I'm taking this philosophy course called "Learning to Think." So the TA
who runs the discussion-classes tells us we have to keep a journal - of our
thoughts about thinking throughout the semester. I think that's a good idea.
There, that's my first journal-thought. Wait! It's the first thought I've
written down in my journal, but is it really my first journal-thought, I mean,
the first thought I had once I sat down to take care of this journal-business?
God, this is going well. (Should I have mentioned God, since I don't really
intend to think about him at this time?) Anyhow, my truly first thought...,
well, it was about the TA. I'm not sure it was what philosophers mean by a
thought. I don't get the impression from the philosophers we're reading - big
names like Plato and Aristotle and RenŽ Descartes and Ludwig Wittgenstein - that
they thought a lot about women. Plato liked guys, so you couldn't expect
anything interesting from him about girls. But it isn't just that. At least
Plato has something to say about sex in his writings, even though it's hardly
x-rated stuff by our standards (despite being gay). The other philosophers don't
say a word about it. (Ludwig Wittgenstein was of the gay persuasion too, but he
didn't out and announce it in his philosophy the way Plato did, so he's no help
to anyone.) Like it's beneath them, too physical, too everyday. It's the biggest
fucking mystery since the big bang, but hey.... Maybe they thought there was
nothing in it to think about. It was all action and no thought. That could
explain it. But if you're going to make thinking your business, shouldn't you be
thinking about everything? That's what I think. So, using the above logical
methods of thought, I've come to the conclusion that it's appropriate for me to
be thinking about the TA. Not just appropriate but (if you consider data
supplied by parts of my body lacking in free will) necessary. Okay, I'll be
serious. What goes on, I ask myself, when I'm doing what I have reason to call
"thinking about the TA"? (I think, by the way, that I put the last question
rather well, by the standards of philosophy in any case. It's more or less the
way Professor Smart, our lecturer - do you believe the dude's name? - , states,
no, "formulates," - his questions.) It turns out that several things are going
on. First of all, I'm seeing a picture of her in my mind. So, is that actually
thinking, or is it seeing? I say, thinking. Because I'm not really seeing her,
because my eyes aren't doing it, so "seeing" is just a figure of speech for
something happening...yes, exactly, in my thoughts. If it's happening in my
thoughts, then it's thinking. (Shit, I'm good at this. I'll probably major in
philosophy. But you don't decide that until your junior year, so I've got a
couple of years to fool around with it. I wonder if the TA will still be here
when I decide.) Okay, seeing the TA in my mind IS thinking. So what does that
get me? Excuse me, US. Philosophers always talk as though it's a group effort.
We're all seeing this picture of the TA, Nicole Altman, in our collective mind.
So what does that get us? Let us be frank. (Why not? I can always delete this
later.) The first thing it gets us is a bunch of erections. (Or one collective
erection? Too weird.) That's assuming "we" are all male, of course. However,
since the existence of girls has been overlooked by philosophers, it is a fair
assumption that we are all males here. I surmise (pause to enjoy having used
this word)...I surmise that we all agree - eagerly, I would bet - that a girl,
like our TA for example, can be an object of thought despite the fact that we
philosophers don't officially believe in her. I find it particularly challenging
to this belief, or unbelief, or disbelief - that's the word I prefer,
"disbelief," since it describes how I feel whenever I see a girl, especially a
beautiful one like Nicole Altman, who's a perfect Platonic idea of a girl
(except that Plato himself didn't happen to have such an idea, being drawn to
oiled, naked boys down at the corner gym, to which I reply, Dufus!).... I was
saying that I find it challenging to the non-existence of girls as posited by
philosophers that the object in question, Nicole Altman, is not only a girl, but
a Teaching Assistant in the Department of Philosophy. Because there is an
excellent chance, given the apparent purpose of the Department of Philosophy in
hiring teaching-assistants, not to mention the fact that they are all graduate
students OF philosophy, that the holder of the position of Teaching Assistant in
Philosophy will be an actual philosopher. So Ms. Altman (as she prefers to be
called, hence proving that she proudly acknowledges herself to be female without
giving Plato and Ludwig Wittgenstein the time of day) is both girl and
philosopher. Is this a paradox? Maybe. I mean, Perhaps. But at least it
justifies us (are we all still here?) in thinking about her, even if the great
thinkers of yore aren't going to lend us their wisdom for this fruitful
activity. We'll have to address the problem all by our lonesome. Problem? The
truth is (I may get back to the question of WHAT truth is - I suppose I'll have
to to pass the course), it's no problem at all thinking about Ms. Altman. The
