Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

My blood boiled at this thought, and I repulsed her, pushing her from me by the shoulder. She was on my right hand. I felt like a brute and behaved like one. I dashed out my right arm and caught her a fearful backhander on the lower part of the left cheek and jaw.

She gasped for breath, and said slowly and quietly in a low tone:

“How brutal!”

“I am mad,” I replied, “go and spend when you get home.”

This was foolish, as she had freely emitted in Paris and was not ready for me after her dinner, frolic, and two American champagne mixtures. She had had her enjoyment, and was not yet whore enough to play the proper part with another man at two hours' interval. Besides, her temper would not allow her to do so.

She was on the proper side to leave the cab, as it was now stopped, so she stepped out without a word, and I saw her go slowly and shakily along the station frontage, not boldly entering the first door in front of her, as she ought to have done, but sneaking along slowly, evidently thinking I was going to come after her, or perhaps tipsy, or crying, or mad with rage at being outwitted. Or going to the ladies' W.C. at the end of the building.

I slowly paid the cabman, watching her the while. I dared not follow her, for I knew that if I did-God help me! — I should have struck her again. So I turned away and walked home. How I got along and what streets I took, I do not know. I am surprised I was not run over. I found myself in front of my door, that is all I can say. It was about 11:30 or 11:45. I got into bed and smoked until 2 a.m. I could not settle to read. I could only smoke and stare at nothing. I was very much upset, although I had known the truth all along by intuition.

Then I found that the knuckles of the second and third fingers of my right hand were torn and bleeding. I did not think I could have burst the skin with the force of the blow on her face. I do not suppose I hurt her much, as I had no room to swing my arm in the cab, and she did not put her hand up to her face after the blow. I hoped that I had torn my knuckles on her brooch, or neck pins, or earrings, or garters, or something of the same kind, while struggling with her, and these slight abrasions were only coincidences.

Strange to say, but it is the truth, I had no regret for having struck her and feel none now. When I wrote her that insulting letter about the Belgian trip, and sent the analysis of her own letters, I felt strangely delighted, and was surprised when she was silly enough to answer.

It was the first time in my life that I had ever lifted my hand to a woman in anger.

The next day I was quite calm again, and hugely pleased to find how well I had succeeded.

I had quite deceived the infamous trinity at Sonis and I had proved to Lilian that I knew she was no longer a virgin.

I had set myself a threefold task: to prove that Lilian was Papa's mistress, by exposing the lies from Lille; that her maidenhead was gone, despite her assertions to the contrary; and that they were all in league to conspire against me.

All I had to do now was to bide my time to taunt her with her complicity, and then I could go away.

I wrote and sent the following letter, but it was not meant specially for her. It was for Papa-and a little for my book which was rapidly taking a practical form in my brain-and I composed the details of the famous ride, just as I have given it here, and leisurely prepared notes for the rest.

When I posted the letter I now give, I thought she would not answer me, and that I should never see her more. Anyhow, I made up my mind that she would never come to my arms again. I did not see how she could.

JACKY TO LILIAN.

Paris. April 27, 1899.

You arrive with Charlotte Sunday night, and tell me that the appointment arranged for the next day has fallen through. I say nothing but I find the story suspicious. I should like to see the postcard of Sunday. But I pass that over. I don't care.

I hear that the two young ladies have dined alone. I venture to say they are “dry.” They laugh, not understanding that I am mocking them. Lolotte must think me stupid. I say nothing. I don't care.

I make the following remark: in January, Lilian also went to dine at Narkola's with Madame Rosenblatt. Put the two things together. Had I curiosity, nothing would have been easier for me than to have gone on Monday to Narkola's to find out about the lady dressed in red. I have not done so. Neither shall I. What better proof can I give that I don't care?

We get in a cab. I discover that she is no longer a virgin, in spite of all the stuff she has recently told me. I had already my suspicions when I did minette to her in January. Then I found her parts absolutely changed beneath my tongue. When a maid, she was rather thin down there, the skin tight over the bones, as with all virgins. Now all is fat. It is soft, as if swollen, but she is rather large I find. Evidently she has met a strong sexual partner. It is true that she had just been enjoyed by a man, and at such a moment, directly after connection, the parts are always a little puffy. But she is too fat in the lips for such a young woman and I repeat-rather vast. But my examination was necessarily superficial. Her “pussy” was excessively clean, without any special smell. Therefore, there had been private, recent ablutions. Injection? After dinner, I think. The men were all married, as she was not perfumed.

I pushed my finger in freely as if in butter-six centimeters. The entrance was easy, all being open. She was not excited by me. There was only a little moisture through the drinks. The reason is simple; she had just spent a lot. Nevertheless, she swore on her mother's life that she was still a virgin, and that I had put my finger “between the two.” Comedy! I said nothing. I did not care.

She did not try to caress me. She never even took off her glove. I did not care. (She used to say: “To you I would do anything.”)

I ask for her mouth. She turns away without a word. I did not care. I give her a hint, telling her that perhaps her stays were too tight. I wanted her to excuse herself prettily. She did not understand. I did not care.

Then a wonderful thing took place, that I really did care about. Seeing that we were nearing the station, she left off sulking, and turned round to me, caressing my cheek. This is how I understand this Judas-like caress: “Fortunately, we are at the station. He can't ask me for anything now, the idiot! I have eluded the task. Now to coax him to get away.”

In a twinkling, I understood the horror of this idea, and I made you feel severely the weight of my opinion. I struck you in the face-movement of brutal impulse. But whose fault was it?

She has dragged me down to the level of the brute- or would like to do so.

Do I regret what I did? I do not believe so. I don't care.

But what I do care about are the rude words I uttered concerning a poor man, victim of Lilian, who I pity with all my heart. How he must suffer! How he will regret having let himself be seduced-if he does not regret it already. I understand the kick given to the dog. I understand everything, and from the bottom of my heart I ask his pardon for the insults I addressed to him by insulting the infamous Lilian. If I could only make him understand the compassion and sympathy I fed for him, victim of Lilian!

I, at least, possess common sense; I can reason, and I finish by regaining full mastery over myself. Then again, I do not live with her. Sincerely, I pity him. What a sad existence she will make for him-she does make for him! Poor man!

Why, Lilian, this accumulation of lies, to enable you to play continually and solely for me, this part of the perpetual virgin, letting no one touch her but me, and yet always in somebody's arms? You are immaculate, of course. Jacky and you masturbate, or suck, six times year, and that is all.