Women

by Charles Bukowski

  "Let's go to bed, Liza."

  We got ready for bed. We got into bed and I mounted her. Without foreplay it was much more difficult but I finally got it in. I began to work. I worked and I worked. It was another hot night. It was like a recurring bad dream. I began sweating. I humped and I pumped. It wouldn't go down, it wouldn't come off. I pumped and I humped. Finally I rolled off. "Sorry, baby, too much to drink."

  Liza slowly slid her head down my chest, across my belly, down, got to it, began licking and licking and licking, then took it into her mouth and worked on it…

  I flew back to San Francisco with Liza. She had an apartment at the top of a steep hill. It was nice. The first thing I had to do was crap. I went into the bathroom and sat down. Green vines all around. What a pot. I liked it. When I came out Liza sat me down on some big pillows, put Mozart on the machine, and poured me a chilled wine. It was dinner time and she stood in the kitchen cooking. Every now and then she poured me another wine. I always enjoyed being at women's places more than when they were at mine. When I was at their places I could always leave.

  She called me in to dinner. There was salad, iced tea and a chicken stew. It was quite good. I was a terrible cook. All I could fry were steaks, although I made a good beef stew, especially when drunk. I liked to gamble with my beef stews. I put almost everything into them and sometimes got away with it.

  After dinner we took a ride to Fisherman's Wharf. Liza drove her car with great caution. It made me nervous. She would stop at a cross street and look in both directions for traffic. When there wasn't any she still sat there. I waited.

  "Liza, shit, let's go. There isn't anybody around."

  Then she would go. That was the way it was with people. The longer you knew them the more their eccentricities showed. Sometimes their eccentricities were humorous-in the beginning.

  We walked along the wharf, then went and sat on the sand. It wasn't much of a beach.

  She told me she hadn't had a boyfriend in some time. What the men she had known talked about, what was important to them, she found unbelievable.

  "Women are much the same," I told her. "When they asked Richard Burton what was the first thing he looked for in a woman, he said, 'She must be at least 30 years old.'"

  It got dark and we went back to her apartment. Liza brought out the wine and we sat on pillows. She opened the shutters and we looked out on the night. We began kissing. Then we drank. And kissed some more.

  "When are you going back to work?" I asked her.

  "Do you want me to?"

  "No, but you have to live."

  "But you're not working."

  "In a way, I am."

  "You mean you live in order to write?"

  "No, I just exist. Then later I try to remember and write some of it down."

  "I only run my dance studio three nights a week."

  "You make ends meet that way?"

  "So far I have."

  We became more involved with kissing. She didn't drink as much as I did. We moved to the waterbed, undressed and got to it. I'd heard about waterbed fucks. They were supposed to be great. I found it difficult. The water shuddered and shook beneath us, and as I was moving down, the water seemed to be rocking from side to side. Instead of bringing her to me, it seemed to take her away from me. Maybe I needed practice. I went into my savagery routine, grabbing her by the hair, thrusting as if it was a rape. She liked it, or seemed to, making little delightful sounds. I savaged her some more, then suddenly she appeared to climax, making all the right sounds. That excited me and I came just at the end of hers.

  We cleaned up and went back to the pillows and the wine. Liza fell asleep with her head in my lap. I sat there an hour or so. Then I stretched out on my back and we slept that night on all those pillows.

  The next day Liza took me to her dance studio. We got sandwiches from a place across the street and we took them up with our drinks to her studio and ate them. It was a very large room on a second floor. There was nothing but empty floor, some stereo equipment, a few chairs, and there were ropes strung high above, across the ceiling. I didn't know what any of it meant.

  "Shall I teach you to dance?" she asked.

  "Somehow I'm not in the mood," I said.

  The following days and nights were similar. Not bad but not great. I learned to manage on the waterbed a bit better but I still preferred a normal bed for fucking.

  I stayed 3 or 4 more days, then flew back to L.A.

  We continued to write letters back and forth.

