Women - Charles Bukowski [69]
“It sure does,” I said.
“You don’t love me.”
“You’re a married woman.”
“I don’t love Little Jack, but I care for him very much and he loves me.”
“It sounds fine.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Four times.”
“What happened? Where are they tonight?”
“One is dead. The other three are with other men.”
We talked a long time that night and smoked any number of joints. Around 2 AM Mercedes said, “I’m too high to drive home. I’d total the car.”
“Take your clothes off and go to bed.”
“All right, but I’ve got an idea.”
“Like what?”
“I want to watch you beat that thing off! I want to watch it squirt!”
“All right, that’s fair enough. It’s a deal.”
Mercedes undressed and went to bed. I undressed and stood at the side of the bed. “Sit up so you can see better.”
Mercedes sat on the edge of the bed. I spit on my palm and began to rub my cock.
“Oh,” Mercedes said, “It’s growing!”
“Uh huh….”
“It’s getting big!”
“Uh huh….”
“Oh, it’s all purple with big veins! It throbs! It’s ugly!”
“Yeh.”
As I kept beating my cock I moved it near her face. She watched it. Just as I was about to come I stopped.
“Oh,” she said.
“Look, I’ve got a better idea….”
“What?”
“You beat it off.”
“All right.”
She started in. “Am I doing it right?”
“A little harder. And spit on your palm. And rub almost all of it, most of it, just not up near the head.”
“All right…. Oh, God, look at it…. I want to see it squirt juice!”
“Keep going, Mercedes! OH, MY GOD!”
I was just about to come. I pulled her hand away from my cock.
“Oh, damn you!” Mercedes said.
She bent forward and got it in her mouth. She began sucking and bobbing, running her tongue along the length of my cock as she sucked it.
“Oh, you bitch!”
Then she pulled her mouth off my cock.
“Go ahead! Go ahead! Finish me off!”
“No!”
“Well, goddamn it then!”
I pushed her over backwards on the bed and leaped on her. I kissed her viciously and drove my cock in. I worked violently, pumping and pumping. I moaned and then came. I pumped it into her, feeling it enter, feeling it steam into her.
74
I had to fly to Illinois to give a reading at the University. I hated readings, but they helped with the rent and maybe they helped sell books. They got me out of east Hollywood, they got me up in the air with the businessmen and the stewardesses and the iced drinks and little napkins and the peanuts to kill the breath.
I was to be met by the poet, William Keesing, who I had been corresponding with since 1966. I had first seen his work in the pages of Bull, edited by Doug Fazzick, one of the first mimeo mags and probably the leader in the mimeo revolution. None of us were literary in the proper sense: Fazzick worked in a rubber plant, Keesing was an ex-Marine out of Korea who had done time and was supported by his wife, Cecelia. I was working 11 hours a night as a postal clerk. That was also the time when Marvin arrived on the scene with his strange poems about demons. Marvin Woodman was the best damned demon-writer in America. Maybe in Spain and Peru too. I was into writing letters at the time. I wrote 4 and 5 page letters to everybody, coloring the envelopes and pages wildly with crayons. That’s when I began writing William Keesing, ex-Marine, ex-con, drug addict (he was mostly into codeine).
Now, years later, William Keesing had secured a temporary teaching job at the University. He had managed to pick up a degree or two between drug busts. I warned him that it was a dangerous job for anybody who wanted to write. But at least he taught his class plenty of Chinaski.
Keesing and his wife were waiting at the airport. I had my baggage with me and so we went right to the car.
“My God,” said Keesing, “I never saw anybody get off of an airplane looking like that.”
I had on my dead father’s overcoat, which was too large. My pants were too long, the cuffs came down over the shoes and that was good because my stockings didn’t match, and my shoes were down