Mr. T. had to make the most of it in his furnished room, fortunate indeed if he could find a piece of punk to burn. Whether he enjoyed himself or not was hard to tell, because to all questions he invariably answered: «Very good.» Now and then, coming in late, I caught him going to the bath room after one of his sessions with an American cunt. He always went to the bathroom in straw slippers and kimono, a short kimono which just about covered his prick. Maude thought it was shocking, his running around in that rig, but Melanie thought it suited him to a T. «They all run around like that,» she said, knowing not a damned thing about it, but always ready to take the other person’s side.
«Good time, Mr. T.?» I would smile.
«Very good, very good,» and then a giggle. Perhaps he would scratch his balls while baring his teeth in a grin. «Water hot, yes?» In the bathroom he would go through his endless ablutions.
If he surmised that Maude were asleep he would sometimes beckon with his finger, signifying that he had something to show me. I would follow him to his room.
«I come in, yes?» he would say, frightening the girl out of her wits. «This Mr. Miller, my friend of mine… this Miss Slith.» They were always Smith, Brown or Jones, I noticed. He probably never bothered to ask their real names .
Some of the girls were of surprising calibre, I must say. «Cute, isn’t he?» they would often say. Whereupon Mr. T. would go over to the girl, as you would approach a figure in a shop window, and lift her dress. «Her very beautiful, yes?» And he’d proceed to inspect her twat as if he had bought stock in it.
«Here, you little devil, you can’t do that!» the girl would say.
«You go now, yes?» That was Mr. T’s way of dispatching them. It sounded crude as hell, coming from a little yellow belly. But Mr. T. was unaware of being indelicate. He had given her a good fuck, he had licked her ass, he had paid her in honest coin and given her a little gift into the bargain… what more, for Christ’s sake? «You go now, yes?» And he would half close his eyes, look utterly wooden and disinterested, leaving not the least doubt in the girl’s mind that the speedier she left the healthier it would be for her.
«Next time you try! Her very small..» Here he would grin, making a little gesture with his fingers to show me how smooth it went. «Japanese girl sometimes very big. This country big girl small. Very good.» He would lick his chops after a remark like this. Then, as if to make the most of the occasion, he would take a tooth-pick and, while picking his teeth, he would look for the words he had written down in his little note book. «This mean what? He would show me a word like «precarious» or «unearthly.» «Now I teach you Japanese word — OHIO! That mean Good Morning!» A broad grin. Still picking his teeth, or else examining his toes.
«Japanese very simple. All words pronounce same way,» and he would rattle off a string of words, giggling as he did so, probably because what they meant were «shit-heel,» «white bugger,» «foreign fool,» and so on. I didn’t give a shit what the words meant, since I had no intention of making a serious study of Japanese. What I was more interested in was his technique of picking up white women. To hear him, it was all very simple. Of course, many of the girls were recommended from one Jap to another. And many of these same girls must have made a specialty of Japs, knowing that they were clean and generous. Hump for the Japs, that’s what they were, and a profitable business it was. There was class to the Japs. They had cars of their own, dressed well, ate in good restaurants, and so on. Now a Chink was different. Chinks were white-slavers. But a Jap you could trust. And so on. I could follow their reasoning perfectly. What they appreciated most were the little gifts the Japs made them. Americans never thought of giving gifts, not usually. A guy had to be a sap to piss away his money on a gift for a whore.
I don’t know why my mind reverted to the amiable Mr. T. It’s a devil of a long ride to the Bronx, and if you let your mind go you can write a book between Borough Hall and Tremont. Besides, despite the exhaustive bout with Maude, one of those slow, creepy erections was coming on. It’s a commonplace observation but true just the same—the more you fuck, the more you want to fuck, and the better you do fuck! When you overdo it your cock seems to get more flexible; it hangs limp, but on the alert, as it were. You only have to brush your hand over your fly and it responds. For days you can walk around with a rubber truncheon dangling between your legs. Women seem to sense it, too.
Now and then I tried to fix my mind on Mona, to set my face in plastic sorrow, but it wouldn’t last. I felt too damned good, too relaxed, too carefree. Horrible as it sounds, I thought more of the fuck I anticipated pulling off once I soothed her down. I smelled my fingers to make sure I had scoured them properly. In doing so a rather comical image of Maude assailed me. I had left her lying on the floor, exhausted, and had rushed to the bathroom to tidy myself up. As I was scrubbing my cock she opens the door. Wants to take a douche immediately always fearful of getting caught. I tell her to go ahead, not to mind me. She peels off her things, fastens the hose to the gas jet, and lies on the bath mat, her legs running up the wall.
«Can I help you?» says I, drying my cock and sprinkling some of her excellent sachet powder over it.
«Do you mind?» says she, wiggling her ass so that her legs will stand up straighter.
«Open it up a bit,» I urge, taking the nozzle in readiness to insert it.
She did as I told her, pulling her gash open with all her fingers. I bent over and examined it leisurely. It was a dark, liverish color and the lips were rather exaggerated. I took them, between my fingers and rubbed them gently together, like you would two velvety petals. She looked so helpless lying with her ass propped against the wall and her legs sticking up straight, like the hands of a compass, that I had to chuckle.
«Please don’t fool now,» she begged, as if the delay of a few seconds might mean an abortion. «I thought you were in such a hurry.»
«I am,» I replied, «but Jesus, when I look at this thing I get horny again.»
I inserted the nozzle. The water began running out of her, over the floor. I threw some towels down to soak it up. When she stood up I took the soap and wash rag and scrubbed her cunt for her. I soaped her well, inside and out—a delicious tactile sensation which was mutual.
It felt silkier than ever now, her cunt, and I whooshed my fingers in and out, like you’d strum a banjo. I had one of those half-hearted, swollen erections which makes a cock look even more murderous than when full blown. It was hanging out of my fly, brushing her thigh. She was still naked. I began to dry her off. To do so comfortably I sat on the edge of the tub, my cock gradually stiffening and making spasmodic leaps at her. As I pulled her close, to dry her flanks, she looked down at it with a hungry, despairing look, fascinated and yet half-ashamed of herself for acting the glutton. Finally she could stand it no longer. She got to her knees impulsively and took it in her mouth. I ran my fingers through her hair, caressed the shell of her ears, the nape of her neck, caught her teats and massaged them gently, lingering over the nipples until they stood out taut. She had unfastened her mouth and was licking it now as if it were a stick of candy. «Listen,» said I, murmuring the words in her ear, «we won’t go through it again but just let me put it in a few moments and then I’ll go. It’s too good to stop all of a sudden. I won’t come, I promise…» She looked at me imploringly, as if to say «Can I believe you? Yes, I do want it. Yes, yes, only don’t knock me up, will you?»
I pulled her to her feet, turned her around like a dummy, placed her hands on the edge of the tub, and raised her bum just a trifle. «Let’s do it this way for a change,» I murmured, not inserting my cock immediately, but rubbing it up and down her crack from behind.
«You won’t come, will you?» she begged, craning her neck around and giving me a wild, imploring look through the mirror over the washstand. «I’m wide open…»
That «wide open» brought out all the lust in me. «You bloody bitch,» says I to
