t
thick sporran others, and  she was sopping wet,  like a horse salivating. It
was my first fuck, be  Jesus, and it had to be that a train would come along
and  shower  hot sparks over us. Lola was terrified. It  was  her first fuck
too, I guess, and she probably needed it more than  I, but when she felt the
sparks  she wanted to  tear loose.  It was like trying  to hold down a  wild
mare. I couldn't keep her down, no matter how I  wrestled with her. She  got
up, shook herclothes down,  and  adjusted the  bun at the nape of  her neck.
"You must go home," she says. "I'm  not going home," I said, and with that I
took her by the arm and started walking. We walked along in dead silence for
quite a distance.  Neither of us seemed to be noticing where  we were going.
Finally we were out  on  the highway and up above us were the reservoirs and
near the reservoirs was a pond.  Instinctively I headed towards the pond. We
had  to  pass  under some low-hanging trees  as we  neared the pond.  I  was
helping Lola to stoop down when suddenly she slipped, dragging me  with her.
She made no effort  to get up; instead, she caught hold of me and pressed me
to her, and to  my complete amazement I  also  felt  her slip her hand in my
fly. She caressed me so wonderfully that in a jiffy I came in her hand. Then
she  took my  hand  and  put  it between  her legs. She  lay back completely
relaxed and opened her legs  wide. I bent over and kissed every  hair on her
cunt;  I put my tongue in her navel and licked  it clean. Then I lay with my
head between her legs and lapped up the drool that was pouring from her. She
was moaning now  and clutching wildly  with her  hands;  her  hair  had come
completely undone  and was lying over her  bare abdomen. To make it short, I
got it in again, and I held  it a  long time,  for which  she must have been
damned grateful because she came I don't know how many times - it was like a
pack of firecrackers  going off, and with it all she sunk her teeth into me,
bruised my lips,  clawed me, ripped  my shirt and what the  hell  not. I was
branded  like  a steer when  I got home  and  took  a look  at myself in the
mirror.
     It was wonderful  while it  lasted,  but it didn't  last long. A  month
later the Niessens moved to another city, and  I never saw Lola again. But I
hung her sporran over the bed and I prayed to it every night. And whenever I
began the Czemy stuff I would get an erection, thinking of Lola lying in the
grass, thinking of her long black hair, the bun at the nape of her neck, the
groans  she vented and the juice that  poured out  of her. Playing the piano
was  just  one  long vicarious fuck for me. I had to  wait another two years
before I would get my end  in again, as they say, and then it wasn't so good
because I got  a beautiful dose with it, and besides it  wasn't in the grass
and it wasn't summer, and there was no heat in it but just a cold mechanical
fuck for a buck in a dirty little  hotel room, the bastard trying to pretend
she was coming and not coming any more than Christmas was coming. And  maybe
it wasn't her  that gave me the clap, but  her pal in the next room who  was
lying up with my friend Simmons. It was like  this - I had finished so quick
with my mechanical fuck  that I thought  I'd go in and see how it  was going
with my friend Simmons. Lo and behold,  they were still at it, and they were
going strong. She was a Czech, his girl, and a bit sappy; she hadn't been at
it very long,  apparently, and she used to forget herself and enjoy the act.
Watching her hand it out, I decided to wait and have a go at her myself. And
so  I did. And before the week was  out I had a discharge, and after that  I
figured it would be blueballs or rocks in the groin.
     Another year or so and I was giving lessons myself,  and  as luck would
have  it, the mother of the  girl  I'm teaching  is  a slut,  a tramp and  a
trollop if  ever  there was one. She  was living with a nigger,  as  I later
found out. Seems she couldn't get a prick big enough to satisfy her. Anyway,
every time I started to go home she'd hold me up at  the door and rub it  up
against me. I was afraid of starting in with her because rumour  had it that
she was full of syph, but what the hell are you going to do when a hot bitch
like that plasters her cunt up against you and slips her tongue halfway down
your throat. I used  to fuck her standing  up in the vestibule, which wasn't
so  difficult because she was light and I could hold her in  my  hand like a
doll. And like that I'm holding her one  night when suddenly  I hear  a  key
being fitted into the lock, and she hears it too and she's frightened stiff.
