Come on In! - Charles Bukowski [12]
on the way. he stood and took the glasses out of the
cellophane. as she undressed he poured two.
she had a marvelous young body. she sat on the edge of
the bed sipping at the Jack Daniel’s as he
undressed. he felt awkward, fat and old
but knew he was lucky: it promised to be his best day
ever.
then he too sat on the edge of the bed with her and
his Jack Daniel’s. she reached over
and grabbed him between the legs, bent over
and went down on him.
he pulled her under the covers and they played some more.
finally, he mounted her and it was great, it was a
miracle, but soon it ended, and when she
went to the bathroom he poured two more drinks
thinking, I’ll shower real good, Marie will never
know.
she came out and they sat in bed
making small talk.
“I’m going to shower now,” he told her,
“I’ll be out soon.”
“o.k., cutie,” she said.
he soaped good in the shower, washing away all the
perfume, the woman-smell.
“hurry up, daddy!” he heard her say.
“I won’t be long, baby!” he yelled from the
shower.
he got out, toweled off, then opened the bathroom
door and stepped out.
the motel room was empty.
she was gone.
on some impulse he ran to the closet, pulled the door
open: nothing there but coat hangers.
then he noticed that his clothes were gone, his underwear,
his shirt, his pants with the car keys and his wallet,
all the money, his shoes, his stockings, everything.
on another impulse he looked under the bed.
nothing.
then he saw the bottle of Jack Daniel’s, half full,
standing on the dresser.
he walked over and poured a drink.
as he did he saw the word scrawled on the dresser
mirror in pink lipstick: SUCKER.
he drank the whiskey, put the glass down and watched himself
in the mirror, very fat, very tired, very old.
he had no idea what to do next.
he carried the whiskey back to the bed, sat down,
lifted the bottle and sucked at it as the light from the
boulevard came in through the dusty blinds. then he just sat
and looked out and watched the cars, passing back and
forth.
the copulation blues
fuck
the phone rings once
stops
fuck
I am on top
we roll off to the side
fuck
she throws one leg over
and plays with her clit
while I harpoon her
fuck
the dog scratches on the door
won’t stop
I get up and let him in
then it’s time to
suck
she’s got it in her mouth
not the dog
me
suck suck
the doorbell rings
a man selling mops made by the blind
we buy a mop for eleven dollars with a little gadget
that squeezes out the water
fuck
now it’s up again
I’m on top again
the phone rings
a girlfriend of hers from Stockton
they talk for ten minutes
finish
I am reading the sports section when
she comes back with a bowl of grapes and
I hand her the woman’s page
no fuck.
the faithful wife
she was a married woman
and she wrote sad
and futile poems
about her married life.
her many letters to me
were the same: sad
and repetitive and
futile.
we exchanged letters for
some years.
I was depressed and suicidal
and had had nothing but
bad luck
with women
so I continued to write
her
thinking, well, maybe
this way
no ill will come to
either one of us.
but
one night suddenly
she was in town, she
phoned me:
“I’m at a meeting of
The Chaparral Poets of
California!”
“o.k.,” I said, “good
luck.”
“I mean,” she asked,
“don’t you want to
see me?”
“oh, yeah …”
she told me she would be
waiting at a certain bar
in Pasadena.
I had half a glass of
whiskey, 2 cans of beer
and
set out.
I found the bar, went
in.
there she was (she had
sent photos) the little
housewife giddy on
martinis.
I sat down beside
her.
“oh my god,” she said, “it’s you!
I just can’t believe it!”
I ordered a couple of drinks from
the barkeep.
she kissed me right there, tongue
and all.
we had a couple more drinks
then got into my car
and with her
holding my cock
I drove the freeway
back to my place
where I sat her down.
she began talking about
poetry
but I got her back
into the bedroom
got her down onto the bed
and stripped down