Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me by Richard Farina

that?”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “Surely it must, if you do it. Dispensing with bears, hitchhiking.”
    Finished her last spoonful, whoopee. Never thread anyone while they’re eating. “Can I make a fire?”
    “Yes, go right ahead. You may as well pour me a drink while you’re up, if you don’t mind.”
    And another one for me. And wouldn’t you like to be carried off to Margate or Brighton, some whitewashed cottage with British roses in the window boxes, wood and iron doors six inches thick. Turn off the lamp.
    “What did you do that for?”
    Careful now. “Takes away from the firelight.”
    “Ah.” Then, “You’re not truly an astronomer, are you? That was all part of the Evergood business, yes?”
    “Stargazing is all.”
    “I thought so, you’re far too lyrical.”
    “The conscience of my elusive race gives not a fig for me, baby. But I endure, if you know what I mean.”
    “Must you be so cryptic?”
    Always present a moving target. “Define a thing and you can dispense with it, right? Come here.”
    “No. Not yet, I mean. I want to know more about you.”
    “Sure thing. But you have a hair on your chest and it has me up-tight.”
    “Ohhh. What a horrible thing to say.” But the flash in her expression not repelling. Move closer. Touch her arm. There. Put down the enema bag.
    “Your skin is creamy. Jergens Lotion and all.”
    “Please, I asked you not—” Neck, try neck with fingertips. Ho, see her eyes close, what did I tell you. Knee?
    “Please—”
    “You’ll like it.”
    “You’re too sure.”
    “Practice.”
    “Really, how awful—”
    My Christ, no boobs at all. Not a goddamned thing. But that hair. What a glorious flaw. Try the thigh.
    “Oh please, you don’t even care about Simon.”
    “Simon?” Going religious?
    “My fiancé.”
    “Check.” Kissing her throat: oh, feel the squirm.
    “You’re so terribly vulgar.”
    “I’m going to
move
you, baby.”
    Take a sip of Scotch, push her back. I knew it, I just knew it.
    “No.”
    “Yes.”
    Oh so drunk. Kimono away, nothing to her.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Mmmmmmm.”
    “Ohh.”
    “MMMMM.”
    “But my heels are still on.”
    “Ahhhmmmmm.”
    “Ohhh, you’re disgusting.”
    But you love it. Jesus, I’m still dressed. Maneuver carefully, keep her on the floor. Jacket tight. There. Hell with the shirt. Pants.
    “Wait, do you have one of those things?”
    My God, in the parka pocket. Lie: “Yes.” Pants down, too tight to get over shoes, ivy league fashion. Leave them.
    “You don’t have any underwear on?”
    “Never use it.”
    “Are you circumcised?”
    “Look.”
    “Oh, you’re not.”
    “Catholic.”
    “That’s horrible.”
    “Why?”
    “I read something once, about cancer.”
    “I’m Immune. Here you go.”
    “Ohhhhhh . . . ”
    “I’m going to move you all over, baby.”
    “Oh!”
    Climb up. Her eyes wild. Maybe insane. No such luck. Easy there. There. There.
    “Ummmm.”
    Take a sip of lush, don’t hurry things. “You want a drink?”
    “What? Now?”
    “Here.”
    “No. No, just hurry along.”
    Little sideways action. Oh, feel her legs. Heels need spurs. Easy, easy easy easy. Going to be fast.
    “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”
    “Mmmmmm,” what rhythm? Night in Tunisia. Charlie Parker. Timpani. Close now. Wooooo. Faster . . . 
    “Oh God . . . ”
    No invocations, baby, Gnossos right there. Closer now.
    easy
    easy
    easy
    unh.
    Unhh.
    UNH!
    “Ooooo.”
    “There.”
    “God.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Did you—get it on all right?”
    “What?”
    “The thing.”
    “What thing?”
    “The contraceptive thing.”
    “I didn’t really have one.”
    “What?”
    “Lust overcame me.”
    “WHAT?” Pamela lurching away from underneath, rolling off to one side. Seed thick with lush and paregoric, better say something sweet.
    “Paregoric.”
    “What?”
    “Too much shit in me, you’d never fertilize.”
    “Oh, what an ugly word that is. What will I do? I