Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man (11 page)

Once in a while, though, I miss it. Maybe it’s ninety percent nostalgia. Still, once in a while I miss it.

So I took a long and lazy time with Rozanne. I inspected every bit of her body, turned her this way and that, kissed her here and there. A dozen times along the way she was within a couple of yards of the orgasmic goal line, and each time I would change the subject and throw her physically offside and penalize her half the distance to the goal. I kept building her up and letting her down, until she reached a point where her blood-pressure level was dangerously high.

Until finally I said, “Now I’m going to eat your cunt.”

And she said, “Thank God.”

I’ll do the Victorian novelist number and draw the veil here, old buddy. The modesty bit. Let’s just say that she got what she came for and came what she got for.

And liked it.

A little while later, after she had stopped talking about how divine she felt and how she had dreamed about this but had never, even in her dreams, imagined it would be quite this good, after she had finished bathing my ego in a salve of words, she said, “But what about you, Larry?”

“What about me?”

“I know men have needs.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But aren’t you—”

“Frustrated? Tied up in knots?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of course I am. Don’t worry about it. Let’s talk a little.”

“Because there must be something I could do.”

“Later, perhaps. If you want.”

“Of course I want to help you.”

“But first let’s talk. Why is it that you’re so afraid of getting popped?”

“Getting popped?”

“Of not being a virgin anymore.”

“Oh, getting popped.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t know what you meant at first.”

“I understand. Is it that you’re afraid of getting pregnant?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Because they have pills for that sort of thing.”

“I know.”

“And they’re a hundred percent effective.”

“Oh, I know. It’s not that.”

“Some kind of sin thing? That good girls have to stay virgins until they get married?”

“No. I don’t believe that anymore.”

“Thank God.”

“I lost my faith. I suppose I’m an atheist.”

“So am I, thank God.”

“As a matter of fact, I guess I’d respect myself more if I wasn’t a virgin. I mean, it’s abnormal, being a virgin at my age.”

“It’s certainly unusual.”

“Yeah.”

“Then what is it, Rozanne?”

“Well, it’s an irrational fear.”

“Oh?”

“I went to a psychiatrist once. Actually I didn’t go to him, I went out with him on a date. We saw
Plaza Suite
.
Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t even know he was a psychiatrist when I dated him. Just that he was a doctor. His sister was married to my sister-in-law’s cousin.”

“Aren’t they married anymore?”

“I guess they’re still married. What difference does it make?”

“No difference at all. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“It’s okay.”

“You were saying about the psychiatrist?”

“Oh. When I wouldn’t, you know, what you said, that I wouldn’t get popped. He told me I have an irrational fear. That’s how he put it.”

“Of what?”

“Pain.”

“Pain?”

“Pain.”

“It only hurts for a minute.”

“I know that.”

“Sometimes, for a lot of girls, it never hurts at all.”

“I know that.”

“Then—”

“That’s what irrational about it. I know all that, but knowing doesn’t help. I lie awake nights thinking about getting popped and I start to cry at the thought. I guess you must think I’m pretty hopeless, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“I know people who have a thing about heights, they won’t look out a high window, they won’t even have an apartment or work in an office on a high floor. That’s another irrational fear. If I had my choice, I’d rather have that. At least I could let myself get popped like a normal human being instead of living like some kind of a nun.”

“You’ve got a problem.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Perhaps someday you’ll be able to face it,” I said gently. “But not tonight.”

“No, I guess not. No, not tonight. But—”

“What?”

“I wish I could do something for you.”

“You can.”

She licked her lips anxiously. I suspect she was thinking that what I had in mind would involve her lips, and I further suspect she was trying to decide whether it was something she really wanted to do. While she played that tape through her mind I took off my bathrobe.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“The size of it. Of your, uh—”

“Cock,” I supplied. “It’s average, actually.”

“Honest to God?”

“Well, I never measured it and checked the
Guinness Book of Records
or anything, but I think it’s about average. It’s nothing exceptional.”

