Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, book 1)

by Henry Miller

  To make herself invulnerable—that was her obsessive concern. Detecting that, my pity expanded immeasurably. It was almost as if I had suddenly discovered that she was a cripple. That happens now and then, when two people fall in love. And if it is love which has united two people then a discovery of that sort serves only to intensify the love. One is not only eager to overlook the duplicity of the unfortunate one, one makes a violent and unnatural effort towards identification. «Let me carry the burden of your sweet defect!» That is the cry of the love-sick heart. Only an ingrained egotist can evade the shackles imposed by an unequal match. The one who loves thrills at the thought of greater tests; he begs mutely that he be permitted to put his hand in the flame. And if the adorable cripple insists on playing the game of pretence then the heart already open and enfolding yawns with the aching void of the grave. Then not only the defect, but the body, soul and spirit of the loved one are swallowed up in what is veritably a living tomb.

  It was Rebecca who really put Mona on the rack. Better said, she permitted Mona to put herself on the rack. Nothing could induce her to play the game as Mona demanded that it be played. She stood firm as a rock, yielding not an inch one way or the other. She showed neither pity nor cruelty; she was adamant against all those wiles and seductions which Mona knew how to employ with women as well as with men. The fundamental contrast between the two «sisters» became more and more glaring. The antagonism, more often silent than spoken, revealed with dramatic clarity the two poles of the feminine soul. Superficially Mona resembled the type of the eternal feminine. But Rebecca, whose ample nature had no superficies, had the plasticity and fluidity of the real female who, throughout the ages and without abdication of her individuality, has transformed the outlines of her soul in accordance with the changing image which man creates in order to focus the imperfect instrument of his desires.

  The creative side of the female operates imperceptibly: its province is the potential man. When its play is unrestricted the level of the race is raised. One can always gauge the level of a period by the status of its womankind. Something more than freedom and opportunity are here involved, because Woman's true nature never expresses itself in demands. Like water, woman always finds her own level. And like water also, she mirrors faithfully all that passes in the soul of man.

  What is called «truly feminine» therefore is only the deceptive masquerade which the uncreative male blindly accepts as the real show. It is the flattering substitute which the thwarted female offers in self-defense. It is the homosexual game which Narcissism exacts. It is most flagrantly revealed when the partners are extremely masculine and feminine. It can be mimicked most successfully in the shadow play of the avowed homosexuals. It reaches its blind culmination in the Don Juan. Here the pursuit of the unattainable reaches the burlesk proportions of a Chaplinesque pursuit. The end is always the same: Narcissus drowning in his own image.

  A man can only begin to understand the depths of woman's nature when he surrenders his soul unequivocally. It is only then that he begins to grow and truly to fecundate her. There are then no limits to what he may expect of her, because in surrendering he has delimited his own powers. In this sort of union, which is really a marriage of spirit with spirit, a man comes face to face with the meaning of creation. He participates in an experiment which he realizes will always be beyond his feeble comprehension. He senses the drama of the earth-bound and the role which woman plays in it. The very possessivity of woman takes on a new light. It becomes as enchanting and mysterious as the law of gravitation.

  A strange four-cornered battle was going on between us, with Kronski acting as referee and goad. While Mona vainly endeavored to traduce and seduce Rebecca, Arthur Raymond was doing his utmost to convert me to his way of thinking. Though neither of us made any outright allusion to the subject, it was evident that he thought me neglectful of Mona and I thought him unappreciative of Rebecca. In all our discussions I was always championing Rebecca or she me, and Mona and he were doing the same, of course. Kronski, in the true spirit of referee, saw to it that we were kept on our toes. His wife, who never had anything to contribute, usually grew sleepy and retired from the scene as quickly as possible. I had the impression that she spent the time in bed lying awake and listening, because as soon as Kronski joined her she would pitch into him and torment him for having neglected her so shamefully. The quarrel would always end with grunts and squeals followed by repeated visits to the sink which we shared in common.