  A month later she was back in L. A. This time when she walked up to my door she wore slacks. She looked different, I couldn't explain it to myself but she looked different. I didn't enjoy sitting around with her so I took her to the racetrack, to the movies, to the boxing matches, all the things I did with women I enjoyed, but something was missing. We still had sex, but it was no longer as exciting. I felt as if we were married.

  After five days Liza was sitting on the couch and I was reading the newspaper when she said, "Hank, it's not working, is it?"

  "No."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I don't know."

  "I'll leave. I don't want to stay here."

  "Relax, it's not that bad."

  "I just don't understand it."

  I didn't answer.

  "Hank, drive me to the Women's Liberation Building. Do you know where it's at?"

  "Yes, it's in the Westlake district where the art school used to be."

  "How did you know?"

  "I drove another woman there once."

  "You bastard."

  "O.K., now…"

  "I have a girlfriend who works there. I don't know where her apartment is and I can't find her in the phonebook. But I know she works at the Women's Lib Building. I'll stay with her for a couple of days. I just don't want to go back to San Francisco feeling like I do…"

  Liza got her things together and put them in her suitcase. We walked out to the car and I drove to the Westlake district. I had driven Lydia there once for a women's art exhibit where she had entered some of her sculpture.

  I parked outside.

  "I'll wait to make sure your friend is there."

  "It's all right. You can go."

  "I'll wait."

  I waited. Liza came out, waved. I waved back, started the engine and drove off.

  86

  I was sitting in my shorts one afternoon a week later. There was a tender little knock on the door. "Just a moment," I said. I put on a robe and opened the door.

  "We're two girls from Germany. We've read your books."

  One looked to be about 19, the other maybe 22.

  I had two or three books out in Germany in limited editions. I had been born in Germany in 1920, in Andernach. The house I had lived in during my childhood was now a brothel. I couldn't speak German. But they spoke English.

  "Come in."

  They sat on the couch.

  "I'm Hilda," said the 19 year old.

  "I'm Gertrude," said the 22 year old.

  "I'm Hank."

  "We thought your books were very sad and very funny," said Gertrude.

  "Thank you."

  I went in and poured 3 vodka-7s. I loaded their drinks, and I loaded mine.

  "We're on our way to New York City. We thought we would stop by," said Gertrude.

  They went on to say they'd been in Mexico. They spoke good English. Gertrude was heavier, almost a butterball; she was all breasts and ass. Hilda was thin, looked like she was under some kind of strain… constipated and odd, but attractive.

  As I drank I crossed my legs. My robe fell apart.

  "Oh," said Gertrude, "you have sexy legs!"

  "Yes," said Hilda.

  "I know it," I said.

  The girls stayed right along with me on the drinks. I went and concocted three more. When I sat down again I made sure that my robe covered me properly.

  "You girls can stay here for a few days, rest up."

  They didn't answer. />
  "Or you don't have to stay," I said. "It's all right. We can just talk awhile. I don't want to make any demands on you."

  "I'll bet you know a lot of women," said Hilda. "We've read your books."

  "I write fiction."

  "What's fiction?"

  "Fiction is an improvement on life."

  "You mean you lie?" asked Gertrude.

  "A little. Not too much."

  "Do you have a girlfriend?" asked Hilda.

  "No. Not now."

  "We'll stay," said Gertrude.

  "There's only one bed."

  "That's all right."

  "Just one other thing…"

  "What?"

  "I must sleep in the middle."

  "That's all right."

  I kept mixing drinks and soon we ran out. I phoned the liquor store. "I want…"

  "Wait, my friend," he said, "we don't start making home deliveries until 6 pm."

  "Really? I push $200 a month down your throat…"

  "Who is this?"

  "Chinaski."

  "Oh, Chinaski… What is it you wanted?"

  I told the man. Then, "You know how to get here?"

  "Oh, yes."

  He arrived in 8 minutes. It was the fat Australian who was always sweating. I took the two cartons and set them on a chair.

  "Hello, ladies," said the fat Australian.

  They didn't answer.

  "What's the bill, Arbuckle?"

  "Well, it comes to $17.94."

  I gave him a twenty. He started digging for change.

  "You know better than that. Buy yourself a new home."

