The Starry Wisdom

by D. M. Mitchell

  “Republic” he longed for. I, the reader will recall, was no friend to conformity and demanded to think, and act, for myself.

  As so often happens (so often, in fact, that we really should cease to be surprised at it), my answer came to me seren-dipitously. Though my philosophical studies demanded most of my time in college and university years (necessarily so, since it was to be my professional field), I occasionally relaxed with other reading. I became an aficionado, even a connoisseur, of pornography. I began to read such material for the same reason that anyone does: for the vicarious sexual thrill of it. Only I found that most of the modern works were so shoddily written – little better than toilet graffiti, actually – that only morons might be seduced by them. So I concentrated on and began to collect the classics of the genre. It was my great fortune to stumble across a copy of Pisanus Fraxi's nearly unobtainable Index Librorum Prohibitorum. This was a nineteenth-century work which, while posing as a pious syllabus of errors cataloguing unwholesome books, slyly sought to aid the salacious collector in tracking down and amassing a pornographic library. And that was precisely the use to which I put it.

  It was through such enjoyable researches that I finally chanced upon what seemed the object of both my intellectual and erotic searchings. For there in the pages of the Marquis de Sade I discovered the delicious and daring philosophy of Libertinage, the ‘Philosophy of the Boudoir', as he himself had put it. There I read of the “sodalities” and societies of kindred spirits, yea, damned souls, who sought to flout the world's norms in every conceivable way – and in some ways, I might add, which I had never conceived! To rend the fabric of reality was their goal, by subverting every established convention and ethic. Sex, of course, was their chosen focus of attack in their assault: what facet of life is so volatile, so powerful, and therefore the object of such meticulous rule-weaving? In the words of Saint Paul, my old mentor, ‘their glory was their shame.' And what shame! And what glory!

  Yet Sade himself had written only from his own blasphemous fantasies. An outcast from society he was, as one might guess, but for fairly trivial reasons. His own character Juliette, mistress of poisoners and fiends, would have scorned the petty perversity for which Sade was incarcerated: pouring hot wax into the cuts and scratches of a harlot he had whipped. Also, Sade's corrupt monasteries and secret societies existed only in his mind. Certainly my own erotic pilgrimage had never brought me in contact with any of them. Oh, it was not difficult to gain admission to sexual retreats and partner-swapping groups. But the sad and base individuals who populated such gatherings had no real inkling of why they should be doing what they did.

  None of these fools grasped, as I now did, that the key to the ultimate erotic experience lay not first and foremost in the flesh but in the spirit! Perversion is nothing without blasphemy, transgression! The secret was that, paradoxically, sexuality is fulfilled only when it is instrumental to something else – the utter repudiation of the world and the standards to which it imperiously requires conformity.

  Eagerly I plumbed my new-found knowledge in the pages of the various forbidden books which now occupied the place that Holy Scripture had once held with me. But I must share these secrets only with myself, for nowhere was I likely to find what I so desperately craved, an orgiastic fellowship in the midst of which to consummate that urge toward true enlightenment.

  II

  In this manner I passed many months, my fervour waxing and waning as all but the most obsessive passions must, but never losing my longing for fulfilment. My usual round both of academic and sexual activities continued unabated, as did the part-time work with which I supplemented my tuition scholarship. My acquaintances little suspected the nature of the preoccupation I sometimes could not hide. Instead they ascribed it with a laugh to my being ‘a philosopher', an epithet equivalent in their minds to ‘dreamer'. This mild spoofing, naturally, did not bother me, and I was grateful for it since it prevented closer scrutiny. Actually, during the past years of sexual adventure, I had found it eminently simple to hide my activities from even fairly close associates. People seem to be remarkably incapable of imagining that anyone might occupy himself with interests they themselves do not share. So be it.

  This was true even of my fiancée. A word, perhaps, should be said of her. I had met Marilyn in college, in the philosophy department as a matter of fact. We got along splendidly from the beginning. I was pleased to discover early on that she was not particularly inhibited sexually, and we became close friends, casual lovers. Ours was an attachment that required no exclusivity as romantic love was not the heart of it, and probably did not enter it at all.

  But Marilyn had begun to show a need for security in recent months and suggested that we make our relationship a permanent one. I concurred, but for reasons she could scarcely suspect. Since the secret, the forbidden, had become a spice my sexual appetite could not resist, I felt that Marilyn's love would be most satisfying to me insofar as I betrayed it. This I deemed superior to initiating her into the mysteries of Libertinage, since I doubted that she could fully appreciate either its philosophical subtleties or its sexual ravages. I recall the night we announced our engagement to a small gathering of relatives and friends; several hours later, I was announcing it to the laughter of the prostitutes locked together with me in an embrace difficult to describe.

  I do not mean to give a false estimate of her intelligence: Marilyn probably suspected that I was not completely faithful to her. After all, as I have said, our previous arrangement had not been entirely monogamous, nor had it been expected that it should be. From her perspective, this last had quite likely changed, but she like many women no doubt felt it best to compromise silently. So of my infidelity she could not have been altogether oblivious. It was just that it was not in her head to guess just what I was up to, or with whom.

