Memoirs of a beatnik Read online

  After paying the rent, the month's deposit, the one-month agency fee, the gas and electric deposit, and the telephone deposit, and purchasing such bare necessities as a frying pan and a blanket, I found myself totally broke, and began to look around anxiously

  Some Ways To Make A Living

  for a way to earn a living. On a crosstown bus I had found a discarded copy of Show Business, and there found an ad for "sexy girl models," which offered an enticing ten dollars an hour and up. I had my doubts about whether or not I qualified, but I was amply filling out my C-cup brassieres, and my waist was the prescribed ten inches smaller than my bust and hip line, which came to within an inch of being the same size, and so, having no information to go on except a phone number, I decided to give it a try.

  Two days and three phone calls later, I found myself in the office of one Gay Faye, while he regarded me sagely.

  "Stand up again, dear, will you?" he had said abruptly. "Now, turn around, let me see you from the side. Well, it's worth a try, I guess. Raise your skirt, will you, let me see your legs."

  I bent to do so, hoisting my skirt to within half an inch of my pussy, wondering what he would propose next.

  "Look," I said. "I'm not shy. Why not just have me undress, and see if I'll do or not?"

  "I'm coming to that, dear," said Gay with a grimace. "I'm coming to that. I like to work up to it slowly. Take off your skirt and blouse now, let me see your undies. My God, what dowdy lingerie, I hope you brought something better with you."

  "Yes," I said, "I brought a couple of garter belts and stockings and some sheer panties and a black lace bra."

  "Well, that's a start, anyway," said he, lighting a Du Maurier. "Now take off your underwear."

  I did, and he said, "Now put your panties back on and take them off again, only this time turn your back to me while you do it."

  I obeyed, feeling rather like a trained seal in a circus, while he regarded my ass, first from one side and then the other.

  "Not bad," said Mr. Faye. "You really look much pudgier in those clothes than you actually are. Women never will learn to dress." He perched his brittle and angular self on the edge of the desk. "Do you want to start today?"

  "Sure," said I. "Why not? I mean, I'd like to, very much." I felt as if I had started already.

  "Good," he said. "Then put that robe on, will you? And you might as well go into the kitchen and fix yourself some coffee. We can't start till the marks go away."

  "Marks?" I said.

  Some Ways To Make A Living

  "Red line under your breasts from your bra," he said with some relish. "Almost looks like a welt. Small crease on your stomach from the elastic of your underpants."

  "True," I said, though I had never thought of it before. I felt like the heroine of an S-and-M novel.

  I put on the robe, a thirties imitation of a black silk kimono, embroidered with the loudest and most obnoxious of peonies, and wandered off in the direction he had indicated to see if I could indeed make some coffee.

  Mr. Gay Faye was as gay as his name. He absolutely hated the female form, and devoted the entire practice of his art to contorting, obscuring and confusing it by any means possible. The productions of his camera, reproduced in full color by the tens of thousands, passed as sexy, were glued onto calendars and hung in garages and dens all over America. They kept him and the ex-weight lifter who kept house and lived with him in the comfort they so amply deserved.

  We began with a series of nude shots, me kneeling and sitting back on my haunches, my hands in my long hair and my head turned to the side—trying to look coy, or what I thought was coy, which I later altered to what I thought Gay Faye would think was coy. A whole series of back shots, me leaning over an armchair, chin propped in my hands, looking bored. A shot of me bending over, looking out through my legs.

  "I'm very limited," complained Gay, "because of your hair. Look, if we do a lot of this, would you consider shaving your pubic hair?"

  I got a prickly, itchy feeling between my legs at the very thought, and I frowned—what I hoped was thoughtfully.

  "I don't know," I said. "Depends on how much work there is."

  "Certainly not," is what I was thinking. "Life is hard enough."

  I strode about in a garter belt and stockings and high-heeled shoes. Stood in a sheer nightie against a window, legs spread apart, arms stretched straight up. Curled up on a bearskin, nude again, with Gay's obnoxious little chihuahua in my lap, covering the offending hair. Stood by Gay's table with its lace tablecloth in a maid's cap and apron and the eternal high heels, holding a silver tray with a silver tea service just below my bare boobs. Stepped out of the shower dripping wet, in lace shower cap and scanty towel,

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  Some Ways To Make A Living

  one long strand of red hair cling* ng wetly to my breast and curling around the nipple.