reason is: beauty, i.e. hers. Without taking up the issue of what is beauty, I
think I've established that, sometimes anyhow, beauty helps you think, making
the object of thought wonderful to think about. I remember the first day of
lecture-class. Of course, it was only two weeks ago, but I remember it as though
it were yesterday, or right now. Because that's the effect the
teaching-assistant has on me. Anyhow, Plato says (I think) that real knowledge
is just remembering. So there it is. We're all drifting into the class-room, a
lot of us because the course is required, and I notice this truly lovely, rather
small girl in a maroon jersey and short black skirt taking her place at the end
of the first row. She's got long dark hair, slightly frizzy, and she's wearing
glasses and also lipstick. I like both those things on girls: not only lipstick,
but glasses. If anything, I thought this girl was young-looking even for a
freshman, and I remember (after all this time) wondering if maybe she was an
advanced-placement student or some such thing. She certainly looked bright and
sharp. But I thought - I was already thinking, you see, even before the lesson
began - she'd probably have looked younger without the wonderful lipstick and
brainy glasses, so it was clever of her to wear them now that she was in
college. Professor Smart lectured for an hour or so, living up to his name as
far as I could tell, mentioning this and that philosopher as if he spent Friday
nights out with them, and telling us how hard it is to think about anything, let
alone about thinking, but well worth the trouble, he said. He made some jokes,
quite a number in fact, including one about horticulture and political
correctness for some reason I didn't follow. "You can lead a whore to culture,"
he said, "but you can't make him or her think." We all enjoyed being let in on
this adult humor, though, since it certainly wasn't the kind of thing you got
from your high-school teachers. And then he got really thoughtful and said, "So,
ladies and gentlemen, you can learn how to think, but nobody can make you do it,
and not just anyone can teach you how to do it either. I'd like you to meet one
person who surely can" - (I have four professors, and every one of them loves
the word "surely"; I'm getting fond of it myself) - and then he signals with a
wave that someone at the end of the first row should stand up and he says, "Miss
Nicole Altman, your discussion-class instructor," and up stands my so-called
advanced-placement freshman, with this pretty, very adult smile on her red lips
and her hair falling over her shoulders down to the tops of her breasts, which
stood out in her jersey with impressive authority and firmness, especially
considering their small size. When she turned toward Professor Smart and her
back was to me, I strained to follow the outline of her bra-straps across her
shoulders. I don't know why, but this sight filled me with profound love and
tenderness for the TA. **** **** It was just after the first class-meeting with
the TA, the one in which she assigned this journal and in which with
considerable effort I restrained myself from raising my hand and announcing my
total loyalty to her and my readiness to defend her honor against all foes and
asking if anyone had a problem with that. That same afternoon I'm in
Toiletries-R-Us and I'm heading, as I always do in super-drugstores, down the
feminine hygiene aisle. Of course I can't linger there the way I'd like. I have
to make it look like I've taken a wrong turn. But there's still a charge in it
for me. Just to think that every single woman you know has to visit this section
of some store, that it's universal and categorical and necessary (see, I'm not
forgetting the purpose of this journal, which is to help me learn how to sound
like a philosopher)...that causes me an incredible amount of arousal. So I'm
striding purposefully down the aisle, doing my quick corner-of-the-eye inventory
of napkins and cramp-relievers and disposable douches, and I brush against the
retreating arm of a customer who's just taken a feminine-hygiene item from the
shelf, and she drops it - she drops the carton of tampons. I start to apologize,
and who is she but Nicole Altman, beautiful and very bright TA, in snug
blue-jeans and a light cotton sweater. I drop to my knees and retrieve the
carton and hand it up to her. (This act was surprisingly pleasurable. The knees,
it turns out, are an excellent position to view a beautiful lady from. Nicole
Altman looks taller than she is. She's short, actually, but while I was down
there I learned why she doesn't look it: long leg-to-height ratio.) I'm about to
say, "There you go, Ms. Altman," or "Sorry about that, Ms. Altman," or, "Hey,
Ms. Altman, fascinating class today. Here's your...your...item." But then I
realize that of course she doesn't recognize me yet. It's only the first day and
there are two dozen of us in class. So I simply apologize for being clumsy,
climb to my feet and make my getaway, reviewing as I scramble all the
information I've collected on this unplanned foray into Nicole Altman's life,
everything from preference in absorbency to lack of preference for applicators.
