Cumming of Age at Harvard 6
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Doing some set-up work here. Patience, gentle readers. And, again, the feedback is valuable.
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CUMMING OF AGE AT HARVARD. PART SIX
Dazed, I returned to the sitting room to find my clothes neatly folded on the easy chair. Sam must have been tidying up while I dozed in the bedroom. He'd slipped into a white djellaba and, while dressing, I heard him stripping the spunk-soaked bedclothes in the next room. A scent of green forests floated on the air. He must have lit the Rigaud candle I'd noticed next to the bed.
Sam reentered as I finished tying my cordovans and took a seat across from me on the sofa. "I need to ask you a few questions, Jannot. Do you mind my calling you Jannot? I have a special reason."
No. I didn't mind at all. I'd liked it when he called out that name in his passion and after, and I still did. The warmth and scent in the room relaxed me but, despite the lateness of the hour, I didn't feel sleepy.
"Good. And you may continue for now to call me Sam. If the questions seem strange, don't worry. I have my reasons for asking them, OK? Don't answer them if you like. But I hope you'll be frank with me." He knew how puzzled I must be, paused, and asked gently, "I know now that you are a sensual young man and that is important for our purposes. But tell me please, if you will. Are you a believer? Do you know what I mean? Do you think you have what some people call faith?"
I'd thought that nothing else could astonish me this evening. I was wrong. A theological discussion after all that rolling around in bed? But I had to answer. "Well. Yes. I guess so. I don't discount belief. And I've never tested it, but there's probably some faith there. I'm definitely not a churchgoer, though." I swallowed hard. "I grew up as a Catholic but don't go to Mass any more. My parents have problems with that."
Sam grew more attentive. "A Catholic? So you know about ritual? Do have any feelings for it?"
"Oh, right. It's probably ritual and liturgy that kept me in the church for so long as I stayed. I even served at Mass when I was a kid."
"Good." Sam's eyes were keen. I was even more confused and beginning to think I was in the wrong place. "So you were an acolyte? You know about serving? You appreciate the importance of ritual?"
"Sure. I just said so. I was quite the acolyte. They, the pastor and my mother, even tried to make a priest out of me. Maybe that's one of the reasons I'm here at Harvard--to get away from all that." I looked down, surprised by my frankness. "I love the idea of ritual, the incense, vestments, and such like, but I've left the Roman church for good. I'm pretty leery of organized religion in general. No offense. I've never told anybody this before. But if I believe in a higher being or anything like that, it's only because things like, well, Mozart and the Michaelangelo in your bedroom exist. Sorry. That must sound pretty shallow and pretentious."
Suddenly piqued, I added, "And please excuse me, but I don't have a clue about where this is all going."
Sam paused again. A long pause. "Don't be offended, Jannot. Thanks for being direct with me. Believe me, I have good reasons. Ones that you may appreciate later. I'll be direct with you soon, but not just now. Trust me. I'm not surprised that you were considered for the priesthood." Was that a wink? "Despite your great aptitude for bed, I'd guessed that might be the case. After all, I've had my eye on you in class for weeks now. And maybe even before that.
"But another question, Jannot, and this is nearly the last. Did you enjoy tonight? Or were you frightened? I know you will feel some guilt later, but for now, tell me truly."
I didn't hesitate. "Couldn't you tell? I like being here, even though I don't understand it, exactly. Being in bed was, well, amazing. And scary. Like our conversation now. And when we were together in bed, I . . . ."
"Go ahead and say it, Jannot. We were riding on each other like animals in rut."
"Right. That says it. When we were doing that, I was gone. Out of myself. Gone. You took me to a place that . . . ."
Sam interrupted again. "Yes. I was at that place, too. With you. That's one of the reasons for my catechism. And my final question."
Sam rose and sat next to me on the sofa, not too close, not nearly as close as when he'd examined my erect cock a few hours earlier. As he changed seats, he'd hiked up his djellaba, and one densely haired leg appeared. I grew seriously aware of his body. He smelled of forests and rivers. Why was my cock thickening and my palms sweating?
Then he spoke softly. "Do you want to go further with me and, perhaps, others? I think you may have a special aptitude. I think you already know what it means to be an acolyte. And, if you consent, you would find me a patient instructor in a special subject. One that involves ritual and sacrifice. And fidelity. And silence.
"Understand, Jannot, that your consent must be freely given. There would be neither force nor constraint in anything we undertake. Ever. But you need to know. There could be costs. Certainly, some physical costs. Possibly, emotional and spiritual costs. But the physical and spiritual rewards could be immense. You could enter a new world of freedom and responsibility. You could be changed."
I said nothing, had nothing to say. The evening was taking an inexplicable turn. Just as inexplicably, I felt a tremor in my belly that echoed in my balls. I felt sweat starting from my body, beading my forehead. I felt desire.
He hesitated. "Don't answer now. Think carefully. If guilt for our pleasure tonight comes to you tomorrow, and I think it may, you must deal with it by yourself. But don't let it affect what we've had and what might be yet to come. Society and the conventional church teach us to know guilt, all too well. It's a powerful method of control that works for them, and it's a terrible illusion. Never forget that, Jannot, whatever your life brings. I've purged myself of guilty illusions, and so must you.
