1
Somewhere I think I've mentioned falling in love, perhaps in conversation with Edith (see the sequence 'In the Knickers of Time.' Well, I'll tell the story, partly because the Edith-Cynthia relationship has reminded me of my own, two-phased, affair.
2
In the early 1990s I was changing horses. The erotic artworks agency was being overtaken by new technology. Transmission becoming electronic, difficult to manage, and I had no wish to become embroiled in it. There were still clients who wanted originals. Just enough of them to enable me to add a second degree to my first in art history. I planned to become a language-teacher, and was back at university, and met Leslie.
He also was changing career, from advertising to languages, and our being mature students brought us together. We settled into working as a pair, in the library and our rooms, sitting next to each other in seminars. We discovered shared interests, in country-walking, films and concerts. We conversed in the languages and developed quirky little research projects. He sought out sayings and proverbs particular to one language, not found in others. My interest was in the degrees of rudeness in words and phrases, varying between languages.
He was in physique my favourite sort of man. Small, about my own height, probably weighing less than me, smooth-skinned, tight-bottomed. Though it was some time before I got to check the last. He was pale, with ashy-blonde curls cut short, so his brown eyes were startling, the more so as he always gave you his full attention, fixing his gaze on you as if what you had to say was vitally important. His voice was light tenor and cultured. In short, he was beautiful, and entirely lacking in vanity.
Were we sleeping together? Well, eventually, but we were not having sex, not for a long while. Or, rather, he wasn't, not fully. We'll get to that. Meantime we were close friends and kissed on meeting and separating, but he generated a kind of forcefield which ensured that for a while we progressed no further than affection, and I understood that over-stepping the mark would lose him. It seemed that he needed to establish that I was not simply eager for intercourse. I guessed he'd been exploited or misled by some voracious female. Or male, perhaps. I realised, too, that my proximity was protecting him from unwanted attentions. Since I was, I found to my wry amusement, in love with him beyond the bounds of friendship, I had to be careful to conceal my accompanying desire. This meant much self-control, and debarred me from any sexual liaisons, for they would have been a betrayal of my focus on him. So, aside from a modicum of not very intense masturbation, I was without sexual satisfaction. What puzzled me, however, was the fact that he was clearly not indifferent to my charms, for I often noticed him glancing at my breasts.
This situation became more complicated on the night in our third term when we finished working late in his room and I rose to leave. He said, 'You don't have to go. Come to bed,' and my heart leapt for a moment, until I intuited that though we might share the bed consummation would probably not follow. However, I began to undress without comment, and he watched intently.
3
I've never been overly modest and was not embarrassed to be standing naked, whatever happened next. He said, 'As I thought, you have beautiful breasts, Norma, beautiful. Turn round, would you? Yes, a fine bottom, too.' There was in his tone something sad, as if my bum and bosoms were unattainable, or forbidden.
But next minute he had reached out to draw me close and was gently stroking my bum while nuzzling my nipples. Even this seemed more wistful than lustful. Then he stood and stripped, and I almost expected him to say, 'Ta-da!' He submitted himself to my inspection, to parallel his scrutiny of me, and he seemed anxious about my verdict. Which was that he was indeed beautiful. There was no excess fat, and his muscles were well-defined. His waist was probably slimmer than mine and there was no body-hair apart from a ring of tight curls at his groin. His thick flaccid cock hung down, evidently not inspired by my nudity. I bade him turn round and told him he had a nice bottom, too. He seemed disappointed, as if I were missing some vital feature.
'Anything strike you?' he prompted.
'If you want compliments, Leslie,' I said, 'You are a fine, handsome man.'
'Lie on the bed, Norma,' he commanded. 'Open your legs. Yes, like that.' But he was not going to enter me, with or without preliminaries. Instead, he gazed fixedly at my exposed vulva, grasped his cock and manipulated it a little. It began to thicken and rise and I was evidently meant to observe this with some negative reaction. Of course, my response was of interested hopefulness. Were we at last going to make love? No, I thought not.
When it was fully erect the cock was probably nine inches long and as thick as three fingers. Impressive, but was I to fear it or admire it? No, I was to be repelled, because, letting go of it, he said, 'Horrible, isn't it? A total freak.'
'What's freakish about it?' I asked. 'It looks quite normal to me.'
'And you've seen a lot?'
'Well, I've seen quite a few.'
'Any of them as big as this?' His tone was bitter.
'One or two were not far off. Mostly just average size. But they vary, you know.'
'So you don't think this one's ugly and elephantine?'
'Not at all. It's simply part of you.'
'No-one had told you it was large?'
'Are you implying I wanted to get close to you because you had a big penis?'
This was clearly a fear at the back of his mind. 'Leslie,' I said, closing my legs and standing up, 'The size of your prick is nothing to do with my feelings for you.'
He seemed reassured, embraced me and turned back the bedclothes for me. 'Do you still want to stay, after that?' he asked.
'I think you need to tell me about it,' I said, sliding between the sheets.
