“You know, she’s really not too bad,” Sid says critically during one of the pauses. “If we come up here real often we might be able to make a real cunt out of her. Say … well could you spare two nights a week, Arthur?”
But the threats are having less effect on Miss Cavendish now … perhaps she’s convinced that nothing worse can happen to her or perhaps she knows that we’re shitting her. She looks at Arthur’s cock … it’s been swelling up in her hand.
“Stop shitting around and get her fucked, will you?” Arthur complains. “I got this thing up again, but it won’t stay that way all night …”
Sid rams his dong under her ass and closes his arms around her like a crab …
Miss Cavendish lets out one little squeak and then everything is quiet. Sid is shaky when he pulls his dick out again …
Arthur takes a squint into Miss Cavendish’s bonne-bouche. How to Jesus, he wants to know, is anyone going to fuck a trap like that? It has to be bailed out first … otherwise he might just as well stick his prick into a pail of hot milk.
Sid tells him not to be such a dope … all that’s necessary is to give it to her from in back. Just put her on her belly and it will be all right … everything will run forward in her then, he explains.
“Here, we’ll turn her over,” he says. But before he touches her, Miss Cavendish rolls over by herself.
“That’s fine,” Arthur says rather surprisedly. “Now just stick your ass up to where I can get this thing under it …”
It’s really funny to see Miss Cavendish shove her behind up and then look around to see what’s going on. I begin to laugh and when Sid and Arthur start too Miss Cavendish looks as uncomfortable as I’ve ever seen a woman look.
Arthur smacks her on the ass … She hides her face in her arms when he screws her …
Sid makes a farewell speech while he is climbing into his pants. Modesty! Miss Cavendish covers herself with a sheet and keeps her eyes turned away until we’re all safely in our clothes. We have found her hospitality bewitching, Sid tells her …
perhaps we may call again tomorrow … say at nine? … and he has a friend or two who would like to know her …
Ernest sits rolling a cigarette, spilling most of the tobacco down his coat front.
Ernest grew up in Oklahoma and never allows you to forget it. He talks of going back there some fine day, but he never will. He can’t go back because there never was such a place as the one where Ernest thinks he grew up …
He admires the hanging I bought from the Chinese cunt. Very nice, he says, and does everything seem to be all right with my cock? In that case, then, perhaps he may take a stroll down to her shop himself one afternoon.
And what about his little girl, the one I found him in bed with a few morning ago? Oh, that little bitch! But wouldn’t he like to get his hands on her! He kicked her out one day when he had a cunt coming up to his place, and she wrecked the place next day when he was out. She pulled his books from the shelves, tore all his papers in the desk, cut his mattress with a razor, then took a shit just inside his doorway where he stepped in it when he came in.
“Kids,” he says … … “Christ, they’re horrible, especially the precocious ones.
That little cunt, for instance … she’s as vindictive as a woman and she has the awful imagination of children. Jesus, it scares me to think of kids … they like Red Ridinghood and the wolf in bed …”
Ernest wants to know if I’d like to see his Spanish cunt, the one his Lesbian painter was after. She hangs around in some spic joint where you can see a real Spanish flamenco… .
On the way out I stop and listen at Miss Cavendish’s door. There isn’t a sound in there. There hasn’t been all day, and a telegram has been stuck on the knob since morning…
A hag, evil and old as the witch of the fairy tales, tends the cloakroom. In America, no matter how slimy the joint, they’d have something young and sexy to park your hat … but these people are realists … to them a good-looking bitch in a cloakroom is a waste of the worst sort. Anyone can hang up your coat, but a handsome cunt can be put to better use … Ernest whispers to me that you make appointments for the back rooms with this ancient broomstick galloper… .
The joint is full of Spanish sailors, pimps and whores. Those I can pick out.
The others … God knows … you’d have to read their police records to learn what or who they are. Ernest finds his cunt immediately.
“Hands off,” he says from the corner of his mouth as we go to her table. “And stick to the wine here … it’s safer.”
The place has a sour stink of old food and stale beer. I’m glad that we ate before we came here… .
Ernest needn’t have warned me about his cunt … we don’t like each other.
She’s pretty enough, and I suppose I could lay her without having to turn out the lights, but we simply don’t attract each other. She and Ernest begin to argue about the Lesbian … she thinks he’s being stupid about it … the Lesbian gave her presents, and Ernest doesn’t. I begin to feel bored …
The little orchestra pounds away on the jerky tunes … One thing about those fellows, they’re persistent! One at a time three women dance … they all have gold teeth. It’s all so terrible that even a tourist would know that this is authentic …
the real thing … An hour drags off like a lamb chicken …
Without any warning whatsoever a girl comes onto the floor. She’s veiled, but you can see that she’s young and a very pretty cunt. The bozos who’ve been making all the noise put their guitars down …
“Flamenca,” Ernest says, “they tell me she’s the youngest girl dancing it… . I mean really dancing it.”
For all I know it may be just so much shit … but people who claim to know have told me it takes ten years to make a flamenca. Ten years to learn to do a dance that takes ten minutes! It’s one of those things that don’t interest me very much … it all seems like such a fucking lot of wasted effort, like learning the Bible by heart. But anyway, it’s supposed to take ten years, and therefore the women who dance the flamenco are all past the age where they ought to be doing that kind of dance.
But this girl! Ernest’s girl sees the way I’m watching her and tells me that the flamenca performs again, in a room upstairs, to a more restricted audience. She ripples her shawl, clicks the castenets. The dance begins, and you can see at once that this cunt knows what she’s about. The idea of the flamenco seems to be that if it gives you a hard on it’s well done… .
“What’s her name?” I ask, as the cunt whirls by and gives me a look that spells bedroom. “What about this dance she does upstairs?”
“You have to see Grandma out in the cloakroom about that,” Ernest says. “The girl’s name is Rosita… . but watch out! That little rose has thorns.” … . .
She warms your blood, this cunt. She puts pepper under your tail… . John Thursday sniffs cunt somewhere in the air and raises his head. Ernest and his bitch are playing with each other under the table. If the dance lasted another three minutes Rosita would have everyone in the place jerking off… .
The girl swirls off with a twist of her ass that wraps her heavy Spanish skirt and the petticoats under it around her legs. I turn to Ernest. I have to know if this show upstairs is a fake.
“Look Alf,” he says, “All I know is that she dances naked upstairs. I never saw it or anything.
“Why don’t we go up and take a look at it … all of us?”
But ladies aren’t allowed. It’s for men only, and Ernest doesn’t want to leave his cunt now. Well I’ll go up … I go out to the cloakroom and haggle with Granny… . I simply have to see it.
Upstairs, in a room without windows and without air, there are about twenty men sitting at tables and gabbing. Not so many sailors here … mostly greasy men in business suits and wearing flashy diamonds as big as your balls… I grab the only good place left and order wine.
They don’t keep you waiting long. In America, at a show like this, they’ll jack the price of drinks up four times and then hold out on you until the rent for that month had been collected. But here as soon as everybody who’s coming up
