say?’
And he accompanied this latest decoy of an assertion masquerading as a question with another sinister little wiggle that started at his fundament and ran all the way up his spine to his nutbrown hair. The irony was that as his physical presence became more and more androgynous, so his voice increased in both timbre and depth.
‘Yes,’
I said,
‘the more non-erotic the better.’
‘Quite so. We cannot abide those pillow-biting, fudge-packing, shirt-tail-lifting irons, now can we, my precious?’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Good.’
He slapped his thighs with a rifle’s crack and then said:
‘Well, if you’re ready, then I’ll resume.’
Carol found that she was beginning to prefer the company of her fellow endowed. She would step into pubs and sup pints at the bar. Or else eat lunch in a greasy spoon, craning over her sarnie to admire the airbrushed pudenda of that day’s page 3 automaton. Naturally she didn’t feel inclined to make a direct claim to common gender with the other patrons. She quite sensibly realised that the majority of men might not know how torespond to someone who could frig with one hand whilst tossing with the other. I do so like the rich, Anglo-Saxon vocabulary of our smut talk, don’t you?
Anyway, that’s beside the point, because Carol didn’t consider herself to be male. She’d never been conspicuously genderful anyway. Babytalk left her cold, witness Dan’s attempts to wallow with her in sympathetic semolina. Carol knew that her penis didn’t make her a man but it did free her a little bit more from being anything else, it did unslip those surly bonds and surly girly locks.
To the underwear emporium then and don’t spare the big-knobbed horses! Carol chose a small boutique on the high road, where she could be assured of a male shop assistant. She then thrilled to the conspiratorial talk of just how Dan might dangle. Carol didn’t even have to dissemble that much because Dan’s dear little waist was almost as neat as her own.
The next day she had a proper costume for her boudoir theatricals. This way and that she posed and pirouetted, but the shame was that she couldn’t even fill the smallest of filleted pouches in the slinkiest of men’s Italian briefs.
She pulled back the elastic of the waistband and fiddled with the newest member. By clenching and unclenching her buttocks she could get an internal, muscular handle on the development of what must surely be new peeing muscles. Carol was quite lucidly aware that soon she would be able to produce the mostspectacular effects whilst micturating. Naturally the concept itself was inchoate but she did have a presentiment of that most trivial and yet enjoyable of exclusively male pastimes. Namely: directed peeing. But on the other front? Well, things didn’t seem quite well-developed enough to be effectual…but maybe not.
Dan meanwhile endeavoured to persevere. Back on the fast track once more, on his way to heading the corporate design group at the agency, he thwacked balls with Barry on a regular basis. And in the evenings, he repaired to St Simon’s with Dave 2. He also went by bus to meetings further afield. Dave 2 accompanied him on some of these trips, anxious to hear the words of alternative suburban seers, but mostly Dan went alone.
Dan realised that Dave 2 was gently encouraging him to gain his own position in AA, to become a member of the Fellowship in his own right. Dan was certain because Dave 2 had said as much. ‘M’dear Dan,’ he burred, ‘I feel like a father to you, and perhaps that’s a little too close a relationship for us, as recovering alcoholics, to have. We need to let go of one another. You need to find your own feet, find your own sponsor, just as I did.’ Here Dave 2 was referring to the practice of AA whereby those members with a greater experience of sobriety entered into bipartisan therapeutic relationships with their junior, pisshead colleagues.
Dan acquiesced to this gentle parting.
And he accompanied this latest decoy of an assertion masquerading as a question with another sinister little wiggle that started at his fundament and ran all the way up his spine to his nutbrown hair. The irony was that as his physical presence became more and more androgynous, so his voice increased in both timbre and depth.
‘Yes,’
I said,
‘the more non-erotic the better.’
‘Quite so. We cannot abide those pillow-biting, fudge-packing, shirt-tail-lifting irons, now can we, my precious?’
‘Indeed not.’
‘Good.’
He slapped his thighs with a rifle’s crack and then said:
‘Well, if you’re ready, then I’ll resume.’
Carol found that she was beginning to prefer the company of her fellow endowed. She would step into pubs and sup pints at the bar. Or else eat lunch in a greasy spoon, craning over her sarnie to admire the airbrushed pudenda of that day’s page 3 automaton. Naturally she didn’t feel inclined to make a direct claim to common gender with the other patrons. She quite sensibly realised that the majority of men might not know how torespond to someone who could frig with one hand whilst tossing with the other. I do so like the rich, Anglo-Saxon vocabulary of our smut talk, don’t you?
Anyway, that’s beside the point, because Carol didn’t consider herself to be male. She’d never been conspicuously genderful anyway. Babytalk left her cold, witness Dan’s attempts to wallow with her in sympathetic semolina. Carol knew that her penis didn’t make her a man but it did free her a little bit more from being anything else, it did unslip those surly bonds and surly girly locks.
To the underwear emporium then and don’t spare the big-knobbed horses! Carol chose a small boutique on the high road, where she could be assured of a male shop assistant. She then thrilled to the conspiratorial talk of just how Dan might dangle. Carol didn’t even have to dissemble that much because Dan’s dear little waist was almost as neat as her own.
The next day she had a proper costume for her boudoir theatricals. This way and that she posed and pirouetted, but the shame was that she couldn’t even fill the smallest of filleted pouches in the slinkiest of men’s Italian briefs.
She pulled back the elastic of the waistband and fiddled with the newest member. By clenching and unclenching her buttocks she could get an internal, muscular handle on the development of what must surely be new peeing muscles. Carol was quite lucidly aware that soon she would be able to produce the mostspectacular effects whilst micturating. Naturally the concept itself was inchoate but she did have a presentiment of that most trivial and yet enjoyable of exclusively male pastimes. Namely: directed peeing. But on the other front? Well, things didn’t seem quite well-developed enough to be effectual…but maybe not.
Dan meanwhile endeavoured to persevere. Back on the fast track once more, on his way to heading the corporate design group at the agency, he thwacked balls with Barry on a regular basis. And in the evenings, he repaired to St Simon’s with Dave 2. He also went by bus to meetings further afield. Dave 2 accompanied him on some of these trips, anxious to hear the words of alternative suburban seers, but mostly Dan went alone.
Dan realised that Dave 2 was gently encouraging him to gain his own position in AA, to become a member of the Fellowship in his own right. Dan was certain because Dave 2 had said as much. ‘M’dear Dan,’ he burred, ‘I feel like a father to you, and perhaps that’s a little too close a relationship for us, as recovering alcoholics, to have. We need to let go of one another. You need to find your own feet, find your own sponsor, just as I did.’ Here Dave 2 was referring to the practice of AA whereby those members with a greater experience of sobriety entered into bipartisan therapeutic relationships with their junior, pisshead colleagues.
Dan acquiesced to this gentle parting.
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