the issue of his homosexual -ity. A tireless indiscriminate friendliness no doubt is one good way; for these natives of Maine appear to be not fussily moral, but passionately neighborly, touchily democratic …
Then in my black waxed silk, exotic rather than erotic attire, I lay down on one of the double beds and waited for him. From the remote bathroom, and I know not what further conversation on the way there and back, he came at last and lay beside me. Still I could not think whether to like or dislike his eyes, so light-colored, so old-looking, and decidedly aslant, enclosed in numerous little intense wrinkles pointing out and pointing up. Suddenly I knew what I thought: they were half-animal eyes, metamorphosed eyes; the deadness in them was the legendary pathos of the satyr. His strong, thin, and slightly chapped mouth also pointed up. Most modern men smile downward; he smiled in Etruscan style. We gossiped some more; then he took me in his arms.
After a good many vigorous hugs and rough kisses, I observed that he was worrying about my response to them, that is, my lack of response. What was he doing that displeased me, or was it that I lacked temperament, or what? In fact the day had affected me as if it had been interminable, and I was waiting to forget my fatigue. Also our dinner had been of the grossest meat and potatoes and pie, and I was still aware of my digestion. Of course I was embarrassed to speak of these unromantic impediments. Instead I remarked that his Palm-Beach-cloth suit was uncomfortable, scratchy. He promptly removed it.
His hair was only warmly, rustily blond; but his flesh had the rather weak and precious texture, the hothouse pallor, that as a rule goes with red hair. This, in contrast with his sunburned face, made him appear very naked with his clothes off. The muscles of his back were admirable; the backbone in a deep indentation from the nape of his neck to his compact buttocks. He carried himself with a slight stoop, but his chest was round and stout enough to make up for it. The form and carriage of a young day-laborer … Having undressed in the opposite corner of the room with his back to me, briskly, methodically, he turned around and faced me with the strangest expression—somewhat joyously exhibiting himself, yet somewhat ashamed, and perhaps resentful of my interest, my amusement— and came to bed; and the seemingly interminable night’s work or play began.
His sexual organ, the symbol of this silly pilgrimage, and also the cause of my severe self-consciousness and unromantic sense of humor, really was a fantastic object. No matter what infantile prejudice you might be swayed by, or pagan superstition, or pornographic habit of mind, you could not call it beautiful; it was just a desperate thickness, a useless length of vague awkward muscle. An unusual amount of foreskin covered it, protruded from the end of it, thickly pursed like a rose. In the other dimension also, around the somewhat flattened shaft, the skin was very coarse and copious. Neither in length nor breadth did it increase in the usual ratio, nor did it grow quite rigid, at least not until it had almost reached the point of its difficult orgasm. And at that point, as I presently found to my dis-comfiture, it was apt to fail suddenly, droop suddenly, lie useless half way down his thigh. But still in dull and futile flexibility it had a look of pompous, ominous erection. It was a thing which to a happy person of normal spirit would be a matter of indifference, an absurdity; which on the other hand, to a very sensual man or woman who happened to have a faulty understanding of his way of life, might be a cause of, or a pretext for, desperate bad habit and disappointment. And now here was I, certainly unhappy, and dangerously sensual, but no fool, and not afraid—here was I in bed with Priapus! A thing to frighten maidens with, and to frighten pillagers out of an orchard; a thing to be wreathed with roses, then forgotten
Then in my black waxed silk, exotic rather than erotic attire, I lay down on one of the double beds and waited for him. From the remote bathroom, and I know not what further conversation on the way there and back, he came at last and lay beside me. Still I could not think whether to like or dislike his eyes, so light-colored, so old-looking, and decidedly aslant, enclosed in numerous little intense wrinkles pointing out and pointing up. Suddenly I knew what I thought: they were half-animal eyes, metamorphosed eyes; the deadness in them was the legendary pathos of the satyr. His strong, thin, and slightly chapped mouth also pointed up. Most modern men smile downward; he smiled in Etruscan style. We gossiped some more; then he took me in his arms.
After a good many vigorous hugs and rough kisses, I observed that he was worrying about my response to them, that is, my lack of response. What was he doing that displeased me, or was it that I lacked temperament, or what? In fact the day had affected me as if it had been interminable, and I was waiting to forget my fatigue. Also our dinner had been of the grossest meat and potatoes and pie, and I was still aware of my digestion. Of course I was embarrassed to speak of these unromantic impediments. Instead I remarked that his Palm-Beach-cloth suit was uncomfortable, scratchy. He promptly removed it.
His hair was only warmly, rustily blond; but his flesh had the rather weak and precious texture, the hothouse pallor, that as a rule goes with red hair. This, in contrast with his sunburned face, made him appear very naked with his clothes off. The muscles of his back were admirable; the backbone in a deep indentation from the nape of his neck to his compact buttocks. He carried himself with a slight stoop, but his chest was round and stout enough to make up for it. The form and carriage of a young day-laborer … Having undressed in the opposite corner of the room with his back to me, briskly, methodically, he turned around and faced me with the strangest expression—somewhat joyously exhibiting himself, yet somewhat ashamed, and perhaps resentful of my interest, my amusement— and came to bed; and the seemingly interminable night’s work or play began.
His sexual organ, the symbol of this silly pilgrimage, and also the cause of my severe self-consciousness and unromantic sense of humor, really was a fantastic object. No matter what infantile prejudice you might be swayed by, or pagan superstition, or pornographic habit of mind, you could not call it beautiful; it was just a desperate thickness, a useless length of vague awkward muscle. An unusual amount of foreskin covered it, protruded from the end of it, thickly pursed like a rose. In the other dimension also, around the somewhat flattened shaft, the skin was very coarse and copious. Neither in length nor breadth did it increase in the usual ratio, nor did it grow quite rigid, at least not until it had almost reached the point of its difficult orgasm. And at that point, as I presently found to my dis-comfiture, it was apt to fail suddenly, droop suddenly, lie useless half way down his thigh. But still in dull and futile flexibility it had a look of pompous, ominous erection. It was a thing which to a happy person of normal spirit would be a matter of indifference, an absurdity; which on the other hand, to a very sensual man or woman who happened to have a faulty understanding of his way of life, might be a cause of, or a pretext for, desperate bad habit and disappointment. And now here was I, certainly unhappy, and dangerously sensual, but no fool, and not afraid—here was I in bed with Priapus! A thing to frighten maidens with, and to frighten pillagers out of an orchard; a thing to be wreathed with roses, then forgotten
Similar Books