  I derived my usual amusement, then, from my varied pursuits during those months, my joy sullied only by the regret that my ideal was likely to remain unrealized, unless perhaps I were to try and organize a Libertine cell myself.

  But this I knew, without having seriously to consider it, would be too dangerous a thing to attempt, professionally, and perhaps legally as well. Remember poor Sade!

  New hope was forthcoming, once again, from an unsuspected quarter. It was the middle of March, and I found myself across the country for an academic convention, some philosophical seminar as I remember.

  After I had bade my colleagues goodbye for the evening, I headed for the seamier section of the city. I little doubted that my recent companions were seeking similar entertainment, but I suspected that they had tamer pursuits in mind. After some leisurely perusal of the merchandise, I settled upon a buy. Approaching a leather-clad strumpet with a particularly suggestive look on her face, I confirmed that her specialties were as I had surmised and negotiated a fee. Her “studio” was not far away, and we soon were busy.

  I will not bother to describe our activities, as the reader may imagine them readily enough.

  An hour or so later (I had paid her well for her time), I noticed a curious thing: one of her nipples seemed to have been either surgically removed or perhaps ... bitten off? It may seem odd that till now I had not noticed this singular fact, but her intricate costuming and our no less intricate positions had prevented me from catching this detail. Upon my asking she admitted that my second guess was correct.

  Her injury had been incurred a year before, during a job for a religious “cult” on the coast. This bit of news excited me no little. True, she had given me no solid information: a “cult” might denote any unfamiliar religious group. But how many religious groups of whatever kind would engage the services of prostitutes? Instinct told me that I might be close to the realization of my dream. Were they Satanists?

  I hoped not, for I had no interest in that band of childish neurotics. Her surprise at my interest in this aspect of the matter implied that most clients were as intellectually uncurious as she herself was. When I persisted, she sai
d she didn't think so, since the orgy took place in a church! She mumbled something about how all religious people were hypocrites, but I interrupted her with more questions that puzzled her for their seeming irrelevance. Soon I rose, cleaned myself off as best I could, and prepared to leave, again to my hostess' astonishment, since my expensively purchased time had not expired.

  III

  Fully a year and a half were to elapse before the hints supplied by the slut would come to fruition. She had taken so many sexual assignments in the months previous to our meeting that she could sort out details only with difficulty.

  And my various duties took their large share of time, so that it was quite a while before I made any progress. But connections were made, and one day I found myself wandering through a rather depressed and decayed section of the inner city, casting nervous glances this way and that, lest one of the troglodytic inhabitants take undue interest in my prowling. Common sense dictated that one proceed with an air of assurance, since street felons would not hesitate to spot and swoop down on strangers who made themselves known by their air of disorientation. I was not quite sure of my way, but at last I did manage to find my destination without incident.

  To my delight, the address with which I had been supplied was an old Episcopal church, perhaps the very one the whore had described. It was almost like a cathedral in design, if not size. The structure was in a state of some disrepair, but not nearly what one might expect under the circumstances. It was no burnt-out hulk, but seemed to have suffered only such minor vandalism as was not deemed worth troubling to repair. Mayhap it was maintained by the diocese as a rescue mission or community centre of some kind, kept open only to salve the consciences of affluent former-congregants who had long since moved to the suburbs and now hoped to associate only vicariously with the publicans and sinners.

  None of this mattered much to me, however. If my leads were correct, and if the voice with whom I had recently spoken by phone were not having a joke at my expense, the church before me was the secret sanctuary of the Libertine sect I sought. If so, it had been chosen with perfect sacrilegious intent. What desecrations might be wrought on the very altar of propriety!

  The door was unlocked, quite a risk to take in these parts, I thought, but perhaps a sign that I was expected. I stepped as quietly as I could through the narthex and into the sanctuary proper. The dimness inside made it difficult to see in what condition the interior lay. But at the same time it made it easy to find my direction, since through the gloom shone clearly if hesitantly a gleam of light. It came from under the door behind and to the side of the altar, probably the choir entrance. I reached it, knocked lightly, and thought I caught the sound of move-ments somewhere within, though no answer to my knock. I entered anyway, hoping I would not find some street thug who had gained entry as simply as I and now waited to ambush me.

  Beyond the door was a narrow passage, lit with a naked and faltering bulb, but vacant. Where was the one I came here to meet? By the dim radiance, I could barely make out an office door at the top of some stairs. As I ascended the short staircase, announcing my presence by the creaking of the boards beneath my feet, I wondered if in fact the very pastor of the church were a clandestine Libertine?

  Hesitantly I pushed open the door which already stood slightly ajar.

  He stood with his back turned, though apparently awaiting me. The tiny office was not lighted, and I had trouble tracing his form, which at first seemed to shift amorphously. My eyes were now rapidly growing accustomed to the shadows, and soon I noticed that the man, who still had not spoken, wore a billowing leathern robe of unusual design. I would have expected clerical garb, but was not unduly surprised since the wearing of leather was naturally quite common in the circles I frequented. The wholly unconventional pattern of seaming I confess I found vaguely troubling, but there was no time to dwell upon trifles.

