Charles Bukowski - Women

Henry

The door opened and it was Iris. I pulled the sheet out of the typewriter and laid it face down.

"Oh, Hank! I got the slut-shoes!"

"Great! Great!"

"I'll put them on for you! I'm sure you'll love them!"

"Baby, do it!"

Iris walked into the bedroom. I took the letter to Tanya and stuck it under a pile of papers.

Iris walked out. The shoes were bright red on viciously high heels. She looked like one of the greatest whores of all time. There were no backs on the shoes and her feet showed through the see-through material. Iris walked back and forth. She had a most provocative body and ass anyhow, and walking on those heels pushed it all sky-high. It was maddening. Iris stopped and looked back at me over her shoulder, smiled. What a marvelous chippy! She had more hip, more ass, more calf than I'd ever seen before. I ran out and poured two drinks. Iris sat down and crossed her legs high. She sat in a chair across the room from me. The miracles in my life kept occurring. I couldn't understand it.

My cock was hard, throbbing, pushing against my pants.

"You know what a man likes," I told Iris.

We finished our drinks. I took her by the hand into the bedroom. I pushed her on the bed. I pulled her dress back and got at her panties. It was hard work. Her panties got caught on one shoe, got hooked on the heel, but I finally got them off. Iris's dress was still covering her hips. I raised her ass and pushed the dress up under her. She was already wet. I felt her with my fingers. Iris was almost always wet, almost always ready. She was a total joy. She had long nylon stockings with blue garters decorated with red roses. I put it into the wetness. Her legs were raised high in the air and as I caressed her I saw those slut-shoes on her feet, red heels jutting like stilettoes. Iris was in for another old-fashioned horse fuck. Love was for guitar players, Catholics and chess freaks. That bitch with her red shoes and long stockings-she deserved what she was going to get from me. I tried to rip her apart, I tried to split her in half. I watched that strange half-Indian face in the soft sunlight that filtered weakly through the blinds. It was like murder. I had her. There was no escape. I ripped and roared, slapped her across the face and nearly tore her in half.

I was surprised that she was able to get up smiling and walk to the bathroom. She looked almost happy. Her shoes had come off and were lying by the side of the bed. My cock was still hard. I picked up one of the shoes and rubbed my cock with it. It felt great. Then I put the shoe back on the floor. When Iris came out of the bathroom still smiling, my cock went down.

Not much happened during the rest of her stay. We drank, we ate, we fucked. There were no arguments. We took long drives down along the shore, ate at seafood cafes. I didn't bother with writing. There were times when it was best to get away from the machine. A good writer knew when not to write. Anybody could type. Not that I was a good typist; also I couldn't spell and I didn't know grammar. But I knew when not to write. It was like fucking. You had to rest the godhead now and then. I had an old friend who occasionally wrote me letters, Jimmy Shannon. He wrote 6 novels a year, all on incest. It was no wonder he was starving. My problem was that I couldn't rest my cock-godhead like I could my typer-godhead. That was because women were available only in streaks so you had to get as much in as possible before somebody else's godhead came along. I think the fact that I quit writing for ten years was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to me. (I suppose that some critics would say that it was one of the luckiest things that ever happened to the reader, too.) Ten year's rest for both sides. What would happen if I stopped drinking for ten years?

The time came to put Iris Duarte back on the plane. It was a morning flight which made it difficult. I was used to rising at noon; it was a fine cure for hangovers and would add 5 years to my life. I felt no sadness while driving her to L.A. International. The sex had been fine; there had been laughter. I could hardly remember a more civilized time, neither of us making any demands, yet there had been warmth, it had not been without feeling, dead meat coupled with dead meat. I detested that type of swinging, the Los Angeles, Hollywood, Bel Air, Malibu, Laguna Beach kind of sex. Strangers when you meet, strangers when you part-a gymnasium of bodies namelessly masturbating each other. People with no morals often considered themselves more free, but mostly they lacked the ability to feel or to love. So they became swingers. The dead fucking the dead. There was no gamble or humor in their game-it was corpse fucking corpse. Morals were restrictive, but they were grounded on human experience down through the centuries. Some morals tended to keep people slaves in factories, in churches and true to the State. Other morals simply made good sense. It was like a garden filled with poisoned fruit and good fruit. You had to know which to pick and eat, which to leave alone.

My experience with Iris had been delightful and fulfilling, yet I wasn't in love with her nor she with me. It was easy to care and hard not to care. I cared. We sat in the Volks on the upper parking ramp. We had some time. I had the radio on. Brahms.

"Will I see you again?" I asked her.

"I don't think so."

"Do you want a drink in the bar?"

"You've made an alcoholic out of me, Hank. I'm so weak I can hardly walk."

"Was it just the booze?"

"No."

"Then let's get a drink."

"Drink, drink, drink! Is that all you can think of?"

"No, but it's a good way to get through spaces, like this one."

"Can't you face things straight?"

"I can but I'd rather not."

"That's escapism."

"Everything is: playing golf, sleeping, eating, walking, arguing, jogging, breathing, fucking…"

"Fucking?"

"Look, we're talking like high school children. Let's get you on the plane."

It wasn't going well. I wanted to kiss her but I sensed her reserve. A wall. Iris wasn't feeling good, I guess, and I wasn't feeling good.

"All right," she said, "we'll check in and then go get a drink. Then I'll fly away forever: real smooth, real easy, no pain."

"All right!" I said.

And that was just the way it was.

The way back: Century Boulevard east, down to Crenshaw, up 8th Avenue, then Arlington to Wilton. I decided to pick up my laundry and turned right on Beverly Boulevard I drove into the lot behind the Silverette Cleaners and parked the Volks. As I did a young black girl in a red dress walked past. She had a marvelous swing to her ass, a most marvelous motion. Then the building blocked my view. She had the movements; it was as if life had given a few women a supple grace and denied the rest. She had that indescribable grace.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk and watched her from behind. I saw her turn and look back. Then she stood and stared at me, looking back over her shoulder. I walked into the laundry. When I came out with my things she was standing by my Volks. I put the things inside from the passenger's side. Then I moved around to the driver's side. She stood in front of me. She was about 27 with a very round face, impassive. We were standing very close together.

"I saw you looking at me. Why were you looking at me?"

"I apologize. I didn't mean any offense."

"I want to know why you were looking at me. You were really staring at me."

"Look, you're a beautiful woman. You have a beautiful body. I saw you walk by and I looked. I couldn't help it."

"Do you want a date for tonight?"

"Well, that would be great. But I've got a date. I've got something going."

I circled around her and made for the driver's side. I opened the door and got in. She walked off. As she did I heard her whisper, "Dumb honky asshole."