Of course, I've also noted the Miss Smoothie razor-cartridges and the Lady
Verbena All Natural Deodorant and various shampoos and soaps in Nicole's basket,
and they give me food for thought as well. I am so turned on by cleanness.
Nicole curtly thanks me as I go. The things that then occupied my mind! I think
details would not be appropriate here. But I certainly meditated with some rigor
on Nicole's probable behavior once alone with the product in question, focusing
on how SHE, the woman, would intuit the experience of insertion. This is called
by philosophers "the problem of other minds." To my mind, to cite but one
example, it was a matter of the greatest interest that Nicole would have to
experience her own pubic hair as she proceeded to introduce the tampon into her
vagina. What a sensation that must be, I meditated. Hair...very dark and in a
perfect Euclidean triangle, as she would know a priori after fifteen years of
seeing herself in the mirror...hair softly curling at the tips of her beautiful
sensitive digits as they ease the way for her cotton guest into heaven's
vestibule, and then the warmth and moisture of her lips around them and "him." I
drew conclusions as to the injustice of the fact that for Nicole herself, the
"other mind" in this case, a naturally glorious experience, which she had full
freedom to linger over besides, would appear completely ordinary and
uninteresting. Philosophers refer to this as the problem of appearance and
reality. Plato makes a very sharp distinction between the two, and I have been
in total agreement with him on this point since bumping into Nicole in the
drugstore. **** **** Since writing the previous paragraphs, I've heard another
lecture by Professor Smart and had two more discussion-classes with the TA. From
all this philosophizing, I've discovered that I made a few serious mistakes of
reasoning in the first pages of this journal. First, I speak of existence, and
even worse, non-existence as qualities, which I now understand they're not.
(Don't ask me what they are, though. Professor Smart is keeping that to himself
for a while.) And then, stupidity of stupidities, I actually use the phrase
"posit non-existence," which looks okay but makes no sense, just like certain
people in my "Learning to Think" class. Like the ones who laughed at me in Ms.
Altman's class when she asked, "What does Plato mean by Truth?" and I blurted
out, "What do you mean by 'mean'?" and everyone - everyone except the Divine
Teaching Assistant - thought I was clowning. But Ms. Altman nodded thoughtfully,
then asked my name, and when I told her "Joseph," she automatically called me
"Joey," which amazed me and caused something that didn't logically follow to
occur in the part of me that we males are said to think with. I thought Ms.
Altman gave me an odd look, though, as if she was trying to remember why I
looked familiar. "Thank you, Joey," she said, "that's a thoughtful question."
When she asked if I had any idea how to answer it, I froze. I had this crazy
idea that Ms. Altman could see me through my clothes, that she saw my erect
penis pointing straight at her like a "One Way" sign. I felt that, if this
were...well, if this were what Professor Smart would call "the case" - I mean,
if I was transparent to the TA with my straight-arrow hard-on - then it wouldn't
embarrass me at all. I'd be proud to have her see how responsive and dedicated
to her I was. This also gave me an idea that unfroze me. "Well, Ms. Altman," I
said, "I don't have the whole answer...I mean, of course I don't...but I know
that one way...sometimes...you explain what you mean is by just pointing...at
the thing you mean...I, uh, mean." The kids laughed again. The TA didn't think
this was hopeless. In fact, she thought I was doing some real thinking, "Joey."
