“They’re all wrong numbers. I know.”
So the telephone rings, he and Kiki look at each other as it rings, Corky’s thinking of the many times in Christina’s loft the phone rang while they were making love, and how the ringing, the very sound, entered into their lovemaking as if it were the thrumming of their bodies, their bodies’ music. The ringing ringing ringing, the hot coursing of Corky’s blood, the rising and abrupt peaking of pleasure in his groin so intense it seemed to fly, not from him, but through him, a stream of liquid fire.
Kiki’s scrutinizing Corky, something blind and hurt in his face. Almost gently she says, “You didn’t follow me into that store, did you? Have you been hanging around here?”
“Of course not.”
“But you know—knew—where I live.”
“You’re in the directory.”
“Not after June first.”
“Why are you so eager to leave? You’ve always seemed like such a—” Corky can’t think of the exact word, and Kiki’s staring at him so derisively he’s thrown off stride, “—happy person.”
“Happy! Yes, sure. You guys kept me in coke, sure I was happy for you.” Kiki laughs, exhaling smoke in spasms. Her glasses have begun to slide down her nose.
Corky plays dumb. “Coke? Since when?”
“I’m leaving for personal reasons but also—I’m a coward.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Pickett gets acquitted, this city’s going to burn. I’m not even going to think about it.”
Corky’s incredulous. “Pickett? Acquitted? The jury hasn’t even been picked yet.”
“Now nobody will listen to Steadman, he’s fucked. You guys saw to that.”
“Why do you keep saying ‘you guys’? What the hell’s that mean? I’m not ‘guys,’ I’m one guy. And what d’you mean, ‘saw to it’? Saw to what?”
Kiki shrugs the question off as if it’s too absurd. “You know.”
“What do I know?”
In a taunting singsong voice Kiki says, glaring at him, “I don’t know anything about it, and I don’t want to know anything. I’m out of it.”
Corky says, desperately, “Look, Kiki, I only need to know about Thalia. Where—”
“—from you, that’s a laugh!”
“—where she might be? Who her friends are—”
“You.” Kiki laughs harshly. “Thalia’s told me plenty about you.”
Corky doesn’t hear this. He’s agitated, angry. “She needs help. She isn’t well. I need to find her.”
“I said no. I don’t know.”
“I thought you were friends—”
“No.”
“You, Thalia, Marilee Plummer—”
“No.” Kiki presses her hands against her ears. Her lips are drawn back from her teeth in a skull’s grimace. “No no no.”
The telephone has ceased ringing. Except for a car passing out on Schoharie it’s very quiet. Corky’s hot in the face, breathing quickly. He’s sexually aroused and surely that’s Kiki’s intention, taunting him the way she’s been doing. There’s a smell lifting off her that’s unmistakable.
Kiki says, “You and Red Pitts. I get you confused. But he’s the pimp. You’re the gentleman.”
Before Corky can ask what the hell this means Kiki goes to the telephone and takes the receiver off the hook. A gesture so languid, so matter-of-fact, it goes through Corky like an electric shock. She’s going to fuck me? My God.
Suddenly his throat’s parched to the point of pain, how badly he needs a drink.
Instead he has a cigarette, and Kiki has another, tossing him the pack of Capris she’s stuck in her shirt pocket as if she knows his secret desire. Corky’s hands are shaking but it’s a good sensation like the adrenaline rush before a fight.
Corky lights up, the first deep inhalation takes him straight to where he wants to go. That powerful sensation, good stinging-acrid sensation, smoke expanding his lungs like a bellows. His eyes flood with tears. He could cry, is crying. “Oh Christ.”
“How long’s it been?”
“Five years.” Corky’s coughing, wiping at his eyes. He can’t stop smiling. “I haven’t had a really deep breath in five fucking years.”
As if absentmindedly, Kiki kicks off her sandals; her long bare toes, dead-white, flex against the electric-blue carpet like a monkey’s. Corky loves barefoot women, they’re more likely to be shorter than he is.
And Kiki Zaller’s looking better to him all the time. She’s taken off her ugly glasses, she’s smiling more easily. Flashing her eyes at him like the flirty-fucky girl he remembers. Like the dirty-mouthed girls of the schoolyard, the older girls, eyeing a good-looking kid like Corky wanting to see could they make him blush. And the heat that coursed through his face, certainly he did.
