The Nirvana Blues (12 page)

“Well, sure, but, you know, it really is late … in two hours Heather will be awake.”

Nancy appeared in the doorway, wiping sudsy hands on her jersey. Slowly, as she smiled, that luster emanated from her, infusing first her entire being, then spreading throughout the room. It was uncanny.

Joe said, “Well, uh, so…” Creaking erect, he went for the door and opened it. “I really gotta split. Like I said—look!—it's practically dawn.”

Nancy approached Joe with fluid understatement like a swan waking, abundantly graceful. Close to him, she leaned against the door. In her bare feet she was shorter than he had suspected: he assessed her at no taller than five-three. That intrigued him. Most of his women, before and including Heidi, had been robust characters. And tall. His erotic fantasies often featured diminutive sexual partners. Her presence was making him weak; her perfume, tunneling like a masterful French burglar into the impregnable vault of his senses, had him reeling. In the bathroom, Sasha started sneezing; water splashed onto the floor.

“Joe, I know you have to go. But before you do, could I ask you for one small favor?”

“Sure. Anything you want.”

“Would you hold me just for a minute?”

“Why not?” Cheerfully, he curled his arms around her.

“Umm. That feels good.”

Joe nodded, gulped, swallowed. She wasn't kidding it felt good. Nancy Ryan was maybe the softest, most pliable, most criminally sensuous woman he had ever embraced.

“It's so sad,” she murmured.

“What is?”

“I don't know. I guess that there's just no room in your life for me. It's funny.”

“Yeah, it's funny all right.” Melting like whipped margarine, Joe trembled. The world's hardest erection lay right across her sweet tummy like a molybdenum-reinforced crowbar. She pretended to ignore it. He couldn't get over how muffled and affectionate she felt.
Physically.
Joe pressed his hand against her back, the palm between her shoulder blades. The hand seemed to cover her entire back. Her mellow breasts created a fleecy whispery gel, an almost inessential pressure against him. Like meringue, like goose down. Did she flex her stomach against his conspicuous and embarrassing ramrod?—he couldn't be sure. Without exercising any constraints, her arms nevertheless trapped a heady delirium inside his body. No fingers had touched his shoulders like this since the days of puppy love. Her head was tucked under his chin; he could feel her damp lips against his collarbone.

“Gosh.” She had such a relaxed, sleepy voice. “This sure feels good. You're bigger than I imagined. You look sort of slight, you know? But you
feel
so solid.”

“Huh. That's curious. You're not the first person who ever said that. I mean, people often tell me that their first impression is I'm slight. That's actually the word they use—‘slight.' And then they're surprised when they see me in a swimsuit, or with my shirt off or something. Because I'm more muscular than they thought.”

Conversation in this vein sounded as if he were in training for the Simpleton Olympics! But he went on:

“I used to be an honest-to-God athlete. I played three varsity sports in college. I actually got more varsity letters than anybody else in my class.”

“How many was that?”

“Seven.”

“In what sports?”

“Well, I played football for one year, but never lettered. I didn't return my sophomore year because that was one sport, on the college level, that I couldn't stand. It was brutal, overemphasized, no fun. In its place I ran cross-country, lettering in my junior and senior years. I also lettered in track. And for three years in hockey.”

Maybe if he kept up this dramatic, intellectual patter, he'd wither on her imagination's vine and get off scot-free. They continued embracing each other as she sighed: “Brother, I could just stay like this forever.”

“It's nice.” All his muscles reverberated with the sort of wonderful swooning ache that could be caused by a sauna and a massage. His heart threatened to crack his sternum. Weak-kneed, addle-headed, he had forgotten the incapacitating excitement of holding another woman for the first time. For too long, thrills like this one had been absent from his prosaic wanderings. Heady stuff, indeed. Joe rubbed his chin against her hair, just a bit. She responded by very gently caressing the back of his neck. Joy, mitigated by an anguished desire to cry out like Adam over the loss of his innocence (not to mention integrity), welled up inside. His resolve was crumbling. Already fluid leaked out of his penis. Yet, wanting to groan “Let's make love,” he held his tongue. It would have to be her move.

Something crashed in the bathroom.

Nancy said, “Would you just come and lie down with me for a minute?”

