by U
95
John Thomas is fielding an opponent against him. That should be
amusing, John going after Kozlowski.
Meanwhile, I’m making notes for my next project. It’s really
amazing how much stuff I can get done when I have no woman in my
life to boss me around. Even with a forty hour per week job, my
notebooks fill and my typewriter produces pages.
If I were still living with Leanne or somebody like her, I’d be
getting nothing done and my entire paycheck would be at her disposal.
This time I want to have an extensive outline prepared before I
begin to write. I want to be a whole lot more sensible, more mature.
The Dark City just sort of forced itself out of me. Next time I intend
to be more focused.
The humor has to be more up front, wiser, and more gentle.
Enough with the sarcastic wisecracks.
Stories themselves are timeless. They never change. I wonder
where it will end. Patrick the Writer. The fucking goddamned writer.
Sometimes I feel so driven, so desperate. Writing this book has
changed me emotionally. But it is a terrific source of insight. My
poor brain burns.
It so happens that my most enduring pleasures have been
intellectual ones. Mind and memory admit no equal. To write is the
finest thing. The stark lunacy of it all. My paper monologue. My
comic fiction.
* * * *
May 27, 1978
Going to Portland. I have many things to get done while I am in
the big town. Must remember to get a new Zippy comic book and
also some new Inner City Romances. Also gotta buy a new roach clip
and hunt for some stuff at my mother’s house. I want to find those
slides of Mick’s mushroom hunting trips.
I want some good pictures of ps. semilanceata for a possible
magazine article. I think it’s a timely idea.
Liberty Cap Mushrooms: The Psilocybin Harvest of 1978.
Chesley has a new address up in Northeast. Randy Thune has
moved to a new place in Southeast with his crabby Japanese wife.
96
The only good thing about Wilma near as I can tell is that she always
has excellent reefer.
I’ve pretty much settled on a letter for the State Central Committee
election. Typewritten. Shiny new envelopes. Nice new stamps.
Something the precinct people will read.
* * * *
May 30, 1978
One wild weekend in Portland.
On Friday night, Chesley and I partied with his two chubby
neighbors, Debbie and Denise. I would have been content to merely
chat with Denise.
But when Debbie and Chesley went upstairs to have sex, the words,
"Goodnight, you guys," were barely out of my mouth before Denise
was all over me.
I suppose I could have said no but I didn’t.
"Mmm ... Mmm..." Denise’s tongue wormed into my mouth like a
snake. It tasted like a combination of Dentyne, nachos, and
Budweiser beer. Not the worst three flavors in the world, I decided,
kissing Denise back.
Down the hall in the other bedroom, I could hear Chesley and
Denise’s roommate Debbie giggling and talking.
Though admittedly desperate for male companionship of any sort,
Debbie is still a bit of a spitfire, apparently.
"Okay, I’ll show my boobs to you," I heard Debbie saying to
Chesley. "But first I want to see your thing."
"Driving a hard bargain, eh?" Chesley answered. "But what if
looking at your boobs isn’t all I want to do?"
He made kissing noises.
"You’re horrible!" Debbie replied, laughing.
The door slammed shut, leaving me to concentrate on Denise.
As women went, Denise really wasn’t all that bad. In another
universe, she’d be worth considering. I’m in love with you Duh-
neece, Scooby Do. In truth, she wasn’t even really fat.
What she had was an abundance, a solid voluptuousness, a
generously proportioned package of body, boobs, bottom, and bush.
97
In many respects, a figure similar to Leanne’s, the kind of pudgy
nubility the cartoonist R. Crumb adores.
Come to think of it, I kinda like those gals too.
From the sofa cushions in the living room, it didn’t take us long to
work our way into Denise’s bedroom, leaving articles of clothing on
the floor along the way.
Inside, we stripped to the buff, whereupon Denise yanked me under
the covers. I decided I wasn’t going to be in any hurry to fuck her,
though, that I would first see how turned on I could get her before we
reached that stage.
Denise seemed in no great hurry either, and appeared to enjoy
kissing quite a lot.
Though eagerly affectionate, Denise was a handful, twisting and
squirming under my caresses.
Nor did she make a move to touch my cock, which surprised me.
Breaking the kiss, I said, "This is fun. But is there anything special
you would like me to do?"
"Uh, you’re asking me?"
"Uh huh."
Denise took my hand and brought it to her pussy. I rubbed her clit
and dipped my finger in and out, pleased to see that she was nice and
juicy. While she squirmed and writhed, I brought my mouth to her
ear, whispering:
"Do you have a boyfriend?"
"Not any more. We broke up."
"Did you ever have sex with him?"
"Not very often, but I liked it. I sometimes think maybe I was too
big for him."
