The Nirvana Blues (42 page)

At a loss for coherent replies, Joe remained silent.

She said, “You'd like to touch my breasts, wouldn't you?”

“Well, I can't deny…”

“Go ahead. You can feel them.”

Reaching for her, Joe wondered, What's wrong with this girl? His fingertips touched that swollen flesh; thrills banged into him like bullets. Her brush halted. She cocked her head, listening to a faraway jester, but her dark eyes had locked into his. Against his fingers her fat nipples burgeoned like inflating steel nubs. Laying down the brush, she tossed her silky tresses. Her lips were framed in an all-knowing superior smile. Why so uneasy? Joe asked himself. Was she in too calculated a control? One hand hefted her breast, assessing weight, texture, consistency. When he twirled, between his thumb and index finger, a nipple, she arched slightly, but her hands made no move to touch him. Not aroused…?

“Your tits are wonderful. They're like Baggies full of vanilla pudding.”

“You're so romantic.”

“You said you despised romantic crap.”

“What you just said is romantic crap disguised as good-natured jocular teasing.”

Winchlike, her breasts tugged him closer. He pushed her back gently, scrooched up even with her face, and was about to settle his lips over hers, when those dark eyes stopped him.

“You're so calm, Diana.” His own heart was pounding.

“I feel calm.”

“Are we going to make love?”

“That's for me to know and for you to find out.”

They kissed lightly. With his tongue-tip, Joe traced a line around her mouth. Her arms refused to embrace him: they were flopped loosely atop her sleeping bag and amid the rubble of her personal effects scattered around the tent. How to interpret such passivity? When he pressed against her large, soft lips she responded a little. Her tongue was rough, but beneath him her body seemed astonishingly pliable.

Joe squirmed against her, but she didn't reciprocate. When he licked at a nostril, she murmured, “Stop it, I don't like that.”

From her face, he traveled south to those breasts, burrowing happily into the plump Eden, snuffling and sucking through the T-shirt fabric, working over the fantastic nipples until he could almost hear their tiny squeaks of erotic bliss. Her right hand alighted tentatively in his hair, guiding him without pressure. Joe rocked and rolled with her a little, feeling his oats, yearning to screw. She flopped around with him, but initiated no active moves. Her eyes remained wide open, her all-knowing smile never for a moment flickered. She had a tiny waist, slim hips, a tight little butt, lovely legs. Yet something was wrong. When finally he dared slip a hand into her groin, she stayed his hand. “No, Joe. I don't want you to.”

They kissed some more, rolled around, thrashed a bit. Joe hugged hard, wanting to squash her body into his own. She bore it quietly until his bear hugs got out of hand, then whimpered, “Ouch, you're hurting me.”

Cued by her words, Joe realized he wanted to hurt her. Because of her passivity, her incredible body, and that unnerving smile, he wanted to kill. “I won't hurt you,” he reassured. “I just want to make love.”

Abruptly, her hand began stroking his head. “You poor boy. You're so hungry.”

True, so true. The fever of his passion was painful: his groin throbbed, his heart ached. Various pleas sprang to his lips:
Please God, just let me fuck her, and I'll never ask you for anything again. I even promise to join the church!
And:
I love you, Diana, I don't know why, but I really do! I'd sell my soul to the devil for just a half-hour inside your jeans!

Leakage from his penis had gooeyed her thighs. Joe strained, convinced that if they didn't make love, he'd go crazy. In his arms, her weight and shape and peculiar darkness of soul conspired to make her more sexually desirable than anybody on whom he had ever taken a bead. Crushing against her, he pumped … then turned her over and achingly ground himself against her tiny buttocks, nuzzling in her hair, against the nape of her neck.

“I'm gonna enter you,” he whispered into one ear.

“No you're not.”

“Hey…” he whispered, “what's the matter?”

“Nothing's the matter.”

“Then why can't we make love?”

“Because I don't think I want to.”

Peeved, Joe said, “Then why are you letting this happen?”

“Because I feel sorry for you, I guess.”

“‘Sorry' for me?” He drooped atop her, panting, so erect he thought his penis might shatter. “Why ‘sorry' for me? I'm fine.”

“You seem so hungry.”

