Tropic of Capricorn

by Henry Miller

  It isn’t often you get a cunt who’ll admit such things – I mean a regular cunt and not a moron. There was Trix Miranda, for example, and her sister, Mrs. Costello. A fine pair of birds they were. Trix, who was going with my friend MacGregor, tried to pretend to her own sister, with whom she was living, that she had no sexual relations with MacGregor. And the sister was pretending to all and sundry that she was frigid, that she couldn’t have any relations with a man even if she wanted to, because she was “built too small’. And meanwhile my friend MacGregor was fucking them silly, both of them, and they both knew about each other but still they lied like that to each other. Why? I couldn’t make it out. The Costello bitch was hysterical; whenever she felt that she wasn’t getting a fair percentage of the lays that MacGregor was handing out she’d throw a pseudo-epileptic fit. That meant throwing towels over her, patting her wrists, opening her bosom, chafing her legs and finally hoisting her upstairs to bed where my friend MacGregor would look after her as soon as he had put the other one to sleep. Sometimes the two sisters would lie down together to take a nap of an afternoon; if MacGregor were around he would go upstairs and lie between them. And he explained it to me laughingly, the trick was for him to pretend to go to sleep. He would lie there breathing heavily, opening now one eye, now the other, to see which one was really dozing off. As soon as he was convinced that one of them was asleep he’d tackle the other. On such occasions he seemed to prefer the hysterical sister, Mrs. Costello, whose husband visited her about once every six months. The more risk he ran, the more thrill he got out of it, he said. If it were with the other sister, Trix, whom he was supposed to be courting, he had to pretend that it would be terrible if the other one were to catch them like that, and at the same time, he admitted to me, he was always hoping that the other one would wake up and catch them. But the married sister, the one who was “built too small”, as she used to say, was a wily bitch and besides she felt guilty toward her sister and if her sister had ever caught her in the act she’d probably have pretended that she was having a fit and didn’t know what she was doing. Nothing on earth could make her admit that she was actually permitting herself the pleasure of being fucked by a man.

  I knew her quite well because I was giving her lessons for a time, and I used to do my damnedest to make her admit that she had a normal cunt and that she’d enjoy a good fuck if she could get it now and then. I used to tell her wild stories, which were really thinly disguised accounts of her own doings, and yet she remained adamant. I had even gotten her to the point one day – and this beats everything – where she let me put my finger inside her. I thought sure it was settled. It’s true she was dry and a bit tight, but I put that down to her hysteria. But imagine getting that far with a cunt and then having her say to your face, as she yanks her dress down violently – “you see, I told you I wasn’t built right!” “I don’t see anything of the kind,” I said angrily. “What do you expect me to do – use a microscope on you?”

  “I like that,” she said, pretending to get on her high horse. “What a way of talking to me!”

  “You know damned well you’re lying,” I continued. “Why do you lie like that? Don’t you think it’s human to have a cunt and to use it once in a while? Do you want it to dry up on you?”

  “Such language!” she said, biting her under lip and reddening like a beet. “I always thought you were a gentleman.”

  “Well, you’re no lady,” I retorted, “because even a lady admits to a fuck now and then, and besides ladies don’t ask gentlemen to stick their fingers up inside them and see how small they’re built.”

  “I never asked you to touch me,” she said. “I wouldn’t think of asking you to put your hand on me, on my private parts anyway.”

  “Maybe you thought I was going to swab your ear for you, is that it?”

  “I thought of you like a doctor at that moment, that’s all I can say,” she said stiffly, trying to freeze me out.

