by Peter Gault
A white cane whacked against my ankle. It was Chuck from the dorm, forcing his way past the congested bar. I stopped him, told him it was Ken, and introduced him to Henry. Blind Cluck loved Ring Stadium. He asked girls to dance by wading through the tables until he heard an appealing female voice. He explained that when he got drunk, he had this illusion that he could see and never failed to find the prettiest girl in the place. We had slits for eyes, piss-holes in the snow. We looked like three blind drug freaks, strung out on a depressant aphrodisiac.
We wandered off in separate directions, each pursuing a private course. Henry and I returned to the same spot thirty seconds later, without much to talk about, another bruise on our tender egos. Chuck had disappeared. The more refusals I got, the more determined and desperate I became to get someone to dance with. After being turned down about fifteen times it didn’t bother me so much any more. I became numb, even getting a perverse pleasure from it. It was an unlucky night, with one nominal success hardly worth mentioning.
“Please dance with me?” my voice pleaded pathetically.
The girl I begged to dance was not half as attractive as Elizabeth, and I wouldn’t have looked twice at her in the light of day. It was ladies’ night at Ring Stadium. She didn’t answer my plea for a long time, looked me over carefully, thought a little longer, looked me over again. I got down on one knee and tried to look as wholesome as possible. I was beginning to think she would never answer, that she hadn’t heard my question or didn’t speak English. Finally, grudgingly, she consented, but not without casting a warning glance at me. Her eyes said, “Keep your hands behind your back, you filthy pig.” I coaxed and nodded and bobbed all the way to the dance floor, keeping my disgusting hands safely behind my back.
“Are you a student?” I asked. It was an unoriginal conversation starter.
“Obviously,” she said. In a student pub, it was indeed likely that she would be a student.
“Do you like Stockton?”
“No,” she answered, without volunteering a further explanation.
“Why not?” I pressed.
“I don’t know,” she said hauntingly. That was the line I used on Elizabeth.
The women of the world were in league together, plotting my fall.
“What’s your major?” I asked undauntedly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I was in Political Science, but my parents want me to take French. So I don’t know.”
“Major in the subject you enjoy most,” I suggested, advocating my beautifully simplistic golden boy philosophy. “Make up your own mind.”
“My parents will let me major in whatever I want,” she said defensively, as if I was implying that she had no mind of her own.
“As long as it’s French?” I said. Her perception was accurate. I was implying that she had no mind of her own. This small slice of petty vindictiveness was unfair—the result of a sour feeling I had about myself—and I regretted making the jab.
“My parents won’t influence my decision,” she said vehemently, although I didn’t believe her.
I was usually a good dancer. I thought of dancing as a primitive mating ritual, like a peacock strutting his irridescent plumage, but I couldn’t seem to feel the music. It was extra difficult to feel the music when I had my hands held awkwardly behind my back. The town of Stockton must have recently been scorched by roving bands of rapists and sex maniacs. It was the only possible explanation for the impenetrable reticence of the women. The song couldn’t end soon enough for my quiet dancing partner, and she hurriedly retreated to her seat.
There must have been something wrong with my approach. I was making a negative first impression. I had to be nicer or wittier or sexier or more profound. Henry wasn’t doing any better than me. He got so despondent that he started dancing to a slow song with a chair, but the manager came by and told him to return the chair to its original spot. Dancing with chairs was not allowed at Ring Stadium.
“I took this Psychology course and learned that if you have six beers in a night you’re a third degree alcoholic,” said Henry, pushing his half-filled bottle away. “This is my cutoff point.”
“That’s how many I’ve had,” I said, “five or six.”
“Don’t worry about it,” continued Henry. “Most people are third degree alcoholics. It’s when you’re a first degree alcoholic that you have to worry. Could you go to a party and not have a drink?”
“I always drink when I go to a party,” I said.
“I think that means you’re a second degree alcoholic, but I’m not sure. It doesn’t matter because it creeps up on you. People who start out as third degree end up as first degree alcoholics.”
