Hold me! Hold me, Dear Love! Hold me in your heart. Hold me in your thoughts. Hold me for eternity or my soul will perish with anything less.
Benumbed, his mind whirled.
--Mary! Mary! I want you so badly! Let me have you! Let me have you!
--Put it into me! God! Sam! Put it into me! She struggled awkwardly to free her arms, to pull up her skirt, to hook her thumbs under her panties.
After several false starts of trying to undo his zipper with one hand to release his throbbing organ, Sam pulled himself to a kneeling position, and slid his pants open. He reached in scorching flesh to flesh.
Mary arched her back, ready to tear off the tricot hymen.
Skyrockets exploding arced through their minds as the moment of contact drew near.
But the rapping was a nightstick on the front door.
--Blamm! Blamm! Blamm! Yo! In there! Anybody in there?
Astounded, Sam jumped up closing himself, and then turned to the front door.
Cop. Peering. Anxious to see.
--Hi! What's up?
--Boss is supposed to be away. Saw the light. Just checking...
--Yeah. You're new on the beat. Your partner in the car knows me. I work here. Just trying to get a bite.
--Yeah. Don't eat too much. Evil smile.
--Sam, I really have to go. Perhaps it's just as well. But, I can tell you one thing. This weekend, Friday or Saturday, I don't know which yet, but whatever comes first, we're going to get into that room, and flush the key down the john. I'm sorry. It's so late. I haven't another second. Are...Are you...going to be okay? You know...?
--Yes. I know.
--Do you want me to . . .?
--Do you want me to . . .?
--That's not the way I want it the first time with us. No ride on the hand tram. I asked you because boys...you know...they can hurt..."
--It does.
--Will you...?
-- No. I don't care how long. I'm waiting for you, for us to be together. Will you?
--No. It won't bother me any more than my missing you. Sweetheart, I love you so much...!
--How I love you! So, you're more than just on my mind. I'll, you know...think of ...tomorrow. What about you?
--And I'll lie in bed, and feel the blood pumping at me down there... If anything comes on it'll be because I'm thinking of you; wondering what it's going to be like. I can tell you this: I'm going to undress and step into the shower. The minute that water hits my tits, I'm going to collapse in a heap in the bottom of that tub. I'm going to come for fifteen minutes with your name on my lips for every moment.
--Mary, I adore you, I'll do anything to be with you for a moment, or forever. We must be together for always.
--I know. Don't kiss me too hard, too long. My bus is coming. Too bad it's not us.
Hold me! Hold me, Dear Love! Hold me in your heart. Hold me in your thoughts. Hold me for eternity or my soul will perish with anything less!
CHAPTER 34
SUCCUBUS. Phyllis. She drew up before Sam out of the slow-moving, thick mist, the thin light of the hidden moon dramatic in the chiaroscuro on the levels of her face. Yes, it had to be her, even through the gauzed air. He recognized the lips. Shaped nicely, yes, but full, and soft, and... And something so in them that made them overly fascinating. Where was he? Following her. Where were they going? Searching through the grey sponge of his mind he understood they met in front of his home. Yes, she was waiting for him as if by invitation. He walked the walk of the full and weighted Gonadian.
--Come! Come! Sam. There is a problem. If you be meeting what I need, the same time we be doing one for you, too. Friends, Sam, we can be good friends to each other. I have Coke and chocolate chips what I brought home. Come, Sam, come to my room.
--No. I mustn't.
--Just to show you. I'm so proud of what I do.
--I'm sure. I hurt.
--I know. That all right. You just a bit ago left Mary. That all right. I understand. I understand bout you and Mary. I do good.
--Thank you. I don't want to hurt your feelings. Maybe some other time.
--There no better time than right this second, Sam. When you like that. Look! This my room. This what I make it like. Took a long time cause I do little bit by little bit all by myself. I sew everything, and fix everything, and make it like I see in the magazines. You the only one I let come in here, Sam. You the first to see. Do you like it, Sam? Did I do good?
It was a doll's house room. The centerpiece was a massive turn-of-the-century four-poster, handsomely carved, complete with tester carrying a wide-bordered pleated drape. The pale blue and white French provincial pattern was carried over to the bedspread, the curtains, and the upholstery material. Handbraided rugs in pastels covered the floor, the pattern repeated on wall hangings. A rocker, chairs, tables were painted to blend into the decor.
