The Uncertainty of the Meek
Part 5--Shaping Clay

You probably have guessed the end of this story. Tom and I fall in love,
have a beautiful deaf-child who communicates via the secret language, and
are happy forever, or until the sun burns out. Well, it didn't work out
quite so nicely.

Tom and I no longer had the easy excuse for moving towards intimacy.
Perhaps he knew that I left Anne because of the feelings he drew forth
from me, but if he did--as I suspect--he did not deign to gloat. Our
contacts became less frequent, yet still charged. We went shopping for
housewares when my car broke down ten days after I moved into my new
place. A Fellini retrospective. Dinner and drinks at McCormick and
Schmick's. No walks in the park. They were too assertive for this timid
woman. Too assertive, too dangerous.

The friend I stayed with in Seattle , Cordellia, was "one of us," a
lesbian I knew from my brief involvement with GALA in graduate school.
Cordellia was a bookstore feminist and dyke, up on all the literature and
news, but not too involved in the protests beyond an occasional letter.
Shortly after my unpleasant fall from the demanding GALA environment,
Cordellia took a much less dramatic permanent leave. We remained good
friends, with an occasional flirtation, and once Anne had moved on,
Cordellia came down for a long weekend.

She just came into my room, nude except a very short and thin t-shirt. I
said, "Yes," and she slid under the covers with me. We didn't discuss it.
I didn't expect it, but I wasn't surprised.

Cordellia was far more direct than my other lovers . She kissed me
forcefully, pushing her tongue between my yielding lips. She pulled her
wet crotch to my thigh, rubbing herself while she mauled my breasts with
over-urgent hands. She paused only to rip my t-shirt over my head and
discard it.

I was very distant from the whole experience, at least initially. Her
mouth moved from my mouth to my neck, which she bit hard enough that I
thought, quite calmly, "I'll have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow." Yet,
when she said, "You're getting wet"--a command as much as a statement--I
was indeed getting wet. She continued to manipulate me. Her lips and teeth
moved slowly down the right side of my neck, first to my collarbone, and
then to my breast. Before she reached my nipple, she grasped my shoulders
with both of her hands and pulled herself to me tightly, while letting out
a low moan. I felt her orgasm, wetter than any woman's I'd known, against
my leg.



Her orgasm triggered a flurry of soft kisses up and down my neck and face.
She continued to hold me tightly, scattering compliments about my body,
like cheap candy on Halloween. It was obligatory in every sense, but
powerfully erotic.

She rolled off me, shocking my reddened skin with the sudden rush of cold
air. She lay beside me, breathing deeply. I watched her full breasts rise
and fall, looked at her ribs as her lungs spread her taut skin over her
large skeleton. Suddenly, I realized I was trembling, shaking with desire.
My need for an orgasm was more urgent than ever before. Was it fear that
she was done and wouldn't finish me? Or was it something else? The
question frightened me.

Her breathing slowed, and she turned to me, her skin glowing, her teeth
bright in the moonlight room. "I've wanted to do that for so long." The
words crawled out, some suppressed Southern drawl exerting itself.

She kissed me gently, running her hands across my stomach. "You're wet."
There was a smile, a hint of a laugh, in her words this time. Her finger
pressed into my panties, just missing my clit. I shoved my hips toward her
hand, desperate for more of her touch.

"Take them off for me." Her hand moved languidly up my body and pointed to
the window. "Over there, by the window. Pull back the curtains."

I didn't dare to refuse. I slid off the bed, keeping my eyes on hers, and
stood in front of the window. The trembling in my legs was almost under
control. There was just a slight shake in my hand as I drew the curtains
back, exposing my naked back and legs to the world outside. She licked her
lips as I put an index finger inside the waist of my last remaining
covering.

"Now. Pull them down." I did, slowly, as if hypnotized by her presence. By
the time I felt the cotton around my ankles, my tremble was nearly
uncontrollable. My skin was raised into almost painful bumps; the cold air
was stimulating my nipples and clitoris to real pain.

She stood up to stand next to me. She pulled me sideways and kissed me
deeply, holding my face in her hands. Our passions were in long profile to
any strangers walking on the street below.

When she pulled me back onto the mattress, I thought she was going to give
me release, but instead she tortured me with kisses up and down my
backside. Her tongue flickered against my spine and butt. She licked my
feet, toes, and calves. She crawled between my legs and began fingering
me, entering no more than a knuckle before pulling out. Her tongue probed
my ass. I started to beg her to finish me. I swore I would do anything for
it. Anything.

