Women - Charles Bukowski [83]
It was very hot the next day and there was more drinking. I phoned out for food. I turned the fan on. There wasn’t much talking. Those German girls liked their drinks. Then they both went out and sat on the old couch on my front porch—Hilda in shorts and bra and Gertrude in a tight pink underslip without bra or panties. Max, the mailman, came by. Gertrude accepted my mail for me. Poor Max nearly fainted. I could see the envy and disbelief in his eyes. But, then, he had job security….
Around 2 PM Hilda announced that she was going for a walk. Gertrude and I went inside. Finally it did happen. We were on the bed and we played our openers. After a while we got down to it. I mounted and it went in. But it went in sharply to the left, like there was a curve. I could only remember one other woman like that—but it had been good. Then I got to thinking, she’s fooling me, I’m not really in there. So I pulled it out and stuck it back in. It went in and took a hard left turn again. What shit. Either she had a fucked up pussy or I wasn’t penetrating. I persuaded myself to believe she had a fucked up pussy. I pumped and worked while it bent around that hard left turn.
I worked and worked. Then it felt as if I were hitting bone. It was shocking. I gave up and rolled off.
“Sorry,” I said, “I just don’t seem to have it today.”
Gertrude didn’t answer.
We both got up and dressed. Then we went into the front room and sat and waited on Hilda. We drank and waited. Hilda took a long time. A long, long time. She finally arrived.
“Hello,” I said.
“Who are all these black men in your neighborhood?” she asked.
“I don’t know who they are.”
“They said I could make $2,000 a week.”
“Doing what?”
“They didn’t say.”
The German girls stayed 2 or 3 days more. I still kept hitting that left turn in Gertrude even when I was sober. Hilda told me she was on Tampax, so she was no help.
They finally collected their things and I got them into my car. They had large canvas bags that they carried over their shoulders. German hippies. I followed their instructions. Turn here, turn there. We climbed higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills. We were in rich territory. I had forgotten that some people lived quite well while most others ate their own shit for breakfast. When you lived where I lived you began to believe that every place else was like your own crummy place.
“Here it is,” said Gertrude.
The Volks was at the bottom of a long winding driveway. Up there somewhere was a house, a large, large house with all the things in it, and around it, that such houses have.
“You had better let us walk up,” said Gertrude.
“Sure,” I said.
They got out. I turned the Volks around. They stood at the entrance and waved to me, their canvas backpacks slung over their shoulders. I waved back. Then I drove off, put it into neutral, and glided down out of the mountains.
87
I was asked to give a reading at a famous nightclub, The Lancer, on Hollywood Boulevard. I agreed to read two nights. I was to follow a rock group, The Big Rape, each night. I was getting sucked into the show biz maze. I had some extra tickets and I phoned Tammie and asked her if she wanted to come. She said yes, so the first night I took her with me. I had them put her on the tab. We sat in the bar waiting for my act to go on. Tammie’s act was similar to mine. She promptly got drunk and walked up and down in the bar talking to people.
By the time I was ready to go on Tammie was falling over tables. I found her brother and told him, “Jesus Christ, get her out of here, will you?”
He led her off into the night. I was drunk, too, and later on I forgot that I had asked that she be taken away.
I didn’t give a good reading. The audience was