The Collected Stories of Diane Williams

by Diane Williams

  O Rock!

  I don’t wish to be callous or unfeeling. Go out if you like, but don’t expect anything, even if we find the packet.

  Actually, it is a large padded envelope that the man she follows into the café drops onto the table, then proceeds to undo. He has to break its seal.

  She drums her fingers on her chin, watching him.

  Her heart beats heavily, for which she is repaid in kind.

  A thousand years are accounted for as he turns it upside down, empties out a dime, a penny, a penny, a dime, a dime, a dime. He empties out Time because of her. I am paying attention. Do you have to?

  I hate it when you’re like this.

  The Guider of the Prick

  She wanted Bill to obey her. She wanted that very much. When Bill came down out of the tree, his mother was a little afraid of him, but she said, “Good”—meaning, she was glad that he was back down.

  Boy, she thought, is Bill ever a handsome boy. She put her arms around Bill. Then she tested the skin on her own arm with her fingertips to see if it was still as soft as silk, and it was.

  Would Bill’s mother ever say to Bill, “You’ve done enough for me already”?

  Bill gets angry now, as a grown man, when some woman guides his prick for its entry into her cunt hole.

  But back to when Bill was the pluckiest little boy in the world, sitting on a tree branch, and his mother had thrown a small rock at Bill, and his mother wept and Bill wept, too. Bill saw apology, sadness, and dis­belief in his mother’s face. In Bill’s face, his mother saw ordinary crying going on.

  This is what Bill looks like as of today: He is large and unkempt and his mother is proud of him. He is the keeper of the flame.

  Excitability

  It is all my fault that there is romantic activity some­place in the wide world, amidst mysteries, during a day or a deep night, during a year. The clothing I wear is this new dress I wear to attend my life. I think back on my life before I had this plan.

  A person said to me, “I know how it feels.”

  A girl who reminded me of myself when I was a girl got my attention once. For such a trim person, she had the wrong legs. In all her life, she may never be a beautiful woman. She was with her mother, and neither of them had on the right wristwatches. The girl maybe murmured or was silent. She appeared drowsy or dopey or useless. Her mother was making no effort to keep her awake, and the girl apparently did not want to do that for herself.

  Even five years ago, when I had just changed my clothes, or it was at night, or I was out alone, I re­member glancing, listening, surmising—after which I’d have had plenty. I remember when there was no nostalgia.

  Speech

  Thank goodness I am deeply sincere, so I stopped laughing. He had dragged me along to this refined filth of a hotel, which aroused my truest false feeling. On the way to the hotel, he was staggering and I was. If my wish is at last coming true, he is going to spring on me something that will make me feel as helpless as a human being.

  He’ll hear about it now.

  A joke he told me had interfered with our breath­ing. Two women, I don’t know, across the street were being dragged into the same experience, too—by a joke, or by something such as a joke.

  Maybe he has not figured out yet how much I wish to stiffly represent myself at coital functions as stiffly as I do here as I speak.

  For Diane

  Very early on, I had a vision of excellence and a sense of responsibility of monstrous proportions.

  It is best if no one ever sees me again. (You will thank me.)

  I will not go to see someone just because he or she is conveniently located.

  And, if you do that thing again, evil people will be ruined completely. Good people will feel great. Springtime will span the year because that’s my deci­sion. Anyone who would have preferred some other season may feel a not-so-serious mistake has been made.

  When the good people begin their lavish new life, they will be especially indebted to Ira, who will pro­vide everyone with a set of easy instructions to fol­low so everything turns out all right for them. Oh, they will be indebted to Ira.

  I used to see a lot of this one woman. Ira will take care of her, because I’ve had it up to here. Now, do you understand?

  Plural

  There is this one where they all put their feet up or slouch, because of the decree.

  The worst of this is now over for Irene. She can just relax.

  The iridescent ribbon, which might be regarded as pure or perfected, is in her hand. Her knees were drawn up. Her arms were exerting enough of her power.

  Maybe she drew her thighs closed. She has soft, thin skin. She is plump because she has been stuffed with pralines, which is the secret of her plumpness. She likes to eat sweets.

  She touched her genitals, thinking wistfully that they were flawless.

  They are at their succulent best—red and yellow, but still firm—and if the skin is tender, you do not need to peel them. You can have the butcher make a series of fine, shallow cuts on the surface.

  Gods of the Earth at Home

  Mr. Moody and I were standing still for the sight, mentioning the sight, leaning slightly, or touching each other.

  The soda was fizzing and the redness and the whiteness of the soda were dull compared with the redness and the whiteness of a fine radish.

  It was Mr. Moody’s boy Jim who had danced in with his bottle of cherry soda, turning the bottle, which was capped, over and over, and shaking the bottle, and the boy was spinning and hopping.

  Mrs. Brute deplored the champagne we were drinking. She is my invention. She is going to take care of Jim.

