His promiscuity fascinated Dorothy. He was described physically as a short, stocky man with a mane of thick black hair, yet there were records of his beautiful voice, and one eloquent mention of a wit that could charm even the crows from corpses.
There was also reference to Llewelyn’s soul mate: a witch mistress of remarkable beauty, but rarely seen as she lived as a hermit. One witness, a woman who ran an alehouse near Bangor, described how she had seen Llewelyn flying naked with his sorceress on Allhallows’ Eve, twisting and turning in the light of a full moon, his hair standing straight up like the mane of a lion.
Dorothy was enthralled. She searched in vain for more information. All she could find were two facts: that Llewelyn’s mistress had been considered a heretic by her peers, and that she was definitely Welsh.
Over the next couple of months Stanley planned his strategy. He would convince Dorothy of his sincerity, then seduce her and maintain the relationship for as long as her research skills were needed. It was callous but practical; he couldn’t envisage taking her back to London. There was no way she was presentable to any of his friends and he certainly could not take her to his literary club. He had his reputation to think of. Dorothy had her skills; wife of an upwardly mobile historian just wasn’t one of them.
He took her to a demonstration of roof-thatching in a village outside Shrewsbury. They stood with a group of enthusiastic Japanese and German tourists waiting for a muscle-bound Yorkshireman to haul a bale of hay up a ladder. In the dappled sunlight, Stanley started a loud discourse on the history of thatching, describing the feudal implications. The tourists, hungry for any kind of information, listened intently and the Japanese filmed every one of Stanley’s dramatic flourishes. As he finished they burst into spontaneous applause, and Dorothy felt a rush of pheromones shoot through the lower half of her body. She had never realized that roof-thatching could be so sexually stimulating. It seemed Stanley’s strategy was working.
That afternoon they kissed. The proximity of Dorothy’s voluptuous body was almost too much for Stanley to bear. She felt the length of him stiffen through her clothes and the faint outline of him pressing against her reminded her of the six and a half inches she’d left waiting at the gate that morning. Stanley’s organ felt considerably bigger. Dorothy blushed; six months ago such a thought would never have occurred to her. But her nocturnal liaisons had imbued her with a sexual bravado that had surprised even herself.
Next Tuesday night, she thought, that’s when I’ll have him over. I’ll cook something extraordinary and afterward he will be so swept away by my lovemaking that he’ll make a commitment to me there and then. She smiled, her eyes on Stanley’s mouth, which, she noted, held great promise. To hell with emotional caution. A lineage of wild women tugged at every molecule of her muscle tissue—Dorothy Owen was going to take a chance.
Dorothy got home later than usual that evening. As she was driving down the muddy lane that led to the cottage, an object flew at her car window, giving her a terrible fright. She swerved violently and screeched to a stop, inches away from a massive oak tree. For a second she sat stunned at the wheel, her eyes closed, waiting for her heart to crunch to a halt. It must have been a bird, she thought, or maybe even a bat. When she opened her eyes she was shocked to see the penis clinging to her windshield wipers, shriveled and trembling in a kind of desperate last stand.
Dorothy pulled on her gloves and climbed out of the car. The delicate skin of the penis was beginning to adhere to the frozen glass. She leaned over and breathed warm air on it to lessen the pain as she peeled it gently off the icy glass. The frozen organ rippled with pleasure; this was confirmation that its mistress cared. After another little puff of hot breath, Dorothy slipped it into her pocket to warm it as she walked to the house.
What was she going to do? She couldn’t have a free-ranging six-and-a-half-inch penis flying around the cottage while she was entertaining the potential love of her life. How would she explain it away? Although she wasn’t very experienced with men, she knew enough to realize that it was fatal to advertise the existence of ex-lovers. Or in this case, would it be ex-appendages? Perplexed by her dilemma she switched on the gas fire and, after wrapping the penis in a kitchen towel, left it to thaw out.
She would just have to hide it on Tuesday night. Perhaps in a large biscuit tin in the pantry. Or maybe in the fridge. Its metabolism seemed to slow down when it was cold, a bit like a lizard. It couldn’t be that cruel to sedate a penis, could it? The last thing she wanted was Stanley to be confronted by this aberration, which, for all she knew, could even be a manifestation of her own im
agination.
Over the next few days the organ grew increasingly possessive. It was more demanding at night and took to patrolling the front door during the day, as if expecting an attack from an intruder. Dorothy was convinced that it sensed a potential rival.
By the time Tuesday arrived she was in a state of extreme anxiety. She took the day off work and spent the morning plowing through recipes. In the afternoon she shopped for ingredients. She had abandoned her original plan to make roast lamb, deciding to be far more ambitious after discovering a recipe book of sixteenth-century dishes. This was one of Stanley’s favorite eras, so Dorothy had gone for suckling pig with cloves and crab apples, with a quince and walnut tart to follow.