Joe thought: I'm learning something about life. I'm learning that when everything seems perfect, when it looks as if I'm on the brink of an Erotic Adventure Personified, that only means it's going to be ten times more blatantly aggravating than all the other situations I've been in that began with two strikes obviously against them.

Reaching underneath, he cupped her breasts, and refused to let the dream die. “Why don't you want to make love, Diana?”

“I didn't say that. I only said I don't want to with you right now.”

“Well, if not now, when?”

“Look, if you want me to, I'll go down on you.”

“Come again?”

“‘Go down on you' is an expression meaning I'll suck your cock.”

“I know
that
—geez! I just don't believe what you said.”

“Well, that's the way it is.”

Joe pushed off, backing up a little so that he was sitting on her legs. Beautiful hair was tangled across her shoulders, around her head. Her arms, outstretched in a lax way, gave her the appearance of a child about to make a facedown snow angel.

“I don't understand you at all.”

“Take it or leave it.”

“I'll leave it.” Joe slipped his hand up under her T-shirt, pressing his palm lightly against the small of her back. “You're not turned on by me. Are you a lesbian?”

“God, you're such a typical male. I wonder if there's any man anywhere in the United States who's sophisticated enough, or liberated enough, not to ask that question of a girl like me.”

“I can see why you get raped.” His anger, oddly enough, was tempered by curiosity: she interested him a lot. And he added: “Well, let's just forget about sex.”

“I said I would go down on you if you want.”

“‘If I want.' What about you? I wouldn't want a blowjob if there's no reciprocal passion attached to it.”

“See what I mean? You're a slave to old-fashioned romantic notions.”

What could he reply? “Actually, you just manufacture a false feeling to justify the sex,” Diana continued. “You think you feel passion, or love, or whatever, but it's phony. Ten minutes after ninety percent of the men alive screw ninety percent of the women alive, nobody feels a thing. The passion ends as soon as they get what they want, which is usually just a hot body to aid masturbation.”

Meekly, Joe said, “But I enjoy sex. I think it's fun. For both people. You don't have to be committed for life just to share some erotic warmth.”

“Bullshit.” Her tone was whimsical, calm—not at all unfriendly.

A woman's voice outside the tent said, “Joe…?”

“Who's that?”

“It's me, Nancy. Can I come in?”

“No, wait a minute! How come I didn't hear you drive up?”

“There's an old pickup blocking the driveway. I only want to see you for a minute.”

“But … I mean, I'm not alone, I'm in here with a friend.”

“I don't mind.”

“Well,
I
do. Nancy, what are you doing over here?”

“I just thought you would want to know all about Sasha.”

Oh God! He had forgotten the monkey. “Of course I want to hear all about him. But—”

“You can come in,” Diana said. “It's okay with me.”

Stooping, Nancy pushed aside the flaps and entered. Diana didn't bother turning over to say hello. Embarrassed, Joe squatted as far away as possible from the woman he had been astraddle only seconds earlier, thinking: If I somehow manage to fast-talk my way back into Heidi's good graces, I'll never leave the family again. It's too cold, cruel, and absurd out here in the Real World of swinging singles.

Nancy's red swollen eyes and tearstained face lit up a little. She didn't seem at all to register Diana's lascivious, almost naked body languidly stretched out at her feet. She said, “Hi. Gosh, it's good to see you. After that asthma attack last night, I was so worried. And of course I was terribly upset about Sasha. And then I thought I'd better see you because you might be going crazy with guilt feelings. And I didn't want you to punish Michael.”

“I'm okay. Of course I was worried.…” Joe had never felt this trapped, ashamed, uncomfortable. Plainly, he was a hopeless neophyte in the ruthless mating game. He was also a shallow, hideously self-centered bastard. He clamped his teeth to keep them from chattering. “It's been a confusing day.”

Nancy asked, “Are you spending the night here? Or do you want to come over to my house and wait for news about Sasha?”

“Well, I … uh … um … actually, I'm really tired. Everything at home is so bollixed up. I think I need to be alone for a while. I'm right in the middle of a very heavy ARC break.”

She gave him a funny look. “I'm so worried about Sasha. The next forty-eight hours are crucial.”

