Sexus (64 page)

O'Mara on the other hand was like a practiced snake. He had a long curved penis which slid in like greased lightning and unlatched the door of the womb. He knew how to control it. But she didn't like his way of going about it either. He used his penis as if it were a detachable apparatus. To stand over her while she was lying abed with her legs open, panting for it, to force her to admire it, take it in her mouth or shove it in her armpit, was his delight. He made her feel that she was at his mercy—or rather at the mercy of that long slimy thing he carried between his legs. He could get an erection any time—at will, so to speak. He wasn't carried away by passion—his passion was concentrated in his prick. He could be very tender too, for all his practiced approach, but somehow it wasn't a tenderness that touched her—it was studied, part of his technique. He wasn't “romantic”—that's how she put it. He was too damned proud of his sexual prowess. Just the same, because it was an unusual prick, because it was long and bent, because it could hold out indefinitely, because it could make her lose herself, she was unable to resist. He had only to take it out and put it in her hand and she was
done for. It was disgusting too that sometimes when he took it out it was only semierect. Even then it was bigger, silkier, snakier than Arthur Raymond's prick, even when he was at white heat. O'Mara had a sullen sort of prick. He was Scorpio. He was like some primeval creature that waited in ambush, some huge, patient, crawling reptile which hid in the swamps. He was cold and fecund; he lived only to fuck, but he could bide his time, could wait years between fucks if necessary. Then, when he had you, when he closed his jaws on you, he devoured you piecemeal. That was O'Mara . . .

I looked up to see Mona standing at the threshold with tear-stained face. Arthur Raymond was behind her, holding the big awkward bundle in his two hands. A broad grin had spread over his face. He was pleased with himself, terribly pleased.

It wasn't like me to get up and make a demonstration, especially in Arthur Raymond's presence.

“Well,” said Mona, “haven't you anything to say? Aren't you sorry?”

“Sure he is,” said Arthur Raymond, fearful that she would bolt again.

“I'm not asking
you,”
she snapped, “I'm asking
him”

I rose from the bed and went towards her. Arthur Raymond looked on sheepishly. He would have given anything to be in my position—I knew that. As we embraced, Mona turned her head and over her shoulder she murmured: “Why don't you leave?” His face grew red as a beet. He tried to stammer out some apology but the words stuck in his throat. As he turned away Mona slammed the door shut. “The fool!” she said. “I'm sick of this place!”

As she pressed her body to mine I felt a hunger and desperation in her of a new kind. The separation, brief as it was, had been real to her. And it had frightened her too. Nobody had ever permitted her to walk away like that. She had not only been humiliated, she had become curious.

It's interesting to observe how repetitive is woman's behavior in such situations. Almost invariably there comes the question—
“Why
did you do such a thing?” Or—
“How
could you treat me like that?” If it's the man speaking he says:

“Let's not talk about it . . . let's forget it!” But the woman reacts as if she had been shocked in her vital centers, as if perhaps she might never recover from the mortal stab. With her everything is based on the purely personal. She talks egotistically, but it is not the ego which prompts her reproaches—it's WOMAN. That the man she loves, the man to whom she has attached herself, the man whom she is creating in her own image, should suddenly become depossessed is something unthinkable. If it were a question of another woman, if there were a rival, yes, then she might understand. But to unshackle oneself for no reason, to relinquish so easily—just because of a little feminine trick!—that mystifies her. Then everything must be built on sand . . . then there is no firm grip anywhere.

“You knew I wouldn't stay away, didn't you?” she was saying, half-smiling, half-weeping.

To answer yes or no was equally compromising. Either way I would only be entraining a long argument. So I said:
“He
thought you would come back. I didn't know. I thought maybe I had lost you.”

The last phrase impressed her favorably. “To lose her”—that meant she was precious. It also implied that by coming back of her own will she was making a gift of herself, the most precious gift she could offer me.

