There Should Have Been Castles Page 22

  At eleven forty she entered the lobby—nonchalantly beautiful as she looked quickly over the room to see if I was there. Afraid that she might not be able to pick me out (there were other soldiers sitting about), I raised my hand. She continued on to the elevator and I couldn’t tell whether or not she had seen me. It was of no consequence for I already had my orders.

  I waited five minutes and then went to the elevator. I got off at the fifth floor and walked to room 503. I knocked, softly. Too softly. No answer. I knocked again. Louder. Nothing. I tried the door. It was open and I went in, my heart banging pans in my head.

  The room was fairly dark, the drapes all drawn, no lights on. Still, I could see well enough to note that it was more than just a room, it was a suite. She appeared in the doorway to the bedroom, looking like a fantasy, wearing something silk and flimsy, no slippers, her toes painted, polished and flexing, digging into all that lavish Ritz-Carlton pile.

  I started to speak but she put her fingers to her lips as if to indicate no talking. Then she moved toward me, taking my hand like a kid in a park, leading me into the bedroom. Then she turned and faced me and she smiled, as though knowing some great secret that she was about to share with me, and slowly she reached up and loosened my tie. It came off and she was unbuttoning my shirt. The shirt came off, and the T-shirt. And soon I was standing in the middle of that most elegant room stripped to the waist, astonished, a monkey’s uncle smile on my Little Tommy Tucker face.

  Delicately she touched my arms, running her hands over them, then over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach, all the while looking into my eyes and saying not a word, her mouth just slightly open, her breathing contemplative and feline, her perfume swarming. She was so urgently present, everything about her so screaming with promise, that I reached out to touch her. And she brushed my hand away. I was not to touch her. Again her finger flew to her lips. I understood.

  She slid easily to her knees in front of me, her face and hair slipping passed my belt, her hands also, butter-flying over my fly, never really making contact yet tracing my periphery like a blind person forming an image.

  She was untying my shoelaces and I raised each foot, one at a time, so that she could remove my shoes and my socks. I was retrogressing, getting younger every minute. I was twelve, on my way to ten. Still on her knees she looked up at me and again I couldn’t help but reach down to cup that unbelievable face. Again she shook me off, a touch more angrily than before. I was ten, going on nine.

  Her hands found my belt buckle, her actions then like those of a safecracker, expertly unbuttoning my pants as though knowing the combination well in advance. My trousers dropped obediently and, cleverly, I knew to step out of them. Some change fell out of my pockets but I knew not to mention it. I was seven.

  She got to her feet and walked behind me, staying there, her hands snaking around me so that I could see them and watch them as they probed, feeling for the waistband of my undershorts, her thumbs curling inside, slowly peeling at my shorts, rolling them down. They dropped to my ankles and I stepped out of them, kicking them out of the way. They flew to a lamp and hung there. I was down to dog tags and wristwatch and, to show her that I knew my way around, I removed them. I was six.

  And I was naked. And she was behind me where I couldn’t see her. She had touched me all over, everywhere—but had yet to touch my penis, that silly appendage so confused by it all that it pressed hard against my stomach like a bazooka aimed at my nose. Her hands again played on my arms, my sides, and her lips, making no kisses, whispered across my shoulders and over the back of my neck. Then—small bites and hot breath, and hands no longer playing but feeling, kneading, stroking.

  I was completely immobilized, standing with my back to her like wet clay being shaped, like a department store dummy being stripped. Her left hand went outrageously between my legs, from behind, finding my scrotum and surrounding it with fingers. In that, too, she was expert, squeezing me just short of screaming, though I do believe I said “Eek.” Her right hand, coming from the side in a flanking action, found my penis, and those fingers were not so gentle, grabbing and hanging on as if to strangle. I could not move and dared not move. I was witless, not a thought as to what to say or do. I could not see her, only her hands, one caressing, the other clamping. Ten fingers working me over—left hand a kitten, right hand a vise. Dichotomous dickery. I was three.