  Often after Mona and I had retired, Arthur Raymond would stand outside our door, asking first if we were still awake, and talk to us through the transon. I deliberately kept the door closed because in the beginning I had made the mistake of being polite and inviting him in, a fatal procedure if one had any thought of getting a night's rest. Then I fell into another error, the stupid one of being semi-polite, of answering at intervals in drugged monosyllables—Yes...No...Yes...No. As long as he sensed the faintest stir of consciousness in his listener, Arthur Raymond would carry on remorselessly. Like a Niagara he wore down the rocks and boulders which opposed his torrential flow. He would simply drown out all opposition... There is, however, a way of protecting oneself against these irresistible forces. One can learn the trick by going to Niagara Falls and observing those spectacular figures who stand with their backs against the wall of rock and watch the mighty river shooting over their heads and falling with a deafening roar into the narrow bed of the gorge. The tingle of spray to which they are subjected acts as a stimulant to their swooning senses. Arthur Raymond seemed to be conscious that I had discovered some sort of protection analogous to this descriptive image. His only recourse, therefore, was to wear away the upper bed of the river and rout me out of my precarious place of refuge. There was something ludicrously obstinate about such a blind and stubborn persistence, something monumentally akin to the Gargantuan strategy which Thomas Wolfe was later to employ as a novelist and which he himself must have recognized as the defect of the «perpetuum mobile» machine in giving to his great work the title Of Time and the River.

  If Arthur Raymond had been a book I could have tossed him aside. But he was a river incarnate, and the bed through which he pulsed like a dynamo was but a few steps removed from the ledge in which we had carved a sheltering niche. Even in sleep the roar of his voice was present; we emerged from our slumbers with the stunned expression of those who have been deafened in their sleep. This force, which no one had been able to canalize or transform, became an omnipresent menace. Thinking of him in later years, I often likened him in my mind to those turbulent rivers which slip their banks and double back on their tracks, forming mighty loops like the writhings of a serpent, seeking in vain to spend their uncontrollable energies, finishing their agony by catapulting into the sea with a dozen furious mouths.

  But the force which was sweeping Arthur Raymond on to nullification was at that time, by very reason of its menacing aspect, lulling and hypnotic. Like mandragores under a glass roof, Mona and I lay rooted in our own bed, which was a strictly human bed, and fertilized the egg of hermaphroditic love. When the tingle of spray ceased to splash against the glass roof of our indifference we would gurgle from the roots with that plaintive chant of the flower which is humanized by the sperm of the dying criminal. The master of the toccata and fugue would have been appalled could he have heard the reverberations which his roar engendered.

  It was only a short time after we were installed in the Palace of Time and the River that I discovered one morning, while taking a shower, that the head of my cock was ringed with bleeding sores. It gave me quite a fright, needless to say. Immediately I thought that I had contracted the «syph». And since I had been faithful in my way I could only suppose that Mona had given it to me.

  However, it isn't in my nature to run to the doctor at once. With us the doctor has always been looked upon as a mountebank if not a downright criminal. We usually wait for the surgeon who of course is in league with the undertaker. We always pay handsomely for
the perpetual care of the grave.

  «It will go away of itself», I told myself, taking my prick out twenty or thirty times a day.

  It could have been a back-fire from one of those menstrual pea-soup fucks too. Often, in fatuous masculine pride, one mistakes the tomato juice flow of the period for a pre-coital flow. Many a proud dick is sunk in this Scapa Flow...

  The simplest thing, of course, was to question Mona, which I promptly proceeded to do.

  «Now listen,» I said, still in good humor, «if you've got a dose you'd better tell me. I'm not going to ask you how you came by it... I want the truth, that's all.»

  The directness of this made her burst out laughing. She laughed a little too heartily, I thought.

  «You could get a dose from sitting on the toilet,» I said.

  This made her laugh even more heartily—almost hysterically.

  «Or it could be a throw-back from an old dose. I don't care when or where it happened... have you got it, that's what I want to know.»

