Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, book 1)

by Henry Miller

  «Don't go!» she whined, clutching my hand, and with that she began emptying her tank. I held on while she finished the job, Nos. I and 2, with stink bombs and everything. Throughout the operation she repeated over and over: «No, I won't kiss the Pope's ass!» She looked so absolutely helpless that I thought perhaps I'd have to wipe her ass for her. However, from long years of training she managed to do this much for herself, though it took and incredibly long lime. I was about ready to throw up when finally she asked me to lift her up. As I was pulling her bloomers up I couldn't help rubbing my hand over her rose-bush. It was tempting, but the stench was too powerful to dally with that idea.

  As I assisted her out of the toilet the patronne espied us and nodded her head sadly. I wondered if she realized what chivalry it took for me to perform this act. Anyway, we went back to the table, ordered some black coffee, and sat talking a little while longer. As she sobered up she became almost disgustingly grateful. She said if I would take her home I could have her—she wanted to make it up to me. «I'll take a bath and change my things,» she said. «I feel filthy. It was filthy too, God help me.»

  I told her I would see her home in a taxi, but that I wouldn't be able to stay with her.

  «Now you're getting delicate,» she said. «What's the matter, ain't I good enough for you? It ain't my fault, is it, if I had to go to the toilet? You go to the toilet too, don't you? Wait till I take a bath—you'll see what I look like. Listen, give me your hand!» I gave her my hand and she put it under her skirt, right on her bushy cunt. «Take a good feel of it,» she urged. «You like it? Well, it's all yours. I'll scrub it and perfume it for you. You can take all you like of it. I'm not a bad lay. And I'm not a tart either, see! I got cock-eyed, that's all. A guy walked out on me, and I was crazy enough to take it to heart. He'll come crawling back before long, don't you worry. But Jesus, I did have my heart set on him. I told him I wouldn't kiss the Pope's ass—and that got him sore. I'm a good Catholic, same as he, but I can't see the Pope as Christ Almighty, can you?»

  She went on with her monologue, jumping from one thing to another like a goat. I gathered that she was a switch-board operator in a big hotel. She wasn't such a bad sort, either, down under her Irish skin. I could see that she might be very attractive, once the fumes of the alcohol cleared away. She had very blue eyes and jet black hair, and a smile that was sly and puckish. Maybe I would run up and help her with her bath. I could always run out on her if anything went amiss. The thing that bothered me was that I was to meet Mona for dinner. I was to wait for her in the Rose Room of the Me Alpin Hotel.

  We got in a taxi and drove uptown. In the cab she rested her head on my shoulder. «You're awfully good to me,» she said in a sleepy voice. «I don't know who you are, but you're O.K. with me. Jesus, I wish I could take a nap first. Would you wait for me?»

  «Sure,» I said. «Maybe I'll take a nap too.»

  The apartment was cosy and attractive, better than I had expected it to be. She had no sooner opened the door than she kicked off her shoes. I helped her undress.

  As she stood before the mirror, nude except for her panties, I had to admit that she possessed a beautiful figure. Her breasts were white and full, round and taut, with bright strawberry-colored nipples.

  «Why don't you take those off too?» I said pointing to the panties. «No, not now,» she said, suddenly becoming coy, her cheeks coloring slightly.

  «I took them off before,» I said. «What's the difference now?» I put my hand on her waist as if to pull them down. «Don't, please!» she begged. Wait till I have my bath.» She paused a moment, then added: «I'm just getting over my period.»

  That settled it for me. I saw the ring-worms flowering again. I got panicky.

  «All right,» I said, «take your bath! I'll stretch out in here while you're at it.»

  «Won't you scrub my back for me?» she said, her lips curling in that puckish smile of hers.

  «Why sure I will... certainly,» I said. I led her to the bathroom, half-pushing her along in my haste to get rid of her.

  As she slipped out of the panties I noticed a dark bloodstain. Not on your life, I thought to myself. No sir, not in my sound senses I don't. Kiss the Pope's ass-never!

  But as she lay there soaping herself I felt myself weakening. I took the soap from her hand and scrubbed her bush for her. She squirmed with pleasure as my soapy fingers entwined themselves in her hair.

