Sexus (27 page)

She came back in the silk bathrobe, nothing underneath. “Take your things off,” she said, pulling back the covers and diving in. We lay there fondling each other, her cunt sopping wet.

“You smell wonderful,” I said. “What did you do?”

She pulled my hand away and put it to my nostrils.

“Not bad,” I said. “What is it?”

“Guess!”

She got up impulsively, went to the bathroom and came back with a small bottle of perfume. She spilt some into her hand and rubbed my genitals with it; then she sprinkled a few drops on the pubic hairs. It stung like fire. I grabbed the bottle and soused her with it all over, from head to foot. Then I began licking her armpits, chewed the hair over her cunt, and slid my tongue like a snake down the curve of her thighs. She bobbed up and down as if she were having convulsions. It went on like this until I had such an erection that even after I shot a wad into her it stayed up like a hammer. That excited
her terribly. She wanted to try all sorts of positions and she did. She had several orgasms in succession and almost fainted in the process. I laid her on a small table and when she was on the verge of exploding I picked her up and walked around the room with her; then I took it out and made her walk on her hands, holding her by the thighs, letting it slip out now and then to excite her still more.

Her lips were chewed to a frazzle and she was full of marks, some green, some blue. I had a strange taste in my mouth, of fish glue and Chanel 976½. My cock looked like a bruised rubber hose; it hung between my legs, extended an inch or two beyond its normal length and swollen beyond recognition. When I got to the street I felt weak in the knees. I went to the drugstore and swallowed a couple of malted milks. A royal bit of fucking, thought I to myself, wondering how I'd act when I met Woodruff again.

Things happened to Woodruff in quick succession. First of all he lost his job at the bank. Then Ida ran off with one of his best friends. When he discovered that she had been sleeping with the fellow for a year before she ran off, he grew so despondent that he went on a bat which lasted for a year. After that he was knocked down by a car and his brain trepanned. Then his sister went crazy, setting fire to the house and burning her own children alive.

He couldn't understand why these things should happen to him, Bill Woodruff, who had never done anybody any harm.

Now and then I would run into him on Broadway and we would have a little chat standing on a street corner. He never gave any hint that he suspected me of having tinkered with his beloved Ida. He spoke of her bitterly now, as a thankless slut who had never showed a spark of feeling. But it was evident he still loved her. However, he had taken up with another girl, a manicurist, not so attractive as Ida, but loyal and trustworthy, as he put it. “I want you to meet her sometime,” said he. I promised I would—sometime. And then, as I was parting from him, I said: “What did become of Ida, do you know?”

“She's on the stage,” he said. “Where she belongs, I guess.
They must have taken her on her looks—she never had any talent that I could see.”

Ida Verlaine.
I was still thinking of her and of those free and easy days in the past as I took up my post at the entrance to the dance hall. I had a few minutes to kill. I had forgotten about the money in my pocket. I was still riveted to the past. Wondered whether I would stop by the theater one day and have a look at Ida from the third row center. Or go up to her dressing room and have a little tête-à-tête while she made up. I wondered if her body were still as white as ever. Her black hair was long then and hung over her shoulders. She really was a bewitching piece of cunt. Pure cunt, that's what she was. And Woodruff so bewildered by it all, so innocent, so worshipful. I remember his saying once that he used to kiss her ass every night, to show her what a devoted slave he was. It's a wonder she didn't pee on him ever. He deserved that, the imbecile!

And then I thought of something which made me laugh. Men always think that to own a big cock is one of life's greatest boons. They think you have only to shake it at a woman and she's yours. Well, if anybody had a big cock it was Bill Woodruff. It was a veritable horse cock. I remember the first time I saw it—I could scarcely believe my eyes. Ida should have been his slave, if all that stuff about big cocks be true. It impressed her all right all right, but the wrong way. She was scared stiff. It froze her up. And the more he pushed and plugged, the smaller she grew. He might just as well have fucked her between the teats, or in the armpits. She would have enjoyed that more, no doubt about it. Woodruff never had such ideas, though. He would have thought them degrading. You can't ask the woman you idolize to let you fuck her between the teats. How he got his nookie I never inquired. But that ass-licking ritual made me smile. It's tough to be crazy about a woman and then find that nature has played you a mean trick.

