“Well ma’am, maybe I didn’t mean for our association to go this far so fast.”
“Well, in exactly another second it can pretty quickly disappear into a taxi and head down First Avenue. I shall call one.”
“Gee, please don’t. I don’t know what to say.”
“Well, whatever it is that you don’t know what to say, you’d better say it. And if I may suggest further, without undue delay. For putting it in the parlance of the outspoken, I do not intend to aimlessly fuck about. In platitudes, clichés, or otherwise.”
“Well, I guess if it’s not a platitude, I want to be with you. And I guess I think about you.”
“Well, how nicely halfhearted of you.”
“I think you’re wonderful.”
“Well, that at least might be considered as a mild improvement. And perhaps it’s better that you know that my involuntary winking can at times be voluntary, as it was at Sutton Place that evening when we all went out for dinner. And also, if I may put it so bluntly, when your hard-on grew so enticingly large. When we first met up, you were blushing and indeed as I believe you described yourself to someone who shan’t now be named that it had you crouched over like a cripple in a hopeless effort to disguise the predicament that your engorgement presented. And now need I say, my dear boy, that that shown to me then was the biggest green light in the world. Or am I deluding myself and am now to hear you deny that such tumescence was inspired by me.”
“No ma’am. I don’t deny it. I openly admit it.”
“Good. At last we seem to be getting somewhere. Now show me where it hurts. Because from what I can see of your posture, you again seem crouched over in such pain.”
“I guess I’m also nervous with the lack of scruples. Gee, I think I feel a little bit guilty. Sorry, I mean chilly.”
“Of course the words guilty and scruples do rather go together, but I am absolutely sure you meant to say chilly. It is, after all, somewhat unseasonably cool in this house. Now dear boy, as we are prolonged standing here, do I keep the candlelight alive. Or do I blow it out and immediately turn on my flat heel and saunter straight out of here.”
“I guess I am traumatized by some recent events.”
“I’m assuming I’m not one of them.”
“No, ma’am, you’re surely not.”
“Well, am I to blow out the candle or not. Blow, I presume.”
“No, no, don’t.”
“Well then, as I am not quite yet old enough to be your mother, please forgive me if I don’t speak in pedantic euphemisms in order to request to see that cock of yours already bursting the seams of your trousers.”
“Ma’am, you don’t mince your words, do you.”
“No. I don’t. Why should I.”
“I agree, ma’am. Why should you.”
“We all, don’t we, seek to reach a plateau of pleasure upon which we think we can glide indefinitely. And I suppose some of us accept the risk of doing so dangerously.”
“Dru, I guess I’ve had a couple of things happen today that have dismayed me. But please. Don’t blow out the candle.”
On the gray marble chimneypiece amid a collection of Islamic looking pots, one candle out of a dozen in their tall tulip glasses glowing in the mirror. Softly flooding its single flame of light across the room and spreading shadows within the shelter of the great canopied bed and beyond.
“Holy Christ, Dru. Get back.”
“What is it.”
“Behind you.”
“Oh that. It’s dead and stuffed. I meant to warn you.”
“Holy cow. It’s a rattler. Diamondback.”
“Oh dear boy you are, aren’t you, a nervous wreck, but at least you remembered my name. Next perhaps, you’ll call me sweetie pie. But that’s an eastern diamondback. I suppose, alive, our most deadly of snakes.”
“That looks at least seven feet long and in the dark it looks alive with its fangs ready to strike. Hey what kind of a place is this. Could be black widow spiders everywhere you put your hand.”
“I suppose the Irish, not having snakes in Ireland, have an exaggerated dread of them.”
“You betcha, ma’am.”
“Better not bring you into the next room where my friend has two stuffed black mambas that extend as high as you or I up off the floor and which are wrapped around objets d’art. The world’s most feared snake alive, but I assure you my friend preserves them harmlessly dead.”
“Oh boy, this is getting to be some day.”
“To make it better, may I presume as I’m doing that I undress for you with the intention that it may distract you from your troubles and, as it seems, your fear of snakes. And perhaps then allow me to become stuffed or at least penetrated. And please do keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ Do you like what you see.”