I lost my thirst and pushed my beer away. A white cane whacked against my ankle. Blind Chuck was passing, a voluptuous blonde holding on to his arm. I watched in agony as she moved towards the exit, a burning sexuality oozing out of every pore of her body. My throat felt parched and I took one more gulp of beer.
“I don’t feel depressed when I get turned down by a woman,” said Henry mournfully. “I feel normal.”
The next girl I asked to dance responded with a curt, “No.”
“You mean no thank you,” I said. It was as if I had insulted her. It was as if I was being rude by asking her to dance. It was as if I had marched up to her, slapped my penis on the table and said, “Suck it!” You give a curt “no” to a dog when it tries to hump your leg or sniff your crotch. I didn’t deserve to be treated like that.
I resolved never to say “no” to any woman who asked me to dance. I would be willing to dance with the ugliest thing on the face of the earth, with a face covered in snot and pimples and an ass like the back of a bus. I would bounce onto my feet enthusiastically and escort her to the dance floor like she was a princess from a fairy tale. I would swoon and adore her and do everything in my power to make her feel good about herself. I would make this hideous-looking creature feel attractive for the first time in her life. I would make love to her, martyring myself.
It was in this mood of generosity that I began my search for the ugliest woman in the bar. There were a lot of ugly girls to choose from, but I wanted the absolute ugliest. There was a shadow in the distance that appeared to be four people sitting extremely close together, but upon closer inspection proved to be only one person sitting alone, one enormous woman, like a transport truck idling in the night. The legs of her chair were bent and strained and on the verge of snapping under her mammoth weight. She could have eaten me, swallowed me whole. This was undoubtedly the girl for me.
“Hi,” I said charmingly. “Do you feel like dancing?”
“No thank you,” she said politely. I expected someone that size to have a man’s voice, but her voice had a very feminine quality.
I decided to unceremoniously bail out. I left the weather-beaten hulk in the darkness, picked up my jacket, and slid out the back door into the cold night air. I felt the ominous approach of winter causing my testicles to shrivel and tighten. It was a chilly evening, but the sky was clear and vast and starry. The naked moon was my dancing partner, my only real partner that night, shimmering and vibrating with color like a Vincent Van Gogh painting. I was skipping home. Skipping was more practical than dancing because you can maintain a forward progression. It was not a particularly masculine movement, and I never did it in the daylight, but it was faster and more fun than walking.
I scoured the community refrigerators at the dorm, trying to find some fruit so that my teeth wouldn’t fall out while I was sleeping. My teeth seemed loose, but I suspected that my imagination was carrying me away, especially since I had discovered that I was wrong about going blind. I missed the good old days, the Golden Age, dancing in the grass with Shultz, the days before I had become a third degree drunk. I got this idea that my spine was crooked. I didn’t know for sure, but I felt it was important for me to go to a chiropractor and get my back straightened. The fruit expedition was unsuccessful. I retired to my bedroom with the feeling
that my whole body was falling apart.
“No more reading Dostoevski,” I said to myself, pulling the covers over my head.
7. Shriveled Genitals
I returned to The Barren Room. It was an accident this time, happening in a vacant bedroom of a student boardinghouse for men. The party was on the bottom floor and I imagined myself in an elevator as I ascended the stairs, searching for a bathroom. I wandered into an unoccupied room, plastic sheets covering the floor and bed, like the Baldwins’ living room. I leaned against the windowsill clutching a magnum of wine, which caused the vein in my right bicep to swell and protrude. I wore a tight-fitting t-shirt and my muscles seemed to be bursting out of it. The world was insulated in a layer of plastic, a lifeless void, shades of black and white! There was no sign of creation, no color, no evidence of womankind.