  Then both hands let go and she appeared again before me, standing. But her eyes were not for my eyes, they were for my penis. So I looked at it, too, to see why the wide-eyed fascination. And there it was, where I had left it, but swollen beyond pornography. It was a rock, red-blue with dumbfoundedness, still looking up at me, its one eye moist with a few tears of pre-ejaculation.

  She leaned over, touching it with nothing but tongue, and the little drops went lizardly into her mouth. If she were to touch it again—with anything, her elbow, the heel of her foot—I’d have released like Hoover Dam. But she was too knowledgeable to allow that to happen.

  Taking me by the hand, she led me to the bed, lay me on my back and once again manipulated my genitals with her hands so that my penis seemed nine times as large as I had ever envisioned it becoming. And it no longer belonged to me. It belonged to her. I belonged to her for I was, by then, nothing more than a pulsing phallus with a soldier boy attached. Never had I, or have I since, been so thoroughly in the possession of a woman. Nor did we ever speak. Everything was done wordlessly. Two mutes fucking in oil. Two giraffes, with cotton in our ears, banging away in a soundproofed room. Every move we made was of her creation and at her direction. Whatever it was that the lady had done to me with her hands, it had rendered me incapable of ejaculating. She had so retarded my orgasm that my toes and fingers twitched in bewildered palsy. I was stupendously erect and, though continually at the brink of ejaculation, I was unable to pull the pin of the grenade.

  Meanwhile, stunned at how I could hover in such a pained state and still enjoy it, I watched her slip out of her robe, the confident champion about to take on the cocky challenger. The bell rang and I was immediately down, and she was toying with me, using me as if I were a circus animal—a trained bear, a rabbit on a string, a lion lunging through a flaming hoop, each time from a different direction.

  I entered her from above, from behind, from beneath, from beyond, from the next room, from the chandelier, from Altoona. I entered her from positions I had never before dreamed anatomically possible. And each insertion and its accompanying plunges touched off a climax in her so total in its violence that things spun amazingly into reverse, making me feel as though she were trying to catapult me out, trying to slam me against the far wall. But something held me in and kept me there. It wasn’t her legs because, though often wrapped around me, they were usually flapping like canvas in a gale. What it was was me, thrusting determinedly through her contracting rings and revolving bearings, fighting to remain in her because, damn it, that’s where I wanted to be.

  All of this took place without a word, causing me to wonder if I hadn’t lost my hearing, if all my adolescent masturbations hadn’t brought about deafness rather than the promised blindness—and if blindness wasn’t next.

  My lady wanted oral sex and oral sex she got, pulling my head down and into her so that I wore her like a mask. Never terribly experienced in that department, I learned fast, her body telling me, wordlessly, when I was doing nobly and when I was losing ground. I would have stayed down there forever, willingly, happily. I would have gladly died down there, buried in the frills and folds of her, bathed and boiled in the essence of her, but she saw no reason to carry the sport so far. And somewhere—who knows when—she disengaged herself from me and, rolling voluptuously onto her side, lay on her pillow like an oil-painted nude over a Yukon bar, wearing nothing but an impish smile and a “come fuck me” look.

  She stroked my face with a lazy tenderness that belied her former passion. And she spoke. Hurrah, I was not deaf! I was merely beat. “Poor baby. I wore you out.�
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  “Not at all. I’m fine.”

  She laughed. “Ah—a gentleman. You were very good. Do you know that?”

  “Oh, I thought I was all right.”

  Again she laughed. “Never had it like that before, did you?”

  “Oh—”

  “Where you’re nothing but a tool.” She was playing with my penis. It was so hard that I thought for a moment that she had somehow had it bronzed when I wasn’t looking. “Poor thing—all the way from Fort Devens, and the lady didn’t let you come. Poor little Peter, how nice he was to me.”

  “I just hope the damned thing goes down. Be pretty embarrassing on the bus.”

