Last week, I told M. about gray tree frogs when he asked about my work—I see he paid attention. He continues.
“What I’m trying to establish, in lay terms, is that females in the animal kingdom choose one mate over another for very specific reasons. They show a definite preference for certain masculine traits over others—dominance, strength, power—which in turn influences the evolution of animal characteristics.” He pauses, then adds, “So much for your modern-day sensitive man. I guess women don’t want that after all.”
Ian laughs at this.
I stare at M., not pleased with his covert comparison, his insinuation that I prefer him to Ian. “You’re wrong,” I say flatly, referring to the overtone of his statement, of which Ian is unaware. “That’s a specious analysis at best. Women do want sensitive, compassionate men—we’ve evolved out of the need for a brute to defend and protect us. What women want now are companions, partners, men who can emotionally, as well as physically, satisfy them. Women aren’t animals—and your comparison doesn’t apply. I would expect a more knowledgeable conclusion from a renowned biologist such as yourself.”
M. gazes at me thoughtfully, a faint smile lifting his lips, meant only for me.
Ian looks uncomfortable with my intentionally rude reply. “Honey,” he says, “he was only kidding.” He turns to M. and shrugs, apologetic. He says, “Sometimes Nora gets carried away.”
I snap at Ian. “Don’t make excuses for me. Don’t ever do that again.”
There’s a sharp-edged, uneasy silence in the air around us. Just then, the waiter comes with our food, and M., now that he’s done his damage, makes an excuse to leave. I apologize to Ian and blame my irritability on a lack of sleep. Our earlier intimacy is gone, and we eat dinner in a tentative politeness.
The next morning, when Ian goes to work, I call M. The twelve-hour interval has not diminished my anger.
“What did you think you were doing?” I ask him.
“I wanted to meet this boyfriend of yours.” Evenly, he adds, “I wasn’t impressed.”
“You don’t have to be. I’m impressed and that’s what counts.”
“He’s too soft for you, Nora. You’ll never be satisfied with him. You’re like the gray tree frog: you need a dominant male.”
“The hell I do.” I hang up before he gets a chance to reply. Four days pass before I hear from him again. Apparently, he does not enjoy being hung up on.
I’m sitting in M.’s class, listening to him lecture on the Romantic music of the nineteenth century—Chopin, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, Verdi, Brahms. The room is egg-shell white, a medium-sized lecture hall with raised, terraced seating. There is a piano off to the left, and, as M. speaks, he strolls across the room, looking up at us, his students. He called me this morning and demanded I attend his afternoon class. M. summons and, like Franny, I come. My compliance, especially after his stunt at Ding How, astonishes me. I’m not used to taking orders from men, but he has something I want—the key to my sister’s death—and I will play his game. He told me what to wear, and without any makeup, I look like a schoolgirl. I’m dressed in a plaid skirt, white kneesocks, penny loafers, a plain white cotton blouse buttoned up to the neck, and my hair is fastened with a barrette. I had none of these items at home. Earlier today, I drove to the County Fair Mall in Woodland and shopped in the pre-teen section at Mervyn’s. I admit, when M. called me this morning and told me what he wanted, I felt a certain erotic excitement at the notion of dressing up as a schoolgirl, taking part in one of his psychodramas, and while I was shopping, trying on different skirts in the dressing room, imagining M. keeping me after class and pulling up my plaid skirt and then fucking me on the music room floor, my excitement intensified. Now, I change the scenario: I want him to fuck me on the piano.
I feel conspicuously out of place, in both body and spirit, but none of the students seems to notice or pay me any attention. They are all furiously writing notes, trying to capture every word that comes out of M.’s mouth. He’s wearing dark front-pleated slacks, a blue pinstripe shirt, and a tweed sports coat that no other male in this room could afford. Even though we are looking down at him, he has the advantage. There’s a stately presence about him that diminishes the rest of us—his tall, erect posture; the dark hair graying with dignity at the temples; the air of knowledge he exudes while we, his students, have everything to learn.
