The war of more and more and sex held us, and fear too. Dishing out gallons of grief, we can’t quite jam enough misery into our insatiable guts . . . We queue up for seconds, we dribble, aah, cute! We’re helpless, whimpering like dogs in a snare . . .
She held me like a vice and wouldn’t let me go. That was her kind of love, alright, a self-perpetuating all-encompassing love, and damn what anybody else thinks or has got to say about it. Because it’s so sensitive, so beautiful, so pure and fine. Only a limp dicked homosexual would deny her. Only a charlatan of the closet would dare renounce her sex!
She had a cunt like an octopus. The hanging gardens of Babylon! It grabbed you by the balls and sucked you in, tight as a clam.
The war of more and more and the days hold us, the weeks and the years. But they are leaving, and we too must shuffle forwards . . . And I look back over my shoulder to those moments receding like a child waving. Just ten years old, stood naked in a little clearing in the woods. The cold air kissing my loins. Waiting to be adored, to be struck dead by God! And I drop to my knees and burrow a hole with my sheaf knife, tearing at the roots, then sticking my little dick into the black earth, my little arse trembling, my heart like a drum.
The war of more and more, and every time I look up that bitch is there to remind me that I am a failure in love and life . . . And the day comes when I bring her gonorrhoea and herpes. And I have to quit the drink, check my sores and take my medicine. I crawl to the pisser and piss blood . . . And even when I take up my pen, that bitch won’t leave me be. She stalls me. She entices me.
‘Why do you write those things?’
‘Because they’re true.’
‘I’d rather you lied!’
Lying curled up on the deck in front of me, her arse dancing at the end of my nose, the cleft outlined, trembling, and, ‘Why can’t you just fuck me sometimes? Why can’t you tie me up and beat me? Why can’t you just piss on me!’ ’Til I rise from my typer and unloop my belt.
‘Shut up!’ I scream at her . . . ‘Just shut up!’
A young writer can’t even breathe. I lay the strop on ’til her laughter turns to sobs, then unzip and she mumbles and moans, pushing back onto my fat dick with her bruised rump, and I finger the welts and slap her again.
The war of more and more, and no matter how much I curse, spit and hate, my heart is dragged like a stone, and we descend, broken, delirious with pain. Grateful to be half-loved . . . to be lost in this sickening mire of sodomy.
48. PAINTING THE TRUTH
And every morning she sits there munching toast, wearing your pyjamas and dressing gown. And the hairs on her chin, I count them, sixteen is it? Black and curling and the little moustache and side-burns. And all the time she’s just feeding her face, totally oblivious, and I can’t understand why she doesn’t quit feeding, get off her arse and take a goddamn shave!
‘I don’t even wear those pyjamas, I only wear them when I’m ill, so what the fuck are you wearing them for?’
‘I want to go to the party,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘There’s a party tonight. I want to go to it.’
She lifts her little pug and mumbles between the crusts. She dips in with the knife, takes another wedge of butter, crams it into the bread then jams the whole loaf in her face. She talks and she eats, dusting herself down. Gets to her feet, slaps her thighs, lifts the butter dish and shakes the table cloth out onto the floor. I watch her — I’m fucking speechless.
‘Is it four o’clock yet?’
‘It’s fucking half past four! And what the fuck did you do that for?’
‘What?’
‘Shake the fucking table cloth out on the floor? What’s the fucking point in that?’
She looks at me totally confused, like I’m talking a foreign language . . .
‘You use a table cloth so you don’t fuck up the table. You don’t shake all the crap off onto the floor! Jesus you must be fucking stupid! I mean, I don’t give a damn about the fucking table, I don’t want to know about it, but I do know what a fucking table cloth is used for!’
She looks at me, folds the cloth, and lifts her little sniffer in the air. She’s got this nose like a submarine, like two torpedo holes, she wrinkles it and tries to think, the poor bitch.
‘I wonder what I should wear?’
She walks over to the mirror and examines herself.
