Manley corrected my grip, adjusted my stance, and told me to try to pink him.
Pink him? I took a closer look at the tip of my foil. I thought it would have the same little plastic button on the end that Manley’s weapon had. But it was sharp. A real sword-point. And Manley was not only unmasked but barechested.
I told him, “Look, this is cold steel. I don’t care how glamorous you think dying is, but my fan club in Scarsdale would go all to pieces if I got convicted of manslaughter.”
“Cold steel, I like that. Come on, pink me.”
He started fencing, a tired smile on his face. I assumed a defensive posture, parrying like crazy. Manley told me he was launching a compound attack and we discussed what I would do to fight him off.
We circled slowly, lunging, parrying and riposting.
Manley complimented my swordplay, but kept urging me to pink him. I had visions of my foil sticking out of his chest, still vibrating slightly from the impact. I would hide his body in the swamps and try to go on with my career.
“What’s the closest you’ve come to dying?” he said.
“I was caught in an avalanche.”
“Where?”
“Chicago. About nine days ago.”
He launched a reprise, scoring several hits. Obviously he was capable of making a hit any time he chose. But this was the first time he’d chosen, and my competitive instincts were aroused and inflamed, contrary to good sense, a decent upbringing etc.
“I nearly died in Hawaii,” he said. “I was surfing the High Rise off Kauna Loa Kiki. The High Rise is forty feet of white death.”
Talking all the while, he scored several more hits. Who was supposed to say touché? I guess I was, but I was frankly too pissed off to be speaking French.
I did some sloppy back-pedaling, then regained my poise. He was still talking. Apparently this Hawaiian wave came down on top of him like the contents of the Hoover Dam. The tacky people fished him out.
Once again, swish swish, he just about debloused me.
We stepped up the pace. He was getting very complex, making a half-dozen feints before plunging his button in my ribs. As he talked and stabbed, I began to note a pattern in his moves.
He never wore underwear, he said. He hated the thought of dying in underwear.
The next time he went into the same complex routine, I stepped inside his thrust and pinked him. Just like that. Pinked the son of a gun. I can’t say I didn’t mean to. I meant to, but I forgot I was wielding cold steel instead of a plastic button.
“Well, touché,” he drawled, ever the Southern gentleman.
A spot of blood glowed below his left nipple. I took off my mask. We stood reverently, watching the blood trickle toward his navel.
I’ve never minded the sight of blood. I mean some people faint, some people feel faint, some people turn away in disgust. I could recite a litany of hockey cities where I’ve seen huge amounts of blood. I don’t mean a cut lip or bloody nose. Blood from the head, forming a river, with tributaries. Blood that has to be scraped up fast or it freezes to the ice and leaves an impressive cultural deposit.
I realized Manley was kissing me. My first thought was Blood on my Pants Suit. Then I remembered I was dressed for fencing. But why is he kissing me, I wondered.
We broke our embrace and looked at his wound. It was smudged from body contact. We locked eyes. His flesh rippled in the torchlight.
“You just about ran me through,” he said.
“A lucky shot.”
“Luck, hell. You damn well planned it.”
He grabbed me and kissed me again. We were still holding our foils, and were smudged with blood, and dressed or half-dressed in dueling garb, and Manley had spun me half around and dipped me way down in a sort of 1930s ballroom plunge. What a perfume ad we would have made. The torchlight, the crumbling walls, our dramatic embrace.
Duelesque . . . the sweat of love.
He put a hot, wet mouth to my ear and whispered that my foil was stuck in his foot. I let go. It fell to the floor, bouncing a little.
Manley let go of his foil. This gave us two free hands each. We were the Handsome Stranger and the Mysterious Visitor with a total of four free hands, all our fingers and toes, no marital attachments, no membership in satanic cults, subscriptions to three magazines each, a common language, similar vaccination scars, no need to register as foreign agents, a love of the outdoors and the indoors, and I soon found myself with a torn fencing jacket hanging off my left shoulder, and my breeches pushed down around my knees, and my hands in Manley’s pants, clutching his buttocks. This is the kind of grand passion that is not afraid to make a fool of itself, and it is what more people will engage in, I am sure, as the fabric of our society continues to unravel. Sex in torn clothing has tremendous leisure-time potential. We were using arm holds from Greco-Roman wrestling and practically biting each other’s mouth off.
Manley backed me against a wall. With my breeches around my knees, I was glad to have a wall for support. Besides, the stone was smooth and cool against my bare bottom. He broke off a kiss to get some hair out of his eyes, shaking his auburn mane. (Auburn, Maine?) Shadows leaped across the stone walls. We resumed our wild, lip-biting kisses. Our upper bodies were smeared with blood from Manley’s wound. All we needed was a typhoon, with bending palms.
He was trying to take off his breeches while we kissed, but he was having trouble because my hands were in there, making the pants tighter. I couldn’t help wondering if his penis would be as brown as Glenway’s. Is this kind of characteristic shared by half brothers? Maybe if they have the same father, it is. I don’t think a gene for brown penis can be transmitted by a woman. Brown penis is probably dominant, but how can you transmit brown or pink or whatever if there is just one penis involved in the reproductive process?
