PFK1 (38 page)

incapable of having children.

This much I have figured out: I want a woman I can fall in love

with who wants to have one or two children sometime in The Future.

And in the not so very distant future either, I might add, as I approach

age 28.

But who shall it be?

By permanently foreclosing the possibility of ever having a baby,

Jill is no longer a viable candidate.

It’s too bad, really. At 5’ 10", Jill is a big, beautiful Amazon. She

is slender, shapely, sexy, smart, and extremely political. We could be

a formidable pair.

I love those big round glasses she wears.

Very intellectual-looking. She also has a head full of thick, long,

lustrous brown hair, with shiny highlights. I like that too. She loves

to fuck and is truly gorgeous.

Moreover, Jill seems to have swept aside all doubts she previously

had about me and is eager to set up housekeeping. She asks why

should I move to Portland to run when there are a whole bunch of

legislative seats in Eugene?

Good question.

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No doubt Jill and I could form an exceptionally compatible

relationship, under different circumstances. At the very least, it might

be fun to play her and Megan off against each other for a while. But it

will never happen, I realize, as I write these words. Why waste

everybody’s time? Jill wants no children. For me that is an

insurmountable drawback.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want a whole pack of kids, as my idiot

parents did from 1950-61. One or two is plenty. But I want a woman

who wants the same.

I’ve given this issue a great deal of thought, ever since my

unfortunate affair with the other one. Whatever else she might have

done, she prodded me into thinking about my goals in life with much

greater clarity and force than I had ever given them before.

What I want, insofar as a writer-politician is allowed to have one, is

a normal, happy, sane, generally middle class life. I want to be with a

woman I love and trust. Together we will enjoy a loving family life.

I know such a thing exists. The two idiots were not the only parents

in the neighborhood. We had eyes and could compare them to others.

The way I see it, your role as husband and father is to love and

serve. Or at least, that is how it should be.

I saw that "love and serve" motto on a church sign in Newport. I

like it for some reason. It appeals to me. For a man who doesn’t plan

to be a juvenile all his life, I don’t see how things can be any other

way.

On another note, I love to write but I sure ain’t gonna depend on it

for a living. I will always maintain some sort of suitable employment,

preferably government related. Doing my job at the welfare office

takes perhaps one tenth of my mental powers, now that Megan has

shown me the ropes. I intend to keep on working at a job like this

until I become an outstanding literary success, however long that

might take.

Sure hope it doesn’t take too long.

So there you have it. I ain’t Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, a

beatnik, or some fucking political radical. I’m not even a hippie, if in

fact I ever was one.

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I am only me, Patrick J. Compton, nobody else. I intend to support

myself and I’m pretty sure I can be faithful to one woman, if she can

be faithful to me. I want a woman to make love to and live with and

sleep with and hang around with and trust implicitly.

In my darkest moments, I suspect that I am probably

unmarriageable. Every time I start to fall in love with a woman, she

does something I can’t forgive. I am afraid that I may never find one

to whom I can give my all.

Jesus, I’m beat.

That’s all for now.

* * * *

February 6, 1979

Mary Wong came over again last night to see me. We didn’t do it

again because she said her pussy was still too sore from yesterday.

"You’re so big," she said, giving my crotch a playful squeeze.

Then she unbuttoned my fly and gave me another wonderful sucking,

down on her knees between my legs, just like before. I offered to

return the favor but she said no.

Mary Wong is interesting to me chiefly because she is Asian in

origin. Based on my recent experiences with her, I would also venture

to say that she is a pure female, entirely devoted to her own cause, and

only paying attention to me because she thinks I might be useful in

advancing that cause.

Why are women such a mixed bag? I’ve had enough experience

with them (and myself) at this point to see the more obvious pitfalls

but I still stumble over less obvious ones.

And goddamn, every time I turn around, there is yet another

woman, presenting herself as a potential partner. I mean, I’m not

even trying that hard. In most cases, I’m doing the opposite of trying.

I’m trying not to try.

Truth is, I’m much more interested in politics and science and

literature and current events than I am in the desultory opinions of the

young women I come across.

In the case of Mary Wong, I am particularly intrigued by her totally

self-centered antics, and rather amused by her efforts to get ahead, by

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whatever means necessary. There is an engine inside this little

Chinese chick, driving her come what may.

But whatever defects I perceive in Mary’s personality, she is also

one eager little cum sponge, with no apparent inhibitions that I can

discern.

It’s really quite amazing. Mary is pleasant enough to look at,

though by no means beautiful, certainly nowhere near the Megan

category. She stands maybe a half inch over five feet, and can’t

weigh more than 90 pounds. Her long black hair is as straight as a

ruler, and her little body is slender and lithe.

Hardly any boobs at all, but these big, juicy, sensitive nipples,

which get hard as filberts when I pinch, squeeze, or suck them.

Best of all is Mary’s cock-sucking, which she has elevated to the

state of a high art, usually fingering her bud with her right hand while

she sucks my cock, holding it in her left.

As a change of pace, I proposed that we fuck, either doggy-style or

missionary position.

