have turned her off quicker and surer than just about any other word in the English language, but this was his fantasy, only one he had in fact, so he could do anything he wanted and make whoever else behave likewise—“Like Hitler!”—he thought, sniggering like a little Catholic boy who has just masturbated at the statue of the Virgin Mary in a back pew without getting caught, now wondering where to put the handkerchief that caught the cum—so she got even more excited, ravenous, hot and wet like a tawny animal, in fact that's what she turned into, a horse, a pony, a sweatsweet dusktawny mochabeige shetland pony, and imagining her thus he took her from behind, slipping his arms up around to entwine with hers, entwining his own legs like he always did when he fucked and never knew why, sliding it in the slick wet hot hallelujah rumbleseat jungle of her, where he tarried awhile, thinking of the New York Mets and what he was gonna do about Koch in both the short and long runs, thinking about anything, really, but what he was up to, so's to make it last longer, having had enough of Rosalynn's scorn (“Well, now I know what William Burroughs meant by ‘the flash bulb of orgasm’! An’ he was a damn fag!”) years ago, leaving her to Ham Jordan when the singles bars didn’t pan out as they hadn’t at all lately for some reason, he wondered idly if they were having an affair, that’d be funny, Jane ARCHED and let out a low catrrrrrrrhhhhh-growl, henbane wildcat slashing its paws to shreds on the razor shale of a precipice, a jagged ledge over an expanse that could have been the Great Plains themselves swallowed whole right here, ten thousand foot drop down, and this motherfucker PUSHING HER… she screamed. “Wuzza matter?” quoth Jimmy. She said nothing. Arched again, hissed, dug her turquoise-lacquered nails into his back again and again. Damn, he thought, if Rosalynn sees them ‘uns… shit. I liked Jane better in the Sixties, when she was counterculture: clipped nails, no polish, no hair-spray, whole lot less bullshit on every level… and everybody else thought exactly the opposite … ‘course, it is nice having her shave her legs again …
He realized the extent of his detachment, wondered if he oughta give up altogether. What the fuck was the difference? Suddenly Jane shuddered, a deep coruscating shoooom from the bottom of her belly, and writhed. And writhed. Thrusting up against him, biting his neck— hickeys! Rosalynn'U see them for sure!—tearing his back to shreds with her nails, wrapping her great hamhock olde stock America legs like two mighty clampdown-nuggets around his back thighs and ass, rolling, swaying, riding, riding, squelching the screams that died in her throat because after all you never did know who might just happen to wander in … but it was good for her. It was the best. He knew that. That was the part he liked. When she had finished, he spizzed up two little zipgun mortarspits, making sure as always that his mouth was closed so the snorkel squonks of his nose, amphibious noises denoting ultimate passion from the man's not to mention the presidential side of the barbwire fence, came thru. Yes. It was good. She was a tigress. She was a wench. She was holy. She was a woman. And he was the President of the United States, so even if he turned up impotent, as happened often enough, it didn’t matter, because Power was Sex was Power was Sex was Power. As everybody knew.
Jane sat up in bed and lit a Lucky Strike. “My husband—”
“—should be driving a Good Humor truck. Can that shit. Every damn time we fuck I gotta listen to the pitch. Whyncha lemme enjoy my afterglow for a change?”
“How can you have an afterglow when there was no fire to speak of in the first place?”
He hit her then, hard, backhand, straight across the face, a bone-bluing brutal jackhammer reaction. It was so full of hate he even shocked himself a little. She rolled on her side and into a fetal ball facing the wall all twinetimed in Amy's sheets—why did they always seem to end up making love in this room, this bed?—covered with smiling faces from Sesame Street: Kermit,