"But next time you dare open that mouth of yours to me, I swear to God I'll knock that fucking ass of yours right through the nearest wall."
I was panting, as though I had just run a great distance, and I was shocked at myself. Those words had come from me. Not only had I yelled back at her, but I had knocked her onto her behind. I knew what I had done, but still couldn't quite believe it.
If the situation hadn't been so tense it would have been comical. There was beautiful Mora, sitting spread out on the floor, the easel tilting crazily over her shoulder, the canvas face-down across her knees, and tubes of paint squashed all over her. Her sensuous brown eyes registered surprise, then indignation, and then became calm. When I had finished yelling at her I could swear I saw the beginning of a smile in the corners of her mouth, and her eyes showed that humorous glint that I remembered the first day we met.
With as much dignity as possible considering the position she was in, she arose and with a sudden serenity began to walk from the room.
"You can throw me out if you want," I said quietly.
Mora turned to look at me. With a smile on her face, her eyes filled slowly with tears, which overflowed and began to roll down her cheeks. She came to me and put her head on my shoulder for a minute, kissed me good night with a great tenderness, headed to the back bedroom, and closed the door. I went into the living room and lay on the bed. I watched the millions of lights around the Bay twinkle brightly in the crisp, winter air. How many sunsets had we seen together? How many sunrises? How many times had we made love on this bed, with the whole Bay Area stretching out before us? I thought about those first nights together, with passion all new and fresh; of all that Mora had taught me about women, about life, about getting along in the world as a man instead of as a boy.
She had taught me so much more than just technique. From her I had learned that, while technique is important, it's just one aspect of a relationship, and that compassion, tenderness, and caring about your woman were even more important. After that night with April, Mora told me that she had tried to teach me to love like a lesbian with a cock, because only a woman really knew how to please another woman. She said that if a man could only learn, it would be the most important lesson in loving he would ever know. She had been my tutoress in so many things I couldn't even remember them, because they had become a part of my personality.
Thinking back, I was beginning to wallow in sentimentality, and was toying with the idea of going to the back bedroom to apologize. But my old penchant for common sense kept telling me not to go, kept telling me that if I did, I would belong to her body and soul, and that next time breaking free would not be so easy. By thinking this way, I realized that I had made a decision: it was time to go, time to get on with my life. My future was not in this apartment, or with the lovely Mora. She was just another course in life that I had taken, and passed.
That Monday, when I returned from school, I found a legal-size envelope on the hall table addressed to me. Inside was a letter, written in Mora's small, neat hand. My darling Richard,
I know you will think me a coward for not personally saying what I have to say, but believe me, I have good reasons, and breaking down and crying and changing my mind are not the least of them.
Almost six months ago we saw each other for the first time. I don't know how you felt, but I wanted you immediately; not just because you looked young and sexy, but because I saw a potential for development in you that I wanted to help you realize.
I was not wrong in my judgment.
You must know that there have been others before you, and that there will be others after you. But never mind them. I want you to know and to always remember how much joy you have given me (anything I felt besides joy wasn't your fault), and I don't just mean in bed.
I have had the joy of guiding your growth from a gangling, awkward, ex-stud hustler to a rounded young man-mature jar beyond his years, confident and ready to take on the world.
I have to confess I had some selfish reasons, too. I want you always to remember who taught you how to make love, how to judge women as persons worthy of your knowing, how to eat properly, order in a restaurant, dress like a man, drink, smoke, drive a car, how to carry about you the aura of authority that is so important in life, and so much more I don't even remember myself. It's important to me, because even though you may know a thousand women after a while, and even though their faces and identities and names may blur in your memory and become confused, you will never forget me. I will be planted firmly in your mind until you die. You may not have loved me, but Mora will always be Mora to you, apart from and above all the others, whoever they may be. You will carry memories of me in every bed in which you sleep, every woman's body you please. I know that I will never be forgotten.
But the most important thing is that I taught you (I hope) about love and morality and what it should be. I hope I caught you early enough to undo any emotional damage your parents, your church, and this sick society might have done to you.
For me, my love, it's too late. I can tell you that life should be lived peacefully and joyfully and free of guilt, but try as I might, I can't live it that way myself. So I smoke too much, drink too much, and have a violent, unreasonable temper. Even though I tell myself that everything I like to do is okay, I live in perpetual guilt; it's with me all the time, like a toothache, and there's no dentist around. Even the simple, pleasurable act of sucking your cock fills me with guilt. Some things from my past fill me with guilt. My love of my own sex fills me with guilt.
That horrible triumvirate, parents, church, and society, got to me too young, too much. And now I feel eternally as though-I am about to be struck dead by a wrathful, vengeful God, who will punish me for the pleasure I have had. I know it's illogical and unreasonable, and I can cite my own arguments better than you can, but the fact remains that my personality has been too badly damaged by my youth. I still feel the guilt. It is my best and most loving hope for you that you never do.
I have made of you a pleasure-giver, and I hope you will always be able to give and receive pleasure with a clear mind and a clean conscience, as nature intended you to do.
You may not have realized it at the time, but last night you declared your independence of me with one well-deserved blow to my face. I have to, sadly, admit the fact that there is no more I can give to you. To keep you with me now would just be a waste of your life, and each day is too precious to throw away in that manner. You don't love me, and any love you think you might feel is just gratitude misplaced. You are ready to leave, ready to go out on the long search for your own love, an arduous and lonely task that might consume years of your life, if not your entire life.
I am moving in for a week with Mary Ann. She's an older dyke type, quite heavy, but I have always found comfort and solace in her arms (and I even feel guilty about that). Anyway, I hope this will give you enough time to find a new place and to move your things out. If you want, I'll keep talking to your mother on the phone, so she'll think you're still living here. Leave any phone messages on the hall table, and the mail, too. Please don't worry about me. Somewhere out there is another Richard, another young boy with the look of potential about him for Mora to retrain and send out into the world as a man, as I have done with you.
But so far
you were the best of them all
the very best
love,
Mora
I slowly put down the letter on the table; then, changing my mind, picked it up, folded it neatly, and tucked it under the cover of my school Peechee note folder, to be put in a safe place later. I wanted to save it.