«And these beds too.» (Tra-da-da-da-da-drrrrrrrr!)
That's how on a nasty winter's day, I walked around Bloomingdale's and since I couldn't buy anything – I was completely broke and was hungry two days in a row – I heard all of the above coming to me from the outside.
I walked down Madison Avenue, the walk of a man who's seen everything in this life – dignified, tough, night like, wearing a leather coat and a cap pulled glumly over my eyes.
Coming towards me in a rain-coat was a blue-eyed little Jesus, pale, pretty, blond, in a watery way. He maimed his neck turning towards me, his eyes bulged toward me with awe and terror. He had finally met the animal he needed.
But I didn't move a hair; I pushed on knowing full well that he stopped and was staring at me, waiting, adoring me, and scared of me-leather clad, criminal, wicked.
An early morning – snow and sun. A man with a hooked nose and the eyes of a quiet killer watches how the big-ass workers demolish the bowels of a big house – they do it with the help of fire and a bulldozer's teeth. There's pleasure in the man's eye and his nose. He almost purrs dreamily.
Let's lie on our stomachs for a while. Fucking, sometimes, is boring. Hand me that flower and I – half-bored, half-curious – will touch your pink slit with it. Jesus, these blondes – can't even touch them…
After a long fuck I feel like I've had too much porridge-Still, her ass got me interested. How do you like an ass like that?… Pushing my thumb in between her puffy buns, I twist it a little. This way I get that orifice ready, as it were, unstuck, open. And then immediately I stick my prick in.
What a squall she lets out, how she jerks! But I don't let her go. I press her ass tight, my cock in there feels delightful. Go ahead, scream on, I don't care if you hurt, as long as I feel good. I even like that cry of pain, it's better with pain and screaming. I'll work you up so you collapse.
«A-a-ah! A-a-ah! A-a-ah!»
Back and forth, my cock's sliding in her gut. It feels good that she writhes and kicks with -her feet – my cock feels good, it's narrow in there, it's not like a cunt. A cunt is big but here the hole is small. And with the final fury at this busty bitch I almost tear something inside her against the firm head of my cock. Take it! My sperm like a machine-gun burst, shoots in, clogs her up.
I jerk my cock out and, kissing her, fall down on her tormented, pathetically quivering ass. You, my co-animal, my female, my dear little bitch!… Come on, stop howling. There. Forgive me!
If someone loves you but you don't love her, it's a savage, cave-like terror. Especially if that person is nice and kind. I know what it feels like because of my experience with the millionaire's housekeeper.
Once at night, she cried, screamed, and in her impotence, splashed wine on me, and then, in her wheezing whisper: «I adore you!» she said. She became upset, shifted into a nightmare, though I've never uttered anything to the effect that I don't love her, or that I'm leaving. She feels it in her gut that I'm just a passing visitor.
And how can I force myself to stay? I can't, alas. She feels to me like a best friend. You can't push yourself into love, you can't violate yourself. There's no one to blame. As to respecting her, I do very, very much respect her.
And I appreciate her. She's talented and kind. But I can't fuck with her, it's like a shameful incest, it's like fucking your own mother. It's the same feeling.
Houses. Spring. Inky sky. I'm walking, a genius like Rimbaud. Not quite spring, it's turning into spring. It smells of violets, though obviously there are no violets around. The vague hopes: to one day walk into a brightly-lit place and see the eyes and the entire radiant figure – brazen, smiling Her. Having never seen her before, I'll recognize her. I'll rush up to her: «Let's go!» Her icy hand. Laughter. «Let's! Mister Poet!» Her wrist bones are bruised.
How will I be able to fuck you, loving you so?! Under the palms, on holy Monday, on holy Friday, on the Sunday – Christ's day of resurrection, with the candles, praying, having kept the long fast, having been pricked by the thorns, barefoot, the thorns have pricked my penis and around the loins… you, thin-legged.
Sometimes I cry out of fury. Out of fury, I hit the palm of my hand with my own fist, I swear and tears burst from my eyes. And you? Do you do that? Can you?
It snowed in the morning, but by tea time the sky has cleared.
There was anxiety in the air, as though you're eleven and waiting either to be punished or rewarded for what you did earlier, and you're quivering at the vastness of your life ahead. And you loiter, walking from one corner of the room to another, pulling on the breast-band of your shorts.
A morning
In the morning, sitting by a sheet of paper, I stare out the window. The section of the First Avenue I'm able to observe is pretty deserted. You can rarely see more than one passer-by at each stare.
This is where I get stuck and can't come up with anything else. I'd like to say something about my insane anxieties, but the 1st Avenue in its yellow section has no connection to my anxieties. If there's one passerby per stare, what's to cause anxiety?
My inner life has turned into an outward one a long time ago so that I no longer know what's inside – it's probably that yellow section of the 1st Avenue with one sad passer-by on it, and my anxiety and the ever new morbid thoughts and sensations about Elena, about her body, about her fate and mine – all this is on the outside and perhaps is lying in the window.
The machine-guns, the parachutes, and the canons of my future appear very easily as my past, and the execution of the Chicago Anarchists at the end of the 19th century in a Chicago prison has been burning ahead of me in the black sky for twelve years – ahead, not behind. I read about it twelve years ago and, terrified, I «recognized» my own execution.
Meanwhile, it's already 11:00 a.m. The Bald Diva (I never fuck her in the morning) has gotten up and poked her head into my room – greeted me. Greetings, Bald Diva, you're a good woman, you like to – and knowhow to – fuck; now you're going to the bathroom, and you'll occupy it for a long time. I know you, yes I do.
I have an ambivalent attitude to the millionaire's housekeeper.
Sometimes she seems to me nice and kind. She's a real American heroine, a gal from the frontier. She's that kind – she'll get up on the wagon holding a gun and the reins, firing at the Indians and at bandits. She's the oldest daughter in a family with nine children. And in the wagon, the younger children, frightened, huddle together, and she keeps driving the horses on, keeps firing. A tough gal.
It's a misfortune that sometimes I see her in a different way too – a twisted mug, idiotic pants, pimples under her nose and her chin, barefoot – and it's not much fun, alas. I went to see her yesterday and saw her like that. Why did I go? The reason is cynical. I have to pay rent in a few days and – who wants me now?- I took from her the few dollars I was short on. She gave it to me gladly.
I'm horrified comparing the millionaire's housekeeper with Elena, whom I also saw yesterday. Elena is a voluptuous courtesan and of a high caliber at that. Every piece of her body is elegant and savagely, wickedly sexy. So what that Elena betrayed me, dumped me, and doesn't give a damn about my life, and the millionaire's housekeeper gives me food and drink, gives me presents and money and is loyal to me, body and soul? So what? Like the scraggliest and most ragged bitch in the neighborhood, Elena exudes an especially strong odor that attracts all the studs and me.