Sexus (26 page)

Taking my arm affectionately he led me back upstairs. “Henry,” says he, “we're going to be pals. You're going to tell me more about yourself—and you're going to let me help
you. You've got a wife—very beautiful too.” I gave an involuntary jerk. He tightened his grip on my arm and led me to the table.

“Henry, let's talk straight for a change. I know a thing or two, even if I don't look it.”
Pause.
“Get your wife out of that joint!”

I was just about to say, “What joint?” when he resumed: “A guy can get mixed up in all sorts of things and come out clean—sometimes. But a woman's different. You don't like to see her working there, with those dizzy fluffs, do you? Find out what's keeping her there. Don't get sore now . . . I'm not trying to hurt your feelings. I don't know anything about your wife—that is, any more than I've heard . . .”

“She's not my wife,” I blurted out.

“Well, whatever she is to you,” he said smoothly, as if that were quite an unimportant detail, “get her out of that joint! I'm telling you like a friend. I know what I'm talking about.”

I began to put two and two together, rapidly, fitfully. My mind shifted back to Florrie and Hannah, to their sudden exit. Was there going to be a raid, a shake-up—or a shakedown? Was he trying to warn me?

He must have divined what was going on in my head, for the next thing out of his mouth was this: “If she has to have a job let me try to find her something. She could do something else, couldn't she? An attractive girl like her . . .”

“Let's drop it,” I said, “and thanks for the tip.”

For a while we ate in silence. Then, apropos of nothing, Monahan took out the fat wad of greenbacks and peeled off two fifty-dollar bills. He placed them beside my plate. “Take them,” he said, “and put' em in your pocket. Let her try the theater, why don't you?” He lowered his head to shovel a forkful of spaghetti into his mouth. I picked up the bills and quietly shoved them into my trouser pocket.

As soon as I could free myself I set off to meet Mona in front of the dance hall. I was in a strange mood.

My head was spinning a bit as I rolled merrily along towards Broadway. I was determined to be cheerful, though something told me I had reason to be otherwise. The meal and the few parting shots that Monahan had succeeded in
driving home had sobered me up somewhat. I felt large and luxuriant, in a mood to enjoy my own thoughts.
Euphoric
, as Kronski would say. To me that always meant being happy for no reason. Just being happy, knowing you're happy, and staying happy no matter what anyone says or does. It wasn't alcoholic joy; the whiskies may have precipitated the mood, but nothing more. It wasn't some underneath self that was cropping out—it was rather an overhead self, if I might put it that way. With each step I took, the fumes of the liquor evaporated; my mind was growing almost frighteningly clear.

As I passed a theater a glancing look at a billboard brought back a familiar face. I knew who it was, the name and everything, and I was astonished but—well, to put it truthfully, I was so much more astonished by what was going on inside me that I hadn't time or room to be astonished by something that had happened to someone else. I would come back to
her
later, when the euphoria had passed away. And just as I was promising myself that, who did I run into head on but my old friend Bill Woodruff.

Hello hello, how are you, yes fine, long time since I saw you, what are you doing, how's the wife, see you again sometime, yes I'm in a hurry, sure I'll come up, so long, goodbye . . . it went like that, rat-a-tat-tat. Two solid bodies colliding in space at the wrong time, rubbing surfaces together, exchanging souvenirs, plugging in wrong numbers, promising and repromising, forgetting, parting, remembering again . . . hurried, mechanical, meaningless, and what the hell does it all add up to?

After ten years he looked just the same, Woodruff. I wanted to take a look at myself in the mirror—quick.
Ten years!
And he wanted all the news in a nutshell. Dumb bastard! A sentimentalist.
Ten years.
I ran back through the years, down a long twisted funnel of a corridor with distorted mirrors on either side. I got right to that spot in time and space where I had Woodruff fixed in my mind the way I would always see him, even in the next world. He was pinned there, as if he were a winged specimen under the microscope. That was where he revolved helplessly on his axis. And that's where
she
comes in—the one whose picture flashed through
my brain as I passed the theater. She was the one he was crazy about, the girl he couldn't live without, and everybody had to help him woo her, even his mother and father, even his cluck of a Prussian brother-in-law whose guts he hated.

