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This post contains the final two parts of ³The Uncertainty of the Meek.²
If you have already read the first three parts, you probably cannot wait
for us to stop this introduction so you can get to the story. If you have
not read the first three parts, why are you starting here? Get back to
your newsreader and get the beginning before you read the end. Really.

You most likely have already read the introduction to Part One. We will
not bother you with redundancy. Read on, enjoy, write us at
<TheMrLee@hotmail.com>. Visit us at <http://pages.ripco.net/~metrdesn>

The Uncertainty of the Meek

by the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization

Part Four: 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 didnıt 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--and I suspect so--he did not deign to gloat. Our
contacts became less frequent, yet still charged. They were trips 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
Schmicks. 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 ³one of us,² 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. My fall from
the demanding GALA environment was followed by her less dramatic taking of
leave. We remained good friends, with an occasional flirtation, and once
Anne had moved on, Cordellia came down for a long weekend.

We didnıt discuss it. I didnıt expect it, but wasnıt surprised. She just
came into my room, nude except a very short and thin t-shirt. I said,
³Yes,² and she slid under the covers with me.

Cordellia was far more direct than any of my 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 tee shirt over my head and
discard it.

I was very distant from the whole experience, at least initially. Her
mouth moved from mine to my neck, which she bit hard enough that I
thought, quite calmly, ³Iıll have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow.² Yet,
when she said, ³Youıre getting wet²--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 on my leg, wetter than any woman Iıd known.

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 breathing deeply beside me. 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.
I needed to come like I had never before. Was it the fear that she was
done and wouldnıt finish me? Or was it something else? The question
frightened me.

Her breathing relaxed, and she turned to me, her skin glowing, her teeth
bright in the moonlight room. ³Iıve wanted to do that for so long.² The
words crawled out, some suppressed Southern drawl exerting itself.

She kissed me gently, running her hands across my stomach. ³Youıre wet.²
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.

³Take them off for me.² Her hand moved languidly up my body and pointed to
the window. ³Over there, by the window. Pull back the curtains.²

I darenıt 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 by last remaining covering.

³Now. Pull them down.² 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, and 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
provide 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. ³Give me head first.² She
rolled away from me, onto her back. I turned over and started to move
between her legs.

³Then I might let you get off.²

There was no slowness in my ministrations. I found her clit immediately
and sucked it between my lips. If it was too much stimulations, sheıd have
to kick me off of her. I couldnıt wait for myself any longer. My hand
reached for my desperate sex, but somehow, I couldnıt 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. A terror you can never remove from your soul, the sound of absolute
abandon, desire brought beyond the restraints of humanity.

She went limp, her breath mere whimpers.

³Please, Cordellia, please.² 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. ³Come for me, baby,² she cooed, and I did
immediately.