“How could I do that?” she said softly, giving me a melting look. “I only want to know that you care for me. I do silly things sometimes . . . I feel as though I need proofs of your love . . . it's so silly.” She gripped me tight, blotting herself against me. In a moment she was passionate, her hand fumbling with my fly. “You did want me to come back?” she murmured, extricating my cock and placing it against her warm cunt. “Say it! I want to hear you say it!”

I said it. I said it with all the conviction I could muster.

“Now fuck me!” she whispered, and her mouth twisted savagely. She lay crosswise on the bed, her skirt around her neck. “Pull it off!” she begged, too feverish to find the snaps. “I want you to fuck me as though you never had me before.”

“Wait a minute,” I said, pulling out. “I'm going to take these damned things off first.”

“Quick, quick!” she pleaded. “Put it in all the way. Jesus, Val, I could never do without you . . . Yes, good, good . . . that's it.” She was squirming like an eel. “Oh Val, you must never let me go. Tight, hold me tight! Oh God, I'm coming . . . hold me, hold me.” I waited for the spasm to die down. “You didn't come, did you?” she said. “Don't come yet. Leave it in. Don't move.” I did as she wished; it was jammed in tight and I could feel the silk pennants inside her fluttering like hungry birds. “Wait a minute, dear . . . wait.” She was gathering her forces for another explosion. Her eyes had become large and moist, relaxed, one might say. As the orgasm approached they grew concentrated, darting wildly from one corner to the other, as though frantically seeking for something to fasten on. “Do it, do it now,” she begged hoarsely. “Go on, give it to me!” Again her mouth had that savage twist, that obscene leer, which more than the most violent movements of the body unleashes the male orgasm. As I shot the hot sperm into her she went into convulsions. She was like a trapeze artist coming off near the roof. And, as happened to her frequently, the orgasms succeeded one another in rapid sequence. I was almost on the verge of slapping her face, to snap her out of it.

The next thing was a cigarette, of course. She lay back under the sheet and inhaled deep puffs, as though she were using a pulmotor.

“Sometimes I think my heart will give out . . . I'll die in the midst of it.” She relaxed with the ease of a panther, her legs wide apart, as if to let the sperm run out. “God,” she said, placing a hand between her legs, “it's still running out. . . . Give me a towel, will you?”

As I was bending over her with the towel, I put my fingers up her cunt. I liked to feel it just after a fuck. So thrilly-dilly.

“Don't do that,” she begged weakly, “or I'll start all over again.” As she spoke she moved her pelvis lasciviously. “Not too rough, Val. . . . I'm tender. That's it.” She put her hand on my wrist and held it there, directing my movements with deft and delicate pressure of the fingers. Finally I managed to withdraw my hand and quickly glued my mouth to her crack. “That's wonderful,” she sighed. She had closed her
eyes. She was falling back into the dark hollow of her being.

We were lying sidewise, her legs slung around my neck. Presently I felt her lips touching my prick. I was spreading her cheeks apart with my two hands, my one eye riveted on the little brown button above her cunt. “That's her asshole,” said I to myself. It was good to look at. So small, so shrunken, as though only little black sheep droppings could come from it.

After we had a bellyful and were lying between the sheets softly snoozing there came a peremptory knock on the door. It was Rebecca. She wanted to know if we had finished—she was going to make tea and she wanted us to join them.

I told her we were taking a nap, couldn't say when we'd get up.

“May I come in a minute?” With that she pushed the door slightly ajar.

“Sure, come in!” I said, squinting at her with one eye.

“God, you two certainly are a couple of lovebirds,” she said, giving a low, pleasant, earthy sort of chuckle. “Don't you ever get tired of it? I could hear you way down the other end of the hall. You make me jealous.”

She was standing beside the bed looking down at us. Mona had her hand over my prick, an instinctive gesture of self-protection. Rebecca's eyes seemed to be concentrated on this spot.

“For God's sake, stop playing with it when I talk to you, won't you?” she said.

“Why don't you leave us alone?” said Mona. “We don't walk into your bedroom, do we? Can't we have any privacy here?”

