rhythmically stroking a particularly sensistive area of my body, she said, “You don’t know anything about women, Peter.”
There was silence for a while.
“I guess not,” I said coolly to hide the alarm from the stab in the gut, assuaged by her hand and her voice. But the seed of truth she planted grew and bore fruit in the ensuing years.
And she followed with another point. Again, bundled in a soft voice, devoid of malice, like a sweet nothing of love, “You don’t make love when you fuck me,” she said.
I almost said, “Well, shit!” and was about to get up from the bed. But I lay there numbed, feeling bad, the flower of my manhood wilting in her hand. There was silence for a while before she began to caress me and mumbling something about “Let me show you what I mean,” she begin a slow, laid-back, dance of seduction which soon awoke a steadily expanding desire to possess each other totally, where two become one.
Finally, having completely restored my self-confidence and made it thoroughly clear she loved me, she said, “You’re too cocky for a little prick.”
After a couple seconds of silence, I chuckled. It was a joke, and I need not dwell on it. I buried it deep, got up and made nihon cha for both of us.
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