There's nowhere to go. Fortunately there's a portiere hanging at the doorway
and I  hide  behind that. Then I heard her black buck kissing her and saying
<i>how are yer, honey  ?</i>  and she's saying how she had been  waiting up for him
and better  come right upstairs  because she  can't wait and so on. And when
the stairs stop squeaking I gently open the  door and sally out, and then by
God I have a real fright because if that black buck ever finds out I'll have
my throat slit and no mistake about it. And so I stop giving lessons at that
joint, but soon  the daughter is after me - just turning sixteen - and won't
I  come  and give  her  lessons at  a friend's house? We  begin  the  Czerny
exercises all  over  again, sparks and  everything. It's  the first smell of
fresh cunt I've had, and it's wonderful, like new-mown hay.  We fuck our way
through one lesson after another and in between lessons we do a little extra
fucking. And then  one day it's the sad story - she's knocked up and what to
do about it? I have to get a Jewboy to help me out, and he wants twenty-five
bucks for the job and I've never seen twenty-five bucks in my life. Besides,
she's under  age. Besides,  she  might have blood-poisoning. I give him five
bucks on account  and beat  it to the Adirondacks for a couple of weeks.  In
the  Adirondacks  I  meet a schoolteacher who's dying  to take lessons. More
velocity  exercises, more  condoms and conundrums. Every time I  touched the
piano I seemed to shake a cunt loose.
     If there was a party I had to bring the fucking music roll along; to me
it was just like wrapping  my penis in  a handkerchief and slinging it under
my arm. In vacation time, at a farmhouse or an inn, where there was always a
surplus of cunt, the music had an extraordinary effect. Vacation rime was  a
period I looked forward to the whole year, not  because of the cunts so much
as because it meant no work. Once out of  harness I became a  down. I was so
chock-full of energy that  I wanted to jump out of my skin.  I remember  one
summer in  the Catskills meeting a girl named Francie. She was beautiful and
lascivious, with strong Scotch teats and a row of white even  teeth that was
dazzling.  It began in the river where we were swimming.  We were holding on
to the boat and one  of her boobies had slipped out of bounds. I slipped the
other one out for her and then I undid the shoulder straps. She ducked under
the boat coyly  and I followed and as she  was coming up  for air I wriggled
the bloody  bathing suit off her  and there she  was floating like a mermaid
with her big strong teats bobbing up and down like bloated corks. I wriggled
out  of my tights and we began playing like dolphins  under  the side of the
boat. In a little  while  her girl friend came  along in a canoe. She was  a
rather hefty girl a sort  of strawberry blonde  with agate-coloured eyes and
full of freckles. She was rather shocked to find us in the  raw, but we soon
tumbled her out of the  canoe  and stripped her.  And  then the three  of us
began to play tag under the water, but it was hard to get anywhere with them
because they were slippery as  eels. After we had had enough of it we ran to
a little bath-house which was standing in the field like an abandoned sentry
box. We had brought  our clothes along and we were going to get dressed, the
three of us, in  this little box. It was  frightfully hot and sultry and the
clouds were gathering for a storm.  Agnes  - that was Francie's friend - was
in  a  hurry  to  get  dressed. She was beginning  to  be ashamed of herself
standing there naked in front of us. Francie, on the other hand seemed to be
perfectly at  ease.  She was sitting on the bench with her legs  crossed and
smoking a cigarette.  Anyway, just as Agnes was pulling on her chemise there
came a  flash  of lightning  and a terrifying clap  of thunder right on  the
heels  of  it.  Agnes screamed and dropped her  chemise. There came  another
flash in a  few seconds and  again a peal of thunder, dangerously dose.  The
air got  blue  all around us and the flies began to bite and we felt nervous
and  itchy and  a bit panicky too. Especially Agnes  who  was afraid of  the
lightning  and even more afraid of being found dead and three  of  us  stark
naked. She wanted to get  her things on and run for the house, she said. And
just as she  got  that off her chest the rain came  down,  in bucketsful. We
thought it would stop  in a few minutes and so  we stood there naked looking
out at  the steaming river through the partly  opened  door. It seemed to be
raining rocks  and the lightning kept playing around us incessantly. We were
all thoroughly frightened now and in a quandary as to  what to do. Agnes was
wringing her  hands and  praying out  loud; she  looked like a George  Grosz
idiot, one  of those lopsided  bitches with  a rosary  around  the neck  and
yellow  jaundice to  boot.  I  thought  she  was  going to  faint  on  us or
something. Suddenly I got the bright idea of doing a war-dance in the rain -
to  distract  them. Just as I jump out  to  commence my shindig a streak  of
lightning flashes and splits open a tree not far off. I'm so  damned  scared
that I lose  my wits.  Always  when I'm  frightened I laugh. So I  laughed a
wild, blood-curdling laugh which made  the girls scream.  When I heard  them