  The man smiled and motioned me to be seated. He never gave his name, under-standably, and I had to deduce what I could from his general aspect. At a glance I could see that his face, well into middle-age, was lined and creased.

  To Episcopal parishioners it would no doubt seem he was careworn with pious duties, but I believed I could guess the quite different acts of devotion that had taken their toll. His ample jowls indicated indulgence in fine food and wines, a taste which is famously no less common to Anglican clergy than to Libertines.

  I introduced myself and allowed my eyes to stray momentarily to the shelf of books above his desk. And in that moment I knew I had attained my objective, come home as it were. For there, next to his Bible and Book of Common Prayer, were some of the very same titles I myself had come to treasure: Marquis de Sade's One-Hundred And Twenty Days Of Sodom, Comte d'Erlette's Cultes Des Goules, Gilles de Rais' Concubinage To Satan.

  IV

  Of that interview I need offer few details save that a certain list of initiatory tests was agreed upon. Some of these tasks I found a bit startling, but this, I was made to understand, was precisely their intent. Just as the Zen master assigns the novice a koan, or enigmatic riddle, in order to wean him from the accustomed structures of rational thought, my list of labours was designed to deaden me to the last twinge of con-ventional moral conscience. I must steel myself to commit the most intolerable and bestial outrage and so emerge as a true Libertine, caring naught for the laws of God and man, but to tread them underfoot.

  How can I describe my mixed jumble of emotions as I left the dark church, all but oblivious to those dubious surroundings which had so intimidated me but a short time before? Along with the anxiety and, I admit it, a degree of disgust at what lay ahead of me, I felt spiritual elation, sexual arousal, and perhaps surprisingly a dash of amusement that made me chuckle aloud. You see, I had eventually gotten around to asking the priest about his unusually cut robe, and his answer was unexpected. It had been stitched together, so he claimed, from the flayed skins of previous leaders of the cult!

  This I knew immediately to be hokum, but it was a type of imposture I could appreciate. Role-playing is an integral element of truly epicurean eroticism, and what is more needful than befitting costumes and props? So I was willing to go along with the fiction and did not press him further. It was all part of the game, and so delicious a touch that thinking of it again now brought pleased laughter to my lips.

  The next several weeks afforded little opportunity to begin fulfilling my list of assignments. Professional obligations, committee work, and increased dissertation research left me with little time to spare. But I did make good use of what rare moments offered themselves, planning just where and how to discharge my new duties.

  First on the agenda was the matter of homosexual encounter.

  In my sexual career up to this point I had never felt particularly inclined in this direction, so had never indulged, but neither was the prospect repugnant.

  Now what, the reader may ask, could have required so much planning to arrange a homosexual tryst? One might think a university setting ideal for such liaisons. And, yes, there was a sizeable and burgeoning homophile underground (and barely underground at that) at my institution. But I knew that to enter it even briefly would expose me to the ostracism of some and to the amorous attentions of others, and I did not wish the entanglements that were sure to follow. No, a casual liaison someplace where I would not be recognized was preferable.

  My first attempt was careless. I sought out a homosexual prostitute on a weekend trip into the city. He was agreeable enough, though with that air of contemptuous aloofness that actually appeals to some customers. But when he ushered me into a nearby public restroom, I began to have second thoughts. I told him so, but soon found out that I had even less say in the matter than supposed, as he cut off my words, and my breath, with a rough push to the wall, jackknifing my arm behind me in a painful grip. Had I mistakenly picked up a sadist, or was I being robbed? I never found out, since the sound of rushing footsteps somewhere down the hall seized my assailant's attention, causing him to wheel,
exit the restroom, and speed down the hall in the opposite direction. His trouble, whatever it might be, was my fortune, and I lost no time quitting the place.

  Having hailed a taxicab, I nursed my aching arm and wiped the slimy residue of the restroom tiles from my cheek as I planned an alternative course. As it turned out, I needed to search no further, for the driver himself was able to oblige me nicely, and soon I was considering how to tackle the next items on the list.

  Some of these looked to be more logistically difficult. I was finally forced to ask the help of the priest in arranging them. Initially I hesitated to do this, fearing that it might count against me, but I was reassured that it would not, since the objective was to recondition me morally, not to test my ingenuity. I discovered that for modest sums certain favours might be obtained from veterinarians and even funeral directors. In such dealings, as in politics and other such behind-the-scenes work, one quickly comes to realize how intricately the world of appearance is honeycombed with the unexpected!

  But this was not my only discovery, as I learned the pleasures of strange flesh, eschewing distinctions of species or preservation. Freud was entirely correct: he had written of “polymorphous perversity” whereby one experiences each touch, every bodily part as erotic. He had compared it to religious mysticism in that both were attempts to return to the blessed warmth and cosmic oneness of the womb. And if both paths, mysticism and perversion, alike led to the same place, was it not evident that there was in reality but one path? Through my initiatory exercise I came to know that flesh and spirit are one, that when mysticism ‘denies the flesh', it simply means to deny that the flesh is a department separated off from the soul. Man's sensuous part hampers his soul's flight only when he fails to see that it shares the same destination. Both together must reach the orgasmic release of salvation, or neither can.