Eyes wide, Sam put his hand to his mouth as he took in detail after detail.
--It's...it's just lovely, he heard himself say. What a haven.
--Let me make you comfortable. You love it even more.
--No. I must go. Ulysses! Lend me your wax! Bind my eyes! Lash me to the mast!
The lights came down to surrender his senses again to a murky porridge. She struck a match. The moment she lit the kerosene lamp and replaced the dusty rose shade, the scent came to him of Trailing Arbutus. With it, he lost his care for any other world. She came to him, locking her eyes on his, saying nothing, saying everything. She led him to the side of the four-poster. His resolve defeated. He felt himself going back, going back, going back. He filled the bed, catty-corner, his left leg off the side just above the floor. His flesh was covered only with the sensuous air, anticipation dressing him in goosebumps. He closed his eyes, settling deep into the eider down, and cut free his last thought of resistance as he felt fingernails hot as a welder's arc trail upwards from his little toe, her other hand moving from his pinky toward the fuzz under his arm. His mind tried to follow first one hand, then the other only to feel them both at the same time seemingly at his breastbone. Sifting through sensations he recognized the warmth of breath slackening his sack, distending it, aware of the tortuous movements therein, easing slightly their trumpetings, but firing the flesh above in his sex organ with thunderous booms of blood. He wanted to concentrate on the rising of the Giant Sequoia. Then pain sparked from his buttocks as she gave tiny pinches to make his stomach muscles spasm. The next instant, he discovered a strange sensitivity in his tits, stroked so lightly he could detect the whorls on her fingertips. What's that! What's that? Oh! Lord! He plummeted through sensations to finally understand she so softly, undetected, has taken the head of his penis between her cushiony lips searching out its secrets with the tip of her tongue: its orifice, its corona, its fusebox where it all came together on its underside. The dartings, here and there, like a tattoo needle, inciting a sheet of responses. His breath became shallow and rapid, saliva near overflowed from his mouth, arm and leg muscles cramped. He became familiar with the sensation of nearly passing out as she brought him further and further over the precipice of ecstatic astral consummation. Wildly fascinated, he felt himself participate as she stripped bare tiny nerve endings nipping each to bursting heat. Her tongue painted the length of his organ over and over with his pre-coitional. Diabolically, she knew when to freeze one action to start another, leading him higher and higher, closer and closer to the orgasm he so desperately didn't want. The fierce pain of containment was a much-too delicious an exquisiteness. Following a more quiet moment when she kneaded his ear lobes between her fingers, she suddenly sucked in the entire slippery length of his swollen penis. He felt it ram into the back of her throat. She just as quickly came off of it, leaving it rock-pipe hard and thumping, thumping. Again-again-again! He screamed in his mind. Without warning, she came to it again, this time crashing to the bottom sucking hard up and down rapidly before breaking off. Just below the surface, Sam felt the rumblings of his juices. Now it was beyond her control
. He would come. But the thought was overtaken with stabbing pain as her knuckles bore into his ribs. He was not to get away so easily. Gradually, she pulled him out of the arena; stroking his body, licking his belly button, soothing him with sympathetic whisperings: Don't be in a hurry; feel it full; feel it good; let it surge through you; let me touch you, here, and here, and here; yes, lie back, we will be ready to go again...soon; it will be more delicious. Then, very, very gradually, she would begin over again, first with the fingernails, then soft-sucking the head of his penis, soon charging up and down its length. The slickery warmth, the contact, the driving thrusts made every muscle in his body quiver. She could no longer ease his agitation, and began what he knew would be exactly the trauma of a madman. There was a ticker-tape parade down Madison Avenue, a 21-gun salute on the Hudson, a fly-by of a skyful of jets, the New York Philharmonic playing "Stars and Stripes Forever," King Kong humping the Statue of Liberty, the Hudson River drained dry upstream, the pounding. The pounding was her middle finger punching his prostate gland. His head nearly touched his heels his body was arched so tightly.