scream, I don't know why,  but I thought of the  velocity exercises and with
that I felt that I was standing in the void and it was blue  all  around and
the  rain  was beating a  bot-and-cold tattoo  on my  tender flesh.  All  my
sensations had  gathered  on  the  surface of  the  skin  and underneath the
outermost layer of skin I was empty, light as a feather, lighter than air or
smoke or talcum or magnesium or any goddamned thing you want. Suddenly I was
a Chippewa and it was the key of  sassafras  again and I didn't  give a fuck
whether  the girls were screaming  or fainting or shitting  in their  pants,
which  they were minus anyway. Looking at crazy Agnes with the rosary around
her neck and her big bread-basket blue with fright I got the notion  to do a
sacrilegious  dance, with one  hand  cupping my balls  and  the  other  hand
thumbing my nose at the thunder and lightning. The rain was hot and cold and
the grass seemed full of dragonflies. I hopped about like  a kangaroo  and I
yelled at the  top of my lungs - "0 Father, you wormy old son  of  a  bitch,
pull  in that fucking lightning or Agnes  won't believe in you any more!  Do
you hear me,  you old prick up  there,  stop the shenanigans  . .  .  you're
driving Agnes  nutty.  Hey you, are  you  deaf, you old  futzer?" And with a
continuous  rattle of this defiant nonsense on my  lips I  danced around the
bath-house  leaping and bounding like a gazelle and using the most frightful
oaths  I could summon.  When the lightning  cracked I jumped higher and when
the thunder  clapped I roared like a lion and then  I  did a  handspring and
then I rolled in the grass like a cub and I chewed the grass and spit it out
for them and I pounded my chest like a gorilla and all the time I could  see
the Czerny exercises resting on the piano, the white page full of sharps and
flats,  and the fucking idiot, think I to myself, imagining  that that's the
way to learn how to manipulate the well-tempered  clavichord. And suddenly I
thought that Czemy might be in heaven by now and looking down on me and so I
spat at him  high as I could spit and when the thunder rolled again I yelled
with  all my might -  "You bastard,  Czerny, <i>you</i> up there, may the lightning
twist your balls off. .. may you  swallow your own crooked tail and strangle
yourself... do you hear me, you crazy prick?"
     But in  spite of  all my good efforts Agnes was getting more delirious.
She was a dumb Irish Catholic and she had never heard God spoken to that way
before.  Suddenly, while 1 was dancing  about in the  rear of the bath-house
she  bolted for the river. I heard Francie scream -  "Bring her back, she'll
drown herself! Bring her back!" I started after  her,  the rain still coming
down  like  pitchforks,  and yelling to  her to  come  back,  but she ran on
blindly  as though possessed of the  devil, and when she  got to the water's
edge she dove straight in and made for the boat. I swam  after her and as we
got to the side of the boat,  which I was afraid  she  would  capsize, I got
hold  of  her round the waist with my one hand and I started to talk to  her
calmly and soothingly, as  though I were talking to a  child. "Go  away from
me," she  said, "you're an atheist!" Jesus, you  could  have knocked me over
with a feather, so astonished I was to hear  that. So  that was it? All that
hysteria because I was insulting  the Lord Almighty. I felt like batting her
one in the eye to bring her to her  senses.  But we were out  over our heads
and I had a fear that she would do some mad thing like pulling the boat over
our heads if I didn't handle her  right. So  I pretended that I was terribly
sorry and  I said  I  didn't  mean a word  of it, that  I had been scared to
death, and so on and so forth, and as I talked to  her gently, soothingly, I
slipped my  hand down from her  waist and I gently stroked her ass. That was
what she wanted all right. She was talking to  me blubberingly about what  a
good Catholic she was and how she had tried not to sin, and maybe she was so
wrapped up in what she was saying that she didn't know what I was doing, but
just the same  when I got my hand in her crotch and said  all the  beautiful
things  I could think of, about God, about love,  about going to  church and
confessing and all that  crap,  she must have felt something because I had a
good three fingers inside her and working them around like drunken  bobbins.
"Put your arms  around me Agnes,"  I said  softly, slipping my  band out and
pulling her to me so that I could get my legs between hers... "There, that's
the girl... take it easy  now... it'll stop  soon." And still talking  about
the church, the confessional. God love, and the whole bloody  mess I managed
to get it inside her. "You're very good to me," she said, just as though she
didn't know my  prick was in her, "and I'm sorry  I  acted  like a fool." "I
know, Agnes,"  I said,  "it's all right... listen, grab me  tighter... yeah,
that's it." "I'm afraid the boat's going to tip over,"  she says, trying her
best to  keep her ass  in position by paddling  with her right  hand.  "Yes,
let's get back to the shore," I said, and I start to pull away from her. "Oh
don't  leave me," she  says,  clutching me tighter.  "Don't  leave me,  I'll
drown." Just then Francie comes running down  to  the water.  "Hurry,"  says
Agnes, "hurry ... I'll drown."
