A Madwoman's Diary

by Lawrence Block

  Out of sight and almost out of mind.

  And now I take it out again for as little reason as I ever put it away. Things I want to get down but how to write them? I would say that I have lost the knack, that this recording process is now unfamiliar to me, but am surprised how quickly I am into it as deeply as I ever was. My fingers fly on these keys, throwing letters and words and sentences at the page without my thinking them over first. I have missed this, and realize now how much I have felt the omission, but if challenged I could still not explain what it is that this does for me, what it is that I require of it.

  Feel a compulsion to fill in all the blanks now, bring the nonexistent reader up to date on all that has happened since I stopped putting my life on these pages. Then I did this and then I did that and he said and she said and I went and I saw and I felt and I was and I am.

  No.

  Wouldn’t know where to start. Have to write it when it’s hot, not seek to recall it after it’s cooled off. No point to that. The pages are for my eyes only, and my own eyes will never play over them. It is not a book to be read but a book—call it that, the word seems to fit—a book to be written, an existential document, each page of which has served its purpose forever by the time it leaves the typewriter.

  Could I then throw away each page after each day’s writing? Could I write this diary as Penelope made her shawl, knitting all day, ripping out stitches all night?

  I think not. There is a security in the growing stack of papers, and it would hurt as much to destroy them as it would to read them. Neither my eyes nor another’s shall ever read them, and yet this does not mean they do not exist. Bishop Berkeley wondered if a tree falling in the forest could be said to make a sound if no ear was close, enough to hear it. That hearing might define sound, as reading defines writing. But I think not. Though I would be hard put just now to explain myself.

  I am always hard put to explain myself. I write this day after day in an attempt to explain myself to myself, and the explanation is foredoomed because I never read what I have written.

  And never shall.

  I sat down tonight with something specific to write, but it shall remain unwritten until tomorrow.

  I wonder why.

  24 May—Monday

  “I love you, Jennifer.”

  “No you don’t, Greg. Or you, Paul. Neither of you loves me. Nobody loves anybody.”

  “We all know that. Let’s lie and say we love each other.”

  “Why lie?”

  “It might not be a lie, Jennifer. There are ways I love you. Ways Greg loves you. Ways Greg and I love each other. The word doesn’t hurt when there’s no promise in it, no demand, no this-for-that. You know us and we know you. No woman ever knew me before. Love you, Jennifer.”

  “Love you, Jennifer.”

  “Love you, Greg. That’s a lie. Paul, I’ll lie and say I love you.”

  “Lies or truth, we love each other. I must love you, you touch my stomach and it doesn’t tickle. My body knows you. The flesh on my stomach is the litmus paper of love, Jennifer. Love makes me unticklish. Kiss me. Oh, yes.”

  “And we’re both going to make love to you, Jennifer. Paul and I, both at once, making love to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “Sharing you.”

  “Yes, sharing you. Fucking you, you angel. Fucking each other with your good woman’s body.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, do. Ah, yes, yes. Ah, yes, do.”

  Not tonight, not last night. A few days ago all this happened. Wonder how real the conversation is that I’ve typed. How much is as it happened, how much is as it has been filtered by my mind and worn smooth by time.

  Ought to be close, anyway.

  Sit here summoning up the memory of this incident and seeking to transfer it to the page, the pages, seeking to feed it into the typewriter and make it come out on the paper, and for an odd and I think new reason.

  Not because the scene is so vividly in mind. Not because there are things about it I want to discuss with myself, or to record, or to understand. The incident itself was chosen carefully after several minutes of studying blank paper, and I picked it less for its impact upon me than for its pure erotic value.

  I want to write something sexy.

  Don’t know why, don’t care why. Doesn’t fucking matter. Want to recreate the episode in words and get the full absolute flavor of it in print. Odd, because not for me to read, no, not for anyone to read. Why is a question to ask later or never, and better never than later. Why is a crooked letter. Why is—bullshit.

