J.P. Donleavy: An Author and His Image

by J. P. Donleavy

  ‘Briget, darling.’

  ‘O captain my captain, thank God my fearful spouse is sick.’

  But do for heaven’s sake make sure you’ve got a second mate who knows his shoals and can plot ice bergs accurately and navigate ocean currents. It is simply the most awful feeling to find a vessel foundering under your command while the owner’s wife is under you gaspingly enthralled. Not only will Basil, once you’ve grounded his valuable steamer while rogering Briget, most certainly lose his sense of sportsmanship but he will, just to be ornery, sue the shit, lanyards and binnacles out of you. And, if he’s a ruthless hot blooded tycoon, will also demand of the liquidator in your bankruptcy proceedings to assess and sequester your gold dental fillings.

  However, for those not acquiring master’s papers or lacking in other attributes which gain entrance to a lady’s ultimate confidentiality, do not then as a last resort ever waste your good philandering time pretending to a lady that you are rich. Standing there erection minded shooting your shirtcuffs anchored together with big boorish gems, she will, if she’s worth the philandering, know with the utmost accuracy that you are not. Instead there are other persuasive and inexpensive ploys. Try going arty and sensitive. Good music. Good books. Good films. And yes, even, believe it or not, minor poetry.

  ‘Do you like Herrick, the English poet in whose soul was reborn the spirit of the ancient classical lyric.’

  ‘Who the hell’s he.’

  Don’t be discouraged by the reply. Hardly anyone knows who Herrick is. But an entirely new kettle of jumping slippery fish will be the reinvented you as you interest your lady with your mouthing of beautiful thoughts. But be wary. Stay out of others’ ear shot. Because on the end of any yacht stern or as you slaver in dancing attendance upon her in the midships ballroom, these utterances will make you look like the most impecunious pathetic ass hole to the other well heeled guests. Especially when you’re overheard whispering in her ear hole.

  No fire that

  Lucifer lights

  Could be, madam,

  Like your burning

  In me ignites

  Although this verges on major minor verse you might under a too intense blaze of scornful looks be best advised to then desist and instead profess a deep abiding compassion for the whole of mankind. Have at your fingertips the most recent facts regarding starving millions, plagues, floods, abandoned babies, erupting volcanoes. In mentioning these catastrophes frequently use the words.

  ‘God, it’s all so appalling.’

  You will of course still attract sneaky eye flicks from these social superiors but only the most bizarre outspoken Texans of them will dare to say.

  ‘Fuck humanity, screw your sympathy and pass the wretched canapés.’

  During such south westerly remarks it is especially a time when you want to avoid looking like your more common kind of philanderer. And if you’ve avoided other salient telltale indications, make sure you can’t be spotted for your metal shoe adornments. Which foot flashiness means you have no claim whatever to the deep silent variety of male dignity which any woman worthy of her elegance prefers to the bronco filly busting swivel hipped ladies’ man. Unless, of course, madam is in season and unduly randy. So remember that your every subtlety helps against the everywhere roving competition since the kind of females who will take an interest in you will also make eyes at and openly invite the further attention of servants and waiters. Even to the point of remarking to these menials as they approach with their trays.

  ‘That is the most adorable mushroom miracle you are proffering. I shall, with much relish, eat it you know.’

  Of course the flattered footman’s mind will leap with eye blurring agility to the conclusion that the word he doesn’t understand in that sentence suggests something really beckoning from the lady. He may even be possessed of the crass audacity to wet your fly buttons by tippling over a load of drinks on you. And should your private aperture operate by zipper it distinctly deserves to be rusted.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘Why you feeble flunkey you.’

  But let’s say that your competitors are mostly breathing your dust, watching your smoke and merely catching a whiff of your lady’s musk in which you have been headily mesmerizing your senses. Then so as not to stifle your growing list of victims, you must avoid the really outstanding regally devastating beauty who is often quite devilishly hard to get up.

  ‘May I mount you, madam.’