     Francie  was a good  sort, I must say. She  certainly wasn't a Catholic
and if she had any  morals they were of the reptilian order. She was one  of
those girls who are born to fuck. She  had no aims, no great desires, showed
no jealousy, held no  grievances, was constantly cheerful  and  not  at  all
unintelligent.  At nights when  we  were  sitting on  the porch in the  dark
talking to the guests she would  come over and sit on my lap with nothing on
underneath her dress and I would slip it into her as she laughed  and talked
to the others. I think she would have brazened it out before the Pope if she
had been given a chance. Back in the city, when I called on her at her home,
she  pulled  the  same  stunt  off in  front  of  her  mother  whose  sight,
fortunately, was growing dim.  If we went dancing and she got too hot in the
pants she would drag me to a telephone booth and,  queer girl that  she was,
she'd actually  talk  to  some  one, some one like  Agnes for example, while
pulling off the trick. She seemed to get a  special pleasure out of doing it
under people's noses; she said there was  more fun in it if you didn't think
about it too hard.  In the  crowded subway coming home from the beach,  say,
she'd slip her dress  around so that the slit  was in the middle and take my
hand  and put it right on her  cunt. If the train was  tightly packed and we
were safely wedged in a comer she'd take  my cock out of my fly and  hold it
in her two hands, as though it were a bird. Sometimes  she'd get playful and
hang her bag on it, as though  to prove that there wasn't the  least danger.
Another thing  about her was that she didn't pretend that I was the only guy
she had on the string. Whether she told me everything I don't know, but  she
certainly  told  me plenty. She told me about  her affairs laughingly, while
she was climbing over me or  when I had it  in her, or just when I was about
to come. She would tell me how they went about it,  how big they were or how
small, what they said when they got excited and so on and so forth giving me
every possible detail, just as though I were going  to write  a  textbook on
the subject. She  didn't seem to have the least  feeling of sacredness about
her own  body  or her feelings or anything connected with herself. "Francie,
you bloody fucker," I used to say, "you've  got the morals of a  clam." "But
you like me, don't you?" she'd  answer. "Men like  to fuck, and so do women.
It doesn't harm anybody and it doesn't mean  you have to love every  one you
fuck does it? I wouldn't want to be in love; it must be terrible to  have to
fuck the same man all the time, don't  you think? Listen, if you didn't fuck
anybody  but me all the time  you'd get  tired of  me  quick, wouldn't  you?
Sometimes it's nice  to be fucked  by someone you don't know at all. Yes,  I
think  that's  the best of  all,"  she added - "there's no complications, no
telephone numbers, no love  letters,  no scraps, what? Listen,  do you think
this is very bad? Once I tried to get my brother to fuck me; you know what a
sissy he is - he gives everybody a pain. I don't remember exactly how it was
any  more, but  anyway we were in  the house alone and I was passionate that
day. He came into my bedroom to ask me for something. I was lying there with
my dress up, thinking about it  and wanting it terribly, and when he came in
I didn't give a  damn about his being my brother, I just thought of him as a
man,  and so I lay there with my skirt up  and  I told him  I wasn't feeling
well, that  I had a pain in my stomach. He wanted to run  right  out and get
something for me but I told him no, just to rub my stomach a bit, that would
do it good. I opened my  waist and made him rub my bare  skin. He was trying
to keep his eyes on the wall, the big idiot, and rubbing me as though I were
a piece of wood. 'It's not there, you chump,' I said, 'it's lower down . . .
what are  you afraid of?' And  I pretended that I was in  agony. Finally  he
touched me  accidentally. "There! that's it!' I  shouted. 'Oh do rub it,  it
feels  so good!'  Do  you know,  the big sap actually massaged  me for  five
minutes without realizing that  it was all a game? I was so exasperated that
I told  him to  get the hell  out and leave  me alone.  'You're a eunuch,' I
said, but he was such a sap I don't think he knew what the  word meant." She
laughed, thinking what a ninny her brother  was. She said he probably  still
had  his maiden. What  did  I  think about it - was it  so terribly bad?  Of
course she knew I wouldn't think anything of the kind. "Listen  Francie,"  I
said,  "did  you ever  tell  that story  to  the cop you're going with?" She
guessed she hadn't. "I guess so too," I said. "He'd beat the piss out of you
if ever he heard that yam." "He's socked me already," she answered promptly.
<i>"What?"</i>  I said, "you let him beat you up?" "I don't ask him to," she  said,
"but you know how quick-tempered he is. I don't let anybody else sock me but
somehow  coming from  him  I don't mind so much. Sometimes it makes me  feel
good inside ... I don't know, maybe a woman ought to get beaten up once in a
while. It  doesn't hurt so much, if  you really like a  guy. And  afterwards
he's so damned gentle - I almost feel ashamed of myself..."