Say what you like but there’s something magical about the way a giri plaits her hair, snaking from hand to hand, little twists and tugs. And the neck drawn out, head cocked . . . Next, she draws the eyes in. I watch her with the pencil, black stuff, heavy, glue-like. I have to watch, to see the way they put everything on, to see their backs, the calves grow taut, she sticks out her arse, stands on one leg and the sock goes on. I sit on the side of the bed and pour three glugs of Scotch in my tea.
I’m thinking about the time she attacked me outside that house on Barnsol Road. The fat Jewish mumma and her daughter who worked in the hamburger bar. She’s got this six year old kid and no husband, works the evening shifts, gets home at about three or four in the morning and brings a chocolate milkshake home for her kid. A double thick chocolate shake.
‘In case he wakes up in the night and he’s thirsty.’
I look at her and I almost laugh. I hook my fingers in the front of my belt and grin.
‘It’s no good,’ I tell her, ‘it won’t work . . .’ I say it gentle like, I don’t come straight out with it, I sidle up to the point. ‘Leave him a glass of water, you’ll just rot his teeth with chocolate. Look, you see this mess?’ I show her my fillings. I lean back and pull a face, I show her right the way up to the back, nothing but lead! ‘It’s no substitute for a father; my mother used to give me Crunchie bars . . .’
She looks away and guffaws. Not in the least bit impressed, as if I know nothing, as if I’ve spent my whole life in fairyland. I show her the evidence. I tell her about the Crunchie bars. I don’t make a thing of it up, it’s all perfectly true, all paid for with pain: a landslide of half-rotten pegs. I stick my fingers in, pull back my cheeks, tilt my head into the light, to get the full effect, to illustrate the point — no dice! Go fuck a porcupine kid! She turns on her stilettos and cuts me dead.
I’m left standing here sucking my thumbs. I take them out, wipe them off. I wonder if anybody saw that, a witness, people who could back me up?
I turn to Dolli. ‘The stupid bitch didn’t listen to a word I said, fucking chocolate milkshake!’ I let her know my opinions, but she’s too busy gushing, bowling everybody over. She charms and enthuses . . . The princess of tittle-tattle, she turns banality into an art form . . . But somehow cute. No kidding, even intelligent people are taken in, a girl with tits and arse and she can talk goo as well? Some kind of miracle on legs! They mistake ignorance for innocence. Me too, I don’t give a shit what she says, as long as I’m putting my dick in her arse.
’If I could just have ten pounds a day and a hundred at weekends, I could buy all my friends their favourite brands of cigarettes, in big boxes!’
I wipe my thumbs on my shirt. I get the drift, we’re playing that old tune again. I empty my drink, walk over and put my mouth to her ear. ‘You think I don’t know what you’re like, but I do. You pretend that you’re generous but you’re a mean-spirited, spoilt little slut! All you care about is playing cute. Well, you aren’t so fucking cute, your tits are round your waist and you stink! All you want is money and spunk, now shut your stupid face and get me another drink!’
She oozes and contracts, she giggles, pouts and wobbles. She’s looking for a punch-up, I can tell that much. I sieve the poison, a last droplet, I lick at it, it travels round the rim, trickles down my wrist . . . I suck at it and hand her the empty.
‘Go see if you can blag me a Scotch.’
I say it polite, I give her arse a slap. She juts it out against my hand and goes fetches it, a brimful. I talk to this other one with the sharky eyes, she has these pointy tits, but her ey
es are too far apart. Then Dolli rolls up with my Scotch. I sniff at it, then down it in one. I leer round the room then burp.
I let them know just what sort of genius they’re in the presence of. A real little Bukowski, a writer who’s not to be messed with. I swig it back, oafish. I feel I have to, I’m not in control, but I desire power.
I lay my eyes on Sharky’s tits; I want a bite, a little suck. I leer, and she smiles back. She jiggles them together, changing weight from foot to foot, so glad to add to the effect . . . I look around grinning, we’re all hooked in some hideous game . . . I turn to Dolli, she hands me my glass, half full, I drain it.
‘Give us a cigarette!’
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘You got a whole packet, now give us one!’
