And for not being able to do them.
And I’ve had that fucking Post Office box for a week and not done anything with it, and I guess I won’t, because a couple of times I have started to order things and always copped out, and a couple of times I have tried to answer ads besides Bill’s, and chickened out, and I’m beginning to think that I’ll never do the things I want to do, and that maybe I don’t want to do them in the first place, and I don’t know where I am tonight.
I just got up from the typewriter and called Bill. The line was busy. I guess that means he has a girl over there and is sucking her or fucking her or playing some desperate little game with her. Probably getting her hot by telling her about Jennifer Starr, the crazy pervert who comes over once a week to watch him jerk off.
It doesn’t matter to me and he can say whatever he wants because there is no Jennifer Starr. All there is is Krause the Mouse and maybe she doesn’t exist either.
I don’t even think it does any good to put all this crap on paper. I had a drink when I came home and it was scary how good it tasted. I’m going to have one or two more. In fact I might even get good and loaded, and why not, because no one in the world gives a fuck.
18 March — Thursday
“Bill? This is Jennifer.”
“Hello.”
“Hello. I just felt like calling.”
“Well, how’s everything?”
“Uh, fine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Is there someone there? That you can’t talk?”
“No, I’m alone.”
“You sounded different,”
“You sound different yourself. Is something the matter?”
“I don’t know.”
“Huh?”
“I thought, oh, that maybe I would come over tonight. If you weren’t busy.”
“I don’t know if that would be a good idea.”
“Oh.”
“Today is what? Thursday? We’ll be seeing each other Saturday.”
“I just thought, oh, it’s not important.”
“Is something wrong, Jennifer?”
“No, nothing’s wrong.”
“Then I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Maybe I’ll be busy.”
“I hope not. I’ll look forward to it. Look, I’ll explain some things Saturday.”
“What do you mean?”
“Saturday, okay?”
“I guess so.”
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19 March — Friday
I guess it went away, whatever it was.
I think I know what it was.
I was starting to play games with myself. I was starting to think Bill was something other than what he is. I must have known all along I was in danger of doing this. I was making him a central figure and that is dangerous because he does not want to get involved with me and I honestly do not dare get involved with him or anybody else. I was selling myself something and it did not go down well and it made me sick.
I even got sort of drunk the night before last. And wanted to get drunk last night, after that telephone call, but I guess I knew better. Because that doesn’t solve anything.
I wrote half a dozen letters tonight. All of them signed Jennifer Starr, and all of them with my Post Office box as my return address. To Screw advertisers.
Dear So-and-so (s):
I am an attractive young woman in her early twenties with a problem. One which will either turn you off or turn you on, and you may be the judge of that. For a variety of reasons, I am incapable of having a genuine sexual relationship. I am unwilling to touch or be touched but get a tremendous thrill out of watching the sexual activity of others. I will undress and excite myself while watching but will not otherwise participate. If my kinky tastes interest you, perhaps we can get something going. But I would not want to get involved unless it is understood that my privacy will be respected, and that you will not be put off by my refusing to join in and will make no attempt to change my mind.
If at all interested, reply with phone number and tell me what you’re all about. Photo appreciated but not necessary. This isn’t a gimmick, and I’m a little nervous about putting this in the mail, but I feel I have to.
“A little nervous” indeed. I’m terrified, and not at all certain I’ll mail the letters. Or check my Post Office box for replies. Or call any of the people who reply, assuming anyone does. Or go through with any of it.
Two of the letters are to single men looking to swing with women or couples. Ads similar to Bill’s, but the singleminded sincerity of pleasing the woman isn’t there, or doesn’t come through as strongly. One’s a bisexual male. Another is a bored housewife, or so she describes herself, who wants to swing with another woman. And the last two are couples who want threesomes with single girls.
I can’t offhand imagine why any of them would be interested in having me around, but it’s possible.
Main thing — it’s something to do. It’s something to get my sex life (such as it is) headed in a direction that is independent of Bill.
I want very much to see him tomorrow, and I will see him tomorrow, but I can’t focus everything on him. I think that’s what he was trying to tell me over the phone. Just as he cannot attempt to get in touch with me, I can’t get in the habit of feeling I can call him whenever I’m in the mood. I’m sure that’s what he was telling me, but of course I was too depressed to hear it in his words.
But the thing is that unless I start striking out on my own (and I have the horrible feeling I’ll just be striking out in the baseball sense of the term) I’ll tend to call him every time I get depressed, or at least feel like calling him whenever I get depressed, and that would be the worst possible thing to do.
Bill and I can be of use to each other. That’s coldblooded, put that way, but it’s true. And it’s all there is. We can do each other some good, provide each other with some pleasure.
I never provided anybody with any real pleasure before. There’s joy in that. Not as much joy, I must though admit, as in receiving pleasure from somebody.
And no one ever gave me pleasure before.
But all we can be is of use to each other, is pleasure for one another. That is enough, but trying to make it more will ruin what it is.
The stupid fantasies I have.
Oh, put it down, girl, put it down. You have been thinking it and ought not hide it from your typewriter. It says nothing you have not said to yourself.
Fantasies of love and marriage. (Aches me to type the words. Hurts, hurts, hurts!) Fantasies of getting caught up in each other, of him being the teacher and I the pupil and he gradually works on my neuroses and delivers me at last to the Promised Land of fucking-and-loving-it.
Dreams.
These are dreams I must avoid. Or must dream them as I dream Jennifer’s rougher fantasies, her sadomasochistic trips which would turn me off in anything other than fantasy. (Or would they? Let us say for now merely that I much prefer to think so.) By using these fantasies as fantasies I can defuse them. If it lends agility to my under-the-cover finger fucks to think of Bill as a potential husband, to dream fucking him and marrying him, let me do so — but let me not forget that it is fantasy and only fantasy, evaporating with the morning mist.
I’m going to that concert, and if that dyke is there I’m going to let her buy me coffee. And tomorrow I’ll see Bill before I write anything and my diary entry will be about what happens with him.