It wasnıt the most powerful orgasm Iıd ever had, but it was strong enough
to remind me that such ecstasy was possible, something Iıd forgotten in my
years with Anne.

~~~~~~~~~~

My life slowly began to revolve around Cordelliaıs 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, with whom she flirted, one and all. It 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. ³Donıt wear underwear this week.² ³Write an
erotic poem in French for me.² ³Eat peaches, naked in you bathtub at 8:30
on Tuesday evening.² When sheıd return, sheıd ask me if I had done
whatever silliness she had demanded.

³No.² I still sounded surprised that she meant her demand, even after the
peaches in the bathtub. She would then ³punish² 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 didnıt 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 OıConnor
stories when Tom called me again. It had been over a month, before
Cordellia got her new job. A new print of ³His Girl Friday² 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 didnıt comment. ³Hello, beautiful.² Strange
how happy those words make me.

We laughed loudly. I donıt 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 couldnıt understand it--two opposites like me
and her? I said, ³Sex,² with a shrug and a blush, and he nodded. There was
a Ceci or Cecilia for him. I can never get those names straight.

³Sex?² I asked him.

³Green eyes,² 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 he let the story waft out. At least that is what I
expected. He just smiled at me, swirling his own glass.

Finally, I had to ask, ³Green eyes?² 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. ³If you saw Ceciıs eyes. . .²

Of course I hadnıt, but I remembered Sarahıs, and I knew how the right
pair of green eyes could captivate one for weeks. I nodded.

We talked some more. Mostly it was little statements that 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,
explain, 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. It canıt be done. No writer, and Iıve 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 weıre 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.

³Go?²

A nod. ³Next Friday?²

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
which demand your attention to take all of it. So it was with Sarah for
me. At sixteen, she took hold of my sexuality and defined it for me. 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 didnıt 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
tightly.

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, Iıd have to
change. I saw that I already had. I saw the cracks in the mirror once I
left Anne. The old shape was beginning to crumble, or maybe just lose its
hard glazing. My mutability 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.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tom had a few women he could claim were chasing him. I, of course, did
not, but managed to bumble my way into a one-night stand or two. Over the
course of months, Tom and I began to see each other more often. I saw his
occasional girlfriends. They usually broke up with him shortly afterwards,
although one tried to take control of the situation by sleeping with me.
None of them had green eyes, and more than one of them mistook my blues
for green.

I donıt believe his beneficent smile ever left his lips when he told me of
their departures. Nor did he ever mention that they left saying it was
obvious we belonged together. ³It didnıt work out.² ³She was busy at
work.² ³I think an old boyfriend moved back.² No anger, no disappointment.

Each woman I slept with made me angrier. Not at the women themselves--they
were all like Cracker Jack prizes, something to be discarded, perhaps, but
nothing you didnıt like. No, I was angry that they didnıt fit me better,
that they could not master the secret language in a night. What I wanted
most of all was that they mold themselves to me.

I was a thirty-year-old lesbian hanging out at college lesbian bars
looking for an impressionable young thing, coming out for the first time.
I could guide her, shape her, be her Sarah.

Tom observed this, but there was no judgement. Tom didnıt judge anything,
as far as I could tell. He once said that the best way to induce good
behavior was by example. So he lived it. He never once stepped into a
college lesbian bar.

~~~~~~~~~~

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. But now I was about closeness and immediacy.

I forgot 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 up and got us
beers, and returned with a kiss. His hands found my ass, but I removed
them, speaking my secret tongue, ³let me lead.²

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. I just
smiled 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. I eased him into his own nudity, feeling myself tremble
with excitement and fear. Was I doing this right? I wanted him, I wanted
him so, I could not have torn myself away from Tom right then if Iıd
tried. 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--oh, what a sensation! The
long, hard, length of his leg touching mine, the firm muscle, the soft
hairs caressing my skin. This new, unexplored sensation was so thrilling
to me! A wave of emotion just washed over me as I rolled on top to Tom, my
full and wanting body touching his. My face was close to his, our lips
almost touching. I could feel him growing hard in the space just above my
legs. I wanted to feel him so badly. I wanted this--and I wanted to be in
control.  I held his arms above his  head and kept them there. I moved my
face 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 fore head.

³Michi, I want you,² 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 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. 

³Tom,² I panted. 

My mouth came down hard on his, and our tongues met, exploring the
warmness of each othersı mouth. I ran one hand down his chest, caressing
the strong, defined ridges that made up his strong body. I let my hand
strayed and linger over his nipples, one at time, feeling the softness,
running hand through his soft chest  hairs. I  let my hand run down the
strength of his body, I caressed the prominent ridge of his hip, down to
his muscular, rocklike thighs. I gave Tom a good squeeze, and let my hand
first curiously up to his hard cock. I caressed his balls, they felt
almost like ice cream, soft, a  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. With Tom, the outcome of my touch was unpredictable. This male
body was new thing, so to see the sexual need on his face, the reddening
of his checks, 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 into his thigh, needing that contact as much as he
needed my hand. I wanted to let it build and focus on him, but ironically,
his excitement was too much for me. I stoked him wildly as I focused on
the orgasm building in me. 

His ³Oh, God,² and the warm fluid running down my hand was all that drew
me away from the after image of my own orgasm.

