Scumbler

by William Wharton

  “How you like them apples, buddy?”

  I sit up, lean forward; the temptation to kiss each gently with open lips is almost overwhelming.

  “Remember, Sandy. Kiss, cuddle, hold and hug only; that’s the deal. Right?”

  “Right,” she says, and we proceed to undress quickly in the cold room.

  I’m surprised to find that although I don’t exactly have an erection, the devil’s advocate is taking up a bit more space than he should. Sandy’s under the covers before I am. I keep my back to her as I pull my jeans over my feet so she won’t see my mini-erection. Leave it to my prick to doublecross me every time, one way or another.

  We do curl into each other, face to face, add snuggle to cuddle, hug, kiss, hold and huddle. We snuggle. Her body is silken smooth and hard. There doesn’t seem to be any layer of fat. Sandy puts her face against mine, then comes down on me with her mouth, hard, fast-moving slippery tongue. She slides her tongue between my front teeth. I can hardly get my breath. I push my butt out to keep the devil from giving me away. Now he’s at full mast. What’s the connection between my tongue and my cock? There must be at least one. The light’s still on in the room and the switch is over by the door. I manage to free my mouth from the all-enclosing, penetrating power of Sandy.

  “I’d better turn the light out maybe.”

  Already I’m breathing hard, my heart’s beating, skipping, jumping around in my breast as if it wants to escape.

  “OK, if you’re bashful. Sleeping in the dark’s best anyway.”

  Now I’ve got to figure how to get around the bed, across the room, to that light and back without showing this ridiculous hard-on that won’t go away. I swing my feet out of bed on my side, give the old devil a good whack with my middle finger cocked by my thumb, the way you’d scoot a bee or fly off a piece of bread. It stings but the damned thing won’t go away. I run fast, barefoot, round the end of our bed to the light, flick it out. Now the room’s dark enough so I can slip back in without too much visible stiff dangling. The red neon light is flipping on and off and I remember last night. That doesn’t help.

  MEMORIES OF IMAGININGS

  SLIDE SILENTLY INTO VIEW.

  When I climb in bed, Sandy’s crying. Her face is in the pillow and she’s shaking the whole bed with what seems like racking sobs.

  The devil goes down to the nether regions. I ease myself under the covers and take Sandy in my arms. She pulls her face out of the pillow. She’s giggling, laughing. She holds my head by the ears again, pushes her tongue through my lips past my teeth into my mouth. When she lifts back, I can see by red neon-light flashes her face is wet. She stares into my eyes in the flickering dark.

  “Boy, Scum, you really are a nut. Raping you would be the easiest thing in the world, but honest I’m not going to. You don’t have to be afraid. And so what if I did. You could just tell your wife you got raped. You’re not going to get pregnant or anything, you know; it doesn’t work that way.”

  Then I’m laughing with her. She reaches down to grab hold of what she thinks is going to be a nice stiff joystick and finds a limpish bit of German weisswurst. My organ seems to have given its little concerto for the evening. Organ, hell, it’s not even much good as a mouth organ.

  We cuddle, kiss, hold, hug, stroke, huddle, squeeze but nothing more happens.

  “What’s the matter, Scum? Spirit willing, flesh weak?”

  “If I have to be honest, Sandy, I think it’s the reverse. Flesh willing, spirit weak; nothing personal.”

  She gives me a long deepening look in the dark, then puts her cheek against mine and begins licking my neck, behind my ear; she shoves her pointed strong tongue into my ear through the foxtails and all, wetting it, blocking it sometimes so I feel half deaf. My body’s quivering, my mind’s spinning. Is it possible to feel this sensually, physically excited and not feel anything sexual? That’s what’s happening. It’s a new experience for me. It’s like seeing very clearly, but not recognizing, knowing, anything you see; it’s all new.

  I put my hand up to the back of Sandy’s neck, pull her away softly by the hair.

  “I won’t be much good for you as a man tonight, Sandy. How about teaching me to love you as a woman?”

  She pushes away, turns me on my back, straddles my stomach, leans her hands against my shoulders, pressing them into the bed, pinning me.

  “Boy, you really are weird. Do you mean that?”

  “Sure, why not. I’d like to try. Something in me has always wanted to be a woman anyway. I think I’d like loving you that way.”