When my mouth was free, I said, “How are we going to do this?”
“Just the way we’re doing it.”
“Standing up?”
“It’s in the catalog,” he said.
“I know, but in church?”
Anyway, since Glen way and Manley had only one common parent, and that was Randall, a woman, I figured Manley’s slangy parts were under no obligation to resemble Glenway’s.
His eyes were full of smoky colors. I tried to get my hands out of his pants.
When we finally got the pants off, I noticed that Manley’s foot was bleeding where I’d accidentally stabbed him. He noticed, too, and it seemed to arouse him to even stronger emotion. In sex, this is contagious. The other person starts panting, you find yourself going along. It is almost a form of down-sized mass hysteria.
We were all over each other, clutching and moaning. We each had a hand between the other person’s legs. We were not checking for deformities, I don’t think, as much as simply grabbing what was there. It is always interesting to grab a handful. There is a natural relationship between the penis and the hand. It fits the hand. Of course the hand itself is quite something in its own right. The hand is a noble instrument of work, the deftest thing in nature. Limp, the penis is a dubious item compared to the human hand. It just hangs there, backed by testicles, like a soloist with a rhythm section. Even the word is funny. It is a stupid, funny-looking, funny-sounding word.
Penis, Virgil. U.S. Senator from Mississippi; cosponsor of the Moody-Penis Bill; assassinated.
The penis erect can be impressive. It has the force of legend and myth. An engorged, murky thing. It loses its playfulness, erect. There is sometimes a purpling along the seams. It is a little beastly if the truth be known. But women accept it as the force of nature and myth that it is. I don’t think we want to change the basic principle.
Anyway, Manley and I were whispering desperately to each other.
He was saying now and I was saying wait. This is probably the most ancient of dialogues, and it could be the only thing Will and Ariel Durant missed in The Story of Civilization, Books I through XI. Manley pul
led me off the wall, drawing me toward him, our hands now grabbing each other’s bottom.
“Where is it?” he said.
“Right where it’s supposed to be, Manley.”
“It’s not there.”
“Mine’s there. It’s yours that isn’t. Where is yours?”
“Cleo, bend your knees and move your thighs a little farther apart and I’ll just insert myself.”
“I can’t bend my knees. My breeches are around my knees. I think you have to bend your knees, move your thighs together, and then sort of dip under me and insert yourself on the ascent.”
“One of us is too low. I can’t find you.”
“All right, get your hand off my ass. Find me with your hand. Then find your hand with your penis. If you don’t know what to do after that, you ought to pick up your foil and go home.”
“All right, I’ve found you.”
“You didn’t say, ‘May I?’”
“The angle’s not right. I bounce right off.”
“You’re not dipping. Dip your knees. Insert yourself on the ascent. I will try to sort of thrust myself down onto you.”
“You shouldn’t be thrusting,” he said.
“What should I be doing?”
“Spread your thighs. Back your ass into the wall.”
“You’re the one who took my ass off the wall. My ass was on the wall. Now just dip, will you?”
“I bounce right off. Maybe you’re not ready. Are you ready?”
“Am I ready? What do you think I’m doing in this silly position?”
“I mean are you moist?”
I eyed him suspiciously.
“Where?” I said.
“You know where. Where else?”
“That’s a little personal, isn’t it? Am I moist? That’s a little intimate, it seems to me. That’s an intimate detail I don’t think I care to discuss with a stranger in a church.”
“Cleo, spread your thighs.”
“I left my thigh-spreader in Los Angeles. They’re into that out there. You have a tennis court, a pool, a hot tub, and a thigh-spreader.”
We grappled some more. He was still either bouncing off or missing completely.
“All right, do this,” he said. “Put your legs around me and I’ll hoist you up.”
“Manley, I’m still wearing these breeches.”
“All right, do this. Put your legs together. Tight, tight. I take off the breeches. You wrap your legs around me. Voilà!”
More French.
I did this. His hand was caught in there. I don’t know why we were so reluctant to let go of each other’s sex organ. It’s as though we were talking on the telephone and feared dropping the receiver. Some vital message might go unheard.
Anyway, with my legs tight, tight together, and Manley’s hand trapped inside, he reached down with the other hand and awkwardly tried to remove my breeches. He was like a man trying to pick flowers while hanging from a precipice.
It would have been so much easier with two hands. Maybe if I had let go of his organ, he would have felt better about letting go of mine. I was probably at fault. But we were determined to maintain some kind of mysterious status quo.
He got the pants and stockings off me. This gave my legs the freedom we believed we needed. He rose to his full height, eyes smoky and hooded.
“All right, climb,” he said.
“You’re serious about this.”
“Do this. Put your hands on my shoulders. Climb my flanks. Wrap your legs around me.”
“You will have to take your hand out of where it is.”
“Why?”
“You will need both hands to hold me, or I’ll fall right off.”
“Your legs will be wrapped around me.”
“With your hand between them? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It will work. Trust me.”
