J.P. Donleavy: An Author and His Image

by J. P. Donleavy

  1987

  Sexual Exercises for Women

  I suppose a contrasting setting could be extremely important in reading this volume and as the owner of the world’s most famed dirty book publishing house, The Olympia Press, Paris, one is already primed not to add to one’s aura of possible prurience. A not unpleasant night chill was settling on the moist streets of Mayfair, and I had just been into a wine shop to view exotic bottles and had André Simon’s wine list in tow. At two minutes past seven p.m. following a wash and brush up I entered the lounge of that hotel of hotels, Claridge’s. Quietly ensconcing myself in the north west corner in a comfortable high backed chair behind a suitable discreet pillar, gold leafed upon its capitals. The small string orchestra having played a waltz now launched into Gounod’s Ave Maria. And with a fresh sparkling brew of champagne graciously placed by a liveried gentleman’s gentleman, one opened Sexual Exercises for Women.

  With London’s literary scene rapidly increasing its Americanization and in turmoil, one immediately thought one’s leg was about to be pulled. Especially with such precursors of jape and spoof as that now famed literary figure William Donaldson, who turned and continues to turn English Society upon its ear every few months under his own and various marvellous pseudonyms, prime among which is Henry Root, fishmonger. And then lo and behold, when I saw the present protagonist of this present volume as having been educated at Trinity College, Dublin, one’s suspicions further aroused. Then the name of the intrepidly innovative publisher, Quartet Books, behind whom is that man Naim Attallah of many up market triumphs. And just as I am beginning to put two and two together and to nearly get four, I open a page to the author’s indeed quite beautifully written words that we might apply to much of life. ‘Hasten slowly, do everything gently, and above all, don’t rush.’

  On my second glass of champagne I then encounter his eminently sensible words on zinc and selenium, and as a scientist of sorts oneself, one’s total suspicions are dispelled. Clearly, as a product of Trinity College, Dublin, and, as one would expect, a brilliant scientist, easy of manner, precise of advice, especially on nipple tweaking and buttock clenching. And on zinc, ladies require this in only small amounts. But so blissful is this splendid information, so masterfully and fluently given, that you know down in your bones that it is simply not only going to be damn good for women, but for men as well. The only terrible thought is that Dr Harris reveals what appears to be the long held female American tenet, that happiness is chemical. And therefore should be available to all females in the right amounts and God help the poor bastard who fails in the supply.

  Ah but dare a woman be seen with this book. Or might it perhaps even be better read by men. The latter feeding such information to ladies in small doses. The volume in addition has Shari Peacock’s colour illustrations of dramatically handsome ladies in the nude, the drawings of whom, where a wash is used, are quite rivetingly spectacular. The work as a whole is elegantly presented as a paperback providing a carnally smooth surface beneath one’s fingertips. And as one might expect of someone from Trinity College, Dublin, where it has long been regarded that the most beautiful English in the world was once spoken, the writing of Dr Anthony Harris MSc PhD is easy, friendly, comforting and fluent. Eye catching among the headings is ‘tongue waggling’, which evidently is stimulating to the vagina. And dear me may I doth gently protest. Are there no more romantic secrets left to discover.

  Of course I’m on my third glass of champagne now, and as a serious amateur scientist, interested in what increases immunity and promotes healing, and also educated at the once revered Trinity College, Dublin, my mind is racing in all sexual directions. And I spot a single minor oversight. That these sexual exercising stimuli, pelvic pushing, vulva squeezing and clitoris thighing, are all found in serious foxhunting. But since Dr Harris says they are best enjoyed in private, perhaps a wind and rain swept bog in Ireland with sods from hoofs flying in the sky and hounds braying is inappropriate. Nor least important is the fact that the exercises are yours in this book for about seven pounds instead of seven thousand that a bootmaker, tailor, horse, livery and the better foxhunting circles will cost you.

