From amartell Sat Jun 19 04:48:43 1993
From: amartell
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
Subject: Laylah's youth, part 2: meeting Alex
References: <9306150619.AA16446@camelot.com> <1993Jun19.064502.8828@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu>
Status: OR


This is "part 2" of my Lady's "early lovelife" biography.  It has less
BDSM content than the "part 1" which I just posted.  As I said, "part
3" will probably be delayed, maybe until the fall, as it's not been
written yet and she probably won't be near a computer for a while.

	===

I had my fifteenth birthday. School was going well except English,
which in the first term I failed, so I put a lot of effort in it
and managed to remedy in the second half, just barely. Then I and
an ex schoolmate were invited for lunch one day by that teacher of
Italian, we went gladly as we had so good memories of her.

There it was I met that son of hers. Physically not that attractive,
save some little things maybe - one especially, a deep, suave voice
which I never could tire of listening to. Intellectually awesome, a
wide and deep culture and understanding of which I had not seen the
equal yet.

More important, he was... different, so different. I saw his eyes
on my body, acknowledging its prettiness but as - irrelevant, maybe
is the right word; "immaterial" could be closer. Well not quite,
but surely not crucial.  He was much more interested in my
conversation, egged me on to speak, spoke just as earnestly himself.
I was sure I saw real light of interest in his eyes, that was not
the posturing some boys tried to make me believe them so interested...
I could feel there was no guile in him, no etiquette of "how to
treat women" in his behavior, that what he showed was what he felt
exactly. And that was so endearing for me!

Then my friend had to go, my ex-teacher had work to do; I almost
did not notice it, my attention riveted on him. When he invited
me to his room to listen to some piece of music we had been discussing
(I studied and practiced dance at the time), I was sure that it
was exactly for that, to make me listen to some music, and then to
go on conversing, that there was no second purpose; and I was right,
there wasn't. This was so - refreshing, in a way; no sparring, no
saying one thing so another would be understood.

I could say I felt "comfortable" with him, but that wouldn't be
it, at all; if anything there was something disquieting in him,
something deep and dark and powerful below his courtesy and, well,
tenderness. No, he WAS dangerous, at some level I knew, this gave
even more interest. But not dangerous the way other men were, no;
there was indeed tenderness, though not any softness, in his body
language, his gestures, his look. Nothing obvious, nothing I could
point my hand at, don't think he was in any way effeminate or
something, no, very much manly and strong, yet I sensed here was
someone a woman could feel very much closer to, than to those
attractive yet infinitely distant other suns that most men were.

Realize I had never met a gay man before, or if I had there surely
had not been any reciprocal interest and attention like that; so
for me it was all new and unique and special and alluring. I since
knew many, and now I know that's not it, either; though in them is
easier to find such sweetness, it is not unique to them, nor by
any means is it in them all. Anyway, that man had it in the most
intense, touchable form I have ever met yet.

He drove me home that night, I was even late for dinner, we left
each other with an handshake and vague talk about meeting again.
I pushed him out of my mind though, or tried to. There was some
talk that he could help me with my English later, but right then
he had an University exam to prepare, he went off to the seaside
with a friend for a while to study, I busied myself with school
and dancing and church things and my lover once more.

A couple of weeks and he rang me up, the exam had gone wonderfully
as usual, he and his friend would have dinner to celebrate, at a
luxuous restaurant downtown, and he wanted to take me too, could
I come? Things rushed through my mind, had I anything elegant enough
to wear, would my mother ok it, so he really was interested, would
his friend prove as interesting as him, and below it all a slight,
very slight increase in the beat of my heart...

He came pick me up and I met his friend and we went to that dinner,
I still remember it: it was heady for me, to move in such luxe, I
was hardly even used to go out for a pizza! His friend was also
somewhat special, but it seemed to me he hardly even noticed I was
there. While Alex (yes, ok, it was him!) had but eyes for me... and
once more we talked and talked, to very late night this time, I
normally used to get asleep very early but that time it seemed I
could spend all night in talk with him...

Later he did start giving me English lessons, he was good but I
also saw not all his mind was on it. On me? But not, that was not
possible, else why was I not noticing any of the signs of courtship
or flirting, which even in my inexperience I had a bit started to
recognize in boys, if only to avoid them (and I would have fled him
then, if I had seen them, I know). And he, so much older than me, rich,
experienced, such an intellectual giant, so charming in his manners and
conversation, I was sure he must have had experiences so many, I did
not want to count (but I found myself fantasizing and daydreaming of
them, against my will...).

And he gave me gifts, as books or sweets, drove me on his car or
his motorbike, came to my dance shows, took me to concerts or films
or talks or picture exhibitions, and generally buzzed around me -
yet not one word or gesture of advance. I was mistified and flattered,
and fascinated and frightened, at the same time... and wondered,
and wondered...