  “Listen,” I said, taking a wild chance, “let’s pretend that it was all a mistake, that nothing happened, nothing at all. I know you too well to think of insulting you like that. I wouldn’t think of doing a thing like that to you – no, damned if I would. I was just wondering if maybe you weren’t right in what you said, if maybe you aren’t built rather small. You know, it all went so quick I couldn’t tell what I felt … I don’t think I even put my finger inside you. I must have just touched the outside – that’s about all. Listen sit down here on the couch … let’s be friends again.” I pulled her down beside me – she was melting visibly – and I put my arm around her waist, as though to console her more tenderly. “Has it always been like that?” I asked innocently, and I almost laughed the next moment, realizing what an idiotic question it was. She hung her head coyly, as though we were touching on an unmentionable tragedy. “Listen, maybe if you sat on my lap …” and I hoisted her gently on to my lap, at the same time delicately putting my hand under her dress and resting it lightly on her knee … “maybe if you sat a moment like this, you’d feel better … there, that’s it, just snuggle back in my arms … are you feeling better?” She didn’t answer, but she didn’t resist either; she just lay back limply and closed her eyes. Gradually and very gently and smoothly I moved my hand up her leg, talking to her in a low, soothing voice all the time. When I got my fingers into her crotch and parted the little lips she was as moist as a dish-rag. I massaged it gently, opening it up more and more, and still handing out a telepathic line about women sometimes being mistaken about themselves and how sometimes they think they’re very small when really they’re quite normal, and the longer I kept it up the juicier she got and the more she opened up. I had four fingers inside her and there was room inside for more if I had had more to put in. She had an enormous cunt and it had been well reamed out, I could feel. I looked at her to see if she was still keeping her eyes shut. Her mouth was open and she was gasping but her eyes were tight shut, as though she were pretending to herself that it was all a dream. I could move her about roughly now – no danger of the slightest protest. And maliciously perhaps, I jostled her about unnecessarily, just to see if she would come to. She was as limp as a feather pillow and even when her head struck the arm of the sofa she showed no sign of irritation. It was as though she had anaesthetized herself for a gratuitous fuck. I pulled all her clothes off and threw them on the floor, and after I had given her a bit of a work-out on the sofa I slipped it out and laid her on the floor, on her clothes; and then I slipped it in again and she held it tight with that suction valve she used so skilfully, despite the outward appearance of coma.

  It seems strange to me that the music always passed off into sex. Nights, if I went out for a walk, I was sure to pick up some one – a nurse, a girl coming out of a dance hall; a sales girl, anything with a skirt on. If I went out with my friend MacGregor in his car – just a little spin to the beach, he would say – I would find myself by midnight sitting in some strange parlour in some queer neighbourhood with a girl on my lap, usually one I didn’t give a damn about because MacGregor was even less selective than I. Often, stepping in his car I’d say to him – “listen, no cunts tonight, what?” And he’d say – “Jesus, no, I’m fed up … just a little drive somewhere … maybe to Sheepshead Bay, what do you say?” We wouldn’t have gone more than a mile when suddenly he’d pull the car up to the curb and nudge me. “Get a look at that,” he’d say, pointing to a girl strolling along the sidewalk. “Jesus, what a leg!” Or else – “Listen what do you say we ask her to come along? Maybe she can dig up a friend.” And before I could say another word he’d be hailing her and handing out his usual patter, which was the same for every one. And nine times out of ten the girl came along. And before we’d gone very far, feeling her up with his free hand, he’d ask her if she didn’t have a friend she could dig up to keep us company. And if she put up a fuss, if she didn’t like being pawed over that way too quickly, he’d say – “All right, get the hell out then … we can’t waste any time on the like
s of you!” And with that he’d slow up and shove her out. “We can’t be bothered with cunts like that, can we Henry?” he’d say, chuckling softly. “You wait, I promised you something good before the night’s over.” And if I reminded him that we were going to lay off for one night he’d answer; “Well, just as you like … I was only thinking it might make it more pleasant for you.” And then suddenly the brakes would pull us up and he’d be saying to some silky silhouette looming out of the dark: – “hello sister, what yer doing – taking a little stroll?” And maybe this time it would be something exciting, a dithery little bitch with nothing else to do but pull up her skirt and hand it to you. Maybe we wouldn’t even have to buy her a drink, just hail up somewhere on a side road and go at it, one after the other, in the car. And if she was an emptyheaded bimbo, as they usually were, he wouldn’t even bother to drive her home. “We’re not going that way,” he’d say, the bastard that he was. “You’d better jump out here,” and with that he’d open the door and out with her. His next thought was, of course, was she clean? That would occupy his mind all the way back. “Jesus, we ought to be more careful,” he’d say. “You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into picking them up like that. Ever since that last one – you remember, the one we picked up on the Drive – I’ve been itchy as hell. Maybe it’s just nervousness … I think about it too much. Why can’t a guy stick to one cunt, tell me that, Henry. You take Trix, now, she’s a good kid, you know that. And I like her too, in a way, but … shit, what’s the use of talking about it? You know me – I’m a glutton. You know, I’m getting so bad that sometimes when I’m on my way to a date – mind you, with a girl I want to fuck, and everything fixed too – as I say, sometimes I’m rolling along and maybe out of the corner of my eye I catch a flash of a leg crossing the street and before I know it I’ve got her in the car and the hell with the other girl. I must be cunt-struck, I guess … what do you think? Don’t tell me,” he would add quickly. “I know you, you bugger … you’ll be sure to tell me the worst.” And then, after a pause – “you’re a funny guy, do you know that? I never notice you refusing anything, but somehow you don’t seem to be worrying about it all the time. Sometimes you strike me as though you didn’t give a damn one way or the other. And you’re a steady bastard too – almost a monogamist, I’d say. How you can keep it up so long with one woman beats me. Don’t you get bored with them? Jesus, I know so well what they’re going to say. Sometimes I feel like saying … you know, just breeze in on ’em and say; ‘listen, kid, don’t say a word … just fish it out and open your legs wide.’” He laughed heartily. “Can you imagine the expression on Trix’s face if I pulled a line like that on her? I’ll tell you, once I came pretty near doing it. I kept my hat and coat on. Was she sore! She didn’t mind my keeping the coat on so much, but the hat! I told her I was afraid of a draught … of course there wasn’t any draught. The truth is, I was so damned impatient to get away that I thought if I kept my hat on I’d be off quicker. Instead I was there all night with her. She put up such a row that I couldn’t get her quiet … But listen, that’s nothing. Once I had a drunken Irish bitch and this one had some queer ideas. In the first place, she never wanted it in bed … always on the table. You know, that’s all right once in a while, but if you do it often it wears you out. So one night – I was a little tight, I guess – I says to her, no, nothing doing, you drunken bastard … you’re gonna go to bed with me to-night. I want a real fuck – in bed. You know, I had to argue with that son of a bitch for an hour almost before I could persuade her to go to bed with me, and then only on the agreement that I was to keep my hat on. Listen, can you picture me getting over that stupid bitch with my hat on? And stark naked to boot! I asked her … ‘Why do you want me to keep my hat on?’ You know what she said? She said it seemed more genteel. Can you imagine what a mind that cunt had? I used to hate myself for going with that bitch. I never went to her sober, that’s one thing. I’d have to be tanked up first and kind of blind and batty – you know how I get sometimes …”

