Sexus

  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 theater. 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 theater. 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 theater and the taxis were all tied up.

  Suddenly I saw someone 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 theater through the main entrance.

  When I met her at the stage door a few minutes later she seemed overwrought. 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’s 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, but 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 place.”

  “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 anyone 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 them. 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 se fish. 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 theater 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 someone 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 theater 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 val
ise, 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 cozy and womblike.” 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.”

  “You mean you’d like me to. Don’t be impatient. . . you’ll get your chance.”

  “Not with me,” said Dolores, “I’m going to bed. You two can do what you like.”

  For answer I closed the door and started undressing. When I returned I found Dolores stretched out on the couch and Irma sitting by her side with legs crossed, fully exposed.

  “Don’t mind anything she says,” said Irma. “She likes you as much as I do . . . maybe more. She doesn’t like Mona, that’s all.”

  “Is that true?” I looked from Irma to Dolores. The latter was silent, but it was a silence which meant affirmation.

  “I don’t know why you should feel so strongly about her,” I hastened to continue. “She’s never done anything to you. And you can’t be jealous of her because . . . well, because you weren’t in love with me . . . then.”

  “Then? What do you mean? I was never in love with you, thank God!” said Dolores.

  “It doesn’t sound very convincing,” said Irma playfully. “Listen, if you never loved him don’t be so passionate about it.” She turned to me and in her blithe way she said: “Why don’t you kiss her and stop this nonsense?”

  “All right, I will,” said I, and with that I bent over and embraced Dolores. At first she held her lips firmly shut, looking at me defiantly. Then, little by little, she surrendered, and when at last she pulled away she was biting my lips. As she pulled her lips away she gave me a little shove. “Get him out of here!” she said. I gave her a look of reproach in which there was an element of pity and disgust. She became at once repentant and yielding again. I bent over her again, tenderly this time, and as I slipped my tongue into her mouth I put my hand between her legs. She tried to push my hand away but the effort was too much.

  “Whew! it’s getting close,” I heard Irma say, and then she pulled me away. “I’m here too, don’t forget.” She was offering her lips and breasts.

  It was getting to be a tug of war. I jumped up to pour myself a drink. The bathrobe stood out like a stretched tent.

  “Do you have to show us that?” said Dolores, pretending to be embarrassed.

  “I don’t have to but I will, since you ask for it,” I said, drawing the robe back and exposing myself completely.

  Dolores turned her head to the wall, mumbling something in a pseudo-hysterical voice about “disgusting and obscene.” Irma on t
he other hand looked at it good-humoredly. Finally she reached for it and squeezed it gently. As she stood up to accept the drink I had poured for her I opened her robe and placed my cock between her legs. We drank together with my cock knocking at the stable door.

  “I want a drink too,” said Dolores petulantly. We turned round simultaneously and faced her. Her face was scarlet, her eyes big and bright, as though she had put belladonna in them. “You look debauched,” she said, her eyes twitching back and forth from Irma to me.

  I handed her the glass and she took a deep draught of it. She was struggling to obtain that freedom which Irma flaunted like a flag.

  Her voice came challengingly now. “Why don’t you do it and get done with it?” she said, flinging her words at us. In wriggling about she had uncovered herself; she knew it too and made no effort to hide her nakedness.

  “Lie down there,” I said, pushing Irma gently back on the divan.

  Irma took my hand and pulled. “You lie down too,” she said.

  I raised the glass to my lips and as it was slipping down my throat the light went out. I heard Dolores saying—“No, don’t do that, please!” But the light remained out and as I stood there finishing the drink I felt Irma’s hand on my prick, squeezing it convulsively. I put the glass down and jumped in between them. Almost at once they closed on on me. Dolores was kissing me passionately and Irma, like a cat, had crouched down and fastened her mouth on my prick. It was an agonizing bliss which lasted for a few seconds and then I exploded in Irma’s mouth.

  When I arrived at Riverside Drive it was almost dawn. Mona had not returned. I lay listening for her step. I began to fear that she had met with an accident—worse, that perhaps she had killed herself, or tried to, at least. It was possible too that she had gone home to her parents. But then why had she left the cab? Perhaps to run to the subway. But then the subway was not in that direction. I could of course telephone her home, but I knew she would interpret that badly. I wondered if she had telephoned during the night. Neither Rebecca nor Arthur ever bothered to leave a message for me; they always waited until they saw me.