Corky smokes his cigarette in a warm erotic daze. Keeps it in his mouth, tight between his teeth, as he takes off his sport coat and drapes it neatly over the back of a chair. Kiki leads him into the next room, a shadowy room, there’s a futon on the floor, what a ridiculous object Corky thinks, but he’s forgiving, he’s too excited to be judging, a futon, a regular bed, what difference does it make, Kiki’s of another generation, that’s exciting, too. And where Thalia was a tease, Kiki’s the real thing.
Kiki’s bedroom, Kiki’s clothes scattered about. A closet door, open. So Corky can see inside and there’s no one inside. He’s laughing he’s feeling so good.
He’ll deal with not drinking by smoking again. Not three packs a day as before, when he was coughing himself sick and had to quit, but in moderation—six cigarettes, say, in twenty-four hours; one cigarette every four hours. Make that nonnegotiable. Corky knows he can handle that. And these low-tar Capris, in the past he’d consider them next to shit but actually they’re not bad. Though he’ll smoke another brand, a man’s brand. The solution to Corky’s drinking problem’s so simple he wonders why it took him so long to think of it.
Kiki’s at the room’s single window adjusting a venetian blind saying, teasing, “—You did follow me into that store, didn’t you—c’mon tell the truth, you prick—” and Corky’s denying it, “Hell no, it was an accident, honey,” liking it she’s so comfortable with him suddenly she can call him such a name, though Corky has to know it is sudden, Kiki Zaller’s reversal of attitude, or mood, if he wasn’t thinking with his cock he’d surely wonder about that. Kiki laughs snapping the blind cords as a kid might, open, shut, open, shut, as if she half wants to break the mechanism, shafts of warm sunshine widen spilling onto the futon, then narrow, then widen again, and narrow. When the blind’s as shut as she can get it the room’s still fairly light. Colors are still distinct. Corky wonders how flushed his face is, it feels burning hot. Ol’ Frecklehead!
A futon A futon! Corky’s never fucked anybody on a futon before, though years ago, in the 1970s, a waterbed, now there’s a truly ridiculous object, beyond reckoning. Smelly-stagnant water, sloshing, seasick. Corky’s all but forgotten the woman, one of Charlotte’s golf-playing friends, a rich man’s wife but they’d met, at her insistence, in the townhouse of a young relative of hers, a nephew: the waterbed was his. Weird, sick, incestuous, but Corky hadn’t investigated too closely. It had been sweet enough while it lasted.
Apart from the futon Kiki’s bedroom furnishings are minimal. Another cheap wall-to-wall carpet on the floor, an old-fashioned pedestal mirror, a poster on a wall—Corky’s curious examining it, what is it? Looks like an anatomical drawing, a magnified penis? a cross-section diagram of a man’s lower abdomen, genitals? In the dim light Corky can just make out the arrowed labels—“glans penis,” “prepuce,” “scrotum,” “testis,” “epididymis,” “vas deferens,” etc. Kiki laughs and says, “It’s from a series by a protest artist out in Ohio, it’s really fantastic stuff—Jesse Helms’ Body.”
Corky says, “Jesse Helms’ Body—?”
“It’s protest art.”
Anatomical drawings, like photos of open-heart surgery, make Corky a little
squeamish. A sliced-open penis, a look into somebody’s abdomen—that’s art?
Corky stubs out his cigarette in a plastic ashtray littered with butts. One last deep drag, and—here goes.
Squeezing Kiki’s sinewy shoulders and kissing her full on the mouth, time for intimate contact, he’s been avoiding it, gentleman! you’re the gentleman and Red Pitts is the pimp! no idea in hell what Kiki meant by that and in no hurry to know. Where your friends are concerned, better not to know. Kiki’s mouth isn’t very giving, her saliva tastes clammy, gamely Corky pokes his tongue bumbling and sliding against hers, and Kiki gags slightly and ducks her head: the thing about kissing is it’s too personal, like talking. Fucking’s easy. Fucking’s a machine. You set it on, it goes.
