Women - Charles Bukowski [242]
I was astounded. I didn’t know what to do.
Up and down, right? Or rather, in and out. It was like riding a bicycle: you never forget. She was a truly beautiful woman. I couldn’t hold back. I grabbed her golden red hair and pulled Sara’s mouth to mine and I came.
She got up and went to the bathroom and I looked up at my blue bedroom ceiling and I said, Drayer Baba, forgive her.
But since he never talked and he never touched money I could neither expect an answer nor could I pay him.
Sara came out of the bathroom. Her figure was slight, she was thin and tan, but totally entrancing. Sara got into the bed and we kissed. It was an easy open-mouthed love kiss.
“Happy New Year,” she said.
We slept, wrapped together.
101
I had been corresponding with Tanya and on the evening of January 5th she phoned. She had a high excited sexy voice like Betty Boop used to have. “I’m flying down tomorrow evening. Will you pick me up at the airport?”
“How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll wear a white rose.”
“Great”
“Listen, are you sure you want me to come?”
“Yes.”
“All right, I’ll be there.”
I put down the phone. I thought of Sara. But Sara and I weren’t married. A man had a right. I was a writer. I was a dirty old man. Human relationships didn’t work anyhow. Only the first two weeks had any zing, then the participants lost their interest. Masks dropped away and real people began to appear: cranks, imbeciles, the demented, the vengeful, sadists, killers. Modern society had created its own kind and they feasted on each other. It was a duel to the death—in a cesspool. The most one could hope for in a human relationship, I decided, was two and one-half years. King Mongut of Siam had 9,000 wives and concubines; King Solomon of the Old Testament had 700 wives; August the Strong of Saxony had 365 wives, one for each day of the year. Safety in numbers.
I dialed Sara’s number. She was in.
“Hi,” I said.
“I’m glad you called,” she said, “I was just thinking of you.”
“How’s the old health food Inn doing?”
“It wasn’t a bad day.”
“You ought to raise your prices. You give your stuff away.”
“If I just break even I don’t have to pay taxes.”
“Listen, somebody phoned me tonight.”
“Who?’
“Tanya.”
“Tanya?”
“Yes, we’ve been writing. She likes my poems.”
“I saw that letter. The one she wrote. You left it lying around. She’s the one who sent you the photo with her cunt showing?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s coming to see you?”
“Yes.”
“Hank, I’m sick, I’m worse than sick. I don’t know what to do.”
“She’s coming. I said I’d meet her at the airport.”
“What are you trying to do? What does it mean?”
“Maybe I’m not a good man. There are all kinds and degrees, you know.”
“That’s no answer. What about you, what about me? How about us? I hate to sound like a soap opera but I’ve let my feelings get involved….”
“She’s coming down. Is this the end for us, then?”
“Hank, I don’t know. I think so. I can’t handle it.”
“You’ve been very kind to me. I’m not sure I always know what I’m doing.”
“How long is she going to be staying here?”
“Two or 3 days, I guess.”
“Don’t you know how I’ll feel?”
“I think so….”
“O.K., phone me when she’s gone, then we’ll see.”
“Right.”
I walked into the bathroom and looked at my face. It looked terrible. I clipped some white hairs out of my beard and some from the hair around my ears. Hello, Death. But I’ve had almost 6 decades. I’ve given you so many clean shots at me that I should have been yours long ago. I want to be buried near the racetrack…where I can hear the stretch run.
The next evening I was at the airport, waiting. I was early so I went to the bar. I ordered my drink and heard somebody sobbing. I looked around. At a table in the rear a woman was sobbing. She was a young Negress—very light in color—in a tight blue dress and she was intoxicated. She had her feet up on a chair and her dress was pulled back and there were these long smooth sexy legs. Every guy in the bar must have had a hard-on. I couldn’t stop looking.