Sexus (59 page)

The day of the trial I presented myself at court in a bright and supercilious mood. Everything had been agreed upon beforehand. I had only to raise my hand, swear a silly oath, admit my guilt and take the punishment. The judge looked
like a scarecrow fitted with a pair of lunar binoculars; his black wings flapped lugubriously in the hushed silence of the room. He seemed to be slightly annoyed by my serene complacency; it did not bolster the illusion of his importance, which was absolutely nil. I could make no distinction between him and the brass rail, between him and the cuspidor. The brass rail, the Bible, the cuspidor, the American flag, the blotter on his desk, the thugs in uniform who preserved order and decorum, the knowledge that was tucked away in his brain cells, the musty books in his study, the philosophy that underlay the whole structure of the law, the eyeglasses he wore, his B.V.D.'s, his person and his personality, the whole ensemble was a senseless collaboration in the name of a blind machine about which I didn't give a fuck in the dark. All I wanted was to know that I was definitely free to put my head in the noose again.

It was all going like tick-tack-toe, one thing canceling another, and at the end of course the law squashing you down as if you were a fat, juicy bedbug, when suddenly I realized that he was asking me if I were willing to pay such and such an amount of alimony regularly for the rest of my days.

“What's that?”
I demanded. The prospect of at last encountering some opposition caused him to brighten appreciably. He reeled off some gibberish about solemnly agreeing to pay the sum of something or other.

“I agree to no such thing,” I said emphatically. “I intend to pay”—and here I mentioned a sum that was double the amount he had named.

It was his turn to say
“What's that?”

I repeated myself. He looked at me as though I had lost my senses, then, swiftly, as though he were trapping me, he snapped out: “Very good! We'll make it as you wish. It's your funeral.”

“It's my pleasure and privilege,” I retorted.

“Sir!”

I repeated myself. He gave me a withering look, beckoned to the lawyer to approach, leaned over and whispered something in his ear. I had the distinct impression that he was asking the lawyer if I were in my sound senses. Apparently
assured that I was, he looked up and, fixing a stony gaze upon me, he said: “Young man, do you know what the penalty is for failure to meet your obligations?”

“No sir,” I said, “nor do I care to hear it. Are we through now? I've got to get back to my job.”

It was a beautiful day outdoors. I started walking aimlessly. Soon I was at the Brooklyn Bridge. I started walking over the bridge, but after a few minutes I lost heart, turned round and dove into the subway. I had no intention of going back to the office; I had been given a day off and I intended to make the most of it.

At Times Square I got off and walked instinctively towards the French-Italian restaurant over near Third Avenue. It was cool and dark in the back of the grocery store where they served the food. At lunchtime there never were many customers. Soon there was only myself and a big, sprawling Irish girl who had already made herself quite drunk. We fell into a strange conversation about the Catholic Church during the course of which she repeated like a refrain: “The Pope's all right, but I refuse to kiss his ass.”

Finally she pushed her chair back, struggled to her feet, and tried to walk towards the lavatory. (The lavatory was used by men and women alike and was in the hall.) I saw that she would never make it alone. I got up and held her by the arm. She was thoroughly potted and lurching like a storm-tossed ship.

As we got to the door of the lavatory she begged me to help her on to the seat. I stood her by the seat so that all she had to do was to sit down. She hitched up her skirt and tried to pull her panties down, but the effort was too much. “Pull 'em down for me, will you,” she begged with a sleepy grin. I did as she asked, patted her cunt affectionately, and sat her down on the seat. Then I turned to go.

“Don't go!” she whined, clutching my hand, and with that she began emptying her tank. I held on while she finished the job, Nos. 1 and 2, with stink bombs and everything. Throughout the operation she repeated over and over: “No, I
won't
kiss the Pope's ass!” She looked so absolutely helpless that I thought perhaps I'd have to wipe her ass for her. However,
from long years of training she managed to do this much for herself, though it took an incredibly long time. I was about ready to throw up when finally she asked me to lift her up. As I was pulling her bloomers up I couldn't help rubbing my hand over her rosebush. It was tempting, but the stench was too powerful to dally with that idea.