  «I think it's finished,» she said, arching her pelvis and spreading her cunt open with her two hands. «You look... do you see anything?»

  I put the soapy middle finger of my right hand up her cunt and massaged it gently. She lay back with her hands clasped behind her head and slowly gyrated her pelvis.

  «Jesus, that feels good,» she said. «Go on, do it some more. Maybe I won't need a nap.»

  As she got worked up she began to move more violently. Suddenly she unclasped her hands and with wet fingers she unbuttoned my fly, took my prick out and made a dive for it with her mouth. She went at it like a professional, teasing it, worrying it, fluting her lips, then choking on it. I came off in her mouth; she swallowed it as if it were nectar and ambrosia.

  Then she sank back into the tub, sighed heavily and closed her eyes.

  Now is the time to beat it, I said to myself, and pretending that I was going to look for a cigarette I grabbed my hat and bolted. As I ran down the stairs I put my finger to my nostrils and smelled it. It wasn't a bad odor. It smelled of soap more than anything else.

  A few nights later a private performance was being given at the theatre. Mona had begged me not to attend the performance, saying that it would make her nervous if she knew I were watching her. I had been somewhat put out about it, but finally agreed not to come. I was to meet her afterwards at the stage entrance. She specified the exact time.

  I was there ahead of time, not at the stage door but at the entrance to the theatre. I looked at the announcements over and over, thrilled to see her name in bold, clear letters. As the crowd filed out I went to the opposite side of the street and watched. I didn't know why I was watching-I was just rooted to the spot. It was rather dark in front of the theatre and the taxis were all tied up.

  Suddenly I saw some one rushing impulsively to the curb where a frail little man stood waiting for a taxi. It was Mona. I saw her kiss the man and then, as the taxi drove away, I saw her wave goodbye. Then her hand fell limply to her side and she stood there a few minutes as if deep in thought.

  Finally she rushed back into the theatre through the main entrance.

  When I met her at the stage door a few minutes later she seemed over-wrought. I told her what I had just witnessed.

  «Then you saw him?» she said, clutching my hand. «Yes, but who was it?»

  «Why, it was my father. He got up out of bed to come. He won't last much longer.»

  As she spoke the tears came to her eyes. «He said he could die in peace now.» With this she halted abruptly and burying her head in her hands she began to sob. «I should have taken him home,» she said brokenly.

  «But why didn't you let me meet him?» I said. «We could have taken him home together.»

  She refused to talk about it. She wanted to go home—go home alone and weep. What could I do? I could only assent—it seemed the most delicate thing to do.

  I put her in a taxi and watched her ride away. I felt deeply moved. Then I struck out, determined to bury myself in the crowd. At the corner of Broadway I heard a woman calling my name. She came up to me on the run.

  «You passed me,» she said, «without recognizing me. What the matter with you? You look depressed.» She held out her two hands for me to grasp.

  It was Arthur Raymond's ex-wife, Irma.

  «It's funny,» she said, «I just saw Mona a few seconds ago. She got out of a cab and ran down the street. She looked distracted. I was going to speak to her, hut she ran off too quickly. I don't think she saw me either... Aren't you living together any more? I thought you were all staying at Arthur's plac
e.»

  «Just where did you see her?» I wondered if she could have been mistaken.

  «Why, just around the corner.»

  «Are you absolutely sure?»

  She smiled strangely. «I couldn't mistake her, could I?»

  «I don't know,» I mumbled, more to myself—«it hardly seems possible. How was she dressed?»

  She described her accurately. When she said «a little velvet cape» I knew it couldn't have been any one else.

  «Did you have a quarrel?»

  «No—o—o, not a quarrel...»

  «Well you ought to know Mona by this time,» said Irma, trying to dismiss the subject. She had taken my arm and was guiding me along, as if perhaps I were not quite in full possession of my faculties.

