Women (36 page)

Dinky got up, went out and got his instrument from the car. He sat down cross-legged on the rug and began tuning that thing. We were going to get some real live entertainment. Soon he began. He had a full, strong voice. It bounced off the walls. The song was about a woman. About a heartbreak between Dinky and some woman. It was not really too bad. Maybe up on stage with people paying it would be all right. But it was harder to tell when they were sitting on the rug in front of you. It was much too personal and embarrassing. Yet, I decided he was not really too bad. But he was in trouble. He was aging. The golden curls were not quite as golden and the wide-eyed innocence drooped a little. He would soon be in trouble.

We applauded.

“Too much, man,” I said.

“You really like it, Hank?”

I waved my hand in the air.

“You know, I’ve always dug your stuff,” he said.

“Thanks, man.”

He jumped into the next song. It also was about a woman. His woman, an ex-woman: she’d been out all night. It had some humor but I wasn’t sure if it was deliberate. Anyhow, Dinky finished and we applauded. He went into the next.

Dinky was inspired. He had a lot of volume. His feet twisted and curled in his tennis shoes and he let us hear it. Actually, it was him somehow. He didn’t look right and he didn’t quite sound right, yet the product itself was much better than what one usually heard. It made me feel low that I couldn’t praise him without reservation. But then if you lied to a man about his talent just because he was sitting across from you, that was the most unforgivable lie of them all, because that was telling him to go on, to continue which was the worst way for a man without real talent to waste his life, finally. But many people did just that, friends and relatives mostly.

Dinky rocked into the next song. He was going to give us all ten. We listened and applauded but at least my applause was the most restrained.

“That 3rd line, Dinky, I didn’t like it,” I said.

“But it’s needed, you see, because . . .”

“I know.”

Dinky went on. He sang all his songs. It took quite some time. There were rests in between. When the New Year finally came in Dinky and Janis and Sara and Hank still were together. But thankfully the guitar case was closed. A hung jury.

Dinky and Janis left about 1 am and Sara and I went to bed. We began hugging and kissing. I was, as I’ve explained, a kiss freak. I almost couldn’t handle it. Great kissing was seldom, rare. They never did it well in the movies or on t.v. Sara and I were in bed, body rubbing, and with the heavy good kissing. She really let herself go. It had always been the same in the past. Drayer Baba was watching up there—she’d grab my cock and I’d play with her pussy and then she’d end up rubbing my cock along her cunt and in the morning the skin of my cock would be red and raw with rubbing.

We got to the rubbing part. And then suddenly she took a hold of my cock and slid it into her cunt.

I was astounded. I didn’t know what to do.

Up and down, right? Or rather, in and out. It was like riding a bicycle: you never forget. She was a truly beautiful woman. I couldn’t hold back. I grabbed her golden red hair and pulled Sara’s mouth to mine and I came.

She got up and went to the bathroom and I looked up at my blue bedroom ceiling and I said, Drayer Baba, forgive her.

But since he never talked and he never touched money I could neither expect an answer nor could I pay him.

Sara came out of the bathroom. Her figure was slight, she was thin and tan, but totally entrancing. Sara got into the bed and we kissed. It was an easy open-mouthed love kiss.

“Happy New Year,” she said.

We slept, wrapped together.

101

I had been corresponding with Tanya and on the evening of January 5th she phoned. She had a high excited sexy voice like Betty Boop used to have. “I’m flying down tomorrow evening. Will you pick me up at the airport?”

“How will I recognize you?”

“I’ll wear a white rose.”

“Great.”

“Listen, are you sure you want me to come?”

“Yes.”

“All right, I’ll be there.”

I put down the phone. I thought of Sara. But Sara and I weren’t married. A man had a right. I was a writer. I was a dirty old man. Human relationships didn’t work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers. Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the death—in a cesspool. The most one could hope for in a human relationship, I decided, was two and one-half years. King Mongut of Siam had 9,000 wives and concubines; King Solomon of the Old Testament had 700 wives; August the Strong of Saxony had 365 wives, one for each day of the year. Safety in numbers.

I dialed Sara’s number. She was in.

“Hi,” I said.