As I assisted her out of the toilet the
patronne
espied us and nodded her head sadly. I wondered if she realized what chivalry it took for me to perform this act. Anyway, we went back to the table, ordered some black coffee, and sat talking a little while longer. As she sobered up she became almost disgustingly grateful. She said if I would take her home I could have her—she wanted to make it up to me. “I'll take a bath and change my things,” she said. “I feel filthy. It
was
filthy too, God help me.”

I told her I would see her home in a taxi, but that I wouldn't be able to stay with her.

“Now you're getting delicate,” she said. “What's the matter, ain't I good enough for you? It ain't my fault, is it, if I had to go to the toilet? You go to the toilet too, don't you? Wait till I take a bath—you'll see what I look like. Listen, give me your hand!” I gave her my hand and she put it under her skirt, right on her bushy cunt. “Take a good feel of it,” she urged. “You like it? Well, it's all yours. I'll scrub it and perfume it for you. You can take all you like of it. I'm not a bad lay. And I'm not a tart either, see! I got cockeyed, that's all. A guy walked out on me, and I was crazy enough to take it to heart. He'll come crawling back before long, don't you worry. But Jesus, I did have my heart set on him. I told him I wouldn't kiss the Pope's ass—and that got him sore. I'm a good Catholic, same as he, but I can't see the Pope as Christ Almighty, can you?”

She went on with her monologue, jumping from one thing to another like a goat. I gathered that she was a switchboard operator in a big hotel. She wasn't such a bad sort, either, down under her Irish skin. I could see that she might be very attractive, once the fumes of the alcohol cleared away. She had very blue eyes and jet-black hair, and a smile that was sly and puckish. Maybe I would run up and help her with her
bath. I could always run out on her if anything went amiss. The thing that bothered me was that I was to meet Mona for dinner. I was to wait for her in the Rose Room of the McAlpin Hotel.

We got in a taxi and drove uptown. In the cab she rested her head on my shoulder. “You're awfully good to me,” she said in a sleepy voice. “I don't know who you are, but you're O.K. with me. Jesus, I wish I could take a nap first. Would you wait for me?”

“Sure,” I said. “Maybe I'll take a nap too.”

The apartment was cozy and attractive, better than I had expected it to be. She had no sooner opened the door than she kicked off her shoes. I helped her undress.

As she stood before the mirror, nude except for her panties. I had to admit that she possessed a beautiful figure. Her breasts were white and full, round and taut, with bright strawberry-colored nipples.

“Why don't you take those off too?” I said, pointing to the panties.

“No, not now,” she said, suddenly becoming coy, her cheeks coloring slightly.

“I took them off before,” I said. “What's the difference now?” I put my hand on her waist as if to pull them down. “Don't, please!” she begged. “Wait till I have my bath.” She paused a moment, then added: “I'm just getting over my period.”

That settled it for me. I saw the ringworms flowering again. I got panicky.

“All right,” I said, “take your bath! I'll stretch out in here while you're at it.”

“Won't you scrub my back for me?” she said, her lips curling in that puckish smile of hers.

“Why sure I will . . . certainly,” I said. I led her to the bathroom, half pushing her along in my haste to get rid of her.

As she slipped out of the panties I noticed a dark bloodstain. Not on your life, I thought to myself. No sir, not in my sound senses I don't.
Kiss the Pope's ass—never!

But as she lay there soaping herself I felt myself weakening.
I took the soap from her hand and scrubbed her bush for her. She squirmed with pleasure as my soapy fingers entwined themselves in her hair.

“I think it's finished,” she said, arching her pelvis and spreading her cunt open with her two hands. “You look . . . do you see anything?”

I put the soapy middle finger of my right hand up her cunt and massaged it gently. She lay back with her hands clasped behind her head and slowly gyrated her pelvis. “Jesus, that feels good,” she said. “Go on, do it some more. Maybe I won't need a nap.”