  Our exceptional meal was served on the golden plates. The silverware was real silver. Mr. Moody’s face flushed when he drew me to him. He touched my beautiful auburn hair and my rich black velvet jacket. I had removed my deep sable. He could not be restrained from embracing me in the full view of everybody.

  I just kept saying yes. When he said what he said, I said yes yes yes yes. I say yes yes. I say my excite­ment is so great, so huge.

  I heard Mr. Moody’s respiration. I heard him sort of faintly groan as he does sometimes at the very thought of having to eat my twat.

  My imagination tells me that for everything which is not rewarding during a day, a heavy price must be paid.

  I hope all of this will turn out all right.

  What if it did? It did.

  We should all be so pleased that for the time being we must abide with growing up, getting married, having servants, slaves, houses, holidays.

  Desperately Trying to Lie Down

  Sometimes you were held, fondled, commented upon, weren’t you? Yet I was told that nobody else had ever wanted you or had even asked about you, that I was the first one who had asked about you. When I grasped at you, twisted you, I saw some strands of your hair, the rather imprecise sketch of your eye, the overwhelming importance of your eye, and one of your eyebrows desperately trying to lie down sweetly on your brow, and with this view in mind, your face is as composed as my vulva is. I would like to suggest that the smartest, the strongest, the most perfect person in the universe is my property.

  I am the dark one, the short one, the thick one, the coarse one, who is so unsatisfied with all of my suggestions.

  You said, “Here, let me help you,” and there was such a really happy expression on your face that you must have been happy.

  I Am a Learned Person

  My name is Valery Plum. There is something funny in that. I cannot presume how true to life I am. When I see myself combing my hair, I seem true to life. I am so starkly represented. I try to see through somebody else’s eyes, which would be a remarkable view. This is the second day in a row I have tried; that’s because I—I am really looking forward to it, because, even though
I have no devoted friend—my newborn is pretty, my lips brightly colored, and there’s plenty more of that where that came from.

  Up the spiral staircase I go to get the baby, who is not big. Only on the inside, the walls of this tower are the color of a butter cookie. Heh heh heh, he’s wailing. Under these conditions, nothing but chil­dren is so much better than custard or genius or fame.

  This may be true or false, but here I am.

  An entire formula for feeling good is fitting for someone like a bat out of hell like me who does not tolerate flying with any aches or pains.

  Miss M. Murray quoted some ingredients in her own book, and a Mr. Trevor Furze confirmed the same in his own. One of their key ingredients is yummy, would make dogs bark. I go up and down the stairs with it in my mouth. It dangles.

  I can make it leap up again.

  Careful

  We could hardly bear it when she arrived home un­hurt. The situation had grown intolerable. A week or so after that, we saw her again, still no accidents. She’s a young woman. Maybe sometime soon she will be destroyed.

  As a matter of fact, just now she is in some peril. She is having a conversation.

  Among her lady friends, her masters, her heirs, she shouts, “Charming!” Her voice is high, thin, nasal.

  Just before this, we had thought of calling out to her to wait, but she was already waiting.

  She had heard the sound of her own voice without any assistance or advice.

  What if we never see her again?

  We have nothing for—we have no plans for—we have no ideas for your—we have no wish to make you—we are—we—feel no—Let’s just say there are other people, other than her, that we could speak to. We need to match up our feelings to our ideas for them.

  Yesterday, we found it charming—all that shoot­ing the semen around that they do.

  The Fuck

  Mother of God—he actually had a cloth and a spray bottle of something, because he was dusting his truck. His truck was blocking up our street that we live on.

  As I ran away from him, I shouted, “I am not try­ing to run away from you!” Brutally, I kicked what I decided was my own stone, and I found a limp walk­ing stick—a dead tree branch, smooth, just the right height—after it was boring for me to be brutal.

  Ferocious, hateful dogs, working as a team, barked at me.

  What are the Williamses putting that up for? I wondered, when I turned my corner. Now, he was over there, in their yard, not looking at what he was doing with their swing set, speaking only to me, when I came along.

  There was no mention of being ill or an illness mentioned which was of an extreme or of a debili­tating nature. Pleasure was the centerpoint, sexual pleasure, fun, surprise, gamy delight—seldom—well, all right, once!—disgust. He did not express desire other than sexual, which he was confident he would gratify soon. He had no concern that any woman, man, girl, or boy would not be a good-enough provider for him, or could somehow disappoint him, or turn up incompetent. Beauty, intelligence, educa­tion, gentility, cleanliness, worldly success, a moral attitude—none of these he ever referred back to. No concern over betrayal, no money problem was ex­pressed, and yet, even so, I behaved curtly. I behaved as if he had digressed.

  The Goal

  “I want to use yours.”

  “Use any bathroom you want to,” she said.

  He said, “Oh, you are my friend!”