“Oh boy, you bet, ma’am. My God, surely ma’am, you’re a Venus.”
“Well at least a protectoress of gardens which I believe Venus symbolizes. But perhaps I am a little taller and perhaps slightly thinner than the statue. I swim half a mile every day at that Georgian redbrick rendezvous for women on Park Avenue. And now good sir, I should like to be at your mercy. Does that not, in anticipation, give you just a trace of smug satisfaction.”
“You betcha. Holy cow.”
“So, why not take off your clothes.”
“Oh boy.”
“And don’t forget to say gee winikers.”
“No, ma’am. Gee winikers. Forgive the state of my undergarments.”
“And, my good chap darling, don’t leave on your socks. And you do don’t you, need darns in the toes. And my, you are aren’t you, well endowed. And to cut a continued description short, you’re an Adonis. Please. Don’t move. Just stand there as you are while I lick my chops.”
“Well ma’am, truth be known, I’m merely a reasonably healthy light heavyweight twenty-six-year-old male, nearly twenty-seven, and past my prime, plunging inexorably on my way to the infirmities that surely shall soon devolve upon me upon hitting thirty. Or at least by thirty-one.”
“Oh my God. You must think then that I am well and truly over the hill.”
“No, never, ma’am. For certainty never. A body such as yours is a dream.”
“Such flattery of course, will get you somewhere. Ah, but you are, aren’t you, really extremely well endowed. Indeed to the degree that one might more likely expect to encounter along some of the coasts of Africa, where one goes to play sometimes. But don’t you ever tell anyone that.”
“No ma’am. For sure. Mum’s the word.”
“This is so wonderful. Just so good to look at you and contemplate without touching what will happen when we touch. Such gorgeous delight. I love the way a belt goes around a man’s trousers. Take yours off. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. Like being brought as I was as a little girl when we’d return from Europe, to be taken to see the phenomenon of the big face up on the billboard blow gigantic smoke rings out over Broadway and to have demonstrated to me how great America was.”
“Holy cow. I’m no smoke ring. I don’t smoke.”
“Well, come on lover boy. I’m hot enough to smoke. Don’t be shy. I’m giving you a target as I bend over. Belt me with that belt.”
“Gee Dru, I’m not shy; I’m just amazed at what we’re getting up to here.”
“We’re getting up to good things. Ouch. That was nice. And just a little harder. Ouch. Ouch. Now, lover boy. I adore to be submissive. For a few seconds. And then to be dominant. Grrr. Do you like that sound.”
“Boy, you bet.”
“Now lie down and let me talk to you and tell you more. You are my prodigy. Groomed for stardom. Heralded as the great young hope. Hailed as the most exciting young conductor composer since last week. Sorry, I meant to say in all America. Stunning even the most critical audiences with your repertoire. On the podium, his baton swaying so marvelously. Let me talk to it. Hello there, you. Yum yum. What is it they call syncopation.”
“It is when a tone i
s started on an unaccented beat and continued through the following accented beat. Ragtime is an example.”
“Stephen my darling, although I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, can we syncopate. We do then, both have beautiful bodies, don’t we. We will, won’t we, while we’re here like serpents, enmesh in a sinewy embrace.”
“Yes ma’am. But let’s keep well away from that snake. Stuffed or not. I don’t trust that goddamn thing.”
“Now please, don’t panic again, dear boy. Truth of the matter is, I adore to be in the presence of danger and of those doing unspeakable things.”
“Holy cow. Like what.”
“Can’t tell you. Even though I would love to. I said it was unspeakable. So I won’t tell you now. Maybe soon. Maybe sometime. Did you know this was going to happen to us.”
“Yes ma’am. No. Or let me correct that. The truth is, I didn’t. I didn’t dare.”
“You’re so sweet. But just stay there as you are. Don’t move. And you actually like me. Don’t you.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You gave me the only unmistakable signal. And you do at times exhibit a galantry far beyond your years. And you’re not like everyone else. Who all over this world are always after something.”
“Well, I’m not too sure ma’am, that I’m not after a few things.”
