Suddenly she had a thought. Could she possibly be seen from anywhere?
No. Her apartment was on the top floor.
But what if someone were crazy enough to be out on the roof now, leaning over the cornice?
No chance.
Or maybe someone was even crazier, perched in the highest branches of those tall trees on the hill in the park?
With a telescope?
Ha.
Still, she had the feeling that somehow someone was watching her… smiling benignly, beckoning…
'Come on! Bring your dick in the window!'
Nothing.
'Impotent, are you? Just can't get it together? Well I'm horny as hell, goddammit, and it's your fault!'
On a nearby shelf stood a strange hand-carved artifact that one of her loony friends had brought her back from Africa. It was a foot-high wooden penis, complete with balls, that stood forever erect on a flat base.
The wind toppled it to the floor. She reached out and scooped it up. 'Is this what you have to offer?' she asked sarcastically, holding it aloft to the storm like the Statue of Liberty's torch.
Embarrassed silence.
'Well shit, then, it'll have to do.'
Grasping it firmly, wrapping her fingers around its base, she introduced its head to her hole. She fingered her clit with her left hand as her right shoved it inside her to a depth of six inches and began circling it around and pumping it up and down.
She wondered what the African craftsman who had carved it would think if he could see it now. Probably he wouldn't be surprised. He'd undoubtedly wondered just what kind of horny white American middle-class cunt it would find its way into. In fact, probably he had carved it because it would be something that anthropologists would believe was 'genuine primitive'-and also something that anthropologists' wives would get some use out of while their husbands were away on field trips. Anyhow, he had to be in league with the spirits of the storm. Maybe he was the one who was watching her?
Andrea's belly and thighs were getting tense. Her insides stroked the wooden cock as though they could milk a river of come out of it and her finger jiggled on her clit as fast as the raindrops fell.
It was coming, and it was coming hard. She was pressing the button that opened the gates as wide as they would go, and as wide as they opened, she filled them up.
The statue could hardly be expected to convulse like a cock exploding inside her. Where would a piece of wood get that intoxicating life of its own? And it couldn't finish up its job by making her crotch a deliriously sticky mess.
But to make up for that it did just what she wanted it to do. Besides, the storm itself was already coming all over her. She was drenched, squishing her ass in a puddle that had collected on the seat of the armchair, and that was more than enough to get her off.
She drew the strange dildo out of her hole, felt the surges of orgasm coming, squashed her clit hard, and rammed it back in again.
Whether the lightning really flashed just then, whether the thunder really roared around her with the sound of a city falling down, she didn't know. But she felt an incredible jarring shock that told her she was either into the best jerk-off of her life or being fucked silly by some disembodied soul pouring the juices of life in through the window, channeling them through the wood right up into the center of her.
She was transfixed. Her mouth gaped and her eyes were glazed. Her brow seated even in the chilly rain and the muscles of her belly and inner thighs twitched uncontrollably.
She had something right up in the center of her, that was for sure. She was holding onto something. Was it no more than the memory of Sean? Whatever it was, she was getting something out of it. It kept coming and coming. It was pumping into her like crazy. She didn't know where it was going, but she was sucking up every drop. It didn't bloat her but it saturated her… with pleasure, with orgasmic abandon, with the revelation of a mystical new dimension in sexual excitement.
Then the pleasure and the abandon and the excitement started to die away.
She clutched and sucked.
No good. It was going.
The best thing was to let it go; not to try to hold onto it.
It had to go.
That was all.
Maybe someday it would be back.
CHAPTER SIX
Tuesday nights at Folk City were always slow, unless someone with a bigger name than Andrea Bentham was playing. Andrea had enough of an in-group following among Village freaks to draw full houses on weekends, but she had yet to cut her first record, which made it unlikely that people would come streaming in from the suburbs-or even down from East 72nd Street-to hear her. On this particular Tuesday the crowd consisted of three sailors who had surely gone astray on their way to a topless go-go bar up the street, two leftover Fifties hippies named Raoul and Harvey who showed up every night to decorate their beards with beer-foam in hopes of hearing the next Bob Dylan before he was discovered by the Philistine's, and three painfully clean-cut college sophomore types with their equally clean-cut dates who Andrea pegged as refugees from Rutgers in the city for a big night with a little money. Halfway through the first set a pair of attractive but besotted middle-aged ladies stuck their heads in the door, started to turn away, were promptly goosed from the sidewalk by a grinning old wino, and fell all over themselves lurching inside. The wino lingered on the sidewalk leering at them through the window and they ordered drinks. Andrea did a few old Joan Baez-Judy Collins songs and they stayed, maybe because they were too drunk to move. The songs were so familiar that Andrea did them well enough without thinking. She spent most of the time wondering how long she'd be stuck singing worn-out songs to limpid audiences and exactly what weird things were going on in her head to make her ask such questions.
Just before the end of the set Sean walked in. When she was done Andrea joined him at a table.
'Jesus,' he gasped with an exhausted look, 'I killed twenty-seven people tonight. That's got to be a record.'
'Ah, bullshit. I bet lots of writers kill fifty or sixty every morning before breakfast.'
'Yeah, but they blow them up or gas them or mow them down with machine guns. I mean, with this hand- to-hand stuff, you really have to work for every corpse. Knife Slashes to Adams Apples… Elephant Kicks to groins… Monkey Blows to chins… I tell you, it isn't easy. I'm beat. I've got to get off this Kung Fu shit. Eagle Beaks to eyeballs… Christ. I'm going back to fuck books.'
'Not a bad idea. Why don't you do one about me?'
'Don't think I haven't thought of it. I bet I could whip it out pretty fast… '
'Not here, if you don't mind.'
'Don't they have a back room?'
'Yeah, sure, but I'm hungry. I've got to get some supper before the next set.'
'Right. I remember. We're going to some Chinese place. What's it called?'
'The Little Chink in the Great Wall.'
'Oh come on… give me a break.'
'No, really. You'll see. Come on. It's just around the block on Bleecker.'
The restaurant was named in honor of a mural covering one wall which depicted nothing other than a huge cunt between masses of white-wash flesh. Right in its center was a hole about the size of a quarter and into it a two-foot-high statue of an aging Chinaman in long robes was sticking his erect member.
'See? The Little Chink in the Great Wall.'
'Momma. Reminds me of the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. Or was it dyke?'