It was the unethereal, mundanely physical need to urinate that saved me from the abyss, that brought me back to Stockton, Illinois. The bed had been shoved into the middle of the room. I held the plastic sheet in one hand, my penis in the other, and relieved myself directly on the mattress, like a naughty boy. The freedom of the deed gave me a kind of thrill, and I delighted as the yellow stream splashed and foamed into puddles. It was Penny, Barb’s strict-looking friend from The Artsie Fartsie, who caught me in the act. Penny was standing in the hallway, watching me with critical curiosity.
“I’m creating art,” I explained with laughter.
Penny disappeared hurriedly.
My body felt strong as I pushed through the crowd of strangers in the kitchen, the nucleus of the party. I was lugging my magnum of wine. The atmosphere was desperate, vibrating with the reckless release of pent-up energy, like the tumultuous outpouring of a broken dam. November meant exams and pressure, working hard and playing even harder. The air was alive, racing with nervous tension, with the purging of evil spirits. It was the pandemonium of Milton’s Paradise Lost, a satanic revelry, an exorcism of chaos.
A finger encircled my belt loop and dragged me into a corner. I expected it to be Barb, but I was greeted by an unfamiliar face. She was a slightly squat, not particularly attractive woman. She had a drunken sexuality. Feeling my arms and chest, she rubbed herself against my body.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she said threateningly, pushing her breasts against me and holding my ass.
“I was coming over to introduce myself,” I said charmingly, with a swelling erection.
There was an awkward silence as we studied each other, more awkward for me than for her. She looked me straight in the eye, unafraid, challenging me. We kissed frantically, probing with our tongues, grinding our crotches together. She was an uninhibited woman, by no means self-conscious about having sex with an interloper in the kitchen at a party, masses of students bustling past to get a cold beer out of the refrigerator. I’m not unreasonably shy, but when she started yanking her dress up I had to do something fast.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
Everything was happening so quickly. I felt like an elevator again, as we climbed to the top floor of the dilapidated old house, fondling each other impetuously on each landing. We discovered the kingdom of heaven, an oasis. It was an apartment with the door left open, complete with bathroom, kitchen, stereo, and bed. I shut the door behind me and put an album on the turntable.
“The bathroom’s over there,” I said, as if I had lived in the place my whole life.
“Come in with me,” she said.
“What for?” I asked warily, hesitating before following her into the bathroom.
She lured me into the sacred abode of bodily functions, locked the door, dropped her panties and planted her rump on the toilet seat. She had no reservations about using unknown toilet seats. In accordance with standard etiquette, I waited for my lady to be seated before modestly positioning myself on the edge of the bathtub, like a courtier attending his queen. There was an eternity of silence, except for the gentle drone of music in the next room. I was convinced that my presence was making it difficult for her to get the flow started. It was not easy to pee under pressure. I was incapable of letting loose in a public washroom if I knew there was a line for my urinal. I would give up, return to the end of the line, try again, return to the end of the line, et cetera. I felt like a pervert, getting my kicks from hanging out in men’s washrooms. We sat in silence. There was nothing happening.
“Have you ever done this before?” she asked.
“What?” I responded stupidly, as if meeting a woman for the first time and being invited to watch her urinate was an everyday occurrence.
“Have you ever done what we’re doing?”
“Yes,” I lied. “Lots of times.”
Although it was a new experience, watching a woman pee was not one of my great ambitions or fantasies in life. If I went my entire life without ever seeing a woman use a toilet, it wouldn’t have bothered me in the least. I wouldn’t undergo symptoms of deprivation. I stared at the wall and wished for the ordeal to be over, but nothing was happening. Silence reigned.
“You don’t seem to be having any luck,” I observed tactfully.
She reached over the sink and turned the tap on. I noticed a hollow whistling noise from the depths of the toilet bowl. I could tell the trick had worked by the look of satisfied calm on her face.
