…
The mind of poor Priapus in bed seemed to me no less exceptional and troubling than this classic bludgeon. You might have expected him to take pride in it as a kind of wonder of nature; or you might have expected him to hate or pity himself on account of it, or to have a horror of being desired for that and no other reason—expectations far too simple. Upon my referring to it he only conventionally and complacently demurred, as if that were a customary flattery, due tribute, and entirely agreeable. But when I paid attention to it more directly than by word of mouth, active attention, then its size and strength would suddenly decline: the flesh itself ashamed. You might think that such a thing, in its hour of exercise, must cast some spell upon the one of whom it is so disproportionate a part, upon his entire temperament, even his opinion and his emotion. It was not so. Never for an instant did my Hawthorn cease to be self-possessed, critical, and equivocally self-critical, and with the oddest air of begrudging, of calculatory cunning. A man of the purely mental type, pretending to be erotic … It absurdly occurred to me that he might be a man quite deficient physically to whom some wondrous physician, or compassionately interfering friend, or capricious deity, had simply attached this living, but rather spasmodically living, dildo.
And what a strange type: a mentality as busy as a bee, and forever blushing or turning pale; feeling devilish or feeling pure; and in an instant beginning to be sad or angry, but the next instant overcome by fond satisfaction, and self-satisfaction! All night long, throughout my own easy enjoyment and my laborious effort to please him, my falling asleep irresistibly and his waking me, and the rise and fall of that practically hopeless phallus, all night long he was evidently thinking, thinking, in that inconsistent way of his. Thinking, thinking: explaining himself a little, at least to himself; justifying himself a little, or trying to decide how to go about justifying himself if he should have to; and resenting little things I did or things I said, but losing track of his resentment at once, all absorbed in some sort of theory of love, or policy of being my lover, or dubious general scheme of loveableness. While the light bulb without a shade over the bed was on, I could not help seeing all this, kaleidoscopic in his face: all this disorderly rationalization, moralizing, this cold and interminable changing of his mind. I tried not to care; I looked away from his face, and my naturally erotic eyes were indeed otherwise fabulously occupied. I shut them; I turned off the light. But in the dark I could feel the same incongruity in the various emphasis of his fingertips, straining of his thighs, stiffening of his neck—an intellectual straining and stiffening.
I said to myself that he must so admire intellect that he encouraged himself to think as much as possible, no matter what; it was like being in bed with a kind of German philosopher. And probably his intelligence has never quite sufficed to put in order and clarify even for himself the incessant ejaculation of these pseudo-ideas. Certainly his speech never sufficed for an instant to convey to me anything that I could be quite sure of, or entirely respect. Every now and then he whispered something, but never a whole sentence: a word or two, then a silence, then a soft stammer, with a shrug, with a little grimace. Every now and then whatever I did obviously shocked him. But he was ashamed of himself for being shocked. So then almost instantly he would make up for it by an added word or two in explicit praise of my unembarrassed eroticism. Twice in the night he said that he hoped to be influenced by me and become like me in that respect. Evidently he assumed that this intimacy of ours, so rashly and improperly improvised—what for?—was to go on indefinitely like a marriage made in heaven …
Naturally at times I grew as inappropriately
The mind of poor Priapus in bed seemed to me no less exceptional and troubling than this classic bludgeon. You might have expected him to take pride in it as a kind of wonder of nature; or you might have expected him to hate or pity himself on account of it, or to have a horror of being desired for that and no other reason—expectations far too simple. Upon my referring to it he only conventionally and complacently demurred, as if that were a customary flattery, due tribute, and entirely agreeable. But when I paid attention to it more directly than by word of mouth, active attention, then its size and strength would suddenly decline: the flesh itself ashamed. You might think that such a thing, in its hour of exercise, must cast some spell upon the one of whom it is so disproportionate a part, upon his entire temperament, even his opinion and his emotion. It was not so. Never for an instant did my Hawthorn cease to be self-possessed, critical, and equivocally self-critical, and with the oddest air of begrudging, of calculatory cunning. A man of the purely mental type, pretending to be erotic … It absurdly occurred to me that he might be a man quite deficient physically to whom some wondrous physician, or compassionately interfering friend, or capricious deity, had simply attached this living, but rather spasmodically living, dildo.
And what a strange type: a mentality as busy as a bee, and forever blushing or turning pale; feeling devilish or feeling pure; and in an instant beginning to be sad or angry, but the next instant overcome by fond satisfaction, and self-satisfaction! All night long, throughout my own easy enjoyment and my laborious effort to please him, my falling asleep irresistibly and his waking me, and the rise and fall of that practically hopeless phallus, all night long he was evidently thinking, thinking, in that inconsistent way of his. Thinking, thinking: explaining himself a little, at least to himself; justifying himself a little, or trying to decide how to go about justifying himself if he should have to; and resenting little things I did or things I said, but losing track of his resentment at once, all absorbed in some sort of theory of love, or policy of being my lover, or dubious general scheme of loveableness. While the light bulb without a shade over the bed was on, I could not help seeing all this, kaleidoscopic in his face: all this disorderly rationalization, moralizing, this cold and interminable changing of his mind. I tried not to care; I looked away from his face, and my naturally erotic eyes were indeed otherwise fabulously occupied. I shut them; I turned off the light. But in the dark I could feel the same incongruity in the various emphasis of his fingertips, straining of his thighs, stiffening of his neck—an intellectual straining and stiffening.
I said to myself that he must so admire intellect that he encouraged himself to think as much as possible, no matter what; it was like being in bed with a kind of German philosopher. And probably his intelligence has never quite sufficed to put in order and clarify even for himself the incessant ejaculation of these pseudo-ideas. Certainly his speech never sufficed for an instant to convey to me anything that I could be quite sure of, or entirely respect. Every now and then he whispered something, but never a whole sentence: a word or two, then a silence, then a soft stammer, with a shrug, with a little grimace. Every now and then whatever I did obviously shocked him. But he was ashamed of himself for being shocked. So then almost instantly he would make up for it by an added word or two in explicit praise of my unembarrassed eroticism. Twice in the night he said that he hoped to be influenced by me and become like me in that respect. Evidently he assumed that this intimacy of ours, so rashly and improperly improvised—what for?—was to go on indefinitely like a marriage made in heaven …
Naturally at times I grew as inappropriately
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