Memoirs of a beatnik Read online

  February Concluded

  All right, I thought, I am certainly not Ivan, but I will give you what pleasure I can. Overcoming a momentary revulsion, I set my mouth over it, licking and reaming the opening, while Robin trembled from head to foot, clutching at the mattress. I raised my head, threw one knee over him so that I straddled his body and, sitting back on his upper thighs which I grasped tightly between my knees, I thrust first one and then two fingers deep into the dark hole, now slick with my saliva. Robin moaned, and, as the second finger entered him, cried out with pain, thrashing from side to side, and bucking his ass up and down wildly. I bent my head down to the small of his back and bit him till I drew blood, tasting the salty liquid again and again, while my right hand plunged up and down in his anus and my left hand raked welts across his shoulders. At last I withdrew, kneeling upright as I straddled him, and drinking in the desperate moans and convulsive trembling that I had set going, aware at last of the turmoil of emotions within myself: desire, aroused by the power I was wielding, and anguish and frustration that I could not complete the act I was approximating, that I was not the man-pirate or jewel thief—I had so often in the daydreams of adolescence pretended to myself to be. Suddenly I was angry at Robin for desiring Ivan, for taking no pleasure in my flesh for its own sake.

  I set my hands on his shoulders and turned him over. He resisted momentarily, but I dug my nails into his shoulders and he, limp with uncompleted pleasure and agony, did as I wished. His member was huge and sprang up erect as soon as it was released from its imprisonment. Still kneeling over him, I thrust my fingers deep into my wet cunt, separating the lips and lowering my hole over the dark swollen head of his prick. Smaller than Ivan's, it fitted comfortably into my slightly sore, still tight cunt. I remained thus motionless for a moment, drinking in the pleasure of this comfortable fullness, and then I reached down to play with his balls and find once more his raked and painful asshole. I began to buck slowly up and down, riding him as he turned his head from side to side in pain and pleasure, seeking to bury his face once more in the pillow. My finger, now wet with my own juice, was once again deep in his anus, describing small circles and I could sense the sharp heightening of his pleasure as my fingernail for a moment caught accidentally against the sensitive skin.

  February Concluded

  At last my weariness and satiation were overcome and I was fully roused by the helpless anguish and ecstasy of the boy beneath me. My movements became uncontrollable, shaking my whole torso, and unearthly animal sounds burst from my lips as I passed my free hand over his twisted face. For a brief moment I felt that I was drinking his entire being into my cunt as he pumped his life juice into me and I fell forward, face downward, against his chest.

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  April

  alternately dallied and dozed, till one of us, roused to desire, fell upon the other with hungry mouth and guided a willing hand home to her cunt.

  Or the afternoons, not less frequent, when five or six girls had gathered in one room. One had been chosen and ritually stripped, and the rest, posted at different parts of her anatomy, sought to arouse her while she lay naked on the bed Those long school days spent in studying, though what we studied was not the prescribed curriculum: Tomi playing, for instance, with Kate's feet and ankles, while I nibbled at her small breasts, and Lee, whom we both loved, licked at her belly and finally her cunt—those days formed now a scent and taste about us, leaving the air in a room heavy and charged when we both entered it.

  I could feel the electricity flow through my limbs and into my loins as I thought of these things, could feel the aching hunger and slight moistness in my cunt. Tomi sensed what I was feeling, or else my expression changed, for she put down the Conte crayons, set aside her drawing board, and came to me. Our mouths met, I ran my fingers through her short, dark hair, and made as if to lie with her on the wide-planked floor of the studio. But she resisted, shaking her head.

  "Martha will see us." Martha was her mother.

  "Fuck Martha," I said, not for the first time. "Let's shut the barn door."

  "Then she'll know, for sure."

  Tomi started to slip away, but I still had her by the waist and drew her to me where I sat, slipping my hand under her white man-tailored blouse and feeling of the charged, mobile flesh of her small back. My face was buried now in her neck and, as I held onto her waist with one hand, I fumbled to open her grey flannel slacks with the other.

