picture.
Let us try a picture or two.
The bedroom at early evening. The last of the sunset barely visible through the window. The closet door slightly ajar and the closet light on, a yellow bulb that throws a soft diffused glow over the room.
Rhoda lies on her back on the bed, eyes closed, breathing slowly, gradually returning to normal. Her body is glossy with perspiration. On her left Priss is curled up with an arm flung across Rhoda’s waist and her head pillowed on Rhoda’s belly. I lie on Rhoda’s other side, but further up on the bed, so that my waist is almost even with her shoulder. I have propped myself up on one elbow. My eyes move back and forth between Rhoda and Priss. I have an erection, which I hold in one hand and brush idly to and fro against Rhoda’s breasts.
Rhoda says, “I love you both so much.”
“And we love you,” I say.
“And we love you,” Priss echoes.
“I came so beautifully. I came in beautiful colors, all red and green and blue. Like a Mexican flag exploding.”
“What an unusual image-”
“Ah, senior, senora, my Mexican flag, she is exploding.”
“Beautiful, beautiful.”
“Harry, you’re going to turn me on all over again. You’re waking up my sleeping tit. What are-oh, for the love of God, that’s your cock! ”
“What did you think it was, my elbow?”
“I didn’t really know. I guess I-oh, hey, wow!”
Priss, grinning sleepily, moves her head from Rhoda’s belly. Her tongue darts out and begins drawing insistent circles around Rhoda’s other nipple. I lower myself on the bed so that I can suck Rhoda’s breast instead of nuzzling it with my cock. Priss throws a leg over Rhoda’s lower body, and my prick is happily trapped between each of their thighs. Rhoda’s body trembles as we suck her beautiful breasts.
“God, it’s like nursing twins.”
We stay at her breasts for a long time, happily free of sibling rivalry, drawing special nourishment from these fountains. Then Priss abandons her post and turns neatly around. On hands and knees she straddles Rhoda’s body. She places a kiss on the pit of Rhoda’s stomach, at the very top of the curly auburn triangle. Rhoda beams, and raises her head slightly, and breathes warmly between Priss’ thighs.
Priss lowers herself slowly, gently, and Rhoda’s tongue finds her.
I wean myself, abandoning the breast and getting up from the bed for the moment. I walk to the foot of the bed, then back to the head again, watching them eat each other. I feel as though I have watched this game a thousand times, and that I will never grow bored with it. It has for me a beauty I cannot entirely comprehend, a beauty and balance that seems to transcend sex and verge on symbolism.
Each feeding the other, each feeding on the other, each becoming the other, yin and yang, day and night, past and future, all the oriental world of opposites that are the same.
My penis is so huge and hard that it hurts, my balls weigh twenty pounds apiece. And yet there is no great urgency, no mad rush either to start fucking or, once started, to finish. A magic element of these magic days-I have been uncannily transformed into Superstud, the Man with the Steel Prick, able to leap high up women in a single bound, able to fuck all night without coming and to come all night without stopping.
The American dream, right? And it’s all there waiting for you, all that capacity, and the magic times, if you find them, if you let it all out.
I walk to the head of the bed. Prissy’s thighs frame the top of Rhoda’s head. Rhoda’s tongue slides in and out of Priss, then moves to nibble at the clitoris.
The bed groans familiarly as I get on it, kneeling over the two of them. I rub my cock around in Rhoda’s silky hair. I raise myself up a little and take hold of Priss’ buttocks with both hands. I spread them, and press my cock briefly between them. There is a sharp intake of breath, a very exciting sound.
I work myself patiently a little way into her but she is very tight there and the contact, while exciting, is mutually uncomfortable. I hesitate, and then a hand grips the shaft of my penis and withdraws it from the rear entrance, pumps it once or twice for luck, and tucks it home in front.
Priss shudders and sighs.
And, thus tucked into one another, we begin the game. I slide in and out of Priss in long lingering timeless strokes while Rhoda eats us both, fastening her mouth to the point where we are joined and fitting her mouth love to our rhythms. Priss’ mouth remains glued to Rhoda, Rhoda’s thighs clenched tight around her head. Somehow I get a hand over Priss’ shoulder and touch the two of them where they are joined, then press fingers alternately into Priss’ mouth and Rhoda’s cunt and asshole. Miles away Rhoda’s fingers return the favor.
Space and time are stretched out to a point where they no longer apply. They hardly exist. When we come, all separately and yet all together, our comings seem to last for hours. I feel spasmodic contractions, Rhoda’s with my fingers, Priss’ around my penis. My seed spurts from me like blood from a slashed throat, leaping deep into Priss, nourishing Priss as it enters her, nourishing Rhoda as it flows finally out again.
I looked back on that last scene, that picture, and counted the words. There are surprisingly close to a thousand of them, so once again the wisdom of the ages seems to have been proven. A picture equals a thousand words, and a thousand words equals a picture.
Get the picture?
“We’ll be together forever,” someone said.
Who said it? Each and every one of us, at one time or another. Almost all the time, actually. That was one of the recurring themes of that month, of the magic days. That this was something which got better for us every day and that it would last for us as long as we ourselves lasted. For after all we loved each other with a pure and unselfish and genuine love, and we made each other happy in ways we literally had not known existed. So why shouldn’t this continue to get better every day, and why shouldn’t it go on forever?
For a lot of reasons, which I will mostly let others write out for you, old buddy, because it was a rotten morning and it has now been a rotten afternoon at the typewriter, and I have got neither the pep nor the desire to write more of this just now.
“We’ll be together forever.”
Did we believe it? Some of the time we did, I think. Part of the idyllic charm of that month (was it honestly only a month?) was that we believed what we wanted to believe, so that life was as good to our heads as it was to our bodies.
But perfection is limited by definition, I think, and mountain peaks must be pinpoints in order to be what they are-an endless plateau thirty thousand feet above sea level would boast thin pure air and all that, but it wouldn’t have a view. You have to have a view to be at the top of the mountain. It’s part of the concept.
You couldn’t fall off a plateau, either. With mountain peaks, whatever their nature, there’s always the chance of falling.
RHODA
One morning I awoke fairly early. Harry had already left the bed. Priss was still asleep.
I came awake slowly, being torn from a dream which I can no longer remember, although it did stay in my mind beyond the point of making the transition from sleep to wakefulness. I remember that it was Kafkaesque, and involved my being imprisoned by some monolithic authority. I don’t recall much beyond that. Not important. I don’t suppose.
I groped for cigarettes, lit one, and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Priss was breathing noisily through her mouth. Sometimes she looks quite beautiful when she sleeps, but this was not one of those times; we had all had far too much to drink the night before, gaily drinking while we gaily chattered and as gaily made love, and the drinking had left Priss’ face puffy and blotchy. There seemed to be a pimple forming upon her chin, too.
(Poor Priss-how unfair in the extreme of me even to have noticed this, much less to have carried the memory