“I’m glad you called,” she said, “I was just thinking of you.”

“How’s the old health food Inn doing?”

“It wasn’t a bad day.”

“You ought to raise your prices. You give your stuff away.”

“If I just break even I don’t have to pay taxes.”

“Listen, somebody phoned me tonight.”

“Who?’

“Tanya.”

“Tanya?”

“Yes, we’ve been writing. She likes my poems.”

“I saw that letter. The one she wrote. You left it lying around. She’s the one who sent you the photo with her cunt showing?”

“Yes.”

“And she’s coming to see you?”

“Yes.”

“Hank, I’m sick, I’m worse than sick. I don’t know what to do.”

“She’s coming. I said I’d meet her at the airport.”

“What are you trying to do? What does it mean?”

“Maybe I’m not a good man. There are all kinds and degrees, you know.”

“That’s no answer. What about you, what about me? How about us? I hate to sound like a soap opera but I’ve let my feelings get involved. ...”

“She’s coming down. Is this the end for us, then?”

“Hank, I don’t know. I think so. I can’t handle it.”

“You’ve been very kind to me. I’m not sure I always know what I’m doing.”

“How long is she going to be staying here?”

“Two or 3 days, I guess.”

“Don’t you know how I’ll feel?”

“I think so. . . .”

“O.K., phone me when she’s gone, then we’ll see.”

“Right.”

I walked into the bathroom and looked at my face. It looked terrible. I clipped some white hairs out of my beard and some from the hair around my ears. Hello, Death. But I’ve had almost 6 decades. I’ve given you so many clean shots at me that I should have been yours long ago. I want to be buried near the racetrack . . . where I can hear the stretch run.

The next evening I was at the airport, waiting. I was early so I went to the bar. I ordered my drink and heard somebody sobbing. I looked around. At a table in the rear a woman was sobbing. She was a young Negress—very light in color—in a tight blue dress and she was intoxicated. She had her feet up on a chair and her dress was pulled back and there were these long smooth sexy legs. Every guy in the bar must have had a hard-on. I couldn’t stop looking. She was red hot. I could visualize her on my couch, showing all that leg. I bought another drink and went over. I stood there trying not to let my hard-on show.

“Are you all right?” I asked. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yeah, buy me a stinger.”

I came back with her stinger and sat down. She had taken her feet off the chair. I sat next to her in the booth. She lit a cigarette and pressed her flank to mine. I lit a cigarette. “My name’s Hank,” I said. “I’m Elsie,” she said. I pressed my leg against hers, moved it up and down slowly. “I’m into plumbing supplies,” I said. Elsie didn’t answer.

“The son-of-a-bitch left me,” she finally said, “I hate him, my god. You don’t know how I hate him!”

“It happens to almost everybody 6 or 8 times.”

“Probably, but that doesn’t help me. I just want to kill him.”

“Take it easy now.”

I reached down and squeezed her knee. My hard-on was so strong it hurt. I was damn near ready to come.

“Fifty dollars,” Elsie said.

“For what?”

“Any way you want it.”

“Do you work the airport?”

“Yeah, I sell Girl Scout cookies.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you were in trouble. I have to meet my mother in 5 minutes.”

I got up and walked away. A hooker! When I looked back Elsie had her feet up on the chair again, showing more than ever. I almost went back. God damn you anyhow, Tanya.

Tanya’s plane made its approach, landed without crashing. I stood and waited, a little bit behind the crush of greeters. What would she be like? I didn’t want to think about what I was like. The first passengers came through and I waited.

Oh, look at that one! If that were only Tanya!

Or her. My god! All that haunch. Dressed in yellow, smiling.

Or that one … in my kitchen washing the dishes.

Or that one . . . screaming at me, one breast fallen loose.

There had been some real women on that plane.

I felt somebody tap me on the back. I turned and behind me was this very small child. She looked about 18, thin long neck, a bit round-shouldered, long nose, but breasts, yes, and legs and a behind, yes.

“It’s me,” she said.

I kissed her on the cheek. “Got any baggage?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go to the bar. I hate waiting for baggage.”

“All right.”

“You’re so small. . . .”

