Women - Charles Bukowski [53]
We got a table away from the crowd. It was cool and quiet and dark in there. I liked it. I went for the lobster. Joanna went for something strange. She ordered it in French. She was sophisticated, traveled. In a sense, as much as I disliked it, education helped when you were looking at a menu or for a job, especially when you were looking at a menu. I always felt inferior to waiters. I had arrived too late and with too little. The waiters all read Truman Capote. I read the race results.
The dinner was good and out on the gulf were the shrimp boats, the patrol boats and the pirates. The lobster tasted good in my mouth, and I drank him down with fine wine. Good fellow. I always liked you in your pink-red shell, dangerous and slow.
Back at Joanna Dover’s place we had a delicious bottle of red wine. We sat in the dark watching the few cars pass in the street below. We were quiet. Then Joanna spoke.
“Hank?”
“Yes?”
“Was it some woman who drove you here?”
“Yes.”
“Is it over with her?”
“I’d like to think so. But if I said ‘no’…”
“Then you don’t know?”
“Not really.”
“Does anybody ever know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That’s what makes it all stink so.”
“It does stink.”
“Let’s fuck.”
“I’ve drunk too much.”
“Let’s go to bed.”
“I want to drink some more.”
“You won’t be able to…”
“I know. I hope you’ll let me stay four or five days.”
“It will depend on your performance,” she said.
“That’s fair enough.”
By the time we finished the wine I could barely make it to bed. I was asleep by the time Joanna came out of the bathroom….
55
Upon awakening I got up and used Joanna’s toothbrush, drank a couple of glasses of water, washed my hands and face and got back into bed. Joanna turned around and my mouth found hers. My cock began to rise. I put her hand on my cock. I grabbed her hair, pulling her head back, kissing her, savagely. I played with her cunt. I teased her clit for a long time. She was very wet. I mounted and buried it. I held it in. I could feel her responding. I was able to work a long time. Finally I was unable to hold back any longer. I was wet with sweat and my heart beat so loudly that I could hear it.
“I’m not in very good shape,” I told her.
“I liked it. Let’s have a joint.”
She produced a joint, already rolled. We passed it back and forth. “Joanna,” I told her, “I’m still sleepy. I could use another hour.”
“Sure. As soon as we finish this joint.”
We finished the joint and stretched out in bed again. I slept.
56
That evening after dinner Joanna produced some mescaline.
“You ever tried this stuff?”
“No.”
“Want to try some?”
“All right.”
Joanna had some paints and brushes and paper spread on the table. Then I remembered she was an art collector. And that she had bought some of my paintings. We had been drinking Heinekens most of the evening, but were still sober.
“This is very powerful stuff.”
“What does it do?”
“It gives you a strange kind of high. You might get sick. When you vomit you get higher but I prefer not to vomit so we take a little baking soda along with it. I guess the main thing about mescaline is that it makes you feel terror.”
“I’ve felt that without any help at all.”
I began painting. Joanna turned the stereo on. It was very strange music, but I liked it. I looked around and Joanna was gone. I didn’t care. I painted a man who had just committed suicide, he had hung himself from the rafters with a rope. I used many yellows, the dead man was so bright and pretty. Then something said, “Hank…”
It was right behind me. I leaped out of my chair, “JESUS CHRIST! OH, JESUS SHIT CHRIST!”
Tiny icy bubbles ran from my wrists to my shoulders and down my back. I shivered and trembled. I looked around. Joanna was standing there.
“Never do that to me again,” I told her. “Never sneak up on me like that or I’ll kill you!”
“Hank, I just went to get some cigarettes.”
“Look at this painting.”
“Oh, it’s great,” she