The God of the Labyrinth

  I observed that some other couples had fetched bowls of water and were washing one another’s hair; they did this near the open french windows, where there was no carpet. The couples frequently split up and changed partners; after ten minutes of caressing the thin girl, I got a more heavily-built middle-aged woman. At first I felt that the change was no benefit; but after five minutes of caressing, I noticed that we had achieved the effect of intimacy, of knowing and liking one another. After this, I got Tessa, who smiled and whispered in a mock-seductive voice: ‘I’m afraid this is bound to be an anticlimax.’ To some extent she was right. My trousers concealed no secrets from her; neither did her dress from me. But the feeling of her softness through the dress was exciting. She made something of a joke of it, slipping her hand under my sweater and pinching my nipples hard. When I massaged her, and pushed her dress between her thighs, she said: ‘I hope no one examines me now. I’m soaked.’ ‘Is that forbidden?’ ‘Of course. But I can’t help it. If people feel me down there, I just have an orgasm. I’ve had two already.’ After a few more minutes, she said: ‘I’m bloody hungry. I’ve got a lot of chocolate in my room, if you want some.’ ‘Is that allowed?’ ‘Not really. But all this intimacy makes me ravenous.’

  At half past seven, the gong sounded, and Tessa said: ‘Thank God for that.’ We all streamed into the dining room. I needed food. All the excitement made me feel as if I’d walked twenty miles. The supper was slightly less sparse than the earlier meals: huge plates of cold beef and ham, tureens of tomato soup, hot vegetables (no potatoes), and wheat biscuits. To my surprise, I observed that there was also a bar, and Gwyneth—who took charge of me—told me I could have beer or wine. She explained that there was no heavy drinking, but that a little alcohol helped most people to relax and enjoy their meal. I observed with interest that the ‘intimacy’ went on in the dining hall. Men and women, jostling together, took the opportunity to caress one another, and even to kiss. There had been a certain amount of kissing in the previous session—of the arms and neck, mostly; now, I saw, they often greeted one another with kisses on the mouth. Although some of these kisses were lingering, none could be described as passionate, in the sense of indicating a desire to get into bed.

  I ate well, and a glass of beer greatly refreshed me. After the meal, I made my way across the hall to the toilet, but it proved to be occupied. I made my way upstairs to a place where I recalled seeing a sign—a rather demure sign showing a man’s top hat and a lady’s handbag, with an arrow underneath point­ing down the corridor. I followed its direction, and found myself in what was obviously a newly built toilet, with a number of booths as in public lavatories. But there was no indication on the door as to whether this was a ladies or gents. As I stood there, footsteps sounded along the corridor; to my relief, I saw it was Tessa.

  ‘I’m glad to see you. Which is the gents?’

  ‘Oh, either. We don’t have two. Intimacy, see? Are you coming?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ I had to admit to feeling shy, but could see that this was illogical. I went into the end cubicle—and realised, with a shock, that the wall that divided it from the next was made of glass. Tessa went into the next one and grinned at me. Then, without self-consciousness, she hitched up her dress, pushed her panties down to her knees, and sat down. I said:

  ‘Good God, this is a bit much, isn’t it?’

  ‘I thought so when I came. But you soon get used to it.’

  ‘But I don’t like farting where I can be heard.’

  ‘Why worry? Dr Körner says it’s a natural voice of the body, like your speaking voice.’

  I felt silly standing there, and so lowered my trousers and sat down. I had never felt less like relieving myself. Then more voices sounded outside, and two more women came in. They moved to the cubicles at the other end, bared their behinds, and sat down—the glass was exceptionally clear. They did not even glance at us, but went on talking about what Körner had said that afternoon. Their voices relaxed me, and the spring inside me unwound. Watching Tessa clean herself with paper made me reflect that we are all more inhibited creatures than we recognise, and that once again Körner was probably right. But I made a note to use the ground-floor toilet in future; that had ordinary walls. I went downstairs with Tessa.

