Authors: U
incapable of having children.
This much I have figured out: I want a woman I can fall in love
with who wants to have one or two children sometime in The Future.
And in the not so very distant future either, I might add, as I approach
age 28.
But who shall it be?
By permanently foreclosing the possibility of ever having a baby,
Jill is no longer a viable candidate.
It’s too bad, really. At 5’ 10", Jill is a big, beautiful Amazon. She
is slender, shapely, sexy, smart, and extremely political. We could be
a formidable pair.
I love those big round glasses she wears.
Very intellectual-looking. She also has a head full of thick, long,
lustrous brown hair, with shiny highlights. I like that too. She loves
to fuck and is truly gorgeous.
Moreover, Jill seems to have swept aside all doubts she previously
had about me and is eager to set up housekeeping. She asks why
should I move to Portland to run when there are a whole bunch of
legislative seats in Eugene?
Good question.
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No doubt Jill and I could form an exceptionally compatible
relationship, under different circumstances. At the very least, it might
be fun to play her and Megan off against each other for a while. But it
will never happen, I realize, as I write these words. Why waste
everybody’s time? Jill wants no children. For me that is an
insurmountable drawback.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t want a whole pack of kids, as my idiot
parents did from 1950-61. One or two is plenty. But I want a woman
who wants the same.
I’ve given this issue a great deal of thought, ever since my
unfortunate affair with the other one. Whatever else she might have
done, she prodded me into thinking about my goals in life with much
greater clarity and force than I had ever given them before.
What I want, insofar as a writer-politician is allowed to have one, is
a normal, happy, sane, generally middle class life. I want to be with a
woman I love and trust. Together we will enjoy a loving family life.
I know such a thing exists. The two idiots were not the only parents
in the neighborhood. We had eyes and could compare them to others.
The way I see it, your role as husband and father is to love and
serve. Or at least, that is how it should be.
I saw that "love and serve" motto on a church sign in Newport. I
like it for some reason. It appeals to me. For a man who doesn’t plan
to be a juvenile all his life, I don’t see how things can be any other
way.
On another note, I love to write but I sure ain’t gonna depend on it
for a living. I will always maintain some sort of suitable employment,
preferably government related. Doing my job at the welfare office
takes perhaps one tenth of my mental powers, now that Megan has
shown me the ropes. I intend to keep on working at a job like this
until I become an outstanding literary success, however long that
might take.
Sure hope it doesn’t take too long.
So there you have it. I ain’t Jack Kerouac, Charles Bukowski, a
beatnik, or some fucking political radical. I’m not even a hippie, if in
fact I ever was one.
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I am only me, Patrick J. Compton, nobody else. I intend to support
myself and I’m pretty sure I can be faithful to one woman, if she can
be faithful to me. I want a woman to make love to and live with and
sleep with and hang around with and trust implicitly.
In my darkest moments, I suspect that I am probably
unmarriageable. Every time I start to fall in love with a woman, she
does something I can’t forgive. I am afraid that I may never find one
to whom I can give my all.
Jesus, I’m beat.
That’s all for now.
* * * *
February 6, 1979
Mary Wong came over again last night to see me. We didn’t do it
again because she said her pussy was still too sore from yesterday.
"You’re so big," she said, giving my crotch a playful squeeze.
Then she unbuttoned my fly and gave me another wonderful sucking,
down on her knees between my legs, just like before. I offered to
return the favor but she said no.
Mary Wong is interesting to me chiefly because she is Asian in
origin. Based on my recent experiences with her, I would also venture
to say that she is a pure female, entirely devoted to her own cause, and
only paying attention to me because she thinks I might be useful in
advancing that cause.
Why are women such a mixed bag? I’ve had enough experience
with them (and myself) at this point to see the more obvious pitfalls
but I still stumble over less obvious ones.
And goddamn, every time I turn around, there is yet another
woman, presenting herself as a potential partner. I mean, I’m not
even trying that hard. In most cases, I’m doing the opposite of trying.
I’m trying not to try.
Truth is, I’m much more interested in politics and science and
literature and current events than I am in the desultory opinions of the
young women I come across.
In the case of Mary Wong, I am particularly intrigued by her totally
self-centered antics, and rather amused by her efforts to get ahead, by
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whatever means necessary. There is an engine inside this little
Chinese chick, driving her come what may.
But whatever defects I perceive in Mary’s personality, she is also
one eager little cum sponge, with no apparent inhibitions that I can
discern.
It’s really quite amazing. Mary is pleasant enough to look at,
though by no means beautiful, certainly nowhere near the Megan
category. She stands maybe a half inch over five feet, and can’t
weigh more than 90 pounds. Her long black hair is as straight as a
ruler, and her little body is slender and lithe.
Hardly any boobs at all, but these big, juicy, sensitive nipples,
which get hard as filberts when I pinch, squeeze, or suck them.
Best of all is Mary’s cock-sucking, which she has elevated to the
state of a high art, usually fingering her bud with her right hand while
she sucks my cock, holding it in her left.
As a change of pace, I proposed that we fuck, either doggy-style or
missionary position.