Once in bed, I prepared to give her my best moves. I would proudly display my sexual prowess, mesmerize her with my resilience, my unconquerable will, my supernatural capacity to get an erection after thirty-seven consecutive orgasms. I would defile the worth of the Guinness Book of World Records, rise triumphant from the battle with Soviet domination and take my place as the American Gigolo, the most sought-after stud on the continent. My business was giving women pleasure. I combined intense sexual vitality with the finer points of artistic self-expression. It was a winning combination, the dualism of a Golden Boy.
I had a foolproof system. I spent a few minutes tonguing the left nipple, shifted to the right nipple, and worked my way towards her belly button with tormenting slowness. Her pelvis began to heave as I lightly kissed her clitoris. I stabbed her with tongue licks and my face was bathed in lubrication. The action accumulated momentum and intensity, until my head was bouncing up and down with the fierceness of a woodpecker chipping a hole into a tree trunk. Her feet kicked, her back arched, and she clutched the sheets in her fists. It was after I climbed on top and penetrated her that I heard a bizarre gagging noise in the back of her throat. I distinctly recognized the sound. It was the exact kind of sound that a person made before throwing up.
I leaped out of bed, ejaculating in mid-air, and scrambled across the floor in search of a garbage pail. I found a plastic bag, but by the time I noticed a pair of shoes in the bottom, it was too late. My erection pumped sperm in rhythm with her spasmodic retching, flooding the shoes with lumpy purple liquid. She fell backwards onto the bed, and my penis drooped towards the floor like an actor making a final bow. I figured the sex was over for the evening, flipped the album, took a gulp from the magnum of wine, and settled into bed. I thought about visiting my father in Florida, no exams, only suntanning and chasing women.
She came at me again with her mouth open and her tongue wagging. It would have been selfish and rude to rebuke her, to cut her off merely because of an accidental bout of sickness. She tasted sour and I returned to the infallible system, nibbled on the left nipple, moved to the right, worked down to the belly button, and zeroed in on the clitoris, softly at first, and gradually more reckless. When the squirming and moaning began, I hopped on top and flailed away like a broncobuster on a wild steed. “Oh, no!” I exclaimed, recognizing the gagging noise in her throat again.
Once more I shot out of bed, spraying sperm around the room like a fertilizing machine, and retrieved the plastic bag with the shoes in it. She spewed forth more purple liquid, submerging the shoes and causing the bag to bloat like a water bomb. I felt drunk as I tied up the end of the bag and opene
d the window, the cold air slapping my naked body. There were no people to heave it at, so I tossed it at a parked car but missed. It splattered the road. The shoes tumbled in opposite directions. I took a few swigs of wine and investigated the refrigerator. To my delight, I discovered nine plums, gobbling them down with a ravenous appetite, envisioning myself as a pirate stricken with scurvy. I nestled back into bed, anxious for sleep.
She attacked me a third time, ruthlessly crawling over me, and taking my spent penis into her cavernous mouth. She was remarkably tenacious, like the German army. I was sleepy, full of cheap wine and plums, and positive my penis was incapable of coming back to life, but I was wrong. It was miraculously resurrected from the dead. Though only a semi, half as hard as usual, that was enough to do the job. I worked fast, rolling her onto her stomach, aware that a wasted second could result in total flaccidity. I entered from behind, rocked gingerly, slowly gaining confidence in the feeling that I could finish what was started, what she started. There was a word tattooed to the cheek of her ass. Without a delay in the procedure, I looked closer and realized it was her name.
“Julia,” I said aloud, as I was rising to the climax. It was the first time I used her name and felt introductions were in order. “My name’s Ken!”
Everything happened on cue, the gagging, the hectic search for a garbage container, the erratic trail of sperm across the room. I backed away from the bed, watched her with vigilance, guzzled wine. She looked harmless, but I knew she was waiting, stalking her prey with the patience of a tarantula. I finally regained my courage and slipped cautiously onto the bed. She immediately sensed my presence and pounced on me again, taking my battered appendage into her mouth. I was amazed to find my penis respond, thicken slightly, painfully. It didn’t seem to grow, just harden. I climbed on top.