PFK1 (15 page)

jokes for the zillionth time. I find myself modifying them just to

freshen them up.

Yes, the proof is right there in the pudding.

Lots of work to do around the cabin now that the beast is put aside.

Many resolutions to make.

Number One: Must quit smoking and drinking so much.

Also gotta get more sleep.

Walk on the beach. Take the plunge. If I’m going to sell this book,

I’ll need to look and feel my best.

* * * *

May 22, 1978

Winding down. Still pecking away on the pages, getting them

ready. The typist did a good job on the sample chapter. I was very

pleased and only had a few corrections for her. I believe she can be

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relied on for the final work. I intend to dally a bit at this stage. I want

it to be exactly right.

How about this thing? Two and one half years in the making, off

and on, anyway. I will unveil the most significant product of my

private literature. In the end, it’s the work that counts.

A zany comedy is how I see life. Slapstick. My novel
The Dark

City
answers the critical question – Am I who?

Been on the wagon for the last week. I’m sick of drinking. It

hardly affects me anymore. The same with dope. Why bother when

you can hardly feel it? Chocolate is almost better.

Sex is the best of all.

Anyway, it is written. The fabulous new draft. I daresay there is

no feeling quite so satisfying as that of completing a book.

Let me add it to the cloying swamp of modern lit. People are so

fucking serious it’s ridiculous. What a bunch of dreck they write. I

can’t stand all that bullshit crap.

* * * *

May 24, 1978

On the very subject mentioned one sentence above, there is a stupid

slattern of a welfare client making life miserable for everyone at the

office, me included. She is trying to bully us into giving her some

extra money. Delia Cordell is her name. A fat idiotic pig and the

mother of two boys currently in foster care. To keep her welfare

checks rolling in, Delia recently gave birth to a third child.

Never mind that the father or fathers of her children are all

unknown. Whoever the father of this latest child is, he should be

castrated.

If it were up to me, the state would simply relieve Delia of her

children and she should be sterilized. That would be in the best

interests of all concerned.

She only has children so she can get free money from the state and

thereby avoid getting a job. You could say she is an extreme example

of my mother, one generation removed.

The state, as represented by a variety of child protection workers, is

determined to give Delia every possible chance. But this horrid

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creature is beyond redemption. Alone in her trailer and after a few

beers, she kicked the living snot out of her six and seven year old

boys.

More hideous still, there is also evidence of ugly sexual abuse

involving the insertion of weird objects into Billy and Bobby

Cordell’s rectums. Delia’s CPU worker Linda Zale says enough is

enough.

Linda is seeking to have the court terminate Delia’s parental rights

before the boys become totally demented like their mother. And

they’re going to watch the bitch like a hawk with the new baby.

Megan and I talked to Linda at the office today. Hmmm… Linda is

quite the fox, I must say.

Beautiful, single and very capable.

Long brown hair and a body that will just not quit. Almost exactly

the same age as Megan, making her a year older than me. Linda’s

done this CPU thing for the past five years and is leaving in

September. She’s had it.

Linda’s destination is Spokane, where she will be attending law

school at Gonzaga. The loss here is great, and it’s not just the abused

children who will mourn.

I’m still winding down from my book project. Gotta quit smoking.

Today is the day.

* * * *

May 25, 1978

No cigarettes so far today. As I write, I can feel the nicotine hunger

affecting my body. I want the drug, I want nicotine in my lungs. But

I shall not relent.

I hate those motherfucking coffin nails.

Worked my ass off today at the office.

Yes,
The Dark City
is complete. It is written. I’m off the kick for

the time being. I’ve stopped writing so I can concentrate on my

physical well-being and get a little bit more involved in politics.

There’s a crucial central committee meeting coming up this summer.

The current state chair, Jim Kozlowski, is running for re-election and

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John Thomas is fielding an opponent against him. That should be

amusing, John going after Kozlowski.

Meanwhile, I’m making notes for my next project. It’s really

amazing how much stuff I can get done when I have no woman in my

life to boss me around. Even with a forty hour per week job, my

notebooks fill and my typewriter produces pages.

If I were still living with Leanne or somebody like her, I’d be

getting nothing done and my entire paycheck would be at her disposal.

This time I want to have an extensive outline prepared before I

begin to write. I want to be a whole lot more sensible, more mature.

The Dark City
just sort of forced itself out of me. Next time I intend

to be more focused.

The humor has to be more up front, wiser, and more gentle.

Enough with the sarcastic wisecracks.

Stories themselves are timeless. They never change. I wonder

where it will end. Patrick the Writer. The fucking goddamned writer.

Sometimes I feel so driven, so desperate. Writing this book has

changed me emotionally. But it is a terrific source of insight. My

poor brain burns.

It so happens that my most enduring pleasures have been

intellectual ones. Mind and memory admit no equal. To write is the

finest thing. The stark lunacy of it all. My paper monologue. My

comic fiction.

* * * *

May 27, 1978

Going to Portland. I have many things to get done while I am in

the big town. Must remember to get a new Zippy comic book and

also some new Inner City Romances. Also gotta buy a new roach clip

and hunt for some stuff at my mother’s house. I want to find those

slides of Mick’s mushroom hunting trips.

I want some good pictures of ps. semilanceata for a possible

magazine article. I think it’s a timely idea.

