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

“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.’”

“Holy cow, Dru. You’re kidding.”

“No. No, I’m not. And don’t you laugh.”

“I’m not, and I sympathize with an enlightened form of socialism where perhaps life could be like that. But maybe we could have a little Stravinsky in the chimes.”

“Well, I’m not kidding.”

“Okay. Sweetie pie.”

“And let me finish. You’d arrive for our date at seven o’clock. And then sitting with my dad, telling him you made first-string quarterback on the high school football team, while I, upstairs, brushed my hair for the final umpteenth time. Then as I came slowly down the stairs into the drawing room, you saw me and smiled.”

“Dru, I think it might be called the living room.”

“Okay, living room. So who cares about architecture at such a beautifully romantic point. And then we go out under the maple trees down the street, holding hands on our second date because you got to like me so much on the first, when we went together to the movies, that this night we maybe would even have our first kiss. And I’d give you my sorority pin to wear. And you’d give me your fraternity pin. Isn’t that what they do in high school.”

“Gee, Dru, I ain’t never been in a fraternity.”

“Oh, who cares. I’ve never been in a sorority. But we’d then be having strawberry sodas at the local candy store on Main Street. Or should that be pineapple. And you’d suck on your straw and make noise at the bottom of the glass and I’d suck on mine and wouldn’t make noise because I was a little lady well brought up and then you’d look at me, a pretty ribbon in my hair and say, ‘Sweetie pie.’ Oh God, that gets me so horny and I do have, don’t I, such simple wants. To want only you to call me that. Now I shall blow you. Know you. Taste you who tastes so good. And know you will always, when I want you to, always call me sweetie pie.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Slowly touch me softly. Touch me gently, sweetly. Touch my skin with yours.”

“Surely I will, ma’am. Sweetie pie.”

“Now sink your magnificent Irish cock into me, dear boy. And fire your big gun.”

Under the great canopy of this bed. Stare up into an infinity of darkness as one does into the infinity of the rest of one’s life. Lying embraced with these strong long slender limbs. Her lips pressed lusciously on my neck. Her teeth closed on my skin. In the amazingly exciting wonderful world of music as it has been down through the ages, sexual deviations have always been the norm, if not the rage but Dru has presented something new. Provided one hadn’t already jumped into a coffin with her, one would walk by her picket fence. Saunter up her front path. Hold hands and maybe even kiss in the movies. Scoff back my favorite pineapple soda. But I’d be the rude one making noise at the bottom of my glass. She did say once her childhood was painfully lonely. Incarcerated.Always with a governess. Her mother away traveling, so she became a sad little creature. Such a rich little girl upon whom few could look with any fond pity. Led by the hand along long corridors of big houses. Taken everywhere couched in the soft upholstery of big cars. In Paris, the chauffeur would briefly stop along the Chemin de Ceinture du Lac so that she could watch other children play in the park and sail their little sailboats and she could try to pat their little dogs. And warned not to because they might bite and have rabies. Then going back to Avenue Foch, she would count the dandruff flakes fallen on the chauffeur’s back. And now I feel the tips of the diamonds of her bracelet pressed on my back, enough gems to support me for the rest of my life. Aided and abetted by the twenty-five cents I still have left. This the sweet depth into which one sinks. Seeing her again as I first ever saw her. Smiling. Her lips just parted. That I kiss. One eye opened just that little bit more than the other. Candlelight gleam on the soft waves of her hair fallen to her shoulders. A twist of her soft, pliant body. Huskily she whispers, “I madly desire you dear boy. Can you feel my hardened nipples now against your chest.” Yes. As I commit this betrayal of a mother to her adopted daughter. And my own betrayal to a wife. This woman, who now it seems can with just a flicker of an eye, send me running out to my own death. Vulnerable to anything. Threatening my integrity. Maybe making it possible to conduct my own symphony. Have my own orchestra. Plenty of violins, oboes and percussion. Forty for a start in the brass. Fifty in the wind. Seventy-five in the strings. Five on drums. Two on xylophone, or maybe three. There are not enough xylophones these days. Two concert grand Steinways. A whole chorus of great contraltos.