  And so we spend most of that night being as close together as two women can be, or at least as close as a woman and a man pretending he’s a woman. We don’t do anything I’ve never done with another woman, but Sandy shows me how to do these things properly, carefully, with intensity, concentration; slowly, tenderly, at a proper pace, as if it’s happening to me at the same time, feeling her joy, her pleasure. It’s a soft falling in and out of each other, somehow more than sex; we’re becoming each other so I do almost feel like a woman. It’s as if we’re painting portraits of each other simultaneously, creating each other and being created at the same time.

  And then, as Sandy reaches raptures of sensuality, the devil decides on a return engagement. It’s some kind of sympathetic arousal; I don’t feel it as my own sex at all; male sex feelings can so easily get in the way of deep sensuality. He’s up and yearning as a part of our mutual excitement.

  Sandy feels it happening, reaches down and holds on; she grabs him in both hands, not moving; holding him tight. It’s this way, then, when she flies into her own highest place, leaving me, as my mouth, my tongue tastes her. Vicariously I experience her release, her ecstasy.

  Then, as she relaxes, melts into me, pulsates against my body into almost sleep with me, she slides against me from my neck to my nipples with her tongue, opens her mouth licking me down one side then the other, making love to me with her mouth, without rush, without hurry, fear or expectations. She licks as if she has a strawberry ice-cream cone she’s eating slowly, trying to make it last. Then she drinks from my fountain. I feel as if I have breasts and am giving milk. My own little nipples are hard and I feel them cool, still wet in the night.

  SEX AS MIRAGE. A FLESH GARAGE WHERE

  WE PARK OUR IDENTITY, INTEGRITY, AS

  HUMANS AND THEN CLOSE THE DOORS.

  Sandy comes back up to me, slowly, the way she went down, lingering on my breasts, running her tongue in the hairs of my armpits. I’m drifting, lost, away in another world. She tucks her face close to mine.

  She pushes her nose under my ear; I’m almost asleep as she whispers,

  “I’ve never been able to do that. I’ve never wanted to. You wonderful old man, I love everything about you: your feel, your smell, your taste; the way you feel my feelings; you could even make me learn to like men, maybe.”

  I think that’s what she says; I’m past remembering. I’m sinking into a velvet violet place of peace.

  AWAY IN ANOTHER PLACE, FACE TO

  FACE WITH JOY, A FADING HAPPINESS

  THE OTHER SIDE OF ECSTASY.

  I wake before Sandy. I lie there still not believing what’s happened. Technically, we did not have sex together; in reality I can’t remember being more aroused, having experienced such depths of life. At the same time, as one part of me is feeling complete, integral, another part is shattered, guilty. I lie quiet, Sandy breathing against me, her face huddled under my arm. It’s still there, the grandfather-granddaughter part, even now. I almost feel as if I should wake her and tell a story, a bedtime story. But we did tell each other a bedtime story, most of the night; and it wasn’t avuncular or grandfather-granddaughter; it was two humans giving each other comfort, pleasure, a strong feeling of belonging, being alive, without regard to sex, age or any of the other divisions which keep us all apart.

  But I’d hate like hell trying to explain this to my Kate. It’s not in her dictionary, what she considers normal behav
ior; it’s hardly in mine.

  I also realize I can’t handle, can’t afford any more of this kind of relationship; not at this time in my life. It’s what I must tell Sandy when she wakes; that’s the bedtime story Grandfather needs to tell.

  So I do and, she laughs!

  “God, you’re too serious, Scum. We’re OK. I love you but I’m not in love with you. Relax. There’s a big difference. I’m in love with Dale.”

  She stops, looks into my eyes.

  “Or, at least, I was; I think.”

  I get another of her fourth-century Greek smiles.

  XIV

  A MARRIAGE

  At ten o’clock we meet with the others at the Bar Central. The three of them act as if nothing’s happened. Lubar wants me to go with him to check the motorcycle rental place.

  After breakfast rolls and coffee, I reluctantly get on the back of his bike and we drive out to the edge of town. I wonder if Sandy will say anything to Dale about last night. I don’t think so, I hope not; it was a very strong and private experience; I can’t believe she’ll want to take away any of the magic, but then I’m from another generation, two generations removed. What to me might be violation could just be loving sharing to Sandy.