"Oh, that’s ridiculous. You’re just a big girl, Denise. I happen to
think you are very cute."
"Gosh, thanks. You’re just about the cutest guy I’ve ever kissed.
Same with Debbie and your friend Chesley. She’s never had a
boyfriend as good-looking as Chesley."
"Are you kidding? Chesley’s about as good-looking as a baboon," I
said, just to get her reaction.
98
"No, he’s not. Don’t be mean. He’s cute. Me and Debbie have
watched him since he moved in. Debbie’s in love with him."
"All right. Have it your way."
We kissed some more. These were some mighty hot kisses, I
daresay. Lots of inventive tongue action. I simply could not kiss
Denise enough. She was one highly affectionate large-sized phone
operator chick.
Circumstances permitting, I’ll bet Denise would make a nice,
sweet, lovely wifey.
But not for me. I might get married eventually but it won’t be to
Denise. Nevertheless, on that night, right until the very end, she was
sweet and fun. A real turn on.
What does society have against big girls, anyway? If anything,
they probably make more reliable breeders than the Twiggy-type
waifs you see in magazines and on TV.
Later that evening, when I finally sank my cock into the hot,
clinging, tender pussy of Denise, I can say without reservation that
hers was as tight as any pussy I’ve ever fucked.
Like Bukowski, says, women are magic! Of course, every one I’ve
ever had sex with has been exposed to my normal male chauvinist
thought processes. I imagine what it would be like to be married to
her,
fucking her and nobody else, for years on end, having children,
growing old, and ultimately dying in her arms. Hmmm.
The problem was, however, even while I was fucking Denise,
thrusting in and out of her hot pussy, my mind was on another
woman, a slim, slender one, in a town many miles distant.
We were still fucking away pleasantly when Denise suddenly asked
if we could stop.
"May I suck your cock?" She asked.
"Okay," I said. "I suppose."
It seemed to me that Denise was not looking well. But like a
soldier, she knelt in front of me, taking my cock in her mouth and
gently cupping my balls. This felt very good.
Denise was pretty good at cock sucking, taking it deep with every
thrust.
99
"Aaaaaeeeaahh!" I cried, spilling my cum. "EEAAAHH!"
Denise swallowed it with gumption, and for all appearances seemed
to enjoy it, gazing up at me with a smiling expression on her face. At
least that’s what I thought.
Then we stretched out on the bed, lying side-by-side. It was over
for now. After a minute or two, Denise began to complain that she
was getting the "Whirlies."
"The what?" I asked.
Jumping up, Denise ran out of the bedroom and darted into the
bathroom. I could hear her throwing up. Into the toilet went the
Budweiser and nachos I had purchased for her at Sneaky Pete’s, along
with millions of perfectly innocent sperm.
I found my briefs, put them on, and knocked on the bathroom door.
"Denise? Are you okay?"
The door opened a crack. I pushed it open further, seeing the poor
naked girl hunched over the porcelain, as pathetic as I have ever seen
a person look. I hope I am wrong, but I have a strong suspicion that it
might have been my semen that helped launch The Whirlies.
"Close the door, please," Denise said, with a grunt. "I don’t want
you seeing me like this."
That was a reasonable request, and I closed the door, leaving poor
Denise alone. I, on the other hand, felt great.
Ever since that time Chesley and I had been on the verge of scoring
with those two chicks at the bar on NE Going Street last year, it’s
been my policy to drink only moderately in situations where sexual
congress might occur.
On that occasion, like poor Denise, I too threw up, spoiling what
might have been a wonderful interlude with Chesley and those two
recently divorced older babes.
On this occasion, three beers was all I’d drunk, although I bought
five for Denise, and let her swig from my bottle as well.
Meanwhile, things were quieting down in Debbie’s room. I walked
down the hall and knocked on the door.
"Are you guys decent?" I asked.
"Yeah, sure. C’mon in," Chesley replied.
100
"What?" I heard Debbie hurriedly scramble onto the bed.
I entered. In Debbie’s room, the only light was from the street
lamp outside her window, overlooking Glisan.
But I could still see the both of them pretty clearly. Chesley had
the bedspread pulled to his waist. Debbie had it all the way up to her
neck.
Geez. Debbie was huge. At least a third larger than Denise, and
actually fat, rather than merely voluptuous. Black hair, dark brown
eyes, and a face that would have been very pretty if she weighed
maybe sixty pounds less than she did.
I sat down in a chair across from the bed and asked Chesley if I
could bum a cigarette. He tossed his pack of Viceroy Rich Lights to
me and some matches.
"There’s an ashtray on top of the bureau," Debbie said, helpfully.
"Okay." I got up and got the ashtray as I lit the cigarette.
