Nonsense, I said, you’re just a perfectionist.
You ought to get married, said Mona, knowing that this would provoke a reaction.
That’s another thing, said Ulric, making a wry grimace. The way I treat that girl of mine is a crime. We’ve been going together for five years now—but if she dares to mention the word marriage I take a fit. The very thought of it scares the life out of me. I’m selfish enough to want her all for myself and yet I’m ruining her chances. I sometimes urge her to leave me and find someone else. That only makes things worse, of course. Then I make a half-hearted promise to marry her, which I forget about the next day, to be sure. The poor girl doesn’t know where she stands. He looked at us half-sheepishly, half-roguishly. I’ll be a bachelor all my life, I guess. I’m selfish to the core.
At this we all laughed uproariously.
I think we should be thinking about dinner soon, said Marjorie. Why don’t you men go for a walk? Come back in an hour and dinner will be ready.
Ulric thought it a good idea.
You might try to find a good piece of Roquefort, said Marjorie as we sauntered out. And a loaf of sour rye, if you can.
We walked aimlessly along one of the sedate, spacious streets peculiar to this neighborhood. We had had many walks together through similar vacuums. Ulric was. reminded of the days long ago when we used to promenade along Bushwick Avenue of a Sunday afternoon, hoping to each a glimpse of the shy young girls we were in love with. It was like an Easter Parade every Sunday—from the little White Church to the reservoir near Cypress Hills cemetery. Mid-way one passed the lugubrious Catholic church of St. Francois de Sales, situated a block or two away from Trommers’ beer garden. I speak of a period before the first war, the period when in France men like Picasso, Derain, Matisse, Vlaminck and others were just becoming known. It was still the end of the century. Life was easy, though we weren’t aware of it. The only thought in our heads was girls. If we succeeded in stopping them long enough to chat for a few minutes we were in seventh heaven. Week-days we sometimes repeated the promenade in the evening. Then we became bolder. If we had the good fortune to encounter a couple of girls—near the reservoir or in the dark lanes of the park, or even at the confines of the cemetery—we would really attempt some daring advances. Ulric could remember the names of all of them. There was one couple he particularly remembered—Tini and Henrietta.
They had been in the same class with us at graduation time, but, being somewhat backward, were two or three years older than the rest of the class. Which meant they were quite mature. And not only mature but bursting with sex. Every one knew that they were just a pair of sluts. Tini, who was really audacious, was like one Degas’ women; Henrietta was bigger, juicier, already a wench. They were always whispering smutty stories under their breath, to the amusement of the class. Now and then they drew their dresses up above their knees—to give us a look. Or sometimes Tini would grab Henrietta by the teat and squeeze it playfully—all this in class, behind the teacher’s back, of course.
What more natural, therefore, than to be on the look-out for them when out for a walk in the evening? Now and then it happened. Hardly any words exchanged. Pushing them back against the iron railing, or against a tomb-stone, we slobbered all over them, fingered them, mauled them—everything but the real thing. It took older, more experienced boys to get away with that. At best we could manage a dry fuck. And go home limping, our balls aching like sixty tooth-aches.
Did I ever tell you, said Ulric, how I tried to make Miss Bairnsfeather, the graduating teacher? I mean, of course, several years after we had graduated. What a gawk I must have been! Well, you know what a juicy piece of tail she was … I could never get her out of my mind. So one day I wrote her a note—I had just taken a little studio and thought myself quite an artist, I can tell you—and to my surprise she answered it, urging me to look her up some time. I was so excited I nearly pissed in my pants. I called her up and invited her over to the studio. Of course I had prepared for her coming—all kinds of drinks, delicious little cakes, my canvases casually strewn about, a few nudes conspicuously placed over the divan, and so on … you know what I mean. What I had forgotten was the difference in age. She was still appetizing, of course, but so much of a woman now that I was intimidated. It took a bit of maneuvering to establish the right footing. I could see that she was trying to help me, but I was so damned shy, so gauche, that I nearly had nervous prostration. After all, one doesn’t just rip the pants off one’s favorite teacher.
He interrupted himself to chuckle and waggle his ears.
Did you manage it eventually? I asked, to help him out.
I did indeed, said Ulric, but only after a heap of drinks. By that time she was so damned eager for it that she just fished my pecker out and pulled me on top of her. I had one of those eternal hard-ons that you get sometimes from drinking. We did just about everything, I can assure you, and still it wouldn’t go down. She was lying on the divan with just a blouse on, panting like a bitch. I had just washed myself with cold water, hoping that would do the trick. ‘Come here,’ she said, ‘I want to have a good look at that tool of yours. Ulric, why didn’t I know about this when you were in my class?’ I looked at her in amazement. ‘You mean you would have let me … ?’ ‘Let you?’ she said—’I would have eaten you alive. Didn’t the other boys ever tell you about me?’ I could hardly believe my ears. All the while, Henry, I was standing over her, my prick pointing heavenward. Suddenly she sat up and grabbed it; I thought she would break it in two. Soon she was on her knees, sucking me off. Even then I didn’t come. I tell you, I was getting frantic. At last I turned her over, put it in from behind—until she began to moan. Then I eased it out, dragged her off the divan and, lifting her by the middle, I walked her around the studio on her hands. It was just like pushing a wheelbarrow upside down … And even that had no effect. Desperate, I sat down in the big easy chair and let her straddle me. ‘Just let’s sit and fuck,’ I said. ‘Or don’t fuck—just leave it there till it melts. We had another drink, sitting there like that, and then another, and then another. It was still a brute of a bird when we unhitched. But limp … But get this, Henry. What do you suppose she says to me at that moment?
I looked at him blankly. Then I said: Don’t tell me! For Christ’s sake, let’s turn around. I’ll have to tear off a piece before we sit down to eat.
He blinked his eyes like an owl. He was just going to open his mouth again, when I said: By the way, have you tackled Marjorie yet? She’s dying for it, you know.
Not a bad idea, said Ulric. Do you suppose we can manage it … er … circumspectly?
Leave it to me!
We hastened our steps. By the time we reached the door we were almost on the double trot.
I took Mona aside and broached the idea. Why don’t you wait till after dinner? she suggested. I mean, for Marjorie and Ulric. We closed the door after us and had a quick one while Ulric and Marjorie talked it over. When we joined them Marjorie was slitting on Ulric’s lap, her skirt up over her knees. Why don’t you get into something comfortable? said Mona. Something like this, and so saying, she opened her kimono and revealed her naked flesh.
Marjorie lost no time in following suit. Ulric and I had to don pajamas. In this fashion we sat down to eat dinner.
A meal which is going to culminate in a sexual orgy has a way of traveling direct to the parts which need nourishment, as if directed by the little switchman who regulates the traffic throughout the autonomic system. It began with oysters on the half-shell and caviar, followed by a delicious ox-tail soup, porterhouse steak, mashed potatoes, French peas, cheese, sliced peaches and cream, all to the tune of a genuine Pommard which Marjorie had unearthed. With the coffee and liqueurs we had a second dessert—a French ice cream swimming in Benedictine and whiskey. Between courses Marjorie fiddled with Ulric’s pecker. The kimonos were now wide open, the breasts exposed, the belly buttons gently rising and falling. Inadvertently one of Marjorie’s nipples fell into the whipped cream, giving me the opportunity to suckle her breast for a brief moment or two. Ulric tried to balance a saucer on his pecker but unsuccessfully. Everything