  I knew very well what he meant. He was one of my oldest friends and one of the most cantankerous bastards I ever knew. Stubborn wasn’t the word for it. He was like a mule – a pigheaded Scotchman. And his old man was even worse. When the two of them got into a rage it was a pretty sight. The old man used to dance positively dance with rage. If the old lady got between she’d get a sock in the eye. They used to put him out of the house regularly. Out he’d go, with all his belongings, including the furniture, including the piano too. In a month or so he’d be back again – because they always gave him credit at home. And then he’d come home drunk some night with a woman he’d picked up somewhere and the rumpus would start all over again. It seems they didn’t mind so much his coming home with a girl and keeping her all night, but what they did object to was the cheek of him asking his mother to serve them breakfast in bed. If his mother tried to bawl him out he’d shut her up by saying – “What are you trying to tell me? You wouldn’t have been married yet if you hadn’t been knocked up.” The old lady would wring her hands and say – “What a son! What a son! God help me, what have I done to deserve this?” To which he’d remark, “Aw forget it! You’re just an old prune!” Often as not his sister would come up to try and smooth matters out. “Jesus, Wallie,” she’d say, “it’s none of my business what you do, but can’t you talk to your mother more respectfully?” Whereupon MacGregor would make his sister sit on the bed and start coaxing her to bring up the breakfast. Usually he’d have to ask his bed-mate what her name was in order to present her to his sister. “She’s not a bad kid,” he’d say, referring to his sister. “She’s the only decent one in the family … Now listen, sis, bring up some grub, will yer? Some nice bacon and eggs, eh, what do you say? Listen, is the old man around? What’s his mood to-day? I’d like to borrow a couple of bucks. You try to worm it out of him, will you? I’ll get you something nice for Christmas.” Then, as though everything were settled, he’d pull back the covers to expose the wench beside him. “Look at her, sis, ain’t she beautiful? Look at that leg! Listen, you ought to get yourself a man … you’re too skinny. Patsy here, I bet she doesn’t go begging for it, eh Patsy?” and with that a sound slap on the rump for Patsy. “Now scram, sis, I want some coffee … and don’t forget, make the bacon crisp! Don’t get any of that lousy store bacon … get something extra. And be quick about it!”

