Sexus Read online

  Our hero opens his eyes and becomes himself again—that is to say, the man known herein as myself, who refuses to believe what his mind tells him. They are probably having a long talk, I say to myself, drawing a curtain over the pleasant substitution. She wouldn’t think of letting a greasy, sweaty incubus like that touch her. He probably tried to kiss her but she knows how to take care of herself all right. Wonder if Maude’s still awake? Feeling horny myself. Walking towards the house I open my fly and let my pecker out. Maude’s cunt. She can certainly fuck when she’s a mind to. Get her half-asleep, her blinders off. Just lay there quiet like, snuggle up spoon-fashion. I put the key in the lock and shove the iron gate. Cold iron against a quivering prick. Must sneak up on her, slip it to her while she’s dreaming. I slip quietly upstairs and shuffle out of my clothes. I can hear her turning over, getting ready in her sleep to turn her warm ass on me. I slide gently into bed and cup myself around her. She’s pretending to be out, dead to the world. Not too fast or she’ll wake up. Must do it in my sleep like or she’ll be insulted. I’ve got the tip of it in the loose hairs. She’s lying terribly still. She wants it, the bitch, but she won’t let on. All right, play dead dog! I move her a little, just a wee bit. She responds like a water-soaked log. She’s going to lie heavy like that and pretend she’s asleep. Yes, I’ve got it half in. I have to move her around like a hoist, but she’s movable and everything’s smoothly oiled. It’s wonderful to fuck your own wife as if she were a dead horse. You know every ripple in the silken lining; you can take your time and think about anything you like. The body is hers but the cunt’s yours. The cunt and the prick, they’re married, by crikey, no matter if the bodies are going different ways. In the morning the two bodies will face each other and make small change; they will act as if they were independent, as if the penis and the other thing were only to make water with. Being sound asleep she doesn’t mind how I joggle her. I’ve got one of those dumb, senseless hard-ons, like my prick was just a rubber hose and no nozzle to it. With the tips of my fingers I can move her at will. I shoot a load into her and leave it in, the thick rubber hose, I mean. She’s opening and closing like a flower. It’s agony, but the right kind of agony. Flower says: Stay there, sonny boy! Flower talks like a drunken sponge. Flower says: I do take this piece of meat to cherish until I wake. And what says the body, the independent hoist moving on ball bearings? Body is wounded and humiliated. Body lost its name and address temporarily. Body would like to cut prick off and keep it like a kangaroo, forever. Maude is not this body lying ass skyward, the helpless victim of a rubber hose. Maude, if the author were God and not her husband, sees herself standing prissily on a green lawn, holding a beautiful red parasol. There are beautiful gray doves pecking at her shoes. These lovely doves, as she thinks them to be, are saying in their koochkoo way, what a gracious, bountiful creature you are. They make white shit all the while, but being doves sent from heaven above, the white part is only angel cake and shit is a bad word which man invented when he put on clothes and civilized himself. If she should squint her eye while saying benediction over God’s little pigeons she would see a shameless hussy offering a naked man the hind part of her body, just like a cow or a mare in the field. She doesn’t want to think of this woman, especially in such a disgraceful posture. She tries to keep the green grass around her and the parasol open. How lovely to stand naked in the pure sunlight conversing with an imaginary friend! Maude is talking very elegantly now, as if dressed all in white and the church bells tolling: she is in her own private corner of the universe, a nunlike creature telling off the Psalms in Moon.* She stoops to stroke the head of a dove, so soft and feathery, so warm with love, a piece of blood wrapped in velvet. The sun is shining brilliantly and now, oh how good it is, it is warming her cool hinder parts. Like a merciful angel she spreads her legs apart: the dove flutters between her legs, the wings brush lightly against the marble arch. The little dove is fluttering madly; she must squeeze his soft little head between her legs. Still Sunday and not a soul in this corner of the universe. Maude is talking to Maude. She is saying that if a bull came along and mounted her she would not budge an inch. It feels good, doesn’t it, Maude, she whispers to herself. It feels so good. Why don’t I come here every day and stand this way? Really, Maude, this is wonderful. You take off all your clothes and stand in the grass; you bend over to feed the pigeons and the bull climbs up over the hill and puts his terrible long thing inside you. Oh God, but it’s terribly good to have it this way. The clean green grass, the smell of his warm hide, that long, smooth thing he moves in and out—O God, I want him to fuck me like he would a cow. O God, I want to fuck and fuck and fuck. . .