  He put his hand between her legs. He said, “Come. Sit up here. Back—back—”

  He mouthed her; he tongued her; he nosed her be­tween her legs. He murmured, “Let go.”

  “Oh, that was a treat!” she said.

  He said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Use the children’s,” she said.

  He twisted to gaze at her while she was not strain­ing to be anything more than what she is. He was free and happy, too. In her bathroom, she was reach­ing to turn the little spinner, to twirl the screw pro­peller which releases some of the water through the bunghole into the remarkable.

  My Reaction to Life

  It is hard to describe these animals which are so stiff-necked.

  I petted my horse, told it to stand still. I can be indifferent and patient. Although, I am one of those who keeps expecting the dark heart of human desire to be re­vealed to me.

  Others were looking down into the gorge, with their mouths agape.

  Chet Henry said, “Now what?” and there is no going back and changing what he said, because that is what he said. He is a man who may have tem­porarily gotten off of his horse so that he could be loved, or so that he could be hated, or so that he could hate me.

  Now what? I am going to answer him the only way I know how. I said, “We’re going back to the ranch.” The ranch has real log buildings, cowboys, excellent meals.

  Nobody has to tell me how we made it back through the thicket to the Ridn-Hy. The traveler in me is full of hope. She is a splendidly bland and a smug woman.

  The Dirty Necklace

  She used the bath mat to dry the wet necklace, and dirt from the necklace showed up on the bath mat. She could wash the necklace again. She put some bar soap on the necklace, not too much, and then she rinsed the necklace. She repeated this. The necklace could be washed again. The necklace could be scrubbed with a scrub brush. The neck­lace should soak overnight in a basin. She dried the necklace by rubbing it against the bath mat, so that more dirt showed up on the bath mat. She put the necklace on. She fingered the necklace and saw that its parts were cut glass, amber, or plastic. The necklace was meant to be hers. We do not know who else, if anyone, has ever worn the neck­lace. There are other necklaces which she owns—not exactly the same—but these necklaces are series of misunderstandings—as is everything—your throat.

  The Helpmeet

  To my surprise, Diane Williams wants me to hold her fucking ass. I am an annoyance rather than a deep disturbance. In other words, I go to my room when I am told to, shut the door, and I stay there until I am given my permission to come out.

  When I come back out, some secrecy is necessary. Nothing could have seemed more essential when I took off my peg-top trousers. I untied my shoes. Stood. I felt so tightly bound to her while we were stiffly rocking.

  If I go away someday, I want to know how she will live without me.

  I will ask her to go into detail about her sexual needs.

  Why do I even care how many of her needs there are?

  Just for conversation’s sake, let’s say there are just two.

  The Masturbator

  We are all so much the same—our size, our shapes, and we are perforated. I put my finger on a crack in my skin. I have been searching for one gesture of my own such as this which I can remember—return to, and return to, which could direct and give sense to my life. I had ignored other motions of my heavy body—the lowering and raising up of my hind end, which I often do. My legs are tired, and I feel weak-kneed, and it looks to me that there is a place to sit down to rest near a tree. This tree’s trunk is a subtle tawny color. The ground is dark, has speckles. I press on my hand. I am still not uncertain what to think when I gently rub my hand, which seems to me dirt-free and oldfangled. There are much more up-to-date revealers of the truth.

  Okeydoke

  The man lied is the best ingredient in my veal steak deluxe. I am going to vacation in the man lied. I never will the man lied for the third time.

  I the man lied that that’s wonderful and exciting and I look forward to it. He is telling me how many the man lied he has to have in a day.

  I expected to the man lied blood.

  The man lied, “I have never seen the man lied like that one.”

  On the man lied, when some chicken and a potato were roasting in my oven, I would not leave the man lied. I liked to tell the man lied how many orgasms
I had in a day.

  The man lied was sure I was hearing a waterfall. But what I heard was the grinding of the man lied.

  The Fuss

  First of all, I do not want to keep the thing a secret, because they were not doing any harm, I assure you. They ate. They drank heartily. They threw stones which sank into the sea. They jumped into the sea. We followed them. The sea was bright and whirring. I was not used to being cold in the water. I am not used to keeping a secret, either, which I think is the best plan. It was a journey. There was a beautiful sky. We were too cold creeping under it. A little farther on, they marched. I cannot form an idea from this.

  Thank You

  A margay has heavy black eyebrows, heavy, black, wavy hair. An ocelot is very much the same. No margay has been seen around here, but we were de­termined to find one if it is in the books. We crouched in a field studded with hares and cows and dogs. We were in extreme agony because we were bewildered and we had been wandering. (I was in a very bad mood.) Several of us have long, gray, mat­ted hair and are extremely ugly. I wear a black skull­cap. An odd-looking stranger (but what stranger isn’t?) hobbled up to us and told us what to do. She squatted. Her knees bumped into her shoulders. She told me to think about something else for a change.