What Mary wanted instead was for me to suck her little titties while
she fingerbanged herself. Twice she came from doing that alone. It
was kinda fun, actually. More or less a variation of
Milk The Cow
, if I
am not mistaken.
Got some actual work done on
The Dark City
. That was after
Megan called and we argued for a bit. Megan also wanted to argue at
work today but I refused to cooperate. She seems really upset and is
apparently aware (from that fucking big mouth Nick, no doubt) that
I’ve been doing it with Mary and Jill.
I reiterated that this new arrangement is entirely Megan’s own
creation, not mine. I added that if she is unhappy with the
consequences of her actions, that’s too bad.
As I said before, I don’t give a good goddamn either way. Megan
brought this situation on herself by scurrying back to her husband and
now she must endure the fallout. If she’s going to fuck Mark again I
am going to fuck somebody else.
Simple as that.
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Under no circumstances would I have slept with another woman if
Megan had been loyal to me. But she was not loyal. Originally, she
left Mark because she said she loved me and then she changed her
mind, leaving me in the lurch. Therefore I must respond.
See how she likes it. There is no advantage in being the gentle,
forgiving lover. Fuck it. There are no rules in this game that I know
of, save one:
If she fucks somebody else, you fuck somebody else.
On another front, I’m hoping the next draft of
The Dark City
will
go faster than the first. I want to have the whole project completed by
summer. That would leave the decks clear for my return to Portland,
where I intend to make a run for the state legislature.
* * * *
February 8, 1979
Goddamnit! Now I’m sick. It started right after I had words with
Megan on the phone Tuesday night. I was restless and hot afterwards
and felt totally wiped out the next day. For two days now I’ve been
unable to eat. Everything comes right back up.
Mary Wong was sympathetic but says she can’t afford to get sick
and so is staying away. Nick believes that it is some kind of flu.
Harry also says that a whole bunch of people at the post office are
down with the flu as well.
Nick said he was worried about getting sick so he stayed home
from work today too. But then he went and ran errands all day,
getting his poetry fest organized.
Megan came by late in the afternoon to check on me. She said
nothing major is happening at the office and that she processed my
late-arriving EML’s, so not to worry about them.
She brought a thermometer and took my temperature – 102. I
expressed surprise that she didn’t bring a rectal thermometer and she
laughed.
She fluffed up my pillows and brewed some tea, from a batch of
peppermint that grows in Josie’s yard. We talked for a while and then
she went back to work. Her concern for my health was touching. I
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asked whether she was worried about coming down with the flu
herself but she shrugged that off.
You know, I’ll bet she’d make a wonderful mom someday. I felt
much better after her visit.
Been thinking about my financial situation. I’ve got $1439 in the
credit union right now. Beginning March 1, I will have them take out
$100 each month instead of only $50. I’m finally caught up on my
student loans. I think a decent run in District 13 should cost about
$2000.
Originally, I had planned to use that money to buy a house here in
Florence, for Megan and me. That is definitely off. I am planning to
leave town.
I’m feeling stifled here.
* * * *
February 10, 1979
A rainy, gusty, windswept day at the beach. Dark vapory clouds
scudding overhead, from west to east. Nick’s sister Lisa came by to
wash clothes. We talked for a while. Nick and Lisa are so different
you can hardly believe they are relatives, let alone brother and sister.
Nick ran around meanwhile, getting new gutters for the house. I let
Nick use my VW bus, which for some reason he loves to drive and is
always asking to borrow. The lender says Nick must upgrade the
house before he can have the money he needs to finish buying out
Clarice.
The rainstorm is really belting the joint right now. Lisa is
downstairs, listening to Rod Stewart. The first cut is the deepest.
Baby, I know. The first cut is the deepest.
Rod’s cover of an anthem of lost love.
Actually, he’s wrong, though.
It’s the last cut that is truly the deepest.
Feeling better. No longer so sick. Dreaming away the day,
thinking about Megan and life in general. Just about ready to fire up a
reefer and start typing. I fucking love to write.
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What else is there for me to do? At times I feel very lucky, very
gifted. A writer. Yep. That’s me. As Art Carney once said on an old
Honeymooners episode:
"Why oh why were these two hands gifted with such amazing
talent?" Of course, he was talking about playing the piano but the
concept is the same.
Work yesterday was an absolute and total bitch. I nearly quit and
walked out the door. Going up to Portland for a visit next weekend.
Gotta get out of here.
* * * *
February 19, 1979
At German Auto in Portland getting the bus worked on. A wheel
bearing went dry. Man, what a racket it made. Metal on metal.
These vehicles are always breaking down. I’ve had this stupid
machine for two years now and have burned $1500 on a variety of
repairs.
Saw Michael, Lloyd, and Randy yesterday.
We got stoned and ate these giant hamburgers at Stanich’s on NE
45th. Big beef patties with cheddar and a hard fried egg. We drank a
couple pitchers of beer, and then played pool at Sam’s Billiards.
Lloyd is really whipped on his new Jean girlfriend. He had to call her
twice from the pool hall, apparently to obtain permission to go wee-
wee.
My friends, with the exceptional of Michael, (who appears to be
asexual) are all getting into these heavy monogamous relationships.