PFK1 (20 page)

day long.

Well, there was one thing.

It happened quite naturally, and in a way I think Carole King

probably would have approved of.

A few minutes after Polly pronounced our hair dry, she was on top

on me in her little single bed, the two of us madly 69ing.

And to think I thought merely fucking Polly was good. The mutual

oral sex was beyond good, by at least a couple of light years, and

maybe even beyond that.

Polly had a way of curling over me that let me get my cock deep in

her throat. Somehow, she manages to suppress her gag reflex, taking

me practically all the way in. Meanwhile, I licked and sucked her

pussy for all I was worth. Her hairy little dell had a savory fragrance

that I just could not get enough of. Not every woman is blessed with

125

such a choice, tasty muffin, I am sorry to report, but Polly was a girl

who did.

When my tongue ticked her clitoris, for instance, it was like I had

touched a live wire – she was exquisitely sensitive.

It was so much fun going down on her, it became impossible to

focus on the sucking she was giving me at the same time. After a

while, though, we decided to switch gears for something else. That

was the thing both of us had in mind. Taking her mouth from my

cock, Polly said:

"Let’s do it."

By "it" Polly meant intercourse. I had learned the hard way that she

didn’t much care for rough language, especially when applied to

lovemaking.

The second or third time we had done it, I told Polly that she really

was a good fuck, meaning it as a compliment. Only she didn’t take it

that way, conveying to me clearly that she did not appreciate the

seedy inference.

""It" was therefore her preferred euphemism, and I went along. As

always, I was willing to go with her preferences as long as the "it"

itself occurred.

On this occasion, "it" consisted of me getting behind Polly while

we stretched out on our right sides. Our skinny bodies and my steel-

stiff prong ensured that this position would provide the deepest

possible penetration of Polly’s pussy.

"One more thing," Polly added, as I began to enter her. "Let’s go

for a new record."

"Okay," I answered. "Sure."

My finger reached around to caress Polly’s clitoris. This was a fun

position and it felt really good to have my cock angled up inside her

this way. A couple of exploratory thrusts later, my cock was in her to

the hilt.

Polly orgasmed almost instantly.

"Eeeeeeuuuggghh!" She cried. "OOOooooaaaahhh!"

One down, I thought. Many, many more to go.

126

We settled into a nice rhythm, my cock plunging in and out of her

tight, moist little hole, slick and wet as her juices flowed, bathing my

pole from base to tip.

What can I say? How can I best describe it? The pleasure was out

this world, beyond any known galaxy, parsecs and parsecs beyond

infinity even.

The two of us were lying on Polly’s single bed, pressed like spoons,

on an early summer afternoon, fucking like there was no tomorrow.

"Remember," Polly said, whenever she thought I might be on the

verge of cumming, "we’re going for a record. I want you to keep it up

for a really long time, Patrick."

"Okay," I said.

And so we did. It was a session that lasted for nearly an hour,

ending when I told Polly that either I had to cum right then or never

again cum at all.

"All right," Polly answered, panting between spasms. She gave me

a little interior squeeze. "Let it go."

The ejaculation I had an instant later could probably be called a

humdinger, if by chance the word was adequate to describe the

sensations I underwent. It is probably not.

In point of fact, it felt like the top of my skull had been lopped off

by a machete, my brain violently extracted, with the spinal cord intact,

and the home of my intelligence dropped into a vat of boiling oil. I

hollered like a maniac:

"AAAaaaaeeeaaah! Haaaahhh!"

"EEEEEiiiieeaaah!" Polly screamed along with me.

Throughout, the semen jetted from my cock in thick spouting gouts,

an unending flood of viscid goo. Polly mewed and whimpered, letting

me know by her movements that she could feel my cum spurting into

her silk interior.

Later that evening, we partook of schooners of lager at Max’s

tavern, just down the street from Taylor’s, sitting at a high table in the

corner. We talked in a general way about what we wanted from life in

the near future.

127

"I’ve applied to nursing school," Polly said. "What are your current

plans?"

"There are many things I’d like to do, Polly," I answered. "But I

have no idea yet how to get from here to there."

Polly took my hand, saying, "You’ll figure it out, Patrick. I’m sure

you will."

That was nice of her to say, but I’m not sure she was right.

Anyway, that was then and this is now. Like everyone else, I think

women make terrible mistakes in their lives.

It’s really apparent down at the welfare office. What a mess they

make by not choosing the right guy. They just don’t get it.

Instead of being encouraged to find a man who will love them

passionately, they are trained to seek out the so-called good provider.

When a man leaves a woman because he can tell she’s just using him,

the paycheck goes out the door too. So what are they left with? The

children he didn’t want either.

A man who truly loves a woman will find a way to provide for her

and the baby. Any other kind of man is just a john with a ring. But

women can’t seem to tell the difference.

What miserable lives they make for themselves!

Been working on
The Dark City
on and off again, using my back up

copy. I’m trying to bypass a depressive state by taking positive

action. For some reason I feel no enthusiasm about anything or

anybody, including myself.

My self-loathing grows daily.

* * * *

July 4, 1978

Nice quiet holiday. No bombs, no rockets, no explosions of any

kind. Started writing a short story about a typical case of child abuse,

using as a model this one horrible ADC client who beat the shit out of

her two little boys.

