Stephen Dixon - What Is All This? - Uncollected Stories

The Moselle?”

The Moselle? Oh, the Moselle. No, not that. You want some? Maybe you’ve had some.”

“I haven’t. I thought I’d wait.”

“You should have felt free and helped yourself. I wouldn’t have minded.” He was still standing by the door he’d come through, bathrobe still tied. “Did you think I would have got upset if you’d taken a glassful?”

“I thought it would be politer and more respectful of me to wait till you got here. It’s your wine. I’m your guest and these are your rooms. I would wait till you offered it, that’s what I felt.”

“It’s the hotel’s wine. They gave it to me. The best Moselle, they said. Let me see.” He came over and read the bottle’s label. “Good, but not the best. So now it’s our Moselle and I will only drink a glass if you’ll have one too. No, that’s not so. But drink a glass or two. Don’t wait for me.”

“Do you want some? I’ll pour it for you.”

“Yes, pour it. Why not? And I’ll offer you sandwiches. That way, we can be polite to each other and give each other different things.”

Thank you.” I poured the wine into two glasses, held his glass out for him. We clicked glasses. He first, then I clicked his. I drank all my wine. He only sipped from his.

“You drank so fast,” he said.

“Because I’m a little nervous. Uh-oh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Nervous of me? Don’t be. And say anything. I am in here like all other men. And you are young. And have nice breasts. I like them.”

Thank you.”

“I won’t tell you why. That might embarrass you. You’ll have to guess. All women’s breasts are nice, but yours especially so. But I still won’t say why.”

“I’ll think about why you think they’re nice later on.”

“Do. It’s good to have something to think about later on.”

“You mean after you leave?”

“No, always. Always to have something to think about but not always to think about it. Activity. Physical and of the mind. Both you can’t do very well together at the same time, now can you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t say so or agree with me unless you believe it.”

“I won’t.”

Then what do you really think about it?”

“About what?”

That physical and mental activity can’t go hand in hand together very well. And then, not too much of only one without the other coming soon after it, and on and on and on and interchanging themselves like that till you sleep. Thrust yourself into experience and then reflect on the meaning of it. But all reflection and no experience makes us mad. The opposite, and we are nothing but brutes. Now who previously said that?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Guess.”

“Goethe?”

“Very good. You’re educated. Or look straight at me and tell me you didn’t read my mind.”

“I didn’t.”

“Something happened. Or perhaps it is that you’re just plain smart.”

“I went through your schools. And almost became a nurse.”

“You should have. And I’m excited by you, you know? Educated, or a mind reader. Both would do.” He sat on the bed. “Oh, I completely forgot.” He offered me the plate of sandwiches. “Eat, go on. You’re young, maybe still growing. And you’ll grow bigger, stronger, and wiser and maybe even telepathic if you take the headcheese.”

I took the headcheese sandwich, though I never liked it because it’s gelatinous and all those foot and mouth parts.

“Don’t take it just because I suggested you to. What’s your favorite tea sandwich here?”

“Headcheese.”

“Truth now.”

“Actually, I prefer an unadorned cream cheese, but they don’t have any here.”

“What they didn’t supply for us here is not what I asked you.” He seemed miffed.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. I was being selfish. Out of all these, the hard cheese on the black bread there. I like that best of all.”

“Then put down the headcheese.”

“Headcheese is nice too.”

“No, put it down. Eat what you like. You don’t get that many opportunities for that now, am I right? Food is generally scarce. Not for me — I won’t lie to you. But I’m sure it is for you. So here you have a choice. More than a choice — you can have all these sandwiches when you leave. Tell the commanding office that I said so.”

“He’ll believe me?”

“It’s what I usually do. He knows. You only don’t get them if you don’t tell him.”

“I’ll tell him. Thank you. All the other girls would probably like some too, so we’ll divide them up.”

“Do that. Very generous.” Then silence. He sipped his wine, was looking away from me. I didn’t think I should say “Don’t you want to remove your robe?” as I would have with any other customer by now. No: wait for the signals. He was paying more, for one thing. And he was who he was and would do it at his own time. And I’d made too many mistakes already. Though who could say — maybe he wanted me to take the lead. Maybe he was shy and unassertive in bed…but someone would have said, or maybe they hadn’t heard. And maybe the commanding officer also didn’t know and was only guessing at the right approach when he said don’t be suggestive or aggressive.

“Would you like to come under the covers with me?” I said.

“In time.”

“Of course. In time. I’m sorry. I knew you knew better what to do. I think I said it out of force of habit. That’s the truth now, even if my saying that about habit and all it alludes to might also be the wrong thing to say. But I’m getting in deeper and deeper, but I also have to admit I’m feeling more than a little nervous in your presence and I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Calm yourself. As I said, I’m not unlike any other man in many respects. Act natural. I want that. Not fright or anxietude. I chose you because you seemed the one young woman downstairs who’d be least afraid of me and so would do what I want her to.”

“I’m not too different. A few of the other girls would have been like that too.”

“Yes, but I chose you.”

Thank you.”

“Come all the way out of the sheets this time and I’ll sit on the bed more.

We did.

“Very nice breasts. Strong body. You are very nice. And you will be very nice to me too, all right?”

“Of course.”

“Lovely hair. Kiss me.” I kissed him. A little kiss. “Soft lips. Lovely lips.” He stood up and untied his bathrobe. He still had all his clothes on underneath except his jacket and belt with revolver. He got undressed, touching my thighs and forehead every now and then. Nude, he looked his fifty or so years in physique. He sat back on the bed. “I’m tired, though not much.”

“I’ve time. Really. And energy — all you wish.”

“Touch me. Hard if you like. Don’t worry. Everyone can take a little hurt.”

“Down there?”

He nodded. I held and rubbed him.

“Now I’m going to lie on my stomach and I want you to do something.”

“I think I know what it is,” I said.

“No, you don’t. Not even with your educated guess. I want you to urinate on me.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Yes, you can. It’s easy. And you must have done it to others. And everyone can urinate a little at most times. So do it.”

“Where?”

“Waist up, but principally on the top of my head. Now, please.”

I stood over him. “It’s not as easy for us to direct it,” I said. I urinated on his shoulders first and then made it up to the top of his head.

That’s good. Thank you, Now defecate on me.”

“I could never do that. And I never have.”

“It’s harder, but try.”

“No.”

“You don’t want to?”