  «I'm awfully glad to see you,» she said. «Dolores and I are always talking about you... Don't you want to drop up for a minute? Dolores will be delighted to see you. We have an apartment together. It's right near' here. Do come up... I'd love to talk to you a while. It must be over a year since I saw you last. You had just left your wife, you remember? And now you're living with Arthur— that's strange. How is he getting on? Is he doing well? I hear he has a beautiful wife.»

  It didn't require much coaxing to persuade me to run up and have a quiet drink with then. Irma seemed to be bubbling over with joy. She had always been very friendly with me, but never this effusive. I wondered what had come over her.

  When we got upstairs the place was dark. «That's funny,» said Irma, «she said she would be home early this evening. Oh well, she'll be along in a few minutes, no doubt. Take your things off... sit down.. I'll get you a drink in a minute.»

  I sat down, feeling somewhat dazed. Years ago, when I first knew Arthur Raymond, I had been rather fond of Irma. When they separated she had fallen in love with my friend O'Mara, and he had made her just as miserable as Arthur had. He complained that she was cold—not frigid, but selfish-I hadn't given much attention to her then because I was interested in Dolores. Only once had there ever been anything approaching intimacy between us. That had been a pure accident and neither of us had made anything of it. We had met on the street in front of a cheap cinema one afternoon and after a few words, both of us being rather listless and weary, we had gone inside. The picture was unbearably dull, the theatre almost empty. We had thrown our overcoats over our laps and then, more out of boredom and the need of some human contact, our hands met and we sat thus for a while staring vacantly at the screen. After a time I slung my arm around her and drew her to me. In a few moments she let go my hand and placed her own on my prick. I did nothing, curious to see what she would make of the situation. I remembered O'Mara saying that she was cold and indifferent. So I sat still and waited. I had only a semi hard-on when she touched me. I let it grow under her hand which was resting immobile. Gradually I felt the pressure of her fingers, then a firm grasp, then a squeezing and stroking, all very quietly, delicately, almost as if she were asleep and doing it unconsciously. When it began to quiver and jump she slowly and deliberately unbuttoned my fly, reached in and grabbed my balls. Still I made no move to touch her. I had a perverse desire to make her do everything herself. I remembered the shape and the feel of her fingers; they were sensitive and expert. She had cuddled up like a cat and had ceased to look at the screen. My prick was out of course, but still hidden under the overcoat. I watched her throw the coat back and fasten her gaze on my prick. Boldly now she began to massage it, more and more firmly, more and more rapidly. Finally I came in her hand. «I'm sorry,» she murmured, reaching for her bag to extract a handkerchief. I permitted her to wipe me off with her silk kerchief. Not a word out of me. Not a move to embrace her. Nothing. Just as if I had watched her doing it to some one else. After she had powdered her face, put everything back into her bag, I pulled her to me and glued my mouth to hers. Then I pushed her coat off her lap, raised her legs and slung them over my lap. She had nothing on under her skirt, and she was wet. I paid her back in her own coin, doing it ruthlessly almost, until she came. When we left the theatre we had a coffee and some pastry together in a bakery and after an inconsequential conversation parted as though nothing had happened.

  «Excuse me,» she said, «for being so long. I felt like getting into something comfortable.»

  I came out of my reverie to look up at a lovely apparition handing me a tall glass. She had made herself into a Japanese doll. We had hardly sat down on the divan when she jumped up and went to the clothes closet. I heard her moving the valises around and then came a little exclamation, a sigh of frustration, as though she were calling to me in a muted voice.

  I jumped up and ran to the closet where I found her standing on top of a swaying valise, reaching for something on the top shelf. I held her legs a moment to steady her and, just as she was turning round to descend, I slid my hand up under the silk kimono. She came down in my arms with my hand securely fastened between her legs. We stood there in a passionate embrace, enveloped in her feminine frills. Then the door opened and Dolores walked in. She was startled to find us buried in the closet.

  «Well!» she exclaimed with a little gasp, «fancy finding you here!»

  I let go of Irma and put my arms around Dolores who only feebly protested. She seemed more beautiful now than ever.

  As she disengaged herself she broke out into her usual little laugh which was always slightly ironical. «We don't have to stay in the closet, do we?» she said, holding my hand. Irma meanwhile had slipped an arm around me.