  We stopped, exhausted. Warren the weight lifter went out for hero sandwiches and containers of coffee. Then I got dressed and we called it a day.

  I worked for Gay two or three times more. And then on one occasion Duncan dropped in to do some shooting on the bearskin rug, and asked me if I'd work for him.

  "The work is a little different," he said. "More-uh-realistic. But the pay is better-I'll give you twenty-five dollars an hour."

  "Great," I said. (My rent was forty-five dollars a month.) "When do you want to start?" I figured he meant pornography, but had already decided that real, honest-to-god pornography would not be half as obscene as the stuff I was doing for Gay.

  There had followed a series of these ultra-polite sessions. Most of the porn was faked, and what little was not was performed with a combination of courtesy and know-how that left me curious as to what the follow-up would be like.

  Duncan had offered me a permanent job as his secretary and receptionist in addition to the shooting sessions, the only stipulation being that I work—type, answer the phone, etc.—entirely in the nude. I declined, because, as I explained to him, I figured that I was making more than enough money and didn't want to tie myself up with a regular job. Duncan chortled endlessly at the idea that he had offered me a "regular job," and we continued to get together a couple of times a week for shooting sessions.

  Now, just as I was about to get dressed to go home, Bob turned to me, and I could see that, whatever it was that he had on his mind, he had been mulling it over for some time.

  "Say, listen, Diane, I wonder if you would do me a favor. I never told you this, but I have a collection—I've been collecting photographs of cunts for some time now. I guess I have over three thousand cunts by this time: white ones, black ones, chink cunts, all kinds. I even have Joan Crawford's cunt. So I was wondering—I was wondering would you let Duncan take a picture of your pussy. You don't have to do anything, nobody else in the picture, just lie there, just you lie back with your legs open and let him take a picture of your pussy."

  Some Ways To Make A Living

  "Sure," I said. "Why not?" I turned to Duncan. "You want to do that now?"

  "If you're not too tired," said Duncan. "I'm still set up."

  I lay back on the couch, Joe got up and switched on the floodlights, Bob watched, impassively drinking his beer while Duncan clicked his camera, made a few adjustments of the lens, moved me slightly and clicked it again.

  "I tried two different openings," he said to Bob, and laughed uproariously at his own pun. "We'll see which comes out better."

  "Hey, listen, thanks a lot," Bob said as I started to get dressed.

  "Oh, it was nothing," I told him truthfully enough. "I'd sure like to see your collection sometime."

  "Anytime you want," said Bob. "Maybe," he added hopefully, "when Duncan gets this developed you could sign it for me."

  "Sure," I said, "I'll come up to your place and sign it."

  The telephone was ringing when I got back to the apartment. It was Petra, calling from the mysterious "downtown" where she worked.

  "Dearie, do you want to pick
up some money? I have a little job for you."

  "Sure," I said. "Anything short of streetwalking."

  "There's a fellow in my office who needs a correspondent for his divorce case. You don't have to do anything-I mean he won't molest you or-"

  "You mean I don't have to fuck him."

  "Right, dearie, nothing like that, you just have to be seen—oh, it's very complicated—do you want to do it? I'll give you his phone number."

  "I guess so," I said, "near as I can make out."

  Next day found me in a taxi, speeding up Fifth Avenue toward the nineties. Doormen approached cautiously. I spoke the password and they became gracious. Elevators opened and closed silently. I walked on plush carpets down long, spooky halls.

  "Mr. Vandenberg vill be right dere," the maid said in her almost-Swedish, and left me in a room full of uncomfortable chairs, flowers, and even more uncomfortable Art. Then Mr. Vandenberg appeared and I suddenly understood my environment.

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  We introduced ourselves and shook hands. He would not meet my eyes.

  "I'll take very little of your time, Miss di Prima," he said dolefully. "If you will kindly step this way." A cultured Berlin accent.

