A Moment of Doubt Read Free

face, so that, the eighth or ninth time this happened, instead of excusing myself and blushing and absentmindedly standing up and leaning back against the toilet tank, knocking all the old copies of Reader’s Digest stacked on top of it to the floor, so that she could see damn well I had this immense hardon, the eighth or ninth time I say, I just sat there, just sat there, and stared at this clean, damp, silken bush not one inch from my nose. I could smell her, I could practically taste her. She’s dragging the towel down to cover her ass and making all these flustered excuses, so that the front of the towel actually picks up and droops down onto the top of my head, I’m surrounded by her smells and her textiles, so that, still reading the computer magazine in my left hand, I put my right finger up her slippery, tight cunt, and thumb her clitoris. Isaac Newton discovered gravity, right?
    Her breath hisses past her teeth. It sounds like a case of whiskey sliding across the countertop at the liquor store, New Year’s Eve, paid for. Good whiskey. Noting my place in the article on CP/M utilities, I manipulate her labia. She moves her hips elliptically, suggestive. The penis, throwing off its downcast attitude, leaps up past the rim of the toilet, almost tearing off the prepuce on the bottom edge of the seat. It stands there, lurid, colorful and erect. It looks like Coit Tower at Christmastime, or most other municipally festive monuments, for that matter, at that time of the year. Think of the Empire State Building, the Sears Tower, the Washington Monument, Le Tour Eiffel, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, think of the Master Builder high atop the scaffold dropping the wreath over the tip of his spire and try not to laugh, go ahead, this is the twentieth century, go ahead. I’m busy. Marlene—you might as well know her name, she frequently has rooms to let—right away Marlene has her tongue rimming the lips of her open mouth and her breath coming and going like a beautiful apoplectic executive’s, jogging up the Kearney steps with a hangover, one hand gripping the doorknob and the other buried in a fistful of my hair. She clutches my mouth to her cunt and begs me to suck. Lick, suck, please, she said. The towel opens along an inverted V up her side and falls off as she places one of her large, highly arched, beautifully veined, perfectly formed feet on the toilet tank behind me, to facilitate the advantage I already have of being slightly beneath her, so that, looking up, I have this vision of a purplish-pink, steaming, smoking, dripping, paradisical garden, hung all round by dusky damp tendrils of mercy and passion, which is what any good optimist should see when he looks up, to heaven, but rarely does.
    She clutches my face to her cunt and it’s time to go to work. Rain begins to fall on the roof. Marlene screams for no apparent reason. I play a game, like mumble-de-peg or backgammon or any of those stupid frolics kids waste their time on, with pegs and holes, or parking attendants with slots and cars. The finger goes in her asshole, the thumb in her cunt, and my tongue finds her clitoris. The latter is presented to the teeth for little nips. She hisses and howls. My hand and face are soaked. A telephone rings down the hall. The doorbell chimes simultaneously. The rain increases. Now she has both her hands full of my hair, and rubs my skull against her crotch like she’s grating cheese. I roll the folded computer magazine into the kerf of her ass and tilt it in and out of the juices now so copiously flooding my hand, my face, her thighs. I riffle the pages like a deck of cards against her anus. With a shout she stumbles against the door and the frosted glass rattles in its sash, her foot slips off the toilet tank and hits the handle. The john flushes with a roar, and her screams announce her orgasm over the sound of the rushing waters with the combined terror and adrenaline of all the assholes who