From rgt@well.com Sat Apr 19 12:03:35 1997
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From: rgt@well.com (Estragon)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Estragon revised: I Learn to Think, or, Fun With Dick and Brain  I/2  (femdom)
Date: Sat, 19 Apr 1997 17:03:35 +0100
Organization: Estragon Productions
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Estragon: I Learn to Think, or, Fun With Dick and Brain   (femdom)


(For adults only.
Copyright 1996, 1997 Estragon Productions)



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 René 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. 

         end part one

From rgt@well.com Sat Apr 19 12:04:50 1997
Path: news1.infoave.net!news-dc-10.sprintlink.net!news.sprintlink.net!news1.best.com!noos.hooked.net!news.well.com!cust17.max77.new-york.ny.ms.uu.net!user
From: rgt@well.com (Estragon)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Estragon revised: I Learn to Think, or, Fun With Dick and Brain, II/2  (femdom)
Date: Sat, 19 Apr 1997 17:04:50 +0100
Organization: Estragon Productions
Lines: 281
Message-ID: <rgt-1904971704510001@cust17.max77.new-york.ny.ms.uu.net>
NNTP-Posting-Host: cust17.max77.new-york.ny.ms.uu.net

Estragon: I Learn to Think, or, Fun With Dick and Brain
II/2                  (femdom)



(For adults only.
Copyright 1997, 1997 Estragon Productions)



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. Itıs 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 ³maybe²? Girls know. They donıt even have to think about
it. 



end