We lay next to each other, silent, for a few moments. I canıt tell you
what I was thinking--I donıt believe I was, I was just there, blissfully.
Then he pulled me up his body, and began kissing me with a needy passion.

³I didnıt intend for that to happen,² he said between kisses scattered
about my face.

³What to happen?² I was baffled. Had he come to regret our sex?

³Coming right then. Iım not sure I can get it up again soon.²

I had forgotten men have that problem.  ³Thatıs ok. It was wonderful.²

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 couldnıt get back to sleep, so I spied on his somnambulant form. His
mouth was cracked, a slight smile at the corners. Once my eyes adjusted to
the moonlight, 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 I
struggled to embrace, and soon I found myself sending my eyes 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 any of my previous lovers. Yes, there was the
beginnings 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 in volume. His muscles were
bigger, but Sarahıs athletic body hadnıt been that different. She didnıt
have large breasts, and her muscles were at least as defined and hard. 

But the small differences did matter. It wasnıt 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 couldnıt decide. 

~~~~~~~~~~

 Tom woke me with soft caresses. They were wonderfully comforting. I
basked in them, feigning sleep. I donıt 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, the tip of his penis pushing
against my thigh. We kissed, but it 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. It felt good, but I couldnıt lose
myself in our loving. I let it happen, and tried to pretend it was as good
as the night before.

I suppose the disappointment was to be expected. Iıd heard that losing
oneıs virginity was almost always an earthly experience, and few women
orgasmed from it. When I was a lesbian, I felt that alone was a sure sign
that hetero sex was good for producing babies, and  little else. I
understood when my lesbian friends who had started out in the straight
life told me that hetero sex would one day disappear, as science untied
copulation and procreation. 

Yet, Tom had never been 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 degree of otherness that ³male² 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,
is not her?

I think not reaching orgasm wouldnıt 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 didnıt say a word--he wasnıt the
pressuring type--but I could see it hidden in the corner of his eyes.

The missing orgasm hung over us at breakfast, and we quickly parted for
³errands,² both happy to be away from the void it left. I wondered if he
expected to conquer me, win me to the straight world with his manly
prowess. I knew it wasnıt Tom to think like that, but men are, well, men,
and men have giant egos which must be placated by women who need their
sexual powers.

~~~~~~~~~~

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
there. 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 wasnıt miserable--it was joyful. I just didnıt
come. I had to face the reality that Tom wasnıt Sarah reincarnated, and
that was too crushing for me to bear. I donıt know what Tomıs problems
were, but they weighed on him just as heavily.

Two months went by. I was starting to miss Tomıs company. Our short visits
and phone calls did not fulfill the need for social interaction
I--surprisingly--had. For the first time since I ³got over² Sarah, I was
lonely.

Then I did the most surprising thing Iıve ever done. It wasnıt meek. It
wasnıt timid. It was courageous and bold. I called Tom and told him, ³Hi
Tom. Youıre going to come over tonight and fuck me until I come.² I held
my breath for the fifteen seconds of eternity he waited to respond. 

His voice was the calm, comforting creature it normally was. ³Now?²

³Right now.²

He fucked me. I came. He fucked me again, I came harder. I called in sick
on Monday. And Tuesday. So did he. I was never so sore before in my life
when I showed up work on Wednesday.

Part Five: Myself, Finally

Two months later, I woke up in Tomıs arm, hearing a dog barking outside. I
opened up 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 was 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 ³Another bagel, please?² 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 in tact. 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 began to appear as
the lines that both separated and held them together.

To be so important to someone was to surrender to their dreamstuff;
becoming a captive of their mind, their needs, their definition. Somehow,
in my plodding way, I had become Michi Lorre, not Michi of the family
Lorre, not Michi of Michi and Anne, not Michi Fielding; Michi Lorre.

-- 
This story is copyright 1999 the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization. Reposting is expressly forbidden, except with permission.

We at the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization adore feedback. Tell us what you liked, tell us what you hated, or just tell us you read the story. e-mail us at: TheMrLee@hotmail.com

Visit our wonderful Website at <http://pages.ripco.net/~metrdesn>

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