She plunged two fingers in as far as they could. "Give me head first." She
rolled away from me, onto her back. I turned over and started to move
between her legs.

"Then I might let you get off."

There was no slowness in my ministrations. I found her clit immediately
and sucked it between my lips. If it was too much stimulation, she'd have
to kick me off. I couldn't wait for my own satisfaction any longer. My
hand reached for my desperate sex, but somehow, I couldn't do it. I had to
let Cordellia finish me. So I had to finish her.

She pushed hard against my head with her legs as she let out the same,
haunting moan as before. It was the cry of a Will-o-the-wisp on a foggy
night.

She went limp, her breath mere whimpers.

"Please, Cordellia, please." I was sobbing.

She got up on her knees and took me into her arms, gently caressing me.
One hand ran through my hair while the other hand brought me the relief I
was so desperate for. "Come for me, baby," she cooed, and I did
immediately.

It wasn't the most powerful orgasm I'd ever had, but it was strong enough
to remind me that such ecstasy was possible with another person, something
I'd forgotten in my years with Anne.



My life slowly began to revolve around Cordellia's bi-weekly visits. We
were completely incompatible, but that only made it more fun. She was
witty, pretty, and perfect company for drinks in the fading sun. She drew
a constant stream to our table, chatty people with whom she flirted, one
and all. Her flirting was completely transparent and saved me from a word
of conversation.

She left Sunday nights, often leaving me with strange commands, like some
kind of circus dominatrix. "Don't wear underwear this week." "Write an
erotic poem in French for me." "Eat peaches, naked in your bathtub at 8:30
on Tuesday evening." When she'd return, she'd ask me if I had done
whatever silliness she had demanded.

"No." I still sounded surprised that she meant for me to actually perform
her demand, even after the peaches in the bathtub. She would then "punish"
me by bringing me close to an orgasm, and then ceasing all attention until
I begged her, promising compliance with her next demand, to return to my
urgent needs.

Then she got a job in Boston, and our affair was over. I didn't cry, nor
even sigh. I got my weekends back. I started translating short stories
into Latin in my spare time.

I had worked through some of the more interesting Flannery O'Connor
stories when Tom called me again. He hadnıt called since before Cordellia
had gotten her new job, over a month. A new print of "His Girl Friday" was
showing. In a moment of weakness, I had revealed to him my secret love of
Rosalind Russell and romantic screwball comedies. I said yes more quickly
than I wanted to.

I dressed in my most frumpy, dyky clothes. I wanted Tom to get no
illusions that our kisses meant anything. I was a died-in-the-wool
lesbian, and no man would thrust me into confusion.

If Tom noticed my wardrobe, he didn't comment. "Hello, beautiful." Strange
how happy those words made me.

We laughed loudly. I don't laugh loudly, but we did. Synergy is the term
biologists might use. We had a surprisingly talkative post-movie meal. I
told him about Cordellia. He couldn't understand it--two opposites like
her and me? I said, "Sex," with a shrug and a blush, and he nodded. There
was a Ceci or Cecilia for him. I can never get those names straight.

"Sex?" I asked him.

"Green eyes," he replied as if that explained anything.
 
I let my hand linger on my drink, swirling the wine around the glass,
letting it aerate while waiting for him to explain his comment. But he
just smiled at me, swirling his own glass.

Finally, I had to ask, "Green eyes?" I hated having to ask. Asking is one
of the categories of talking I try to leave to other people.

He shook his head, glancing down at his wine. "If you saw Ceci's eyes. . ."

Of course I hadn't, but I remembered Sarah's, and I knew how the right
pair of green eyes could captivate me for weeks. I nodded.

We talked some more. Mostly, little statements suggested larger truths. He
was remarkably good at that game. Few people are. I think that is why so
few people know each other. They demand too much be spoken, explained,
written out in simple language, when everything that matters can only be
explained in peripheral glances, images that disappear before they come
into focus. Is life something you can diagram? Try describing the flavor
of your last beer. You canıt do it. No writer, and I've read more than
most people, has ever described beer so well that someone who has never
consumed it would not be surprised by the flavor with their first sip. And
beer is easy to describe. Try wrapping your love for your pet up in proper
diction. Wrap a verb, some nouns, adjectives, and maybe a gerund around
the last time you took a shower with someone. Or without someone. Words
are husks, at best, and we have to fill them for ourselves with masa and
fish if we're ever going eat a tamale. Did I mention I love fine Mexican
food?

The last of our tamales and our empty wine glasses were swept away by the
last remaining bus boy.

"Go?"