  "Thank you, sir!"

  Then he leaned toward me and asked in a lower voice, "My God, how do you do it?"

  "Typing," I said.

  "Typing?"

  "Yes, about 18 words a minute."

  I pushed him back outside and closed the door.

  That night I got in bed with them, with me in between. We were all drunk and first I grabbed one and kissed and fondled her, then I turned and grabbed the other. I went back and forth and it was very rewarding. Later I concentrated on one for a long time, then turned and went to the other. Each waited patiently. I was confused. Gertrude was hotter, Hilda was younger. I reamed butt, laid on top of each of them but didn't stick it in. I finally decided on Gertrude. But I couldn't do it. I was too drunk. Gertrude and I went to sleep, her hand holding my cock, my hands on her breasts. My cock went down, her breasts remained firm.

  It was very hot the next day and there was more drinking. I phoned out for food. I turned the fan on. There wasn't much talking. Those German girls liked their drinks. Then they both went out and sat on the old couch on my front porch-Hilda in shorts and bra and Gertrude in a tight pink underslip without bra or panties. Max, the mailman, came by. Gertrude accepted my mail for me. Poor Max nearly fainted. I could see the envy and disbelief in his eyes. But, then, he had job security…

  Around 2 pm Hilda announced that she was going for a walk. Gertrude and I went inside. Finally it did happen. We were on the bed and we played our openers. After a while we got down to it. I mounted and it went in. But it went in sharply to the left, like there was a curve. I could only remember one other woman like that-but it had been good. Then I got to thinking, she's fooling me, I'm not really in there. So I pulled it out and stuck it back in. It went in and took a hard left turn again. What shit. Either she had a fucked up pussy or I wasn't penetrating. I persuaded myself to believe she had a fucked up pussy. I pumped and worked while it bent around that hard left turn.

  I worked and worked. Then it felt as if I were hitting bone. It was shocking. I gave up and rolled off.

  "Sorry," I said, "I just don't seem to have it today."

  Gertrude didn't answer.

  We both got up and dressed. Then we went into the front room and sat and waited on Hilda. We drank and waited. Hilda took a long time. A long, long time. She finally arrived.

  "Hello," I said.

  "Who are all these black men in your neighborhood?" she asked.

  "I don't know who they are."

  "They said I could make $2,000 a week."

  "Doing what?"

  "They didn't say."

  The German girls stayed 2 or 3 days more. I still kept hitting that left turn in Gertrude even when I was sober. Hilda told me she was on Tampax, so she was no help.

  They finally collected their things and I got them into my car. They had large canvas bags that they carried over their shoulders. German hippies. I followed their instructions. Turn here, turn there. We climbed higher and higher into the Hollywood Hills. We were in rich territory. I had forgotten that some people lived quite well while most others ate their own shit for breakfast. When you lived where I lived you began to believe that every place else was like your own crummy place.

  "Here it is," said Gertrude.

  The Volks was at the bottom of a long winding driveway. Up there somewhere was a house, a large, large house with all the things in it, and around it, that such houses have.

  "You had better let us walk up," said Gertrude.

  "Sure," I said.

  They got out. I turned the Volks around. They stood at the entrance and waved to me, their canvas backpacks slung over their shoulders. I waved back. Then I drove off, put it into neutral, and glided down out of the mountains.

  87

  I was asked to give a reading at a famous nightclub, The Lancer, on Hollywood Boulevard. I agreed to read two nights. I was to follow a rock group, The Big Rape, each night. I was getting sucked into the show biz maze. I had some extra tickets and I phoned Tammie and asked her if she wanted to come. She said yes, so the first night I took her with me. I had them put her on the tab. We sat in the bar waiting for my act to go on. Tammie's act was similar to mine. She promptly got drunk and walked up and down in the bar talking to people.

  By the time I was ready to go on Tammie was falling over tables. I found her brother and told him, "Jesus Christ, get her out of here, will you?"

  He led her off into the night. I was drunk, too, and later on I forgot that I had asked that she be taken away.