     It  isn't often  you get a cunt who'll  admit such things  -  I  mean a
regular cunt and not a moron.  There was Trix Miranda, for  example, and her
sister,  Mrs. Costello. A fine pair of  birds they were. Trix, who was going
with my friend MacGregor, tried to pretend  to her own sister, with whom she
was living, that she had no sexual  relations with MacGregor. And the sister
was pretending to all and sundry that she was frigid, that she couldn't have
any relations with a man even if she wanted to,  because she was  "built too
small". And meanwhile  my  friend MacGregor was fucking them silly,  both of
them, and they both  knew about each other  but still they lied like that to
each other. Why? I couldn't make it  out. The Costello bitch was hysterical;
whenever she felt that she wasn't getting a fair percentage of the lays that
MacGregor was handing  out she'd  throw a  pseudo-epileptic fit. That  meant
throwing towels over her, patting her wrists, opening her bosom, chafing her
legs  and finally hoisting  her upstairs  to  bed where  my friend MacGregor
would look after her as soon as he had put the other one to sleep. Sometimes
the two sisters would lie down together to take a nap of  an  afternoon;  if
MacGregor were  around he  would go upstairs and lie between  them.  And  he
explained it to me  laughingly, the trick was  for him to  pretend  to go to
sleep. He  would lie there breathing heavily,  opening now one  eye, now the
other, to see which one  was really dozing off. As soon as  he was convinced
that one  of them  was asleep  <i>he'd</i>  tackle the  other. On such occasions he
seemed to prefer the hysterical sister, Mrs. Costello, whose husband visited
her about once  every  six months. The  more risk he ran, the more thrill he
got out of it, he  said. If it were with the other sister, Trix, whom he was
supposed to be courting, he had to pretend that it  would be terrible if the
other one were to catch them like that, and at the same time, he admitted to
me,  he was always hoping  that the other one would wake up  and catch them.
But <i>the</i> married sister, the one who was "built too small",  as  she  used to
say, was  a wily bitch and besides she felt  guilty toward her sister and if
her sister had ever caught her in the act she'd probably have pretended that
she was  having a fit  and didn't know what she was doing. Nothing on  earth
could make her admit that she was actually  permitting herself  the pleasure
of being fucked by a man.
     I knew her quite well because I was giving her lessons for  a time, and
I used to do my damnedest to  make her admit that she had a  normal cunt and
that she'd  enjoy a  good  fuck if she could get  it now and then. I used to
tell  her wild stories, which were really thinly disguised  accounts  of her
own doings, and yet she remained adamant. I had even gotten her to the point
one day - and this beats everything - where she let me put  my finger inside
her. I thought sure it  was settled. It's true  she was dry and a bit tight,
but I  put that down to  her hysteria. But imagine  getting that far with  a
cunt and  then  having her say  to your face, as she  yanks  her  dress down
violently  -  "you see,  I  told  you I wasn't  built  right!"  "I don't see
anything of  the kind," I said angrily. "What do you expect me to do - use a
microscope on you?"
     "I like that," she said, pretending to  get on her high horse.  "What a
way of talking to me!"
     "You know  damned well you're lying," I continued. "Why do you lie like
that?  Don't  you  think it's human to have a cunt  and to use  it once in a
while? Do you want it to dry up on you?"
     "Such  language!" she  said,  biting her under lip and reddening like a
beet "I always thought you were a gentleman."
     "Well, you're no lady," I  retorted, "because even a lady  admits to  a
fuck now  and then,  and besides ladies don't  ask  gentlemen to stick their
fingers up inside them and see how small they're built."
     "I never asked you to touch me," she said. "I wouldn't think of  asking
you to put your hand on me, on my private parts anyway."
     "Maybe you thought I was going to swab your ear for you, is that it?"
     "I thought of you like a doctor at that moment, that's  all I can say,"
she said stiffly, trying to freeze me out.
