You can still send me letters, though. Stories about your various escapades and all. I’d like to hear more about your role as Mad Poet with those damsels, for example. It’s something to read whilst playing with myself. I’ve rediscovered masturbation lately, which should give you an idea of the social swim here in Richmond. Incidentally, masturbation is a lot more fun when you’re old enough to know what you’re doing. Like youth, it’s largely wasted on the young.
I’ll call you when I get to town.
15
74 Bleecker St.
New York 10012
June 29
Miss Rozanne Gumbino
311½ West 20th Street
New York 10011
Darling Rozanne,
You’ll note that I am not writing this letter on my official Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls stationery, nor am I sending it to you at your office. That’s because it is not official company business. On the contrary, this is a personal letter from me to you, from a man to a woman, and thus I am using ordinary typing paper and sending it to you at your home.
The reason I am writing you, Rozanne, is to provide you with transcripts of several telephone conversations I’ve had over the past few days. Perhaps you have already made notes of these conversations. If so, then this letter is a waste of time for both of us. But you seemed so agitated when I talked to you that it occurred to me that you might have failed to make a permanent record of the conversations, and so it seems worth the risk of duplication to put this down in writing for you.
I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I am rendering the conversations in simple dialogue, without identifying the two speakers. This is precautionary, to prevent identification of the speakers should the letter fall into alien hands.
“Hello?”
“How do I know that’s all you’ll do?”
“Who is this?”
“What I mean is, if I knew that was all you wanted to do, if I thought I could trust you—”
“Oh, hello there!”
“You know who this is?”
“Yes, I think I do. I think I’ve heard this voice over the telephone before.”
“Yes, telling you to come to his office.”
“Yes, indeed. It’s as though the earpiece of the telephone suddenly filled up with tits.”
“You shouldn’t talk like that!”
“Tits, tits, tits.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Tits, tits, tits. Did you get my letter? The offer still holds.”
“You’re really terrible, aren’t you?”
“Not to those who know me.”
“The thing is—”
“Yes?”
“Oh, my God.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong number. This is the Mad Poet of Bleecker Street.”
“I know who it is.”
“For a minute I thought—”
“Listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“What you wrote in your letter. Are you listening to me?”
“I’m all tongue.”
“What did you say?”
“Ears. I’m all ears.”
“That’s not what you said.”
“True.”
“I ought to hang up.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“If I thought you meant it—”
“Of course I meant it.”
“I mean if I thought that was as far as it would go, if it would be just that—”
“Yes?”
“I have to hang up.”
“Tits, tits, tits.”
“I’m hanging up. I can’t listen to any more of this. I’m hanging up.”
“Tits and cunt, tits and cunt—”
“Good-bye.”
“Hello? Hello, is anybody there?”
“Hello.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. It’s the girl with all the tits.”
“You make it very hard for me.”
“Au contraire, ma cherie. You make it very hard for me. I’ve got it right here in my hand.”
“Oh, my God, the way you talk!”
“Aren’t you ashamed that you love it?”
“Oh, stop it.”
“All right.”
“...Hello?”
“I’m still here.”
“Listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“Oh, my God, I know what I want to say but I can’t even say it.”
“Give it another try.”
“If I thought—”
“If you thought you could trust me—”
“Yes.”
“—to just eat your juicy little cunt—”
“Yes, yes.”
“—and if you thought I would stop there and not try to screw you—”
“Yes, yes—”
“Then what?”
“Huh?”
“If you could trust me, really trust me, then what?”
“You know.”
“Then you might be interested.”
“Maybe.”
“How old are you?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Probably nothing. Don’t you remember?”
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Uh-huh. I guess you lived at home for a long time and now you have your own place.”
“How did you know?”
“The Phantom knows everything. He has spies everywhere. Are you a virgin?”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Probably nothing, but I guess you don’t remember that, either, huh?”
“Suppose I am.”
“I already supposed you were. When you play with yourself, do you like to pretend your finger is a tongue?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“I bet you’re playing with yourself right now.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“You can trust me, you delicious cunt.”
“Trust you? I can’t even talk to you.”