Ida Verlaine.
Born to fit the name. She was just exactly the way her name sounded—pretty, vain, theatrical, faithless, spoiled, pampered, petted. Beautiful as a Dresden doll, only she had raven tresses and a Javanese slant to her soul. If she had a soul at all! Lived entirely in the body, in her senses, her desires—and she directed the show, the body show, with her tyrannical little will which poor Woodruff translated as some monumental force of character.

Ida, Ida . . . He used to chew our ears off about her. She was delicate in a perverse way, like one of Cranach's nudes. The body very fair, the hair very black, the soul tilted backwards, like a stone becoming dislodged from its Egyptian setting. They had disgraceful scenes during the courtship; Woodruff would often leave her in tears. The next day he would send her orchids or a beautiful lavaliere or a gigantic box of chocolates. Ida swallowed everything, like a pythoness. She was heartless and insatiable.

Eventually he prevailed on her to marry him. He must have bribed her, for it was obvious that she despised him. He built a beautiful little love nest which was far beyond his means, bought her the clothes and other things she craved, took her to the theater several nights a week, stuffed her with sweets, sat by her side and held her hand when she was having her menstrual pains, consulted a specialist if she had a cough, and in general played the fond, doting husband.

The more he did for her the less she cared for him. She was a monster from head to toe. Little by little it leaked out that she was frigid. None of us believed it of course, except Woodruff. He was to have the same experience later, with his second wife, and if he had lived long enough he would have had it with the third and fourth wives. With Ida his infatuation was so great that, if she had lost her legs, I don't think it would have altered his affection in the least—in fact, he would only have loved her the more.

For all his faults Woodruff was keen on friendship. There
were at least six of us whom he had taken to his bosom and whom he trusted implicitly. I was one of them—his oldest friend, as a matter of fact. I had the privilege of walking in and out of his home at will; I could eat, sleep, bathe, shave there. I was one of the family.

From the very beginning I disliked Ida, not because of her behavior towards Woodruff, but instinctively. Ida in turn was uneasy in my presence. She didn't quite know what to make of me. I never criticized her nor did I ever flatter her; I acted as though she were the wife of my friend, and nothing more. She wasn't satisfied with such an attitude, naturally. She wanted to bring me under her spell, make me walk the tightrope, as she had done with Woodruff and her other suitors. Oddly enough, I was never more immune to a woman's charms. I just didn't give a fuck for her, as a person, though I often wondered what she might be like as a piece of fuck, so to speak. I wondered about it in a detached way, but somehow it got across to her, got under her skin.

Sometimes, after passing the night at their home, she would complain aloud that she didn't want to be left alone with me. Woodruff would be standing at the door, ready to go to work, and she pretending to be worried. I'd be lying in bed waiting for her to bring me my breakfast. And Woodruff saying to her: “Don't talk that way, Ida. He's not going to harm you—I'd trust him with my life.”

Sometimes I'd burst out laughing and yell: “Don't worry, Ida, I'm not going to rape you. I'm impotent.”

“You impotent?”
she'd scream with pretended hysteria. “You're not impotent. You're a lecher.”

“Bring him his breakfast!” Woodruff would say, and off to work he'd go.

She hated the thought of waiting on me in bed. She didn't do it for her husband and she couldn't see why she should do it for me. To take breakfast in bed was something I never did, except at Woodruff's place. I did it expressly to annoy and humiliate her.

“Why don't you get up and come to the table?” she would say.

“I can't—I've got an erection.”

“Oh, stop talking about that thing. Can't you think of anything but sex?”

Her words implied that sex was horrible, nasty, simply odious to her, but her manner indicated quite the opposite. She was a lascivious bitch, frigid only because she had the heart of a whore. If I ran my hand up her leg when she put the tray on my lap she would say: “Are you satisfied? Take a good feel while you're at it. I wish Bill could see you, see what a loyal friend he has.”

“Why don't you tell him?” says I one day.

