May 1984
In walks this tall, medium-blond shikse with an upswept hairdo. Neck strangely arched forward, a few strands of escaped hair falling down over it. Dressed like one of those female lawyers on TV. Dark blue suit, Gucci vs. Hermes scarf at the neck. Skirt dropping straight down like a waterfall, starting point what I estimated to be the northern end of the cleft of her ass. None of that tight half-moon effect favored by the muchachas on the subway. Obviously not part of the filing crew; no yellow star on her chest, the total surface of which I inspected rapidly, but thoroughly. Looking right at home, so I figured she must be some kind of VIP around here. Couldn’t see a cross anywhere on her. Therefore probably not some religious zealot working for the Jews out of self-purification and/or flagellation. Another possibility: she’s the local shabbes goy. That’s a Christian who turns on the lights and puts a match to the oven for the orthodox on the Sabbath; jobs the latter are forbidden to do on their own. Why did that come to mind? Because it would make sense to have a righteous Gentile around, sympathetic as hell to the suffering in the Holocaust, but with a big plus. She wasn’t – couldn’t – be a mourner. We Jews can’t turn off the tears. She could keep the paperwork dry.
As soon as Lynx saw her, I could swear his forelock got less droopy and edged further down, below his right eyebrow. Maybe that’s the way he greeted the milkmaids when he was a boy growing up in Transylvania. “Permit me to present Miss Alison Hamilton. She’s in charge of research and…”
Right away, I felt that familiar aching in my calves, same as when you’re looking down from the top of a tall building. Rapture of the heights. Along with the urgent need to swallow this woman whole, breathe her in, talk to her for forty-eight hours straight. I knew the symptoms well; I’d had similar attacks in the past. Same response – must be a reflex, because it’s too quick for an intellectual decision – just as soon as we met. Same lack of response also.
In most other situations, my penis is on the same wavelength as the rest of me. For sure with the social workers. That means it signs on for the duration. But for the type I’m talking about, like Alison Hamilton, nothing doing from the get-go. Like a traffic light stuck on red. My Penile Paradox. The more you want, the less you get. The more you ache, the less you quake. The more you yearn, the less you burn. Worse yet, it’s not like your spleen or your pancreas isn’t coming on board. Here is a crucial part of you that couldn’t care less. Not just once or twice, but every time.
The heartache. Pushing and pulling, stretching and twirling. A tactful silence from the participant turned spectator across the bed. Let’s face it – the penis is the fall guy for decisions that come from on high. If the brain says no, it helps like a toiten bonkes (trans.: a dead leech) to try to reason with, apply warm or cold compresses to, or shake some sense into it.
Believe me, I’ve tried to figure out why it’s yes with some, no with others. Maybe it has to do with the overwhelming desire I feel right from the start. Everybody knows about sexual politics. Show weakness at the very beginning, you may never recoup. What better way to give up early than giving yourself the coup de grâce in the hard-on department?
My ongoing problem makes me yearn for a Republican penis. No interference accepted from big government, AKA the brain. All decisions made at the grassroots level on a case-by-case basis. That way, no dissension in the lower ranks when it’s love at first sight. But regardless of what I wish for, my penis is a Democrat. Which means it’s spooked every time by orders from higher up.
Lucky I have my social workers. With them, no anguish, no conflict.