  "Di Prima, goddammit, don't!"

  There was real fright in her voice and I let her go, half-trembling with the smell of her-Chanel's Russian Leather, her habitual cologne—which was to haunt me for the rest of my life.

  Tomi stood half a foot away from me, tucking her blouse back into her slacks, straightening her ascot tremulously, all without raising her big green eyes to mine. At last she turned her back on

  April

  me, whipped out a comb, and combed her boyish locks back into place. Then, very slowly and meticulously, she arranged the conte crayons in their box, closed it, picked up a can of fixative, sprayed her drawing and stood it on an easel to dry, while I stood watching her, half angry and half amused.

  When at last she turned toward me the flush in her cheeks had subsided, leaving her very pale and very grave. She held out her hand with a smile that begged me not to be angry: "Come on, di Prima, we'll go for a walk in the woods."

  The woods began just a few yards beyond the barn, and once in them and out of the sun it was damp, with the damp chilliness of early spring. The ground was soft, the green moss on the tree trunks shone like jewels. I picked my way carefully in my old ballet shoes, trying to avoid really sharp rocks and soggy places. I was wearing a pair of blue jeans pulled over a black leotard and bound about with a royal blue sash. My hair was loose and kept getting caught in the branches and my bare feet in their slippers were chilly.

  We forded a stream. That is, Tomi forded it easily enough in her loafers. I, being a city girl, didn't even try: I slipped off my soggy slippers and stepped right into the icy, fast-running water. The stream was quite shallow and not very wide, but when I stepped out my feet and ankles were white as parchment, two of my toes were numb, and the bottoms of my jeans were dripping. The far bank of the stream sloped slightly and we clambered up, slipping and sliding, laughing and pelting each other with leaves and pieces of bark.

  At last the ground grew drier, it leveled off, and we came to a clearing full of sunshine where a few huge boulders lay basking and sunning themselves. I climbed a rock and lay down on my back in the sun, one arm thrown over my eyes to shield them and my wet muddy shoes set beside me to dry. I could feel the warmth from the stone soak into my body, could hear the headlong rush of the stream full of melted snow, and the soft, hesitant rustles and occasional birdcalls of the woodland creatures in my self-created darkness.

  Tomi came and lay at right angles to me, and put her head on my stomach. Every muscle in my body thrilled and tensed, but I

  April

  didn't move. I could feel my flesh grow alternately warm and cold where her breath, filtering through my nylon leotard, touched my skin.

  We lay together for a long time without speaking and then-her lips lightly brushing my stomach as she did so-she turned her head so that she was facing my feet. She reached one slim, small-muscled arm down along my leg, brushing my ankle with the tips of her fingers.

  "You're still wet from the stream," she murmured. She pushed my damp dungarees further up my legs and, sliding down, began to suck the droplets of water that clung to my ankles. At last I stirred, took the arm from across my eyes and, raising my head slightly, looked down at the small dark creature who could arouse such sorrow and hunger in me.

  "Still wet, and muddy," I answered her.

  She rose to her knees and sat back on her heels, looking at me with an agony of hunger, behind which lurked a certain lewd playfulness.

  "I'll fix that in a minute," she muttered and, raising her hands to her blouse, began to unbut
ton it as swiftly and matter-of-factly as possible.

  She slipped it off, folded it, and placed it beside her on the rock, while I took in the familiar, creamy texture of her skin: its delicate, off-white ivory color against which the pristine whiteness of her brassiere stood out starkly. A swift movement of her hands behind her back and she had slipped it off, and I studied her burnt-sienna nipples and the heaviness of her young breasts, which sagged ever so slightly in spite of her scant eighteen years.

  She was still on her knees beside me, but now, with a single motion, she stood up and began to undo her slacks. She slipped them off, together with her underpants, as easily and unselfconsciously as if she was undressing alone in her own bedroom. She separated the slacks and the panties, folded the slacks and placed them neatly, her cotton panties on top. She stepped out of her loafers and, her back to me, bent to remove her heavy wool socks, so that for a brief moment I was aware of nothing but the dark crease of her ass and the red slit beyond, where a small bead of creamy moisture had already gathered.

