Something Happened (54 page)

“You should put your legs up higher.”

“It hurts. I get cramps here.”

“And you really don’t do anything new.”

“I did what you wanted. You got to ask, hon.”

“I am not bizarre.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I’m never sure what I want.” I felt positively regal using a word like
bizarre
with her. “You’re supposed to help me find out what I want. I’m not
saying that because I’m unhappy. It will help you with other men.”

“Some men beat me up.”

And I have no compelling fetishes, although certain silken undergarments get me hot and are more attractive to me than the parts they cover. Big tits in bras and jersey can get me hot. Small ones make me romantic. Small asses on slim girls are starting to draw appreciating gazes from me. Many of these are on very young girls, and this is something new. The only woman I’ve ever wanted to beat up was my wife, and that—to my shame—was over money. She insinuates I give too little but won’t take more. I felt most content as I watched her dress to leave, lofty. She looked comical and naïve stuffed into flowered bikini underpants. I thought a moment of flipping her over my knees and paddling her smooth muscular bottom but remembered she’d be heavy. That’s the trouble with so many of our damned picturesque sex fantasies: they hurt. I’ve pampered myself before with the temptation of spanking a nice ass someday but never got one beautiful enough. Maybe there are no beautiful ones outside of magazines. I’m in love with a four-color magazine page. She still smiled; I was sorry for her, in a patronizing, uncommitted way. I wonder what happens to squat, homely Black and Puerto Rican whores with one missing molar when they grow too old—who takes care of them—and ugly to attract handsome, pinstriped libertines like me. I know what happens. They attract me anyway if I’m alone in New Orleans where everyone else seems to be having a good time. I ought to know by now that hardly anyone over the age of four ever has a good time anymore. Women do, at weddings and movies. It was a waste. The hundred-dollar beauty in San Francisco was a waste. She didn’t look like an aristocrat once I had her. She looked like a skinny girl in need of sunshine or more red corpuscles. I’m glad I never had to see either of them again. I wonder what happens to homely white whores when they grow older and lose their figures and lose their teeth. They become public drunkards with gravelly, masculine voices who quarrel with each other loudly
on sidewalks in warm weather. I still had all my newspapers after my little Black beauty left—thank God—and I ate three sticky candy bars and drank two cans of soda from a vending machine in the hall as I read them. I would have felt self-conscious going down into the lobby again that night. I went to sleep with caramel and nut crumbs in my mouth. I had what might have been the start of a homosexual dream, stopped it in time, and switched reels into the middle of a different dream I barely remembered in which I was a failing history student at the University of Bologna striving to find my way out of the yellow rock tangle of school buildings in time to catch a plane back home to my wife. There was a hatchet-faced, bleached-blond, scrawny actress I was trying to flee who kept sliding along the opposite sides of the stone walls in stealthy pursuit. She carried an icon of some kind cradled in her hands that was smaller than herself and could have been a human figure carved out of a penis—feces?—or a stick of African sculpture. I seemed able to identify all and wanted none, and that’s why I was running from her. Her face was Horace White’s. The next day I worried intermittently on the plane going back about carrying syphilis, gonorrhea, or crabs home to my wife from New Orleans. In the dream, I was failing in Bologna because I had been unable to find my way to any of the classrooms all year, although I had tried repeatedly. I itched. I scratched. I always itch afterward. Guilefully, I would deny to my wife I’d even had it and accuse
her
of having given it to me. Both statements could not be true, of course, but she would be intimidated by my yelling and unable to grasp that, and I would yell in sanctimonious outrage and convince her. There are no convenient army prophylactic stations around anymore dispensing soapy absolution by the pint for our sins of the flesh. They’re gone too. So is sin. Most of my favorite restaurants are closing. There is only crime. I often don’t enjoy it. My climaxes often aren’t. Other times there’s this gigantic, spurting leap. The difference is me. It’s got nothing to do with them. They all do pretty much the same things by now. So do we. Sometimes it really dances. Other times
it only stirs as much as necessary to get the ridiculous ritual over with. In Italy after the war, girls from Bologna stated they were the best in all Europe and wheedled for premium fees; they were no different from lower-class girls in Naples and Rome. They did the same things. They were interchangeable. They still are.

