1 have this thing about confinement. My mother died of Parkinson's disease when I was a freshman in college. The legendary beauty who'd introduced me to the joys of French kissing had become an old crone who spit up over herself like an infant. 1 didn't think much about the ramifications while she was ebbing away. I'd watch a little television with her in whatever hospital room she was occupying and I was out of there-usually running to hookers or the dilapidated movie theaters where the X-rated films played in those days. I'd literally run from the hospital. It was only after she died that 1 realized the same thing might happen to me, if I carried the wrong gene. I was a little late, but in my fear I began to empathize with her pain. I saw myself locked up in my own body. Now that's even worse than being locked in a jail cell or a ward. You can't even scratch yourself. You can't move when you need to. It started to come back to me how uncomfortable she was-the stiff necks, the soreness in her buttocks from sitting all day' the stiffness in her side and back. You could barely hear her complaints. She mumbled under her breath; sometimes I pretended 1 couldn't hear. I'd kill myself if 1 got it.
1 snagged my friend by his collar and literally pulled him up off the bench. One of the guards saw what was going on out of the corner of his eye, but he turned away. They'd jump at any excuse to avoid having to deal with the fighting and the stink since most of these homeless shit and pissed in their pants. No one wants to use a stick on someone who is helpless or insane, though it happens all the time. Once the guards in the bus station started hitting these creatures, they vented their frustration on them and there was blood everywhere. That's why people were staying away from the Greyhound Terminal. It could erupt on a moment's notice.
My friend started to whimper. There'd been a rash of gruesome murders in which homeless men had been suffocated and tortured. He had his wits about him enough to be scared.
"I'm not trying to hurt you. Trust me. I'm just going to take you over to my pad. You can take a shower and eat. You don't have to say anything, though my advice to you is to start spilling it. All you have to do is talk and you stay off the locked ward. Talking's like a passport."
I couldn't move my elbow But I was able to get Bill back to my apartment, where the three S's-shave, shit, shower-became my primary concern for him, considering my new friend's appearance and smell. I was about to make him a sandwich when he looked in my refrigerator, identified himself as a cook, and offered to fix us a snack. Considering my condition, I was in no position to refuse.
What he set out on the table wasn't a snack, it was a work of art. He told me he'd been the chef on the 125-foot yacht of a retired real estate mogul and he'd been fired for drinking. His wife had already left him, but his last bender, a three-day jaunt that took him from Disney World to Palm Springs, had cost him his girlfriend, his house, and the custody of his only child. He'd wanted to kill himself, but he didn't have the guts. He was waiting for someone to do it for him. I quickly informed Bill I wasn't volunteering for the job, but if he'd like a place to stay, I'd be glad to trade the living room couch for his promise to cook me an occasional meal.
Bill's face lit up. The transformation was miraculous. I could barely recognize him; there was hardly any resemblance to the derelict I'd found in the bus station. He took me to the emergency room and waited four hours with me so a resident could snap what turned out to be a dislocated elbow back into place.
CF4
Our first formal dinner was vegetarian chili. I had just come back from fucking her and I was starving. Bill's presentation was as beautiful as the food. Little bowls of condiments-Monterey Jack, olives, sour cream, chutney-surrounded the chili. There was a tossed salad and fresh baked corn bread. Her smell was still on me, and the residue of the chili and condiments on my breath left me with the most agreeable case of body odor I'd ever suffered from.
I'd gone momentarily blind during our fucking. 1 think my brain was hit by an electrical storm. The sensation was so long and intense that 1'd fried my synapses. It was like a short circuit. 1'd panicked. I'd started to scream.
My father used to tell me you went blind from masturbating, but he didn't tell me a good fuck had an adverse affect on the eyesight. In fact, in the last few weeks since we'd been at it, I'd noticed my nearsightedness had increased.
I was finding myself inside of her, not remembering until after our fucking was over how I'd gotten there. I didn't think of her face. I thought about the inside of her cunt, which was like a person. It pulsed, grabbing my dick and sucking it in. 1'd once been to the volcano at the top of the Big Island of Hawaii. There are steam vents, and by the shoreline there are places where you can actually watch the lava streaming into the sea. Lava and steam-that's how I imagined the inside of her cunt. I vaguely recalled the dream of a pert little face with a tiny nose and short cropped dirty blond hair. Was it her?
1 never saw her naked. We skipped the burlesque of lovemaking. We were entwined in each other's arms before any exhibitionism could come into play. So I didn't even know what her cunt looked like on the outside. When she was ready to come, she started to buck her hips up into the air; it was effortless, a form of seeking that was its own reward. She wasn't working to get her orgasm as so many women did. It wasn't something she felt she deserved. It wasn't a way of allaying the frustration she would have felt at not being able to come. I was never with her, in fact, when she didn't come many times, screaming, digging her nails into my back and pounding my spine with her fists. It was as if her body knew what it had to do, as if it were programmed for ecstasy. Her fucking was like childbirth.
I felt like one of those mummies in the horror films, who walks out of his casket in the middle of the night in response to a secret word or phrase. In my case I would hear the word "fuck," though as far as I know nobody had said it-the one extrasensory verbal manifestation of the paranormal phenomenon by which we sought each other out. It was as if the pheromones that enabled me to follow her scent also excited the part of the brain that gives language to basic drives. I was a somnambulist, carried through the streets of her neighborhood as if in a dream, with the word echoing in my head.
One night, when her boyfriend was switched to the late shift, I didn't get home until two in the morning. Bill started to heat up the dinner he had cooked-pork loin in barbecue sauce, one of the best things he did. Bill had all the receipts for the meal spread out on the kitchen counter. He'd become my brains, my memory, the face I saw as I sought oblivion in her cunt.
"I've still got some Sky Miles, and I'm thinking of going down to the Keys for a few days," he said.
Immediately I felt a shot of anxiety in my stomach. I wasn't prepared for Bill leaving. I'd come to depend on his meals. We didn't talk much, but I'd gotten used to him being there. It was like having a parent at home when you came in from school. I was already feeling possessive of Bill, but I didn't want to show it. I had to be cool. If I got nervous, he'd start to feel trapped. I'd thought he was happy, grateful, and desperate. I'd overestimated the latter. Here was a guy on desolation row who turned out to have enough credit card points for a lovely vacation.
"Why don't you come? We can stay at the Casa Marina. One of the sous-chefs is my oldest friend. He'll put us up. I may even have enough points to fly us down business class."
But what about her? Her cunt needs to get regularly fucked….
I have to say, I have many faults, but I'm not inconsiderate. I was taking the soft hairy thing between her legs into account. I know what it's like to have an itch. It starts out as physical, but soon turns into a metaphysical longing in which the sufferer never quite feels at home. I started to think about it. Though 1 still hadn't seen her, I knew her cunt was big and had large labia. I've been with women with oversized cuts. Hers, however large and sensitive, was easily buried by her large mass of pubic hair. It's lucky my dick was so hard when we fucked. Half-tumescence would never have penetrated her dense Venus mound. Part of the joy of fucking her was this feeling of conquering uninhabited wilderness. There was the waiting hotness underneath the hairs that lubricated them and my dick. Then one-two-three and I'd made it through, but it was just that feeling of breaking something down that made our fucking so unusually exhilarating. When I think of parting, I imagine sorrow written on a face, but now I saw her big hairy cunt awkwardly desolate, like a precocious child in a boring class-her cunt in the prime of its life, languishing away.