  ‘Not, I fear, poor boy, were I one hundred years dead, and you the world’s most revered necrophiliac.’

  This is the kind of detumescence you get from these supremely exquisite broads. Being as they have long been aware of their total attraction for all gents. Allowing them to select from among the cream of the great thinkers, statesmen and tycoons. And they can easily collar the man they fancy as they bring various empires and corporations to their knees, and change the destiny of nations with a mere gorgeous ajarment of their sacral gluteals.

  ‘I’m all yours, Mr President. For the next twenty minutes at least. As I’m not having tea with his royal highness till four fifteen.’

  For this doll to give you a sniff your only hope might be to imitate the highly titled philanderer which may of course require you to attend finishing school, forge Debrett and take accent correction. Plus learning how to rein ladies by the ears. As pukka peers do. But once having brushed yourself up in these previous categories, the addition of a monocle will nicely augment your demeanour and authenticate your appearance if it doesn’t complicate finding your way across the drawing room floor during pre dinner drinks. Then when your eye alights upon the sublime delightful beauty of this lady you may wish your optical instrument feast upon the mastermind curvatures of her bosom. And of course agriculture being as it has always been among the pursuits of an aristocrat, you may remark.

  ‘Ah, madam, permit me to moo, while I view your pastures so much greener the other side of your bra.’

  And this divine Diana may just find you long enough tempting to her taste in peers of the realm and princes of the blood for you to really make hay even when your phoney accent slips before your trousers do.

  ‘Is that your vowel dissonantly accosting me, young man.’

  ‘No, ma’am, it’s my pedigreed appendage.’

  But even socially improved philanderers like you, with your rapier quick prick, light superficial thrustings and flimsy morals, are not likely to interest the majesty of these great tall usually green eyed goddesses for very long. And you will therefore be mostly confined to ladies of the second rank. Who nonetheless will gently fondle the locks of hair grown long past your ears. These ladies, too, play croquet well. Expertly pour tea. And although they may speak three or more languages they will take much longer to discover what an absolutely regrettable fuckpig you are. Plus their bottoms for some unaccountable reason are often more attractive than their busts. Not that this isn’t even better, as indeed it is. Plus they usually are quite supple and joint reflexive due to foxhunting. And it is appropriate upon spotting them to ejaculate.

  ‘Tally ho.’

  These girls will usually have married gentlemen for their aristocratic or corporation title or much money or both but not usually for one, without the other. They are quick to lose interest in their spouse and to be mounted elsewhere when they discover that neither of his prior two staggering attractions amounts to much now that she has them firmly in her hooks. No need for monocles here. Tweak lightly such ladies right straight on the arse. They will step away and take a hopeless and smilingly raised eyebrow swipe at your hand. But they will get the message. You must fast, however, manage to impress that you might have more money than her present husband. Best done by giving her a laughing crass flash of bank notes accompanied by an invitation to go gambling.

  ‘Madam, may I interest you to go shake the black eyed bones of chance, prior perhaps to later shaking your own entwining flesh covered ones of love.’

  While in the gambl
ing palace keep great massive stacks of chips cascading out of your pockets. You may think that no one would fall for such a superficial ruse to indicate worldly wealth and if she doesn’t I’m afraid you are then doomed to an even more expensive procedure. Of giving all your chips to her. And do manage to smile as this morals minus bitch loses every cent. And God forbid, as is nearly always the case, that you as a philanderer are nothing more than a middle income married man with hungry little mouths to feed and questing brains to expensively educate.

  In such latter case, however, be warned. Your phone bills will get enormous as your wife starts to harass your more serious seductions. She will telephone at early dawn hours to berate and threaten your friend and her blood and even non blood relatives. She will hire detectives or herself follow you from assignation to assignation. Sitting as she will through the wee hours waiting for a light to go on and for you to get dressed and then come sneakily into the uptight view of her binoculars as you attempt to back your inconspicuous way out the door or down the front steps. She will then, no matter how tall the buildings, shatter windows screaming your lady doll’s name, Jessica somebody, coupled with the most unflattering adjectives. Don’t run for it. Desperately try to keep your dignity. Although being caught like this can really spiritually stymie you and your philandering aerodynamics can be bent out of flying shape for all time.