  The answer was No. Emphatically No! She was sobering up now and with the change came a little show of anger. How could I think up such an accusation? What did I take her for—a trollop?

  «Well, if that's the case,» said I, putting a good face on it, «there's no need to worry. You don't get a clap out of thin air. I'll forget about it...»

  But then it wasn't so easy to forget—just like that. In the first place the fucking was taboo. A week had passed, and a week is a long time when you're used to fucking every night and in between a piece now and then—on the wing, as it were.

  Every night it stood up like a pole. I even went to the absurd length of using a condom—just once— because it hurt like hell. The only other thing to do was to play stink-finger or suck her off. I was a little leery about the latter, despite her prophylactic protestations.

  Masturbation was the best substitute. In fact, it opened up a new area of exploration. Psychologically, I mean. Lying there, with my arm around her and my fingers up her crotch, she became strangely confidential. It was as though the erogenous zone of her mind were being tickled by my fingers. The juice began to spill out.... «the dirt», as she had once called it.

  Interesting how women dish up the truth! Often they begin with a lie, a harmless little lie, which is just a feeler. Just to see how the wind blows, don't you know. Should they sense that you're not too hurt, not too offended, they risk a morsel of truth, a few crumbs cleverly wrapped in a tissue of lies.

  That wild automobile ride, for instance, which she's rehearsing under her breath. One wasn't to think for one moment that she enjoyed going out with three strange men—and two dopey fluffs from the dance hall. She had only consented because at the last minute there was no other girl to be found. And then, of course, she may have been hoping, though she didn't know it at the time, that one of the men might be human, might listen to her story and help her out—with a fifty dollar bill perhaps. (She always had her mother to fall back on: mother, the prime cause and motivator of all crime...).

  And then, as always happens on automobile rides, they began to get fresh. If the other girls hadn't been along it might have turned out differently; they had their dresses up over their knees before the car had hardly started. They had to drink too—that was the worst of it. Of course she only pretended to drink... swallowed just a few drops... enough to wet her whistle... the others gulped it down. She didn't mind so much kissing the men either—that was nothing—but the way they grabbed her right away... pulling her teats out and running their hands up her legs... the two of them at once. They must have been Italians, she thought. Lecherous brutes.

  Then she confessed to something which I knew was a god-damned lie, but it was interesting just the same. One of those «deformations» or «displacements», as in dreams. Yes, you see, oddly enough the other two girls felt sorry for her... sorry that they had got her into such a pickle. They knew she wasn't in the habit of sleeping with every Tom, Dick and Harry. So they stopped the car and changed seats, letting her sit up front with the hairy guy who had seemed decent and quiet thus far. They sat on the men's laps in the back, their dresses raised, facing forward, and while smoking their cigarettes and laughing and drinking, they let the men in the rear have their fill of pleasure.

  «And what did the other guy do while this was going on?» I finally felt impelled to ask.

  «He didn't do anything,» she said. «I let him hold my hand and I talked to him as fast as I could so as to keep his mind off it.»

  «Come on,» I said, «don't tell me that. Now what did he do— out with it!»

  Well, anyway, he did hold her hand for a long time, believe it or not. Besides, what could he do— wasn't he driving the car?

  «You mean to say he never thought of stopping the car?»

  Of course he did. He tried several times, but she talked him out of it... That was the line. She was thinking desperately how to get round to the truth.

  «And after a while?» I said, just to ease her over the rough spots.

  «Well, all of a sudden he dropped my hand...» She paused.

  «Go on!»

  «And then he grabbed it again and placed it in his lap. His fly was open and it was standing up... and twitching. It was a tremendous thing. I got terribly frightened. But he wouldn't let me take my hand away. I had to jerk him off. Then he stopped the car and tried to push me out. I begged him not to throw me out. 'Drive on slowly,' I said, 'I'll do it... later. I'm frightened.' He wiped himself with a handkerchief and started going again. Then he began talking the vilest filth...»

  «Like what? Just what did he say, do you remember?»