“It’s the size of a cannon.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

“It is. It would kill a woman.”

“It never killed one yet.”

“It would split a woman in half.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can touch it, you know. It won’t bite.”

“It’s as hard as a rock, too. Holy Mother of God, imagine putting this in a fifteen-year-old girl. I didn’t know they were this big.”

“They?”

“Cocks.”

She went on talking like that, handling the subject of the conversation with both hands as she talked. As you may know, Steve, you can tell a great deal about a woman by the way she handles a penis. Sometimes I think it’s a better index to sensuousness than actually fucking her. Bill Adams used to keep an abstract cock on his desk as a paperweight. It was a cylindrical iron bar. Outside of that, there was nothing particularly cocklike about it. Girls who came over to his desk almost invariably picked up the thing and fooled around with it. He did or didn’t date them on the basis of their reactions to it. A pretty good test, he always said. One day a girl picked the thing up and smacked it rhythmically against the edge of his desk as she talked. Paula, her name was, and she was the one he picked out to marry. Which tells you as much about Bill as her behavior told about Paula, come to think of it ….

But to return to Rozanne. She went on with her fondling, doing a very good job of it. Her hands were soft, except for the tips of her fingers which were roughened from typing, which made a pleasant contrast. (Ellen Jamison plays the guitar, which makes for even more of a contrast.)

As she said, “What would you like me to do?”

“Well,” I said, “there
is
something.”

“Anything,” she said, and her eyes modified the word.

“It’s a little unusual,” I admitted, “but there’s no pain involved, certainly. I want you to get in a certain position, and then I want to just touch my cock lightly against your bottom.”

“And then what?”

“Then I’ll have an orgasm.”

“Just from that?”

“It’s all in the position you’ll be in. It’s particularly exciting to me, God knows why. Maybe I saw my parents in this position as a child or something. We could ask your friend the psychiatrist.”

“I guess if I can have an irrational fear, you’re entitled to an irrational thrill.”

“That’s a good way to look at it.”

“Well,” she said. “What’s the position?”

I positioned her. On her knees on the bed, arms straight, palms of hands planted on the bed sheet, breasts hanging down like ripe fruit. I studied her from various angles, reaching out to touch and adjust, and provided a little heavy breathing.

“Perfect,” I said, huskily.

Then I positioned myself behind her, kneeling. I reached around to cup her breasts momentarily. I would have needed the hands of a basketball player to do them justice. I played with the nipples until they stiffened, but that was all the excitement she showed.

“Divine,” I murmured.

I stroked the cheeks of her bottom, pulled them gently apart, pressed them together again, pulled them apart, pressed them together.

“Magnificent,” I cooed.

I spat silently into the palm of one hand and anointed my cock with saliva, then dried my hand on the sheet and went back to playing with her buttocks.

“Paradise,” I moaned.

And then I stabbed my cock straight into her tight little asshole.

Christ, how she screamed! I’m still amazed nobody called the cops,
I
would have called the cops, and I
never
call the cops. But it was one hell of a shriek.

Once I was in, all the way in to the hilt, I clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed my body down upon her, flattening her on the bed. She was pinned like a butterfly. She couldn’t move. She could struggle, and the more she struggled the better it felt, and for the longest time I just clung to her and let her struggle while I enjoyed it.

I almost dropped the ball right then and there. That old familiar tickle started building up in my balls, and all those little sperm cells wanted to rush out and win this one for the Gipper. I didn’t go through any horseshit like figuring the multiplication tables in my head. I’ve never had much success with that sort of nonsense.

Instead, I met the problem head on.
You’re going to fuck this helpless little girl into a blind stupor,
I told myself,
and you’re going to be so busy ramming it home you won’t have time to worry about coming.

And that is precisely what happened.

As soon as she gave up the struggle, I started to throw it to her. I was about as gentle as Attila the Hun. I gave her solid full-length strokes, delivering them as though it was my intention to knock her asshole through the top of her head. Once I had established a certain rhythm, I took my hand off her mouth. She wasn’t going to scream anymore. She just lay there whimpering from the pain and begging me to stop and invoking various saints in the hope that they might intercede.