  When I went back into the main hall, I found that most of the students were sitting on the floor on cushions. As I came in, Körner, who was standing near the fire, beckoned to me. I went over to him. He banged a bottle on a table for silence, then said:

  ‘And now I want to introduce you all to the noted novelist and philosopher, Gerard Sorme, who has been described as the most interesting British writer since Aldous Huxley and D. H. Lawrence. [I think he invented this on the spur of the moment.] Mr Sorme’s views on sex differ from ours in many respects, and I am now going to ask him to say a few words about them. I should tell you that I have not warned him about this, so it will be completely impromptu.’

  I had no time to be surprised or nervous. I stood up and sketched my theory of the sexual impulse, its intentional nature, and the way that it illustrates my phenomenological theory of all human interaction with the world. When I felt that I was losing them in Husserl, I talked of my feeling of the sexual impulse as a ‘key to the keepers of the keys of being’, and the relation between sex and the mystical experience. I ended by trying to explain my most fundamental point: that sex gives us a glimpse of a concentration of the mind that would make us god-like if we could command it in other spheres. I mentioned my idea that human beings are like grandfather clocks driven by watch-springs; that the body is too heavy for the tiny spring of will-power. Only in sex do we seem to develop a spring powerful enough for a grandfather clock. I ended by saying that my own central interest was in the question of how to learn to tap the immense springs of the will.

  The discussion that followed was interesting, but not entirely to the point. Several people raised the objection that to allow such importance to the will was dangerous. They were arguing a view similar to Lawrence’s—and Körner’s. I could see that this was where I differed from them all; I did not distrust the will or the intellect.

  It had been a long day, and I was feeling tired. It was now nearly ten o’clock—time had passed very quickly—and I was beginning to feel like sleeping. It had all been very interesting and promising, and I felt Körner was on to something important; but it would take a great deal of thinking to clarify my attitude towards it all. I hoped that the evening would now break up into something more purely social, and that I could slip off to bed. And it was all a long way from Esmond and Horace Glenney.

  Körner thanked me, and said he hoped that they would be seeing a great deal more of me; then he introduced them to Angela and Alastair, who had to stand up, looking embarrassed. Everyone clapped politely, and began to stand up and move out of the room. I asked Körner: ‘What now?’

  ‘Ah, now the most interesting part begins. We have another intimacy session.’

  I was not entirely pleased. The previous one had been pleasant but tiring; I didn’t feel like stretching my faculties again. He beckoned to me, and I followed him out of the room, wondering if he would resent it if I suggested skipping this final session. I started to speak, then changed my mind. Instead, I asked:

  ‘I’d like to ask you about Esmond Donelly some time.’

  He looked at me and smiled.

  ‘I think I may be able to tell you some interesting things. But we can discuss that later. Now we have other things to do.’ I followed him, rather wearily, up the stairs. We turned right, and I thought we were going to the girls’ dormitory. But he unlocked a door next to it, and went in. I followed him. It was a small room that had probably been a store-room, but was now empty except for a few high stools. One wall contained a large window. To my surprise, Gwyneth was standing in front of it, rearranging her hair and staring in at us.

  ‘This is a two-way mirror, of course.’


  It was the first one I had ever seen. ‘Are you sure she can’t see us?’

  ‘Not unless I do this.’ He reached up and pressed a switch. Immediately, the window became a mirror in which I could see my face. ‘Now she can see us. I have reversed the polarity.’ He flicked the switch again, and Gwyneth smiled at us and waved through the window. I waved back, forgetting she could no longer see us.

  ‘What is it for?’

  ‘For observation. You will see that the women are now chang­ing.’ This was true. In the crowded dormitory, women were stripping off dresses, underskirts and suspender belts. Gwyneth, without self-consciousness, reached back behind her neck and undid a button, then pulled down her zip. She carefully peeled off the dress, and folded it on the bed. She was wearing a black underslip with a lacy hem that looked very fetching. She seemed to have forgotten us. She slipped off the shoulder straps, and let it fall round her feet. She was apparently not entirely in favour of black underwear; she was wearing a white bra, a black sus­pender belt that held up black stockings, and small white panties of lacy crêpe nylon. Evidently she was exempt from the rule that women should wear panties that could not be stretched too far. Most of the other women I could see had adhered to it. None were wearing bikini briefs. Most of them wore the pink or blue satin things that completely encase the stomach, with elastic at the waist, although in my own experience the elastic in the leg of these has a great deal of yield, and, pulled down an inch or two, they present no problem.