I listen to him talk. He is a captivating speaker. He’s not showy or flamboyant—on the contrary, he appears quite controlled, his speech and gestures subdued—but his presence is commanding, authoritative, and his love of music seeps out of every sentence he utters. He’s talking about creative imagination and how the Romantic era spawned the concept of the musical auteur, a solitary genius who, with his superior knowledge and imagination, creates a work of art that originates from an inner liberating flash of insight or inspiration, a musical epiphany.
When he looks in my direction, and with an innocent expression on my face, I open my legs wide so he can see up my skirt, a decidedly unschoolgirlish act. This he did not tell me to do. It is not an act of seduction—there is no need for that—as much as one of teasing: a bait. I would love to see him lose his cool demeanor. I’m wearing white silk underwear, and his eyes settle briefly on my crotch before he looks away, still speaking about the Romantic period, my own little flash of inspiration not breaking his concentration.
After class, when all the students have finally left, M. is remote. He tells me to meet him at his home, and then he exits the room, leaving me behind. I feel ridiculous in my plaid skirt and kneesocks, standing all alone by the piano. His cool treatment of me is uncalled for; I did as he requested. Now I’m angry and consider not seeing him. The consideration is shortlived, though, for I know, regardless of my anger or reluctance, I will go to his home.
When I get there, he is waiting for me. He’s in the living room, the drapes drawn, sitting in the middle of the couch, a cold, detached look in his eyes. By his side, on the couch, lies a paddle. Before I can say anything, he begins to scold me, telling me I was naughty today for spreading my legs, and that I need to be punished. He tells me to come to him. I don’t. M., still relaxed on the couch, locks his gaze on mine and says he’ll be less severe with me if I don’t resist. A warning signal goes through me, and I am instantly on guard.
“Come here,” he tells me, his voice even and sure, the voice of a man who knows, eventually, he’ll get his way. “You’re going to have to take your punishment just as Franny took hers.”
“Go to hell,” I tell him.
Patiently, without rising, he says, “I’ve told you a lot about your sister, Nora. I’ve filled in some of the gaps. I’ve held up my part of the bargain. Now it’s your turn. You’re going to step into her shoes again and experience what she experienced. This will be another tactile filling-in of her diary.”
I still don’t go to him.
He tilts his head slightly, then gives me a small, patronizing smile. “Any pain I inflict, you’ll appreciate. You can rely on me not to give you anything you can’t handle. You’re ready for this kind of discipline.”
When I still make no move to comply, he leans back and continues. “I’m going to give you a good spanking, that’s all. I’m going to use my hand, and perhaps this paddle, and it’ll be painful. It’ll sting. You’ll try not to cry, but you will. And I won’t stop until I feel you’ve been properly punished. Afterward, I’m going to fuck you.” He hesitates, then says, “You have a choice, Nora, just as Franny did. You can leave right now and never learn anything more about her. Or you can come over here. The choice is yours, and you have only two seconds to make up your mind. I want to get this over with so I can go to my piano.”
Reluctantly, I go to him. I cross the room, thinking of Franny. She was so timid and shy, her sense of self-worth so fragile. How could she have taken his punishment? How dare he inflict it on someone such as her. I resolve not to cry, no matter how hard he hits me. I swear not to give him that satisfaction. When I reach him, he moves forward on the couch and pulls me down over his lap. He lifts the plaid skirt up to my waist, then pulls the new silk underwear down to my ankles. Prostrate, humiliated, I steel myself for his blows, but he just caresses my bottom gently.
“Try to relax,” he says, and he leans over and kisses me, first one buttock then the other. He opens my legs slightly and reaches beneath me; his fingers find my clitoris. My wariness begins to fall away. Pushing my hands against the carpet, I lift up to give him better access.
“You like that, baby?” he asks. I notice his use of the word baby—how can I not? He has never used such a tender word on me during sex. I wonder if perhaps he is enacting an incestuous fantasy: the misbehaving daughter, bare-bottomed, gets pulled over her father’s lap. I find the image appealing, and his caressing touch excites me.
I rub against his hand. “Yes,” I say, a bare whisper. “Yes.”
His mouth slides over my skin and he spreads my buttocks, licking my anus then slipping his tongue inside. He dips a finger into my vagina, and when he feels my wetness, he pushes in two. I twist slightly to angle myself in a better position, but he straightens up.
