Authors: U
jokes for the zillionth time. I find myself modifying them just to
freshen them up.
Yes, the proof is right there in the pudding.
Lots of work to do around the cabin now that the beast is put aside.
Many resolutions to make.
Number One: Must quit smoking and drinking so much.
Also gotta get more sleep.
Walk on the beach. Take the plunge. If I’m going to sell this book,
I’ll need to look and feel my best.
* * * *
May 22, 1978
Winding down. Still pecking away on the pages, getting them
ready. The typist did a good job on the sample chapter. I was very
pleased and only had a few corrections for her. I believe she can be
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relied on for the final work. I intend to dally a bit at this stage. I want
it to be exactly right.
How about this thing? Two and one half years in the making, off
and on, anyway. I will unveil the most significant product of my
private literature. In the end, it’s the work that counts.
A zany comedy is how I see life. Slapstick. My novel
The Dark
City
answers the critical question – Am I who?
Been on the wagon for the last week. I’m sick of drinking. It
hardly affects me anymore. The same with dope. Why bother when
you can hardly feel it? Chocolate is almost better.
Sex is the best of all.
Anyway, it is written. The fabulous new draft. I daresay there is
no feeling quite so satisfying as that of completing a book.
Let me add it to the cloying swamp of modern lit. People are so
fucking serious it’s ridiculous. What a bunch of dreck they write. I
can’t stand all that bullshit crap.
* * * *
May 24, 1978
On the very subject mentioned one sentence above, there is a stupid
slattern of a welfare client making life miserable for everyone at the
office, me included. She is trying to bully us into giving her some
extra money. Delia Cordell is her name. A fat idiotic pig and the
mother of two boys currently in foster care. To keep her welfare
checks rolling in, Delia recently gave birth to a third child.
Never mind that the father or fathers of her children are all
unknown. Whoever the father of this latest child is, he should be
castrated.
If it were up to me, the state would simply relieve Delia of her
children and she should be sterilized. That would be in the best
interests of all concerned.
She only has children so she can get free money from the state and
thereby avoid getting a job. You could say she is an extreme example
of my mother, one generation removed.
The state, as represented by a variety of child protection workers, is
determined to give Delia every possible chance. But this horrid
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creature is beyond redemption. Alone in her trailer and after a few
beers, she kicked the living snot out of her six and seven year old
boys.
More hideous still, there is also evidence of ugly sexual abuse
involving the insertion of weird objects into Billy and Bobby
Cordell’s rectums. Delia’s CPU worker Linda Zale says enough is
enough.
Linda is seeking to have the court terminate Delia’s parental rights
before the boys become totally demented like their mother. And
they’re going to watch the bitch like a hawk with the new baby.
Megan and I talked to Linda at the office today. Hmmm… Linda is
quite the fox, I must say.
Beautiful, single and very capable.
Long brown hair and a body that will just not quit. Almost exactly
the same age as Megan, making her a year older than me. Linda’s
done this CPU thing for the past five years and is leaving in
September. She’s had it.
Linda’s destination is Spokane, where she will be attending law
school at Gonzaga. The loss here is great, and it’s not just the abused
children who will mourn.
I’m still winding down from my book project. Gotta quit smoking.
Today is the day.
* * * *
May 25, 1978
No cigarettes so far today. As I write, I can feel the nicotine hunger
affecting my body. I want the drug, I want nicotine in my lungs. But
I shall not relent.
I hate those motherfucking coffin nails.
Worked my ass off today at the office.
Yes,
The Dark City
is complete. It is written. I’m off the kick for
the time being. I’ve stopped writing so I can concentrate on my
physical well-being and get a little bit more involved in politics.
There’s a crucial central committee meeting coming up this summer.
The current state chair, Jim Kozlowski, is running for re-election and
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John Thomas is fielding an opponent against him. That should be
amusing, John going after Kozlowski.
Meanwhile, I’m making notes for my next project. It’s really
amazing how much stuff I can get done when I have no woman in my
life to boss me around. Even with a forty hour per week job, my
notebooks fill and my typewriter produces pages.
If I were still living with Leanne or somebody like her, I’d be
getting nothing done and my entire paycheck would be at her disposal.
This time I want to have an extensive outline prepared before I
begin to write. I want to be a whole lot more sensible, more mature.
The Dark City
just sort of forced itself out of me. Next time I intend
to be more focused.
The humor has to be more up front, wiser, and more gentle.
Enough with the sarcastic wisecracks.
Stories themselves are timeless. They never change. I wonder
where it will end. Patrick the Writer. The fucking goddamned writer.
Sometimes I feel so driven, so desperate. Writing this book has
changed me emotionally. But it is a terrific source of insight. My
poor brain burns.
It so happens that my most enduring pleasures have been
intellectual ones. Mind and memory admit no equal. To write is the
finest thing. The stark lunacy of it all. My paper monologue. My
comic fiction.
* * * *
May 27, 1978
Going to Portland. I have many things to get done while I am in
the big town. Must remember to get a new Zippy comic book and
also some new Inner City Romances. Also gotta buy a new roach clip
and hunt for some stuff at my mother’s house. I want to find those
slides of Mick’s mushroom hunting trips.
I want some good pictures of ps. semilanceata for a possible
magazine article. I think it’s a timely idea.
