My rig, of course, wouldn’t know. And yet, to give it its due, that organ had behaved immaculately the day before. As I stood beside Thorpe’s white-sheeted chaise-longue, about as relaxed as a drainpipe, trousers frilling my shins, baggy but spotless Y-fronts midway down trembling thighs: as Thorpe cruised towards me, as he reached out his manicured hand, head down, saying ‘Well let’s just take a look at the old codger then, shall we?’ I was convinced he’d set off some awful glandular button, that my prick would spring to life joyfully in his fingers, that he would lift up his face to mine in eager recognition. But it couldn’t have been better. I had wanted to buy it a bag of sweets or something afterwards.
Now. I completed a really very complicated set of manoeuvres. It featured, among other things, the worrying of her hip-bone with my elbow, stroking her eyelashes, and kissing her ears with dry-tongued care. I did some talking, too -shameless flattery most of it, but circumstantial and disinterested, which, I find, makes it far less embarrassing, since during their delivery compliments are borne and only in retrospect are they enjoyed.
‘You know, you’re looking straight at me and I can still see the whites of your eyes all round your pupils. Look at mine. The brown always joins the edge at some point. But yours are amazing. I suppose that’s why they’re so striking – the first thing I noticed about you. Why do you ever wear sunglasses?’
And again:
‘What’s this stuff on your lips ? It doesn’t taste like make-up. It’s difficult to tell where your lips stop and your face starts. Your skin’s such an absurd colour, like damp sand; very nice.’
Rachel, for her part, said at one point: ‘You’ve got such sweet breath. Not sickly.’ She laughed. ‘Just sweet.’
Although utterly inexplicable, this was true enough, often pointed out to me by girls (‘cucumber and peppermint’ is the best description I’ve ever screwed out of them). That tasty liquefying gook in my lungs? Rachel’s remark impressed me deeply all the same. I wished I could, so to speak, come off duty, surrender to this experience as something related not to the past nor to Deforest nor to trichomonas nor to the future. But I had to get her first, then there would be time.
To signal this promise, I abandoned the tactile skirmishes. I lifted both hands to her face, held it with my palms resting flat against her cheeks, and kissed her lightly on the lips. Sometimes, in this sort of situation, in a sexual context, girls look sad when they are not sad. This was how Rachel looked: frowning, beautiful, clear-eyed, pained.
We had been at it for thirteen minutes. I knew because the record had come to an end (I timed it later, for the books: four tracks’ worth). But the record didn’t go on to automatic reject like any normal record; those cheeky Beatles had indented the final groove, so that it went
Cussy Anny hople – wan
Cussy Anny hople – wan
ad infinitum, until you could be bothered to go and lift up the needle. (Geoffrey said it was ‘I’ll fuck you like a superman’ backwards. 1 had never checked.)
Pretended not to notice for half a minute or so. Then: ‘Oh, Christ.’ 1 let my body go limp and swivelled over. I sat facing away from Rachel. The record had been hardly more than a murmur, intended to drown the muffled snorting and wincing of the pass. Without it, the room seemed hollow.
Tour jacket’s awfully creased,’ said Rachel, as if from a great distance.
1 bunched a fistful of the material in my hand. It was creased. I stared at the rug. ‘Where is DeForest, anyhow?’ I thought this would sound more powerful with my back to her.
‘Oxford. Getting interviewed.’
‘Oh really?’ I said in a tight voice. Why wasn’t I getting interviewed? ‘When’s he coming back?’
Tomorrow. But then he’s going shooting in Northamptonshire.’
‘Shooting ? What do you mean ?’
‘Hunting. You know, with guns.’
‘Oh. He does all that, does he?’ Elitism and butchery. Ought to be some milage there.