Kiki’s eyes blaze up at Corky’s as she unbuttons her shirt, shrugs out of it, her eyes dropping to her own breasts which are creamy-pale, fuller than Corky’d imagined; she smiles, biting her lower lip, she’s exciting herself—it’s a child’s version of a striptease, clumsy but aware. Even her face seems fuller, as if fleshed out with blood. Next her jeans, she unzips the fly front, tugs them down, as she stoops she’s looking at Corky fixing her gaze on him as if daring him to look elsewhere, but Corky looks elsewhere, touched, for a moment troubled, to see she’s wearing white cotton panties, the shadow of her pubic hair is like a dark hand behind the fabric and as Corky reaches out to touch her Kiki eases away insolent, taunting, “Don’t touch! Not yet! You obey me, this is my turf, O.K. friend?—you’re my slave or it’s no deal.” Laughing as Corky’s laughing, it’s as if Corky’s giddy-drunk without needing to drink, the nicotine rush did it, his cock’s hard as an ax handle and about as long unfurled, detached from trousers, underwear—a gift he’s proud to display to Kiki who widens her eyes at the sight! the size! “Oh Mr. Cock-or-an! Wow.” Like a wild kooky porno film where the action’s jerky and uncoordinated, you don’t know if it’s meant to be comic or just is, the very pathos comic, the shame. Kiki backs off then on her slender legs, appealingly knock-kneed legs, still she’s wearing the white cotton panties riding high on her thighs as if they’re an old pair, frayed at the waistband, Corky has a quick thought she might be wearing a sanitary pad, she’s having her period, just his luck, no but Corky doesn’t mind, Corky’s an old experienced hand, an old experienced prick, nothing fazes him. Except in his haste stumbling kicking off trousers and shorts, breathless fumbling with the cuffs of his fresh-starched white cotton shirt with the scripted monogram JAC in white silk thread which too in his excited haste he lets fall to the floor, should take time to drape it over a chair, all his clothes over a chair, Corky’s a fanatic about his clothes but things in Kiki’s bedroom are happening too swiftly now to be processed. Is she crazy? am I? but Corky’s in no mood to take warning. There’s an undercurrent of gloating revenge, too, fuck you Christina, d’you think I need you Christina, just watch.
Corky says, “Hey: you’re beautiful,” voice cracking in surprise, but meaning it, for near-naked and shimmering before him Kiki Zaller is beautiful, Corky loves her. How transformed, the plain-pinched bespectacled woman in the food store, you’d never imagine, yes but it’s true with so many women, beauty in the flesh, the dumb mute flesh, no face nor even head attached. Corky sees a perceptible pleasure like a flame rising into Kiki’s face at the contemplation of her own body, it’s as if she hasn’t seen this body in a long time, and herself reflected in a man’s eyes and in his desire: it isn’t Corky, or not Corky exclusively, but all men, Man: a living mirror presenting her with the gift of herself.
Kiki laughs just slightly shrilly. Out of breath as if she’s been running. Saying, “You’re beautiful, friend. Except for this little—” boldly pinching some flab at his waist, “—padding. But, for a guy your age, oh wow.”
Corky resents this, but laughs and reaches for her. Cupping her breasts in both hands, nipples tough as rubber, stoops to suck at a nipple but Kiki closes her fingers in his hair and yanks his head back—“Not yet! You obey me, I said, Mr. Cock-or-ran! You’re my slave.”
“O.K. I’m your slave. What’re my instructions?”
Figuring he’ll humor her, he’s had experience humoring hysterical women. All women are hysterical, you push the right buttons.
Kiki laughs, crosses to the bathroom, and Corky’s eyes are drawn helplessly after her, his cock’s tremulous, his heart’s racing, can he trust this girl for what if she locks herself in the bathroom? decides to take a shower, lets the water run and run? she’s unpredictable enough to pull a stunt like this and Corky’s in such a state he’ll break down the door and drag her out, no more cockteasing for him. Kiki does in fact shut the bathroom door, there’s a quaint sound of trickling pee and a toilet flushing like a cataract and a faucet turned on and off, then Kiki pokes her head out the door her mischievous gaze dropping from Corky’s heated face to Corky’s heated cock, “Still here, friend?—just checking.” She startles Corky tossing him a crimson-foil package, a condom, Corky’s awkward and embarrassed unwrapping it, tries to joke, what’s the joke, his erection’s endangered, such behavior isn’t Corky’s generation’s style at all, nor the behavior of preceding generations, the male’s the initiator, the male’s dominant, the male’s it. But Corky’s a good sport and Corky sees the logic, it doesn’t fail to cross his mind he’s protecting himself from her, too, a wild cokehead-nympho possibly screwed by half the guys in Union City from the Mayor on down, yes and not excluding Red Pitts, that notorious pimp, Corky’s eager to humor and to obey, Corky thinks it might be fun to be a slave, at least for once, at least for now, though fitting this God-damned sheath on his aggrieved cock is no simple matter, Corky’s out of practice, it’s been in fact years. And how like the embarrassment of, at the doctor’s, the pretty young nurse handing Corky a paper cup—“For your urine sample, Mr. Corcoran”—then taking it from him brisk and bright and matter-of-fact—“Thank you, Mr. Corcoran”—as if urine—urine!—was the best Corky Corcoran could do for her.