She said I had discovered a kind of meaning called ostensive definition. I very
much wanted to thank her and to say "Ma'am" as part of it. Just thinking about
calling Ms. Altman "ma'am," young-girl-looking Ms. Altman, the youngest female,
I suddenly realized, who'd ever had official power over me - just thinking about
this had the effect of firming up my ostensive definition of MS. Altman.
As I was crossing campus today, I noticed Nicole talking to some women.
Actually, it was her hair that caught my eye first. Long, dark in color, but
light in weight, like the woman herself. It's autumn, but still balmy and girls
were back to wearing warm-weather togs: cropped tops, maybe sleeveless, and
wispy skirts. That's the way Nicole's friends were dressed, and they were
stunning. Smart, grad-student faces and brutally sexy, lightly clad bodies.
Nicole herself was wearing a short yellow dress and heeled sandals. Her
toe-nails were painted. Her legs were smooth and long-looking, though she's
actually not tall. There was a breeze blowing, and she was facing into it, so
her dress clung to her like shrink-wrap. Nothing - not tight jeans or
short-shorts or even a bikini - nothing displays a woman's total form like a
summer dress caught in the wind. In particular, you get the best revelation of
her mound, in a way that brings out intimate details while respecting the place
of the grassy knoll in the over-all plan of her body. The thinner the woman, the
finer the depth-of-field, so the more information passes through the fabric. So
there was the cool and very thin Nicole, laughing with her friends while an
obliging breeze invited me to study the flatness of her abdomen, including even
the indentation of her navel, her blade-like hips, her slender upper thighs and,
most awe-inspiring, the clean, round bump between them. I stood near enough to
concentrate - I even caught a whiff of perfume when the wind spun round - but
far enough to go unnoticed. When the breeze blew right, I could make out, at
Nicole's hips and groin, the outline of very brief panties, and I could even
detect a thin layer of gossamer over her marble mound, the cushion of pubic hair
that floated over it without disguising its hardness - all this layered detail
thanks to the subtle probing of the cosmic ether. I felt grateful, as well as
guilty (a little), to be given all this food for thought. **** **** I learned a
couple of things about the TA this afternoon from an older student. Everyone
higher up on the social scale than us kids in the class is allowed to call her
Nickie. She's Nickie, in other words. She thinks of herself as Nickie. A nice,
friendly name for a girl, sort of unisex, showing that she sees herself as a
rugged sort of person, but not aloof. Also (I learned), she's Jewish. Like a lot
of people at the University, but like very few people back home. I guess a more
worldly person would have known instantly. Her name is Jewish, and so are her
looks, if you think about it. In my home-town the only Jewish people were the
family that owned the "department store," the Bergdorfs. It was actually called
Bergdorf's Department Store, but the famous Bergdorf's in New York had no reason
to feel threatened. We all called the place "Bird-dog's" anyhow. There were
maybe five "departments": pajamas, clock-radios, "notions" (as distinct from
full-fledged thoughts, I guess), rubbers (for the feet), and Lorus watches.
