lead lives like this, it’s nothing to take an unwilling guy and put him through their paces. In fact, a gang bang is like normal sex for these creeps. But for Carver, it’s a whole new trip. At first, it was one he’d wished he missed. He’d never even been to bed with two girls, let alone make it in public. But there’s little discourse in situations like this, and no choices either. Once they’ve spotted his firm slender ass, there’s no way they’ll leave without seeing—and feeling and fucking—a lot more. As each item of clothing is torn away, he feels his demure personality as a research professor at Tuskegee Institute also disappearing—along with his former sexual inhibitions. Since the greedy coeds don’t bother to take turns with him, but rather have him all at once, the action makes his head spin—or is it the rough hands and soggy, steaming cunts that make him dizzy? After this, going back to the old way would seem anticlimactic. But later that evening, Carver is attacked by Blacula.
These are very dear to me—these notes—very expensive and uncertain and childish. I’m writing them every day. Tonight I feel very lonely—Rachel’s gone to Bermuda with her family and the apartment is empty. I’m a little apprehensive about my visit with Barbara in Lansing—but more hopeful than apprehensive, really. I’m looking forward to human contact that’s un-habitual and un-mapped—my latest estimate is that certain forms of human relations are redemptive. I probably still have firm expectations in mind vis-a-vis un-mapped human contact and vis-a-vis Barbara in Lansing and vis-a-vis these notes—what a typically topical malady. This will be tonight’s final entry then:
Bob was saying, I’ll never bring Sharon over again—I’m so sorry … About what, I said. About her knocking the idol off your speaker cabinet. C’mon, I said, that’s nothing—that’s ridiculous. What bothered me was her breaking that glass. Those glasses were the first things I bought for the apartment. I got the pieces of the broken glass which I kept wrapped in a few pages of the Denver Post. As I was showing them to Bob, he suddenly turned white. What? I asked. I swear to god, he said, I swear to god I saw them move! He spoke very little the rest of the evening and hasn’t broached the subject since.
Because nothing is so overtaxed as the network of cybernetic checks and balances that averts and thwarts rash judgment, system fatigue is an inevitable fact of life whether it literally advertises itself as in the case of those improvident, precipitantly released Hollywood pageants (“am I nuts or what?”) that, in the phraseology of the trade magazines “snooze into the market;” or whether it hides its head under the covers of police paperwork, hearsay, and miscellaneous clue, as in the instance of the FBI-wired county official with severe tachycardiac spasms who chose mistakenly between instant gratification and a fifteen minute ride to medication; or whether itsurfaces in a cherub-cheeked appliance heiress unwittingly surrendering her heart and purse strings to a philandering chiseler, whose unctuous good looks are matched only by his unprincipled greed, in the shadows which caress the kiosk’s colonnettes like a gossamer bunting during this lush Virginia fall twilight.
I unbuttoned my jacket, loosened my tie, scratched a mosquito bite on her calf and rose to brush my tongue before kissing beautiful Maria Ragazza, Carlo Gambino’s ex-wife. As I spit hurriedly into the sink, I turned to see her clawing a red pit in her calf where the bite had been. You did this to me, she hissed. I rushed to her side and buried my kisses into the raw gouge. When the skin heals, I said, my kisses will be interred in your calf! Her face trembled like a leaf on an antenna. We kissed. I apprehended the kiss modally. The Labial Protasis: initially, the predominant sensation is of full slick tumid quivering catholic lips / Le Temps de
These are very dear to me—these notes—very expensive and uncertain and childish. I’m writing them every day. Tonight I feel very lonely—Rachel’s gone to Bermuda with her family and the apartment is empty. I’m a little apprehensive about my visit with Barbara in Lansing—but more hopeful than apprehensive, really. I’m looking forward to human contact that’s un-habitual and un-mapped—my latest estimate is that certain forms of human relations are redemptive. I probably still have firm expectations in mind vis-a-vis un-mapped human contact and vis-a-vis Barbara in Lansing and vis-a-vis these notes—what a typically topical malady. This will be tonight’s final entry then:
Bob was saying, I’ll never bring Sharon over again—I’m so sorry … About what, I said. About her knocking the idol off your speaker cabinet. C’mon, I said, that’s nothing—that’s ridiculous. What bothered me was her breaking that glass. Those glasses were the first things I bought for the apartment. I got the pieces of the broken glass which I kept wrapped in a few pages of the Denver Post. As I was showing them to Bob, he suddenly turned white. What? I asked. I swear to god, he said, I swear to god I saw them move! He spoke very little the rest of the evening and hasn’t broached the subject since.
Because nothing is so overtaxed as the network of cybernetic checks and balances that averts and thwarts rash judgment, system fatigue is an inevitable fact of life whether it literally advertises itself as in the case of those improvident, precipitantly released Hollywood pageants (“am I nuts or what?”) that, in the phraseology of the trade magazines “snooze into the market;” or whether it hides its head under the covers of police paperwork, hearsay, and miscellaneous clue, as in the instance of the FBI-wired county official with severe tachycardiac spasms who chose mistakenly between instant gratification and a fifteen minute ride to medication; or whether itsurfaces in a cherub-cheeked appliance heiress unwittingly surrendering her heart and purse strings to a philandering chiseler, whose unctuous good looks are matched only by his unprincipled greed, in the shadows which caress the kiosk’s colonnettes like a gossamer bunting during this lush Virginia fall twilight.
I unbuttoned my jacket, loosened my tie, scratched a mosquito bite on her calf and rose to brush my tongue before kissing beautiful Maria Ragazza, Carlo Gambino’s ex-wife. As I spit hurriedly into the sink, I turned to see her clawing a red pit in her calf where the bite had been. You did this to me, she hissed. I rushed to her side and buried my kisses into the raw gouge. When the skin heals, I said, my kisses will be interred in your calf! Her face trembled like a leaf on an antenna. We kissed. I apprehended the kiss modally. The Labial Protasis: initially, the predominant sensation is of full slick tumid quivering catholic lips / Le Temps de
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