     "Listen," I  said, taking a wild chance, "let's pretend that it was all
a  mistake,  that nothing happened, nothing at all. I  know you too  well to
think  of insulting you  like  that.  I wouldn't think of doing a thing like
that to  you -  no, damned  if I  would. I was just  wondering if  maybe you
weren't right in what you said, if maybe you  aren't built rather small. You
know, it  all went so quick  I couldn't  tell what I felt... I don't think I
even put my finger inside you. I must have just touched the outside - that's
about all. Listen sit down here on the  couch ... let's be friends again." I
pulled her down beside  me  -  she  was melting visibly - and  I  put my arm
around her waist, as though to console her  more  tenderly.  "Has  it always
been like that?" I asked innocently, and I  almost laughed the next  moment,
realizing what  an idiotic question  it  was.  She hung  her head coyly,  as
though  we were touching on  an unmentionable tragedy. "Listen, maybe if you
sat on my lap . . ." and I hoisted her gently on to my lap, at the same time
delicately putting my  hand under  her  dress and resting it  lightly on her
knee . . . "maybe if you sat a moment like this, you'd feel better... there,
that's  it,  just snuggle  back  in my arms... are you feeling  better?" She
didn't  answer,  but  she didn't resist either; she just lay back limply and
closed her eyes. Gradually and very gently and  smoothly I moved  my hand up
her leg, talking to her in a low, soothing voice all the time. When I got my
fingers into her  crotch and parted the little lips she  was as  moist as  a
dish-rag.  I  massaged  it  gently, opening  it up more and more, and  still
handing out  a telepathic  line about women sometimes  being mistaken  about
themselves  and how sometimes they  think they're  very  small  when  really
they're quite normal,  and the longer I kept it  up the juicier she got  and
the more  she opened up. I had  four  fingers  inside her and there was room
inside for more if I had had more to put in. She had an enormous cunt and it
had  been well reamed out, I could  feel. I looked at her to see if she  was
still keeping her eyes shut. Her mouth was open and she was gasping  but her
eyes were tight shut, as though she  were pretending to herself  that it was
all a dream. I could move her about roughly now - no danger of the slightest
protest. And maliciously perhaps, I jostled her about unnecessarily, just to
see if  she would come to. She was as limp as a feather pillow and even when
her head struck the arm of the sofa she showed no sign of irritation. It was
as though she had anaesthetized herself for a gratuitous  fuck. I pulled all
her clothes off and threw them on the floor, and after I had given her a bit
of a work-out on the sofa I slipped it out and laid her on the floor, on her
clothes; and  then I slipped it in  again  and she held  it tight  with that
suction valve she used so skilfully, despite the outward appearance of coma.
     It  seems strange to  me that the  music  always passed  off  into sex.
Nights, if I went out for a  walk, I was sure to pick up some one - a nurse,
a girl coming out  of  a dance hall; a sales girl, anything with a skirt on.
If I went  out with my friend MacGregor in his car  - just a little spin  to
the  beach, he would say -1  would find  myself by midnight  sitting in some
strange  parlour in some queer neighbourhood with a girl  on my lap, usually
one  I didn't  give  a  damn about because MacGregor was even less selective
than I.  Often,  stepping in  his car I'd  say  to him  -  "listen, no cunts
tonight, what?"  And he'd say -  "Jesus,  no, I'm fed up ...  just a  little
drive somewhere . . . maybe to Sheepshead Bay, what do you say?" We wouldn't
have gone  more than a  mile when suddenly he'd pull the car  up to the curb
and  nudge me. "Get a look at that," he'd say, pointing  to a girl strolling
along  the sidewalk. "Jesus, what a leg!" Or else  - "Listen what do you say
we ask her to come along? Maybe she can dig up a friend." And before I could
say another word he'd be hailing her and handing out his usual patter, which
was the  same for every one. And  nine times out often  the girl came along.
And before we'd gone very far,  feeling her up with his free hand,  he'd ask
her if she didn't have a friend she could dig up to keep us company.  And if
she put up a fuss, if she didn't like being pawed over that way too quickly,
he'd say - "All right, get the  hell out then ... we can't waste any time on
the likes  of you!" And with that  he'd slow up and shove her out. "We can't
be bothered with cunts like that, can we Henry?" he'd say, chuckling softly.