--It's going to happen! It's going to happen! I'm going to come! I'm gunna come! Oh! Jesus! Suck me harder! Deeper! Faster! Oh!....Awwwwww! His cock was approximately three-feet thick, and seventeen feet long. He felt the length and breadth of it superheated by her steaming breath as she circled the base of it with her fingers squeezing it tight enough to make the organ feel like it was about to burst. He sensed it as a dirigible entering a hangar that she was bringing it deeply within her. Her soft, slick lips sucked to it up to the tip, hesitated a moment, then started down in a rush, her finger driving into his anus, the pistons moving simultaneously. The tempo increased suddenly, as her tongue lashed at the burning length of him slapping the tip of it, then squeezing his balls with the pain smashing his senses into super-ecstatic needle pricks as she sucked him harder and faster up and down and up and down and in and out and in and out. Holyjesuscrhristall-fuckingmightygod don't stop! Don’t! Stop! Harder! Harder! Deeper! Deeper! Yahhhhh! The damn let go. He felt the semen explode from him like a block of cement. More! More! More! The blackness descending. Her lips felt like she was smiling--Mary! Oh! Mary! Ohhhh! Mary! I love you, Mary! Ohhhhhhh! Maaa--rrrrry!
--Yes, Sam! I love you, Sam! Yessam, yessamyessam! Yes! OhOh! Ohhhhhhhh...hhhhhhhh... Oh-oh! Gawwwwwd! Saaa-ham!
Incubus
CHAPTER 35
SAM HURRIED to start a number six tack, to take two half-hitches around it with the monofilament he was using to close up the back of the arm chair, then to rap the tack home smartly clinching it. He snipped the line, replaced the curved needle in its box, and waited for the phone to ring. Mary. Lunch time is when she called. He leaned against the cutting table occupying his mind by scrutinizing his work on the chair. He cleaned up as he worked along, so he made a game of finding something he missed. There was nothing, not a thread, not a tuck, not an unsmooth line. He lips moved toward a smile, his own reward, as he acknowledged immodestly that he was a damn good mechanic. Now, if he could only find out how good a lover... He was surprised to see his hand shaking before he felt it. He held both of them out before him, damp palms down. They fluttered. His armpits were cool from the wet of his sweat.
--I'm really leaking! He knew the reason. It had plagued him from the time he left his home. The walk to work was a bombardment of terror, fusillades that made him cringe and crouch at unfelt pain. He heard himself cry out.
--Holy Jesus, fucking Christ Almighty! No! And again. --Son of a bitch! What agony! Could He have endured this? He didn't endure the nails. It dawned on Sam that they were both involved--albeit in far different ranges--in a consummation of love.
With the vision of Mary before him, the turn on the viadolorosso in his mind was inevitable, paved with near-feral desire, speculation, imagination. It began with two words.
What if...what if I never met Mary?
Acknowledge first that this is inconceivable; wonder, then, what would have been of my life? It would be like returning to the Pliestocene, a hard, cold drudge. To the end of my days there would be no change. I would live with Mom and Pop, and give them my paycheck forcing myself to remain an eleemosynary in all aspects of my life: body, mind, soul. Then, one by one, I would bury them. First Pop--the men always go first. Then Mom. And who would bury you? Somebody would have to put you out with the trash. They'd have to find you first. Perhaps better would be to take a walk in Bronx Park, fall down and decay with the leaves. What an odious thought. But, a fitting end to a fart of a life. I would've allowed that to happen to me, if I hadn't met Mary. The worst part, I wouldn't have known what I had done. To have been given the gift of life, and never to have known what I had, disposing of it by the yearsful as so much trash. I just wouldn't have known anything different. So that's to what they refer when they speak of the bliss that comes with gross ignorance. How Nature provides us with all the sensations, as well as the anesthesia.
What if...I died? Like right now, walking, I just, suddenly, had some sort of an attack...? Or maybe a building was on fire, and I ran in to toss the baby out the window to the firemen, and perished in the blaze? Mary's name would be on my lips with my last gasp. No question.
--Mary, no, Ma-Ma-Marrrryyyyyy... I can just see everyone at the funeral, the tears, the sadness. And Mary would say something like—“Though the flame of our love burned for only a short time, yet did it blaze bright enough to last into eternity!” Shit! She wouldn't say any such thing. More like why the asshole goes kill himself just when the good part was starting? Well, if I did die this second, at least I do not go with the weightless bliss that bears no scars, and no passion. I could be grateful for that.