  I didn't give a good reading. The audience was strictly into rock, and they missed lines and meanings. But some of it was my fault too. I sometimes lucked out with rock crowds, but that particular night I didn't. I was disturbed by Tammie's absence, I think. When I got home I phoned her number. Her mother answered. "Your daughter," I told her, "is SCUM!"

  "Hank, I don't want to hear that."

  She hung up.

  The next night I went alone. I sat at a table in the bar and drank. An elderly, dignified woman came up to my table and introduced herself. She taught English literature and had brought one of her pupils, a little butterball called Nancy Freeze. Nancy appeared to be in heat. They wanted to know if I would answer some questions for the class.

  "Shoot."

  "Who was your favorite author?"

  "Fante."

  "Who?"

  "John F-a-n-t-e. Ask the Dust. Wait Until Spring, Bandini."

  "Where can we find his books?"

  "I found them in the main library, downtown. Fifth and Olive, isn't it?"

  "Why did you like him?"

  "Total emotion. A very brave man."

  "Who else?"

  "Celine."

  "Why?"

  "They ripped out his guts and he laughed, and he made them laugh too. A very brave man."

  "Do you believe in bravery?"

  "I like to see it anywhere, in animals, birds, reptiles, humans."

  "Why?"

  "Why? It makes me feel good. It's a matter of style in the face of no chance at all."

  "Hemingway?"

  "No."

  "Why?"

  "Too grim, too serious. A good writer, fine sentences. But for him, life was always total war. He never let go, he never danced."

  They folded up their notebooks and vanished. Too bad. I had meant to tell them that my real influences were Gable, Cagn
ey, Bogart and Errol Flynn.

  Next thing I knew I was sitting with three handsome women, Sara, Cassie, and Debra. Sara was 32,3 classy wench, good style and a heart. She had red-blond hair that fell straight down, and she had wild eyes, slightly insane. She also carried an overload of compassion that was real enough and which obviously cost her something. Debra was Jewish with large brown eyes and a generous mouth, heavily smeared with blood-red lipstick. Her mouth glistened and beckoned to me. I guessed she was somewhere between 30 and 35, and she reminded me of how my mother looked in 1935 (although my mother had been much more beautiful). Cassie was tall with long blond hair, very young, expensively dressed, modish, hip, "in," nervous, beautiful. She sat closest to me, squeezing my hand, rubbing her thigh against mine. As she squeezed my hand I became aware that her hand was much larger than mine. (Although I am a large man I am embarrassed by my small hands. In my barroom brawls as a young man in Philadelphia I had quickly found out the importance of hand size. How I had managed to win 30 percent of my fights was amazing.) Anyway, Cassie felt she had an edge on the other two, and I wasn't sure but that I agreed.

  Then I had to read, and I had a luckier night. It was the same crowd, but my mind was on my work. The crowd got warmer and warmer, wilder and enthusiastic. Sometimes it was them who made it happen, sometimes it was you. Usually the latter. It was like climbing into the prize ring: you should feel you owed them something or you shouldn't be in there. I jabbbed and crossed and shuffled, and in the last round I really opened up and knocked out the referee. Performance is performance. Because I had bombed the night before my success must have seemed very strange to them. It certainly seemed strange to me.

  Cassie was waiting in the bar. Sara slipped me a love note with her phone number. Debra was not as inventive-she just wrote down her phone number. For a moment-strangely-I thought about Katherine, then I bought Cassie a drink. I'd never see Katherine again. My little Texas girl, my beauty of beauties. Goodbye, Katherine.

  "Look, Cassie, can you drive me home? I'm too drunk to drive. One more drunk driving rap and I've had it."

  "All right, I'll drive you home. How about your car?"

  "Fuck it. I'll leave it."

  We left together in her M.G. It was like a movie. At any moment I expected her to drop me off at the next corner. She was in her mid-twenties. She talked as we drove. She worked for a music company, loved it, didn't have to be at work until 10:30 am and she left at 3 pm. "Not bad," she said, "and I like it. I can hire and fire, I've moved up, but I haven't had to fire anybody yet. They're good folks and we've put out some great records…"