“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been doing pretty well.”
“I have to go now.”
“Come on over and I’ll eat you.”
“But you would want to do other things.”
“That’s not what you’re afraid of.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re afraid you would want to do other things.”
“No, no, no—”
“I’ll tell you what. I won’t rape you even if you beg me to. How’s that?”
“Oh, Mary and Joseph.”
“Don’t forget St. Anthony. Do you want me to put the promise in writing?”
“You’re an awful person.”
“I’m fun in bed.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m more fun than a finger.”
“Oh—”
“I really am.”
“I have to go now.”
“I know, you have to wash your hands.”
“Good-bye.”
“Hello?”
“Hello.”
“I was wondering when you’d call.”
“Listen, I just wanted to tell you that I’m not going to call you anymore.”
“And you called to tell me that?”
“Oh, you always twist everything I say.”
“Why don’t you put the phone to your pussy? I think these conversations would work better if we didn’t have to detour them through your brain.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say.”
“You put the earpiece of your phone to your cunt, and I’ll lick the mouthpiece of mine. How does that sound?”
“I’m hanging up.”
“And you’re never calling again.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you, my proud beauty.”
Well, that’s the way it went, Rozanne. I suppose you’ll call again in a day or so, but in the meantime I wanted to type all of this up and send it to you so you would be able to avoid repeating yourself in future conversations. And now that I’ve got you on the phone, in a manner of speaking, I’d like to tell you a story of what happened this past weekend.
I had a house guest. An apartment guest, really, since I don’t have a house. You might say that I don’t have much of an apartment, either. You might say that what I had this weekend — just this Saturday, actually, she arrived Saturday afternoon and left Sunday morning — was a hovel guest. The hovel was so dismal that we spent almost all of our time in bed.
My hovel guest was a fifteen-year-old girl named Naughty Nasty Nancy Hall. You might be interested to contemplate the fact that she is eleven years younger than you are and stopped being a virgin over two years ago. I don’t know what contemplating this fact will do for you, but it’s something to think about.
You may have already read something about Naughty Nasty Nancy. It gets difficult to remember just what letters I sent to what places, and of course I may have left a copy of those letters around the Xerox machine, in which case they might have passed over your desk and beneath your gaze. At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll refer to copies of past letters and include what observations I’ve already made about Naughty Nasty Nancy.
“We’re sixteen. Except Naughty Nasty Nancy, who is fifteen.”
“ ‘A mere child,’ murmured Naughty Nasty Nancy. She was one of the two in the back seat, and wore a peaked witch’s cap and granny glasses.”
“In the backseat Naughty Nasty Nancy sat directly behind Dawn. Naughty Nasty Nancy does not speak too often, but her occasional remarks are always incisive. There is a distinctly fey quality to this girl, Steve. If you were casting Hamlet, you would pick her instantly for Ophelia.”
“I couldn’t remember whether you wore jockey shorts or boxer shorts,’ Alison said, blue eyes sparkling and plump cheeks glowing. But Naughty Nasty Nancy remembered.”
“Hardly the sort of thing she’d forget,” B.J. said.
“Meow,” said Nancy Hall. She was still wearing the witch’s hat, and mordant madness danced in her eyes. “Meow, meow, meow. Look at Merry Cat, she’s positively radiant. Orgasm brings the most beatific look to her face. Are you in a state of grace, Mary Katherine?”
“...We all watched for a while, and Naughty Nasty Nancy kissed B.J. on the neck and touched her breasts, and Alison petted Naughty Nasty Nancy gently on the bottom...”
There may have been a couple of other references to Naughty Nasty Nancy Hall, but those are the only ones I can spot readily, and they should refresh your memory if you’ve already read this material or put you in the picture if you haven’t. What I want to tell you about, Rozanne, is what happened with Naughty Nasty Nancy at my place Saturday night and Sunday morning.
I won’t bother describing the apartment. You’ll see it for yourself when you finally get up the courage to come over and let me eat your box. Nor will I bother describing what went on for the first hour or two that Nancy (I’ll call her that for short) spent in my bed. I’ll just say that I licked her all over her body and then had prolonged intercourse with her. We shifted from one position to another on a sort of Cook’s Tour of the Kama Sutra. Throughout all of this, Nancy remained active and supple and industrious, and glee glinted in her gray-green eyes.
But somewhere along the way, Rozanne, I began to get the feeling that something was missing. Nancy was enjoying herself, but I wondered if perhaps she wasn’t enjoying herself a little less than she possibly might be. To construct a metaphor that you should appreciate, it was as if I had prepared a great plate of spaghetti for her but had stupidly failed to put any oregano in the sauce. It tasted good to her but it just didn’t taste right.
And this perception made it impossible for me to continue. Not physically impossible — I remained quite the upstanding citizen, actually — but spiritually impossible. And so I withdrew from the choicest part of Naughty Nasty Nancy, who is indeed a collection of choice parts, who is in fact a synergistic young woman whose (w)hole is greater than the sum of her parts, and I propped myself on an elbow and my cock on her thigh and looked long and searchingly into her baby gray-greens.
“Is something the matter, Larry?”
“You stole my line.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“You just did it again. Something’s the matter, and you don’t follow me. Am I doing something wrong?”
“Of course not.”
“But I seem to have left out the oregano.”
“I think I must have missed the opening credits,” she said. “I don’t get it.”
“That’s just it.”
“I mean, I’m having a wonderful time.”
“But there’s something you like that I’m not doing.”
“Not exactly.”
“That means yes.”
She put her hand on my cheek. Her hand was cold and dry. I brought her fingers to my lips.
“I don’t always come, if that’s what you mean. I can enjoy it without that.”
“But you sometimes come.”