  Forget why. And forget all the other bullshit that clutters my head in the course of sex and my paper in the course of writing about sex. Concentrate purely on what, not why or how but what. Be a camera and tell what the lens sees. Nothing but a camera, a camera which records without interpreting, a camera not guided by a skilled director but mounted immobile on a tripod, taking it all in and making no comments on what it sees.

  I am in a king-size bed, lying on my back, one leg straight out before me, the other leg bent at the knee, its toes resting on the calf of the straight leg, my thighs slightly apart. Paul is on my right. He lies on his side, facing toward me, his hand on my …

  No.

  Get rid of I, get rid of me. Third person throughout. Just say what happens.

  Arlene is in a king-size bed, lying on her back, one leg straight out before her, the other leg bent at the knee, its toes resting on the …

  No.

  Jennifer is in a king-size bed, lying on her back, one leg straight out before her, the other leg bent at the knee, its toes resting on the calf of the straight leg, her thighs slightly apart. Paul is on her right. He lies on his side, facing toward her, his hand on her shoulder, his mouth at her neck. Gregory, on her left, also faces her. His body is positioned slightly lower on the bed so that his head rests on her upper arm, his mouth a few inches from her breast. One of his hands rests on one of her thighs, the thigh of the leg that is bent at the knee.

  Paul kisses her neck, small tentative nibbling kisses at first. Then he begins to let his tongue run over her soft skin. He pauses in his licking to tell her how soft she is, commenting again and again on the smoothness of her skin, the appeal of its texture. As he licks and kisses her throat, his left hand settles on her hip, rubs, strokes. His hand moves downward until it touches the top of her triangle of pubic hair, then reverses its direction and moves over her hip, across her abdomen, crossing the bottom of her rib cage and reaching her right breast. On the way a finger brushes lightly over her navel and she quivers at the touch. When his hand fits itself gently around her breast a small sigh escapes her lips. His hand is still for an instant, then gently begins to knead her breast flesh. Her nipple goes rigid against the palm of his hand and she sighs again.

  On her other side, Gregory strokes her leg, down toward the knee, then upward toward her loins. The flesh on the insides of her thighs is silk-smooth and very sensitive. Each time his fingers move higher and the muscles in her thighs begin to work involuntarily, flexing automatically as his hand moves closer and closer to her loins, then relaxing as it halts and heads downward toward her knee. His head moves closer and his tongue darts out to touch the nipple of her left breast. She draws in breath sharply. The hand on her leg moves higher than ever and her hips give a tiny thrust, trying to meet it. But the hand draws away even as the mouth comes forward to reach for her breast. She feels his penis, hard and large, pressing against the meaty exterior of her thigh. With a silent sob she turns toward him, and his lips part to take in the tip of her breast even as his hand moves the final few inches to touch her loins.

  She is on her side now, facing Gregory, clutching his head to her breast. He is sucking urgently at her nipple while he rolls her clitoris deftly between thumb and forefinger. Her juices flow. Still toying with her clitoris, another finger steals into her vagina and strokes her.

  She makes small sounds and squeezes her eyes tightly shut. Her thighs lock a
round the invading hand, imprisoning it, unwilling to let it escape.

  Behind her, Paul presses the full length of his body against her. She feels his hard cock in the cleft of her buttocks, his thin body against the length of her back. His mouth is on her neck, the back of her neck now, and he is alternately kissing and biting, thrilling her with the sharp touch of his teeth, then the soothing moisture of his mouth. His fingers touch her ribs. She raises her body slightly in response, and his arm slips beneath her chest as his other arm moves over the top of her body. His hands fasten upon her breasts and grip them firmly. He holds the left one as Gregory sucks its tip, grips the right one and works its nipple with his fingers.