Like a nurse too, Kiki returns with a towel, a large bath towel she folds for double thickness and drapes across the futon. She’s fully naked now, flush-faced, Corky touches her in wonderment, his caressing fingers on the bumpy curve of her spine, her sweet glimmering pale ass, the crack of her ass. But Kiki slaps at his hand, hissing, “No! Don’t! You follow orders!” Corky’s erection is at half-mast but chastely sheathed as Kiki wishes, maybe this pleases her, a mere glance at it, and at Corky, as she crawls onto the futon and arranges herself on it, her hips on the bath towel, a fussy crinkle to her forehead as she tugs at sheets, adjusts pillows, it’s as if she’s alone arranging herself for a gynecological procedure of a sort you don’t want to imagine. Lying back then, arms behind her head, head on the pillow, spreading her legs to Corky who’s been crouched over her like a Cro-Magnon, and at last, with an effort she doesn’t trouble to disguise, she smiles up at Corky as if only now recalling he’s there. “Kiss me! My slave.”
Fuck you, thinks Corky, but he’s got a reputation as a good sport, and he is here, went to all the trouble of fitting on the condom so might as well use it.
Corky lowers himself onto the futon, even the word futon is ridiculous to him, it’s like a gym mat and he and Kiki Zaller are paired for a wrestling match, there’s a sinewy athletic look to the girl, the long legs, the surprisingly strong shoulders, a nimbleness about the thighs. Corky leans down to kiss her mouth but it isn’t her mouth she means—“No! Begin here!” touching herself between the legs. Corky sees the wild eyes, black-dilated eyes, inhales the funky heat lifting from her, that musty-bloody odor, he’s feeling revulsed but he’s excited too, kinky stuff, Doggy-Corky, what’s to lose. Scrambling with mock obedience down then to kiss Kiki’s belly, it’s a flat somewhat sunken belly, pelvic bones like elbows and the squish of the innards too palpable, and the fuzzy-scratchy pubic hair so much thicker than Christina’s, like Corky’s own. Kneeling then at the edge of the futon, bare knees on the floor but at least it’s carpeted, pressing his mouth against K
iki’s cunt, yes she’s having her period, unmistakable, but seems to have washed there or at least swiped at herself with a wetted tissue thank God. Corky’s disgusted but excited too, getting into the doggy spirit of it, it’s a fact he’s forty-three years old and has never done exactly this though many times making love to women who were menstruating, hard to avoid if you’re fucking one of them regularly, that one weird time with a pregnant woman who was “spotting,” but don’t think of that now, yes and another time with a five-months-pregnant woman, a different woman, who teased Corky or was she seriously speculating that her orgasms were so powerful she might go into premature labor but don’t think of that, for Christ’s sake, now. Corky’s gamely nudging and tonguing Kiki’s scratchy mound, her moist vaginal lips that are disappointingly thin and flaccid not full, fleshy like Christina’s, yes and Charlotte’s, he’s tonguing Kiki’s slimy little clit that reminds him of a slug, wet with what’s probably blood, the smell of it, the taste of it, sticky-clotty blood in Corky’s very eyelashes, his poor prick’s wilting, what if the fucking condom falls off.
And Kiki?—Kiki’s stiff as a broomstick. Must feel nothing, not even a tremor. The sinewy muscles of her thighs so tight Corky’s head is pinioned as in a vise, his poor ears flattened, jaws numb, God damn he’s about to give up and fuck the bitch’s brains out as she should be fucked, let her try to stop him, when suddenly she begins to moan, her fingers in his hair, she’s alive, writhing, moving her head from side to side, “Oh—oh—oh—” as if astonished, maybe she’s never come before? is that possible, Kiki’s never come before? Corky’s the first? inspired now, his tongue a tiny jackhammer, gripping and kneading her thin buttocks, a red mist passing over his brain so he’s oblivious to his surroundings, he loves this girl whose name he’s forgotten, he loves this intimacy, it’s all good, supremely good, like a soaring jazz riff, up and up and up and still higher, Corky’s erection returns in triumph, how could he have doubted himself, he feels the muscles tight against his ears knotting and contracting, Kiki’s groaning, gasping for breath, “Oh!—oh—” a sound as if she’s being strangled but Corky presses on, the escalating rhythm of his tongue, teeth, mouth forcing her forward, no turning back, now with both hands she’s gripping his hair, she’s lifting herself from the futon, spine arching as in an exquisite convulsion, she’s coming, Corky adores her, so open to him now as if she’s turned inside out, sheerly female, and his.
What I Lived For Page 43
