Stanley's manhood. I swiftly unbuttoned the fly of Stanley's bathing shorts and inserted a cool hand that instantly came in contact with some highly heated ragout-I do not minimize the amount of thick sauce that Stanley in his fervent eagerness had already spilled. But he quickly reconstituted himself and in a moment he had me on my back on the sand under the mercilessly bright sun. During the whole process I cannot remember anything more vivid than my desire that a bumbershoot spread its benevolent and cooling shadow over the proceedings. An umbrella would at least have kept the sun out of my eyes. Of course, I did try to align myself with the shadow Stanley made, but that was essentially futile since I had obviously no maneuverability beyond the pit of my own making in the sand-a pit which, under the stress of Stanley, I was making deeper and not wider. Oh, for a bumbershoot, I cried within my concupiscent self-if I must counterfeit passion, let it be in a shadier world. And I was, believe me, patient reader, counterfeiting passion. I snorted, I purred. I made choking sounds, whistling sounds, nasal sounds. I screeched, I gargled, I hummed. I yipped, I ya-hooed, I yammered-forgive me my use of the occasional Americanism, but our ex-subjects across the sea do have a decided bent on occasion for the vivid verb and, altogether, for the mot juste. As I was saying, as far as sound was concerned, I gave my sexual all. I was a double concerto, for God's sake. I was seventy-seven horses' arses, simultaneously farting a broadside. I was a gymnast of unparalleled parallel bars-and, mind you, all the time enduring the grinding, knife-gnashing particles of sand penetrating my navel, my yoni and my anus, not to mention the sweaty grains of sand that Stanley brought to my mouth with his, and not to mention the dune streaking my black tresses. Yes-the juvenile lead pounded at me mercilessly. His phallus, in more responsive instances, would have been well worth the capture. As it was… As it was. Yes. Well, here it is. In one of the lulls Stanley Widdemer said, “Victoria?”
“That's my name,” I said brightly. “Victoria,” he said again, as if to roll the syllables around in his spit.
“Precisely,” I said. “Victoria-” I thought for a moment I was taking leave of my senses, but it was Stanley Widdemer in the flesh and leaning on mine. It was terribly hot there behind the sand ridge and in the pit of the dune. Even salt water splashed on my loony brow would have been a boon. Anyhow, what I said was, “Yes, Stanley?” “I love you, Victoria.” He was being candid, I knew, but candor does not necessarily go jerk-in-hand with truth.
Besides, the juvenile lead might be giving me a problem-I wanted no second affair. One was sufficient, George Maytemper was quite enough on that score. But I saw no out other-than to be brutal, and I decided to try that. “Yes,” I said. “Didn't you convey that to me before we dwelt in the sand?” “Yes,” he said mutedly. I wasn't finished. Love, I thought, love. Love was what I needed-to inspire a coronary thrombosis and a dead prick in a live cunt. Exactly what I needed. “About love,” I said, taking up needle and thread.
“Yes, my darling?” Oh Christ in a hammock, I thought. Oh desperate Ben Jon-son displaying the spoils of his vocabulary. Did you hear that jockless “my darling”? “Stanley,” said I, “about love-do you love your mother?” He paled beneath his freckles. “I don't quite make you out, Victoria. Naturally, I love my mother, but what has that to do with-” “Oh,” I interrupted, “I'm sorry, Stanley-I didn't know your mother had died.” He paled a second time, and hardly anything but freckles could be seen. We were obviously down to bone. His adam's apple jiggled a few times before he could attach sound to words. “She's alive,” he said, horrified.
And he really was. He collapsed in my yoni faster than bubbles from goldfish ghosts in a metaphysical pond. He slipped out and, with his back against the rise in the dune, said-gaining strength by the moment- “Is there any bar to my loving her living rather than dead?”
He peered down at me quizzically. “I must say, Victoria, you are rather a strange one, but in spite of that I do love you, you know.”
He stared at my brilliant, nacreous nakedness in the sun and, as his eye tarried at the dense black curls of my delta, the cylindrical lizzard between his thighs-cowed only a little while before-began now to twitch. It was always to me a fascinating progression.
Twitch. Little brief leaps into the air, the penis like a terribly young ballet boy. Then the cock, rearing- crowing at full blush. Rampant. Tyrannical. The master baton.
Heavily throbbing, its jowls the testicles. The prince cock.
The monarch of all the ova he surveys- King Cock! Bow down, he cries, bow down. And I thought I might indeed be ready to bow down. Watching King Cock swelling and showing me its underbelly, as of a leviathan, methought I detected an answering ache in my gut. Actually, that was simply hunger for a good meal, but so intent was I on fracturing my frigidity that I did not want to recognize another elemental force at work. Thus-I bowed down.
