bedroom.
At one of Karen’s parties, I talked to an attractive middle-aged woman, a contributing editor of
Branching Out
, a women’s magazine. After telling me that she was in charge of her magazine’s weekly report on sexual relationships, she said, “I’m going to stay away from you; otherwise Karen will think you’ve fucked me.” About an hour later, in the hall, she brushed against me, kissed my cheek, and said, “I think you ought to know that I wantyou just for sex; let’s leave the high life to Karen—she’s so good at it!” She didn’t attract me at all, but the notion that I attracted her aroused me. As I kissed her on the mouth, Karen walked in, took one look at the two of us, and turned away.
The guests wouldn’t leave, so we drank beer and told stories until two in the morning. Karen ignored me the entire time. When everyone else had finally left, she turned to me and said, “Go ahead, fuck the bitch.”
In bed, I was confident that I could change her mood. I hugged her. Sitting up, she slapped my face. “Cut it out,” she shouted, “or I’ll kick the shit out of you! Let me sleep.” I felt humiliated. Karen’s slap reminded me of a whore who once hit me when I told her she wasn’t good enough for the price she was asking. In her tough, fuck-the-world way, she gained sexual control over me as a compliant woman never could, and I desired her even more.
The next day on the phone Karen said she wondered whether she should keep on seeing me, since obviously I had something serious going with the woman editor. To make my life seem as eventful as hers, I lied and told her she was right. When she asked if I was in love with that woman, I said, “No, but I’m not detached. To be with her and inside her, to have her all over me—it’s impossible for me to screw and remain detached.” I went on and on.
• • •
Before I left America, there were other men around Karen; among them was David, an actor with a larger-than-life quality. Stick your dick out the window and screw them all, on the table, on the carpet, against a wall, hump and jump and kick and lick—that was David. Once, in front ofme, Karen, who was high on pot, said to him loudly enough for me to hear, “I would like to fuck you, sweetheart, until, until. . .” Then half joking, she dragged him into the bathroom and slammed the door. After a few minutes the two of them came out laughing, and when she asked him, “Will I see you again?” he answered, “I don’t know. That depends on how bad you want it.” I stood there—watching.
• • •
As a boy I had once received a note from my father on the subject of feelings.
You’ve apparently told your governess, Jonathan, that your feelings were hurt when I refused to let you travel on the company plane to see me in Washington. You and I both know that “hurt feelings” is nothing but a dodge for imposing one’s will on another person. Your feelings are no more easily hurt than the feelings of anyone else.
When Karen fucked David practically in front of me, that was evil, but according to some theologians evil is the raw material of spirituality. Was Karen’s act a way of prompting my rage and humiliating me for my self-control, or was she counting me out by deadening me even more? Was she giving in to desire, or to despair?
• • •
From the back seat of my limo I spotted Karen walking along Madison Avenue. I asked the driver to slow down and I watched her for a while. Casting quick glances at her reflection in the shop windows, she walked without a trace of slouch, her stride even, shoulders square, chest up, weight forward, arms and hands at ease, at times brushing her hair off her forehead and neck. As long as I have known her, Karen has been checking and rechecking the state of her image, as if it had a will of its own and could one day leave her. Equally on the street, at home, in a disco, or at a
At one of Karen’s parties, I talked to an attractive middle-aged woman, a contributing editor of
Branching Out
, a women’s magazine. After telling me that she was in charge of her magazine’s weekly report on sexual relationships, she said, “I’m going to stay away from you; otherwise Karen will think you’ve fucked me.” About an hour later, in the hall, she brushed against me, kissed my cheek, and said, “I think you ought to know that I wantyou just for sex; let’s leave the high life to Karen—she’s so good at it!” She didn’t attract me at all, but the notion that I attracted her aroused me. As I kissed her on the mouth, Karen walked in, took one look at the two of us, and turned away.
The guests wouldn’t leave, so we drank beer and told stories until two in the morning. Karen ignored me the entire time. When everyone else had finally left, she turned to me and said, “Go ahead, fuck the bitch.”
In bed, I was confident that I could change her mood. I hugged her. Sitting up, she slapped my face. “Cut it out,” she shouted, “or I’ll kick the shit out of you! Let me sleep.” I felt humiliated. Karen’s slap reminded me of a whore who once hit me when I told her she wasn’t good enough for the price she was asking. In her tough, fuck-the-world way, she gained sexual control over me as a compliant woman never could, and I desired her even more.
The next day on the phone Karen said she wondered whether she should keep on seeing me, since obviously I had something serious going with the woman editor. To make my life seem as eventful as hers, I lied and told her she was right. When she asked if I was in love with that woman, I said, “No, but I’m not detached. To be with her and inside her, to have her all over me—it’s impossible for me to screw and remain detached.” I went on and on.
• • •
Before I left America, there were other men around Karen; among them was David, an actor with a larger-than-life quality. Stick your dick out the window and screw them all, on the table, on the carpet, against a wall, hump and jump and kick and lick—that was David. Once, in front ofme, Karen, who was high on pot, said to him loudly enough for me to hear, “I would like to fuck you, sweetheart, until, until. . .” Then half joking, she dragged him into the bathroom and slammed the door. After a few minutes the two of them came out laughing, and when she asked him, “Will I see you again?” he answered, “I don’t know. That depends on how bad you want it.” I stood there—watching.
• • •
As a boy I had once received a note from my father on the subject of feelings.
You’ve apparently told your governess, Jonathan, that your feelings were hurt when I refused to let you travel on the company plane to see me in Washington. You and I both know that “hurt feelings” is nothing but a dodge for imposing one’s will on another person. Your feelings are no more easily hurt than the feelings of anyone else.
When Karen fucked David practically in front of me, that was evil, but according to some theologians evil is the raw material of spirituality. Was Karen’s act a way of prompting my rage and humiliating me for my self-control, or was she counting me out by deadening me even more? Was she giving in to desire, or to despair?
• • •
From the back seat of my limo I spotted Karen walking along Madison Avenue. I asked the driver to slow down and I watched her for a while. Casting quick glances at her reflection in the shop windows, she walked without a trace of slouch, her stride even, shoulders square, chest up, weight forward, arms and hands at ease, at times brushing her hair off her forehead and neck. As long as I have known her, Karen has been checking and rechecking the state of her image, as if it had a will of its own and could one day leave her. Equally on the street, at home, in a disco, or at a
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