That's the impression you got, anyhow. The Bergdorf's grand-daughters were in
high school with me. They looked a little like Nickie Altman, now that I think
of it: same dark hair with a frizz, same complexion like a gentle sun-tan, same
expression in the eyes and mouth, a constant look, I realize, of impending
cleverness, of mischief reluctantly tabled. Yes, Nickie does get this expression
on her beautiful face very often, as if she's trying to keep herself from doing
or saying something irresistibly naughty. The Bergdorf girls weren't lacking in
beauty either, but it was hard to get a take on it and just enjoy it, and now I
see why: all that private laughter just under the surface. I feel very good
about being in love with a Jewish girl. It goes somehow with wanting to be a
philosopher when I grow up. Once I consider it, I realize that I found this look
very sexy even back home, but many things, including my lack of an ability to
think, prevented me from recognizing this. Yes, the Bergdorf girls were very
sexy: they had nice, breasty bodies, and they dressed well too, which is to say,
not in clothes that came from their grand-parents' department store. But the
things my friends said about them - I mean about "Jewesses" in general...that
was the word they used, always in a whisper - these things were what my
freshman-comp professor would call "daunting," meaning scary in a way you don't
have to be ashamed of. Maybe we could be teased for being awkward and unmanly
around regular girls, but nobody could blame a guy for being afraid of
the...hush..."Jewesses." Because these "Jewesses" were almost a different
species, though there wasn't one-hundred-percent agreement as to what made them
different. In fact, there was total, chaotic disagreement. Even the guys who
claimed to have gone ahead and made out with one of the Bergdorf girls gave
conflicting reports of their anatomical details. They had bigger thises and
bigger thats between their legs, and more hair and less hair, or it could be no
hair, and maybe no that but a this, or vice versa. We weren't of one mind about
what any of this revealed about them anyhow. Our experience of thises and thats
was quite incomplete. Similar doctrines were revealed concerning the females of
all races, up to and including "the Italian race." Chinese girls were supposed
to have horizontal slits, but none of us could claim to know for sure since the
owners of The Lucky Wok only had sons, kids our own age who'd just say something
in Chinese to one another when we asked, then laugh their heads off. The view
was frequently expressed (suddenly I'm seeing Professor Smart with his
salt-and-pepper hair recounting the heady disputes of the sages concerning the
cunts of..."Jewesses"! "Yes, ladies and gentlemen, some thinkers have put
forward the thesis bla-bla-bla, while others have staunchly maintained
bla-bla-bla in the face of the ridicule of their contemporaries, though history
has, as history will with a regularity most discomfiting for the complacent
among us, borne the dissenters out....")...anyhow, the view was frequently
expressed that the women of each race had their own kind of smell, and the
reason you stuck to your own race for sex was that the other races' woman-smells
- not only Jewish girls now, but black girls, Asian girls, Dravidian, Arabian,
you name it - would have such a paralyzing effect on you, you'd never be a man
again once they got to you. They were like some devastating drug, these smells,
intended to turn able-bodied males like us into pussy-whipped ("or
pussy-whiffed?" I used to say, because deep down I thought this all had to be
trash), feeble-minded slaves. What does all this race-junk have to do with
learning to think? Nothing at all. That's my point. I'm a late bloomer. Not that
I ever really believed any of this garbage - not deep down - but our brains were
chockablock with it. It was our language. It didn't say much, but it was the
only language we knew, so we went on speaking it. But it wasn't thinking because
it was based on what Plato calls "opinion," comparing it to lumpy shadows on the
wall of a cave. Not knowledge, in other words, just the dumb-bunny opinions of
boy-virgins. You see, I haven't actually seen a live woman fully naked, and my
friends back home haven't either. Most of my visual knowledge comes from
magazines. The closest I've come to seeing the real thing (and if that's not
real, that particular thing, then I'm with those philosophers who say that
nothing is) is when I was thirteen and Kenny Manning got his eleven-year old
sister Chrissy to strip down to her panties for a bunch of us. She did it all
step by step, starting with her t-shirt, and just the idea that it was happening
was thrilling. Just to see a girl, even if she WAS only eleven, in her bra -
that was incredibly arousing, to me and to the other boys as well. There were
maybe six of us, plus Chrissy and her brother, and we were all standing, we boys
in a sort of semi-circle, and the girl somewhat apart, facing us. It wasn't that
she was being forced exactly: Kenny had talked her into it with some sort of
bribe, and promised her she wouldn't have to take off her panties. But she was
confused about what attitude to take. I think the effect she was having actually
shocked little Chrissy and made her feel kind of mighty for a few minutes. She
pointed at a couple of our hard-ons and said, "You've all got bulges." And one
of the guys, voicing the general embarrassment, said, "That's our business,
little girl," and Chrissy said, "I was just saying," and tossed her head in a
grown-up way, and another guy said, "You sort of got them too under that bra."
