‘What were you wearing?’ She was wearing an extended black bodice that clasped between her thighs, and chrome stockings, and golden shoes.
‘I was wearing a little white frock that belonged to me when I was small. It only comes down to here. I hadn’t put on my panties yet because I was just getting dressed from my bath.’
‘What did you do then?’ She crossed the room and knelt on the bed beside me. With both hands she drew back her hair, disclosing the changeable throat.
‘I crossed the room and tiptoed down the stairs. I got into the big fat car.’
‘What did he do?’ I laid her on her back. The black bodice had forty black buttons, fastened with eye-shaped loops of corded silk. Now it had thirty-nine. Now it had thirty-eight.
‘He lifted me on top of him. It was like sitting on a capstan or a water hydrant. He put his hands on my shoulders, and pressed. I thought: he’ll never get in, I’ll never get round him. But he was so strong, his hands were unbelievable, as heavy as gold. It hurt but I was wet and the hurt was runny and sweet. I thought: I’m a cock, I’m just a cock.’
Later, with her resting body spread out beside me on the satin, I smoked a cigar and finished the champagne and thought about the good life. In a way, in a sense, I think 1 really do want to live well.
But how is it done?
——————
Deep down, I’m a pretty happy guy. Happiness is the relief of pain, they say, and so I guess I’m a pretty happy guy. The relief of pain happens to me pretty frequently. But then so does pain. That’s why I get lots of that relief they talk about, and all that happiness.
‘You know what I wish?’ said Roger Frift. ‘I wish you’d take it easy the nights before you see me.’
‘What’s the matter now?’
I’d better add that Roger is a dinky, twenty-six-year-old, and a hyperactive homosexual.
‘Your tongue, it’s all… I mean, it’s a question of common good manners. It makes the whole thing so much more unpleasant for me.’
‘It’s not meant to be pleasant for you. Just do it. Christ, you charge enough.’
‘Lie back then. And relax . .. God!’
You wouldn’t be too relaxed if you were reclining on Roger’s electric chair. Roger is my hygienist, my gum-coach. Four times a year with his beaked pincers, skewers and arrow-headed bodkins he goes squeaking and splitting through the roots of my head. We call this deep scaling, or plaque control. What the fuck is this plaque crap anyway? Why can’t plaque go and pick on somebody else? It doesn’t bother my father. Plaque didn’t bother my mother either, so far as I know. My mother died when I was very young. She died when she was very young too, now I come to think about it, which I don’t much. .. That tooth on my upper west side, the one that brought me so much pain — it calmed down a few days ago, bringing me happiness instead, oh such happiness. But yesterday it started bringing me pain again. It never really calmed down: I could feel it humming, purring, braiding beneath the skin, planning its comeback. Now Roger, I hope, will fix it, will relieve that pain and bring me happiness again. Selina has this knack also. She brings me pain. She relieves it. Am I happy? I’m not sure. I’m certainly relieved, now she’s back. At least, when she’s with me, she’s not with anyone else. Apparently I denounced and banished her that night, the night before I left for New York. I can’t remember. Apparently I called her a whore, cursed her for a gold-digging fuckbag, and kicked her out. She shuffled off into the blackness without a farthing. Convincing, yes? Or not? I can’t remember. We don’t talk about it much. We talk about money. She wants a joint bank account. What do you reckon?
‘Ooh,’ said Roger, whose own breath isn’t too hot either, if you want to know the truth.
By this time I already had a trio of gurgling gimmicks in my mouth. ‘Ow,’ I said as best I could. ‘Easy.’