What if...Good Lord! God! What if Mary died! Right this second? Holy motherfucking son of a bitch! Don't even think of it! But think of it. Right away, I would say I must be some rotten kind of person to deserve that--not even saying what Mary would feel about it. If there really is a god, does he really keep tabs on what you say, then makes it cost you? Like when I said I wish my parents were dead? Not supposed to say that, so it goes on your Master Card charged to your soul. Would I really get hit for saying that? Naw! No question, I know exactly what I would do if Mary were taken from me: I'd kill myself. You see, there's no one else that I ever expect would ever take Mary's place, no one. If I met another girl, say like Louisa--not that I would ever...you know...Lou is better than a brother to me--yet, meet a girl, how could I...do anything with her? Here I am, if Mary dies, and I don't kill myself, I've got only a long life of wet dreams ahead of me! Mary and I swore we would have absolutely nothing to do with sex until we made love to each other, and that's the way it's going to be! That's the way I want it to be. Jesus! If I went to confession the priest would never fucking believe me!
--You mean, with all those tons of impure thoughts, you committed no impure acts? You didn't jerk off once? You want to think about it, Sonny? And I'd say, Naw, not even once, Father, but boy! Have I been starching the sheets! Think you're funny. No. I don't think I am. The real funny thing is even if the Pope himself gave me special dispensation from my vow to Mary--That's all right, Son, go ahead and fuck your hand--I would keep my promise to her. Whatever misery and pain I may feel because of it would be nothing compared to the pleasure and beauty she has brought me. Her memory would be my inspiration for the rest of my days. Hey! What kind of bullshit is that? If Mary dies, you die. Period.
What if what if Mary ended up in a wheelchair like her father? I mean, forget the calamity for Mary, just...if it was so? What made me think of that? For Christ Sakes! Can you believe it? Of course! I'd cherish her more than ever! Just call me Sam-Sol.
Yeah! What if it was you in a wheelchair? I'd roll myself into the Bronx River, what do you think? And deprive Mary of the chance to make her life worthwhile by loving someone fully? It would be much too much a burden for her! Any less than for you? Than for Sol? Oh! Shit! I don't know! I suppose as long as we were together, in any state, in
any condition. You know what, you crazy bastard, you're not fucking human! No one does that! Sure! Maybe for a while, but not for the rest of his life. Man cannot regenerate his limbs, or his life. At some point he must chose: live what life he can, or sacrifice it to senseless loyalty. Even a dog can teach your more than that, he can show you how to eat from a bowl.
What if Mary...what if Mary just thought I was a pure, plain asshole and didn't want anything to do with me? After all, she's human. She yearns for affection. We could've made love that night in the bar, but some simpleminded ideal of purity made you refuse! What a shithead! You're calling yourself names because that's what you are! Doesn't make you feel any better about yourself, and the next person that calls you a shithead will get killed for it. No matter, one sip speaks for the kettleful of soup. She's had more than a ladleful of you, Mister. I wouldn't mind if you were impotent... So, she tells you she doesn't want to have anything more to do with you. Now do you kill yourself? Well, not right away. Gotta give myself a chance to win her back. Maybe it’s a misunderstanding, who knows? What if it takes a year? Two years? So what? So, do you remain a celibate? So, that's going to be hard to take, her with someone else, and you with a perpetual hard-on trying to get it off by fucking your belly button. I can't imagine one hour knowing Mary was no longer mine, no less a year! What are you doing to me? Should Mary quit me, I'll plead for insanity! Perhaps the Court of Life will give me a choice: Sam Scopia, you have been found guilty of super-adoration. Your punishment is either to watch Mary in someone else's arms for sixty full and whole seconds, or, at high noon in Times Square, you are to be striped nude, your hands secured behind your back, then to be hoisted high enough for everyone to see you by a marlin hook started under your chin to go through your tongue and out between your eyes, which will keep your screams muffled a bit, and, if you're lucky enough, will enable you to swallow enough of your own blood to kill you in an hour or two. How do you choose?
A Matter of Love in da Bronx Page 37