past up and down. You can live forever on the curve o f her
hip, attached there in sweat and desire taking the full measure
o f your own human sorrow; you can have this tearing sorrow
with your face pushing on the inside o f her thigh; you can have
her lips on you, her hands pushing on you as if you’re marble
she’s turning into clay, an electricity running all over you
carried in saliva and spit, you’re cosseted in electric shock,
peeing, your hair standing up on end, muscles stretched, lit
up; there’s her around you and in you everywhere, the
rhythm o f your dance and at the same time she’s like the
placenta, you breathe in her, surrounded; it’s something men
don’t know or they’d do it, they could do it, but instead they
want this push, shove, whatever it is they’re doing for
whatever reason, it’s an ignorant meanness, but with a woman
you ’re whole and you’re free, it ain’t pieces o f you flying
around like shit, it ain’t being used up, you got scars bigger
than the freedom you get in everyday life; do it the w ay you ’re
supposed to, you got twenty-four hours a day down on your
knees sucking dick; that’s how girls do hard time. There’s not
many women around who have any freedom in them let alone
some to spare, extravagant, on you, and it’s when they’re on
you you see it best and know it’s real, now and all, there w o n ’t
be anything wilder or finer, it’s pure and true, you see it, you
chase them, they’re on you, you get enraptured in it, once you
got it on you, once you feel it m oving through you, it’s a
contagion o f wanting more than you get being pussy for the
boys, you catch it like a fever, it puts you on a slow bum with
your skin aching and you want it more than you can find it
because most women are beggars and slaves in spirit and in life
and you don’t ever give up wanting it. Otherwise you get
worn down to what they say you are, you get worn down to
pussy, bedraggled; not bewitched, bothered, bewildered; ju st
some wet, ratty, bedraggled thing, semen caked on you, his
piss running down your legs, worn out, old from what yo u ’re
sucking, I’m pretty fucking old and I have been loved by
freedom and I have loved freedom back. Did you ever have a
nightmare? Men coming in’s m y nightmare; entering; I’m in,
knock, knock. There’s writers being assholes about outlaws;
outlaw this, outlaw that, I’m bad, I’m sitting here writing m y
book and I’m bad, I’m typing and I’m bad, m y secretary’s
typing and I’m bad, I got laid, the boys say, like their novels
are letters home to mama, well, hell’s bells, the boys got laid:
more than once. It’s something to write home about, all right;
costs fifty bucks, too; they found dirty wom en they did it to,
dirty women too fucking poor to have a typewriter to stu ff up
bad boy w riter’s ass. Shit. Y ou follow his cock around the big,
bad city: N ew Y ork, Paris, Rom e— same city, same cock.