  Renting the bike is easier and less expensive than I thought it would be. My French driver’s license and American passport are all that’s necessary—that and a deposit. I take the daily rate; we don’t figure on being gone more than two days. The mob needs to hurry back to teach and I want to be home for a rest before Easter vacation at the mill.

  The bike I rent is-a little Honda 125 CB. It’s a bike I know, because Mike, my second son, has one like it down at the mill. It’s a single-cylinder, four-stroke engine and practically nothing can go wrong with it. It’s big enough to carry two but the going had better not get too rough. Trail bike it is not.

  Lubar and I roll up to the Bar Central. Sandy, Dale, Sweik stand up and cheer. We sit down and Lubar pulls out his map again.

  PLAN PLANS! LOOK AHEAD! DON’T GET BEHIND!

  YOU NEVER KNOW WHAT’S AROUND THE NEXT BEND.

  CERTAINLY WE DO—OR SHOULD—THE END.

  We’ll keep the hotel room and leave most everything there, even the sleeping bags. We hope to find small hotels in the villages. Sandy will ride with me. If the going gets too tough, we’ll turn around and come back. Sweik says he isn’t going to be doing any rough riding either. He’s distinctly moving as if his back is giving him trouble. Sleeping on the ground in that damp cave can’t help much. If anybody should be sleeping in my bed at the hotel, he’s the one; probably he’s the one who should be with Sandy, too—either he or Dale. I’m feeling like some kind of placebo, or a one-man control group. It’s not exactly comfortable.

  First we’ll be heading up to a town called Mijas. We’ll go past Sture and Anna’s, through a town called Benalmádena, and across to Mijas. We’re going to Mijas because there’s an old-time bullring right in that little town beside the church.

  A TEMPORARY NEST ON THE SIDE OF A

  HILL. I GROPE STILL FOR THE SKY. EVEN

  NOW WHEN I SWIM IN IT. HI DIDDLY DOO!

  We’re off and riding by noon. It’s nice having Sandy behind me; she holds her hands tight, one on each of my shoulders, and we ride as one.

  We go past Sture and Anna’s. I don’t see anybody but they must be looking out. I wave. Anna will be sure she was right about my little Swedish girl.

  The road starts to get steep as it goes up toward Benalmádena and I shift down to third. We’re at the tail end, with Lubar leading. He’s bursting ahead, then slowing down to wait. Sweik refuses to be pushed and I know there’s no way I’ll go faster than thirty miles an hour. Actually, I’m doing about twenty on this hill and with these curves.

  Mijas is a disappointment, pretty much of a tourist trap. But there is a bullring, all white, not more than thirty yards from the church. The church is uninteresting but the graveyard is fascinating. The graves are built aboveground, in tiers three high. On the other side of the bullring, past the church and graveyard, is an old mine. There are deep shafts and tunnels. From the debris at the mouth of the mine it looks as if they might have been pulling out quartz. It also looks as if nobody’s been working the mine for at least ten years.

  The road out of Mijas goes farther up into the hills and generally down the coast; it’s gravel and dirt. I go along behind, staying out of Sweik’s dust and still less than fifteen miles an hour. The going’s so rough I need to hold my eyes on the road and can’t see much. Sandy keeps telling me to look at this or that as we go around tight curves but I need to concentrate. She kisses me on the neck, behind the ears; takes one ear in her mouth. I feel myself melting; she didn’t listen carefully enough to Grandfather’s story. How much can an old man take? She doesn’t seem to realize, or even care.

  “We’re in no hurry, Scum. When there’s something interesting, let’s just stop and look.”

  So that’s what we do. Sandy gives me an extra squeeze when there’s something she thinks I’d like to see; then I pull over, put my feet down and shift into neutral. We stay straddling the bike but at least I get to see some of the really incredible natural beauty: the rock formations, the upland greens and wild flowers. I guess Sweik’s keeping an eye on us in his rearview mirror, because he stops whenever we do. Lubar’s probably driving around in circles. But this way I can actually enjoy the trip without being scared half to death.

