“Oh boy, this is getting to be some day.”
“To make it better, may I presume as I’m doing that I undress for you with the intention that it may distract you from your troubles and, as it seems, your fear of snakes. And perhaps then allow me to become stuffed or at least penetrated. And please do keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ Do you like what you see.”
“Oh boy, you bet, ma’am. My God, surely ma’am, you’re a Venus.”
“Well at least a protectoress of gardens which I believe Venus symbolizes. But perhaps I am a little taller and perhaps slightly thinner than the statue. I swim half a mile every day at that Georgian redbrick rendezvous for women on Park Avenue. And now good sir, I should like to be at your mercy. Does that not, in anticipation, give you just a trace of smug satisfaction.”
“You betcha. Holy cow.”
“So, why not take off your clothes.”
“Oh boy.”
“And don’t forget to say gee winikers.”
“No, ma’am. Gee winikers. Forgive the state of my undergarments.”
“And, my good chap darling, don’t leave on your socks. And you do don’t you, need darns in the toes. And my, you are aren’t you, well endowed. And to cut a continued description short, you’re an Adonis. Please. Don’t move. Just stand there as you are while I lick my chops.”
“Well ma’am, truth be known, I’m merely a reasonably healthy light heavyweight twenty-six-year-old male, nearly twenty-seven, and past my prime, plunging inexorably on my way to the infirmities that surely shall soon devolve upon me upon hitting thirty. Or at least by thirty-one.”
“Oh my God. You must think then that I am well and truly over the hill.”
“No, never, ma’am. For certainty never. A body such as yours is a dream.”
“Such flattery of course, will get you somewhere. Ah, but you are, aren’t you, really extremely well endowed. Indeed to the degree that one might more likely expect to encounter along some of the coasts of Africa, where one goes to play sometimes. But don’t you ever tell anyone that.”
“No ma’am. For sure. Mum’s the word.”
“This is so wonderful. Just so good to look at you and contemplate without touching what will happen when we touch. Such gorgeous delight. I love the way a belt goes around a man’s trousers. Take yours off. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this. Like being brought as I was as a little girl when we’d return from Europe, to be taken to see the phenomenon of the big face up on the billboard blow gigantic smoke rings out over Broadway and to have demonstrated to me how great America was.”
“Holy cow. I’m no smoke ring. I don’t smoke.”
“Well, come on lover boy. I’m hot enough to smoke. Don’t be shy. I’m giving you a target as I bend over. Belt me with that belt.”
“Gee Dru, I’m not shy; I’m just amazed at what we’re getting up to here.”
“We’re getting up to good things. Ouch. That was nice. And just a little harder. Ouch. Ouch. Now, lover boy. I adore to be submissive. For a few seconds. And then to be dominant. Grrr. Do you like that sound.”
“Boy, you bet.”
“Now lie down and let me talk to you and tell you more. You are my prodigy. Groomed for stardom. Heralded as the great young hope. Hailed as the most exciting young conductor composer since last week. Sorry, I meant to say in all America. Stunning even the most critical audiences with your repertoire. On the podium, his baton swaying so marvelously. Let me talk to it. Hello there, you. Yum yum. What is it they call syncopation.”
“It is when a tone is started on an unaccented beat and continued through the following accented beat. Ragtime is an example.”
“Stephen my darling, although I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, can we syncopate. We do then, both have beautiful bodies, don’t we. We will, won’t we, while we’re here like serpents, enmesh in a sinewy embrace.”
“Yes ma’am. But let’s keep well away from that snake. Stuffed or not. I don’t trust that goddamn thing.”
“Now please, don’t panic again, dear boy. Truth of the matter is, I adore to be in the presence of danger and of those doing unspeakable things.”
“Holy cow. Like what.”
“Can’t tell you. Even though I would love to. I said it was unspeakable. So I won’t tell you now. Maybe soon. Maybe sometime. Did you know this was going to happen to us.”
“Yes ma’am. No. Or let me correct that. The truth is, I didn’t. I didn’t dare.”
“You’re so sweet. But just stay there as you are. Don’t move. And you actually like me. Don’t you.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“You gave me the only unmistakable signal. And you do at times exhibit a galantry far beyond your years. And you’re not like everyone else. Who all over this world are always after something.”
“Well, I’m not too sure ma’am, that I’m not after a few things.”
“Well, if that ever gets to include me, I don’t mind. And can only hope I’ve got what you’re after. At least while I’m alive. Or who knows, perhaps even after death. Think of enough things to do with it. Even think of the possibilities of cryogenics. One does ask one’s psychic questions, such as, will there be a resurrection of the dead. And as we shake off our icicles, does that mean, then, that we all stop dying. She doesn’t seem to really know, so meanwhile I rely on the wisdom of life being always to pursue something. Or at least hope to find something to pursue. And I never fully can. Even with a whole litany of deserving good causes which for distraction ends me up buying so much antique junk at auctions that it has to end up stuffed in warehouses I’ve never been to. Stopped buying when I found you to seduce. No. I’m only kidding. But anyway, here you are. With me. And having this little naked talk like this. Now closer. Touch me.”
Drusilla, her tall, white slender body stretched in the candlelight on this large canopied bed. Oil portraits on the walls. Out of someone’s American past. Early settlers putting on airs. Their eyes staring at us. As well as the malevolent, deadly, glinting eyes of the rattler, mouth agape, head as big as a hand, fangs as long as a finger, coiled to strike. And in these seconds swiftly passing, touch her, feel her lips on my skin. What is unspeakable. Of which she speaks. Tied to a post and beaten. Fucked while laid out in a coffin or hanging from a tree.
“You have such a worried look, darling, my dear. You’re wondering, aren’t you. Have you ever done anything as quaint as made love to anyone in a coffin.”
“Gee Dru, that, believe it or not, just went through my mind.”
“Ah, now that the cat’s half out of the bag. It’s a black cat. With nine lives. And my precious one, at least one life is left to live.”
“Holy cow. I feel as if I’m dreaming.”
“You are darling. And relax. I ask only that you call me sweetie pie. Lie back on your back. I shall kneel beside you, let my hair hang long and loose, loose and long. The lovely silkiness of your hair does make one envious, angel.”
“Sweetie pie.”
“O God, call me, call me that again please.”
“Sweetie pie.”
“You know I always always wanted, instead of being chaperoned by some governess down some big gloomy hall of some big gloomy old house, to imagine I lived in some cozy little place down some shady street of maples in a small town and would be called sweetie pie by someone nice. As if someone like you were the boy next door and walked every day past our little lawn and white picket fence maybe on your newspaper route. And flicked the latest local town news up on our porch and stood a second or two to look at my house where I lived with my mother and father and our dog named Esme or Putsie or something and our cat named Snooky Wooky. And when you went past, you wondered what I was doing inside. And I’d be washing my hair in beer because it would make it shine. Then on Friday night, you’d have your hair brushed, pants pressed and maybe, with even a bow tie, you would come up the little paved path to the front door. And when you pressed the bell, chimes would ring ‘God Bless America.’”