‘I haven’t got any . . . They’re to last me until tomorrow. Ten for this evening and two for breakfast. So, I haven’t got any!’
‘You got one in your gob, give me that!’
I grab at it, I cross my eyes and make a guess — I snatch it from her lips, heavy, rouged, black blooded. I look at her and away. I puff through the bitter smoke, grinning at my new found friend. I take a deep lug. Sharky admires me, I can tell. I flick ash on the carpet and swagger. Then Dolli snatches the cigarette from my lips.
Sharky looks at her outraged. ‘That isn’t very nice!’ she pipes up. She’s got a voice, she comes to my defence, ah, touching. I give her a look, one of gratitude, weighted, of deeper meaning.
Dolli grabs my snout and crumples it, brown hands, gold rings, blood-red nails, final. Then she turns to Sharky, ‘Piss off, you slut!’
One second I’m puffing on a cigarette, the next it’s gone, shredded, discarded, dropped to the carpet.
Dolli jams her mug in Sharky’s face. ‘Go piss off, you slut! You fucking slag!’
I have to step in, to part them. I push Dolli in the chest. ‘You’re the slut!’ I tell her. I point it out, I go to great lengths to explain, I lean my face in for emphasis. ‘You’re the selfish little bitch! You got a whole packet of cigarettes; I fucking paid for them and you won’t give me one!’
I feel it coming, the air warms up, rushing . . . I see her forearm, the hand, a shimmering of Turkish gold, then she lets it go. Doink! in my left eye. A flash of white light, something goes bang - I never saw it coming. I shake my head and let her have one straight back, dead on target. I line it up . . . then she ducks. Naturally, I just missed . . . I follow through, and the Jewish mumma, it was close my friends, very close! I pulled it just in time, at the last second. The old bat does her nut, she spoils the fun and almost gets a clout into the bargain. I apologise, I try to explain. I tell her to stick it! She’s getting on my nerves, who’s she to judge? She takes my glass in her soft fat hand.
’I think you’ve had enough, young man!’ And she shows me the door.
I take Dolli’s arm. ‘We’re leaving if that’s her attitude, of our own accord. Bye bye, nice to meet you!’ And she throws us out. So we had a little disagreement? Big deal, it’s all over now, everything’s hunky-dory.
We exit, we get the hell out of there. To my mind the Scotch was watered! I let her know my opinions, from the garden gate. Then she’s joined by the driver on the porch step, shouting his big mouth off.
‘You touch a hair on her head and I’ll fucking kill you!’
He’s talking about darling Dolli; say that’s nice, my own companion, my pal from old. I take a double look, I check my hearing. ‘Yeah, I recognise you, you turnip!’ I give as good as I get. I put him straight, my friend perched on the porch. ‘Parsnip!’
I turn and pull my collar up.
It’s dark out here, residential, orange street lights. A thousand hedges, green black, row upon row of them, gardens, lawns. And the noise of our revellers decreasing, grown quieter by distance. I lean against a parked car, and my sweetheart, the way her upper-lip just seems to glue straight onto her nostrils, no gap . . . a flared effect . . .
‘Oi, Stingray, come here!’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘Stingray!’ She pouts and flares them even wider. ‘Stingray!’
I tell her what I think of her and her little show back there. What does she think she’s playing at, slapping me in public? I’ve a good mind to even it out.
‘Come on then, hit me if you’re such a big man, come on hit me!’ She turns cute on me, tilting her stupid little jaw. I put my hands in my pockets and look up and down the street. ‘Come on you wanker, hit me!’
‘Take your plate out your mouth and I’ll bust your fucking jaw!’ She’s got my goat now.
‘Hit me, you wanker!’
I jump and grab her arm, I lunge, but she flinches and draws back. I grab an arm and a shoulder, I tilt her, lean my weight and swing from my hips. She goes down, doubled up, a little thump. I hear the back of her head thack! against the kerbstone. ‘Pardon me!’
She looks up at me, kind of surprised. I dust my hands and get the hell out of there. I straighten my collar, and run. I don’t look back, just one quick glance and I’m off. Her lying on her back howling.
