Sunday, March 29, 2009

An Unusual Courtship, Chapter 9

Copyright Mael DelaVara


Audrey and Michael sat in silence, taking in the revelation--indeed acknowledgment--that Michael tied spanking and sexual desire together in some way.

But exactly how, Audrey wondered.

"Did you ever ask a girlfriend to spank you," Audrey resumed.

"Well, no, I couldn't do that."

"Why not? I bet you asked for a blow-job." Once again, Audrey shocked herself at the vulgarity of her language. But the word matched the deed. Going down on a guy really was a lowering of herself, an act of debasement.

Fragments passed through her consciousness of conversations she'd had with her mom about sex. She was a precocious child, so she consistently asked about things long before her mom anticipated what she needed to know. But mom was always candid and helpful, so there was the time they sat around a scribbled sketch of the vulva, identifying and labeling the parts. Audrey recalled with a smile how she spent the next two years trying to reconcile that sketch with what she could see of herself. She wished she still had that scrap of paper.

Because Audrey was quick to ask questions, her mom got in the habit of never volunteering information, especially about sex, until one day when Audrey was in her mid twenties and changing boy friends as frequently as she changed her sheets.

"Do you want to know how you can tell if a guy really wants to please you," her mom had said out of the blue.

How does anyone respond to that kind of opening.

"You get him to give you oral sex when you want, as often as you want, for six months, and he gets no release in return. At the end of the six months you can have sex. But use a condom."

Audrey was shocked. Was this how mom had handled dad? She was pretty sure that dad was mom's only sexual partner. Or was mom casually handing on advice she'd read somewhere? Perhaps it was just a fantasy, the conversion of a longing into a recommendation.

Audrey looked over at Michael. Would he accept that arrangement, she wondered.

"So you've never been spanked since you were a boy," Audrey continued, "but it's something you've wanted."

"I like the idea of spanking, but I don't like pain." Michael surprised himself at his clarity.

"Would you endure pain for me?" Audrey asked quizzically.

Michael shifted nervously.

"Suppose I was your goddess and I demanded acts of atonement from devotees."

Michael looked puzzled.

"Do you know about the diamastigosis?"

Michael glanced uneasily at the bookshelves laden with serious-looking volumes.

"The dye-am-AS-ti-go-sis," Audrey repeated. "In ancient Greece there was a city-state called Sparta. They had a temple dedicated to Artemis Orthia. Artemis was the virgin goddess of the moon and hunting. The Romans called her Diana. In that temple, every ephebus--that's every young man--would be ritually whipped to satisfy the goddess. That's what the diamastigosis was. A harsh whipping. But the whippings were not just a reparation for some primordial wrong. They were also tests of endurance. Because Sparta was the great military power in the ancient world--they beat Athens in the Peloponnesian war. So the whippings also served to harden the young men, to make them better soldiers."

Audrey changed her tone from lecturer to counselor. "No one likes pain, except the rare masochist. But pain, lovingly applied and openly accepted, can help us grow. It can heal and teach."

Audrey noticed Michael's eyes begin to moisten, and she averted her gaze.

"Follow me." They went into the kitchen, but Audrey didn't quite know why they were there. Was it to have another cup of coffee, and this time she'd offer one to Michael? Or should she have him go through the drawers and select suitable implements? He would surely choose a wooden spoon. But how imaginative--indeed, how adventurous--would he be? Would he see the potential in a slotted spatula?

Through the kitchen window, Audrey glimpsed the besom broom she always kept upright to ward off evil spirits. She began to wonder, would Michael one day leap over that broom with her, crossing over the threshold into a new life, taking the leap of faith. He would be the ash shaft. She would be the bundle of birch twigs. But the twigs would be bound to the shaft by withy, those strong yet flexible stems of willow. Yes, that's what would tie them together. Willow . . . . a willow switch.

She fumbled through the drawer that held all the indefinables in her life and pulled out a hand pruner, the tool she used to trim her house plants.

"Let's get some fresh air," she said cheerily.

A few seconds later they were standing in front of an established weeping willow tree. Audrey squeezed the blades of the pruner as she anticipated making a cut.

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