Technicolor Pulp (10 page)

“Look Miss Jet-Set Bitch… If you don’t wanna sleep with me tonight that’s one thing. But don’t lay THIS shit on me! I didn’t
HAVE to be honest with you in the first place, you superior little dollop!”

I pull away from her wicked grinning face. I can’t even look at her anymore, that sadistic laughing face.
I stumble back and turn towards the window, the freedom. I can’t stand this fucking bitch… It’s over!

“Poor Jimi-boy… His little herpes sores have him just all in an uproar!” she sings with mock pity. I’m back on the playground
being taunted. Childhood Flashback Nightmare. Thank god, I never wet the bed around this one! I got no other choice, I’m in
hell. I got no other choice but to reach for the nearest satin pillow and smack the woman. Give her a good wallop! Give her
something to choke on! Shut her up with some of India’s finest fabric. I give her a good one from over the top of my head…
BAMMM! It woulda made my brutish sister proud back in the old days, and she goes down. I regain my form and charge at her,
ready to give her a few finishing POWS when our eyes meet and I freeze. The look in her eye stops me. I see the mistake.

“Jimi,” she screams, “what’ve you lost your fucking mind! I was kidding!”

“What?”

“Almost all you americans have the herpes. I worked on one of William’s documentaries about it! I was just bloody kidding!
I don’t care!”

“Christ… Diane… I mean you sure fucking had your fun with THAT joke!”

Straightening out her hair, her face flushed, “… But that other stuff… About the Jet-Set Bitch and whatnot… Why did you say
that? That’s a different matter entirely.”

Paradise is over. I’ve played out my last trump card… Whatever that means. Once again, I’ve
revealed myself for the misguided power tool that I am. For like an hour, I smooth and I lie. I even outright beg for several
long stints but nothing can take away the smelly dead fishes of words that I puked out onto the floor.

“I mean… I guess I gotta say that the herpes thing is like my Achilles’ fucking heel and… I just didn’t catch your whole british
comedic approach thing. I thought you meant it. You caught me way off guard.”

“I understand, Jimi… But why did you call me names and say things like I’m some kind of monied flooze? I’ve never been like
that with you.”

“You haven’t… I don’t know… It was just what came out in the rage… I didn’t really mean it,” I plead.

Probably out of exhaustion, she lets up. We’re both sobered up by now, and back down on the planet from our martini-induced
tirade. I’d have to say that my approach on this very evening will always be something that I consider to be a HUGE MISTAKE.

I blew it. Diane loved me because I got this kind of high-tech pseudo-romantic sort of devil-may-care attitude, and now it’s
over. My emotions’ not being in sync with my little, intense, rambling guy kind of vagabond chooch rebel rap, and it’s over.
I’ve become just another neurotic loser with a flair for the secondhand leathery facade. Looking for a piece of pussy pie
and reading it all wrong. Who knows, maybe it added to the intrigue? I don’t know anything anymore. Women are more of a
know anything anymore. Women are more of a mystery to me than world hunger.

I go for broke. I grab Diane and plant one on her roughly, jamming my tongue between her struggling lips. She pulls away at
first but I stay right with her, and she finally settles down at the end of my tongue. Her lips are soft and warm like fruity
roasted marshmallows. I wanna bite them… And I do. Her tongue tastes of white wine. I suck on it. I nibble on the fleshy rinds
of her lips. She squirms, still fighting ever so slightly, but I know I’m in for a run on the bush. I can get it, it’s all
about just waiting ‘til the time is ripe. She wants me, she’s trembling against me like a scared puppy that doesn’t want to
be kicked again but stays… For the same brand of loving and affection. I look past her out the window. I count the dull yellow
lamps along the street and all the other row houses stacked along the other side of the street. Red Brick Wombs in the Middle
of the Chaos. I feel comfortable in this guy, William’s flat. It makes me wanna be rich… And powerful.

“I like this house, Diane… I like this world. It makes me wanna be famous.”

“There aren’t any famous people here… These people are REALLY rich. It’s a different world. There’s too much at stake.”