"You wait, I promised you  something good before the night's over." And if I
reminded him that we were going to lay off for one night he'd answer; "Well,
just as you like ... I was only thinking it might make it  more pleasant for
you." And then suddenly the brakes  would pull  us up and he'd be  saying to
some  silky silhouette  looming out  of the dark: -  "hello sister, what yer
doing - taking a little stroll?" And maybe this  time it would  be something
exciting, a dithery  little bitch with nothing  else  to do but pull up  her
skirt and hand  it to you. Maybe we  wouldn't even have to buy  her a drink,
just hail up somewhere on a side road and go at  it, one after the other, in
the car. And  if she  was  an emptyheaded  bimbo, as they  usually  were, he
wouldn't even bother to  drive her home. "We're not  going  that  way," he'd
say,  the bastard that he  was. "You'd better jump  out here," and with that
he'd  open the door and  out  with her. His next thought was, of course, was
she dean? That would occupy  his mind all the way  back. "Jesus, we ought to
be  more careful," he'd say.  "You  don't  know what you're getting yourself
into picking them up like that. Ever since that last one - you remember, the
one  we  picked up  on the Drive - I've been itchy as  hell. Maybe it's just
nervousness ... I  think about it  too much. Why can't  a guy stick  to  one
cunt, tell  me  that. Henry. You  take Trix, now, she's a good kid, you know
that. And I like  her too, in a way, but... shit, what's the use  of talking
about it? You know me  -  I'm a glutton. You  know, I'm getting  so bad that
sometimes  when I'm on my way  to a date -  mind you, with a  girl I want to
fuck, and everything fixed too - as I say,  sometimes I'm  rolling along and
maybe out of the comer of my eye  I catch  a  flash of a  leg  crossing  the
street and before I know it I've got her in the  car and  the hell with  the
other girl. I must be cunt-struck, I guess ... what do you think? Don't tell
me," he  would  add quickly. "I know you, you bugger . . . you'll be sure to
tell  me the worst."  And then, after a pause - "you're  a funny guy, do you
know that?  I never notice you refusing anything, but somehow you don't seem
to be worrying about it all the time. Sometimes you  strike me as though you
didn't give a damn one way  or the other. And you're a steady bastard too  -
almost a monogamist, I'd say. How you  can keep it up so long with one woman
beats me. Don't you get bored with them?  Jesus, I know so well what they're
going to say. Sometimes I feel like saying . . . you know, just breeze in on
'em and say; 'listen, kid, don't say a word .. . just fish  it out  and open
your  legs wide.' " He laughed heartily. "Can  you imagine the expression on
Trix's face if  I pulled a line like that on her? I'll tell you, once I came
pretty near  doing it. I  kept my hat and  coat on. <i>Was she sore!</i> She didn't
mind my keeping the coat on so much, but the hat! I told her I was afraid of
a  draught...  of course there wasn't  any draught.  The truth is,  I was so
damned impatient to get away that I thought if  I  kept my hat on I'd be off
quicker. Instead I was there all night with her. She put up  such a row that
I couldn't  get  her  quiet. . . But listen,  that's nothing. Once  I had  a
drunken Irish bitch  and this one had some  queer ideas. In the first place,
she never wanted it in bed  . . . always  on the table. You know, that's all
right once in a while, but if you do it often it wears you out. So one night
- I was a little  tight, I guess -  I says to  her, no,  nothing  doing, you
drunken bastard . . . you're gonna go to bed with me to-night. I want a real
fuck - <i>in bed.</i> You know, I had to argue with that son of a bitch for an hour
almost before I  could persuade her to go to bed with me, and  then only  on
the  agreement that  I was to  keep my hat on.  Listen, can  you picture  me
getting over that stupid bitch  with my hat on?  And  stark naked to boot! I
asked  her  ... 'Why do you  want me to  keep my hat on?' You know  what she
said? She said it seemed more genteel. Can you imagine what a mind that cunt
had? I used to  hate myself for going with that bitch.  I never  went to her
sober, that's  one thing. I'd  have to be tanked up first and  kind of blind
and batty - you know how I get sometimes . . ."
     I knew very well what he meant. He was one of my oldest friends and one
of the most cantankerous bastards I ever  knew. Stubborn wasn't the word for
it. He was like a  mule - a  pigheaded Scotchman. And his old  man was  even
worse. When the two of them got into a rage it was a  pretty sight. The  old
man used to dance positively <i>dance</i>  with rage.  If the  old lady got between
she'd  get a sock  in the  eye. They  used  to  put him  out  of  the  house
regularly.  Out he'd go, with all his  belongings, including  the furniture,
including  the piano too. In a month or so he'd be back again - because they
always gave  him credit at home. And  then he'd come  home drunk some  night
with a woman  he'd  picked up somewhere  and the rumpus would start all over
again.  It seems  they  didn't  mind so much his coming home with a girl and
keeping  her  all night, but what  they  did object to was the cheek  of him
asking his  mother to serve them breakfast in bed. If  his mother  tried  to
bawl him  out he'd shut her up  by saying - "What are you trying to tell me?
You wouldn't have been  married yet if  you hadn't been knocked up." The old
lady would wring her hands and say - "What a  son! What  a son! God help me,
what have  I done to deserve  this?"  To which he'd  remark, "Aw forget  it!