“I bet. I'm really sorry. I don't know what to do.” If he acted like a brainless spastic maybe some crazy deus ex machina would take pity and save him!

“You know, you did promise that you'd be over tonight, Joe. Remember? If you hadn't promised, I wouldn't even have bothered to come over.”

“I promised? When was that…?”

“Hey.” Gently, she touched his knee. “It's all right, I understand. You don't have to panic.”

Diana exclaimed, “Whew, it's getting hot in here.” Sitting up, she grabbed the T-shirt hem and stripped off the garment. Her breasts jounced provocatively and settled. “There, that's better.” She smiled piquantly.

Nancy said, “Well, I left Bradley alone, so I better be running along. He's almost in shock about Sasha. I am too, of course. I don't know what I'll do if that poor monkey.…”

“Michael didn't know what he was doing,” Joe said. “It was a terrible accident.…”

“I know, dear.… Now I have to go.…” Yet at the doorway, her unflappable composure (as Joe had known it would have to sooner or later) suddenly cracked. Twisting until it became a parody of ugliness, her face released those great time-honored equalizers, tears, in droves. “It's just that you
promised!
” Nancy added: “I was fixing such a nice meal for you when Michael arrived and started blasting.…” Then she fled.

“Wow,” Diana commented acerbically. “That lady is a professional.”

“She really loves the monkey,” Joe said protectively. “And what's the big idea of shedding the T-shirt? Man, you're
crude.
”

“You're calling
me
crude?”

“You didn't have to do that.”

“Your hypocritical apologies about that dumb monkey almost made me puke.”

“You took off that shirt because you wanted to hurt her and make me uncomfortable.”

“I figure if you got 'em, you might as well flaunt 'em.”

“I don't like your games,” Joe said.

“Don't give me that self-righteous drivel. It's all a game. All you had on your mind ten seconds before she appeared was nailing me. Then suddenly you reek of insipid apologies. Only, you can't go console her because you think you still might have a shot at me tonight. Now, usually I'm neither this crass nor this crude. But that woman is a heavy game-player, don't worry about her—she can take it. I'd worry about myself, if I were you. Remember, you get A's for being a shitheel, but you're also a babe in the woods. She'll eat you for breakfast and spit out your bones.”

“What about you?”

“I'm a different kind of person. Other games amuse me.”

He had been morally and emotionally drawn and quartered. He had been shamed and made to feel small. He was a wishy-washy, ethically pathetic, not even macho, ratfink. The need for solace sent pleading supplications—like uplifted hands in a Bangladesh breadline—out from his heart. Joe pushed Diana over again, embracing her with all his might. His lips, pressed against a hollow in her throat, burned against a pulsing artery. Uncomfortably diminished in his own eyes, he held to her tightly, wanting to cry. Whatever had happened to the myth of the macho assman? This was no fun at all. Becoming a target for ridicule and scorn was all his pussy-chasing would ever net him. That, and a total loss of human dignity. A thousand Sashas would dance on his grave!

“If you want,” Diana murmured timidly into his ear, “you can fuck me now.”

Joe almost killed it by hollering “What?!?” Self-preservation tempered by greed made him look before he leapt. When he was quite in control, he said softly, “I don't understand.”

“Oh for Christ's sake, you don't have to ‘understand' everything in life. I'm ready now. That's all. It's okay. Just be careful.…”

The lovemaking was like drinking champagne out of family-heirloom glasses under the watchful scrutiny of his grandmother, his mother, and his great-grandmother, at a Thanksgiving dinner in 1947, knowing that if somehow he broke or damaged the impossibly valuable (and fragile) vessel, his name would not only go down in Miniver Infamy, but three generations of ghosts would hound him into eternity. She was tight, surprisingly small, shockingly frail: once inside, Joe almost feared to move. “Don't come in me,” she litanized, her body tensed, terrified of his orgasm. “I don't want a baby, I really don't want a baby, I don't
ever
want a baby.” After a while, Joe realized it would be a sexless screw. Withdrawing tenderly, he embraced her, saying “I'm sorry.” He felt terrible. She said, “No no, it's my fault, it's always my fault. I'm just scared of men, that's all, I don't know why. But I'm terrified. And it's never been any different, not with anybody. Just
please
don't make me pregnant, I'm begging you.”