J. Donleavy - Wrong Information is Being Given Out at Princeton

“Gee, please don’t. I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, whatever it is that you don’t know what to say, you’d better say it. And if I may suggest further, without undue delay. For putting it in the parlance of the outspoken, I do not intend to aimlessly fuck about. In platitudes, clichés, or otherwise.”

“Well, I guess if it’s not a platitude, I want to be with you. And I guess I think about you.”

“Well, how nicely halfhearted of you.”

“I think you’re wonderful.”

“Well, that at least might be considered as a mild improvement. And perhaps it’s better that you know that my involuntary winking can at times be voluntary, as it was at Sutton Place that evening when we all went out for dinner. And also, if I may put it so bluntly, when your hard-on grew so enticingly large. When we first met up, you were blushing and indeed as I believe you described yourself to someone who shan’t now be named that it had you crouched over like a cripple in a hopeless effort to disguise the predicament that your engorgement presented. And now need I say, my dear boy, that that shown to me then was the biggest green light in the world. Or am I deluding myself and am now to hear you deny that such tumescence was inspired by me.”

“No ma’am. I don’t deny it. I openly admit it.”

“Good. At last we seem to be getting somewhere. Now show me where it hurts. Because from what I can see of your posture, you again seem crouched over in such pain.”

“I guess I’m also nervous with the lack of scruples. Gee, I think I feel a little bit guilty. Sorry, I mean chilly.”

“Of course the words guilty and scruples do rather go together, but I am absolutely sure you meant to say chilly. It is, after all, somewhat unseasonably cool in this house. Now dear boy, as we are prolonged standing here, do I keep the candlelight alive. Or do I blow it out and immediately turn on my flat heel and saunter straight out of here.”

“I guess I am traumatized by some recent events.”

“I’m assuming I’m not one of them.”

“No, ma’am, you’re surely not.”

“Well, am I to blow out the candle or not. Blow, I presume.”

“No, no, don’t.”

“Well then, as I am not quite yet old enough to be your mother, please forgive me if I don’t speak in pedantic euphemisms in order to request to see that cock of yours already bursting the seams of your trousers.”

“Ma’am, you don’t mince your words, do you.”

“No. I don’t. Why should I.”

“I agree, ma’am. Why should you.”

“We all, don’t we, seek to reach a plateau of pleasure upon which we think we can glide indefinitely. And I suppose some of us accept the risk of doing so dangerously.”

“Dru, I guess I’ve had a couple of things happen today that have dismayed me. But please. Don’t blow out the candle.”

On the gray marble chimneypiece amid a collection of Islamic looking pots, one candle out of a dozen in their tall tulip glasses glowing in the mirror. Softly flooding its single flame of light across the room and spreading shadows within the shelter of the great canopied bed and beyond.

“Holy Christ, Dru. Get back.”

“What is it.”

“Behind you.”

“Oh that. It’s dead and stuffed. I meant to warn you.”

“Holy cow. It’s a rattler. Diamondback.”

“Oh dear boy you are, aren’t you, a nervous wreck, but at least you remembered my name. Next perhaps, you’ll call me sweetie pie. But that’s an eastern diamondback. I suppose, alive, our most deadly of snakes.”

“That looks at least seven feet long and in the dark it looks alive with its fangs ready to strike. Hey what kind of a place is this. Could be black widow spiders everywhere you put your hand.”

“I suppose the Irish, not having snakes in Ireland, have an exaggerated dread of them.”

“You betcha, ma’am.”

“Better not bring you into the next room where my friend has two stuffed black mambas that extend as high as you or I up off the floor and which are wrapped around objets d’art. The world’s most feared snake alive, but I assure you my friend preserves them harmlessly dead.”

“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.”