  We walked into a dimly lit bedroom, heavy draperies forming an thirties-movie arch over the high windows. I pulled them aside a trifle and looked out. Central Park stretched below us, full of sunshine, a reminder of another, greener planet.

  Mr. Vandenberg suddenly remembered the duties of a host. "Would you like a drink?"

  "No, I don't think so," I said. "Why don't you just tell me what it is I have to do."

  He ran it down.

  "Fine," I said. "Now, Mr. Vandenberg, I hesitate to bring up so delicate a subject, but Miss Vegas told me that remuneration for this-service—was to be-"

  "One hundred dollars," he said, looking away sadly. "Will that do?"

  "Yes," I said, "I think so. Can you pay me half of it in advance?"

  Mr. Vandenberg reached for his wallet and drew out a hundred-dollar bill.

  "I did not anticipate this request of yours, Miss di Prima, and I have nothing smaller. Do let me pay you in full now; it will be less embarrassing. We might find it difficult to do business in the presence of my wife's friends."

  "Thank you," I said, "and while you're at it, you'd better call me Diane, don't you think? I mean, if you're supposed to know me that well, and all." It was hard to tell for sure in the dim light of the bedroom, but I could almost swear he was blushing.

  "Thank you, Diane," he said, as gallantly as possible. "Please call me Wolfgang." He looked at his watch. "My wife and her friends should be here in exactly ten minutes, so if you would be so kind as to undress. . ."

  "Completely?"

  "If you do not seriously object, it would be better if you undressed completely." There was almost the suggestion of a bow, and he left the room.

  Some Ways To Make A Living

  I took off all my clothes, folded them, and placed them in an unobtrusive pile on the chair. Then I considered, took one stocking out of the pile, and dangled it conspicuously over the side of the chair, which I moved so that it was quite close to the bed-close enough so that it would, I figured, get in the photographs. I threw my brassiere on the floor. After all, I thought, we might as well have a dash, just a dash, of realism about all this.

  Mr. Vandenberg came out of his dressing room in a bathrobe. He looked more pained than ever. His eye rested for a moment on the bra and stocking, but he said nothing about them. Then he opened the draperies and flipped a switch that controlled an indirect light right over the bed.

  "You must excuse me," he said, "but they will need enough light to take pictures."

  "Of course," I mumbled, nestling into the incredibly fine sheets, thinking how much I would like a nap.

  "Do you mind," he asked, "if I drink? I feel the need of something to quiet my nerves."

  "Not at all," I told him. "Go right ahead."

  He rang for the Swedish maid and she appeared immediately with a tall glass of Scotch on the rocks. He looked down into it sadly.

  "I can't tell you how much my wife and I appreciate this, Miss di—uh—Diane. The divorce laws in this state are so stringent—so very stringent."

  He shook his head, ran his hands through his toupee, took a swallow of Scotch. Then he looked at his watch again, and sat down abruptly on the edge of the bed.

  "Excuse me," he said, "but we must look more loverlike."

  He took the covers down from my shoulders and uncovered one breast. He arranged my hair slightly on the pillow and, bending close over me, took one of my hands in both of his.

  The door opened as if on cue. A handsome woman of about forty stood in the doorway. Three other people stood behind her. She stood as if shocked for a moment, then turned to the nearest of them.

  "Oh," she said, in the measured, distinct tones of a bad actress. "Do you see that?"

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  "What?" asked the person addressed, a thin, nervous young man in a peach-colored suit.

  "That woman and Wolfgang, in my bed!"

  Now this was scarcely accurate, but they all declared that they did see it. They all piled into the room, the last of the young men bearing a camera. He used it. Wolfgang, who had not moved all this time, now turned his profile to the camera. Friend took another picture. Wolfgang said, u Simone, my dear, I am sorry about this." Simone put her handkerchief to her face. Simone put away her handkerchief. Simone put her hand on Wolfgang's shoulder. She gazed at me soulfully.

  "You are invited to stay for lunch," she said to me.

  "Thank you," I said.

  Everyone piled out of the room again, and I got up and started to get dressed, tucking the crisp hundred-dollar bill deep in my pocket, and wondering at the ways of the Law.