“To put my hands on your shoulders, I will have to release your member, which I am holding with one of my hands.”
“You can come back to it later.”
“Why should I be the one who lets go? We both let go.”
“Cleo, I’m not trying to get an advantage.”
“It is not a question of advantage.”
“What is it a question of?”
“I don’t know.”
“I will need my hand there to help me find you.”
“I will be easy to find. My legs will be wrapped around you. I will be utterly available.”
I counted to three and we both let go. We were finally in business. The torchlight cast leaping shadows on the walls. Night birds screeched overhead.
I put my hands on his shoulders. I felt as though we were about to do a Polish dance. He grabbed my buttocks and lifted, and I wrapped my legs around him. All through this, I eyed him carefully to see if he could handle the weight. I knew the strain would show first around the mouth. I examined him for lip-biting and tense jaw.
“Where are you?” he said.
“Maybe I’m too high.”
“I can’t find you.”
“Lower me.”
“Is that you?”
“No, it’s my wire-haired terrier. He likes to go climbing with me. Manley, lower me. I think we’ll be all right if you lower me.”
I think lowering me caused a terrific strain on his arms. He began backing away from the wall. I was pretty sure this move was involuntary. He needed the wall to prop me against. The wall provided balance, equilibrium, stability, coolness, and smoothness. But Manley found himself moving away from it. There was a little bit of wobble in his stride. I was down too low. He was like a man staggered by a punch. I studied his mouth for signs of strain.
“It’s all right,” he said.
“You’ve got to stop, Manley. You’re going right out the door.”
“It’s just momentum.”
“We’ll drown in the swamps. They’ll think I strangled you with my legs and then committed suicide. The tabloids will eat it up.”
“I think we’ve stopped,” he said.
We stood in the middle of the floor. Our eyes met. It was hard for them not to. He tried to lift me higher in order to kiss me. This would be the final, trembling kiss that would lead into the main act. The strain on his arms and back must have been awesome. I tried not to rub too hard against his chest for fear of aggravating the puncture.
He lowered me to prepare for the coupling. I watched his mouth and jaw.
“Maybe we ought to go back to the wall,” I said.
“If I start moving, I may not be able to stop.”
“They’ll call it the Battering Ram Sex Murder. They’ll think you rammed the wall with me because I stabbed you.”
“You seem preoccupied with violence.”
“Manley, you’re bleeding in two places. There is torn clothing all over the floor. Plus swords and bloody footprints.”
He lowered me some more. I tried to move slightly off him to give his thing room to maneuver. I felt it probing down there. Manley raised my legs. My knees were in his armpits. I clasped my hands tighter around his neck. I was practically hanging from his neck. In this new position, most of my weight was supported by his neck.
I felt him down there, probing, and then he sort of sighed with relief. Job well done. That kind of sigh. I narrowed my eyes.
“You’ve got the wrong orifice,” I told him. “You want five-oh-one, just down the hall.”
I more or less climbed up out of range. I think we were a little piqued at each other. His mouth was very grim, definitely showing the tension and strain. I kept my eyes narrowed, suspicious of his next move. We adjusted and readjusted several times. Then we tried again. It was hard to see what was happening down there, and our hands were occupied elsewhere, so it was very much a hit-or-miss operation. I inched my knees down out of his armpits. He tried to peer between my breasts to see what was going on.
Somewhere a dog was barking.
We remained locked that way for quite a while. We were afraid to move. Without a wall or other support, we could easily have toppled. The slightest attempt to do anything pelvic might have sent us crashing through a pew. I tried to adjust to a more secure position, but this caused his penis to smart. He said, “Ow,” and gave me a sharp look.
I heard a noise in the trees. A light, light, splattering sound. Rain. I looked up. What was left of the roof was over at the junction of two walls, about fifteen feet away. The sound grew louder. I felt the first drops.
“What do we do?” I said.
“Not much we can do.”
“We can try to reach shelter. That’s number one.”
“We’re totally unbalanced. We’ll either crash into the wall or fall down long before we get there.”
“Number two is we just stop. We disengage. I climb down. We make our separate ways to the shelter of the roof.”
Manley wanted to stay engaged. I explained that we were getting cold and wet, and not accomplishing anything.
“We are having sex,” he said. “That is accomplishing something.”
“We are not having sex. We are locked motionless in this dumb embrace.”
“It is sex.”
“It is engagement. It is not sex. We are motionless. There is no friction.”
“I am in you. What is that if it isn’t sex?”
“All right, you are in me. But we’re not doing anything. Sex is something you do, something you have.”
“We are having a dialogue. We are doing the most intimate thing people can do.”
“There is no friction, Manley.”
“What a quaint romantic I must seem.”
I have to admit I liked that phrase. It put me away neatly. A quaint romantic. It made me seem the grossest thing in North America, talking about friction. I guess Manley thought I was some kind of sex mechanic. A dialogue or exchange wasn’t enough for me. I needed high-speed rubbing.
Amazons: An Intimate Memoir by the First Woman Ever to Play in the National Hockey League Page 35