“Well, if that ever gets to include me, I don’t mind. And can only hope I’ve got what you’re after. At least while I’m alive. Or who knows, perhaps even after death. Think of enough things to do with it. Even think of the possibilities of cryogenics. One does ask one’s psychic questions, such as, will there be a resurrection of the dead. And as we shake off our icicles, does that mean, then, that we all stop dying. She doesn’t seem to really know, so meanwhile I rely on the wisdom of life being always to pursue something. Or at least hope to find something to pursue. And I never fully can. Even with a whole litany of deserving good causes which for distraction ends me up buying so much antique junk at auctions that it has to end up stuffed in warehouses I’ve never been to. Stopped buying when I found you to seduce. No. I’m only kidding. But anyway, here you are. With me. And having this little naked talk like this. Now closer. Touch me.”
Drusilla, her tall, white slender body stretched in the candlelight on this large canopied bed. Oil portraits on the walls. Out of someone’s American past. Early settlers putting on airs. Their eyes staring at us. As well as the malevolent, deadly, glinting eyes of the rattler, mouth agape, head as big as a hand, fangs as long as a finger, coiled to strike. And in these seconds swiftly passing, touch her, feel her lips on my skin. What is unspeakable. Of which she speaks. Tied to a post and beaten. Fucked while laid out in a coffin or hanging from a tree.
“You have such a worried look, darling, my dear. You’re wondering, aren’t you. Have you ever done anything as quaint as made love to anyone in a coffin.”
“Gee Dru, that, believe it or not, just went through my mind.”
“Ah, now that the cat’s half out of the bag. It’s a black cat. With nine lives. And my precious one, at least one life is left to live.”
“Holy cow. I feel as if I’m dreaming.”
“You are darling. And relax. I ask only that you call me sweetie pie. Lie back on your back. I shall kneel beside you, let my hair hang long and loose, loose and long. The lovely silkiness of your hair does make one envious, angel.”
“Sweetie pie.”
“O God, call me, call me that again please.”
“Sweetie pie.”
“You know I always always wanted, instead of being chaperoned by some governess down some big gloomy hall of some big gloomy old house, to imagine I lived in some cozy little place down some shady street of maples in a small town and would be called sweetie pie by someone nice. As if someone like you were the boy next door and walked every day past our little lawn and white picket fence maybe on your newspaper route. And flicked the latest local town news up on our porch and stood a second or two to look at my house where I lived with my mother and father and our dog named Esme or Putsie or something and our cat named Snooky Wooky. And when you went past, you wondered what I was doing inside. And I’d be washing my hair in beer because it would make it shine. Then on Friday night, you’d have your hair brushed, pants pressed and maybe, with even a bow tie, you would come up the little paved path to the front door. And when you pressed the bell, chimes would ring ‘God Bless America.’”
“Holy cow, Dru. You’re kidding.”
“No. No, I’m not. And don’t you laugh.”
“I’m not, and I sympathize with an enlightened form of socialism where perhaps life could be like that. But maybe we could have a little Stravinsky in the chimes.”
“Well, I’m not kidding.”
“Okay. Sweetie pie.”
“And let me finish. You’d arrive for our date at seven o’clock. And then sitting with my dad, telling him you made first-string quarterback on the high school football team, while I, upstairs, brushed my hair for the final umpteenth time. Then as I came slowly down the stairs into the drawing room, you saw me and smiled.”
“Dru, I think it might be called the living room.”
“Okay, living room. So who cares about architecture at such a beautifully romantic point. And then we go out under the maple trees down the street, holding hands on our second date because you got to like me so much on the first, when we went together to the movies, that this night we maybe would even have our first kiss. And I’d give you my sorority pin to wear. And you’d give me your fraternity pin. Isn’t that what they do in high school.”
“Gee, Dru, I ain’t never been in a fraternity.”