  «Why not stay here?» I said. «It's cosy and womb-like.» I was squeezing Irma's ass as I spoke.

  «God, you haven't changed a bit,» said Dolores. «You never get enough of it, do you? I thought you were madly in love with... with... I forget her name.»

  «Mona.»

  «Yes, Mona... how is she? Is it still serious? I thought you were never going to look at another woman!»

  «Exactly,» I said. «This is an accident, as you can see.»

  «I know,» she said, revealing more and more her smothered jealousy, «I know these accidents of yours. Always on the alert, aren't you?»

  We spilled into the living room where Dolores threw off her things—rather vehemently, I thought, as though preparing for a struggle.

  «Will I pour you a drink?» asked Irma .

  «Yes, and a good stiff one,» said Dolores. «I need one. ...Oh, it has nothing to do with you,» she said, observing that I was looking at her strangely. «It's that friend of yours, Ulric.»

  «What's the matter, isn't he treating you well?»

  She was silent. She gave me a desolate look, as though to say—you know very well what I'm talking about.

  Irma thought the lights were too strong; she turned out all but the little reading lamp by the other divan.

  «Looks as though you were preparing the scene,» said Dolores mockingly. At the same time one felt that there was a secret thrill in her voice. I knew it was Dolores whom I would have to deal with. Irma, on the other hand, was like a cat; she moved about softly, almost purring. She was not in the least disturbed; she was making herself ready for any eventuality.

  «It's good to have you here alone,» said Irma, as though she had found a long lost brother. She had stretched herself out on the divan, close to the wall. Dolores and I were sitting almost at her feet. Behind Dolores' back I had my hand on Irma's thigh; a dry heat emanated from her body.

  «She must guard you pretty close,» said Dolores, referring to Mona. «Is she afraid of losing you—or what?»

  «Perhaps,» I said, giving her a provocative smile. «And perhaps I'm afraid of losing her.»

  «Then it is serious?»

  «Very,» I answered. «I found the woman I need, and I'm going to keep her.»

  «Are you married to her?»

  «No, not yet... but we will be soon.»

  «And you'll have children and everything?»

  «I don't know whether we'll have children... why, is that important?»

  «You might as well do
it thoroughly,» said Dolores.

  «Oh, stop it!» said Irma. «You sound as though you were jealous. I'm not! I'm glad he's found the right woman. He deserves it.» She squeezed my hand, in relaxing the pressure, she adroitly slipped my hand over her pussy.

  Dolores, conscious of what was going on, but pretending not to notice, got up and went to the bathroom.

  «She's acting queer,» said Irma. «She seems positively green with jealousy.»

  «You mean jealous of you?» I said, somewhat puzzled myself.

  «No, not of me... of course not! Jealous of Mona.» «That's strange,» I said, «I thought she was in love with Ulric.»

  «She is, but she hasn't forgotten you. She...» I stopped her words with a kiss. She flung her arms around my neck and cuddled up to me, writhing; and twisting like a big cat. «I'm glad I don't feel that way,» she murmured. «I wouldn't want to be in love with you. I like you better this way.»

  I ran my hand under the kimono again. She responded warmly and willingly.

  Dolores returned and excused herself lamely for interrupting the game. She was standing beside us, looking down with sparkling, mischievous eyes. «Hand me my glass, will you?» I said. «Perhaps you'd like me to fan you too,» said she, as she put the glass to my lips.

  I pulled her down beside us, stroking the half-exposed limb which protruded from her dressing gown. She too had taken off her things.

  «Haven't you got something for me to slip into too?» I asked, looking from one to the other.

  «Why certainly,» said Irma, springing to her feet with alacrity.

  «Oh, don't pamper him like that,» said Dolores, with a pouting smile. «That's just what he loves... he wants to be made a fuss over. And then he's going to tell us how faithful he is to his wife.»

  «She's not my wife yet,» I said tauntingly, accepting the robe which Irma offered me.

  «Oh, isn't she?» said Dolores. «Well, then it's worse.»

  «Worse, what do you mean worse? I haven't done anything yet, have I?»

  «No, but you're going to try.»