Success

Also by Martin Amis

Fiction

The Rachel Papers
Dead Babies
Other People
Money
Einstein’s Monsters
London Fields
Time’s Arrow
The Information
Night Train
Heavy Water and Other Stories

Nonfiction

Invasion of the Space Invaders
The Moronic Inferno and Other Visits to America
Visiting Mrs. Nabokov and Other Excursions
Experience
The War Against Cliché
Koba the Dread

‘Terry speaking,’ I said.

The receiver cleared its throat.

‘Oh hello, Miranda,’ I went on. ‘How are you? No, Gregory isn’t here at the moment. Ring a bit later. Okay. Bye.’

Gregory was in fact sitting next door at the kitchen table, his hands palm-upwards on its grained surface. ‘Success?’ he asked. I nodded and he sighed.

‘She’s started sending me obscene poems now,’ he said.

There seemed no point in not humouring him. ‘Really? What sort of obscene poems?’

‘Has a girl ever sent you an obscene poem?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘I can’t cope with this. Things to do with my “proud beam”. And stuff about her “amber jewel”. Or perhaps it’s
my
amber jewel — I’m not sure.’

‘Sounds as though it’s her amber jewel. I mean, she wouldn’t have a proud beam, would she?’

‘
She
might. I wouldn’t put anything past her. She might have
two
.’

‘What has she got to say about your proud beam? In this obscene poem.’

‘She just goes on and on about it. I could hardly bear to read the thing. I can’t cope with it. I don’t need this.’

‘How disgusting,’ I said with enthusiasm. ‘Well, what are you going to do about it, Greg?’

‘That’s just it. What
can
I do? Say, “Look, let’s have no more obscene poems, okay? Cut out the obscene poems”? Scarcely. I could always call the police, I suppose … let the police clear up the matter. And the horrible things she makes me do in bed …’

‘Why don’t you just tell her to go away?’

Gregory looked up at me with puppyish awe. ‘Can one do that sort of thing? Is that — is that what you’d do?’

‘Christ, no. I’d make her make me do horrible things in bed. I’d even let her write me obscene poems. I’d even write her obscene poems back.’

‘Would you really?’

‘You bet. I’m desperate. I’m tortured by need. Hardly anybody seems to want to fuck me any more. I don’t know why. Gita won’t fuck me any more.’

‘The tiny one with huge ears? Why won’t she?’

‘How the hell should I know? She says she doesn’t want to. She doesn’t know why she doesn’t want to. But she knows she doesn’t want to.’

Gregory perked up at this. ‘Curious,’ he said, leaning back. ‘In my experience it’s the other way round. People always want to fuck me far more than I want to fuck them.’

‘Ah, but you’re
queer
, aren’t you. Practically, anyway.
Anyone
can get fucked if they’re queer. That’s the whole point of being queer, surely — no one minds what anyone does to anyone else.’

‘Nothing in that line at the moment, actually,’ he said, his shapely neck stiffening. ‘It’s this bloody Miranda.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Miranda and her demands.’ Gregory’s face disappeared into his hands. ‘I can’t cope with another night like the last. I just can’t.’ He looked up. ‘She’s absolutely voracious. Shall I tell you one of the things she does? Shall I?
She goes down on you after you’ve fucked her
. After. She does. Bitch. What about that?’

‘Sounds unimprovable to me.’

‘It’s total agony, let me assure you.
And
she fiddles with your prick all night when you’re pretending to sleep.
And
she sticks her … you know.’

‘What, up your bum?’

‘Precisely.’

‘What’s the problem there?’ I asked with some petulance. ‘You must be used to that by now.’

‘But she’s got these huge tart’s fingernails.’

‘Can’t you just — Christ, you know — just have a word with her about it all? Just tackle her on these points?’

‘Of course I can’t. What a revolting thought. And do you know how many people she’s slept with? Guess. Go on. Guess. Over a hundred in two years!’

‘Balls.’

‘She
has
. She admits it. It’s only one a week, after all, when you work it out. Everyone at Kane’s has fucked her. Everyone at Torka’s has fucked her. Everyone everywhere has fucked her. Everywhere we go people have fucked her. Just walking down the street — everyone has fucked her! I’ve never met anyone who hasn’t fucked her. The porter’s probably fucked her. The liftman’s definitely fucked her. The — ’

‘I haven’t fucked her,’ I stated, deciding to bring this harrowing exchange to a crux.

And so:

‘You could, Terry. Honestly. No problem at all. She’s said more than once she likes you. And
she
fucks people she loathes. I tell you, she’ll put you through your paces all right. Oh yes. Look, I’ll tell you the first thing she’ll do. The minute you go to kiss her she’ll put
both hands
on your …’

Will she? She doesn’t look as though she would. (No one else does.)

The girl I’m currently supposed to be peeling off Gregory’s back is called Miranda. She is nineteen. She
has coarse blonde hair, a friendly figure, ever-moist blue eyes and a wide square mouth. She is pretty — some way out of my league, I should think. But she is quite posh and probably very neurotic (perhaps she does do all those things he said, for anyone who asks her right). Apart from the consideration that I happen to be very deeply in love with Miranda, I have three excellent reasons for agreeing to the transfer.

One. I quite like her. In contrast to Gregory’s standard female consorts (they’re all haughty sirens with convex faces, collar-stud bums and names like Anastasia and Tap. They’re sheeny, expensive and almost invariably twice my height. I practically call them
sir
), Miranda contrives to give the impression that she is a member of the human race — having met her, you could quite easily run away with the idea that you both belonged to the same planet. Instead of the torpid distaste — or, more often, trendy indifference — with which Greg’s girls habitually salute my comings and goings, I get from Miranda hellos, goodbyes, recognition, stuff like that. And I’ve only really run into her twice: once when the funny little thing was puffing up the stairs to the flat (she said she’d ‘forgotten about’ the lift), and once when the stupid little slag was getting dressed in the morning (after Gregory had fled to work. No, I didn’t see her tits). She chatted to me sympathetically on both occasions.

Two. I’m very keen indeed, as a matter of general principle, on picking up intimate details about Gregory. I want details, I want details, actual details, and I want them to be hurtful, damaging and grotesque. I nurse dreams of impotence, monorchism and premature ejaculation. I lust for his repressions and blocks; I ache for his traumata. (Why can’t he just kick the girls and be a proper queer? It would make things much simpler for me.) And above all, of course, I long for Gregory to be dismally endowed. I pine for it. All my life I’ve wanted his cock to be small. Even before I met him the meagreness of his member was paramount to my well-being.