John Barth - Giles Goat-Boy

This seemed doubtful to me, since the fertilest and most amorous does in the herd, to my knowledge, were strangers to the phenomenon she described: wag their pretty tails they might to call for love, and hunch some seconds after service (maiden goatlings in particular) if the buck was strong; but of "transports" and "climaxes" they knew nothing, I was certain. Mary Appenzeller, to cite but one example, an infallible breeder, was inclined to munch hay calmly even when topped by Brickett Ranunculus himself! As for infertility, there had been few cases of it in the barns that could not be "cured" by two dessertspoonfuls of soda dissolved in a liter of warm water and administered vaginally prior to mating, to neutralize uterine acidity — and I would have told Anastasia so forthwith, but I had come to learn, not to teach.

"Why are you unhappy, then?" I asked her. "What do you want to be dead for? If there's nothing wrong with your organs you'll surely be in kid one of these terms, by somebody …"

"George…" She drew the name out protestingly, and seemed about to weep again. To forestall her I acknowledged the truth of what she'd charged earlier — that with regard to human ladies, at least, I understood nothing. I asked her to remedy my ignorance with plain statements.

"Is there anything you have to do this afternoon? Dr. Sear's closed the office."

She glanced apprehensively at the one-way mirror. I assured her that no one was watching, and wondered why she cared, since we were only talking.

"Your mother wants to be home when Uncle Reg arrives," she said. "But that won't be until dinnertime."

"Then I'm going to get to know you," I said. "Inside out, in every way. Even if it takes the rest of the afternoon."

Her eyes doubted. "I've told You my whole flunkèd past, George: all the terrible things I've done thinking they were right. You know as much about me as I do."

"I don't know why you wish you were dead," I observed. "Stoker isn't cruel to you any more. And he could inseminate you artificially if you can't conceive in the normal way. Out in the barns, we — "

She shook her head. "I don't want to have a baby! Not by him. George…" Her expression was awed. "There's something wrong with my marriage."

Recalling that Stoker had expressed a similar apprehension, I asked her what might be their trouble.

"I don't really love my husband!" she said, as if frightened by her own candor. And then all reticence left her; in a tearful rush she confessed herself more flunkèd than I supposed. Her lack of love for her husband, she declared, was not new, and had nothing to do with his pleasure in seeing her serviced by other men, not to mention women, dogs, inanimate objects, and Dr. Eierkopf's eggs, Grade-A Large; the truth was, she had never loved him; indeed, she feared she'd never loved anyone — - male, female, or whatever. Of all Bray's Certifications, she felt hers to be the falsest, for though she most certainly had sympathized with her classmates and done her utmost to gratify their needs, loved them she had never, she knew now. And the proof of it was that while she'd never said "no" (except since my spring-term directive), she'd never said "yes," either. With her sex, perhaps, but not with her heart of hearts.

"That's very interesting," I said. "I think I'm getting to know you better already." What she said fit nicely too with my recent advice to her, I pointed out: saying yes to her classmates was, in effect, what I meant by actively servicing rather than passively receiving them.

"You don't understand!" she wailed. "How can I say it? I'm not supposed to have to say it!"

I frowned. "Say what, Anastasia? If I don't understand, teach me."

She closed her eyes and pounded the couch-cushion with one fist. "Why do You think I see these things about myself now, and never did before?"

I admitted that I hadn't any idea, unless it was that my mistaken first counsel to her and Stoker had led her to see that his abuses had nothing to do with her want of feeling for him.

"No, You idiot!" She gasped at her outcry, then wept freely and pounded the cushion with both fists. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Oh, Founder, You of all people… I can't say any more…"

"Now listen here, Anastasia," I said; "I'm a little tired of all this mystery. I'm not the Grand Tutor, but — "

"You are, George!"

I shook my head firmly. "I'm not; that's almost certain. But either way, I want you to take my advice and assert yourself. If I'm not the Grand Tutor, then what I tell you now is right because it's the opposite of what I said before, when I thought I was; if I am (which I doubt), then it's right because I am. You must assert yourself."

"I want to," she said, "because that's what You want…"

"Then stop beating around the bush. What is it you can't tell me?"

She looked at me, stricken. "I love You, George!"

I sat up. Her eyes brimmed over again.

"I don't understand it any more than You do; we hardly know each other…"

"What do you mean, love?" I demanded, much unsettled. She asked me shamefacèdly what I had meant when I'd said I loved her. "I don't know!" I cried. "The words just came out. I don't even know what it means!" She began to weep. I apologized for hurting her feelings again — but, flunk it all, I was alarmed, dismayed, I could not myself have said why; titillated of course, and flattered, certainly flattered — but equally appalled, oddly frightened, and for some reason cross. "In the herd, it means being in heat. For anybody. Everybody."

She whipped her head from side to side.

"Don't you really mean you're just convinced I'm the Grand Tutor?" I asked gruffly. "You loved Bray, too…"

"No!" It was true she had once believed in Harold Bray's Grand-Tutorship as well as mine, she said indignantly, and that now she believed in me exclusively, whether I did or not; but she had never loved Bray, only honored and obeyed him, and her love for me had nothing to do with her acknowledgment of my Tutorhood. In fact, the two sentiments were at cross-purposes: "I want to do what You tell me to, much as I hate the idea of other men," she said, "because You're the Grand Tutor, and what You say must be right. But the reason why I hate the idea is that I love You, George!" She looked at me straight, and took a breath. "I want You to make love to me!"

I strode about the Treatment Room, greatly excited.

"You told me to assert myself," she said.

"I know! I know!"

"I want to do what we did in the Living Room!" she cried. "You shouldn't just say 'I know, I know'!"

"I understand, Anastasia. The trouble is — "

"You think I'm a — floozy!" she exclaimed.

"No, no, no." I could not myself say why her profession of love, so gratifying to my vanity and destructive of my composure, did not also infuse me with desire.

"Service me!" Covered with shame and desperation she took the position she'd once assumed in the Powerhouse. "Don't make me beg You!"

"Please, you don't understand." Nervously I stroked her cleft with the tips of my fingers. But roused as I was, at last, by the dainties thereabouts and her pretty sounds when I touched them, my mind grew clearer. I nuzzled her in the way of the friendly goats; but I would not mount her, I declared, love or no love, until she'd carried out my new directive. She kissed my mouth.

"Can't I start with You?"

Though her heat was real, taking the initiative was plainly an effort for her, and her attempts to provoke my ardor rather cooled than fired it.

"I do want to know you carnally too," I said, "but not until you've serviced your husband and Bray, at least…"