Adam Mars-Jones - Cedilla

He grinned and shifted his legs a bit, making the rough shape of his genitals materialise and then disappear in a way which would have been irresistible if I had found him the slightest bit attractive. I may live my life at what is cock level for most people but still I have my standards.

He put his things on my cluttered table, while I made my way over to the window-sill. From there I invited him to join me. Not only was he clean, but he was wearing some sort of perfume or cologne which I found tantalising. The high notes were flirty and fleeting, but the bass notes were deep shadows, like a grotto cool with ferns on a hot summer’s day. If I closed my eyes and let my nose stand in for all the other senses, I might even begin to be aroused by the information it passed on. Perhaps I had been too hasty in dismissing this lonely botanist as ‘Whiffy Barry’.

Suddenly there was a connection between us. I was susceptible to him in ways I hadn’t expected, yes, but I also had the sense that he was susceptible to me, as if he was in a mild hypnotic trance. An astral umbilical seemed to link us on this malodorous morning, threading through our navels and groins, weaving a cat’s-cradle of chakras.

Patrly this had to do with the psychology of touch. Young English men of the period were so unaccustomed to touch, ordinary nonsensual human contact, that when it happened — and with me it had to happen — they were oddly disoriented, lightly bewitched. It was as if I had flown under their radar and disarmed them. I could give a young man’s hand and arm a tug in a certain direction, and it would follow my lead. It had nothing to do with a dormant attraction to other men — in fact I suspect it worked best with those who, like Barry, had never had such thoughts. If this was voodoo then it was quite ordinary everyday voodoo. It functioned perfectly well without the help of the lily whose foulness we were gathered to analyse.

I did realise, though, that however many times I went to Sanders Seed Merchants in Regent Street Cambridge, and however many Sauromata guttata I paid for and set a-growing, I would never happen on anything as promising as this delightful situation again.

What had started out as a simple project of botanical research had forked deliciously. Now I had two experiments on the go simultaneously. I was confident I had enough mental power to be able to divide my attention cleanly in two. Yes, I would examine the anatomy of this araceous species, but I would also do what I could to satisfy my curiosity about the lie of the land in Barry’s trousers.

All the time we probed S. guttatum I would be pumping power into my personality-magnet, which had seemed so defective these last few months. I would tug him about into any position I wanted. It would be child’s play to come up with any number of creative adjustments of posture — because ‘my arms can’t reach that far’. I could do the heavy lean against his leg, mentioning that it was vital for me not to lose my balance. Of course there was no real coercion involved. Whenever he wanted to, Barry could wriggle out of any entanglement, but I had the sense that my little magnet was working again at full power, and today he would go along with anything I suggested.

After a while, as he became more deeply hypnotised, a Gulliver immobilised by the thousand tiny threads of my suggestion, we would enter into Union. Barry was already intoxicated with touch, his whole body reverberating with longing. He was only a whisker away from swimming with me in the Ocean of Desire.

I knew my magic would only work if I was alone with the hypnotic subject, and here was Mrs Beddoes sitting in my Parker-Knoll savouring the last gulps of her tea and perhaps even contemplating the making of another cup. I asked her if she hadn’t got more rooms to clean, and she said no, she’d got an early start and cleaned out the other students’ rooms while I was sleeping. She batted away every hint I could come up with that we should be left alone together to do our research.

‘I wouldn’t miss this for worlds,’ she said. I was sure she was innocent of any byplay, but it was almost as if she knew exactly what was going on, and was having a rare old time thwarting me. ‘You’ve got me so curious about this plant, Mr Cromer. I can’t wait to see what it is that makes it pong so.’

From the Parker-Knoll where Mrs Beddoes was sitting with her tea she had a direct view of Barry’s legs and everything that lived between them. If I was to make any real progress, I must come up with a way of blocking her view.

Barry was ready to make the first incision into the inflorescence, but he hesitated and deferred to me. After all it was technically my Sauromatum . He offered me the scalpel and asked if I would care to dissect the flower according to his instructions. This was good manners and the answer was actually yes — I desperately wanted to do it, to feel what a surgeon feels. But my mind was grappling with the question of what to do about Mrs Beddoes.

A very delicate and sensitive thing

I said, ‘No, that’s all right, Barry. Things like this should be left to the expert — which is clearly you in this case. But let’s think clearly here. We must ensure that conditions for the experiment are optimal. You had better stand exactly where you are. Make sure that you hold the bulb in your left hand and cut the flower with your right. We had better stay here right near the window, because we’re going to need a strong light. Don’t move, because I’m leaning against you and I shall lose my balance otherwise. Wait a minute … if I put my hand on your leg like this, the position is perfect.

‘Now then … it’s going to be vital that we take notes during this operation, so I’ll hold your clipboard in my right hand …’

From my contorted position, holding a clipboard at the required angle was nearly impossible, but somehow I managed to prop it against the window shelf.

With the crucial equipment in place (the clipboard, angled just so) both experiments could proceed as planned. I gave thanks for the human inability to see round corners. Mrs Beddoes made a half-hearted attempt to raise herself and come over for a better view, but I told her to stay exactly where she was. ‘This is a very delicate and sensitive thing we are doing here,’ I said, with an authority which surprised me. ‘You stay put. I don’t want you upsetting the experiment. Besides, didn’t you say yourself that you got up early and did all those rooms? Take some rest, enjoy your cup of tea, and leave us to work. It’s our turn!’

So that was the set-up. With the Beddoes blocked by the clipboard in my right hand, I was half leaning out of the wheelchair. The araceous flower was winking luridly up at us, cradled in Barry’s left hand, while he held the scalpel in his right. My left hand was putting significant pressure on his right leg, and the black-trousered mystery between his legs was looking up at me invitingly. Just a short distance more, and both probes, the coldly metallic and the blood-hot, would be gathering data.

With my attention deliciously divided between the two explorations, I took the calculated risk of trifurcation. Mrs Beddoes used to tell me that I had a real way with people, and now was the time to put it to the test. I stretched out a mental finger to soothe her forehead and persuade her to relax. I sent a subliminal whisper across those few feet to lull her into a timely snooze.

As Barry slit the inflorescence with his scalpel I shifted myself into a better position (better in every way) by cupping my left hand over his crotch. His groin came up to meet my palm of its own accord, and fascination froze us in that position. His hand too froze as the blade went in. We might have been carved in stone, except that two hearts were pumping away inside the double statue, and Barry’s stone penis throbbed inside his taut and freshly ironed slacks, tugging the creases out of alignment.