The Process of Learning - 3. Lesson #3

“Tell me your biggest fear,” I instruct. I’ve stopped us in the park near a line of honeylocust trees. Turned you to face me so that we’re standing less than a foot apart. As I let go of your elbow, I notice a blink of disappointment in your eyes at having been released. Apparently, you prefer I keep a hand on you, which I make mental note of. Don’t worry, I have every intention of handling you more, my boy. Eventually.

“I know about your aversion to crowds and loud places,” I continue. “That was obvious back at the bar. What I want to know about now is what scares you… That one fear that grips you, holds you hostage when you least expect it, makes you want to disappear through the fucking walls.”

My words resonate with intended impact; you tilt your gaze to the shadowy grass, find refuge in your pants pockets, shift your weight from one foot to the other. My request has robbed you of focus, but I allow it for now, because I know that your response will be saddled with a burden of remembering. You need a moment to collect your thoughts. I give that to you.

In the night air there’s a noticeable chill. We’re alone in the darkness and moonlight, surrounded only by crickets, trees, and the occasional car passing down a nearby street – a familiar hum of semi-silence which occurs this time of night while the city recuperates from its indiscretions. We’ve left the bar several blocks behind us, along with our cold brews and whiskey shots and discussions of routine topics that are mandatory first-date rituals. How long have you lived here? How long have you worked there? How many fourteeners have you climbed? Why do you love art so much?

Getting to know each other is important, but our time together shouldn’t be wasted just on trivial pursuits; there will be plenty of opportunity for lighthearted conversations and banter later. Right now, it’s time for some deeper probing, some delving into the core of things, because I want to know what troubles your mind, boy. Anxieties ripple around you like an unsettled aura. You do a good job of hiding this from the majority of the world, but to me, it’s transparent.

You shiver (from the cold…? from my question…?) After yanking the zipper of your sweatshirt up to close it, you flip the hood over your head in an unconscious gesture of hiding. “I’m really claustrophobic,” you eventually reply from within the protective walls of the nylon fabric. “I freak out in tight, dark spaces.” The irony of the pulled-up hood in conjunction with your statement is not lost on me, yet it seems to go right past you – your mind’s shifted to another place, another time. “The laundry room closet was the usual place…” you add solemnly, eyes still averted. “But sometimes the garden shed, too… Depended on who it was…”

More than one? Motherfuckers.

With the knuckle of my forefinger, I raise your chin. Force you to look at me. Within your restless pupils I see a host of demons that still defile you, memories that still punch you. There’s serious work to be done within you, my boy. Barriers to be dismantled, brick by brick. And for that, I almost let it slide that you failed to address me properly in your response.

Almost.

Swiftly, I spin you around and push you up against the nearest tree. Clamp an arm behind your back and compress you to the trunk. The bark chafes your left cheek as I lean into you. “Sir –“ you begin to protest, confused at my actions.

And there it is.

Still holding you tight, I nip the top of your ear with my lips and whisper, “That’s better, my boy,” before gently releasing you. You turn around, wary, uncertain, rubbing the spot on your cheek. I push the hood off your head. Cup your face in my hands. Bring you in closer. “Remember it,” I say.

“Yes, Sir,” you respond. “I’m sorry I didn’t...”

Our faces, mere inches apart, produce warmth in their proximity. “Trust is very important between us,” I continue, “Otherwise, this won’t work. I see great potential in you... I haven’t felt this strongly about someone in a long time.”

Although your movement is impeded by the grip I still have on your jaw, you manage a nod. “Me, too, Sir.”

“I want to ease your mind, boy. Give you some peace. Make you feel good. But we have a ways to go to get there.” I move my hands from your face. Slide an open palm onto the base of your skull and give your neck a squeeze, which seems to immediately calm you – another mental note to add to my list of effective techniques for keeping you grounded. “I meant what I said earlier in the truck about taking care of you,” I say. “There are methods I can use to help you with your claustrophobia, ways to release your anxieties and give you pleasure. Unconventional methods, and not everyone’s cup of tea, but if my instincts are right about you, and I’m pretty sure they are, you’ll benefit from them. If you want this.”

“I do, Sir,” you whisper.

“Do you?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I push you down until your knees hit the grass. This time, my abrupt movement doesn’t startle you. You succumb to having your face smashed into my groin, no breathing room except to inhale me through my jeans. Remember my scent, boy. I hold you firm there, count to 35 before letting you fall back on your haunches. Once released, you suck in air and look up at me with an expression so intense, there’s moisture in the corners of your eyes that catch the moonlight – most likely from the lack of oxygen, but maybe also from the emotion of closeness.

A powerful silence follows which temporarily paralyzes you. Then, you hoist yourself back up to your knees and reach for my belt with swift fingers. I know what you’re thinking: you wish to please me. It’s a nice gesture, a natural response, but it’s not happening. My belt is already out of its loop before I catch you by the wrists to stop you from continuing.

“Please, Sir,” you beg, looking up at me with desperation in your voice and in your eyes. It grates me. You’ve misinterpreted the purpose of the fucking lesson.

By your wrists, I pull you back up and plant you on your feet, feeling the pulse of blood vessels beneath my fingers. “Don’t beg,” I scold. “Don’t ever beg. I won’t tolerate it. You’ll get what you want only when I decide and allow it, and not a moment before. All of this is in my timing, not yours. Understand?”

At my rebuke, you avert your eyes – focus gone, anxiety and disappointment emanating from you like friction. My words weren’t meant to ridicule but rather to teach. The learning process does not end here just because of a momentary setback. I place a hand on the back of your neck to re-center you and pull your attention back to me. “You want to please me, boy?” I ask, peering into your frustrated gaze. “Remember these points: Rule #1 – show respect; Rule #2 – listen and obey; Rule #3 – practice patience. Learn to focus on all three of these rules, consistently, and everything else will start falling into place. However, forget them, any of them, and we’ll be back at square one... and I will not be pleased.”

“Yes, Sir," you respond. "I won't forget, Sir. I promise.”

Although I know you've stated a promise impossible to keep, I reward you with a smile and a genuine "Good, boy."

Because in this Life, encouragement is just as important as discipline.