  Her hips press backward and she feels Paul’s cock like a bar of warm steel against her buttocks. She savors the touch, then thrusts her hips outward and feels the throb of Gregory’s cock against her thigh. Her hands take hold of Gregory’s head, urge him upward, and her mouth finds his. Her tongue probes into his mouth, then withdraws as her own mouth accepts his tongue in turn.

  Paul’s cock is the first to enter her. He moves off from her for a moment to anoint himself with K-Y jelly. Then she feels his hands on her buttocks, feels the cool moisture of another dab of jelly on his forefinger as he presses it into her anal opening. His finger works the jelly around the area, then withdraws. His hands clasp her buttocks and draw them apart, and the head of his penis takes the place of his finger and begins the process of intromission.

  Several times he stops in answer to her gasps of pain. Her buttocks automatically, instinctively, close themselves to repel the assault, and it is work for her to will the instinct to subside, to will herself to open to him. He enters her half an inch at a time, moving in tiny fits and starts. Finally he is halfway inside her, and suddenly progress is easy; it is as if her anus suddenly relaxes and sucks him inside like a vacuum cleaner, and at once he is in her to the hilt.

  They lie joined this way without moving. Throughout, Gregory has been kissing her mouth as he works her pussy with skilled fingers. But now, with Paul snug inside her, she is able to focus her attention on his kisses and his fingering. She feels the fingers move downward, slip behind her, to touch Paul’s cock for a moment. Then they are back in place and he is playing with her as she sucks his tongue.

  For only a moment he draws away from her, ending the kiss, losing the contact of his hand upon her loins. He moves down on the bed and presses his mouth to her cunt, the tongue racing over the clitoris, dipping into the moist musk pool, then retreating as he resumes his original position. He kisses her mouth and she tastes her own flavor upon his lips. Then his hands open her legs and she sighs again and his cock, so stiff and hard, so much thicker than Paul’s but its equal in length, slides directly into her cunt. She is hot and wet and open, and in an instant he is all the way within her.

  Paul in back and Gregory in front, and each of them in her to the hilt, and neither of them moving. Paul’s hands around her to hold her breasts, Gregory’s mouth on her mouth, and both of them motionless, herself motionless as well, as she savors the sensation of the dual assault of two penises. They are separated only by the thin membrane that separates anus and vagina, and she feels the two of them pressing together and knows they can feel each other through the instrument of her body.

  Her flesh begins to sing.

  It is Jennifer who first begins to move. A slow, gentle, rocking motion. Forward first, thrusting down on Gregory’s cock, feeling his deeper penetration as she feels Paul’s slight withdrawal from her asshole. Then backward, tasting slight sweet pain as Paul’s cock rams into her ass again while Gregory slips slightly out of her.

  She establishes the motion, sets the rhythm. And they pick up their cues from her and meet her thrusts with thrusts of their own.

  “All at once,” someone says, as the crises approach. “All come together, all, love, divine—”

  But Paul comes first, shooting jets of hot sperm into her asshole, filling her with a sticky salty enema. And before his spasms end it is Gregory’s turn, and her cunt grips him as he comes deep inside her.

  And Jennifer follows a split second later, her cunt twitching spasmodically, her asshole rippling like a wheat field in strong wind, her whole body giving of itself and getting for itself as she is caught up in the delicious deathlike magical ecstasy of orgasm.

  Bullshit.

  All true except the very last.

  Jennifer didn’t come.

  Loved it. Could hardly have loved it more if she had come. Could hardly have been happier and more fulfilled had she reached that dizzy orgasm.

  But let us keep our facts straight.

  Jennifer got close. She got hot, she got into it all, as she so often does.

  But she didn’t come.

  As she so often doesn’t.

  What oh what is all of this about? What the value of writing it down?

  Why the impulse?

  It didn’t get me hot to write about it. Sort of thought it would but it didn’t. Perhaps because I was outside watching, but no sense in that because it is usually being outside watching that does it for me. Perhaps because too conscious of construction, too intent upon the technique of it, the mechanics of writing purposely erotic material.

