“Hey for christ’s sake the place is clean already.”
“But this needs doing every day Sigmund.”
And invariably during these cleaning sessions and while Schultz was at Sperm Productions, at least one young lady would show up knocking on the door and ask for Schultz.
“I’m sorry Mr. Schultz is out but I’m Mrs. Schultz can I help you.”
But when a black leather attired Germanic looking lady with a monstrous thatch of long straight blond hair to her shoulders stood on the doorstep, Schultz’s future wife’s face became deeply red when to her standard answer she got a gruff.
“Vass bullshit. Mrs. Schultz. Who are you, the maid. I vant Herr Schultz.”
“He’s not in.”
“Don’t vurry I vill be back.”
Indeed before he returned that day, three more girls had come and knocked in a most familiar manner for Schultz whose photograph along with Binky’s and his Lordship’s had just appeared in the evening newspaper, announcing their coming season of productions. And that night Schultz’s future wife stayed with him in his bedroom revealing all but where a flimsy bit of lingerie still snugly covered the vital objective. And a trembling Schultz in all his showbizz years had never seen a body quite like it.
“Jesus christ, honey, who built you.”
“Do you only have to be interested in my body.”
“Honey I’m open to suggestions. What else have you got.”
“That’s insulting that is.”
Schultz stretched spreadeagled like an Aztec in sacrifice and staring up into the lace canopy of the phony fifteenth century bed, reminisced about his teenage sex life in Woonsocket while Pricilla pulled his prick twice, and painfully sat on his toe once. In the morning her large almond eyes narrowed and her voice became ominously lighthearted.
“Who are those girls.”
“What girls.”
“The girls who keep coming knocking on your door. One of them under her macintosh was in halter and shorts on a red bicycle.”
“O those. They’re just some stage struck kids wanting to get into show business. I get bothered by them all the time especially when my picture gets all over the newspapers.”
“And who is this female monkey you keep in the locked basement.”
“Look honey, come on, I got lots of troubles. Just forget what’s in the basement will you.”
Schultz’s future wife now took the precaution of steaming open Schultz’s late afternoon mail and throwing away those letters and notes signed Abigail, Helga, Shirley or Teenie Eeenie Bootsie Wootsie. She also, on the day she stopped working for Big Al, finally found the key to the basement. And just as his Lordship had come calling and Schultz had already departed to stroll to the office across St. James’s Park, Schultz’s future wife was shoving the terrorized and sobbing au pair possessionless out the basement door.
“Of course Binky I was aghast, I thought it was Schultz heaving this most charming young lady out. But instead of Schultz it was another even more attractive lady entirely, doing the shoving.”
Ever solicitous of stricken damsels, his Lordship had, when his chauffeur deposited him at Sperm Productions, instructed that this little bit of honey blond all right, be ferried back to her original employers somewhere godforsakenly northeasterly of London where they resided between a crematorium and golf course. And two days later a policeman appeared requesting to see his Lordship to assist him in his further enquiries concerning an abduction. But respectfully retreating when he heard the noble Peer’s explanation that the poor creature had been found wandering in tears on the street.
“Can you imagine Binky, my motor’s licence number taken for having delivered Schultz’s au pair back to where she belongs. Most unpleasant.”
“Highly unpleasant, your Amazing Grace.”
“Yes I agree, highly unpleasant.”
“Ah but I think your Grace we must await an opportunity to straighten old Schultzy boy out, don’t you.”
Holding daily auditions for casting and hoping that penny by penny and pound by pound, he would gather his show’s finances and production together, Schultz minus his dependable au pair, was finding his now semicrippled attempts to enter his future wife well nigh unbearable. Even though she became more practised at pulling and was at last now contemplating allowing that disgusting variation Schultz suggested, of entering her by the mouth.
“Let’s go, let’s go with it. This is a permissive society honey.”
“It may be. But I’m not.”
“Honey, look, don’t worry, I’m convinced you’re not. But could you look at it from my point of view for a second. I’m normal. I need outlet.”
With the clock of Big Ben booming a desperate Saturday dawn following the umpteenth night of pulling but saying no to blowing or throwing, Schultz, despite his busted toes, jumped up seven feet high off the bed. Banging his head on the crosspiece of the four poster, but remaining conscious enough to shout.
“Jesus christ I’m not going to go through this anymore, get the fuck out. I mean if you take off a stocking or you let me suck a tit, it’s like I ought to get down on my knees in thanksgiving like you were the Queen of fucking Sheba. You’re driving me nuts. I have to get laid. Come on. Out. Get the fuck out. I’ve had enough.”
Schultz standing by his bedroom door stark naked and fulsomely erected as he usually was, while the future wife sat up in bed like the Queen of Sheba attired in her frilly nightdress and fulsomely prim as she usually was.
“Do you really want to enter me that bad Sigmund.”
“What the fuck do you mean do I want to enter you that bad. I need to screw. And I need to screw four times a goddam day. For christ’s sake what the fuck do you think I’ve got you up here for.”
“I’d prefer if you didn’t use that language to me please.”
“Well I’m horny and fucking well exasperated. It’s bad for me to suffer this way.”
“Couldn’t you wait till we’re married.”
“Married. Jesus christ married.”
“Yes married. That would only take a few minutes to arrange. And please don’t continue to be profane.”
“What are you kidding.”
“No I am not kidding.”
“You’re serious. I mean do you know what marriage means.”
“Yes I know what marriage means.”
“It’s a fucking lifetime contract for fucks sake, honey.”
“Well why shouldn’t it be. It’s that way for everybody.”
“It’s not going to be that way for me. It makes me nervous. So when I get back I want you gone.”
This conversation produced sulking in Schultz’s future wife. And while she remained in bed, Schultz hysterically showered, shaved and dressed. To head out for solace and breakfast in that beige stone retreat of the Dorchester Hotel just a hop skip and a jump across Hyde Park. And with both feet in shoes again he attempted to leap down the stairs three at a time. Tripping at the bottom and howling in agony as he sprained an ankle and further maimed his half mended toes.
“Jesus fuck you fucking ducks.”
The future wife in her purple flimsy bed apparel, was sitting upright against the pillows in bed, a fashion magazine open across her lap. She frowned with suitable alarm and sympathy as Schultz limped back into the room looking for his sandals. He bent to rummage among his footwear, and when his back was turned he caught sight of the future wife angled in the closet mirror. Her creamy exquisite face was grinning ear to ear.