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  April

  Then she straightened and, making fists of her hands, stretched them straight above her head, throwing her face back toward the sun and standing on tiptoe as she stretched out her whole torso in an almost ritual movement. The concave place in the small of her back was matched by the concave line under her rib cage as her stomach flattened and flexed in narcissistic pleasure under the warm sun.

  I studied her small figure-the wide hips and heavy breasts so lush in spite of her slimness, the warm tone of her flesh—seeking to find the combination of elements, of color and line, that bound me to her: that had done so for the two years I had known her.

  She looked down at me where I lay on the rock in a welter of red hair, no longer sulking but still distant and wary.

  "Still wet and muddy," she drawled mockingly, and then, kneeling again at my feet, began gently, half-teasingly, to dry my ankles with her white cotton panties. She dried them slowly, alternating left and right, first my ankles, then my insteps, then the arch of each foot; then she began to wipe the mud from the soles of my feet and to clean and dry my toes one by one, wiping the mud from between them with her underwear, finally bending and taking them into her mouth.

  I lay under her ministrations, feeling her touch on the soft skin of my feet, not moving while wave after wave of desire swept over me. At last I could contain myself no longer, and I sat up and drew her to me, drinking deeply of her scents: cologne and hair, sweat and lust, all mingling in a fragrance that was Tomi, as I kissed her soft, acquiescent mouth again and again.

  Her small hands slipped behind my back and under my hair and unzipped my leotard and unhooked my bra so that she could, with one motion, slip them both down over my shoulders. Still holding my mouth with her own, she drew me to my feet, undid my jeans, and with my eager help slipped all my clothes off in one tangled heap. I stepped out of them without interrupting our kiss.

  We stood there together on our rock in the sun, and I shivered as the cool damp breeze of early spring came out of the woods and found us. My head bent to hers, our bodies scarcely touching, and I raised one hand and gently began to stroke one of her breasts, while the other hand found its way between her thighs. She

  April

  contrived to separate them slightly, and I lightly rubbed her clitoris, feeling it stand out and harden slightly under my touch, before I slid my fingers into that warm, moist cunt I knew so well.

  She sank her weight slightly upon my hand so as to draw me even further into her, and I played with the walls of her opening, exploring here and there, steadily, eagerly, while my other hand slipped from her breast and went around her shoulders, half supporting, half embracing her. Both her arms were around me; her hands hooked onto my shoulders helped to hold her up. Then my plunging, trembling hand touched the neck of her womb, and she bit down on my lower lip with a moan, her pelvis jerking wildly.

  With one sharp cry she released a flood of come over my hand and collapsed against me. I nearly staggered under her weight, but managed to keep my balance as she leaned against me, her flushed face buried against my chest, her breasts and stomach totally crushed against me. As she so often did when she reached a climax, she was crying softly to herself.

  I withdrew my hand softly, and she, her crying abating somewhat, slipped to her knees in front of me and raised her mouth to my cunt.

  I stood over her, squatting slightly to allow her easier access to my throbbing, aching cunt. Her tongue flickered ceaselessly, maddeningly over my clitoris, her arms were around my thighs, her hands on my buttocks squeezed them convulsively. My excitement had almost passed the point of being pleasurable, the sun was whirling in the sky, I felt that I could no longer stand. I bent almost double, clutching her short black hair in both hands, as my head hung down and I whispered her name.

  At last her tongue entered my cunt, moving in and out with quick, sure strokes. I could feel her teeth press against my pelvic bone as she strove to enter more deeply. The walls of my vagina were quivering, vibrating like an exquisitely tuned instrument to her every stroke and nuance. At last everything went totally black, a familiar fire licked from my stomach down into my groin and with long, racking shudders I came into her mouth.