Ida Verlaine.
I had a hunch I'd be looking her up soon. It wouldn't be the same smooth-fitting cunt any more, no use kidding oneself. By this time it had been well reamed, if I knew Ida. Still, if there was any juice left, if her ass had that
smooth, slippery feel, it would be worth having another go at it.

I began to have an erection thinking about her.

I waited around for a half hour or more, but no sign of Mona. I decided to go upstairs and inquire. Learned that she had gone home early—with a sick headache.

It was only the next evening, after dinner, that I found out why she had left the dance hall early. She had received a message from home and had rushed out to see her parents. I didn't press her to talk, knowing how secretive she was about this other life. For some reason, however, she was anxious to get it off her chest. As usual, she circled about with mysterious swoops. It was difficult to make head or tail of her story. All I could gather was that they were in distress—and by “they” she meant the whole family, including her three brothers and her sister-in-law.

“Do they all live under the same roof?” I asked innocently.

“That's neither here nor there,” she said, strangely irritated.

I said nothing for a while. Then I ventured to ask about her sister, who she had once told me was even more beautiful than herself—“only very normal,” as she put it.

“Didn't you say she was married?”

“Yes, of course she is. What's that got to do with it?”

“With what?” I asked, getting a little peeved now myself.

“Well, what are we talking about?”

I laughed. “That's what I want to know. What is it? What
are
you trying to tell me?”

“You don't listen.
My sister
—I suppose you don't believe I have a sister?”

“Why do you say that? Of course I believe you. Only I can't believe she's more beautiful than you.”

“Well she is, believe it or not,” she snapped. “I despise her. It's not jealousy, if that's what you're thinking. I despise her because she has no imagination. She sees what's happening and she doesn't lift a finger. She's absolutely selfish.”

“I suppose,” I began gently, “that it's the same old problem—they want your help. Well, maybe I. . .”

“You!
What can
you
do? Please, Val, don't start talking that way.” She laughed hysterically. “God, it reminds me of my brothers. They all make suggestions—and nobody does anything.”

“But, Mona, I'm not talking in the air. I. . .”

She turned on me almost fiercely. “You've got your wife and daughter to look after, haven't you? I don't want to hear anything about your help. This is
my
problem. Only, I don't know why I have to do everything alone. The boys could do something if they wanted to. God, I supported them for years. I've supported the whole family—and now they're asking more of me. I can't do any more. It isn't fair. . . .”

There was a silence and then she continued. “My father is a sick man—I don't expect anything of him. Besides, he's the only one I care about. If it weren't for him I'd turn my back on them—I'd walk off and leave them flat.”

“Well, what about your brothers?” I asked. “What's holding them back?”

“Nothing but laziness,” she said. “I've spoiled them. I led them to believe that they were helpless.”

“Do you mean that nobody is working—not any of them?”

“Oh yes, now and then one of them gets a job for a few weeks and then quits for some silly reason. They know I'll always be there to rescue them.

“I can't go on living this way!” she burst out. “I won't let them destroy my life. I want to be with you—and they're pulling me away. They don't care what I do so long as I bring them money. Money, money. God, how I hate to hear the word!”

“But Mona,” I said gently, “I've got some money for you. Yes, I have. Look!”

I extracted the two fifty-dollar bills and placed them in her hand.

To my amazement she began to laugh, a weird, three-pronged laugh which became more and more uncontrollable. I put my arms around her. “Easy, Mona, easy . . . you're terribly upset.”