“He wouldn't believe me, the simp. He'd think I was trying to make him jealous.”

I would ask her to prepare the bath for me. She would pretend to demur but she would do it just the same. One day, while I was seated in the tub soaping myself, I noticed that she had forgotten the towels. “Ida,” I called, “bring me some towels!” She walked into the bathroom and handed me them. She had on a silk bathrobe and a pair of silk hose. As she stooped over the tub to put the towels on the rack her bathrobe slid open. I slid to my knees and buried my head in her muff. It happened so quickly that she didn't have time to rebel, or even to pretend to rebel. In a moment I had her in the tub, stockings and all. I slipped the bathrobe off and threw it on the floor. I left the stockings on—it made her more lascivious-looking, more the Cranach type. I lay back and pulled her on top of me. She was just like a bitch in heat, biting me all over, panting, gasping, wriggling like a worm on the hook. As we were drying ourselves she bent over and began nibbling at my prick. I sat on the edge of the tub and she kneeled at my feet gobbling it. After a while I made her stand up, bend over; then I let her have it from the rear. She had a small juicy cunt which fitted me like a glove. I bit the nape of her neck, the lobes of her ears, the sensitive spot on her shoulder, and as I pulled away I left the mark of my teeth on her beautiful white ass. Not a word spoken. When we had finished she went to her room and began dressing. I heard her humming softly to herself. I was quite amazed that she was capable of expressing her tenderness that way.

From that day on she only waited for Woodruff to go in order to throw herself on me.

“Aren't you afraid he might come back unexpectedly and find you in bed with me?” I asked once.

“He wouldn't believe his eyes. He'd think we were fooling.”

“He wouldn't think we were fooling if he felt this,” and I gave her a jolt that made her gasp.

“God, if he only knew how to take me! He's too eager. He takes it out like a broomstick and shoves it in before I've had a chance to feel anything. I just lie there and let him work it off—it's over in a jiffy. But with you I get hot before you even touch me. It's because you don't care, I suppose. You don't really like me, do you?”

“I like
this,”
said I, giving her a stiff jab. “I like your cunt, Ida . . . it's the best thing about you.”

“You dog,” she said. “I ought to hate you for that.”

“Why don't you hate me, then?”

“Oh, don't talk about it,” she murmured, cuddling closer and working herself up to a lather. “Just keep it there and hold me tight. Here, bite my breast . . . not too hard . . .
there,
that's it.” She reached for my hands and pressed my fingers into her crack. “Go on, do it, do it!” she muttered, her eyes rolling, her breath coming short.

A little later, at lunch: “Do you have to run off now? Can't you stay a little longer?”

“You want another crack at it, is that it?”

“Can't you put it more delicately? God, if Bill ever heard you say that!”

“You never wear any undies, do you? You're a slut, do you know it?”

I pulled her dress up and made her sit that way while I finished my coffee.

“Play with it a bit while I finish this.”

“You're filthy,” she said, but she did as I told her.

“Take your two fingers and open it up. I like the color of it. It's like coral inside. Just like your ears. You say he's got a terrific wang, Bill. I don't know how he ever gets it in there.” With this I reached for a candle on the dresser at my side and I handed it to her.

“Let's see if you can get it in all the way.”

She spread the other leg over the other arm of the chair and began to work it in. She was looking at herself intently, her lips parted as if on the verge of an orgasm. She began to move back and forth, then rolled her ass around. I pushed her chair back farther, got down on my knees and watched.

“You can make me do anything, you dirty devil.”

“You like it, don't you?”

She was on the point of coming off. I pulled the candle out and slipped three fingers inside her twat.

“Is it big enough for you?” She pulled my head close and bit my lips.

I stood up and unbuttoned my fly. In a jiffy she had it out and in her mouth. Gobble, gobble, like a hungry buzzard. I came in her mouth.

“God,” she said, choking and sputtering, “I never did that before.” She ran to the bathroom, as if she had swallowed poison.

I went inside and flung myself on the bed. I lit a cigarette and waited for her to join me. I knew it was going to be a long-drawn-out affair.