  I don't know how I got down, but I found myself lying beside her. Her head was still level with my crotch and there was a small purple bruise beginning to show on my hip, where my bone had struck a rock. It had grown chilly, and even as I stroked her head

  April

  and shoulders I wondered how I could get to my clothes without disturbing the girl whose head lay on my thigh.

  She stirred first, groping through the pockets of her slacks for a cigarette, lighting it with nervous, nicotine-stained fingers. The sun was getting low, and now that the spell was broken warmth became the only imperative. I sat up and fumbled my way back into my clothes, cursing and mumbling as I slipped my feet into my cold, wet shoes. Tomi spoke once, hopefully, to suggest the swimming hole, but I cut her off by saying it was too cold, and it was.

  We tromped back, rumpled and peaceful, and just as we got to the barn dusk was falling and the first stars were out.

  We closed up the studio in silence, pausing only for a brief kiss. Tomi picked up the sketch she had done that afternoon-to show Martha—and we walked across the field to the small farmhouse whose windows were casting chunks of bright light across the evening. The curtains were not drawn, and even before we entered the house we could see that Serge, Tomi's father, was busy preparing drinks, that Martha was knitting something black in front of the fire, that her brother William was back at work on his hi-fi kit.

  We entered with muttered excuses, and ducked quickly into Tomi's room to wash and dress-make ourselves more or less presentable for the evening—pausing often to touch and fondle, to laugh and whisper together.

  April

  32

  April Continued

  by one of her father's hired hands and frequently bullwhipped in the barn by her father, could not bear to be touched at all.

  And there was Tomi. Tomi, who galvanized the whole scene and made it come alive, by falling in love with each of us, one after the other.

  To each of the others in our close, intense scene I could relate to some extent—there was some area in which their lives and mine overlapped, in which their values met my own—but with Tomi I had no point of reference at all, and so of course it was with her that I fell in love. I suspect that we all did, and for the same reason.

  The inside of Tomi's head was full of harpsichords and ink washes, tweeds and lust. Her letters were amazing, eclectic compositions which owed much to Dylan Thomas and J.D. Salinger for their style, and to Jean Cocteau and Jean Paul Sartre for their content. I had just come from a world of Puccini and Tchaikovski to Bach; she played me Schuetz and Palestrina and found Bach "too ornate." Her clothes were a wistful approximation of Bergdorf Goodman and Abercrombie & Fitch. When she spoke of an apartment in Ne
w York it was in the West Village, was stark white, with skylights and Swedish glass, and black sling chairs which she called "African camp chairs."

  Her parents who had no more money than my own, lived beyond their means in expensive Darien, and shopped in a Gristede's where everything cost three times as much as it did in the local supermarket in Brooklyn, but where Tallulah Bankhead could be seen buying brandied peaches. Tomi's mother Martha was a handsome little woman in her mid-forties, Anglo-Saxon and proper, grim and laconic, a woman who did what was expected of her, and took no pleasure in it. It was a well-known—and frequently discussed—fact within the family circle that she was frigid. Her father was a florid Latin type, half French and half Italian, who drank emotionally, spent too much money, and was openly and despairingly in love with bis wife. Their dogs were mangy, but thoroughbred; their heroes F. Scott Fitzgerald and Harry Crosby. Their house was much too small, their barn too big; they read the New Yorker and the Sunday Times, lived on peanutbutter sandwiches and scrambled eggs, and drank endless martinis in front of the fireplace in their dark, crowded living room.

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  April Continued

  All this was an astonishment to me. I came from Brooklyn, from a block that just avoided being a slum, where I had played stick ball in the street and dodged the Irish altar boys. My parents were first-generation Americans, my grandparents Italian, and our backyard was full of grapevines and tomato plants. I had seventeen aunts and as many uncles, and twenty-two first cousins, whom I had been taught to regard as additional brothers and sisters. My grandparents could not read or write; my parents, with grim determination, had put themselves through college and become "professional people." They were never in debt and bought nothing "on time." They were noisy and unpretentious: the cupboard was always full and the liquor cabinet (if there was one) was usually empty except for homemade wine. To like to drink hard liquor was considered a misfortune.