A nod. "Next Friday?"

A nod. Different cars, different directions.

I am not a horribly weepy person, but I cried all the way home. I wish I
could isolate why, whether it was because I was enthralled with Tom, or
was it because my heart ached for all I feared I was about to throw away.

When you live the meek life, timidly going about your business without
drawing much of the outside world in, it can be easy to let the few things
that demand your attention take all of it. So it was with Sarah for me. At
sixteen, she took hold of my sexuality and defined it for me. Before then,
I had never looked outside of myself enough to know if I was interested in
anyone, whether boy or girl. I had assumed I would marry, but I didn't put
a face to it. When Sarah showed me that partnership could be a bond
between women--lacking only in a ceremony. I had nothing to compare it to,
no reason to suspect there might lie something else, or something more, in
my blossoming womanhood.

Sarah formed me in the night with her caresses and kisses, glazed me in
the morning with her embraces, and fired me in the day with her
frightening loyalty and boundless friendship. My shape was one that fit
perfectly with hers and no one else's. We were interlocking vases until
she changed, evolved into a different form, leaving me without a match. I
struggled to find a piece to fit her absence, but I was molded too
precisely 

And Tom? In my romantic heart, I wanted to believe he was Sarah molded
with male clay--a new possibility to return to my freshly formed youth.
But Tom was not Sarah. He shared a curve here and there--he had a handle
to take in my secret language and a spout to return it; he was just as
hard, and just as giving--but to fit to his curves and lines, I'd have to
change. I saw that I already had. I saw the cracks on the face in the
mirror once I left Anne. The old shape was beginning to crumble, or maybe
just lose its hard glazing. My moldability had returned.

And I cried for that. Tom scared me because he was too hard, too
self-assured, too thoroughly cast in his own mold. How could I, soft as
clay lifted from the seabed, find my own curves if I were pressed against
his? The vulnerability that shaping implied was too great to be born
twice.



We rented a George Cukor video, and I ended up in his arms. No, I crawled
into his arms. I made the move. I took control. He was all about space and
time, giving me all I wanted. Now I was about closeness and immediacy.

Forgetting about the movie, I had decided Tom was to be mine. I let my
hand gently bounce over his thigh and abdomen for most of the set-up. I
took his hand in mine and caressed it, then let it go. I got us beers and
returned with a kiss. His hands found my ass, but I removed them, speaking
my secret tongue, "let me lead."

I took him to the bedroom and sat him down on the bed. Tom looked at me
wistfully, this new assertiveness of mine taking him by surprise. Smiling
in return, I slowly stripped off my shirt, knelt before him, and slowly
removed his. With each unfastened button, I let my fingers drift inside
and caress his chest.

I had never explored a male chest. It was hard and hairy, with nipples
that perked up with each touch and circle of my fingers. What muscle, what
hardness. This was exciting and scary for me, exploring a man for the
first time.

I lay him down on the bed after stripping off my pants, and slowly peeling
off my panties. Feeling myself tremble with excitement and fear, I eased
him into his own nudity. Was I doing this right? At that moment, I could
not have willed myself to pull away from Tom. This was my Sarah, reborn in
this hard, masculine figure.

He took me in his arms, and as I eased the length of my body along his, I
could feel his muscular legs slide between mine. The long, hard, length of
his leg touching mine, the firm muscle, the soft hairs caressing my skin.
This new, unexplored sensation was thrilling to me. Rolling on top of Tom,
I felt my desire manifest itself as heat rushing from my heart to every
cell. My face was close to his, our lips almost touching. I could feel him
growing hard in the space just above my legs. This hardness, this
distinctly male cock; this is what I desired. How did this desire happen?
But who cares? My desire is my desire, and let me have the object of my
desire. I held his arms above his head and kept them there. My face just
above his, left to right, threatening a kiss. My breath was hard and
measured; his breathing matched mine. A trickle of sweat ran down the side
of his forehead.

"Michi, I want you," he whispered in a husky voice. I was trembling too
hard, too much excitement coursing through my body for me to respond.

I could feel myself growing moist against his hardness. His cock was so
large and wet against my soft parts. I began to slide back and forth atop
him, my mouth still perched precariously above his, my breath still hot
and panting.