  “Men are invariably so selfish, that’s why I turn the tables. Ladies first. I take care of me, after which—” Her face was on my stomach, her hair passing over my nakedness like a silken scarf, “—I take care of the sweet soldier.” And she began to do things to me with her mouth, her lips, her tongue, talking to me as she did. “This is what I love the most. I love—a man in my mouth. If you knew, Dear Ben. Mmmmmm. I love it more than peanut butter. You’ll be fine soon. Relax. I feel you—getting ready. Don’t hold back. When it comes, go with it. Give it to me.”

  Obeying her instructions, I fired myself straightaway into her head. I just reared up, gathered my buttocks, and let go, the stalwart lady never backing off, never losing hold, never tiring, never disappointing. And when it was over, when the infernal cannon had fired, recoiled, and cooled, she held the poor remnant in one hand, while patting it with the other, like ladies pat kittens. “Good boy.”

  “Better than peanut butter?”

  “Better than cream sherry. Did you know that—men taste different. Some taste bitter, some taste sweet.”

  “Which am I?”

  “Sweet. Oh, sweet.” And she started on me again, licking me like a lolly.

  “Listen, if it’s all the same with you—”

  She laughed, almost choking on me. “Yes. I know. You’re tired. But your friend, here, he has other ideas.”

  “Don’t listen to him. He’s just showing off.”

  “No. He’s coming back. Look at the size of him.” Once again my penis filled her hand and she stretched it out so that I could see, and held it like a prize trout that she’d caught on a one-pound line.

  I marveled at it. “Look at that.”

  “The next one’s for you.”

  “The next what?”

  “The next fuck, darling. Whatever you want. I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Yeah? Well—”

  “Ben, you’re ready. What is your pleasure?”

  “Well—?”

  “Don’t miss this opportunity, soldier. The lady is all cunt. Spread-eagled and smoking. Let’s get rid of that good conduct medal and give me that splendid cock.”

  My record had been, until then, seven orgasms within a two-hour period, my partner in that accomplishment being the dutiful Alice. But records are made to be broken, as are beds if one is too ardent. And if the woman involved is not split asunder, and if the man on duty can rise to each occasion, and if all the moving parts are working together and obedient inertia joins the fray, and if the cops don’t bust in, there are no limits as to how many orgasms can be achieved by a young man of purpose. By my count the new record was ten.

  I have no idea how long we were at it or why I was still alive. My body had turned to sponge, my magic penis telescoping so far back into its sheath that only its corona remained, as a lookout. The lady was working over me like a battlefield nurse—Molly Pitcher with a wash cloth—washing my boneless body, talking me back to life. “Ben? Are you awake?”

  “No. I’m dead. But don’t stop.”

  “You were rather remarkable, you know.” She was toweling me dry and sprinkling me with talcum.

  “Best you ever had?”

  “No. Tarzan was better. But he swung from a vine. There. How’s that? You’re all ready to be diapered.”

  “What to hear something ridiculous?”

  “I always want to hear something ridiculous.”

  “I only know your last name. What’s your first name?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Maggie Barringer. Nice name.”

  “It’s not Barringer.”

  “No?”

  “No. I just live with him. Oh, Ben—let’s be honest about everything, shall we? It’s so tiring to pretend. Can we be honest and not get hung up in the bullshit of the times?”

  “I think it’s worth a try.”

  “I’m not married to Kevin Barringer. I just live with him. He’s rich, generous, charming—likes to fuck, when he can. And he allows me to be what I am.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I don’t know. A wastrel, I guess. A hoyden. A nymph. A nymphomaniac, maybe—only nymphomaniacs, I’m told, can’t orgasm. And I can.”

  “Yes. I’ll vouch for that.”

  She was lying next to me, talking, and I knew that the sex was over, at least for that day. “Anyway, I live with Kevin, in this palace, and sometimes I travel with him when he wants to show me off. He’s in the oil business, cartels and things. He’s forever going away. We’re both back from Europe for maybe a month.”

  “Does he know that you—?”