  4

  The following evening my old friend Stanley drops in to see me. Maude detests Stanley, and with good reason, because every time he looks her way he blows her down with a silent curse. His look says very clearly—“If I had that bitch in my place I’d take the ax to her and hew her down.” Stanley is full of submerged hatreds. He looks as gaunt and wiry now as he did when he came out of the cavalry at Fort Oglethorpe years ago. What he’s looking for is something to murder. He’d murder me, his best friend, if he could get away with it. He’s foul on the world, green all the way back to the bile with accumulated hatred and vengeance. What he comes around for is to make sure that I am not making any progress, that I’m sinking deeper and deeper. “You’ll never get anywhere,” he says. “You’re like me—you’re weak, you have no ambition.” We have one ambition in common, which we make light of: to write. There was more hope for us fifteen years ago, when we were writing letters to one another. Fort Oglethorpe was a good place for Stanley; it made him a drunkard, a gambler, a thief. It made his letters interesting. They were never about the army life but about exotic, romantic writers whom he tried to imitate when he wrote. Stanley should never have come back North; he should have gotten off the train at Chickamauga, wrapped himself in tobacco leaves and cow dung, and taken himself a squaw. Instead he came back North to the funeral parlor, found himself a fat Polish wench with fertile ovaries, saddled himself with a brood of little Poles, and tried in vain to write standing up over the kitchen tubs. Stanley rarely talked about anything in the present; he preferred to spin incredible yarns about the men he loved and admired in the army.

  Stanley had all the bad traits of the Poles. He was vain, vitriolic, violent, generous in a false way, romantic as a broken-down hack, loyal as a fool and deeply treacherous to boot. Above all, he was simply corroded with envy and jealousy.

  There is one thing I like about the Poles—their language. Polish, when it is spoken by intelligent people, puts me in ecstasy. The sound of the language evokes strange images in which there is always a greensward of fine spiked grass in which hornets and snakes play a great part. I remember days long back when Stanley would invite me to visit his relatives; he used to make me carry a roll of music because he wanted to show me off to these rich relatives. I remember this atmosphere well because in the presence of these smoothtongued, overly polite, pretentious and thoroughly false Poles I always felt miserably uncomfortable. But when they spoke to one another, sometimes in French, sometimes in Polish, I sat back and watched them fascinatedly. They made strange Polish grimaces, altogether unlike our relatives, who were stupid barbarians at bottom. The Poles were like standing snakes fitted up with collars of hornets. I never knew what they were talking about but it always seemed to me as if they were politely assassinating someone. They were all fitted up with sabers and broadswords which they held in their teeth or brandished fiercely in a thundering charge. They never swerved from the path but rode roughshod over women and children, spiking them with long pikes beribboned with blood-red pennants. All this, of course, in the drawing room over a glass of strong tea, the men in butter-colored gloves, the women dangling their silly lorgnettes. The women were always ravishingly beautiful, the blond houri type garnered centuries ago during the Crusades. They hissed their long polychromatic words through tiny, sensual mouths whose lip
s were soft as geraniums. These furious sorties with adders and rose petals made an intoxicating sort of music, a steel-stringed zithery slipper-gibber which could also register anomalous sounds like sobs and falling jets of water.