The tears came to her eyes. “I can't help it, Val,” she said weakly, “it reminds me so much of my father. He used to do the same thing. Just when everything was blackest he would turn up with flowers or some crazy gift. You're just like him. You're dreamers, both of you. That's why I love you.” She flung her arms around me passionately and began to sob. “Don't tell me where you got it,” she muttered. “I don't care. I don't care if you stole it. I'd steal for you, you know that, don't you? Val, they don't deserve the money. I want you to buy something for yourself.
Or,”
she added impulsively, “get something for the little one. Get something beautiful, something wonderful—that she'll always remember.

“Val,” she said, trying to collect herself, “you trust me, don't you? You won't ever ask me things I can't answer, will you? Promise me!”

We were seated in the big armchair. I held her in my lap, smoothing down her hair by way of answer.

“You see, Val, if you hadn't come along, I don't know what would have happened to me. Until I met you I felt—well, almost as if my life didn't belong to me. I didn't care what I did, if only they would leave me in peace. I can't bear to have them ask for things. I feel humiliated. They're all helpless, every one of them. Except my sister. She could do things—she's a very practical, levelheaded sort. But she wants to play the lady. ‘It's enough to have one wild one in the family,' she says, meaning me. I've disgraced them, that's what she thinks. And she wants to punish me, by making me submit to more and more indignities. She takes a fiendish delight in seeing me bring the money that no one lifts a finger to raise. She makes all sorts of foul insinuations. I could kill her. And my father doesn't seem to realize the situation at all. He thinks she's sweet—
angelic
. He wouldn't let her make the least sacrifice—she's too delicate to be exposed to the brutal contamination of the world. Besides, she's a wife and a mother. But I . . .” Her eyes became filled with tears again.
“I don't know what they think I'm made of.
I'm strong,
that's all they think. I can stand anything. I'm the wild one. God, sometimes I think they're insane, the whole pack of them. Where do they think I get the money? They don't care . . .
they don't even dare to ask.”

“Will your father ever get well?” I asked after a long silence.

“I don't know, Val.”

“If he were dead,” she added, “I'd never go near the others again. They could starve to death, I wouldn't move a muscle.

“You know,” she said, “you don't resemble him at all, physically, and yet you're so much alike. You're weak and tender, like him. But you weren't spoiled, as he was. You know how to take care of yourself, when you want to—but he never learned. He was always helpless. My mother sucked the blood out of him. She treated him like she treats me. Anything to have her own way. . . . I wish you could meet him—before he dies. I've often dreamed of it.”

“We probably will meet someday,” said I, though I didn't think it at all likely.

“You'd adore him, Val. He has such a wonderful sense of humor. He's a great storyteller, too. I think he would have been a writer, if he hadn't married my mother.”

She got up and began to make her toilette, still talking in a fond way about her father and the life he had known in Vienna and other places. It was getting time to leave for the dance hall.

Suddenly she turned abruptly away from the mirror and said: “Val, why don't you write in your spare time? You always wanted to write—why don't you do it? You don't need to call for me so often. You know, I'd much rather come home and find you working at the typewriter. You aren't to stay at that job all your life, are you?”

She came over to me and put her arms around me. “Let me sit in your lap,” she said. “Listen, dear Val. . . you mustn't sacrifice yourself for me. It's bad enough that one of us does it. I want you to free yourself. I
know
you're a writer—and I don't care how long it takes until you become known. I want
to help you . . .
Val,
you're not listening.” She nudged me gently. “What are you thinking of?”

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “I was just dreaming.”

“Val, do something,
please!
Don't let's go on this way. Look at this place! How did we ever get here? What are we doing here? We're a little mad too, you and I. Val, do start in—
tonight, yes?
I like you when you're moody. I like to think that you have thoughts about other things. I like it when you say crazy things. I wish I could think that way. I'd give anything to be a writer. To have a mind, to dream, to get lost in other people's problems, to think of something else beside work and money. . . . You remember that story you wrote for me once—about Tony and Joey? Why don't you write something for me again? Just for
me.
Val, we must try to do something . . . we
must
find a way out. Do you hear?”