Women - Charles Bukowski [100]
After the bottle of wine and the two-headed boy I mounted Debra and had some good luck for a change. I gave her a long slamming gallop full of unexpected variables and inventiveness before I finally shot it into her.
In the morning Debra asked me to stay and wait for her to get home from work. She promised to cook a nice dinner. “All right,” I said.
I tried to sleep after she left but I couldn’t. I was wondering about Thanksgiving, how I was going to tell her that I couldn’t be there. It bothered me. I got up and walked the floors. I took a bath. Nothing helped. Maybe Iris would change her mind, maybe her plane would crash. I could phone Debra Thanksgiving morning to tell her I was coming after all.
I walked about feeling worse and worse. Perhaps it was because I had stayed over instead of going home. It was like prolonging the agony. What kind of shit was I? I could certainly play some nasty, unreal games. What was my motive? Was I trying to get even for something? Could I keep on telling myself that it was merely a matter of research, a simple study of the female? I was simply letting things happen without thinking about them. I wasn’t considering anything but my own selfish, cheap pleasure. I was like a spoiled high school kid. I was worse than any whore; a whore took your money and nothing more. I tinkered with lives and souls as if they were my playthings. How could I call myself a man? How could I write poems? What did I consist of? I was a bush-league de Sade, without his intellect. A murderer was more straightforward and honest than I was. Or a rapist. I didn’t want my soul played with, mocked, pissed on; I knew that much at any rate. I was truly no good. I could feel it as I walked up and down on the rug. No good. The worst part of it was that I passed myself off for exactly what I wasn’t—a good man. I was able to enter people’s lives because of their trust in me. I was doing my dirty work the easy way. I was writing The Love Tale of the Hyena.
I stood in the center of the room, surprised by my thoughts. I found myself sitting on the edge of the bed, and I was crying. I could feel the tears with my fingers. My brain whirled, yet I felt sane. I couldn’t understand what was happening to me.
I picked up the phone and dialed Sara at her health food store.
“You busy?” I asked.
“No, I just opened up. Are you all right? You sound funny.”
“I’m at the bottom.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I told Debra I’d spend Thanksgiving with her. She’s counting on it. But now something has happened.”
“What?”
“Well, I didn’t tell you before. You and I haven’t had sex yet, you know. Sex makes things different.”
“What happened?”
“I met a belly dancer in Canada.”
“You did? And you’re in love?”
“No, I’m not in love.”
“Wait, here’s a customer. Can you hold the line?”
“All right….”
I sat there holding the telephone to my ear. I was still naked. I looked down at my penis: you dirty son-of-a-bitch! Do you know all the heartache you cause with your dumb hunger?
I sat there for five minutes with the phone to my ear. It was a toll call. At least it would be charged to Debra’s bill.
“I’m back,” said Sara. “Go ahead.”
“Well, I told the belly dancer when I was in Vancouver to come down and see me some time in L.A.”
“So?”
“Well, I told you I already promised Debra I’d spend Thanksgiving with her….”
“You promised me too,” Sara said.
“I did?”
“Well, you were drunk. You said that like any other American you didn’t like to spend holidays alone. You kissed me and asked that we might spend Thanksgiving together.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t remember….”
“It’s all right. Hold on…here’s another customer….”
I put the phone down and went out and poured myself a drink. As I walked back into the bedroom I saw my sagging