I don’t really know what she means, but with her hand down along the shaft of my penis, she’s got my complete and utter attention.
Anything is OK, I’m just a kid from Pittsburgh about to be knee-deep
into some of the finest british LASS I’ve ever known or seen. I haven’t worked in a month or two… My hair looks OK… Yeah…
I know exactly what she means… I think… I just can’t quite remember what the hell she said or what we were talking about…
Oh yeah… Money… I’m lost in a fantasy… I’m skipping down the streets of my dreams… The dialogue is unimportant… The words
just a clever little veil… A decoy away from… The thoughts… And the feelings… That leave us soaked in sweat… And crying… The
real shit goes like… In a fucking song or something… It’s not sublime… Like… I rip her clothes off with no regard whatsoever
for high fashion… I see her pussy and I go right for it… It’s so blond that it looks almost hairless in the soft light… Smooth
and fresh… Young… I don’t fumble… I’m right there… Right on it in no time… I have my finger up there… I have my tongue up
there… It isn’t two minutes before I have my tongue so far up her little round behind that I got no choice but to make funny
little obscene snorting noises… It’s beautiful… I’m comfortable in this neighborhood… I want to lick every part of this girl…
I suck on her toes… I lick her armpits… Jesus… I can’t even talk anymore… That pussy with its pink folds and its uptown juices…
NOTHING MATTERS… I lap… I suck… I flick… I push… I want to absorb her… Engulf her with my tongue… Until finally she comes…
Trembling… And
shaking… For long enough that I can flip her over and work on her tight little sphincter… She’s mine if only for a few seconds…
She can be anyone’s… She can be her own… I don’t care… It doesn’t matter… That’s all politics… And bullshit… And power… And
this is sex… I’m a loser… I’m a winner… I’m afraid… I’m a fraud… It’s all words… It’s all BULLSHIT!

I continue to nibble on her clit while I fumble through my pockets looking for those damn hiding rubbers, never seem to be
in the same pocket I put them in. It’s hard to keep up the intensity but I do my best. Diane’s pussy juice is all over my
face. I feel like the floor of a Good Humor truck on the hottest day in July. It’s frustrating but I finally manage to roll
the latex sock down the length of my rig. I slither my way back to her wanting mouth with soft kisses… Allowing… Offering
my mouth full of her. Her pussy is now wide open and fully juiced and I begin to ease my cellophaned member down deep. It’s
warm even with the raingear on. I feel at home. I wanna cry. I never want to leave. It’s so rare I feel safe. Like I’m gonna
spend the rest of my life sitting around waiting in cold empty bus stations in towns like Denver and Santa Fe and Washington…
Always waiting to leave… Always feeling like it’s time to go. Instead of curling up deep in warm motherpussy. I stroke long…
Gentle and soft… I hope my rubber doesn’t break and give her my little curse… I kiss her… I love her but I can’t tell her…
I pray I don’t infect her… I turn my head
away… I have to look around her… She’ll know I care too much… I hope I don’t ruin her… I hope I don’t ruin this… Please, Mr.
Rubber, don’t burst… I’m floating… I’m free… Don’t let this thing end… I love this feeling… Can’t give her my burden… And
I come… Slowly and painfully… With a groan from my Inner never-never land… From somewhere inside of me that I can’t get to
alone… I arch my back and close my eyes… And go black for the release… I collapse into a sweating ball on top of her… Clinging
to her… A clown warming a cave, born for a prince.

Lying in bed with sleeping arms around me, I remember sitting in a chair in a house surrounded by cats. Eight or nine of the
furry little aloof fuckers looking up at me, sniffing me. I love the house. It’s the Good Witch’s house and I love cats because
the Good Witch taught me to love cats. Cats are like people with guts. Most people don’t like cats because they want them
to be like sappy dogs yearning for affection, wanting to be owned. The dogs are fine. It’s the people. Cats are loners, cool
loners who just drop in now and then and say, “Hello,” and maybe grab a quick bite to eat. The Good Witch told me that you
always have to keep
a few spares around the house because cats tend to die untimely deaths. There are a lot of Cat Killers out there. I mighta
been a Cat Killer but I met the Good Witch. I’m not listening to the cats though, I’m listening to Lindsey.

“Jimi, I just don’t feel that good about myself right now. It isn’t you. I don’t know… I guess I feel kind of dirty or something.”

Yeah, I know that feeling… I’ve had it for a coupla years. It gets a little better but it never goes away. Sometimes it gets
worse. A slowing burning. Fucking. It’s fucking that caused all this. Desire can make a lot of shitty things happen, it seems.

“… I just need to get back to Boston… And then I think things’ll get better.”

“Away from me?”

“No… Not ‘away from you’ really… I just need some time… Life sorta stops out here on the island… You know?”

“That’s why I like it.”