  On the way home we always rode through dreary, somber patches of land studded with gas tanks, smoking chimneys, grain elevators, carbarns and other biochemical emulsions of our glorious civilization. The way home bore in on me the fact that I was just a shit, another piece of stinking offal like the burning garbage piles in the vacant lots. All the way in there would be the acrid stench of burning chemicals, burning refuse, burning offal. The Poles were a race apart and their language clung to me like smoking ruins from a past I had never known. How was I to guess, then, that one day I would be riding through their outlandish world in a train filled with Jews who shivered with fear whenever a Pole addressed them? Yes, I would be having a fight in French (me, the little shit from Brooklyn) with a Polish nobleman—because I couldn’t bear to see these Jews cowering in fear. I would be traveling to the estate of a Polish count to watch him paint maudlin pictures for the Salon d’Automne. How was I to imagine such an eventuality, riding through the swamplands with my savage, bile-ridden friend Stanley? How could I believe that, weak and lacking ambition, I should one day tear myself away, learn a new language, learn a new way of living, like it, lose myself, sever all ties, look back on this which I am riding through as if it were a nightmare told by an idiot in a railway station on a bitter cold night when you change trains in a trance?

  On this particular night little Curley happened to drop in. Maude had no use for Curley either, apart from the thrill he gave her when he slyly caressed her bottom as she stooped to put the meat in the oven. Curley always thought he did these things without anyone noticing him; Maude always let people do these things to her as if they happened by accident; Stanley always made it very clear that he saw nothing, but under the table you could distinctly observe him pouring nitric acid over his rusty brass knuckles. Myself, I noticed everything, even the new cracks in the plaster wall which I stared at so intensely when alone that, if I were given time, I could read back at top speed, without missing a comma or a dash, the whole history of the human race leading up to the particular square inch of plaster on which my eyes were focused.

  This particular night it is warm outdoors and the grass is velvety. There is no reason to stay indoors and silently murder one another. Maude is eager for us to evacuate; we are polluting the sanctuary. Besides, she is going to menstruate in a day or two and that makes her more than ever weepy, miserable and despondent. The best thing would be for me to step outdoors and accidentally walk into a fast truck; that would be such a marvelous relief to her that it seems incredible to me now why I never did a little thing like that to oblige her. Many a night she must have sat alone and prayed that I would come back to her on a stretcher. She was the sort of woman who, if a thing like that were to occur, would say very frankly—“Thank God, he’s done it at last!”

  We walked to the park and lay flat on our backs in the short grass. The sky was friendly and peaceful, a bowl without limits; I felt strangely at ease, detached, serene as a sage. To my surprise, Stanley was whistling a different tune. He was saying that I owed it to myself to make a break, that as a friend of mine he was going to help me do what I couldn’t do alone.

  “You leave it to me,” he muttered. “I’ll fix it for you. But don’t come to me afterwards and say that you regret it,” he added.

  How was he going to fix it? I demanded.

  That was none of my business, he gave me to understand. “You’re desperate, aren’t you? You want to get rid of her, that’s all, isn’t that so?”

  I shook my head and smiled, smiled because it seemed utterly preposterous that Stanley, of all people, could be so confident of arranging such a decisive coup. He acted as if he had plotted it all out a long time ago, as if he had merely been waiting for the opportune moment to broach the subject. He wanted to know more about Mara—was I absolutely sure of her?

  “Now about the kid,” he said, in his usual cold-blooded way, “that’s going to be tough on you. But you’ll forget about her after a time. You were never meant to be a father. Only, don’t come to me and ask me to fix it up again, understand? When I do this job it’s going to be settled once and for all. I don’t believe in halfway measures. Now, if I were you I’d go to Texas or some place like that. Don’t ever come back here! You’ve got to start all over again, as if you were just beginning your life. You can do it, if you want to. I can’t. I’m trapped. That’s why I want to help you. I’m not doing this for your sake—I’m doing it because it’s what I’d like to do myself. You can forget me too while you’re at it. I’d forget everybody if I were in your boots.”

  Curley was fascinated. Wanted to know immediately if he couldn’t go with me.

  “Don’t take him along, whatever you do!” Stanley blurted savagely. “He’s no good—he’d be in the way, that’s all. Besides, he’s not to be trusted.”

  Curley was hurt and he showed it.

  “Listen, don’t rub it in,” I said. “I know he’s no good, but what the hell. . .”

