Anonymous: Blue Tango

Claire is laughing now. “The other way, Teddy.”

She dismounts, climbs off his face and turns. She kneels upon the bed, her night-dress still gathered at her waist, her bottom turned up like a rising moon.

Edward moves behind her, behind the moon, behind the ivory expanse. He hesitates. A mere moment. Then he drops to bury his face against her bottom.

Claire wriggles. A mewling sound. Her bottom against his face in her amusement.

Edward pays his homage. He nuzzles. He presses. I can see his nose between the globes. His mouth has vanished. To which aperture? In her rose-hole? I suppose she demands both. I turn to stone in my envy. The male tongue in the most secret place. How ridiculous we are. We want the probing, be it root or finger or tongue. And the loving admiration.

Obeisance. Only once with John and then I had too much wine to keep him there. But of course he wouldn't stay. Edward, perhaps, but not John.

How she rules him. His devotions. His tongue certainly in the quick of her bottom now. As she wriggles.

Then he's gone. He groans and turns on his back once more. Once again Claire mounts his face. Now she exposes his root, his swollen penis. She strokes him. She kneels over him, half-bent, her eyes fixed upon her doing, her fingers curled as she strokes him. Edward squirms. He touches one of her thighs. An appeal? Her hand continues to fondle him. To milk him. She coos at him, cajoles him. Her slender fingers milking his root. “All right, Teddy.” The hand goes up and down with increased vigor. My sister's hand. Upon her husband's root. The ending foretold, but of course I shall watch it. I think tomorrow I shall walk in one of the parks with a parasol. I shall meet other women like myself. Do they have sisters like Claire? Now suddenly Edward makes a bleating sound and Claire's hand responds with a burst of fervor. Her fingers curled and squeezing. The crisis. He spouts. Again. Again. He calls out as she continues. She laughs. She pulls at his root with her hand. She bends over his face and kisses his lips.

Claire has gone off to Mitcham to a meeting of the Society for Homeless Pets, while Edward and I do a promenade in Holland Park. We pretend. I hold Edward's arm and we pretend we are husband and wife. There is music somewhere, a band playing, the sound of voices. Edward pats my hand. Does he pretend with me? Does he have secret thoughts? Does he have hot and turbulent feelings? I want to know the surging in him. In Claire's absence. I want to know it. Or perhaps he thinks of nothing but his collection of shells and his tobacco and the disposition of his mother's house in Kensington. Men can be so trivial. They must be pointed to it like a hunting dog in training. They must be shown the way. I don't have a grudge against the world. I will not be unhappy. I don't like the idea of it. Darling, it's the jealousy that disturbs you. He must think of something. Edward is certainly not preoccupied with love and religion. So quiet this morning. His dignity. I must allow him to be himself. I have not watched in more than a week. He does not visit her room. No more mumblings in the dim light. Ellen Terry covers the grate and behind Ellen Terry the ghosts are silent. Here is one room and there another. I lie awake in my bed imagining a shuffling sound in the corridor. I lie awake with my odds and ends, irrelevant recollections of all sorts of little things. I would like to go dancing. I imagine myself dancing.

And these people we pass, these couples that walk in the park like ourselves, do they take me for Edward's wife? That young man, the girl upon his arm with inquisitive eyes. They ought to be riding together in a wood somewhere. Perhaps it was done yesterday. Laughing in a wood. The halting conversation. There is nothing as silly as an Englishman alone with a woman he wants. This fellow is thinking of the horses, of the stable, of India, of the presence or absence of the Crown in the Red Sea, anything to avoid thinking of the obvious, while beside him the girl quavers as she waits for an indication of something, of anything at all. Finally the moment in the wood arrives and she pants for pleasure. They kiss. She presses against him. He pulls back, begs her pardon, then kisses her again. Oh, I can see it. In another moment he nods at the horses and suggests they ought to return to the stable.

Edward pats my hand again. “Are you tired?”

“No, not at all.”

“I do like walking with you like this.”

“Is that a flower-bed?”

“Where?”

“Over there, at the edge of those trees.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Let's have a look at it, shall we?”

Yes, we shall. I pull at his hand. I laugh as I make him hurry. Then I drop his hand and run. It's madness. I'm sure a thousand eyes are watching us. They think us lovers. And what does Edward think? He smiles as he comes up to me. I'm rather out of breath. I like it. I like the feeling. I take his hand again. How odd it is to hold the hand of my sister's husband. Does he find me beautiful? Do I have the power to charm him? How taciturn he is. I shall crumble his reticence. I feel the working of it, second by second. Heaven knows I want it. I say something silly and he smiles. In another moment he laughs. Men are so easily turned. I'm sure at breakfast this morning he had no thought in his head of holding my hand in the park. How amusing he is, at times so dull, at other times a hint of something in his eyes. I do like his smile. Is it important to like the way a man smiles? How strange it is to think of Edward apart from Claire.

At the flower-bed we stand side by side. Edward turns, presses against me, then suddenly mumbles an apology. I see a glint of metal in the distance, a motor car passing in the road. Are we watched? I don't think so. I see no passers-by. Edward leans to me again and this time he kisses me. First my cheek and then my lips. His hand upon my arm. His male hand. I look beyond the flower-bed again, but there is nothing to be seen. I quiver as he kisses me again. Shall I go to Oxford Street tomorrow? Shall I visit Atkinson's scent shop? Edward presses his lips against my own.

In the evening I sit with Walter Bramsby in a theater box. I think he's a mere boy. In the cab he talked of nothing but his business affairs. Then in the lobby of the theater his face was flushed as he gazed at my shoulders. His manners are so impeccable. I'm sure if he were French he'd manage the most correct little bow. He's a man incapable of an outrage, no matter if the outrage would save his life. We shall go on, we shall go on. I shall suffer these people around me, this theater crowded with Walter Bramsbys. I have the memory of Edward's kiss upon my lips. His apologies. He thinks himself so insolent. I ought to be with Edward now and not with Walter Bramsby. Walter is too awful. Walter is an intolerable ass. His business affairs, His society. The bowler hat he wears in the City. Yes, very eager. I wonder what sort of lover he is. I wonder concerning his attachments. His mother's blandishments. It's always the mother that produces the lover. Is he frightfully clever? I can't imagine it. Perhaps if he's cajoled. They must be given things. They have their inducements. Tomorrow I shall have breakfast in bed and avoid any difficulty with Edward at the table. I shall breakfast in bed and think of myself as a duchess, a woman descended from one of the Henrys. I shall imagine myself in Chatsworth rather than Kensington. I feel such lethargy. This play. The voices emanating from the stage.

Then Walter takes my hand in his. I feel the warmth of his palm. How amusing it is. Is it the play, or thoughts of his mother, or an indication of sublime passion? Does he want me? Does he imagine us in a life together? His life with a Kensington widow? I think he doubts his own taste in things. I feel the softness in his hand, the idle years in London drawing-rooms. In a week he'll find some reason to offer me an expensive present. A pompous little present from an impossibly pompous man.