  On my fourth glass of champagne I’m thinking, what a pity a woman hadn’t written this book. Who could, puffing on her long thin cigars, blush her way in and out of London literary circles. But perhaps that’s impossible, as no female woman, I hope, really wants it to be known what tweaks, squeezes and caresses might emotionally amuse or arouse her, in case they did or indeed in case they didn’t. But who cares in a cuddle. The important thing is let us, as Dr Harris intends, keep women wonderful any way we can. And away with all nagging sour bullying bitches. For a man, unless he be already edged over into the steep slope down to death, a woman’s juices sipped will always cure him of all malady. And even, his limbs broken, will mend faster.

  Could it be now that I shall always pass each Mayfair bus queue and view the women waiting. Knowing each is quivering in a frisson of clitoris or buttock clenching. But why should she not. Release her pleasure giving endorphins. So let us go forward, men. Led by Dr Harris. To engage the new and better sexually exercised women. Flags upon our poles in confidence fluttering. Comforted that not all ladies are conniving selfish self centred bitches of the species. And as one who has had one’s life saved by the exquisite nurturing balms of a wondrous woman, may this slender attractive volume give more lubricant power and pelvic strength to such females of such species. Who seem even more marvellous now I’m on my fifth glass of champagne. Indeed ready to demonstrate my own brand of sexual exercises for women.

  1985

  Whither Goeth Those Racquets and Riches at Wimbledon

  They goeth terribly well. Thank you. With gracefully arched top spin lobs dipping tightly across this green leafy suburban valley. Upon this fortnight the end of June, when the God professed to by all good English ladies and gentlemen supposedly disposes to shine the year’s most sun. Which beams bathing upon London’s ultra elegant hotels, booked up with a waiting list to get on the waiting list.

  And if, by profound privilege or smug planning, a bed, bathroom and breakfast abide your arrival so too will these revered inns have at the ready for your accustomed lips fresh asparagus and fraise du bois arrived by magic carpet. And their airing cupboards stacked with peach smooth sheets to pamper your skin where e’er your limbs may languish. In bliss enough to drown even your worst of sorrows.

  So freckles sparkling, limbs tan, from near and far to these shores from distant shores they come. To squeeze into the thick of the London season. Each day bonnets bright, top hats gleaming, braving the champagne and the strawberries and cream. Raising voices and binoculars at the racing, parasols at the rowing. And at the tennis, they ooh and ahh, groan and clap. Until, in the silent throes of an exquisite break or set point frisson, those fanatic flanking these lawns of flat green velvet, gasp.

  And to this preserve of privilege, one arrives. Meek and mild, if not abjectly humbled. Americanized in one’s seersucker, mesmerized once more to watch all these heads swivelling back and forth. These ritualized sun browned limbs poised to serve. Not a soul mindful that the French Revolution was clandestinely hatched on a tennis court. Nor a care if a commoner like me must explore where one might unchallenged go. Amid the signs which say ‘Royalty Only’, ‘Members Only’, ‘Players Only’. And one stands forlorn searching hopefully for some entrance somewhere where it might welcomingly say, ‘And You Only’.

  And little and much have changed from yesteryear. But for me this time it’s all different. I’m a member of the Press. There is now in fact a not impolite place where it says I can go. And as I do, I remember back all those years. When first I ever heard of Wimbledon. While cowering in the gloom of my pessimism down a grimy working class London street. No love bites on my soul, which bruises might have made brighter the shadows of the great smoking towers of the power station. And it was here, after enduring a socially ostracized and endlessly damp foggy winter, that
I happened upon the hints of what was to become an oasis of hope and inspiration in one’s life.

  It was an early afternoon the beginning of July. As I walked out of a narrow crooked alley, to stroll to greener, less grim streets. That as I crossed this wider avenue, at least cheered by its pruned clumped topped plane trees, I noticed the strange sudden passing stream of black sleek gleaming chauffeur steered limousines. Flying colours purple and green. With tanned and healthy and mustbe wealthy folk encouched beyond the sparkling windows. And I wondered longingly, to what gala bliss, distantly happening elsewhere, doth they go. At which these select, in their silks and chiffons will beguile, and now hum through this grey dingy thoroughfare on their such pleasantly whirring wheels.