  A few other men joined us as we stood there. I saw that the women were all putting on grey woollen mini-skirts of the kind I had noticed earlier in the day in the cases we had inspected.

  Körner said: ‘Come, it is time to change.’

  I had noticed that most of the men were now wearing a similar uniform of grey flannels and white T-shirt. We went towards the men’s dormitory on the next floor. The question I was about to ask was answered when a door next to it opened, and I saw several women standing in there, evidently watching the men undressing through a similar two-way mirror. Körner called in sharply: ‘Come along, ladies. No more voyeurism. Time to change.’ They all hurried out; I noticed Tessa was amongst them. And as we went into the dormitory, I turned and saw that she slipped back into the observation room.

  In the dormitory, most of the men seemed to be nearly naked, and the one standing near the mirror actually was. I asked Körner:

  ‘What is the exact point of the mirrors?’

  ‘Most people have a touch of the exhibitionist in them, even the most stable. And most people have a touch of the Peeping Tom. Here they can gratify it without feeling guilty. There is almost no sexual urge that has to be concealed in this place. We try to bring it all into the open, to make it straightforward and above-board. Now, I think those trousers you are wearing will be suitable. You only need a shirt.’ He called to Paul, who was fully dressed, to find me a shirt. A few minutes later, Paul came back with a thin cotton T-shirt. I observed that this was exceptionally long, and tucked it into my trousers. I noticed that most of the men were putting on underpants—of the brief variety advertised in health-and-strength magazines—and white tennis shoes. Many of them were taking showers in the next room. Körner clapped his hands and called: ‘Come, gentlemen, time to get dressed. There are no ladies next door now.’ I remembered with a start that Tessa was still in there, and that I was undressing within a few feet of the mirror. I hoped she enjoyed it. Or perhaps she was watching the other men.

  In the main room, a huge screen had been placed in front of the fire, which was low. I saw Angela, looking very sweet in her grey mini-skirt. I noticed that, like many other women, she was wearing stockings. This part, apparently, was optional. She came over to me and took my hand. I said: ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Fine. It’s a bit shattering losing so many inhibitions all in one weekend, but it’s a marvellous experience. I can’t tell you how grateful I am for meeting Körner.’

  ‘I wonder what happens now?’

  ‘Don’t you know? More intimacy. The girl on the next bed has been describing it. This is the big moment. I hope I get you. I can’t bear some of those other men. I hate hairy males.’

  ‘But what . . . ?’ Before I could go on, Chris called: ‘Are we all here?’ Various voices answered: ‘Yes.’ ‘All right. Form the circle. Paul, will you take the light?’ I wondered where Paul was intended to take it to; as we moved into a circle, hands on shoulders, the lights went slowly down. Men scurried to arrange themselves next to women, but since there were slightly more women than men, a few women were bound to pair. Then there was total darkness. I asked Angela: ‘What do we do now?’, but a strange voice answered: ‘We all walk into the centre, mingle together, then take the first person of the opposite sex.’ We began to move forward. There were a few moments of confusion. I wondered how to distinguish women from men, and ended by touching breasts. (I discovered later that this was normal pro­cedure.) I found a girl and took her hand tightly. Paul’s voice called: ‘All ready?’ There were shouts of ‘Yes’, ‘No’. Slowly, the lights went up. I discovered I was holding the hand of a small, blonde girl I had noticed earlier. She was not pretty, and her blue eyes seemed short-sighted; but she had a charming, pert face. I asked her: ‘What now?’

  ‘We can either join with other couples, or stay on our own. Which would you prefer?’