‘Come back here, you wanker! You can’t even hit me properly! You can’t punch me! And you can’t fuck me! Come and piss on me you bastard! Come back here and fuck me!’
I hear her loud and clear. I stop in my tracks, turn and retrace my steps.
‘You wanker! You can’t hit me properly and you can’t fuck me properly!’
I start pacing back down the street towards her. She scrabbles to her hands and knees, she’s having a change of heart, groggy, she shakes her hair, volumes of it, sticking to her face. She wants to get up, but I’m too quick, going full pace . . . I lift her with my boot, I place it under her rump. Thud-ump! That brings her to her toes, right in the arse! And another, lighter, more playful, to the guts, under her little belly. That knocks the gas out of her. She’s not quite so talkative any more. She quits her monologue and rolls in the gutter, a little trail of spittle, glittery, snail-like, on her chin.
The squad car turns the corner flashing its light, real pretty, a little Christmas tree on top. And the man at the wheel, beneath his peak of gold, a familiar figure, something jogs my memory. It’s the eyes, opaque blanks.
She’s regretting her big stupid mouth now, only whimperings, little cooing noises, dove-like. She wants to be loved, the little darling. I drag her to her feet.
‘Oooooh! Ooooh! Ooooh! I want sex, and I only want it with you.’
I pull her back by the hair. ‘Quit making that racket, the fucking police are here! Shut it! Are you alright?’
The old bill rolls up, two of them in their panda car, just as I’m helping her to her feet.
‘Nothing to worry about, officer, a little bit too much to drink, that’s all, she tripped . . . I’m taking her home . . . We’re waiting for a cab . . . Should be along any moment now . . . She slipped and banged her head . . . She’s alright, she’ll be OK once I get her indoors. Thanks for stopping anyways, night-night. . . Mind how you go!’
And then, magically, a taxi turns the corner. I stick my hand out and jump up and down on the spot. He sees me and I flag it down, open up the back door and lay her out on the back seat. I say my farewell to the boys in blue and leave. I convince them after many reassurances, after I show them the exact spot where she fell. Then this taxi comes along, just in the nick of time. A little face at the window, a cloth cap and blue veins on his nose.
I jump in and give him the address.
That was a close call, and that police officer, I recognised his mug from someplace . . . I look back at the flashing lights, receding. I wash my mind and lay back, I allow the whisky to carry me off . . .
By the time we get to my mother’s place, I’m spark out, dead to the world. I let Dolli drag me from the taxi, I help her carry me up the garden path. She finds my key and lets us both in. I crawl across the hall and pass out on the bathroom floor. I’ve gone for a loop, I sleep where I fall, I see the tiles coming up, black and
white and I let myself drop. I kiss them, I embrace them . . . cool . . . for my battered head . . .
I can’t stomach climbing into bed with that hungry little bitch again, the world can stop.
Dolli goes to the kitchen to make tea. Then I hear her footsteps coming back down the hall and I feel her breath on my cheek. She’s pulling at my collar. I keep my peepers tight shut. She brings water and flicks it in my face. She slaps me. I don’t bat an eye-lid . . . She lifts my head up by the hair and lets it drop back onto the bathroom tiles, once, twice . . . This time she throws it back with force. No more experiments, with contempt. She lifts it high them smacks it back down. My jaw jars, a little bounce, the desired effect. But it gets her precisely nowhere. I’m playing possum. She begs me, she pleads with me.
‘Get up! Wake up, come on! You’ve got to wake up!’
I just lie there, not even a smirk, not a half grin even. . . Then she goes for my flies, she’s turned all romantic on me . . . She drags my poor little pecker out and starts nibbling at the end — hot needles... I hold myself trance-like . . . I feel her face come back over mine.
‘Get up! You’ve got to get up! Now!’
Smack! smack! smack! My head rebounding, I keep schtum . . . Then my mother’s voice, I hear her coming downstairs.
‘Is that you?’
‘It’s only us, June.’
‘You haven’t let my cats out, have you? Minnie, Minnie, Minnie! Nig-Nig-Nig!’
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