“No,” he says gently. He readjusts me and places a hand on my back so I can’t move; his other fingers are still inside me, pulsing in and out.
“I want more,” I murmur.
“I know you do, baby. I’m going to give you more, but not yet.” He bends over and kisses me once more, then draws back and removes his fingers from my body. “I have to punish you first,” he says, and before the words register, he strikes me sharply on the buttocks with the palm of his hand. I cry out, more from surprise than pain, and he strikes me once more, much harder this time. Involuntarily, my body tenses, then struggles to shirk away from his blows. He holds me down with both hands.
“Don’t fight me,” he says, and he waits for the panic inside me to subside. When I lie still, he loosens his hold. He gives me another sharp slap, but this time I’m ready for the sting of his hand and I don’t cry out. Again he strikes me, and I grip the bottom of the couch with one hand, just for something to hang on to.
“When you’re disobedient,” he says, “I’ll spank you to teach you to behave,” and he strikes me again and again, each blow more forceful, it seems, than the one before, burning, searing my flesh. I see him reach for the paddle. He begins striking me again, harder, the pain sharper and more intense. A muffled groan escapes me, despite my clamped lips, and I do, against my will, start to cry, silently at first, then openly as my agony increases. Surprisingly, it is not merely the infliction of physical pain that causes my tears. I have, the previous year, suppressed my emotions, refusing to weep whenever I think of Franny’s death. Sprawled across his lap, submitting to the strength of his hand, I feel now a great release—of pain, yes, and humiliation, but also of sorrow. I cry for Franny, and I cry for myself. I cry for my guilt and unintentional complicity, and for everything that has gone wrong in my life. I stop all resistance and allow each strike to chasten me. In some indefinable way, I feel the punishment is deserved.
When M. is through, he pulls me up and holds me to his chest. He lets me cry, and when I’ve calmed down he kisses my tear-streaked face. I feel better than I’ve felt in months. Then, as he promised earlier, he removes the rest of my clothes and fucks me.
Afterward, we lie on the couch together, our arms and legs intertwined and our sweat-slicked bodies pressed together. Hazy light filters through the curtains, giving the room a warm, fuzzy look. The air around us is ripe with the tangysweet scent of discharged sex. My head is on M.’s chest, and his short, curly hairs tickle my skin.
“You weren’t crying because of the pain,” he says simply, a statement, not a question.
I disengage myself from his arms and legs and go over to an armchair on the opposite side of the room. Sitting crossways, with my legs dangling over the side, I let the air cool my body. My buttocks burn against the fabric of the chair. I do not wish to discuss my outburst of tears.
“Your fantasies are chauvinistic,” I tell him, changing the subject.
He drops one arm languidly to the floor. He looks over at me, waiting for an explanation.
“This preoccupation of yours—wanting to dominate women, to control them, all of the stuff in your box in the closet, the whips and chains and handcuffs—it’s a male fantasy designed to whip up the male libido. Women don’t enjoy that kind of treatment. It’s not a fantasy based in reality.”
He nods in agreement. “You’re probably right—for most people. But for you, the fantasy works.”
When I deny this, he gives me a slow smile. “Yes, it does,” he says. “You don’t have to admit it now, but you will. It’s just a matter of time.”
I don’t feel like arguing with him on the point. I listen to the clarion trill of a bird outside; I hear the dull thud of a newspaper hitting the front porch.
“Do you know what ovular merging is?” I ask him after a while. He shakes his head and I say, “It’s the mating of two eggs. The only offspring, of course, would be female. It’s been done experimentally with mice, and eventually it’ll be possible with humans. In the future, we won’t need men to reproduce; we won’t need men at all. Your aggression and dominant behavior served a purpose at one time. Historically, we needed men and their aggressiveness to survive. But the male tendency for predatory behavior no longer serves humankind, and unless you curtail it, your sex is, like the dinosaur, doomed to extinction. Hundreds of thousands of years from now, if mankind still exists, your sex will either adapt or disappear. So far, you’re not adapting, and you’re running out of time. Women may have biological clocks to mark their childbearing years, but men have geological ones—marking their existence as a gender. We’re evolving into a single-sex species. Women won’t need men; we’ll fulfill all our needs with other women. Your geological time clock is ticking.”