  ‘Let’s stay on our own for the moment.’

  ‘All right.’

  I looked at my next-door neighbour—the thin girl I had been with earlier in the day—and was startled to see that she was just in the process of stepping out of her panties. The man she was facing—a rather good-looking, nervous man in his mid-thirties—was doing the same, blushing. She handed him her panties and took his underpants; she donned his underpants while he climbed into her panties.

  ‘What’s all this for?’

  ‘The beginning of the intimacy—we can change clothes ad lib. This is the bit designed for the fetichists, I think. Do panties do things to you?’

  ‘They have a definite sexual connotation.’

  ‘In that case, we’d better change.’ Without embarrassment, she slipped off a pair of pink knickers, and handed them to me. I took more time to get my trousers off and step out of my underpants. She said: How about your shirt?’ ‘Do we change those too?’ ‘If you’d like to.’ The crotch of her panties was damp, and its contact with my scrotum produced a twinge of sexual excitement that dissipated the last vestige of tiredness. Obviously, such a contact is basically a contact between the male and female genitals at one remove. I began to understand what Körner meant by ‘suspended orgasm’. What he had done was to fill a room with men and women, and in actual or potential sexual contact with one another, where the sexual stimulus was maximal, but group discipline held everything in check. Körner stood by the fire, watching us with a benevolent eye, and I found myself wondering what he was experiencing.

  I gave my partner—whose name was Norma—my T-shirt, and accepted her mini-skirt, which was approximately the same length. I noticed, as she removed her dress, that her bra was the low cut type that almost allows the breasts to escape.

  I pulled my trousers back up, and fastened the catch. I said: ‘I don’t know why we bother to put them back on. These mini­skirts are long enough for modesty.’

  ‘I know. But Dr Körner thinks that the act of actually taking off his trousers destroys inhibitions in the male. In the girl, it’s taking off her knickers.’

  I saw her point. Some of the others seemed to want to go on changing clothes. The good-looking young man next to us had no sooner finished dressing than another girl approached him. This time, I saw, he did not exchange clothes with the girl, but with her male partner, who was already, presumably, wearing her panties and singlet.

  Norma said: ‘This part bores me. Let’s move away from them.’ We moved to the edge of the group. ‘Shall I do yo
u first, or will you do me?’ I said: ‘You’d better do me. I’m not sure how to go about it.’ ‘Would you rather stand up or lie down?’ ‘I don’t mind.’ I saw that some of the couples were taking folded tables, that seemed to have retractable metal legs, from a pile in the corner, and setting them up in empty spaces. They were made of aluminium, and seemed to be about six feet long. The man or woman would lie down, as if about to receive massage treatment, and the ‘intimacy’ would begin as before. Norma proved more expert than any of my previous partners; or perhaps I was more excited. She stood in front of me, and ran her hands over my chest, stomach, thighs, then down to my feet. When she stood up, she unzipped me, and for a moment I wondered if we were going too far. But she only reached inside and plunged her hands down my legs, pinching gently and stroking as far as my knees. She made me sit down, and stood behind me, running her hands through my hair, inside my shirt—or, rather, dress—over my cheeks, inside my lips. I reached to my zip, to close it, but she pushed my hand away. ‘More inhibi­tions.’ ‘Sorry.’ She leaned forward, reached inside, and stroked my thighs, letting her hand wander freely. I had given up all attempts to suppress my normal reactions; now she slipped her hand inside the waistband, and let her fingertips run lightly up and down my stomach, then farther down. I controlled my voice to ask: ‘Is that allowed?’ ‘Oh, yes. It’s completely up to us now. Shall I stop?’ ‘I think you’d better.’ There was a burst of laughter from next to us. Two women and the man were laughing at the shy man, who was blushing. Others began to laugh as he blushed; but Körner, standing by the fireplace, looked stern and shook his head slowly. The man turned and hurried out of the room. Norma said: ‘Poor Mr McCann. He can never restrain himself. I’m afraid the women take it in turns to make him lose control.’