Rebecca gave a hearty, guttural laugh. “Our room isn't as attractive as yours, that's why. You're like a couple of newly-weds: you make the whole house feverish.”

“We're clearing out of here soon,” said Mona. “I want a place of my own. This is too goddamned incestuous for me. Jesus, you can't even menstruate here without everyone knowing it.”

I felt impelled to say something mollifying. If Rebecca were aroused she could twist Mona into a knot.

“We're getting married next week,” I put in. “We'll probably move to Brooklyn, to some quiet, peaceful spot. This is a bit out of the world.”

“I see,” said Rebecca. “Of course you've been getting married ever since you came here. I'm sure we didn't prevent you—or did we?” She spoke as if she were hurt.

After a few more words she left. We fell asleep again and woke up late. We were hungry as wolves. When we got to the street we took a taxi and went to the French-Italian grocery store. It was about ten o'clock and the place was still crowded. On one side of us was a police lieutenant and on the other a detective. We were seated at the long table. Opposite me, hanging from a nail on the wall, was a holster with a pistol in it. To the left was the open kitchen where the big fat brother of the proprietor held sway. He was a marvelous, inarticulate bear dripping with grease and perspiration. Always half-cocked, it seemed. Later, after we had eaten well, he would invite us to have a liqueur with him. His brother, who served the food and collected the cash, was a totally different type. He was handsome, suave, courteous and spoke English fairly well. When the place thinned out he would often sit down and chat with us. He talked about Europe most of the time, how different it was there, how “civilized,” how enjoyable the life was. Sometimes he would get to talking about the blond women of North Italy where he came from. He would describe them minutely—the color of their hair and eyes, the texture of their skin, the luscious, sensual mouths they had, the slippery movement of the haunches when they walked, and so on. He had never seen any women like them in America, he said. He spoke of American women with a contemptuous, almost disgusting, curl of the lips. “I don't know why you stay here, Mr. Miller,” he would say. “Your wife is so beautiful. . . why you don't go to Italy? Just a few months. I tell you, you never come back.” And then he would order another drink for us and tell us to to stay a little longer . . . maybe a friend of his would come . . . a singer from the Metropolitan Opera House.

Soon we became engaged in conversation with a man and woman directly opposite us. They were in a gay mood and
had already passed on to the coffee and liqueurs. I gathered from their remarks that they were theater people.

It was rather difficult to carry on a continued conversation owing to the presence of the hooligans on either side of us. They felt that they were being snubbed, simply because we were talking of things beyond their ken. Every now and then the lieutenant made some dumb remark about “the stage.” The other one, the detective, was already in his cups and getting nasty. I loathed the both of them and showed it openly by ignoring their remarks completely. Finally, not knowing what else to do, they began to badger us.

“Let's move into the other room,” I said, signaling the proprietor. “Can you give us a table in there?” I asked.

“What's the matter?” he said. “Is there anything wrong?”

“No,” I said, “we don't like it here, that's all.”

“You mean you don't like
us,”
said the detective, snarling the words out.

“That's it,” I said, snarling back at him.

“Not good enough for you, eh? Who the hell do you think you are anyway?”

“I'm President McKinley—
and you?”

“Wise guy, eh?” He turned to the proprietor. “Say, who is this guy anyway . . . what's his line? Is he trying to make a sap out of me?”

“Shut up!” said the proprietor. “You're drunk.”

“Drunk! Who says I'm drunk?” He started to totter to his feet, but slid back again into the chair.

“You better get out of here . . . you're making trouble. I don't want no trouble in my place, do you understand?”

“For crying out loud, what did I do?” He began to act like an abused child.

“I don't want you driving my customers away,” said the proprietor.

“Who's driving your customers away? This is a free country, ain't it? I can talk if I wanta, can't I? What did I say . . . tell me! I didn't say nothin' insultin'. I can be a gentleman too, if I wanta . . .”

“You'll never be a gentleman,” said the proprietor. “Go on, get your things and get out of here. Go home and sleep!”
He turned to the lieutenant with a significant look, as if to say—this is your job, get him out of here!