  “I don’t mince matters,” said Stanley bluntly. “As far as I’m concerned, I don’t want to see him ever again. He can go away and die for all I care. You’re soft—that’s why you’re in such a lousy mess. I haven’t any friends, you know that. I don’t want any. I don’t do anything for anybody out of pity. If he’s hurt it’s too bad, but he’ll have to swallow it as best he can. I’m talking seriously. I mean business.”

  “How do I know I can trust you to handle this right?”

  “You don’t have to trust me. One day—I won’t say when—it’ll happen. You won’t know how it happened. You’ll get the surprise of your life. And you won’t be able to change your mind because it’ll be too late. You’ll be free whether you like it or not—that’s all I can tell you. It’s the last thing I’ll do for you—after that you take care of yourself. Don’t write me that you’re starving because I won’t pay any attention to you. Sink or swim, that’s the size of it.”

  He got up and brushed himself off. “I’m going,” he said. “It’s settled then?”

  “O.K.,” I said.

  “Give us a quarter,” he said, as he was about to walk off.

  I didn’t have a quarter on me. I turned to Curley. He nodded, to indicate he understood, but made no move to hand it over.

  “Give it to him, will you,” I said. “I’ll return it to you when we get home.”

  “To him?” said Curley, looking at Stanley contemptuously. “Let him beg for it!”

  Stanley turned his back and walked off. He had the loping gait of a cowboy. Even from the back he looked like a thug.

  “The dirty bastard!” mumbled Curley. “I could stick a knife in him.”

  “I almost hate him myself,” said I. “He’ll wither and die before he softens. I don’t know why he’s doing this for me—it’s not like him.”

  “How do you know what he’s going to do? How can you trust a guy like that?”

  “Curley,” I said, “he wants to do me a favor. Something tells me it’s going to be unpleasant, but I don’t see any other way out. You’re just a kid. You don’t know what it’s all about. I feel relieved somehow. It’s a turn in the road.”

  “Reminds me of my father,” said Curley bitterly. “I hate him, hate his guts. I’d like to see the two of them hanging from the same post. I’d like to burn them up, the dirty bastards.”

  A few days later I was sitting in Ulric’s studio waiting for Mara to arrive with her friend Lola Jackson. Ulric had never met Mara.

  “You think she’s good stuff, eh?” he was saying, meaning Lola. “We won’t have to stand on too much ceremony, what?”

  These feelers which Ulric always put out amused me highly. He liked to be guaranteed that the evening would not be entirely wasted. He was never certain of me when it came to women or friends; in his humble opinio
n I was just a wee bit too reckless.

  However, the moment he laid eyes on them he felt reassured. In fact, he was bowled over. He took me aside almost at once to congratulate me on my taste.

  Lola Jackson was a queer girl. She had only one defect—the knowledge that she was not pure white. That made her rather difficult to handle, at least in the preliminary stages. A little too intent upon impressing us with her culture and breeding. After a couple of drinks she unlimbered enough to show us how supple her body was. Her dress was too long for some of the stunts she was eager to demonstrate. We suggested that she take it off, which she did, revealing a stunning figure which showed to advantage in a pair of sheer-silk hose, a brassiere and pale-blue panties. Mara decided to follow suit. Presently we urged them to dispense with the brassieres. There was a huge divan on which the four of us huddled in a promiscuous embrace. We turned the lights down and put on a record. Lola thought it was too warm to keep anything on except the silk stockings.

  We had about a square yard of space in which to dance flesh to flesh. Just as we had changed partners, just as the tip of my cock had buried itself in Lola’s dark petals, the phone rang. It was Hymie Laubscher telling me in a grave and urgent voice that the messengers had declared a strike. “You’d better be on hand early tomorrow morning, H.M.,” he said. “No telling what will happen. I wouldn’t have bothered you if it hadn’t been for Spivak. He’s on your trail. He says you ought to have known that the boys were going on strike. He’s hired a fleet of taxicabs already. There’s going to be hell tomorrow.”