“Ninety pounds.”

“Jesus. . . .” I’d slice her in half. It would be like a child rape.

We went into the bar and took a booth. The waitress asked for Tanya’s I.D. She had it ready.

“You look 18,” the waitress said.

“I know,” Tanya answered in her high Betty Boop voice. “I’ll have a whiskey sour.”

“Give me a cognac,” I told the waitress.

Two booths over the high-yellow was still sitting with her dress pulled up around her ass. Her panties were pink. She kept staring at me. The waitress arrived with the drinks. We sipped them. I saw the high-yellow get up. She wobbled toward our booth. She put both hands flat on our table and leaned over. Her breath stank of booze. She looked at me.

“So this is your mother, huh, you mother-fucker!”

“Mother couldn’t make it.”

Elsie looked at Tanya. “What do you charge, darling?”

“Fuck off,” said Tanya.

“You give good head?”

“Keep it up. I’ll turn you from yellow to black and blue.”

“How ya gonna do it? With a bean bag?”

Then Elsie walked off shaking her ass at us. She barely made it back to her booth and then she extended those glorious legs again. Why couldn’t I have both of them? King Mongut had 9,000 wives. Think of it: 365 days a year divided into 9,000. No arguments. No menstrual periods. No psychic overload. Just feast and feast and feast. It must have been very hard for King Mongut to die, or very easy. There could not have been an in-between.

“Who’s that?” Tanya asked.

“That is Elsie.”

“You know her?”

“She tried to pick me up. She wants $50 for a blow job.”

“She pisses me . . . I’ve known a lot of groids but . . .”

“What’s a groid?”

“A groid is a black.”

“Oh.”

“You never heard that?”

“Never.”

“Well, I’ve known a lot of groids.”

“O.K.”

“She’s got great legs, though. She almost gets me hot.”

“Tanya, legs are only a part of it.”

“Which part?”

“The biggest.”

“Let’s go get the luggage …”

As we left Elsie hollered, “Goodbye, mother!”

I didn’t know which of us she was speaking to.

Back at my place we sat on the couch drinking.

“Are you unhappy that I came?” Tanya asked.

“I’m not unhappy with you …”

“You had a girl friend. You wrote me about her. Are you still together?”

“I don’t know.”

“You want me to leave?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Listen, I think you’re a great writer. You’re one of the few writers I can read.”

“Yeah? Who are the other bastards?”

“I can’t think of their names right now.”

I leaned over and kissed her. Her mouth was open and wet. She gave up easily. She was a number. Ninety pounds. It was like an elephant and a churchmouse.

Tanya got up with her drink, hiked up her skirt, and straddled my legs, facing me. She wasn’t wearing pants. She began rubbing her cunt against my hard-on. We grabbed and kissed and she kept rubbing. It was very effective. Wriggle, little snake child!

Then Tanya unzipped my pants. She took my cock and pushed it into her cunt. She began riding. She could do it, all 90 pounds of her. I could hardly think. I made small half-hearted movements, meeting her now and then. At times we kissed. It was gross: I was being raped by a child. She moved it around. She had me cornered, trapped. It was mad. Flesh alone, without love. We were filling the air with the stink of pure sex. My child, my child. How can your small body do all these things? Who invented woman? For what ultimate purpose? Take this shaft! And we were perfect strangers! It was like fucking your own shit.

She worked at it like a monkey on a string. Tanya was a faithful reader of all my works. She bore down. That child knew something. She could sense my anguish. She worked away furiously, playing with her clit with one finger, her head thrown back. We were caught up together in the oldest and most exciting game of all. We came together and it lasted and lasted until I thought my heart would stop. She fell against me, tiny and frail. I touched her hair. She was sweating. Then she pulled herself off me and went to the bathroom.

Child rape, finalized. They taught children well nowadays. Rapist raped. A final justice. Was she a “liberated” woman? No, she was simply red hot.

Tanya came out. We had another drink. Damn it, she began to laugh and chat, almost as if nothing had happened. Yes, that was it. It had simply been some exercise for her, like jogging or swimming.

Tanya said, “I think I’m going to have to move out of where I live. Rex is giving me a hard time.”