  What I liked about him were his weaknesses; like all men who practise will-power he was absolutely flabby inside. There wasn’t a thing he wouldn’t do – out of weakness. He was always very busy and he was never really doing anything. And always boning up on something, always trying to improve his mind. For example, he would take the unabridged dictionary and, tearing out a page each day, would read it through religiously on his way back and forth from the office. He was full of facts, and the more absurd and incongruous the facts, the more pleasure he derived from them. He seemed to be bent on proving to all and sundry that life was a farce, that it wasn’t worth the game, that one thing cancelled out another, and so on. He was brought up on the North Side, not very far from the neighbourhood in which I had spent my childhood. He was very much a product of the North Side, too, and that was one of the reasons why I liked him. The way he talked, out of the corner of his mouth, for instance, the tough air he put on when talking to a cop, the way he spat in disgust, the peculiar curse words he used, the sentimentality, the limited horizon, the passion for playing pool or shooting crap, the staying up all night swapping yarns, the contempt for the rich, the hobnobbing with politicians, the curiosity about worthless things, the respect for learning, the fascination of the dance hall, the saloon, the burlesque, talking about seeing the world and never budging out of the city, idolizing no matter whom so long as the person showed “spunk”, a thousand and one little traits or peculiarities of this sort endeared him to me because it was precisely such idiosyncrasies which marked the fellows I had known as a child. The neighbourhood was composed of nothing, it se
emed, but lovable failures. The grownups behaved like children and the children were incorrigible. Nobody could rise very far above his neighbour or he’d be lynched. It was amazing that any one ever became a doctor or a lawyer. Even so, he had to be a good fellow, had to pretend to talk like every one else, and he had to vote the Democratic ticket. To hear MacGregor talk about Plato or Nietzsche, for instance, to his buddies was something to remember. In the first place, to even get permission to talk about such things as Plato or Nietzsche to his companions, he had to pretend that it was only by accident that he had run across their names; or perhaps he’d say that he had met an interesting drunk one night in the back room of a saloon and this drunk had started talking about these guys Nietzsche and Plato. He would even pretend he didn’t quite know how the names were pronounced. Plato wasn’t such a dumb bastard, he would say apologetically. Plato had an idea or two in his bean, yes sir, yes siree. He’d like to see one of those dumb politicians at Washington trying to lock horns with a guy like Plato. And he’d go on, in this roundabout, matter of fact fashion to explain to his crap-shooting friends just what kind of a bright bird Plato was in his time and how he measured up against other men in other times. Of course, he was probably a eunuch, he would add, by way of throwing a little cold water on all this erudition. In those days, as he nimbly explained, the big guys, the philosophers, often had their nuts cut off – a fact! – so as to be out of all temptation. The other guy, Nietzsche, he was a real case, a case for the bug-house. He was supposed to be in love with his sister. Hypersensitive like. Had to live in a special climate – in Nice, he thought it was. As a rule he didn’t care much for the Germans, but this guy Nietzsche was different. As a matter of fact, he hated the Germans, this Nietzsche. He claimed he was a Pole or something like that. He had them dead right, too. He said they were stupid and swinish, and by God, he knew what he was talking about. Anyway he showed them up. He said they were full of shit, to make it brief, and by God, wasn’t he right though? Did you see the way those bastards turned tail when they got a dose of their own medicine? “Listen, I know a guy who cleaned out a nestful of them in the Argonne region – he said they were so god-damned low he wouldn’t shit on them. He said he wouldn’t even waste a bullet on them – he just bashed their brains in with a club. I forget this guy’s name now, but anyway he told me he saw aplenty in the few months he was there. He said the best fun he got out of the whole fucking business was to pop off his own major. Not that he had any special grievance against him – he just didn’t like his mug. He didn’t like the way the guy gave orders. Most of the officers that were killed got it in the back, he said. Served them right, too, the pricks! He was just a lad from the North Side. I think he runs a pool room now down near Wallabout Market. A quiet fellow, minds his own business. But if you start talking to him about the war he goes off the handle. He says he’d assassinate the President of the United States if they ever tried to start another war. Yeah, and he’d do it too, I’m telling you … But shit, what was that I wanted to tell you about Plato? Oh yeah …”