It seemed as though he would never stop, and it crept up and up in me, making me feel all swelled up like a pregnant woman. When he was all finished he took his prick out very slowly and said that if I held it in, it would all stay in me. You can’t imagine how I felt after he had taken his cock out, lying there with a man’s piss inside me and feeling it all through my stomach every minute.
Then he took me into the bathroom and I let it come out again, litres and litres of his pipi pouring out of my ass while he stood in front of me and made me suck his Jean… .
I’ll confess … . it gives me a hard on to read Tania’s letter. I know the little bitch so well … so fucking well, I might say … that I can imagine the entire performance as well as though I were there. I can close my eyes and see every gesture, every move she would make. I go marching back and forth across the room with a dong that would do credit to a stud horse. I don’t know why the thought of pissing up that smooth round ass should evoke such results, but I can’t get rid of the damned thing.
I go for a walk, feeling that one leg drags slightly. I’m bait for every whore on the streets, and they all make a pass at me … they’re experts at judging a man’s condition. But it isn’t a whore I want. I want another Tania, but one with whom it will not be necessary to become so deeply involved.
I do not find her on the streets.
Ernest has a wonderful view from his window. An art class, the real thing, where the students take turns in posing for each other because they’re so poor that they can’t afford a professional model. When I’m up in his place we sit and watch them for a while. I like the spirit the people in that place show. They goose the model as they go past, give her bubs a pinch, tickle her in the crotch … she’s a nice tight young blonde with wide hips and she doesn’t mind a bit. Ernest tells me that there was a young fellow posing the other day and the girls bothered him so much that if their sketches were honest they must all have shown him with a hard on.
It’s a fine thing to see art come to life. Back in New York they used to have phoney sketching classes where the bozos who mooched around the burlesque houses used to go. Fifty cents paid at the door and they gave you a half hour of looking at a naked cunt. All done, of course, with the strict understanding that you weren’t really looking at a cunt at all … you were looking at something called Art. But these youngsters–they’re all kids, even the instructor–know what it is they’re after, the girl on the soap box is a naked girl with a bush around her cunt and juice between her legs! She’s something alive, to get your hands on and your prick into, and if the boys stop to give her a feel, if they pinch her ass and do their work with their cocks up … their work and the world will be the better for it.
Ernest tells me that he’s always had good windows … all but one time. The one he didn’t like was one which gave him a view into the apartment of a couple of fairies … the real things, the kind that even your grandmother would recognize on the streets. It wasn’t so bad just having to see them sucking each other off or sucking off their boy friends, Ernest says, but they were continually bringing home sailors and being beaten up the next morning. The mornings were awful, he tells me, and besides there was always their wash with the silk pants hanging out the window every morning.
The most convenient was at a place where he lived with a whore named Lucienne. The house she worked in was next door and Ernest could look over and see the bed where she took her clients. It was very comforting, Ernest declares, to be able to look over and see his Lucienne at work and know that the rent was being provided for.
This leads into a discussion of the women with whom Ernest has lived at one time or another. The list he makes astonishes me until I discover that he is cheating. Any woman with whom he has spent more than ten minutes he counts as having lived with.
“Shit,” he says, speaking of one when I challenge her position on his list. “I took her to dinner, didn’t I? And didn’t she sleep in my bed that night? Bed and board, if you give them that they are living with you.”
Ernest is astonished to learn that I’ve never laid a Chinese. I’m astonished myself. With all the chop suey joints back in New York you’d think I’d at least have gotten next to one of the waitresses. The subject of races comes up, and Ernest is prepared to give me advice on all of them. Don’t try the Japs or the Chinks in the whorehouses, he warns me. They’re all shaved and bathed and perfumed but they carry a skull and crossbones between their legs. They take on any man who comes along and wow! SYPHILIS! The galloping kind that carries you off in six months, nothing that you can pass off as a bad cold. The far Eastern brand of the syph, Ernest insists, has a special deadliness for the Occidental race. It all sounds like shit to me, but Ernest is positive enough to scare me away from the Orientals forever.
Then, when he has the piss scared out of me, Ernest tells me that he knows of a nice little cunt who’s quite safe. She’s not a whore, just a nice Chink girl who he knows, and there’s not a chance of catching anything. Her father has an art shop, one of those joints filled with salvaged junk that was probably thrown out of the palaces with the garbage a few hundred years ago, Buddhas and screens and ratty chests, and so on, and the girl helps with the place and waits on the young blades who come in looking for a jade necklace.
Ernest writes the address on an envelope and gives it to me. I may have to buy something just to keep up appearances, he says, but it’s a certain fuck if I work it right. He isn’t going with me … he has a date with some cunt who paints and he’s going to try to fuck her into doing a portrait of him for nothing, but he assures me that it will be all right.
“Find out if they sell cocaine, will you Alf?” he asks. “I promised to get this cunt of mine a little … she’s never tried it. I’m afraid to go back to my old neighborhood for it. I owe them a little bill yet and they’re sore because I moved away …”
Armed with this address I take a stroll down to this shop after I’ve done my two hours in the office. On the way I change my mind half a dozen times, and I almost go off with a black wench who gives me the signal from a park bench.
There was a time in New York when I spent almost every night in Harlem. I was nuts about a black cunt for a few weeks and wouldn’t touch anything else. I got over that, but I still like it, and this girl is so husky and black … shit, she looks healthy enough to withstand a barrage of germs. Ernest really has frightened me with all his talk about catching something. But I pass her up and go on.
I never know how these things are done. When I’m stinking drunk I can talk to any cunt on the street, make the most insulting propositions without batting an eye, but to go into this joint cold sober and make my little speech … it’s too much for me. Especially when I find that the girl is one of those cool, poised bitches who speaks perfect French. I expected to have trouble understanding her accent, and instead she makes me feel that I speak French like an American tourist.
I don’t know what the fuck to say. I haven’t even the slightest idea of what I want to buy, if anything. She’s a pretty cunt, I’ll say that, and she’s as patient as she is good looking. She shows me everything in the damned shop …
I like her looks, especially the odd way in which her nose is flattened against her face and pulls her upper lip up. Nice ass and bubs, too … something there I hadn’t expected. I’ve noticed that most of the Chinese women I’ve seen appear to have no teats, but this cunt has a beautiful set. Still, they’re not quite the
