Apparently not. Instead of saying, You’ll get over it, or. Tough, or, Grow up; instead, I halt in front of a lamp-post at the foot of the square, stroke her cheeks with my hands, nuzzle her ear, and whisper:
‘I think I understand.’
But that night.
Usually: I slid down over her dull body kissing her breasts, guts, hips, to lodge head between thighs and stir her with my tongue (by now a ham-bone of muscle), already in a contra so that when I loomed upwards my (well-dried) mouth and (nozzled) rig met their respective targets simultaneously.
But that night I station my loins next to her head, sending mine south, and crawl wheezily down the bed, my feet now pressed hard against the wall above the pillow for the necessary purchase. Splendid work. As my tongue lolls inside her I peek up. There it is, thrown in her face. But she takes it between index finger and thumb as though it were a sugar-lump. My eyes bulge as she ferries the foreskin primly back and forth. If you can slash in my bed (I thought) don’t tell me you can’t suck my cock. So I drive it into her cheek, practically up her nose, and Rachel takes it in her mouth and releases it almost at once. With a croak of disgust. Which says: Even worse than I thought.
And yet I was the one who felt ashamed, dirty, dog-like, in the wrong. To prove it there were tears on her face when I came up for air.
The scene is the main hall at Addison Tutors.
At the near end a group of male students from Rachel’s school, in dinner-jackets, stand round drinking champagne and talking to one another. The cleaning lady, Mrs Dawkins -who, though fat and lower-class all right, is invariably in a bad mood and has never called me love – goes about filling their glasses and brushing down their tuxedoes. I am on a straight-backed chair in the middle of the room, predictably dishevelled, with a bottle of brown ale. Rachel is at the far end, on the raised dais. From her posture you would think she is wretchedly uncomfortable, or else deep in yoga meditation: propped up on a cushion against the wall, naked, holding both legs in the air, knees on breasts, cunt splayed. Beside her is a bowler hat, upturned.
I wander over. I nod at Rachel; she grins dead ahead and doesn’t see me. I mount the dais and lean on the piano, a few yards away. In the bowler hat, I notice, are some coins: mostly coppers, the odd florin, a single fifty-pence piece. I pull on my beer, and wait.
Now, in twos and threes, Rachel’s colleagues begin to detach themselves from the party. They stroll across the hall towards us and come to a halt before the dais. In dubious mutters they assess Rachel the spider-crab. A pair climb the steps; one of them, a small, red-haired young fellow, acknowledges me with a wink – which I return. Rachel beams in the direction of their waists. Then, still sipping champagne, they start to talk more confidentially. The ginger-boy prods her snatch with a patent-leathered foot; the other leans forward to examine her teeth and gums. They come to an agreement. Ginge places his glass on the window-sill, unwraps his cummerbund, folds it, puts it in his pocket, lowers his trousers, stoops, and keels forward on top of her.
I swig my beer.
He bobs away for a few seconds, then goes all weak and amorphous. He veers back, slightly off-balance, and composes his dress. The second boy, much taller and handsomer than his friend, goes through the same routine, but pauses, hand on chin, at the last moment. He has a better idea. Reaching forward he gets a good grip on Rachel’s ears and urges her mouth to greet the (massive) rig that cranes from between his shirt-tails. In this fashion, with twelve stiff-elbowed tugs, he has wanked into her head. Rachel murmurs her appreciation. They lob coins at the bowler, and move off. Others take the platform. The process is repeated.
Meanwhile, I pull on my beer, watch, look at the wall, hum popular tunes.