Dead Before Dying

“Do you remember that I said everything was going to be a surprise?” He heard the faint slurring of some of her words and realized that she was drunk. For some reason or other this made his stomach muscles contract.

“Yes.” You’re not completely sober either, Mat Joubert.

“Well, this evening you’re getting the first course after the main course, Mat Joubert.” She got up slowly and moved toward him. She sank down on his lap, her hands around his neck, the cigarette burning between her fingers. He put his cigarette in the plate on the table and placed the palms of his hands against her back, searching for the firm muscles of youth.

She kissed him in slow motion. Her mouth and tongue slid slowly over and into his mouth, like honey. His hand moved inch by inch toward her breast. His thumb and forefinger searched for the nipple. He felt it harden. He pressed his palm more strongly against the fullness. It was softer than he had expected.

She groaned. Her hand dropped, pressed against his abdomen, moved up, unloosened his tie, unbuttoned his shirt. Her tongue licked a line of fire across his chest, her teeth danced across his nipple. Suddenly he had an overwhelming need. He forced her throat back and dropped his lips to her breast. He sucked it into his mouth until it filled him from tongue to palate, the skin smooth and supple. He teased her with his tongue and she grew again, moaned, her hand between his legs again. He pushed his own hand to her leg, felt the strength of her muscles and visualized the pleasure that was waiting. He sighed shudderingly and moved his hand slowly to the center of his interest. Her legs opened, her mouth on his again. He expected panties there but found none, only wetness. His fingers slid inside. She groaned and sucked his tongue.

And suddenly he was ready, a machine rescued from rust. The swelling in his groin changed to a rock-hard erection, a fiery soldier on parade.

She pulled his hand away from her heat. “This,” she said, and the hoarseness was real, “is dessert.” She gave him a quick kiss and moved to her own chair with difficulty. She held her glass for more champagne. Her hair had come loose. She dragged deeply on the cigarette.

“I'’ve never met anyone like you, Mat.” Her breast was still bare. And he speculated about her experience, the fact that this wasn'’t her first time. About the fact that she excited him. About the fact that he was a vehicle for the achievement of a fantasy. But he didn't want to speculate any longer. His heart leaped at the pressure in his trousers. The bottle was empty. He got up, walked unsteadily to the kitchen, and fetched another one. When he came back she was still sitting in the same position, elbows on the table, cigarette between her fingers, the nipple almost touching the tablecloth. He poured for them both.

“Were you shocked because I wasn'’t wearing anything? Down there?”

“No.”

“I had nothing on below the mini this afternoon. It made me so randy . . .”

She took a last puff of her cigarette, killed it. “Does it make you randy too?” Her hand dropped to her breast. Her fingers quietly stroked the nipple.

“No one has ever made me so randy in my life,” he said and knew that just for that moment it was true.

She put her hand on his and suddenly said softly: “I’m so pleased.”

She remembered: “You must take the candles to the living room. That’s where you’re getting your dessert.” She put Joubert’s finger in her mouth, sucked it gently. “Two kinds,” she said and smiled seductively, but the alcohol undermined the effectiveness. He didn't notice it.

He sat.

“Get up. I’ll come in a second.” There was a momentary silence, then she giggled at the play on words. “Take the champagne, too.”

He got up.

“First fill my glass.” He obeyed, then took his own glass, the bottle of champagne, and the packet of Winstons to the living room. When he came back for the candlesticks, she wasn'’t there. He carried the candles and saw that his shirt was unbuttoned down to his navel. He sat down on the carpet. He was filled with satisfaction, anticipation. In his imagination his finger slid into her again.

He heard someone knocking at the front door.

He couldn't believe it. The knock came again, more softly. A feeling of unreality came over him, as if it was all part of a strange dream. He got up, uncertainly, and unlocked the front door, turned the handle, opened it.

Benny Griessel was leaning against the wall, chin on his breast, his clothes crumpled, his hair wildly untidy.

“Mat?” The voice was barely audible. “I have to . . . talk.”

Griessel stumbled forward. For a moment Joubert wanted to stop him, but then he opened the door wider so that the man could come in.

“Benny, this is a bad time.”

“Must talk.”

Griessel staggered to the living room, a road he knew. Joubert closed the door. His head struggled to find a solution. Quickly he walked to Griessel, turned him around, put his hands on his shoulders.

“Benny, listen to me.” He whispered, shook the shoulders.

“I want to die, Mat.”

“Benny.”

“Rather die.”

“Jesus, Benny, you’re as pissed as a newt.”

Griessel started crying.

Joubert stared ahead, his hands still on the man’s shoulders with not the vaguest idea of what to do. The sobs tore through the body of the figure in front of him. Joubert turned Griessel around, walked to the living room. He’d make the man sit down, then warn Yvonne. He helped Griessel as far as the couch. The sobs stopped when Griessel saw the candlelight. He looked at Joubert, frowned in an effort to understand.

“Is that you, Mat?” he asked, his voice barely audible. Joubert wondered what demons were dancing in Griessel’s skull. He pitied him.

Yvonne appeared in the door.

“Dessert,” she said, the word an announcement.

Her breasts and the dark love triangle of pubic hair were only too evident under the wisp of transparent nightgown. She was wearing high heels. In each hand she held a bowl of pudding. Her arms were stretched out, an invitation to the other dessert.

She saw Griessel.

Griessel saw her.

“Mat?” Griessel repeated softly, and then his head fell on his chest in an alcoholic and sensory stupor. Joubert’s head swung back to Yvonne. His thoughts were formless and panicky.

She looked down at the way she had exhibited herself, saw herself the way they saw her. Her mouth thinned.

“Bonnie,” he said, but he knew it wasn'’t going to work. She threw the bowl of pudding in her right hand at him. It hit his left shoulder, the smell of baked pudding and ice cream rising in his nostrils. It ran down his shirt and his bare chest. She swung round and walked down the passage, staggering on the high heels.

“Bonnie.”

“Fuck you!” she screamed and then a bedroom door slammed.

13.