Liberty Cap Mushrooms: The Psilocybin Harvest of 1978.
Chesley has a new address up in Northeast. Randy Thune has
moved to a new place in Southeast with his crabby Japanese wife.
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The only good thing about Wilma near as I can tell is that she always
has excellent reefer.
I’ve pretty much settled on a letter for the State Central Committee
election. Typewritten. Shiny new envelopes. Nice new stamps.
Something the precinct people will read.
* * * *
May 30, 1978
One wild weekend in Portland.
On Friday night, Chesley and I partied with his two chubby
neighbors, Debbie and Denise. I would have been content to merely
chat with Denise.
But when Debbie and Chesley went upstairs to have sex, the words,
"Goodnight, you guys," were barely out of my mouth before Denise
was all over me.
I suppose I could have said no but I didn’t.
"Mmm ... Mmm..." Denise’s tongue wormed into my mouth like a
snake. It tasted like a combination of Dentyne, nachos, and
Budweiser beer. Not the worst three flavors in the world, I decided,
kissing Denise back.
Down the hall in the other bedroom, I could hear Chesley and
Denise’s roommate Debbie giggling and talking.
Though admittedly desperate for male companionship of any sort,
Debbie is still a bit of a spitfire, apparently.
"Okay, I’ll show my boobs to you," I heard Debbie saying to
Chesley. "But first I want to see your thing."
"Driving a hard bargain, eh?" Chesley answered. "But what if
looking at your boobs isn’t all I want to do?"
He made kissing noises.
"You’re horrible!" Debbie replied, laughing.
The door slammed shut, leaving me to concentrate on Denise.
As women went, Denise really wasn’t all that bad. In another
universe, she’d be worth considering. I’m in love with you Duh-
neece, Scooby Do. In truth, she wasn’t even really fat.
What she had was an abundance, a solid voluptuousness, a
generously proportioned package of body, boobs, bottom, and bush.
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In many respects, a figure similar to Leanne’s, the kind of pudgy
nubility the cartoonist R. Crumb adores.
Come to think of it, I kinda like those gals too.
From the sofa cushions in the living room, it didn’t take us long to
work our way into Denise’s bedroom, leaving articles of clothing on
the floor along the way.
Inside, we stripped to the buff, whereupon Denise yanked me under
the covers. I decided I wasn’t going to be in any hurry to fuck her,
though, that I would first see how turned on I could get her before we
reached that stage.
Denise seemed in no great hurry either, and appeared to enjoy
kissing quite a lot.
Though eagerly affectionate, Denise was a handful, twisting and
squirming under my caresses.
Nor did she make a move to touch my cock, which surprised me.
Breaking the kiss, I said, "This is fun. But is there anything special
you would like me to do?"
"Uh, you’re asking me?"
"Uh huh."
Denise took my hand and brought it to her pussy. I rubbed her clit
and dipped my finger in and out, pleased to see that she was nice and
juicy. While she squirmed and writhed, I brought my mouth to her
ear, whispering:
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Not any more. We broke up."
"Did you ever have sex with him?"
"Not very often, but I liked it. I sometimes think maybe I was too
big for him."
"Oh, that’s ridiculous. You’re just a big girl, Denise. I happen to
think you are very cute."
"Gosh, thanks. You’re just about the cutest guy I’ve ever kissed.
Same with Debbie and your friend Chesley. She’s never had a
boyfriend as good-looking as Chesley."
"Are you kidding? Chesley’s about as good-looking as a baboon," I
said, just to get her reaction.
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"No, he’s not. Don’t be mean. He’s cute. Me and Debbie have
watched him since he moved in. Debbie’s in love with him."
"All right. Have it your way."
We kissed some more. These were some mighty hot kisses, I
daresay. Lots of inventive tongue action. I simply could not kiss
Denise enough. She was one highly affectionate large-sized phone
operator chick.
Circumstances permitting, I’ll bet Denise would make a nice,
sweet, lovely wifey.
But not for me. I might get married eventually but it won’t be to
Denise. Nevertheless, on that night, right until the very end, she was
sweet and fun. A real turn on.
What does society have against big girls, anyway? If anything,
they probably make more reliable breeders than the Twiggy-type
waifs you see in magazines and on TV.
Later that evening, when I finally sank my cock into the hot,
clinging, tender pussy of Denise, I can say without reservation that
hers was as tight as any pussy I’ve ever fucked.
Like Bukowski, says, women are magic! Of course, every one I’ve
ever had sex with has been exposed to my normal male chauvinist
thought processes. I imagine what it would be like to be married to
her, fucking her and nobody else, for years on end, having children,
growing old, and ultimately dying in her arms. Hmmm.
The problem was, however, even while I was fucking Denise,
thrusting in and out of her hot pussy, my mind was on another
woman, a slim, slender one, in a town many miles distant.
We were still fucking away pleasantly when Denise suddenly asked
if we could stop.
"May I suck your cock?" She asked.
"Okay," I said. "I suppose."
It seemed to me that Denise was not looking well. But like a
soldier, she knelt in front of me, taking my cock in her mouth and
gently cupping my balls. This felt very good.
Denise was pretty good at cock sucking, taking it deep with every
thrust.
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"Aaaaaeeeaahh!" I cried, spilling my cum. "EEAAAHH!"