Taking my cock – which, because of my binge, was not obeying me any too well, first it stood up, then it didn't, it keeled over and fell – I touched it to her cunt. Again I give her her due: she had a good cunt, a sweet, succulent, ripe cunt… you see all those names. Running my cock along her cunt, which became even hotter at my touch and pleased my cock as it did me, I thrust it into this softness, flow, and succulence. It squeezed its way in there, into this mysterious place. Though taught by bitter experience, I still consider this place mysterious.
I fucked her for quite a while, stimulating and sliding open her sticky canal with my cock. This felt good to me, but even so, because of the six or seven hours I had spent unconscious, my cock did not fill to full strength, my mind and imagination were working much better than my poor flower.
I fucked her awhile, she came, and I hadn't even been properly aroused. But the cunt, I tell you, was all coated with mucus, soft, sucking my cock in. The cunt was not hysterical like Roseanne, it didn't get irritated, didn't shout, it was the cunt of a woman thirty-three or thirty-four years old, a good cunt, which seemed mildly to admonish and soothe. "We shall all die. Be here, here it is warm and moist, burning and tranquil, and only here does a man feel he is where he belongs." That was what her cunt said, her soft, plump, yielding cunt, and I agreed. What Roseanne herself said was worse. It would have been all right in English, but she said it in Russian; her Russian lovers and her frequent trips to the USSR were making themselves known.
"You can't come," she said in Russian, fucking, and panting a little from the rhythm of the fuck. "You're too nervous, you're hurrying, don't hurry, don't hurry, darling!"
I would have hit her, only she wouldn't have understood what for. I could not explain to her that her accented Russian had a terrible effect on me, it made me feel as if I were not in bed but in the grim, squalid office of the Russian emigre newspaper with its peeling walls, dust, stink, and garbage. "You came," she said – "ty koncheel." At her last thin, misaccented ee-sound, an invisible icy hand gripped my cock, and it fell, it faded, my poor ardent flower, once my pride and often my misfortune. I couldn't. Couldn't do anything, anything at all… and didn't want to.
Well, I whipped myself into a demoniacal frenzy. I can do that when I have to, I wanted her moans and cries and howls. I pulled my unneeded do-nothing out of her and crawled down, spread her legs, stuck out my tongue, now so essential to me, ran my tongue around my own lips, licked myself once, and then ran it around her genital lips. Oh, did her body appreciate this pleasure. It twitched and became quiet. Then I first checked out all the little corners and culs-de-sac of her cunt, this was essential to me, I knew my business, I needed to test where everything lay, and only then could I begin to act.
I tested. I advanced slowly, testing. I love the smell and taste of the cunt. I have no aversion to it, the cunt. I have love for it. But for Roseanne I had no love. In giving her cunt pleasure, I rejected Roseanne. As I ran my tongue ardently and hotly into the soft canal leading to her womb, listened with pleasure to the quiet sobs of another living being – I love this – I was thinking that this was a most perfect wrong thing.
I could not be happy with her, but since I was in the habit of being happy – the last four years I had been utterly happy with my Elena – I sought happiness out of habit, unmindful that most people simply live in the world without having happiness, men and women have the mutual relationship of a prostitute and her client, all is boring and unbearable, and perhaps, Cod forbid, I would simply find no replica of Elena, no duplicate of her, no, nor a new happiness.
Well, when I was fucking her with my tongue, even though I gave no thought to any of this, I conducted myself properly, of course, I immersed myself in what I was doing, immersed myself in her cunt. My mouth and nose and half my face were covered with sticky mucus, this is the compound they secrete for lubrication so that our cocks may enter, nature made them so. With my hands I stroked all the soft and silky forbidden places near her cunt, around it, in order to create an added ambience of tender lassitude and pleasure, accompanying this with powerful sensations from the constant stimulation of her canal by my tongue.
My friends, she came, giving me a certain pleasure with her moans and ahs, inexpressive though they were. But what a difference it makes, boys, whether the woman you fuck is loved or unloved! A world of difference. Here, if you please, was a good cunt, everything was good, she had good legs, maybe even better than Elena, and good hair; I sought out her virtues, she had them, but she was at least thirty-three, boys, she was a crazy hysteric, and upon her, in addition to the eternal sorrow of the Jewish people, lay the mark of her abnormal personal sorrow as well. I do not condemn her: I myself am not particularly normal, I confess, but I didn't love her, friends, what could I do?
Love turned out to have corrupted me. Love is a kind of sexual perversion, don't you think? It's a rare abnormality, and perhaps it belongs in the medical textbooks ahead of sadism and masochism. I am so alone in my perversion it's hard for me to find a partner.
She came, then I fucked her with my cock, then didn't fuck her, then fucked her again. That whole night left me with the sensation of a sort of fleshy turmoil. Well, I don't know, all men are different, someone else might have found it good. Both before my time and after and during, Roseanne had admirers, quite decent-looking fellows. I've probably been knocked fucking stupid by love, because several of them, whom I knew quite well, really coveted Roseanne.
At last we lay motionless, sprawled on her yellow sheets in a troubled, awkward, and brief morning slumber. You know what time she woke up? Guess! Six. Enough to drive you fucking crazy. She woke up and lay there, she was angry, then she started to get up.
"Do you know what you did yesterday?" she asked me. For some reason, along with a tormenting desire to sleep, my sense of humor had returned to me. I had never thought the two could be coupled, humor and sleep.
"I don't remember anything," I said, wrapping myself up in the red-flowered yellow sheet, wrapping up just a little. To be exact, wrapping only my dick. Even for her, I was not averse to exhibiting my beautiful body once more in a beautiful pose. I loved my body; what do you expect.
"Don't you remember, you were hugging Lily," she said passionately. The Chinese girl, it turned out, was named Lily. She really was a lily.
"I hugged Lily!" I said in a shocked voice. "What, is that true, Roseanne? Oh God, how could it happen, how could I get that drunk! You know, there've been times in my life when I've had terrible pathological intoxications. A few times. Once when I was seeing off my friend Oleg Chikovani, he was leaving the USSR, I drank two glasses of dry wine and didn't wake up till the next morning. They even rubbed me with snow, but I didn't come to. And another time I got so drunk that for some reason I made a pass at my best friend's wife, got my hand up under her skirt," I went on in the remorseful voice of a great martyr and sufferer, "and I lost my friend forever."
Of what I told her, the first item was true and the second half true. I had gotten up under the skirt of a certain lady the first time we met, but the lady so loved poets, and her husband didn't give a damn who got under her skirt. Besides, her husband wasn't with her, it was my friend Dima, a handsome poet and at that time her lover. He was offended at me, but not for long.