  Ah, and I soon discovered. And found I could get there too. By going to my very own station of the underground train. My few half crown coins clutched, the train’s doors opening. And from the platform to step out of my social oblivion into a spectacular delicate fume of scent. A din of chattering voices. Of vowels of such haughty particularity to make one quake. As the English know so well how to make you do. And stand awed in what is left of one’s social tracks. In the thick of high pitched and hysterically bubbling phrases only spoken at the best cocktail parties. And there me, taking succour amid them stunned. Aglow on the most elegantly exclusive subway ride of my entire if not so ancient life.

  For years afterwards come June, I headed there. To its annual green leisurely glamour. The tanned wholesome faces always encouraging renewed aspirations to creep up out of one’s withered hopes. The vision that these wielders of racquets, their day’s lobbing done, would vanish hither somewhere immaculately to dine in butler attended private bliss. Or at least in the chandelier lit grandeur of some hotel overlooking some park. And be guests of the sort of folk who lived on the interest paid on the interest of their monstrous bank accounts, and who bid them have, with their crêpes Suzette, another anciently pale brandy.

  Till one evening, when this afore dreamed image of splendour was suddenly shattered. When I, late departing from my standing room centre court, disembarked at a subway station Earl’s Court, which alas nowhere near resembled the elegance of its name. And here they were, a starring centre court foursome of players I had seen just that very afternoon in doubles matches. Now in their open necked shirts and sweaters hung over the shoulder and scurrying across the street. Far from their gleaming limousines, and disappearing into a dingy restaurant. Where I promptly rushed to stand nose to the window, disbelievingly watching them, their elbows splayed over a counter, their sacred racquet hands already twisting up forkfuls of spaghetti and quaffing the dreariest looking, but albeit perhaps the best of vintage, soda pop.

  But now, like vespers vanished upon the still air of a university summer afternoon, a generation of years has gone past. The grim working class street where I once lay low in one’s pessimism, and from whence one ventured to savour that peaceful emerald velvet splendour upon which those white furry spheres popped and bounced, has now become a famed, charmed socially acceptable arrondissement. The soot darkened walls painted white. Front fences bowered in roses. The upper class polished windows are uncurtained now. Ancestors displayed on walls, to stare approvingly down on the silver salt cellars sparkling light across the glass smooth mahogany. These haughty who once disdained to venture here now strut prim and smug and climb into their motor cars, their pukka public vowels heralding their afternoon plans. As they drive off. Guess where. With their prized tickets. And who would ever suspect these beautiful new inhabitants of not having perhaps the most beautiful of souls.

  But my God. Inner shabbinesses apart. Get ready. ’Tis the afternoon before Wimbledon. And everything is stirring. Even the snobberies as usual. I’m comfortably holed up in Belgravia, taking tea. Near three not unpleasantly casual polite Americans, two young ladies and a gentleman. All just arrived from Boston’s Beacon Hill, for the tennis. In their sneakers and other nonchalant raiment. They are already discreetly oohing and ahhing over the China tea and lemon, and slathering their scones with strawberry jam and Devon clotted cream. Commenting, ‘Boy, this is really damn yummy.’ A moment later I go for a stroll in the nearby ultra respectable streets. I pass a man in a very Savile Row dark suit and a lady in a very tight bright pink dress. She’s looking his impeccability up and down, as she says something disparaging about his wife, and adds resentfully, ‘What’s the matter, are you ashamed of me.’