Then one day, after seeing some pictures exhibited in Bologna's
ancient Palazzo Re Enzo, we lingered on the battlements, looking
out at the expanse of rooftops and towers, reddened by the
setting sun. We had just spent all afternoon together and it
had been a good time, as always, and once more I was going to
be later for dinner, but I hardly cared of that. We were near
each other, looking out in the same direction, lost both in
the inherent poetry of that moment, of that magic light bathing
our beautiful hometown, like a luminous blood pulsing in the
veins of shadow of the darkening, winding medieval streets.

And I FELT, I felt beyond all doubt, that what most he wanted right
then was to put his arm on my shoulders (a normal friendly gesture
in our culture, Italians touch each other much more than Northern
people), AND make that touch into something more, into a tender
embrace. I KNEW, but I shuddered even, that our so very special,
unique friendship should end, should change into some advance,
which I would rebuff and run back into my lover's arms to cry, for
how could I not do so?

And he made no move, but he kept looking out, at infinity. But WHY?
Had he known I would refuse like I knew he would try? Or was he
TIMID after all, that brilliant, erudite, charming adult man? But
no he wasn't, we spoke of everything, we went everywhere... what
did he WANT with me?!

"Alessandro - I said in a troubled voice, staring straight at him
as he then also turned and stared back - what do you WANT of me?".
He seemed surprised at the question; I was, also, to find myself
asking so bluntly, but I knew why I had: because this doubt had
been in me long in these months, and hinting at it was no use, he
listened to words only, he did not answers questions unasked, he
did not read between lines...

The surprise faded and yet he responded not; I could see he was
thinking deeply, furiously, asking *himself*, what DO I want of
her? I did not push, but waited, sure the answer would eventually
come and would be as clear and open as the question had been.

It did, and it was. His visage disturbed but sure, he fixed
with strength his gaze in mine, and said: "Everything".

And I knew he MEANT it, although he had not known for sure himself
a few minutes before: in that moment I knew, that he really wanted
everything, all of me, my body and my soul and my mind and my heart,
my adolescence and my youth and my maturity and my old age, my love
and my conversation and my sex and my pain and my happiness - that
he wanted me whole.

He's often made fun of himself over that answer, saying it was the
most clumsy and artless declaration of love anybody ever made, and
maybe it was, but, for the certainty I had that it was for real, it
was also the strongest, most powerful, and together most terrible
and frightening and sweetest and best one ever. Some of me wanted
to melt right there at his feet, some wanted to run away crying in
fear; I had found an intensity to match mine, and it was maybe too
strong even for me, I was not ready. For once, my Lord, in that
moment you did not say even one word too much: you were perfect.

Troubled, I asked him to drive me home, did not speak in the trip,
too taken in my turmoil. He left me at home and asked, "Can we
see again?" - he did not ask when, he asked if. "I will call you",
I promised. Next day I did, but I did not know the answer. Then I
had to leave on my vacations, on the mountains, still left him
hanging for my answer. I saw him once as I was back, told him I
still did not know. That single word still echoed in my mind,
wonderfull and terrible.

Then he himself left, on a trip around England and Scotland and
then Paris which he had long planned, and I had time and calm
to think with my head rather than with my heart, and I came to
the conclusion that no, it would never work, we were so far in
age, and social class, and religion (he was a rationalist and
an atheist then!), and interests and everything. But I did not
want to lose him utterly, o no!, I still dreamed of him and in
my heart - and in my belly... though the latter I did not
admit, not even to myself.

So I wrote him a letter to his English address, sweetest I could
make it, with the most trite refusal ever, but it was true for me
when I wrote it, or I thought it was, or I wished it was - "Alessandro,
you are a most special friend, and it is as such that I feel
affection for you".

I sent it and busied myself trying to forget it all, to lose that
glum sense in me that I had made a mistake I would forever regret
in this refusal, that I would never again even be able to dream of
love and blood and pain and light together - for when I so dreamed
the terrible Lord of the dream had Alessandro's face, and looked
hard at me and said "you refused me" and walked away, and I woke
up trembling and full of ache inside my heart. "He is an atheist",
I said to myself, "I cannot love one who will demonstrate to me
that all I know is FALSE! He is unable to say FOREVER - he could
not love me forever for he thinks death ends all.". And thought
of another thousand very good reasons. And went to my lover and
tried burying myself in her, erasing that dull ache, and could not.
And I wept. Without cause or catharsis - I wept for the love that
could not be, that would never be.

(to be continued)


Blessed be,
    Laylah

	===

Alex the slave and scribe