An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 10

Copyright Mael DelaVara

The willow with its deeply fissured trunk sunk deep into a bank that contained an energetic stream. It was early spring. Hints of forsythia hung in the air. Bare trees formed a lattice against the crisp blue sky. Crocus leaves poked through the grass with a thrust of anticipation. And crows exchanged callous caws as if in knowing conversation about the impending event. Michael felt his stomach churning.

"Don't worry," Audrey said with a mischievous smile. "This hand pruner has a capacity of less than half an inch. That's about the diameter of your little finger. So we won't be cutting a switch that is too thick now, will we?"

Michael did not see the humor in the situation.

Audrey reached for a straight branch some three to four feet long and was just about to cut it at the base when she suddenly turned and handed Michael the clippers.

"You do the honors."

Michael's cut was not clean, and as she yanked the limb away from the tree, the bark curled up at the sliced end.

The sap must have started to flow, she thought to herself. Without thinking, she began to slowly and easily peel off the bark in straight narrow pieces.

"Besides, it won't hurt that much because willow is a natural pain-killer. Did you know that?"

Michael did not know that, so he was even less amused than he otherwise would have been.

"There was this famous physician in ancient Greece, some five centuries before Christ. His name was Hippocrates, and he discovered that the bark of willow has a substance that reduces inflammation and soothes pain--like headache or toothache. But I'm sure it works just as well for sore bottoms."

Michael sensed that Audrey was mocking him.

"And that's the chemical that's in aspirin. Salycilic acid."

Michael felt a surge of resentment. Audrey was not only toying with him, turning his punishment into a piece of theater, she was also lording it over him with her superior knowledge, making him feel inadequate.

Audrey seemed not to notice, perhaps not to care, that Michael was bristling.

"You know Native Americans used to chew on willow bark for the same reasons we take aspirin. They wanted to get at this stuff here, see, the moist green inner bark. Perhaps I should give you some pieces to chew while you're being punished." Audrey was enjoying herself heedlessly.

Michael had a sudden urge to seize the branch and snap it across his knees, but he counted to five and then said quietly, "We don't have to do this."

"Oh?" Audrey was so taken aback that she could not elaborate a sentence, but she resumed stripping the bark with a determined energy.

"I love you," Michael pleaded. "I've learned my lesson. I won't do it again. You've got to know you have my heart."

He suddenly felt the point of the branch pressing into his crotch.

"But I don't have Little Michael," Audrey snapped, her eyes ablaze with anger at Michael's presumptuousness.

Michael was mortified. Audrey had conferred a name on what he had never named himself, and so she seemed to lay claim to what was indissolubly his, his most pleasurable possession.

Audrey was in no mood to concede. Thrusting the branch like a sword she said firmly, "I want you to yield me your sexuality as a gift. And you know you don't ask for gifts back. And you don't give them so you can borrow them again at your convenience. If you want to stay with me, Little Michael is mine. Unconditionally mine."

She paused. He's not making the obvious retort, she thought: gifts are not compelled.

"Of course," she resumed lightly, "I will take very good care of Little Michael." She lingered on the word 'little'.

Michael felt the branch pull back, and only then did he notice that it was completely peeled of bark and now looked only about half the diameter it had been. Audrey watched his face relax with relief.

They walked back in silence to the duplex. As they re-entered, Audrey guided Michael to the kitchen table on which she laid the freshly-stripped switch. From a cabinet drawer she retrieved a pen and a sheaf of paper, and on the top sheet she scribbled a few words.

"Michael," she said, "I want you to write out this phrase one hundred times, starting each repetition on a new line. That'll take you about four pages, but make sure you count the lines."
He looked at the phrase. It said, simply: "Little Michael belongs to Audrey."