  Just as the sun’s going down, we get to the town where we intend to spend the night. It’s called something El Grande but it isn’t very grand. It’s big enough to have a hotel, though, and we rent two rooms for under ten dollars. Lubar and Dale take the smaller room, with one bed. There’s a double bed and a single in the other. Sweik, gallantly, flops out on the small bed.

  “God, I don’t know if my back can survive this. It’s almost going out all the time, like a worn universal joint.”

  He arches the way he did in that Paris hotel bed, grits his teeth.

  “Do you two mind if I take this bed for myself? I could never make it in a bed with someone else.”

  I don’t know if this is only a nice ploy on Sweik’s part because he thinks Sandy and I want the big bed, but I suspect he’s speaking truth. His face is white and there are beads of sweat across his forehead. I look over at Sandy; she winks.

  “Well, looks as if you’re stuck with me again.”

  She turns to Sweik.

  “This old man’s sure I’m going to rape him, destroy his virginal purity.”

  Sweik’s trying to reach down and take off his boots. He can’t reach that far. I go over, unlace, pull them off carefully. Sweik settles back on the pillow.

  “Thanks. Don’t worry, Scum; just scream and I’ll crawl across the room to save you.”

  Sandy seems to become aware for the first time of how much pain Sweik is in; she goes over to him, kneels beside his bed.

  “Gees, Matt, you’re in a bad way. I thought you were exaggerating. Roll over and I’ll give you a massage. I’m really good at it, I have strong hands.”

  “No, I’ll be OK if I can only lie out still here, stop the spasms. You guys go eat, bring something back for me.”

  We leave the room and Lubar is waiting with Dale for us down in the town center beside a fountain. There are orange trees growing around the outside edge of the plaza. There are two restaurants in the town; mostly they’re bars but they serve a single meal, no menu. We go in one and drink good, soft white wine. Except for tapas, they don’t start serving food until ten o’clock and it’s only seven-thirty.

  We go outside. There’s a crowd of kids around the motorcycles. One kid’s even mounted on Lubar’s bike and is making motorcycle noises. Lubar dashes up and the kid runs away. Lubar chases him across the plaza and throws his helmet. He comes back.

  “Goddamned kids! We’ve got to find a place for these bikes or they’ll be gone in the morning.”

  Sweik speaks the best Spanish in our group but he’s no
t available. I’m second best in a very slow race. I go back to our hotel and ask the man who runs it if we can store our motorcycles somewhere. I somehow get across what I mean, because he takes a key and comes outside. He opens a door to a small courtyard and points. We roll the bikes in; it’s costing twenty pesetas for the night.

  At ten o’clock they serve a good paella in one of the restaurants. I don’t know how they get the fish up those roads from the sea; no car or truck could ever make it. There’s not a car to be seen in town. The fish must come in on donkeyback. Driving up here, we saw trains of donkeys with baskets. We buy an extra serving for Sweik and two bottles of wine. It’s almost eleven o’clock now and I’m feeling tired, Sandy and I didn’t get much sleep.

  We put all the pillows behind Sweik’s back and prop him up so he can eat. He says he feels a lot better. He has his heels pulled up to his crotch and his knees spread, claims that’s the way it feels best. When he’s finished, I take the dishes down to the restaurant. I stop on the way back and look up at the stars. There are virtually no lights in town and up here in the mountains the stars are close, filling the sky edge to edge. The ridges of the highest mountains are cut tight against the sky, sharp, clear. Kate would love this; while I was in prison, she was secretary of the astronomy department at Yale; says she spent most of her time dusting meteorites, dusting stardust—perfect job.

  THE UNIVERSE ON INTIMATE TERMS, A

  HEAVY METEORITE, A LIGHT-YEAR. SO

  FAR AND YET SO NEAR.

  Upstairs, Sandy has gotten Sweik out of bed onto his stomach on the floor, with one pillow under his head and another under his hips. She’s loosened his pants and pulled them down past his butt. She’s massaging two-handed with the hams of her hands into his lower back. Sweik is grunting and groaning.

  “Stop her, Scum, she’s killing me.”

  “God, this bucko’s so tight he’s just one lump of knotted muscle down here.”

  She leans back and perspiration is dripping from her nose. I kneel on the other side of Sweik. There are tears running down his face.