“Oh, merciful Heart of Jesus, he’s killing me!”

Bang!

“Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, I’m on fire!”

Wham!

“Oh, Saint Anthony, blessed Saint Anthony, make him stop before I die!”

Pow!

Thank God she was an atheist.

Steve, old buddy, it took forever. There was a time, Steve, when I must confess I didn’t think it was going to work. I knew it was perfect in theory but I didn’t think it was really going to work in actual practice. And if it didn’t work, of course, then I was making a horrible mistake and really fucking things up for Rozanne.

One thing I’ve learned, Steve, is that once you’ve crossed the Rubicon, you might as well march right on to Rome. Even if you strongly suspect you made a mistake. Better to follow through with a wrong decision than to try changing your mind after the ball is in the air. I may have mangled the metaphors there, but you know what I mean. You just don’t switch horses in the middle of a Rubicon.

So I kept on flailing away at her, never slowing the pace, never breaking the rhythm, never easing up on the sheer brute force of it. Do that for a while and your back starts to ache. Do it a little longer and you worry that your pelvic bone isn’t going to be able to stand it.

Do it long enough and a miracle happens.

I did it long enough, and the miracle happened. I had expected the miracle, I was counting on it, and that didn’t make it any the less miraculous.

Because gradually she stopped not liking it, and gradually she began liking it, and then all at once we were over the top and into the homestretch, and she was shouting things like
“Fuck me!”
and
“Kill me!”
and
“Tear me apart!”
and wriggling her ass, not to escape but to cooperate, and just as she got there I put a finger on her clit and threw her off the cliff.

Christ, did she come! Her entire rectum quivered and undulated around my cock like a vibrating condom. I hammered three more strokes into her as she came, and at the end of the third the dam burst. My sperm was backed up clear to the Holland Tunnel, but she quivered and twitched and milked every drop of it out of me. You know how, when you come really great, your balls actually ache with it? (But of course you know. I’m not talking to a schoolboy, am I?)

A little while later, almost as an afterthought, I withdrew from her. There was this delightful plopping noise reminiscent of opening a champagne bottle. I stretched out next to her. She lay inert, her face on the pillow, her eyes closed, her forehead bathed in sweat.

Ultimately she opened her eyes and looked at me. Just looked at me.

Then, abruptly, she began laughing.

Not a giggle or a chuckle. A full-throated, wide-open, all-woman laugh. She roared.

“Talk about irrational fears,” she said finally.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, I honestly thought I was going to die. And then I didn’t die. And then I lived. I’m twenty-six years old. God in Heaven, I wasted twenty-six years.”

“You really couldn’t have done much for the first thirteen, anyway.”

“Maybe not. What is it they say?
’If they’re big enough, they’re old enough.’
Is that what they say?”

“I’ve heard the phrase.”

“If I have a daughter, that’s what I’ll tell her. But I’ll never get a daughter from what we did, will I? It’s considered perverted, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. Almost everything is.”

“What do you call it? What we just did.”

“Anal intercourse, I guess. Sodomy. Buggery.”

“Isn’t there a good word for it?”

“You mean a polite word? Those are all about as polite as you can get.”

“I don’t mean a polite word, I mean a
good
word.”

“I don’t know. Ass-fucking, I guess.”

“Ass-fucking,” she said, reflectively. “You fucked me in the ass.”

“I certainly did.”

“I liked it.”

“You certainly did.”

“You fucked me in the ass and I loved it. It was even better than when you ate my cunt. I think I have to go to the bathroom. I feel as though I just had an enema.”

“You just did.”

“That’s what it feels like. I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”

She was back before the toilet stopped flushing. “Oh, my,” she said. “I don’t feel like the same person anymore. I feel very different. First you ate my cunt and then you fucked me in the ass and now I went and took a huge crap. And now look how I’m talking. I never talked like this before. I never said words like that aloud.”