  ‘You flea bitten whorer up there in apartment six B of number nine Owl Street, with your sluttish ugliness trying to deprive six children of their father and a wife of her infantile husband.’

  But worse still is the crack shot Finger hired by Jessica’s husband drawing a telescopic bead on you from a nearby rooftop eyrie ready to splinter your mid spine with a deer rifle as you show up on a doorstep entrance with an armful of aphrodisiac delicatessen goodies. Therefore some precautions are in order. It is always a legal, financial and life risking mistake to leave any record of your attentions. Never send your calling card with flowers or write demonstrative letters. Or indeed allow the lady to send such to you. It is astonishing at how these heartfelt documents tend to be discovered at the least desirable of times. And are wagged vehemently in one’s face. Covert looks, smiles and eye ogling is the way you go. But do avoid looking dumb, childish and ridiculous doing this. Always whisper places of assignation. Which on no account should be of the one orgasm midday middle price range hotels or motels.

  ‘I have a reservation. Name’s Mr & Mrs Smith.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Smith, you called five minutes ago. Room thirty six. Have a good lunch time.’

  This is the kind of wretched sordidness that can turn your stomach with guilt. Therefore it is de rigueur to spend plenty on dignity and elegance. Also it goes a long way in impressing a jury when later legal contretemps arise. While you get intellectually acquainted, sporting events in which Jessica’s husband takes no interest are ideal. Especially the rodeo. And if hunting fox together, my goodness you can rein up your horses in some isolated copse, dismount and with the blood up. Wow. But make sure the fox doesn’t come circling back. Followed by the entire hunting field. Otherwise arrange your meeting in only the most dignified of hostelries. And upon these occasions dress in double breasted grey pin stripe worsted and carry a briefcase containing papers which, at some early stage in the lobby or in the dining room, are produced. O God, what a master stroke this is. Especially if the Finger contracted to rub you out is trying to familiarize your face, estimate his target area and establish your non routine movements.

  In your most serious mien, hand across these documents to your partner. She in turn takes a pair of eyeglasses out of her purse and studies the papers briefly and then with the pen you proffer, she initials each page and signs the last. Often the Finger, who is despite his dispassionate approach usually possessed of some human curiosity, or the nosy detective gent who has a lot, will carelessly abandon their surveillance to telephone an intermediary or boss of the astonishing event. Wait till he returns before you put the papers back in your briefcase and as you do, your chic living doll Jessica should wipe her hands quite thoroughly and blatantly.

  This latter, especially at that seemingly legal point during this assignation time, really stumps the hell out of your begrudgers. And hardly any detective, hired to track down the pair of you lovers right to the dirty deed, at first won’t believe it. Loosening his tie he’ll rush back to spend yelling telephone minutes attempting to convince his employers that maybe he’s not following the right chick. Until the thunderous scene being described to the betrayed hubby finally dawns on him like the end of the world. That his own lovely looking wife has uncovered all his own joyful philanderings taken place in hotel suites from Knoxville to London.

  ‘Holy shit, she’s on to me.’

  Sending him damn pronto scurrying from bank vault to bank vault checking to see if the transferable bonds and securities are still in his safety deposit boxes. As most gentlemen of big assets know that money can in its sufficiency far outweigh even the most exciting of dalliances with even the most charming flash Harry. And his wife may just be doing a preliminary financial disembowelling before she starts really slashing in the coming legal struggle. Not a surprising conclusion of course when, Jesus Christ, you hear your wife is signing goddamn papers. That might intimately concern the very pure green jade pot you not only piss into but also from which slightly moist humidor you take your best cigars. As you time and time again jump to your feet and put your hand back through the sparse hair over the bald patch, wondering if you’re not yourself to be rubbed out by a wife naïve enough to sign a contract for same. And if you’re a real whiz as a philanderer she will be. But presto you, Jessica’s philanderer, are now disguised in lawyer’s demeanour and clothing. But remember, things can go wrong, and bang wham and splat is the sound and fatality of that bullet.

