Threesome - Lawrence Block [25]
I caught a fairly early train that night and sat on it feeling shamefully horny. This time a couple of rounds with Marcia Goldsmith (the second, after we’d put her kitchen table back together again, took place on her beaver coat, spread out on her kitchen floor. Note all this kitchen crap—no doubt you understand the age-old Jewish equation of food and sex. Would it surprise you, then, to know that I inserted in Marcia’s yummy gobble-bowl first a gob of cream cheese, and then a taste of $2.25-a-quarter-pound Nova Scotia salmon? Or to know that Marcia, herself a victim of the same ethnic hang-up, decided that it looked so good that she ate it herself? Oh, you’ve heard that one before, have you? Well, the old jokes are the best ones.)
What do you do when you interrupt a sentence with a parenthetical remark which gets utterly out of hand? What I do is start over again:
This time a couple of rounds with Marcia Goldsmith were the equivalent of a couple of buckets of water slurped over a raging forest fire. Marcia had drained my scrotum, but as I sat on the train thinking of you two lovelies my penis seemed unaware of this fact, as though the two organs weren’t speaking. The ausgeshtupped balls ached with depletion while the optimistic cock looked forward to new frontiers of depravity. So go figure it out.
When I walked in the door of that gingerbread chalet, kiddies, your old Uncle Harry damn well knew. There was nothing he could put his finger on (heh heh) but nevertheless he just plain knew. You both were playing it very cool, almost ignoring each other. There were no secret glances, nothing like that. I think it was an aura you both had of sexual fulfillment. You both looked radiant, and very goddamned well-slept-with. Either you’d spent the day balling each other or the fleet was in and between the two of you, you’d satisfied an entire battleship.
I chose to believe the former. We are nowheres near the bloody ocean.
I think I ought to carry on in a different tone, once again addressing my remarks to that mythical reader out there instead of gossiping and kaffee-klatching with you two dizzy broads.
But one thing first, one last peripheral remark. That night, you may recall, Priss, you and I simultaneously grabbed for each other the minute we crawled into the sack. And screwed each other’s eyes out. It was, you ought to remember, a particularly satisfying piece of ass all around. Now the reasons for this are not hard to figure out—each of us was excited over what you and Rhoda had gotten started with.
But you didn’t know that I knew, Miss Mayflower. So how did you classify it at the time? One of my duty fucks to reimburse you for adultery in New York? Or one of my therapeutic fucks because I had done without all day?
I awakened the next morning with an erection the approximate size and shape of the Chrysler Building. Priss was sleeping on her side, facing away from me, which is to say bottoming toward me. I looked at her bottom and waited for my erection to go away, which shows that even a hearty early riser is not too bright the instant he opens his eyes, because looking at Prissy’s heart-shaped behind doesn’t get rid of erections, it inspires them. I had a great urge to wake Sleeping Beauty with something better than a kiss.
But I was a good boy, and controlled myself. Healthily impulsive sex is one thing and waking an habitual late riser at four-thirty in the ayem is another thing entirely. I went and took a quick shower—not even a cold shower, dig that for self-control—and swallowed reconstituted orange juice