I can’t fall in love. That’s probably what holds my marriage together. If I didn’t have this wife, I would have another. It’s lots of trouble to leave. I don’t like to be alone. Red Parker needs a wife and ought to marry one fast before I have to fire him. I guess there’s really not much more one can do easily with a human dick than what we have been doing. Everything else stinks or hurts. So much of the quality of response seems a matter of chance. In the army, I would rent my girls by the hour and go three-and-a-half times in those sixty minutes—I got bargains leasing them that way—that final half time signaling a valorous raising of my standard as I made ready to ride off. I’d win applause, even from blondes from Bologna, for my virile performances and for my good looks and lean, firm, sun-tanned body. I used to be lean, and hungry. I had appetites. I used to have a full head of hair. I had strong teeth. I once had tonsils. We scarcely need them at all. I know I’ve had wet dreams that were more delicious and satisfying than anything I’ve experienced at complicated orgies I’ve attended in London, Las Vegas, and Los Angeles, and much less trouble. My wife would like me to take her along on business trips to Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Chicago, San Francisco, and New Orleans. She thinks I get laid there. I usually do; I feel the country, the company, and society expect me to. I usually don’t enjoy it. I enjoy the local newspapers more. I remember wondering when I was finally able to do it the first time, even as I was doing it, if that’s all there was to it. There was more, I learned the second time, and still is, there is enough to launch me into unrestrainable fervors all over again—even now I’ll rape my wife,
only
my wife, force her at times when she doesn’t want to and I feel I
have
to have it from her
at once
; but there’s no sublime
relationship, no reciprocal contact; like a mad chemist, I knew I was carrying the whole magical process and potential along with me like a pair of bubbling retorts inside my head and my vesicles. If my balls ever exploded, I knew it would not be because of a female; the mixtures inside me would have made up their own independent mind to detonate. They would not consult even me.

Bang!
They would decide to go.

They do look queer to me still, hairier than me, many of them. Some look like Van Dykes, and these I’m tempted to tug. Others have sideburns and shock me a moment like card number eight on the Rorschach test again. I was struck speechless when that damned color shock card appeared. I was stupefied. Others vegetate profusely with more rotund and corpulent growths of wiry foliage and look like Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, or Joseph Conrad. They affect me too. I sometimes want to quail. Will my wife turn white? She’ll have to. So will I. We have adenoids and vesicles and never get to see them while they’re alive. I think a good ear-nose-and-throat man today doesn’t dirty his fingers much with them either. His skill lies in popping his head into the hospital room afterward to tell us everything went well—that’s all he does and leaves the whole gory, grisly, repelling procedure to his Oriental anesthetist and ambitious apprentices. Why should
he
be disgusted? By now I’m used to the way my wife looks.

“How was New Orleans?”

“Dull.”

“You should have brought me along.”

“There was nothing to do.”

“I’d have given you things to do. You know how hot I get in a place like that. What’d you bring me back?”

“Clap.”

“Good.”

My wife is usually much better for me than most Only Penny does it with a consistent, keen, unbearable beauty every single time and has me begging her helplessly to stop, my eyes blind and my mouth glutting incoherently with babbles, giggles, gasps, and spasms.

