I had been fortunate. My childhood had, partly through the turmoil of the times, partly through parental ‘neglect’, not significantly inhibited my natural sexual development. It was followed by a not particularly adventurous but by fortunate circumstances blessed youth. During it, sexual encounters with sensually intelligent, mature women taught me much about them and, most importantly, myself. It completed my liberation from prissy inhibition without rendering me a libertine. I married a woman I loved, and that loved me. We were sexually compatible and fulfilled until our marriage became too strained to last for other reasons. So, I had my first extramarital sexual relationship as late as in the tenth year of my marriage. And I was fortunate again.
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Although my full-time job at University was in a different field, I had taken on teaching German for the Council of Adult Education at one of Melbourne’s other Colleges. It involved one evening class of three hours per week. The pay was poor, but I enjoyed being once more involved in language teaching, especially with self-motivated adults in an open-ended, flexible program. I had done it now for three years.
This year’s group was bright and enthusiastic, consisting of young to middle-aged women. Four of them were English speakers with German husbands. All of them were easily motivated to meet the challenge of learning as quickly and as much as possible in one year.
I told them, therefore, that many of them could reach a Pass in what was the University-entrance standard for German. It was an ambitious goal, but if they decided to aim for it, I would do my best to take them there. After a lot of questions and a lively debate, the group decided to go for it.
Our group quickly clicked into a companionship beyond the limits of our weekly meetings. Some women formed close friendships. These were strengthened by exchanging invitations to dinner parties and shared activities that included their partners and children. Without going into detail, I believe that the coursework contributed much to this bonding by providing not only a shared aim but a genuinely shared interest.
It was fortunate that the German Matriculation examination was not content-specific in either its written or oral component. There were no prescribed prose texts or poetry. Therefore, for my mature group, I could choose more challenging texts to study than the schools selected. For prose texts, we read short stories from post-war German writers. For poetry, I avoided the lulling comfort of the Romantics and introduced them to poets like Rilke and Brecht.
Helen was one of the liveliest and most enthusiastic participants in the group. She was in her early forties, intelligent, attractive, English-born, married to a German. She had given for some in our group one of the early dinner parties. Erika, my wife, and I were invited. Since then, we had met socially a few times more.
Whilst Helen was friendly, nothing in her behaviour with me suggested more. She was not a flirt.
One evening after class, the group had already left, and I had to clear away a few things in the Language Laboratory; I met Helen in the corridor. She had forgotten her scarf and had to come back, she said. So, we left together, talking, walking out to the car park. She followed me to my car. I thought that hers happened to be parked near mine. As I searched for my keys, she grabbed my arm and said, “Ben, I have to talk to you.”
Helen looked flustered but determined. Suddenly I knew that we had not met by chance; she had waited for me. My heart was beating fast. I unlocked the passenger side door, opened it to put in my bag, and looked at her. Without a word, Helen slid past me into the seat. When I, slightly bewildered, got into the car and turned to her, she immediately shifted close. With a strangled voice, fronting me, she said: -
“I’m in trouble, and it’s your fault, Ben. I need to talk to you about something that worries me.”
I said nothing. I could not think of anything to say. Somehow, Helen’s head came to rest on my shoulder. Her breath played on my neck, giving me goose-bumps as she continued, almost whispering: -
“You shouldn’t give us women a poem like Rilke’s ‘Panther’. You should not have talked about it the way you did while you looked at me. How did you know how I felt?”
As she edged even closer, I put my arm around her and felt her shiver. When she turned and moved into what was becoming more than a hug, I suddenly realised what she meant and intended. I had, of course, not looked at her specifically when I talked to the group about Rilke’s caged Panther.
On the surface, the poem is a realistic description of a zoo animal. It is, however, foremost a brilliant metaphor. Through the sensuousness of the poem’s rhythm and choice of words, the Panther circling around itself behind bars becomes in all its vitality and beauty a picture of caged desires. I had not been too specific on the libido and its frustration with a teacher’s fatherly eye on my, possibly, partly innocent students.
With Helen, what I said had powerfully registered. It gave her an almost plausible justification for cornering me, demanding solution or amends: She, the Panther, her libido, had escaped from her cage!