Barely able to croak it out, he said, “There's no point…”

“Nothing will happen. I feel terribly close to you right now, that's all. It would mean so much to snuggle for just five minutes.”

Never one to go down without a fight, Joe mumbled, “But we already agreed…”

“I know. Don't worry. Nothing could happen anyway, I've got my period.”

“All right then, if you want. Just for a minute, though. Then I really have to go. It's late.”

Joe shut the front door and held her hand as she led him down the short carpeted hallway. He caught a glimpse into the first room on the left, which belonged to Sasha. On a single low coffee table sat a bonsai tree and an incense stick stabbed into a clump of clay. A lighthearted pretty Persian spread covered a sumptuous mattress on the floor. Atop the mattress lay a grotesque, six-foot-tall, passion-pink, blond-haired and buxom inflatable Japanese sex doll, her legs spread wide open, silently awaiting whatever transgressions a little monkey's pea brain could conjure.

Joe stopped. “Wait a minute—what's that?”

“It's Sasha's. He loves her. It was easier than buying a mate. And he never bites her—she's perfect for all his sexual aggression.”

Across the hall, Sasha himself stood in the bathroom doorway, wrapped in a little pink towel, his teeth chattering loudly.

A wide double bed covered with a colorful puffy quilt dominated her room. A photograph of the guru, a candle, and an incense stick stood on her dresser. More metaphysical monkeys decorated the walls. Nancy settled luxuriously into the comforter; painfully, Joe descended beside her. Lying side by side, holding hands, they watched mysterious pluvial candle-cast shadows on the ceiling. Joe shook his head, destroying the image of a two-foot-tall monkey grappling with that latex amazon. Then Nancy rolled over and hugged him, burrowing her head against his shoulder again. A dead-quiet minute ensued. Nancy raised her head a little and kissed him. Their lips hung fire, barely touching. Her tongue tip sallied forth, laxly wetting his lips. Her eyes stayed closed, Joe kept his open. Nothing he could do would stop it now. He was fascinated by his inability to halt the process. Moments like this could make him believe that sooner or later the planet would be annihilated by a nuclear holocaust. Yet, despite the marital disaster in the offing, finally he was going to gratify some erotic curiosity. So what if, at the heart of the indulgence, dwelled his own self-destruction? Profound sadness and downright overwhelming melancholy guided one hand to her breasts. The other hand clamped her more tightly against him.

“Oh gosh,” she said breathlessly. “This is sweet.”

At first it happened gently, as if they had been old friends. As soon as he pushed her backward and had swung between her legs, Joe calmed down. The fear and trembling of anticipation was replaced by the act itself. She was flooded with goo: he slipped in easily. Nancy said, “Oh.” They froze, savoring it, then began to make love. Her erotic passivity floored him. Instantly, he knew that he could do with her whatever he wished. A near-jibbering idiot moments ago, he was astonished by his sudden composure.

It had been over a decade since he had balled a woman other than Heidi, and yet he felt right at home. Holy mackerel—this was
easy!
Joe withdrew and toyed with her, gently teasing. He caressed her thighs slowly, touched fingertips to the sweet places on either side of her groin, inserted three fingers and massaged her clitoris lackadaisically with his thumb. She squirmed, murmured. After a minute, he backed up a little, lowered his head between her legs and nibbled gently, sending tremors up her body with his tongue. He sucked in all her wonderful tendrils and chewed them softly. Her fingers scrabbled lovingly in his hair; she arched, trying to press herself perfectly against his lips, teaching him how best to do her.

“Oh sweet baby…” The words scorched from a slow fire in her throat. Her thighs shivered against his ears. Her fingers slipped under his lips to play with herself as he sucked. He twanged her little target with the tip of his tongue, and Nancy squealed almost inaudibly: “It's so good … don't stop … please, finish me off.…”

But he raised his mouth, whispering, “Not yet.” She gave a disappointed, urgent murmur. Turning her over, Joe lifted her fanny into position, dropped his head again, and mooshed gobs of spittle between the crease of her buttocks, then deliberately probed her anus with his tongue. She gasped, saying “Sweet Jesus…” and “I never dreamed…” Joe reached for a pillow, slipping it under her belly, then pushed her prone. Straddling the backs of her thighs, he spread her legs out with his feet, arranged her arms at her sides, and gripped them tightly. Her ass bloomed at him, mushroom smooth and white, round and pornographic. From her open mouth saliva drooled onto the sheet. The wonderfully constricting muscles of her vagina sucked him in voraciously: plump gluteals settled against either side of his groin in a perfect fit.