"Enough. Now let me suggest something. If you wish to continue, come back to me. Here. Say next Sunday evening at seven. If it's to be yes, give me a signal in class on Wednesday."
I nodded, too overwhelmed to say anything. Right now there was nothing to be said, everything to consider. I still felt the tremor and the sweat and the need.
"And Jannot, to be fair, you may ask me three questions. If I can, I'll answer them briefly and truthfully. If I can't, I'll ask you to be patient." Sam waited, his eyes on mine.
For whatever reason, I didn't hesitate. "First. This must be something you've experienced. When did you do it and what makes you think I can?"
His eyebrows went up. "Well, that's two questions. I began--this thing--when I was exactly your age, in my second year of college, and I've never stopped. I'm still finding my way. And some things you showed me tonight, signs on your body and other things, together with what I know about your intellect and disposition, convince me that you are potentially an adept."
An adept? Meaning? What was I getting into? And why did I feel flattered and afraid and aroused? I had to go on. "OK. Second question. There will be more than just the two of us involved in this? Yes?"
"Yes, Jannot. There will be more. Eventually."
I took a breath. "OK. Uh. I don't know how to put this, exactly. But I can't help asking. It seems like a rude question."
"Go on, Jannot. If I can't answer, I won't. I saw you looking at my tattoo. I can't discuss it now."
I started over. "Well. I had to notice. Um." I choked. The words spilled out. "Sam. Really. You have the biggest scrotum I've ever seen. Has it . . .? Was it . . .?"
Sam helped me out. "When I was your age, I was like your twin. Almost. Your penis is larger than mine was. But my ball sac, if anything, was even smaller than yours. I was as hairless as you are now. I have changed in many ways, least of all physically. But these physical changes--which can be profound, much more so than mine--may happen to you also, should you engage with us."
He went on. "Now let me answer a last question, one you haven't asked yet. Any decision you make need not be final. As we continue, you'll have opportunities to change your mind. Up to a point. But at that point you must make a permanent commitment. As I have done. Do you understand me, Jannot?"
Of course I didn't, exactly, except that this was a pretty serious moment. I said all I could. "Let me think, Sam. I'll tell you Wednesday." And urgently added. "And now I have to take a pee in the worst way."
At that Sam snorted and stood up. I couldn't help noticing a definite tent in the middle of his djellaba and what looked like a spot of man-moisture. I fled to the bathroom, unzipped, and sighed in gratitude as my yellow stream poured out. While I washed my hands with scented soap-- sandalwood?-- I glanced around this unexpected sensual chamber. A group of small line drawings in gilt frames caught my eye. I took a closer look, blinked, and looked again. Each of the four featured a pair of monster-cocked sailor-men pleasuring themselves in exuberant ways. Nude. Horse-hung. But depicted with a spare, skillful line that spoke of delicacy and classic restraint.
When I returned to the sitting room, wide-eyed, Sam smiled. "Ah, Jannot. You've been admiring my little Cocteau sketches? They're only copies. Believe me, I keep the originals out of the bathroom. I'll tell you their story one day. But it's time you were in bed. Your own bed, cheri. We both need our beauty sleep. Here--try this."
Sam handed me a small silver snuffbox that had been on the sofa table, its rectangular lid made of a single polished gray and white agate mounted in silver. I opened the box. Its gold-washed interior contained a dozen or so small, glistening dark-brown spheres. I looked my question at Sam.
"No, Jannot, they're not Dr. Smith's cough drops. But they are medicated, slightly. It's been a taxing night, and one of these will help bring sleep. And maybe good dreams. Who knows? If you like, let one dissolve under your tongue. A single pastille is perfectly harmless. But don't take one if you don't feel like it."
I remembered the wave of uncertainty, guilt, and fear that had overtaken me in the bathroom a few minutes before. Tired as I was beginning to feel, sleep would be slow to come. Looking at Sam, then down at the silver box, I took a pastille and put it in my mouth. At first I couldn't identify the taste: spicy, slightly acrid, not sweet. Then I got it. I'd played the 'cello for years and recognized the flavor-scent of the rosin I'd used on my bow. Plus a heady souvenir of incense at High Mass from the thurifer I'd loved to swing. The brown pastille evoked sudden memories of music and of ritual. As Sam must have intended. I handed back the snuffbox, and the words came. "Thanks, Sam. For everything."
Sam embraced me lightly, kissed both cheeks, and, caressing my head between his hands, brushed my lips with his. "Let me know Wednesday. Sweet dreams, mon Jannot." He bundled me into overcoat and muffler, clasped my hand, opened the door. Then I was back in that cold, dim foyer that smelled of cat.
On the outside, everything--the room, the wallpaper, the frayed carpet--looked just as it had done a few hours before, when I'd knocked at Sam's door. On the inside, inside me anyway, nothing would ever be the same.
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