  Don’t know.

  Silly, all of this. Vaguely disturbed now by everything set in motion by writing this. And yet feel slightly better for having written it though don’t know how.

  Or why.

  Funny, all of this. Funny, me. The word person that is ARjenniferLENE.

  I don’t think I’ll see Paul and Gregory again for a long time. If ever.

  Doubt they need me any more. Doubt I need them. Pleasure—they pleasure me, but I seem to want something beyond pleasure lately. I go seek situations that bring me less pleasure than other situations I have already been a part of. Seeking what’s new to me, even though I doubt it will be that good, rather than what I have already experienced, regardless of how much I have already enjoyed it.

  Extending myself?

  Partly. More—what? More what?

  Don’t know.

  Something more than pleasure. Something more than orgasm—have orgasms now and then, one way or another, alone or with help, but orgasm almost incidental. Not what I signed on this cruise for. Something, but what???

  27 May—Thursday

  Orgies are better in fantasy than fact.

  A subjective judgment, this. Obviously. Because if everyone found this to be true, no one would ever participate in large group scenes.

  And people do.

  But I, in wisdom born of experience, in brittle sexual sophistication, have tested the orgy and found it wanting. So much fun to think about when masturbating and such a surprising down in real life.

  Real life?

  What the fuck is real life?

  Two is nice and three is nice and four is nice and even five is sort of nice, but more than five is a crowd, is a mob scene, is a mess, and you lose track of who is doing what and with which and to whom and none of it matters much.

  Even watching isn’t any fun when there’s a whole roomful of people. Just gets boring.

  Like watching pornographic pictures for too long, when they’re past the point of being exciting, and all you want to know is how long do you have to stick around before it’s possible for you to go home without being roundly accused of party poopery.

  What an appalling discovery—that orgies are a down. Like discovering that there is a Santa Claus, Virginia, and he’s a dirty old man.

  1 June—Tuesday

  Another month.

  Nothing I feel much like writing, actually, but it is another month, the First of June, and it seems somehow essential to celebrate the fact upon this poor unfortunate typewriter. A happy First of June to you, Smith-Corona Electra 110. And many more, if I don’t pound you to pieces before another June First rolls around.

  June.

  About as good as months normally get in this city. June and October are usu
ally the best months. June is sometimes too hot, but if every day is like this one no one will dream of complaining. Temperature around 65, less soot and crud in the air than usual, and the sky (visible, for a change) had a distinctly blue cast to it.

  I like New York in June, how about you? I’m not sure I actually like New York in June, but I like June in New York. June and October, with a slight nod to October, but since June is here and October isn’t, let’s forget about October. New York in June and a Gershwin tune and ice cream and motor trips and how about you, anyway?

  Actually everybody prefers October, but hardly anything rhymes with it. Except sober, which is less than a dynamite word in a song, and which is what I will cease to be if I have one or two more drinks, which I intend to have as soon as I put this drivel under the radiator cover. If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

  5 June—Saturday

  Last night Arnold kissed me.

  Not for the first time, but more seriously than ever before. Stopped the car and sat looking at me for a long moment, and I met his gaze, and I guess we got the tiniest bit lost in one another’s eyes. Then he heaved a sigh—heaved it halfway across the room, chuckle chuckle—and leaned across the seat, arms out for me, and I went properly into his arms and caught his mouth with mine.

  A long, warm, intense, both-mouths-closed kiss. Then a pause, with our mouths still close together, and then his arms tightening around me and another kiss and his tongue probing, testing the enemy’s resistance.

  I let him pry my lips apart. His tongue snuck inside, and I gave a sigh of my own and opened my mouth to accept him entirely, and we held that pose for perhaps a minute before I gently disengaged myself.

  His voice was hoarse when he spoke. How sweet I was, and how warm, and how good it was for him to spend time with me. Nothing I hadn’t heard before, but never this much strain in his voice.