Penny knows where to hit and strikes like an eagle. She knows exactly how much longer it’s safe to go on after I feel positively I will die in pieces if she continues at all. And I’m glad she goes on. Penny makes it dance like an angel and sprint like a whippet every single time. I comprehend then why owners and whole cultures have worshiped it. It’s an ironic master-servant association: I am the master; she serves me by reducing me to a writhing, pleading blob of chaotic, giggling blackness and a single burning nerve that cuts like a blade. I think I whimper with hilarity. I’m not sure what noises I make as I wait for my vision to recover and my power to speak to reassemble. I would not want anybody else in the world to see me that way, in the collapsed state of what is called
ecstasy
. I would not want to be photographed. She gives me scotch and makes hot coffee for me afterward. Penny has a hazel muff, with no scraggly hairs migrating and never any surprises or disappointments. I do not phone her much anymore), motorists driving at high speed swerve out of their way deliberately to kill nutrias dazed by their headlights standing hypnotized in the service lanes at the sides of the highway. In the morning, there are too many furry, dead bodies to count lying along the road from Hammond into New Orleans. Seen quickly from certain angles they look like cozy muffs. Seen from others, they look like crushed wild animals with bloody beaks and talons. During the morning, I suppose, local fur trappers arrive in pickup trucks to remove the bodies for their valuable pelts. This is called
hunting
. (Other people, I think, might veer away to avoid killing an animal, even a sleeping frog.)

(Man is a carnivore, a swift, accurate, rapacious hunter, and he ought never try to compete with the electric vibrator. It tires you out, and there isn’t a chance of winning. Ask a girl who owns one.)

Green was right about Jane too.

I have stopped flirting with Jane (what
would
I do with her afterward?) and started flirting platonically with Laura, Arthur Baron’s secretary (which makes a much better impression). Laura is older and unhappily married. She is highly regarded
by everyone but her husband, who is three years younger than she and perhaps homosexual, and my attentions are clearly friendly and humanitarian (although she does have a thick ass I think now and then I might like to toss over onto my lap and paddle bare with stinging, tingling noises. It’s good I don’t try, for I forget how heavy she’d be, and I would risk a hernia or slipped spinal disk. If I did that once to someone, I might want to do it always—and then I would be a pervert. Girls would talk about me unfavorably to their friends. I think I feel that way too about stuttering. I think I may
want
to stutter. What a liberating release it might be from the lifelong, rigorous discipline of speaking correctly. I’d feel tongue-tied and free. I might spank and stutter at the same time. I feel I might never want to stop once I started and would let my tongue wobble as it wanted to for the rest of my life and never have to say anything intelligible to anyone again. I would lose my job. I would lose my wife and friends. I don’t have close friends anymore. I have friends, but I don’t feel close to them. Some feel close to me. Red Parker is my friend, and I don’t feel close to him). I really don’t know
how
I would have disposed of Jane after taking her to bed with me in Red Parker’s apartment early one evening probably after cocktails. She’s only twenty-four. I can’t imagine what in the world I would want to talk to her about once we no longer had to talk about going to bed. She’s probably too young to understand there’d be nothing personal in the enmity and disgust I’d feel toward her afterward and in my never wanting to see or speak to her again. That’s happened to me before. She’d probably conclude it had something to do with her. I’d have her lovely blue eyes fastened upon me in wondering, repentant apology. I could not say to her outright—I like her too much for:

“Nothing—nothing—nothing, dammit. You didn’t do
anything
wrong. It has nothing at all to do with you. You aren’t important enough to affect me. Don’t you see?”

That might hurt her feelings too.

I would have to overcompensate with pleasantries
and consideration: I might even have to lay her again, just because I’m a real nice guy. That’s happened before too. (Or I might tell her my wife is undergoing tests for cancer and win some pity for myself that way. I’ve done that before also.) It’s why I don’t like to get involved with girls in the same office anymore. They’re there. (If only she worked somewhere else. I could use her often these days. But then I might not have her.) She would have Red Parker to contend with. (I’ve already told him I was thinking of laying her. He’s already told me he’s thinking of following me.) He hurts his women sometimes; he hits them now. He’ll get in trouble. The funniest part is that he really did not like his wife while she was alive and expected she would throw him out and ask for a divorce. He did not expect her to die in an automobile accident and leave him with three temperamental children. He tries to keep them away in boarding school. One or the other is always coming home. He doesn’t know what else to do with them except send them away to boarding school in the winter and to his wife’s relatives, camp, or on group journeys in the summer. Parker’s got money too, and so does his wife’s family. He used to have stronger connections in the company. He goes with prostitutes too now. I’ve caught him in bed with two at one time (two on one with him also? Is
everyone
but me doing it?), one of them white and one of them dark.