“I mean I do too… It’s just, I need to do a few things first. I need some time, Jimi.”

Why don’t I have the balls to look her in the eye and say, “Look Lindsey… I know this thing’s doomed so let’s not even worry
about it anymore. It’s over so let’s shake hands and fucking walk our separate ways!” No… Of course I can’t do that! I have
to stay in the misery and plead for Lindsey to linger on with me for as long as we can take it. The worst part is that I’ll
wade through this word-game shit for hours, knowing damn well
I’m just trying to get my dick in her ONE MORE TIME. That’s the worst part! Even at my lowest moments, I’m still thinking
“What’s in it for me?” At my age, lust is stronger than love. I want some more of that shit! It’s my self-duty to convince
Lindsey that the only cure for the pain and confusion is a good old-fashioned coming. The Good Witch and the Cats understand.
Oh sweet Lindsey… Just another pin in the balloon of life. I mean WHO ever felt all that good about life to begin with?

I get up out of bed and tiptoe my way down to the kitchen. I peek into the fridge… BINGO… A stray chilly beer just waiting
to nurse Jimi’s aching liver. I take a long, suffocating slurp and look out the window. It’s late at night. I don’t know the
time, but late enough that I feel some peace. I love the night. There’s nothing to prove at night, as long as the imagination
doesn’t run wild in the wrong direction. Diane’s sound asleep. Her breathing whispers down through the foyer, serene, unscathed
by the monster of worry, or doubt. One last look at the dick. Yep, sores abloom. Another sip of beer… And another… And another…
And the street… And all the yellow lamps… And all the figures off in the distance… And another… And another… All the people…
All the places… And all the tears… And all the laughter… And all of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood… It isn’t real… This is a
fantasy… None of this is real… And another sip of beer… Success is just a fool’s word for survival.

“It’s just so fuckin’ odd. She called you DOOGE when I talked to her.”

“Whatever… The Groucho Club’ll be fun no matter what she calls me.”

“It sounds cool. Her boy ‘Willi’ is in town… Says he’s ‘dying to meet me’… I’ll bet.”

“As long as Willi’s buying, we’re dying to meet him too, Jimi.”

We got a couple hours before we go to the stuffy London club. Doobe and I sit down in Gilbert and Sullivan and drink whiskey—beautiful
sour mash by the bucket, not shitty ale, GOOD WHISKEY. Helms and I don’t trust ourselves, so we tell our Gracelandish barkeep
pal to keep us abreast of the time. Early evening in Leicester Square, with all the workaday frenzy. My favorite TV show,
and the butterflies are coming in my stomach. The Beginning of Night. The hum… The pulse… The buzz… Call it whatever you fucking
want, the shit is real. I remember running up my street on Friday nights when I was younger, running up to meet my friends
in the woods to smoke weed out of our latest “Monster Bong,” to drink that warm Iron City keg, to get
drunk enough to go meet girls and act tough. It meant everything to me.

Diane said the Groucho Club is some heavy-duty club where all the London writers hang out and talk about their next “Movie
of the Week” assignment or “that latest piece on the new cafe,” the one “all the Harleys park in front of.” Talk about who’s
gonna play the psycho-mother and what guy they want to play the daughter-molesting dad. Heavy stuff… Politics… And the
New Yorker
… I got one thing on my mind… FREE DRINKS.

First, there’s the standard drunken directional confusion, and then Helms gets us on the right path to the club. The Groucho
is inside a modest brick building, the only giveaway being a tux-clad butthead doorman standing his ground in front of a maroon
door under a lone lamp. We stand out front in the street, not quite sure what comes next. A perfect time for us to start smoking
Lucky Strikes. We opt to shuffle our feet and act relaxed, practicing our favorite movie-star walks, until Diane pops her
dirty-blond head out the front door and spots us.

“Jimi Banks and his loyal cohort… Mr. Helms,” she giggles.

Everytime I see the girl she looks hotter. Tonight’s no different. She’s decked out in some scant bell-bottomed Edie Sedgwick
outfit. Rich chicks… Even their sweat looks like something that should be served with an olive.

“Ms. Rowan,” I follow suit.

“Diane, you DO look good tonight, dear!” Doobe slurs and we’re busted. Here it comes.

“You’re drunk aren’t you?… Look at the both of you!”

Judging by the sharp stare and the haughty tone, in Diane’s mind, we’ve picked the wrong night to drink bourbon all day.