‘Who says?’ he shouts. This has never happened before. Maybe he got too excited at the thought of tearing into her — and she’s just given in. There he is, about to rip her modesty away, and it turns out she has none. He’s totally empty. He beats at his cock, hard, but it’s no good. This is going nowhere. He kisses her cheeks, her neck, her breasts. He rubs himself against her, turning her over and back again.
She’s getting tired of all this. Finally he stops. He must be ready. All she has to do is open her legs for that knife. She turns over to face him, the folds of skin on her belly flopping like the neck of a Sharpei dog. He goes soft again. The only way she can get this over with is to sharpen his knife for him. She props herself up.
‘Lie down,’ she says.
He’s surprised, but does as she says. She grabs hold of his penis. After all, her husband has one. All men do. Once a man is just a penis, everything is simple.
Now he’s the one who’s embarrassed, who tries to twist away.
‘Keep still,’ she orders.
She lays him out flat, his skin white as boiled pork. She’s the butcher.
Her hand is cold as ice, but somehow he feels a shiver of pleasure. Ice-cold pleasure. It’s as if he’s observing himself from a great distance. He can really feel the chills of pleasure and see himself enjoying it. But what about her? She’s not enjoying it at all, just getting a result. That’s no good at all.
‘You like it?’ he asks.
She’s taken aback. ‘Of course.’
‘Liar.’
‘No.’ She’s disgusted. He wants her to enjoy it as well?
‘It’s … really … nice.’ She doesn’t sound convincing. They’re both faking it. Just going through the motions.
‘Liar.’
‘Oh, shut up!’ she shouts. The thing in her hand is responding less and less. She pumps it up and down, but it’s like pulling on an elephant’s trunk, his foreskin stretching and shrinking back. It’s starting to hurt. He yelps.
She bends over him and takes it in her mouth. Pretend it’s chewing pork, she thinks.
He is appalled.
Normally he loves putting his dirtiest part into the cleanest part of a woman. He lifts the woman’s hair, so he can watch her mouth going at him. But this isn’t working at all.
He has to let her do it, she thinks, otherwise he’ll never get hard. She shoves him back down. At last his penis fills her mouth. She sits back and it stands up as stiff as a snake. It feels strange, as if it’s no longer part of his body.
Now they can get it over with. But he doesn’t move. What is she going to do if he goes soft again? She skips the condom, gets on top and pushes him in. There’s something not quite right, so she shifts slightly. That’s better. She can’t believe it feels right with a man who is not her husband. Well, you can get used to anything.
He’s not happy.
‘Don’t move,’ she says. ‘It’ll be good in a minute!’
‘No …’
Isn’t this what he’s after? Maybe he wants to mess around a bit more, so he won’t come too soon. Well tough! She’ll make him come now. A man behaves himself once he’s shot his load.
‘Give it to me,’ she says.
‘Really?’
‘Really!’ She speeds up. Just let him come.
‘Then let me hear you.’
Was he crazy?
‘Go on, make some noise,’ he says. ‘You want it, and it’s good, so let me hear you shout.’
She cries out.
‘Louder!’
She does it again.
‘Rubbish,’ he says and tries to throw her off.
She’s just faking it. She doesn’t feel like shouting, the noise just comes mechanically from her vocal chords and out of her mouth. She’s a whore. But isn’t he a whore too, a literary whore? He’s sold his soul already. Only the flesh remains. When did that happen?
The first time he had sex with a girl she didn’t make a noise, she bit him hard on the shoulder. That was his wife. He was dirt poor back then, living on steamed buns, so he could devote himself to his writing. He spent hours revising his work, polishing it, then timidly paid court to editors and begged them to publish it. But his idealism is long gone, along with his fine feelings. He is at one remove from everything, from this. He wants out.
But how much longer will this drag on for if he gets up now? She’s frantic.
‘I’m telling the truth!’ she insists.
‘All right, I’ll tell the truth too. You really want to know what I think of your poems?’
She nods.
‘They’re very poor. In fact they’re terrible.’
She never believed he really liked her poetry, but his words are a slap in the face.
‘You’re totally without talent.’
It’s like someone has pushed her under the waves and held her down. She wants to get away, but what then? He’s inside her already. Damn him! How dare he talk about poetry at a time like this? Some poet! But he really is a poet, of course, and the most important poet on the whole scene.
Suddenly she is free, turned on by his blunt speaking.
‘All right then, say what you want.’
She starts moving on top of him again. He’ll have to help with her career, now she’s let him do it to her. Harder, faster, she rocks with abandon. She’s actually enjoying it.
He’s the one who’s worried now. She’s flipped it all around, she’s turned his own weapon on him. She’s jerking up and down like a suction pump. He’s not enjoying it, not at all. But she can still make him ejaculate. There’s nothing he can do about it. Like water spurting out of a pipe.
He comes.
She jumps off and runs to the bathroom. A trickle of semen oozes on to his belly.
What am I doing here? he wonders. The room is empty and still. The semen is cold, like a runny nose on a winter’s day.
When she comes back, she’s fully dressed. She smiles. He shivers and a few more drops of semen leak out.
‘Go on, be as rude as you like,’ she says.
What does she mean?
‘I wasn’t being rude … ’
‘Write me a poetry review — a real hatchet job.’
‘I’m going home … ’
‘So you’ve had your fun and now you want to pull up your trousers and go.’
‘I didn’t have any fun,’ he mutters weakly. It’s not very convincing.
‘OK,’ she sighs. ‘I’ll do it again, so you can enjoy it.’
He watches, appalled, as she begins to strip.
‘No!’ he shouts.
She flashes a smile and carries on unwrapping her flabby body. A great big sow. The worst thing is, he’s getting hard again. His penis rears up greedily. He frantically tries to pull his trousers over it but it pokes up anyway. A law unto itself. He’s only a man after all, and all men are like that, all carrying those ugly things around with them. It’s what makes a man strong. But his strength is a weakness now.
She comes closer. What can he do? He shrinks back.
But she’s not asking for anything difficult. He does it all the time. Flattering here, stabbing someone in the back over there, wherever it gains him an advantage.
‘Your pen’s your knife, isn’t it?’ she says. ‘That’s what your job’s about. And you’ve certainly got a sharp knife.’
A knife! He leaps up and makes a dive for the kitchen. There’ll be a knife in there.
She follows him in confusion, sees him grab a knife.
‘Don’t kill me!’ she shouts. ‘It’s all right, you don’t have to write anything about me. Whatever you want, I’ll do it, whatever it is … ’
He brandishes the knife.
She shrieks. A wail of terror from the child. She runs to the boy’s bedroom. Is he coming after her? She holds the child in her arms and looks through the door.
The man is standing there, the knife dangling at his crotch. It is covered in blood. There’s something wrong with his body. Something is missing.