My mouth came down hard on his, and our tongues met, exploring the
warmness of each other's mouth. I ran one hand down his chest, caressing
the angles and curves of his body. Kisses, strokes, caresses; these are
the ways I played with him. Everything was alien, but that is too obvious.
What I have always craved was the heat of touch, the intimacy of kisses.
Tom was the coming together of two hemispheres--one new, one
familiar--into a beautiful, sexy sphere. I caressed his balls; they felt
almost like ice cream, soft, tender with hair, and slowly moved up to
touch this shaft. Was I doing it right? I let my fingertips play lightly
on the tip of his cock. Then I encircled the head with my palm, gave a
soft grip, and stroked him gently up and down.

Playing with him like this was like my first experiences with Sarah. There
was an excitement in realizing that he was reacting to me. Somehow that
sense had been lost over time, I knew my lovers would react when I touched
them right. This male body was new thing, so to see the sexual need on his
face, the reddening of his cheeks, the loss of focus in his eyes, as my
hand moved faster up and down his shaft, was sending me close to the edge.

I was pressing myself against his thigh; I needed that contact as much as
he needed my hand. I wanted to let the contact, the feeling build, but
ironically, his excitement was too much for me. I stoked him wildly as I
focused on the orgasm building in me.

His "Oh, God," and the warm fluid running down my hand was all that drew
me away from the afterimage of my own orgasm.

We lay next to each other, silent, for a few moments. I can't tell you
what I was thinking--I don't believe I was thinking, I was just there,
blissful. Then he pulled me up his body and began kissing me with a
passion.

"I didn't intend for that to happen," he said between kisses scattered
about my face.

"What to happen?" I was baffled. Did he suddenly regret our sex?

"Coming right then. I wanted to make this last, to get inside of you. I'm
not sure I can get it up again soon."

I had forgotten men have that problem. "That's ok. It was wonderful."

He kissed me gently on the lips and smiled.
 


We drifted off to sleep with my body still draped over his. I slipped off
him in the night, waking myself in the process. He slept on.

I couldn't get back to sleep, so I spied on his slumbering form. His lips
were parted, a slight smile at the corners. I could see the movement of
his eyes under their protective lids. He was erect again. Was he dreaming
of us?

I think I may have drifted off again, but it was an uneasy sleep that I
struggled to embrace. Soon I found myself my eyes searching over his body.
We had fallen asleep with the covers still on the floor, so he was
completed exposed to my view. The passion of the moment was gone; I was a
documentarian, my kino-eye scanning him for differences between men and
women. Were there so many differences? He had lips, fingers, eyes, and
nipples. His body was made of muscle and ligaments stretched over bones,
and covered with skin. His organs were the same; his mitochondria
functioned the same as the mitochondria of my previous lovers'. Yes, there
was the beginning of a scratchy beard, and instead of breasts, he had a
flat, muscled chest. His pubic hair continued into his stomach hair with
only a change in color and texture, but not much change in volume. His
muscles were bigger, but Sarah's athletic body hadn't been that different.
She didn't have large breasts, and her muscles were at least as defined
and hard as his.

But the small differences did matter. It wasn't the hair or the penis. It
was the shape of his nose, the width of his wrists. The veins on his
hands. There was a different smell. His lips were shaped wrong, as were
his eyes. His features were almost coarse, even with his beauty.

Tom had come to mean so much to me, but was this right? Should I be next
to him? I couldn't decide.



Tom woke me with soft caresses. They were wonderfully comforting. I basked
in them, feigning sleep. I don't think he was fooled, but he continued
with his gentle touches and kisses. I gave up the game with a sigh, and
rolled to kiss him. He was erect, his penis pushing against my thigh. We
kissed, but the kiss was wrong for me. I was kissing him perfunctorily,
not passionately. I was too confused to be swept up in the moment again,
but too confused and uncertain to stop where were going.

I was withdrawn, faking enthusiasm. Our loving felt good, but I couldn't
lose myself in it. I tried to pretend it was as good as the night before.

There was no pain when he penetrated me. It felt good, but not right. Or
maybe it just wasnıt good enough. I was expecting something grand:
³skyrockets.² I got sparklers and ladyfingers. I wasnıt going anywhere
other than a vague pleasantness. I felt awkward, like this was my failure,
and I couldnıt allow Tom to know. I tried faking it, pasting passion on my
face like cheap lipstick.

 From the night before, I could see Tomıs building orgasm in his
expression. There was a slight grunt and a halo of kisses around my face.
He was finished, and I wasnıt looking for more.

I suppose the confusion, which was beginning to slide into disappointment,
was to be expected. I'd heard that losing one's virginity is almost always
an earthly experience, and few women orgasm from it. When I was coming to
terms with being a lesbian, I came to feel that the failure of women to
orgasm with their male lovers was a sure sign that hetero sex was good for
producing babies and little else. I understood when my friends told me
that hetero sex would one day disappear, as science untied copulation and
procreation.