Then Kenny told his sister to take her bra off, and she got shy again and
lowered her eyes but did what she was told. Later I'd imagine the whole thing
all over again, but this time with all the boys having to strip naked first, so
we'd be standing there with our erections sticking out even before the girl
pulled off her shirt. And Chrissy would laugh at us and say, "You guys are so
pathetic. All I have to do is show up. God!" I guess I felt I shouldn't have
been there, shouldn't be part of this, that it was a truly piggish thing to do.
But I so desperately yearned to see a flesh-and-blood female body I couldn't
keep away. But in my fantasy-version, when she showed contempt for us and our
penises, I felt it was what we deserved and that we were the ones actually being
humiliated. I even imagined apologizing to her and kneeling and promising to
obey her every whim. Combined with the indelible picture in my mind of
semi-naked Chrissy, this extra element kept my imagination fired for many an
evening. But I forced myself to drop the kneeling bit because I didn't think it
was healthy for a boy to fantasize about being a little girl's slave, and the
other boys talked about the Chrissy thing as though it had been our finest hour.
When Chrissy undid her bra, you could practically hear our hearts banging in our
chests. HER chest was showing the first swellings of breasts, and we just stood
and gawked. It wasn't that they were that much, but they were something we
didn't have, something that said, This is a girl, you're looking at the bare
chest of an actual girl, a genuine pre-woman - and it can only get bigger.
Chrissy was getting there. In a way it was thinking about what it meant, and not
just staring at Chrissy's pubescent bosom, that made the thing exciting. (You
see, I haven't forgotten the point of this journal-keeping after all.) You could
see some curvature below her waist, and protruding hip-bones above the low top
of her jeans. She was only eleven, but when she unbuttoned her pants and let
them drop, she might as well have been Julia Roberts, her effect on us was so
devastating. She was wearing simple cotton panties that she was already
outgrowing, so they clung to her pussy-parts and gave us an excellent
outline-view of her lips. I was surprised at how prominent they were puffing
against her panties, with her groove like a deep valley in between. She
definitely didn't look like a boy down there. But that's as far as it went.
Kenny stopped the action there. We begged to see it all. There's so little left
to strip. Those panties..., they're like nothing. But Kenny said, "She's my
sister, guys," and that was the end of it. Except that I still see Chrissy that
close to naked in my dreams. I scold myself, but I'm excited all the same, and
when I imagine it's little Chrissy who scolds me, and mocks me for being so
fascinated by her, I end up even more excited. A few times in high-school I got
far enough with a girl to be allowed to massage her through her panties, and in
that way I learned of her wetness and her smell. Exactly once I slipped my hand
under a girl's panties, combed her pubic hair and fingered her vagina for a few
seconds, taking in everything about it I could as to its texture and temperature
before the girl brought my exploration to an indignant halt. I acquired much
sensory knowledge very quickly that time, but not through the most important
cognitive portal (Professor Smart's expression, and very catchy), the eyes,
since the room was totally dark. That's why I can speak with some familiarity
about certain female qualities, and still maintain that I have never actually
seen a live naked woman. I have at best gathered certain tactile and olfactory
perceptions, but these I have cherished. However, when I think about lessening
the cognitive and epistemological gap between the TA and me (as generally I do
first thing in the morning - my attention lured to the subject by that early
riser, my penis - and at least three or four more times by evening) I implicitly
alter the facts of my life which are suggestive of inexperience and corollary
self-doubt. I see myself approaching Ms. Nicole Altman with confidence and
savoir-faire bordering on the cocky. I don't stand on ceremony. I undress her, I
lay her down. She's reluctant at first, very ambivalent. Maybe she's just
slightly afraid of me, small woman that she is. She has the body of an
adolescent, lean and bony. Her breasts are small, but firm and high. Her hips
curve, but it's her sharp, protruding bones doing it - like an adolescent. I
stroke her armpits, checking for smoothness, though I expect to find it. I have
this idea that teasing her shaved parts is a good way of reminding a girl that
you know what she's hiding in the place she doesn't shave. I take a few licks of
her nipples, which I imagine timid and dark and buttery smooth, then bury my
fingers in her wiry triangle and make her wet despite herself. Her scent fills
the air and I might call her attention to it, embarrassing and disarming her a
little. Then I slip myself inside her, as if it's what she and I were made for,
and she gives in to me, admitting that she likes it, squealing a lot, egging me
on, then feeling a little humiliated afterwards because she'd been forced to
drop her pose of authority by one very exciting freshman. **** **** It's been
seven days since I wrote the above. As a description of my imaginary doings with
my beloved philosophy TA, it was pretty accurate for its age, the fairly
primitive, barbaric era of my life that for the time being I'll call last week.