As she got worked up she began to move more violently. Suddenly she unclasped her hands and with wet fingers she unbuttoned my fly, took my prick out and made a dive for it with her mouth. She went at it like a professional, teasing it, worrying it, fluting her lips, then choking on it. I came off in her mouth; she swallowed it as if it were nectar and ambrosia.

Then she sank back into the tub, sighed heavily and closed her eyes.

Now is the time to beat it, I said to myself, and pretending that I was going to look for a cigarette I grabbed my hat and bolted. As I ran down the stairs I put my finger to my nostrils and smelled it. It wasn't a bad odor. It smelled of soap more than anything else.

A few nights later a private performance was being given at the theater. Mona had begged me not to attend the performance, saying that it would make her nervous if she knew I were watching her. I had been somewhat put out about it, but finally agreed not to come. I was to meet her afterwards at the stage entrance. She specified the exact time.

I was there ahead of time, not at the stage door but at the entrance to the theater. I looked at the announcements over and over, thrilled to see her name in bold, clear letters. As the crowd filed out I went to the opposite side of the street and watched. I didn't know why I was watching—I was just rooted to the spot. It was rather dark in front of the theater and the taxis were all tied up.

Suddenly I saw someone rushing impulsively to the curb
where a frail little man stood waiting for a taxi. It was Mona. I saw her kiss the man and then, as the taxi drove away, I saw her wave goodbye. Then her hand fell limply to her side and she stood there a few minutes as if deep in thought. Finally she rushed back into the theater through the main entrance.

When I met her at the stage door a few minutes later she seemed overwrought. I told her what I had just witnessed.

“Then you saw him?” she said, clutching my hand.

“Yes, but who was it?”

“Why, it was my father. He got up out of bed to come. He won't last much longer.”

As she spoke the tears came to her eyes. “He said he could die in peace now.” With this she halted abruptly and burying her head in her hands she began to sob. “I should have taken him home,” she said brokenly.

“But why didn't you let me meet him?” I said. “We could have taken him home together.”

She refused to talk about it. She wanted to go home—go home alone and weep. What could I do? I could only assent—it seemed the most delicate thing to do.

I put her in a taxi and watched her ride away. I felt deeply moved. Then I struck out, determined to bury myself in the crowd. At the corner of Broadway I heard a woman calling my name. She came up to me on the run.

“You passed me,” she said, “without recognizing me. What's the matter with you? You look depressed.” She held out her two hands for me to grasp.

It was Arthur Raymond's ex-wife, Irma.

“It's funny,” she said, “I just saw Mona a few seconds ago. She got out of a cab and ran down the street. She looked distracted. I was going to speak to her, but she ran off too quickly. I don't think she saw me either. . . . Aren't you living together any more? I thought you were all staying at Arthur's place.”

“Just where did you see her?” I wondered if she could have been mistaken.

“Why, just around the corner.”

“Are you absolutely sure?”

She smiled strangely. “I couldn't mistake
her,
could I?”

“I don't know,” I mumbled, more to myself—“it hardly seems possible. How was she dressed?”

She described her accurately. When she said “a little velvet cape” I knew it couldn't have been anyone else.

“Did you have a quarrel?”

“No-o-o, not a quarrel. . .”

“Well you ought to know Mona by this time,” said Irma, trying to dismiss the subject. She had taken my arm and was guiding me along, as if perhaps I were not quite in full possession of my faculties.

“I'm awfully glad to see you,” she said. “Dolores and I are always talking about you. . . . Don't you want to drop up for a minute? Dolores will be delighted to see you. We have an apartment together. It's right near here. Do come up . . . I'd love to talk to you a while. It must be over a year since I saw you last. You had just left your wife, you remember? And now you're living with Arthur—that's strange. How is he getting on? Is he doing well? I hear he has a beautiful wife.”

It didn't require much coaxing to persuade me to run up and have a quiet drink with them. Irma seemed to be bubbling over with joy. She had always been very friendly with me, but never this effusive. I wondered what had come over her.

When we got upstairs the place was dark. “That's funny,” said Irma. “She said she would be home early this evening. Oh well, she'll be along in a few minutes, no doubt. Take your things off . . . sit down . . . I'll get you a drink in a minute.”