In Brighton, Sussex, I took his Cornish promontory into my mouth.
It was good to chew on but gently, gently, dear reader. One must not promote panic in the sensitive male. One does not imply, no matter how sharply one at times feels it, that the male is about to be castrated. On the contrary, one implies, if one can, that it is a supreme privilege to be worthy of the male genitals. I thus implied with Stanley Widdemer. I swabbed my mouth with his uncircumcised plume and from moment to moment, as I salivated copiously, I gazed up adoringly with my green eyes at the groaning juvenile lead. He was convulsively clutching at the sand, his head arched back, his shoulders hunched. The feeling I had was that the juvenile lead was at my mercy. Thereupon I disgorged Stanley's naming blubber and took it into my hands, toying with it.
Stanley then looked like a fish out of water as I rolled his blubber between the palms of my hands under the metallic blue sky. I could hear the distant thunder of the surf. He made several attempts to disengage himself from my hands by seizing one of my breasts, but all I had to do to loosen his hold was to run my thumbnail several times from the base of his promontory to the crown. Then, making interesting infantile gurglings, some of which sounded distinctly like “mama, mama, mama,” he released my teat and sank back on the sand.
As if in slight but unmistakable punishment, I gave his distended music roll a light slap. Stanley Widdemer mooed. It was not the expansive moo of a cow. It was the somewhat curtailed moo the human male makes when he is figuratively, as the American would have it, hogtied. In ordinary circumstances I would at such a point have exploded. I would have thrown myself on Stanley Widdemer and bellowed for him to plunge in his lightning rod and shock the living piss out of me. But these were not ordinary circumstances. In the heat of the Brighton sun I was refrigerated. I was glacial.
And, I guess, I was being masochistic-I kept seeing Hugh Kinsteare's face, the blondness of his hair, the sweetness of his features, the ripple of his musculature. I wanted to weep, I wanted to sob unrelievedly. Instead, I grimaced. Instead, I made a small gouge into Widdemer's prick-and he writhed there on the sand in the noonday sun as though he were a snake gone utterly berserk. But no drums beat in me. No bagpipes skirled.
And I was only casually interested in the creature there on the sand making a bloody spectacle of himself. The sand was sweat-smeared all over him. He resembled, somehow, a praying mantis but he was not half so fierce. And he was disproportionately bloated between his legs-I was having rather morbid ideas, I must confess. The distended corpse of the prick, I thought. The two-by-four with delusions of grandeur. The sperm-logged belaying pin. A graduated inflation of a thermometer, marked off with empurpled degrees of passion… Then I heard Stanley whisper. “Finish me off, Victoria.” I sniggered. I felt as if I were the coldest bitch in the world. I felt as if I had Jesus Christ Himself disheveled there in the pit of the dune. “The truth, Stanley, the truth-” “Anything. But hurry.” His breathing was a rasp. His buttocks squirmed. “Do you really love me, Stanley? The truth, please. I'll know if you're lying.” “You will finish me off, then, will you not?” “Yes.”
“It is a he that I love you, Victoria.” “A large lie, Stanley?” “Yes.” “A fat, maggoty lie?” “Yes, Victoria.”
“And what was the he, Stanley?” “A ploy.” “An age-old stratagem to lure both male and female into the zodiac of fuck, so to speak, Stanley?” “So to speak.” “Do you love your mother, Stanley?” Silence. I flicked a forefinger at his balls. He winced, but his erection remained undismayed. “Yes,” he said. “I love my mother.” Then he wrapped a fist about his charger and began to thrust with his loins. I waited, amused. What I expected, occurred. He groaned, stopped. “Victoria,” he said.
“Yes?” “If I think about my mother, I'll never come,” he said. His voice held a note of hysteria. Ah, those juvenile leads.
“I'll simply have a permanent erection. I can't stand that.” “All right, Stanley. You have been truthful, and you may possibly present an impressive and stimulating picture.” I had bethought to myself, gentle reader, that the sight of sperm pumping out of the male generative organ might conceivably stimulate me. It was easily done-the pumping, I mean. I coolly took Stanley's redoubtable ark in hand, bent it back so that its dorsal side was flush with his belly, and I exerted simple pressure against his apparatus with the heel of my hand. Stanley's mouth gaped. His eyeballs rolled upward. He bleated. And I applied a little more pressure. He bleated a second time. I increased the pressure. He bleated a third time-and then he shipped a flood. It was as if a tidal wave had accumulated within