You're just an old prune!" Often as not his sister would come up  to try and
smooth  matters out.  "Jesus, Wallie," she'd say, "it's  none of my business
what you do, but can't you talk to your mother more respectfully?" Whereupon
MacGregor would make his sister sit  on the bed  and  start coaxing  her  to
bring up  the breakfast. Usually he'd have to ask his bed-mate what her name
was in order  to present her to his sister. "She's not a bad kid," he'd say,
referring to  his sister. "She's the only decent  one in  the family ... Now
listen, sis, bring up  some grub,  will yer? Some  nice bacon and  eggs, eh,
what do you say? Listen, is the  old man around? What's his mood to-day? I'd
like to  borrow a couple of bucks. You try  to worm it out of him, will you?
I'll get you something  nice for Christmas." Then, as though everything were
settled, he'd pull back the covers to expose the wench beside  him. "Look at
her, sis, ain't  she beautiful? Look at  that leg! Listen, you ought  to get
yourself  a man .  . . you're too skinny. Patsy here,  I bet she doesn't  go
begging for it, eh Patsy?" and with that a sound slap on the rump for Patsy.
"Now scram,  sis, I want some coffee .  . . and don't forget, make the bacon
crisp! Don't get any of that lousy store bacon ...  get something extra. And
be quick about it!"
     What I liked about him were his weaknesses; like all men  who  practise
will-power he was absolutely flabby inside. There wasn't a thing he wouldn't
do - out of weakness. He was always very busy and he was never  really doing
anything.  And  always  boning up on something, always trying to improve his
mind. For example, he would take  the unabridged dictionary and, tearing out
a page each day, would read it through religiously on his way back and forth
from  the office. He was full of facts, and  the more absurd and incongruous
the facts, the more  pleasure he derived from  them. He seemed to be bent on
proving to all  and  sundry that life was  a farce, that it wasn't worth the
game,  that one thing cancelled out another, and so on. He was brought up on
the North Side, not very far from the neighbourhood in which I  had spent my
childhood. He was very much a product of the  North Side, too, and  that was
one of the reasons why  I liked him. The way he talked, out  of the comer of
his mouth,  for instance, the tough air he put on when talking to a cop, the
way  he  spat   in  disgust,   the   peculiar  curse  words  he   used,  the
sentimentality,  the  limited  horizon,  the  passion  for  playing pool  or
shooting crap, the staying up all night swapping yams, the  contempt for the
rich, the hobnobbing with politicians, the curiosity about worthless things,
the respect for learning, the fascination of the dance hall, the saloon, the
burlesque, talking about seeing the world and never budging out of the city,
idolizing no matter whom so long as the person  showed  "spunk", a  thousand
and  one  little  traits or peculiarities of  this  sort  endeared him to me
because it was  precisely such idiosyncrasies which marked the fellows I had
known as a child. The neighbourhood was  composed of nothing, it seemed, but
lovable failures. The  grown-ups behaved like children and the children were
incorrigible. Nobody  could rise very  far above  his neighbour  or  he'd be
lynched. It  was amazing that any one ever became a doctor or a lawyer. Even
so, he had to  be a good fellow, had to pretend to talk like every one else,
and he had to vote the Democratic ticket. To hear MacGregor talk about Plato
or Nietzsche, for instance, to his buddies was something to remember. In the
first place, to even get  permission to talk about such  things  as Plato or
Nietzsche to his companions,  he had to pretend that it was only by accident
that he had  run across their names; or perhaps he'd  say that he had met an
interesting drunk one night in the back room of a saloon and  this drunk had
started talking about these  guys Nietzsche and Plato. He would even pretend
he didn't quite know how the names were pronounced. Plato wasn't such a dumb
bastard, he would say apologetically. Plato had an idea or two  in his bean,
yes sir,  yes siree.  He'd like  to  see one  of  those dumb politicians  at
Washington trying to  lock horns with  a guy like Plato.  And he'd go on, in
this roundabout,  matter  of  fact fashion  to explain to  his crap-shooting
friends  just what kind of a bright bird  Plato  was in his  time and how he
measured up against other men in other times. Of  course,  he was probably a
eunuch, he  would add, by way  of throwing  a little  cold water on all this
erudition.  In  those  days,  as  he  nimbly  explained,  the big  guys, the
philosophers, often  had their nuts cut off  - a  fact! - so as to be out of
all temptation. The other guy, Nietzsche, he was a real case, a case for the
bug-house.  He was  supposed to be in love  with his  sister. Hypersensitive
like. Had to  live  in a special climate - in Nice, he thought  it was. As a
rule  he  didn't care much  for  the  Germans, but  this guy  Nietzsche  was
different. As a matter of  fact,  he hated  the Germans,  this Nietzsche. He
claimed he was  a Pole or something like that. He had  them dead right, too.
He said  they  were  stupid and swinish, and by  God,  he knew what  he  was
talking about. Anyway he showed  them up. He said they were full of shit, to
make it brief, and by God, wasn't he right though? Did you see the way those
bastards turned