Nicholson Baker - House of Holes

“Sounds good,” Jeff said.

Polly walked up the hill toward the house, fuming. A man answered the door. He said his name was Mischa, and he was quite handsome, although his ears were odd — the inner parts poked out farther than the rims, which gave him an air of studiousness. He took her to a waiting room, and then she met Lila, a cheerful busty woman who wore bifocals.

“What do you want?” Lila asked.

“I don’t know — a Cape house on a knoll and a husband?” said Polly.

“Can’t help you.”

“Then I don’t want anything,” said Polly.

“You’re unhappy with your boyfriend because he’s acting like a shit.”

“Yes, and he and I have different taste in plays.”

“Do you still like men?”

“Yes, I love men. I’ve always loved men.”

Lila picked up the phone. “Mischa, our friend Polly needs to spend some time in the Hall of the Penises.”

Mischa was there in a moment. He took Polly’s hand and led her to a very large room — a kind of dance studio with a refinished floor, hung all the way around with green curtains made of shot silk. One wall had enormous windows that overlooked the hills. There were two other women in the room. Polly nodded at them and they introduced themselves. One was Saucie, and one had a name like Donna.

Polly said to Saucie, “What are those odd little bumps there in the curtains?”

“They’re what you think they are,” said Saucie.

Polly found a drape cord and pulled it to make some of the green fabric slide to one side. She saw many little toadlike things hanging out from holes in the wall at about crotch height. She said, “All those little brown toadlike things are penises?”

“Yep,” said Saucie. “And balls.”

“They go all around the room,” said Donna.

“What are we supposed to do with them?” asked Polly.

Saucie handed her a tasseled knee pillow. “I think we’re supposed to talk to them, or maybe even suck them off.”

Donna whispered, “I think that one there is my husband.”

Polly was surprised. “Is that good or bad?”

“Not entirely sure,” said Donna.

“And I’m guessing that one there is my ex-husband,” said Saucie.

Then it occurred to Polly to wonder whether one of the penises was Jeff ’s. She toured the rows carefully to see if she could spot Jeff ’s organ hanging out among the crowd. But she couldn’t be sure. Which was all in all a relief. He was probably still down in the glade, she thought, chatting up the topless girl in the polka-dot skirt.

“Do you think we should dance for them?” said Donna. Polly, feeling a little giddy, started in with a Diane Birch song, “Rise Up,” and the three women danced and sang around the room. “Rise up, little sisters!” they sang — and soon they began to notice some changes in some of the wall toads. There was a new alertness about their attitude, no question about it. Several of them had started to do a little elongational leaning-forward sort of movement.

“I think they like us!” said Polly. The penises were in fact becoming visibly semi-erect at the sound of voices. Golly, Polly thought, I had no idea that my simple presence in a room could do that. It was kind of interesting and exciting, but also a little sad, because those penises had no clue what Polly, Donna, and Saucie were all about as women — what they believed in, what their plans were.

Near one corner, Polly came to an empty hole. She tried to peek in, but she couldn’t see anything. “What’s up?” she said into the hole. “Are you a little reserved today?” There was silence. Then she said, “I can wait.” She looked back over her shoulder and saw Saucie kneeling on the opposite wall. Polly suspected that Saucie was in front of her ex’s penis, but it wasn’t easy to keep track. Donna was really getting into it — she was kneeling on her cushion with both hands on a wall and she was passing her face and hair all over a large, attractive petard.

Polly turned back to her empty hole and she said, “Can you tell me something about yourself?” Suddenly a tennis ball appeared in the opening. At least she thought it was a tennis ball. When it popped through and she caught it, she felt how heavy it was, and then she knew it was the kind of ball they use in real tennis, or royal tennis, the game Henry the Eighth played.

“So you enjoy the sport of kings?” she said. “The old jeu de paume ?” And then the end of a tennis racket came through the hole. She looked at the handle. It was very worn. He had really used that racket. She held it for a second and said, “Nice racket.” Then the handle disappeared, and a bunch of purple turnips came through the hole and dangled there, held by their green tops. Polly squeezed them and she said, “I bet you could get some good blood out of these roots, you crazy fucked-up vegetarian.”

Then the turnips disappeared. Polly looked back at Saucie and Donna. Both their heads were bobbing. They were sucking toad-in-the-hole with guiltless gusto. Polly said, “I wish I knew your name.” There was silence. She said, “I’m going to call you Chief. Okay, Chief? Do you want me to do a private dance for you, Chief?” The racket handle reappeared and it nodded slowly up and down. “I can’t unless you give me a present,” said Polly. After a moment, a little leather pouch of gold sovereigns came flying out of the hole.

“Those look like nice pieces of money,” Polly said, “but that wasn’t exactly the present I had in mind.” She waited. “You’re supposed to put your babymaker through this hole.” There was a pause, and Polly said, “Right now, please. I want you hard or soft, doesn’t matter. Put it through, Chief, so I can see what you’ve got.”

Finally a large dark semisoft penis flopped out through the hole. After some further fumbling, a matching ballsack was stuffed underneath. The three-pack hung there. “Hello, hello,” said Polly, somewhat surprised that the man had done what she had asked for. “Pleased to meet you, Chief Cock and Bottle Washer.”

She had to admit to herself that it was, in fact, quite a nice-looking penis. Not intelligent looking — few penises were — but the testicles did somehow have the air of being attached to a man of substance. And Polly had always liked confident tennis players.

“Would you enjoy it if I shook my bottom for you?” she asked. She turned and wiggled her bottom. “Now a bit of tit action!” She turned back around and flashed open her shirt for a second, so that the penis, if it had an eye, could see her bra cleavage.

She felt out of breath, and she started talking nasty, the way she always did when she got aroused. “Do you want me to be your little suckslut?” she asked. “Hm?” She never knew where the words came from — they just came out of her. And as she talked, the penis began lifting. She said, “Ooh, you’re getting bigger for me, Chief. Yeah, yeah, I want you totally stiff for me. Is that all you have, you perverted gloryhole fucker? I want you as hard as that racket handle. Come on, baby. Do you like my mouth? Do you like my twenty-seven-year-old nasty cocksucking mouth, you twisted shitter?”

The more she insulted the penis, the stiffer it got. It was remarkable. She said, “Do you want to see me brush my hair?” The dick nodded yes. So she got her hairbrush out of her purse. “I have lots of dark hair,” she said, “and this is how I brush it, like this. And I like to toss it around, like this. Do you like it when I pass my hair over you, Chief Cock? Hm?” She said, “I like when men look at my hair and then they go home and they beat off their gnarly dicks thinking about me brushing my hair.” She said, “But you can’t beat off, can you?” And she circled her hand around behind his balls and cock, so that she had him. “You’re stuck out here with me, and you can’t beat off, no matter how bad you want to, you hopeless sadsack dickjerker.”