  “Fuck around? I think he does. As long as I don’t make a big display of it, it’s all right. He likes that I give some time to the USO. So do I. I’ve been lucky there twice.”

  “Who else?”

  “A young sailor. Fucked like he’d been at sea for five years. He shipped out—and you shipped in.”

  “And Kevin doesn’t suspect?”

  “Maybe. But he doesn’t badger me. He doesn’t know I have this suite. Actually I think he does know but is glad I get some loving on the side because he’s getting to be sixtyish. I wear him out. Whenever I’ve got eyes for someone else, I give Kevin a fucking that’ll last him a month.”

  “Sounds sporting.”

  “I have suites in New York, Paris, and London, too. And, Ben, I have two daughters. One’s a teenager. The other’s twenty-two and married.”

  “That’s hard to believe.”

  “I abandoned them. Just walked out. It’s indefensible, of course, but necessary to my sanity. I’m just not maternal. Fertile but not maternal—the curse of the Incas.”

  “Do you know where they are?”

  “One’s in Chicago. At least she was the last time I looked. She’s married. The other’s in a girls school somewhere. My husband’s in Stamford, Connecticut. He paints. After years of trying to play mother while fucking frantically on the side, I just picked up and left. I’m telling you all this so’s you’ll know everything about me, and it’s all bad. I’m afraid I have no redeeming features except in bed, which I’m told is colossal. I move around—from man to man. I suppose it’ll catch up to me one day. I guess it’s catching up now. When it does, maybe I’ll go home. They’re very forgiving. I’ll wear lace, settle down, blow an occasional milkman and grow old gracefully. For all I know I’m already a grandmother. Would you mind fucking a grandmother?”

  “I hear Marlene Dietrich’s a grandmother.”

  “Will you come back next Sunday and do me again?”

  “I’ll have to check my appointment pad, but I think I can squeeze you in.”

  “You might get scared. I mean, after thinking it over you might not like the idea of being an old lady’s plaything.”

  “No. Never. It’s just that I don’t know how long I’m going to be around. I’m being discharged. It’s all very honorable. The Army just doesn’t think I’m good for anything.”

  “If they’d listen to me, they’d make you a fucking general.”

  “Yeah, well, don’t tell ’em. I’m as sick of them as they are of me.”

  “A rebel. I love that. I’ll miss you. We were just getting to know each other.” She sprinkled more talcum on me. “Good-bye, old buddy, it was just one of those things.”

  “I may be around for a while, th
ough. They don’t let you out right away. They like to pull your wings off.”

  “Where is home?”

  “New York City.”

  “I can meet you there. I’ve a suite at the St. Regis.”

  “Great.”

  “What do you do? Do you have a job?”

  “I’m a movie mogul. I write advertising for 20th Century-Fox.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No.”

  “I know a lot of people there. Skouras, Winnerman. Clark. I don’t bed down with them, I just see them in my travels.”

  “I work for W. Charles Gruber. Know him?”

  “Yes. Watch out for him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean watch out for him. He’s gay.”

  “Gruber? Come on.”

  “Has he fixed you up with a girl, yet?”

  “Why should he?”

  “Because, now that I look at you, you’re exactly the kind of young stud he’d just love.”

  “You know him?”

  “Oh, well—yes—I know him. I mean, dear Ben, I do get around. I just don’t want to play ‘fuck and tell,’ okay? I’ve told you too much already.”

  “Just tell me why Gruber’d fix me up with a girl.”

  “Because that’s his game. He fixes you up, makes you happy, gets to be your friend—and the next thing you know he’s up your ass.”

  “Jesus, the things you can learn in Boston.”

  “I have to go now. Kevin’s having some people over. I think they’re digging for oil behind our house. You can stay here if you like. Order up something from room service. Whatever you like. They’ll put it on my bill.”

  “What time is it?”

  “About five.”

  “Maybe I’ll have a beer before I go back.”

  “Be my guest. And I’ll see you next Sunday, okay? Same time, same station.”

  “How about earlier?”

  “That’s my boy.”