  A word about fitness. Although you may not yet have a flaccid paunch, remember a new rippling flat bellied panting generation of philanderers is hungrily hot on your heels. And since this occupation prepares you for no other, and also erodes your money making moral strength, you will ultimately, as the hormones simmer down and back muscles ominously creak, have to depend upon your seduced women for financial support. So give your early middle age some thought as this worrying time creeps upon you. Realize that if you are not to end up evilly depressed in some second rate watering place slurping tea and rotting the remaining enamel off your teeth with Sacher Torte munched in the company of overly ripened ladies, then you had better borrow your non returnable nest egg from your present victim early in the relationship. And boy, this is tough. As such ladies who have accumulated what they’ve got by previous practised gold digging, usually, aged though they are, go through men like a dose of lethal salts. And she may, even as undignified as it seems to such a practised philanderer as you, be eyeing some quick dipping lip licking and totally unbooted and unhorsed gigolo. While you try to refurbish your jet set externals.

  ‘It’s all right, Henrietta, is it, if I outfit with some new socks and set of jaguar wheels.’

  ‘Let me think a bit about it, George.’

  At this harrowing time, don’t borrow her hemp, cocaine or cigarettes. This may be the only cheap odd way you can demonstrate to Henrietta that you have not fatally grown dependent upon her money. As you did early trying to get her used to seeing you fill out her previously signatured negotiable instruments for your own trifling amounts of alkaloids, haberdashery and the more modest brands of sports cars, while at the same time desperately rogering her with a frequency that shielded her attention from your poverty. And now as you conscientiously thump away, hoping to finally take her for all she’s worth, she hornily in a hot flush has decided to discard you for what you’re worth. And since this is now not fucking much, you will over your lonely evening dry dry martini occasionally burst into tears. This is only natural. As you are at the end of your philandering career.

  1976

  Nothing Looks Better Than a Harris Tweed Jacket and Faded Blue Jea
ns on a Sunday

  But before I talk of the stuff that religions are made of, or before I say anything at all about wool, please let me rhetorically ask. How lower middle class can you be. Or even lower, as an upper mobile of the blue collar working caste. Let me tell you, you can, in either category and vertical direction be plenty apologetically lower in both. But it does, when you are down far enough in your social designation, allow for having the most appalling taste in the world. And gives one, now that I am about to spout in the crucial field of men’s fashions, a chance at least to be totally unbiased.

  In my day of root beer was the drape shape, was the zoot suit and was my transformation from short pants and gartered long stockings to knickerbockers to long trousers and short socks. All took place in that strange isolated middle western community called Woodlawn, incongruously located in the Bronx where I had young friends who were astonishingly precocious fashion plates. One of whom, a young handsome gentleman called Alan Kuntze in the period around 1940 chose of his own brash innovation to wear Norwegian bedroom slippers as his daily shoes. Upon his inventing this I was among the few who then followed in such footsteps. And in the years succeeding I have remained astonished to find this fashion continuing to take the world by the foot as a loafer.

  There were of course the dress coinages of others my young friend chose to follow, such as tying his tie in a Windsor knot. Daily he would assess every nuance of his attire down to its fabric weave at a local bus stop on our way to prep school, he to Trinity in Manhattan, and me to Fordham in the Bronx. I somehow can’t place his elegantly attractive mother, whose laugh was so wonderfully musical, as ever being his laundress but do vaguely remember a black jolly lady who must have been in his and his older brother Donald’s attendance, for his handkerchiefs, shirts and socks were all of the cleanest cleanliness and every crease mattered where it should. Till on one Sabbath he did appear and as I regarded his irreligious weekend raiment he struck a pose of deserved superiority and, brushing a finite speck from his lapel, announced, ‘Nothing looks better than a Harris tweed jacket and faded blue jeans on a Sunday.’