“Oh, who cares. I’ve never been in a sorority. But we’d then be having strawberry sodas at the local candy store on Main Street. Or should that be pineapple. And you’d suck on your straw and make noise at the bottom of the glass and I’d suck on mine and wouldn’t make noise because I was a little lady well brought up and then you’d look at me, a pretty ribbon in my hair and say, ‘Sweetie pie.’ Oh God, that gets me so horny and I do have, don’t I, such simple wants. To want only you to call me that. Now I shall blow you. Know you. Taste you who tastes so good. And know you will always, when I want you to, always call me sweetie pie.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Slowly touch me softly. Touch me gently, sweetly. Touch my skin with yours.”
“Surely I will, ma’am. Sweetie pie.”
“Now sink your magnificent Irish cock into me, dear boy. And fire your big gun.”
Under the great canopy of this bed. Stare up into an infinity of darkness as one does into the infinity of the rest of one’s life. Lying embraced with these strong long slender limbs. Her lips pressed lusciously on my neck. Her teeth closed on my skin. In the amazingly exciting wonderful world of music as it has been down through the ages, sexual deviations have always been the norm, if not the rage but Dru has presented something new. Provided one hadn’t already jumped into a coffin with her, one would walk by her picket fence. Saunter up her front path. Hold hands and maybe even kiss in the movies. Scoff back my favorite pineapple soda. But I’d be the rude one making noise at the bottom of my glass. She did say once her childhood was painfully lonely. Incarcerated.Always with a governess. Her mother away traveling, so she became a sad little creature. Such a rich little girl upon whom few could look with any fond pity. Led by the hand along long corridors of big houses. Taken everywhere couched in the soft upholstery of big cars. In Paris, the chauffeur would briefly stop along the Chemin de Ceinture du Lac so that she could watch other children play in the park and sail their little sailboats and she could try to pat their little dogs. And warned not to because they might bite and have rabies. Then going back to Avenue Foch, she would count the dandruff flakes fallen on the chauffeur’s back. And now I feel the tips of the diamonds of her bracelet pressed on my back, enough gems to support me for the rest of my life. Aided and abetted by the twenty-five cents I still have l
eft. This the sweet depth into which one sinks. Seeing her again as I first ever saw her. Smiling. Her lips just parted. That I kiss. One eye opened just that little bit more than the other. Candlelight gleam on the soft waves of her hair fallen to her shoulders. A twist of her soft, pliant body. Huskily she whispers, “I madly desire you dear boy. Can you feel my hardened nipples now against your chest.” Yes. As I commit this betrayal of a mother to her adopted daughter. And my own betrayal to a wife. This woman, who now it seems can with just a flicker of an eye, send me running out to my own death. Vulnerable to anything. Threatening my integrity. Maybe making it possible to conduct my own symphony. Have my own orchestra. Plenty of violins, oboes and percussion. Forty for a start in the brass. Fifty in the wind. Seventy-five in the strings. Five on drums. Two on xylophone, or maybe three. There are not enough xylophones these days. Two concert grand Steinways. A whole chorus of great contraltos.
“Jesus Christ, Dru, did you hear that rattle. I just thought the goddamn rattler moved.”
“An electric button in the bed we must have just touched. Just a little joke my friend has to scare the shit out of boyfriends who she feels need the stimulus.”
“Thanks a bunch for telling me after my heart failure.”
“Nothing honeybunch is failing. Nothing. Aim. Fire.”
“Dru. Holy cow. Dru.”
“Squeeze your cock tight in my cunt. So you can’t get away. My honeybun sailor boy in his turret. Boom, boom.”
An echoing hoot of a boat out passing on the river. And the lives that make not a sound in this city anymore. The world assaults you with tragedy and anguish when least you have anger to fight back. “Excuse me, sir. Do you know when the next bus is to Suffern.” Still see her stopping, turning to look her last look. One so handsomely healthy beautiful, desiring death. “Excuse me, sir. Do you know when the next bus is to Suffern.” Thought she said I’m suffering until I found Suffern on the map. Across the Hudson River. Through it the Erie Railroad runs. North to Sloatsburg and Tuxedo Park. The adagio from Dvořák’s Symphony No. 9 in E Minor sounds slow, like all freight trains that go by lumbering click clack on the rails of the tracks, whistles blowing in D Major.