  Some Ways To Make A Living

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  City Spring

  and ass of one or the other of us, indiscriminately loving whoever, whatever came within his or her range.

  One night when Young Jack and I arrived back home from a pointless and joyous springtime jaunt to the Village, we found Lauren sitting in the hall by the door-I had never given him a key—hovering, half-crouching over a skinny pouting gamine complete with pixie haircut and big brown eyes. Her clothes proclaimed her middle-class Queens; her fright declared her new to the scene. I let them in, and so Runaway Julie was added to the menage. She slept in the bed with me and Jack and joined our preliminary games, sometimes allowing me to lead her almost to the edge of a quick little panting orgasm-but Runaway Julie didn't put out. This was considered a challenge by the ego-ridden Lauren, and he brought to bear all of his enormous (he thought) powers of seduction: introducing her to the various haunts in the Village, reading Freud aloud to her, filling her head with his own garbled philosophy—a kind of mixture of Aleister Crowley and Karl Marx—but he got nowhere at all. Julie confined herself to crushes, and confined her crushes to those Village faggots whose homosexuality was so total that she could not possibly feel the slightest threat in their presence. With them she was her playful, total self—a child among children.

  I don't know how or when Henry with the Big Ears arrived. He was a mumbling, vague, gentle soul, and a mathematical genius—a drop-out from the Electronics Research Lab at Columbia University. His only loves were cocaine and Indian philosophy, and he indulged both constantly, unobtrusively occupying an empty corner, a small person of uncertain age in his nondescript rags. We all loved him—anyone would have loved him once they noticed that he was there. Henry slept wherever he fell out—bed or floor was all one to him—he easily wrapped himself around any of us, and easily fell asleep to the rocking rhythms of our lovemaking.

  Henry was little, but well-hung, with a long, slender, well-formed cock and a supple body. When he took cocaine his staying power was enormous. He could—and occasionally did—literally fuck for hours, past orgasm and th
e possibility of orgasm, to the point of madness. I liked to keep him waiting, feeling his cock grow hard against my flank while I fucked Young Jack to sleep, angelically and joyously. Then I would turn on my side, slipping softly

  City Spring

  out from under Jack's pretty body with its smooth skin and the baby fat still on his thighs and face-turn on my side to Henry, who would be waiting for me with a grin on his face and his long dick in his hand.

  I would throw one leg over him, pressing him close to me with my heel in the small of his back, and the whole of his long supple cock would slide into me easily—my cunt still slippery from my come and Jack's—and we would rock and sway together endlessly through a whole spectrum of pleasure while Young Jack and Julie slept oblivious on either side of us.

  And so the days passed easily—it was a cool, beautiful Spring and the East Side was blooming: pads like my own were beginning to spring up here and there, one on Seventh Street, one on East Twelfth. Rienzi's, a new coffee shop specifically for the "young Bohemian crowd" had opened up on MacDougal Street: Mafia-run, like the Italian espresso joints, it did not cater to the usual Mafia clientele. We all sat there in the long afternoons, reading and making each other's acquaintance, nursing twenty-five cent cups of espresso for hours, and drawing pictures on paper napkins. Intoxicated by the stories of our youth, by Jean-Christophe and La Boheme, we thought to play a similar game. We almost carried it off.

  There was the day Little John burst into our house—someone had given him our address and he was sick and needing a place to stay. We put him to bed with us and watched horrified as his fever rose from a hundred and three to a hundred and five and a half. He tossed and turned all night delirious, while we all drank cups of coffee and played chess, unable to sleep. The next day I paid a visit to a good friend, an older guy named Glenn, who was a longshoreman with a line into almost any drug one could need or desire. I got a handful of Seconal and administered them two at a time to the still-delirious John. He fell asleep. We all fell out, exhausted. And woke when his pills wore off and his ravings began again, and gave him two more pills. Next day red bumps on his neck and groin announced, we decided (having seen Forever Amber) that he had the bubonic plague. We continued to sleep beside him. We continued to give him pills for two more days and nights, as everyone's nerves wore thin. On the third morning,