As she stuffed the piglet, the penis watched her from the mantelpiece, bent at an angle that somehow suggested vengefulness. Dorothy couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. Don’t be ridiculous, she told herself, it’s a dispossessed organ. It hasn’t got a brain or a heart. A penis is not a man, just as a man is not a penis. She became so confused by what sounded like some perverse Cartesian debate that she put cherries into the stuffing instead of prunes and then forgot to glaze the piglet with honey before putting it into the oven.
Maybe it can read my mind, or at least sense my mood, she thought. As if to prove her right, the wayward member hopped toward the cake mix, and was just about to plunge into it when Dorothy caught it midflight. “Naughty! Naughty!” She shook it angrily. “That’s not for you, that’s for Stanley.” The penis quivered and Dorothy thought she detected a low growl of discontent, but conceded it might have been the wind in the rafters.
That night Dorothy prepared carefully, putting on the evening dress she hadn’t worn since her fateful last date with her ex-lover. It was a tight-fitting blue velvet with a plunging neckline. Peter was a breast man and had insisted on dictating what Dorothy should wear; something she’d secretly resented. There is a satisfying symmetry in plotting to seduce another man while wearing an ex’s favorite dress, and Dorothy, in front of the mirror, fastening her mother’s pearls around her neck, felt in control of her emotional destiny for the first time. And that, frankly, was as exciting as waiting for Stanley.
He was due in half an hour and she still hadn’t worked out what to do with the penis. It had been behaving very oddly, whizzing around the house like a frenetic windup toy. It had already made a hole in the lace curtains and dive-bombed one of her favorite vases. Dorothy had been forced to tie it to her bedpost, where it now sat, twisted up in ribbon like a macabre birthday gift. There was no doubt in her mind. She would have to lock it up for the night and pray that Stanley wouldn’t discover it.
She sprayed herself with her favorite perfume (Chance by Chanel), slipped on her four-inch heels, and untied the struggling penis. She marched downstairs and found a biscuit tin. She carefully placed the organ inside and, after pacifying it with a few strokes, slammed the lid on and secured it firmly with some old string. She placed the tin in the pantry, shut the door, and waited for a moment. All was silent.
It must have gone to sleep, she concluded and, with a sigh of relief, fortified herself with a small glass of Benedictine. Stanley was due in ten minutes and she was horribly nervous.
Stanley was late. He paused on the threshold, relishing the moment. At last conquest was in his sights. He smiled and flicked a leaf off the shoulder of his cashmere sweater. He had always known she would succumb in the end. They all did, sooner or later. He adjusted his crotch, sniffed his armpit to check whether he had been too lavish with the cologne, patted the condoms in his back pocket, then tapped softly on the wooden door. Dorothy opened it even before Stanley had finished knocking. Just as he imagined: she was waiting, hot and aching for him.
With a flourish that he liked to think of as regal, he presented her with a large bunch of lilies. Dorothy accepted them graciously, quelling her disappointment. She secretly considered lilies a little funereal. Stanley, oblivious to the nuances of the moment, pulled her toward him and thrust his tongue, which tasted faintly of licorice, into her mouth. “Let’s eat first,” she murmured and disentangled herself.
Dorothy was just beginning to relax as they sat down at the kitchen table she’d decorated with her mother’s best linen. Stanley lit the candles. The appetizer—a crab and soba noodle salad—was received with great acclaim and Stanley, genuinely surprised by the sophistication of Dorothy’s cooking, found himself reconsidering the possibility of marriage. In the light of the candles, her pearls glowing against her ivory skin, Dorothy looked more than presentable. His friends might even find her accent romantically rustic. The historian and his Welsh muse—it had a nice ring to it, very Ted Hughes. Stanley was toying with this delightful thought when a sudden loud knocking came from inside the pantry.
Dorothy looked up fearfully. “It’s the plumbing,” she announced loudly, trying to drown out the sound. “It dates back about a century, wretched thing.” She continued to eat as if nothing had happened.
Stanley was just wondering why she found pipes so frightening when the knocking started up again. “Just ignore it, it’ll stop in a minute.” Dorothy glanced desperately at the pantry.
“Funny place for pipes,” Stanley volunteered, then gagged on a piece of crab as the possibility crossed his mind that it could be vermin. “It’s not rats, is it?” he ventured, his face now a couple of shades paler.
“Look, if it makes you feel better I’ll go and bang on them. That usually helps.”
Dorothy got up and walked over to the pantry, let herself inside, and carefully shut the door behind her. The biscuit tin leaped an inch off the shelf as the penis struggled to get out. She eased off the lid.
“Okay, this is it! If you don’t start behaving yourself I’ll lock you away for good,” she whispered to the bulbous tip that was poking out. The penis pulled back and curled sulkily against the waxed paper that lined the tin. Dorothy put it inside a picnic basket, then placed two bags of flour on top of the lid for good measure. Breathing deeply to regain her composure, she returned to the kitchen.
The smell of burning pork skin was detectable. She ran to the oven and pulled out the baking dish. The roast piglet looked magnificent.