Page 43 of The Two Wills

If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

—from Sonnet 130

It is Tuesday afternoon, and the Poet and I decide to take our sport to the inn where I stay. Thanks to prying eyes and gossip we can no longer play in our secret spot by the cliffs, nor at his encampment. I hope the tattletale is not that tempestuous young man from the play practice; he who later spied on us from the waves. I wish him no trouble, and, in truth, most enjoyed being watched.

After we settle into my room, the Poet undresses and tells me of a new comedy he is writing. I, already naked, lie on the bed listening attentively while simultaneously pleasuring myself. I’ve come to realize how much his creative mind excites me, even more than his body—though certain parts are most useful.

“I believe the audience will be beside themselves with laughter from the many complications that obstruct the romance,” he says. “If we know right away the lovers will be won easily, there is no fun. Besides, who can truly love passionately if there is no barrier to love? Don’t you agree?”

He stands there fully naked waiting for me to answer. His rooster fills with blood. Whether it is I who inspires its waking or his own ideas, I do not know. But it pleases me either way.

“So, you’re suggesting the true purpose of our spouses is to be the obstruction to enhance our sport?”

He laughs. “I’m saying in writing plays, tragedy or comedy, if you want the audience to care about two people falling in love, you must foil that love a great deal or there is no story worth telling. A love story must have complications! And once the lovers are firmly and safely ensconced in each other’s arms the story is over … and it’s time to go home.”

I pat the bed. “Come to bed, my pet, would you? Our story is just beginning, and your hesitation is the obstruction. Also, my hand is getting tired. Come complicate me, would you.”

“As you will,” he says, lying next to me and replacing my hand with his own.

“No woman has ever given me the sort of pleasure you do,” he whispers.

“No other woman ever shall,” I say.

To prove my words, I offer a certain sort of embrace taught to me by a French courtier. I lift the Poet’s legs and nestle my finger into a spot I have never touched before. He gasps as his eyes roll back into his head. Measuring his pleasure, I venture deeper, then deeper still. His body twists and heaves, like a maimed bull does just before it dies at a baiting. When I finish, he lies quiet for the longest moment; then, out of nowhere, he grabs my hair and pulls my mouth to his, kissing me long and hard.

“So, now that I have your attention,” I say, “shall we play mistress punishes her footman again?”

“I think not.” He smirks mischievously. “Tonight, I’d like you to pretend at being a schoolboy, age eighteen, very arrogant, who has shown great disrespect to his Latin teacher.”

“A young man?” I say, curious as to how I would portray such a thing. “No one has ever requested such a thing from me. My features are too soft and curvy I fear.”

“True,” he says, teasing my nipple. I see a flush of embarrassment on his face. “It was a silly idea anyway. We can just—”

“No,” I say, warming to the thought. “I like a challenge. Wait here.”

I throw on my clothes and go downstairs to the tavern kitchen. I steal a workman’s cap and coat from the rack, and return to the bedroom. I tell the Poet to cover his eyes while I tuck my mass of curls inside the cap and pull on his britches—which are far too long, so I roll them. I adjust my corset to bind my breasts then hook the jacket up high.

“Master?” I say in a lower boy’s voice, while I knock on the bedpost. “You asked me to come and see you, sir?”

“I did,” the Poet says pulling his hands from his eyes. “I’m very disappointed in you, lad.”

“Pity, sir, I’m sorry. What did I do wrong, Master?”

“For shame, misbehaving youth! You spoke most disrespectfully to our cook and haven’t learned your grammar. I’ll need to discipline you severely, so you’ll remember to do what you’re told.”

“Oh, please sir,” I beg, suppressing my delight. “Do not punish me. May I do something to seek your forgiveness?”

He stands up from the bed, still naked, and walks around me, looking me up and down sternly. “Get on your knees, saucy youth,” he growls with both passion and a chilling (and thrilling) vocal verisimilitude. While there are few things to recommend an actor as a lover, certainly one is their ability to fill a role when playing games of love.

We proceed in our sport for another hour. Delicious marks cover both our bodies. When we both are utterly spent, he cuddles me.

“Did you ever play like this with her?” I foolishly ask, my heart having momentarily swelled to an extent which blocks my brain.

“My wife, Anne, you mean?” He rolls onto his back and his cock, worn out, flops to the side of his sweaty nest. “Our lovemaking—when we first met—was all youthful hungry kisses and desperation to rut. I was a boy of eighteen, behaving as if I were attending my very first fair. I didn’t know anything of these more complex games. With Anne, all I wanted was to crawl inside her and live there forever. But then she was with child, and there was nothing to do but marry her. My father, who was well-known in town, cautioned me against the marriage, but I didn’t want my child to be a bastard. So, we wed. And then Susanna was born, and then the twins, along with the coughs and fevers and my need to earn more money … and, shall we say, our previous waterfalls of love dried to a drip. Our conversations became mostly about household business: whether the well needed mucking out, the cost of wool, and what our children were up to. Yet, despite it all, I still love her as no other.”

“As no other?” I say as if the words have wounded me—and in truth they have, even though I completely understand his meaning. The love I feel for my husband, Jamie, is similar, a warm, lustless thing, but also not small and impossible to quantify in its importance.

“Do you write of this beautiful but passionless love?” I ask.