Liberty Cap Mushrooms: The Psilocybin Harvest of 1978.

Chesley has a new address up in Northeast. Randy Thune has

moved to a new place in Southeast with his crabby Japanese wife.

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The only good thing about Wilma near as I can tell is that she always

has excellent reefer.

I’ve pretty much settled on a letter for the State Central Committee

election. Typewritten. Shiny new envelopes. Nice new stamps.

Something the precinct people will read.

* * * *

May 30, 1978

One wild weekend in Portland.

On Friday night, Chesley and I partied with his two chubby

neighbors, Debbie and Denise. I would have been content to merely

chat with Denise.

But when Debbie and Chesley went upstairs to have sex, the words,

"Goodnight, you guys," were barely out of my mouth before Denise

was all over me.

I suppose I could have said no but I didn’t.

"Mmm ... Mmm..." Denise’s tongue wormed into my mouth like a

snake. It tasted like a combination of Dentyne, nachos, and

Budweiser beer. Not the worst three flavors in the world, I decided,

kissing Denise back.

Down the hall in the other bedroom, I could hear Chesley and

Denise’s roommate Debbie giggling and talking.

Though admittedly desperate for male companionship of any sort,

Debbie is still a bit of a spitfire, apparently.

"Okay, I’ll show my boobs to you," I heard Debbie saying to

Chesley. "But first I want to see your thing."

"Driving a hard bargain, eh?" Chesley answered. "But what if

looking at your boobs isn’t all I want to do?"

He made kissing noises.

"You’re horrible!" Debbie replied, laughing.

The door slammed shut, leaving me to concentrate on Denise.

As women went, Denise really wasn’t all that bad. In another

universe, she’d be worth considering. I’m in love with you Duh-

neece, Scooby Do. In truth, she wasn’t even really fat.

What she had was an abundance, a solid voluptuousness, a

generously proportioned package of body, boobs, bottom, and bush.

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In many respects, a figure similar to Leanne’s, the kind of pudgy

nubility the cartoonist R. Crumb adores.

Come to think of it, I kinda like those gals too.

From the sofa cushions in the living room, it didn’t take us long to

work our way into Denise’s bedroom, leaving articles of clothing on

the floor along the way.

Inside, we stripped to the buff, whereupon Denise yanked me under

the covers. I decided I wasn’t going to be in any hurry to fuck her,

though, that I would first see how turned on I could get her before we

reached that stage.

Denise seemed in no great hurry either, and appeared to enjoy

kissing quite a lot.

Though eagerly affectionate, Denise was a handful, twisting and

squirming under my caresses.

Nor did she make a move to touch my cock, which surprised me.

Breaking the kiss, I said, "This is fun. But is there anything special

you would like me to do?"

"Uh, you’re asking me?"

"Uh huh."

Denise took my hand and brought it to her pussy. I rubbed her clit

and dipped my finger in and out, pleased to see that she was nice and

juicy. While she squirmed and writhed, I brought my mouth to her

ear, whispering:

"Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Not any more. We broke up."

"Did you ever have sex with him?"

"Not very often, but I liked it. I sometimes think maybe I was too

big for him."

"Oh, that’s ridiculous. You’re just a big girl, Denise. I happen to

think you are very cute."

"Gosh, thanks. You’re just about the cutest guy I’ve ever kissed.

Same with Debbie and your friend Chesley. She’s never had a

boyfriend as good-looking as Chesley."

"Are you kidding? Chesley’s about as good-looking as a baboon," I

said, just to get her reaction.

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"No, he’s not. Don’t be mean. He’s cute. Me and Debbie have

watched him since he moved in. Debbie’s in love with him."

"All right. Have it your way."

We kissed some more. These were some mighty hot kisses, I

daresay. Lots of inventive tongue action. I simply could not kiss

Denise enough. She was one highly affectionate large-sized phone

operator chick.

Circumstances permitting, I’ll bet Denise would make a nice,

sweet, lovely wifey.

But not for me. I might get married eventually but it won’t be to

Denise. Nevertheless, on that night, right until the very end, she was

sweet and fun. A real turn on.

What does society have against big girls, anyway? If anything,

they probably make more reliable breeders than the Twiggy-type

waifs you see in magazines and on TV.

Later that evening, when I finally sank my cock into the hot,

clinging, tender pussy of Denise, I can say without reservation that

hers was as tight as any pussy I’ve ever fucked.

Like Bukowski, says, women are magic! Of course, every one I’ve

ever had sex with has been exposed to my normal male chauvinist

thought processes. I imagine what it would be like to be married to

her, fucking her and nobody else, for years on end, having children,

growing old, and ultimately dying in her arms. Hmmm.

The problem was, however, even while I was fucking Denise,

thrusting in and out of her hot pussy, my mind was on another

woman, a slim, slender one, in a town many miles distant.

We were still fucking away pleasantly when Denise suddenly asked

if we could stop.

"May I suck your cock?" She asked.

"Okay," I said. "I suppose."

It seemed to me that Denise was not looking well. But like a

soldier, she knelt in front of me, taking my cock in her mouth and

gently cupping my balls. This felt very good.

Denise was pretty good at cock sucking, taking it deep with every

thrust.

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"Aaaaaeeeaahh!" I cried, spilling my cum. "EEAAAHH!"