But when I read it now, I'm struck by how quickly such things start to look
old-fashioned and naive. The other morning, "just like that," I would have said
before learning that everything has an explanation, even if we don't know what
it is yet...the other morning, everything changed. I was lingering in bed,
having outslept my clock, trying to calculate the odds of my big and ready
morning penis letting me get out of bed without paying him the regulation
respects. But he's so insistent. He's been up for hours, probably, tanking
himself on dark-roast testosterone, getting pretty jumpy waiting for me and my
mental picture-collection of Nicole Altman to rescue him from frenzy. I suddenly
have this vision: all over the building, in every male suite, something like
this is happening, this morning and every morning. Hundreds of boys with wake-up
hard-ons badgering them like obnoxious room-mates to do the right thing before
getting out of bed. Hundreds of brains swimming with images of girls - very
likely girls from nearby suites who are right now showering, already back from a
brisk morning jog, or already padding from the shower, wrapped in towel sarongs
and turbans, or actually brushing and drying and making themselves captivating
so that the thought of them will keep us boys prisoners of our beds again
tomorrow morning, hard-hearted warden Penis, who works for the girls and doesn't
like US one bit, never even admitting there's such a thing as Good Time. To
think that men all over the world start their days like this and then have
the...the balls?...to strut about as though they belonged to themselves. Yes.
You see, this line of thought was my first clue that something had changed. This
idea that seemed to be waiting for me like my erection to wake up and notice it.
It felt new and yet, in a way, familiar. I suppose those fantasies of abject
apology to Chrissy were a preview of it. But it felt even deeper-rooted than
that. I just couldn't place it. In any case, as my perfect Platonic idea of
Nicole Altman (which Plato would say is "more real," being an idea, than the
flesh-and-blood woman I would adore in class this morning, but I have to say not
quite)...as the never-real-enough Nicole Altman drifted into focus, I felt this
weakness before her. I don't mean simply the usual soft spot, but this strange,
deep humility. I wasn't at all sure of myself. I imagined myself as I'd truly
be: awkward and trembling. I tried for the usual preliminaries - the unzipping
of Nicole's skirt, the lowering of her panties, my first sight of her mound and
pubic hair, the womanly scent emanating from her girlish body - but I saw myself
very shy through all this. And then, as though I'd suddenly found the right path
after stumbling around in the woods, I heard the womanly voice directing me to
my knees. Yes, instead of daring to enter Nicole, I went obediently down on her,
my tongue responding to her precise instructions. I imagined her implacable, but
praising me in the end for my devotion and even my skill. Even making a
condescending joke: if I were half as good at linguistic analysis as I am at
cunnilingus, well.... I didn't imagine myself coming and I didn't come. My penis
didn't know what to think, but finally agreed to it. What I thought was: Let me
go through the day with this humble desire to please dominating my mind. Let me
bring it to Nickie Altman's classroom. Let my eyes convey it to her and...why
not?...to other girls too. Maybe they'll know what to do with it. Why do I say
maybe? Girls know. They don't even have to think about it. end
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