  Alas, can one be anywhere else but back in England. Where everything yet nothing seems changed. Except for me. Who instead of downtrodden as years ago, in one’s little Fulham outpost, comes now a full fledged bog trotter out of the midlands of Ireland. And if the latter origin does little for your ego, it does make you go boggle eyed at the big sophisticated world. I take the hotel elevator up. As I step out, one of the all time great tennis stars of yesteryear steps in. As I walk the circular hall to my room, other ghosts awake. All conjured from that arena where they say deuce and love and first service and quiet please. And from a whole wall of window on the fifteenth floor I can see all the way to Wimbledon south west out under this still bloomingly blue early evening sky.

  As a shield to loneliness, I invite a curvaceously tall, elegant, extremely rich lady friend with a yacht and two helicopters, who on a hiatus between her somewhat poorer husbands agrees she can spare a few hours to taxi to the tennis. She listens sympathetically as I remind her of all my past spectres looming through these streets. Where jellied and live eels are still sold. And the corner shop where once stood Alf the American Stylist whose windows were invariably broken in any impenetrably thick fog, and his latest USA styled suitings removed. Now here I pass sniffing my friend Laura’s spectacularly rarefied perfume. As I hear her laughingly lofty vowels say. ‘Oh dear, J.P., in your early struggles you were, weren’t you, so badly done to.’

  It’s eleven fifteen a.m., now nearing Wimbledon, and much better done to thank you courtesy the New York Times, and in this bright sunshine far away from my former fog bound glooms. On this one of the hottest of London days. Out of the tube station called Southfields summery clad folk are pouring, overflowing the sidewalks. And still a half mile or more from the ground’s entrances queues of eager hopefuls stretch back. Traffic at a standstill. The whole of this great ship shaped ground under siege. Best quality barbed wire furled atop the fences. The needfully suspicious eyes of gate keepers. My silk adorned Ascot hatted Laura announces, peering out the taxi window, ‘I say, J.P., dear me, one does not wear diamonds this hour of the morning but aren’t some people rather mal soignés.’

  Ticket touts everywhere. Talking out of the corner of their mouths. Surreptitiously plying their business on this open air stock exchange. Centre court currently quoted at one hundred and sixty pounds to seat one backside. These toughened brokers promptly turning up their noses at any insultingly lesser bid. Reminding victims of the now mile long queues. The alternative being for Laura, in her Italian made high heels, to follow an Irishman a mile around the ground to get in through a back gate. I depressingly dig deeper into my wallet. Laura watching the dismal expression on my face, ‘Ah, J.P., your hair may have gone awfully grey and thinned but you remain, just as always, so charmingly cheapskate.’

  I get blatantly ready to tear up twenty pound specie under her exquisitely beautiful nose and actually dare to make a tiny rip in a five pound note. When to my relief, Laura admonishes that I should not allow myself to be so bilked. She mercifully volunteers to take over. ‘Dear poor J.P., give me that wallet and let me handle these greedy buggers.’ And while Laura disappears around a tree, I ask the Irishman why he left Ireland and ten cows and thirty acres in Tipperary. ‘Ah you can’t go on chasing moonbeams for ever.’ Some seconds later Laura smilingly appears having reduced the opposition to fifty pounds. ‘You see, J.P., you do immediately jump to the gloomiest conclusions, you must, just as in love, firmly negotiate in these matters.’

  And ah at last, the sun rising higher and hotter and just as I
part from Laura, other rich, in their limousines with their privileged tickets, are beginning to arrive. I’m met by a quietly soignée diminutively pretty young lady, who courteously conducts me through the main gate. I find I’m number 249 on my primrose non transferable Press Rover Pass. Which straight off lets me waltz freely in and out of where it says ‘Press Only’. On this most crowded first day in the All England Club’s history. With all these people who have their own pleasant reasons to throng to see these gladiators whose weaponry, woven of stradivariously stretched strings, and wielded on these rectangles of velvet green, can wipe an opponent not only out of his or her ranking and adulation but, far more mournfully and horrendously more painful, also out of a fortune in gold. Not the least of which can accrue from every square advertising centimetre of their tunics.