I’m ripping her to shreds, and as I am doing so I realize she has the

same vile self-centered temperament as my mother, a classic all-

American bitch.

128

They are very similar creatures. I remember the time my mother

beat Mick viciously with the metal buckle of a belt. We must have

been about eight or nine. That fucking witch.

The beating went on and on.

Good God, poor Mick wore those welts on his back for weeks

afterwards. The old man got upset about it, but did nothing.

Too bad nobody ever turned my mother in for criminal child abuse.

It would have served her right, goddamn the fucking bitch. Still, I try

to let this stuff go, try to put it in the past. But when I think about

Lois for any length of time, I mean really think about her, I want to

swing a fucking baseball bat and send her evil nattering head flying to

the upper fucking deck.

Meanwhile, I write a short story that conjures up all of these horrid

memories. It is a horror to write and yet I push myself through it, am

deep into it.

What started it was this: My deranged client called me collect from

the mental hospital, demanding to know if she was going to get any

free money this month.

Oh, what typical behavior. I refused the call. Twice. She’s

abusive when she calls, swearing at me and calling me names. A

woman just like my mother. To hell with her, I say. I don’t give a

damn if her next call is to the branch manager.

By all means let it be so. Let’s cut out the middleman, namely me.

There is no reason why I should take shit from a psycho. when I’m

not paid nearly enough for that. I told the manager I won’t deal with

her. I’m just a hired hand, employed to keep the paperwork flowing

smoothly. I don’t make the rules. If I deal with her it just takes away

from the normal poor people. I don’t care what the rules are. Just

give me a desk and a stack of forms and I will pump out the work.

I’m not here to be abused by some fucking scrag.

Damn.

Still looking for places where I can send my stories. The

confession market buys hundreds of scripts every year but who can

read that stuff, let alone write it? Is that any outlet for my sharp,

superbly paced prose?

129

The broadest vision, the deepest scope, the deftly fluid style that

effortlessly combines both grace and power? Wouldn’t I be wasting

my time writing confession stories? I think so. Perhaps horror or

detective stories are a possibility. Sex comedies might even be more

like it.

Spent all last month working to snag a slot on the Central

Committee and I still lost. Fuck politics. It’s a fool’s pastime. Their

loss is my gain. I’m going to concentrate on earning money instead.

Things don’t always go the way you plan, but they usually work out

somehow.

* * * *

July 7, 1978

Split work early to go to the Country Fair with Megan today. In

separate vehicles. The fair opened right at noon and we were among

the first people they let through the gate. Afterwards, I came back to

town and she went on to meet Mark in Eugene.

I had a pretty strange experience there with a palm reader. Megan

was trying on a couple of tie-dyed sundresses while I waited for her.

We were both kinda stoned. This middle-aged hippie dame had a

palm reading booth set up near the place selling dresses. Her name

was The Amazing Maureen. The Amazing Maureen kept pestering

me to let her read my palm. I refused but she was very persistent.

"For you I will reduce my fee," Maureen said. "Three dollars

instead of five."

She had an attractive face and a nice body, with flecks of gray in

her long black hair, which was partly tied in a braid. A hippie

masquerading a gypsy. Or vice versa.

Maureen also had about 20 bracelets on her wrists, and wore a

shiny blue vest over her print dress. The vest was decorated with

crescent moons and stars. And I sort of I did like the way Maureen’s

skimpy vest displayed her braless breasts.

Hmmm.

Megan was taking her time so I gave Maureen three bucks. After

asking my name, she took my hand in hers. She jumped a little at our

first touch.

130

"Ooooohh," Maureen said. "My goodness! Such potent male

energy. I’m sure the women can’t resist you."

"They have so far," I said.

"Oh, I’m sure you’ve had your problems," Maureen said, gazing at

my palm. "But look at this peculiar triple-pronged heart line of yours.

There are of course many ways to read the palm, but mine is to

consider the love signs."

"Love signs? What do you mean?"

"The wounds left by Cupids are known as love signs. Cupids do

the work of the feminine spirits here on earth. Their arrows bring

lovers together or split them asunder."

Maureen traced a long red fingernail down a narrow valley ending

at the edge of my right palm. The center line there splits into three

shorter lines about two thirds of the way across, like a pitchfork.

"Your triple-pronged heart line shows that three feminine spirits are

competing fiercely for your heart. In ancient times these feminine

spirits were referred to as The Fates. They spin the threads of

existence in different colors. Your hand shows a conflict between a

gray spirit, a brown spirit, and a blue spirit. They have struggled over

you from since the beginning of time. Eventually one will prevail,

and she will rule some future universe with you. In this life, each

spirit fields a champion. Every life you go through plays out another

round in the game, until a day and night of Shiva has passed."

I had to admit. Maureen’s line of bullshit was damn good.

"How long is a day and night of Shiva?" I asked.

"About twenty billion years."

"Holy cow. That’s longer than I can wait."

The Amazing Maureen laughed.

"In your life," she went on, "the feminine spirits are not yet finished

with their war for ascendancy in matter of your heart. I see the battle

becoming very bitter."

"You’re telling me," I said, sarcastically.

Maureen pointed at my palm. "See how your heart line is so

crooked, so braided? – its quite a struggle among them. You are a