Joe reached one hand under her belly to massage and manipulate again. “I'm gonna come,” she hissed. “I can't hold back.…” At that, a real fondness for her, even a surge of love, rattled him for a second. He almost lost his composure. Her skin beneath him swelled with magical opulence, too good to be true, like puberty fantasies about movie stars. He could see her orgasm as it rippled throughout her happy frame. Joe warned himself desperately about the love as his own orgasm gathered—and then passed. His erotic tension was replaced by a bizarre, cold-blooded sensation as she squirmed spastically amid exclamations of “Oh dear … oh joy … oh my gosh…”

Dreamily, Joe licked his thumb and pried it into her anus. She gave a cry and her fingernails dug painfully into his flesh just above the knees. A feeling of panic arose. To be inside a woman and feel so
cold.
Joe wanted to holler “Stop!” and “I'm sorry!” and “I don't love you at all!” But he kept quiet. Yet he had never really screwed a woman just for the fun of it, just for the physical off—he had always felt (or thought he felt)
in love
—and his reaction was weird. He wanted to make it all right by saying, “I love you, Nancy, I really do.” But that was crazy. Then the feeling subsided. Joe shivered from a chill and from a sense that this was wrong. Then suddenly, angrily, he banged into her a half-dozen strokes, thrust a final time, hard, causing her to blurt “Ouch!,” and slumped, bending over to rest his breast against her shoulder blades. He buried his face in the nest of her neck, sighing in the kind of pain he would not dare express.

They relaxed.

An ugly phrase came into Joe's head, and repeated itself:
Find 'em, feel 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em.

Eventually, she said, “Wow.” As he wilted inside her, Joe dazedly munched on her neck. What did they call this—“recreational sex”? Lazily, she readjusted. And queried: “Did you come?”

“It was incredible,” he whispered, trying to sound sincere. “I loved it.”

“I wasn't sure.” She slurred the words sexily. “Don't move for a minute, whatever you do.”

Exhausted, Joe lay there as if in a sleeper berth on a midnight train, listening to the wheels clack out a rhythm and a rhyme:

Find 'em, feel 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em.…

*   *   *

T
HE TELEPHONE RANG
. Nancy murmured, “Would you get it, please? I'm so comfortable.”

Bumping into walls, bureaus, and paintings, Joe groggily maneuvered into the gloomy living room and snatched up the receiver. “Hello,” said a high-pitched voice almost drowned in long-distance static. “Is this the Ryan pad? Are you Randall?”

“This is her place, yeah. But she's indisposed at the moment. And I'm not Randall, I'm Joe Miniver. Can I take a message?”

“Okay, but listen carefully, man, they're only giving us one phone call. This is Rama Unfug, I think you know me. I'm a photographer traveling with a group that's bringing the Hanuman statue to Chamisaville. But we ran into a little problem. The van got a flat in the Holland Tunnel last night during rush hour. We didn't have a spare. So Wilkerson Busbee hadda try and hike out with the tire to a garage, but he was overcome by the monoxide. This lady with us, Iréné Papadraxis, started mouthing off at the cops when they arrived, so they searched the van, found Fluff Dimaggio's lid of pot and a revolver he doesn't have a New York license for, and decided we must of ripped off the monkey god. They also discovered Baba Ram Bang doesn't have a valid visa to be in the USA. But that's not the worst of it. Baba Ram Bang's a diabetic, you dig? And somebody on the wrecking crew that towed us out must of stolen his insulin. So he's right on the edge of shock. You need to tell Nancy that the Simian Foundation had better wire some bread for bail and get a doctor to order these jerks to give us some insulin. And maybe somebody in Chamisaville knows a good New York lawyer who could figure out how to steer us clear of being detained under the Sullivan Law.…”

Back in bed, as best he could, Joe related the garbled message. Nancy said, “Oh golly, I'll be right back, don't go away.” Joe lay there, semidumbfounded by her composure while she chatted pleasantly on the living-room phone for five minutes. When she returned, he said, “How can you even begin to unravel that mess?”