  «Oh, I don't want to talk about it... it was disgusting.»

  «Since you've told me this much I don't see why you hesitate over words,» I said. «What's the difference... you might as well...»

  «All right, if you want it... 'You're just the kind I like to fuck,' he said. 'I've been meaning to fuck you for a long time. I like the turn of your ass. I like your teats. You're no virgin—what the hell are you so delicate about? You've been fucked all over the lot—you're cunt right up to the eyes'—and things like that.»

  «You're making me horny,» I said. «Go on, tell me everything.»

  I could see now that she was only too delighted to get it off her chest. We didn't have to pretend anything any more—we were both enjoying it.

  The men in the rear seat wanted to swap, it seems. That really frightened her. «The only thing I could do was to pretend that I wanted to be fucked by the other one first. He wanted to stop at once and get out. 'Drive slowly,' I coaxed, 'I'll give it to you afterwards... I don't want them all on me at once.' I grabbed his prick and began to massage it. It was stiff in a minute... even bigger than before. Jesus, I tell you, Val, I never felt a tool like that before. He must have been an animal. He made me grab his balls too—they were heavy and swollen. I jerked it fast, hoping to make him come quick...»

  «Listen,» I interrupted, getting excited by the tale of the big horse cock, «let's talk straight. You must have wanted a fuck bad, with that thing in your hand...»

  «Wait,» she said, her eyes glittering. She was as wet as a goose now from the massaging I was giving her all the while...

  «Don't make me come now,» she begged, «or I won't be able to finish the story. Jesus, I never thought you'd want to hear all this.» She closed her legs on my hand, so as not to get too excited. «Listen, kiss me...» and she ran her tongue down my throat. «Oh God, I wish we could fuck now. This is torture. You've got to get that tended to soon... I'll go crazy...»

  «Don't get off the track... Now what next? What did he do?»

  «He grabbed me by the neck and forced my head down into his lap. 'I'm going to drive slow like you said,' he mumbled, 'and I want you to suck that off. After that I'll be ready to give you a fuck, a good one.' It was so enormous I thought I'd choke. I felt like biting it. Honest, Val, I never saw anything like it. He made me do everything. 'You know what I want,' he said.
'Use your tongue. You've had a prick in your mouth before.' Finally he began to move up and down, to slide it in and out. All the time he held me by the neck. I was nearly crazy. Then he came—ugh! it was filthy! I thought he'd never stop coming. I pulled my head away quickly and he shot a stream of it into my face— like a bull.»

  By this time I was on the verge of coming myself. My prick was dancing like a wet candle. «Clap or no clap, I'm going to fuck to-night,» thought I to myself.

  She went on with the story after a lull. How he made her huddle in the corner of the car with her legs up and poked around inside of her while driving with one hand, the car zigzagging back and forth across the road. How he made her open her cunt with her two hands and then turned the flashlight on it. How he put his cigarette inside her and made her try to inhale with her cunt. And the two in the rear leaning over and pawing her. How one of them tried to stand up and shove his prick in her mouth, but too drunk to do anything. And the girls—by this time stark naked and singing filthy songs. Not knowing where he was driving or what was coming next. «No,» she said, «I was too scared to be passionate. They were capable of anything. They were thugs. All I could think of was how to escape. I was terrified. And all he kept saying was: 'You wait, you lovely bitch... I'll fuck the ass off you. How old are you? You wait...' And then he'd grab himself and swing it like a club. 'When you get this inside your cute little twat you're going to feel something. I'll make it come out of your mouth. How many times do you think I can do it? Guess!' I had to answer him. 'Twice... three times?' I guess you ain't ever had a real fuck. Feel it!' and he made me hold it again while he jerked back and forth. It was slimy and slippery... he must have been coming all the time. 'How does it feel, sister? I can put another inch or two on that when I ram it up that hole of yours. By the way, how would you like it up the other end? Listen, when I get through with you you won't be able to say fuck for a month.' That's the way he talked...»