What Mary wanted instead was for me to suck her little titties while

she fingerbanged herself. Twice she came from doing that alone. It

was kinda fun, actually. More or less a variation of
Milk The Cow
, if I

am not mistaken.

Got some actual work done on
The Dark City
. That was after

Megan called and we argued for a bit. Megan also wanted to argue at

work today but I refused to cooperate. She seems really upset and is

apparently aware (from that fucking big mouth Nick, no doubt) that

I’ve been doing it with Mary and Jill.

I reiterated that this new arrangement is entirely Megan’s own

creation, not mine. I added that if she is unhappy with the

consequences of her actions, that’s too bad.

As I said before, I don’t give a good goddamn either way. Megan

brought this situation on herself by scurrying back to her husband and

now she must endure the fallout. If she’s going to fuck Mark again I

am going to fuck somebody else.

Simple as that.

245

Under no circumstances would I have slept with another woman if

Megan had been loyal to me. But she was not loyal. Originally, she

left Mark because she said she loved me and then she changed her

mind, leaving me in the lurch. Therefore I must respond.

See how she likes it. There is no advantage in being the gentle,

forgiving lover. Fuck it. There are no rules in this game that I know

of, save one:

If she fucks somebody else, you fuck somebody else.

On another front, I’m hoping the next draft of
The Dark City
will

go faster than the first. I want to have the whole project completed by

summer. That would leave the decks clear for my return to Portland,

where I intend to make a run for the state legislature.

* * * *

February 8, 1979

Goddamnit! Now I’m sick. It started right after I had words with

Megan on the phone Tuesday night. I was restless and hot afterwards

and felt totally wiped out the next day. For two days now I’ve been

unable to eat. Everything comes right back up.

Mary Wong was sympathetic but says she can’t afford to get sick

and so is staying away. Nick believes that it is some kind of flu.

Harry also says that a whole bunch of people at the post office are

down with the flu as well.

Nick said he was worried about getting sick so he stayed home

from work today too. But then he went and ran errands all day,

getting his poetry fest organized.

Megan came by late in the afternoon to check on me. She said

nothing major is happening at the office and that she processed my

late-arriving EML’s, so not to worry about them.

She brought a thermometer and took my temperature – 102. I

expressed surprise that she didn’t bring a rectal thermometer and she

laughed.

She fluffed up my pillows and brewed some tea, from a batch of

peppermint that grows in Josie’s yard. We talked for a while and then

she went back to work. Her concern for my health was touching. I

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asked whether she was worried about coming down with the flu

herself but she shrugged that off.

You know, I’ll bet she’d make a wonderful mom someday. I felt

much better after her visit.

Been thinking about my financial situation. I’ve got $1439 in the

credit union right now. Beginning March 1, I will have them take out

$100 each month instead of only $50. I’m finally caught up on my

student loans. I think a decent run in District 13 should cost about

$2000.

Originally, I had planned to use that money to buy a house here in

Florence, for Megan and me. That is definitely off. I am planning to

leave town.

I’m feeling stifled here.

* * * *

February 10, 1979

A rainy, gusty, windswept day at the beach. Dark vapory clouds

scudding overhead, from west to east. Nick’s sister Lisa came by to

wash clothes. We talked for a while. Nick and Lisa are so different

you can hardly believe they are relatives, let alone brother and sister.

Nick ran around meanwhile, getting new gutters for the house. I let

Nick use my VW bus, which for some reason he loves to drive and is

always asking to borrow. The lender says Nick must upgrade the

house before he can have the money he needs to finish buying out

Clarice.

The rainstorm is really belting the joint right now. Lisa is

downstairs, listening to Rod Stewart. The first cut is the deepest.

Baby, I know. The first cut is the deepest.

Rod’s cover of an anthem of lost love.

Actually, he’s wrong, though.

It’s the last cut that is truly the deepest.

Feeling better. No longer so sick. Dreaming away the day,

thinking about Megan and life in general. Just about ready to fire up a

reefer and start typing. I fucking love to write.

2 47

What else is there for me to do? At times I feel very lucky, very

gifted. A writer. Yep. That’s me. As Art Carney once said on an old

Honeymooners episode:

"Why oh why were these two hands gifted with such amazing

talent?" Of course, he was talking about playing the piano but the

concept is the same.

Work yesterday was an absolute and total bitch. I nearly quit and

walked out the door. Going up to Portland for a visit next weekend.

Gotta get out of here.

* * * *

February 19, 1979

At German Auto in Portland getting the bus worked on. A wheel

bearing went dry. Man, what a racket it made. Metal on metal.

These vehicles are always breaking down. I’ve had this stupid

machine for two years now and have burned $1500 on a variety of

repairs.

Saw Michael, Lloyd, and Randy yesterday.

We got stoned and ate these giant hamburgers at Stanich’s on NE

45th. Big beef patties with cheddar and a hard fried egg. We drank a

couple pitchers of beer, and then played pool at Sam’s Billiards.

Lloyd is really whipped on his new Jean girlfriend. He had to call her

twice from the pool hall, apparently to obtain permission to go wee-

wee.

My friends, with the exceptional of Michael, (who appears to be

asexual) are all getting into these heavy monogamous relationships.