Women - Charles Bukowski [80]
“You like it?”
“Oh, yes….” I sat and waited.
Liza went back into the bedroom. Then she came out in green and red with shots of silver. This one was a midriff job with her belly button showing. As she paraded in front of me she had this special way of looking into my eyes. It was neither coy nor sexy, it was perfect.
I don’t remember how many costumes she showed me, but the last one was just right. It clung to her and was slit up each side of the skirt. As she walked around, first one leg came out, then the other. The dress was black, it shimmered, and it was cut low in front.
I got up as she walked across the room and grabbed her. I kissed her viciously, bending her backwards. I continued to kiss her and began pulling up her long gown. I pulled the back of the skirt all the way up and saw her panties, yellow. I pulled the front of her gown up and began pushing my cock against her. Her tongue slipped into my mouth—it was as cool as if she had been drinking ice water. I walked her backwards into the bedroom, pushed her on to the bed and mauled her. I got those yellow panties off and got my own pants off. I let my imagination go. Her legs were around my neck as I stood over her. I spread her legs apart, moved up, and slid it in. I played around a little, using different speeds, then anger thrusts, thrusts of love, teasing thrusts, brutal thrusts. I would pull out from time to time, then begin again. Finally I let go, gave her the last few strokes, came, and sank down beside her. Liza continued to kiss me. I wasn’t sure whether she had gotten off or not. I had.
We had dinner at a French place that also served good American food at fair prices. It was always overcrowded which gave us time at the bar. That night I left my name as Lancelot Lovejoy, and I was even sober enough to recognize the call 45 minutes later.
We ordered a bottle of wine. We decided to hold off dinner for a while. There isn’t a better way to drink than at a small table over a white tablecloth with a good-looking woman.
“You fuck,” Liza told me, “with the enthusiasm of a man who is fucking for the first time and yet you fuck with a lot of inventiveness.”
“May I write that down on my sleeve?”
“Sure.”
“I might use it sometimes.”
“Just don’t use me, that’s all I ask. I don’t want to be just another one of your women.”
I didn’t answer.
“My sister hates you,” she said. “She said that all you’ll do is use me.”
“What happened to your class, Liza? You’re talking just like everybody else.”
We never got around to dinner. When we got back home we drank some more. I did like her very much. I began to abuse her a bit, verbally. She looked surprised, her eyes filled with tears. She ran to the bathroom, stayed 10 minutes or so, then came out.
“My sister was right. You’re a bastard!”
“Let’s go to bed, Liza.”
We got ready for bed. We got into bed and I mounted her. Without foreplay it was much more difficult but I finally got it in. I began to work. I worked and I worked. It was another hot night. It was like a recurring bad dream. I began sweating. I humped and I pumped. It wouldn’t go down, it wouldn’t come off. I pumped and I humped. Finally I rolled off. “Sorry, baby, too much to drink.”
Liza slowly slid her head down my chest, across my belly, down, got to it, began licking and licking and licking, then took it into her mouth and worked on it….
I flew back to San Francisco with Liza. She had an apartment at the top of a steep hill. It was nice. The first thing I had to do was crap. I went into the bathroom and sat down. Green vines all around. What a pot. I liked it. When I came out Liza sat me down on some big pillows, put Mozart on the machine, and poured me a chilled wine. It was dinner time and she stood in the kitchen cooking. Every now and then she poured me another wine. I always enjoyed being at women’s places more than when they were at mine. When I was at their places I could always leave.
She called me in to dinner. There was salad, iced tea and a chicken stew. It was quite good.