"So, fucking you made Denise barf?" Chesley said.
"Don’t be mean, Chesley," Debbie said.
"No. I think she had too much to drink," I answered.
"You’re likely right," Debbie said. "Denise’s been drinking a lot
ever since Rolfe dumped her. This isn’t the first time she’s thrown
up, either."
"Poor girl," I said.
The three of us talked for a while.
Then there was some movement under the covers that I could not
discern, on account of the poor lighting.
"Are you trying to get me horny again?" Debbie asked.
"I was thinking about it," Chesley answered.
"I’m going to take off," I said, stubbing out the cigarette. "Say
goodbye to Denise for me. I’m sorry she got sick."
"Here’s the key to my apartment," Chesley said. "I’ll come up later
on."
"Okay." I got dressed in the living room, where most of my clothes
still were. Denise was back in her room, and the light was off.
Probably asleep. I left the apartment and went upstairs.
101
That was Friday. Saturday night featured a wacky poker game at
Michael D.’s house where Lloyd cleaned out the others and then I
cleaned out Lloyd. Of course, I also had the assistance of an uncanny
streak of luck.
Part of the reason I got lucky was because I wanted to talk, but
Lloyd insisted that we gamble. So we gambled. Beating the pants off
of him was actually quite fun, now that I think about it. He was
undone by his own greed. There was about $50 at stake in that final
pot.
Usually I’m not such a great poker player. I’m pretty sure Lloyd
thinks I suckered him, but I didn’t. I just got lucky.
The funniest part was when we played Indian Poker, much to
Lloyd’s chagrin. That was a scream, although it irked him no end.
Ah well, fuck it.
Writing some new poetry. How’s this for a title:
Love Poems to Break Your Heart.
* * * *
June 5, 1978
Nobody ever wanted to succeed more than me. But so far I am not
doing so swell. Marketing this book is a real fucking chore. The
effort weighs heavily on me. Now I have to turn myself into a
salesman. What a drag. But I have to do it.
A horrible, horrible thought.
Watch me. See what I am doing? I want to sell this novel. Others
have done it, why not me?
What a laugh. My chances are one in a million. Who am I,
anyway? Just a stupid twit.
I’ve picked out twenty publishers from the Literary Market Place.
I’m going to finish writing my synopsis. I need another twenty copies
of the sample chapter to go with it.
Here goes nothing. The big push.
My political plans are proceeding smoothly. I have 206 names on
the precinct mailing list. It will go out as soon as I get the letter
printed. Should be a nice stroke. I’m a bit worried about getting it
out in time.
102
The organizational meeting is coming up soon. Because of the tax
check off law, there is money to fight over. Politicians love money
more than almost anything, so this year’s meeting ought to be a real
brawl.
The typist says she will get started on the manuscript right away. It
will be difficult to sandwich these two projects together, but I have
resolved to do them both. I must do many things at the same time. I
often feel
pressured, that there is too much on my agenda, that I want
too many things.
But so fucking what?
Charles and Chesley spent this past weekend with me. Nick hung
around most of the time they were here. He really got off on their
company. Nick is a great guy, as is Harry. Both have been good
friends here. We all had dinner at Harry’s house on Saturday night.
The main dish was red mussels we picked from the rocks by the jetty.
It was accompanied by big bowls of steamed white rice, two different
salads, a loaf of olive bread, and several bottles of Harry’s superb
Bordeaux.
We ate a mountain of food.
More than once I thought about how restrictive it is when women
are around. They tend to dominate, taking over your life and energy.
Without women, nobody pouted, nobody fussed, nobody sulked.
Nobody put anybody down or made a scene.
The women weren’t there to spoil our fun.
It was nothing like your typical party where women are in
attendance. On those occasions you can feel people judging you,
putting you down in their thoughts.
We had a great time – talking, eating, drinking, laughing. I can
think of at least half a dozen other guys who would have enjoyed
partying with us. But I honestly can’t think of a single woman I’ve
known (with the possible exception of Marie) who would have
approved of me spending an entire weekend hanging out with "the
boys."
Polly Ellsworth I’m sure would have been totally pissed.
Oh well. Such is life.
103
At times I wonder if Chesley and I try Charles’s patience. I must
admit we are frankly juvenile in our behavior. Our romp with
Chesley’s two chubby neighbors up in Portland was proof of that. But
who did we hurt? Nobody.
The really huge fat one named Debbie that Chesley had sex with
gave him the address of her new apartment in Southeast Portland so
he could come visit her again.
I think she likes him. They made an awfully cute couple.
The one I was with – Denise – apologized for throwing up
afterwards and promised she wouldn’t get so drunk the next time we
get together. I have her phone number in my pack.
I told Chesley on Saturday that I thought those two babes really