Yet, Tom had never been completely a man to me. Not that he lacked
masculinity, but my image of him was too intermingled with my memories of
Sarah for me to allow him the absolute otherness that "male" implied. I
expected our union would be a continuation of my lovemaking with Sarah.
Orgasms were free and plentiful for us then, so why not now, even if Tom,
technically, was not her?

I think not reaching orgasm wouldn't have been so bad if Tom had not been
so empathic. He felt my disappointment and took it inside of him, where he
magnified it ten times over. He didn't say a word--he isnıt the pressuring
type--but I could see his disapointment hidden in the corner of his eyes.

The missing orgasm hung over us at breakfast, and we quickly parted for
"errands," both happy to be away from the void the non-existent orgasm
left. I wondered if he expected to conquer me, win me to the straight
world with his manly prowess. I knew Tom didnıt think like that, but men
are, well, men. From what Iıve seen, too much of a hetro manıs pride rests
on his sexual success with women.



We had another cooling off. We talked on the phone occasionally and even
got together for dinner or a movie now and then, but there was an edge.
The strange thing about the entire disappointment and distancing thing we
were going through was that I truly had a great experience while we were
having sex. It wasn't miserable--it was joyful. I just didn't come with
him in me. I had to face the reality that Tom wasn't Sarah reincarnated,
and that reality was too crushing for me to bear. I didnıt know what Tom's
problems were, but they weighed on him just as heavily as mine weighed on
me.

Two months went by. I was starting to miss Tom's company. Our short visits
and phone calls did not fulfill the surprising need for social interaction
I had. For the first time since I "got over" Sarah, I was lonely.

Then I did the most surprising thing I've ever done. It wasn't meek. It
wasn't timid. It was courageous and bold. I called Tom and said, "Hi Tom.
You're going to come over tonight and fuck me." I held my breath for the
fifteen seconds of eternity he waited to respond.

His voice was the calm, comforting creature it normally was. "Now?"

 "Right now."

He fucked me. I came. He fucked me again; I came harder. I called in sick
on Monday. And Tuesday. So did he. I had never so sore as I was when I
showed up work on Wednesday. 



Part 6--Myself, Finally

Two months later, I woke up in Tom's arm, hearing a dog barking outside. I
opened his porch doors and smelled roses and coffee, just like any other
morning. We ate together, speaking only in the secret language, largely
with our feet, which seemed to be the most talkative. I had Corn Pops, Tom
had a cantaloupe half, two eggs, and beet/tomato juice straight from the
juicer--he is always very healthy.

I dressed and drove into work, where I finished translating a legal
document into Italian for a shipping firm. Then I wrote my resignation and
a note to Tom.

If I say that I left because I fit too well, too tightly with Tom, I
suspect many people would dismiss me as flighty, but it was the geography
of our coupling that drove away. It was the precise way he could
communicate 'Another bagel, please?' with a lifted eyebrow, the way he
said 'I love you' in the cant of toes and fingers, and elbows, all with
their adoring regional accents intact. It was the way he knew what book I
was about to pick up from the coffee table, even before I did. It was the
way he made eggs, scrambled to a perfect fluff, topped with the right
amount of cheddar cheese in thin, quickly melting sheets, and placed my
fork on the edge of the plate. The way he smiled when I came home.

I had squeezed myself into all of those intimate cracks in his life--all
of the spaces between his job and his many friends--and begun to appear as
the lines that both separated and held them together.

To be so important to someone is to surrender to their dreamstuff;
becoming a captive of their mind, their needs, their definition. Every
moment I spent with Tom, subtle pressure shaped me into Michi
Bitteresmeer--wife, daughter and worker, not individual. I had, despite
myself, found that I loved Michi Lorre more than I loved anyone. That
pressure on my form Tomıs presence inevitably created threated the shape I
needed to remain Michi Lorre. I had never learned the strength to keep my
shape in the presence of others, so I had to leave.

Leaving was my feeble gesture of love. I gave Tom myself until I was on
the cusp of being something else--so I had given him everything I had to
give. Anything else was a deception, or a gift he had never requested and
I had never volunteered. It would have been a gift he could not have
reciprocated, and one I could not have resisted resenting giving. So I
gave him a life free of me.

I live by myself now. There will never be another man beyond casual
friends. They do not appeal to me anymore. There are women, usually
younger than I and less formed. But mostly I revel in myself as I slowly
harden into something permanent: a monument to meekness.