J. Donleavy - Schultz

“O dear. You’re angry.”

“Honey I’ll tell you one thing that I really am. Right now lying here listening to you. I’m so horny and so dying to fuck you into the next century and centuries beyond, that anything you say only makes me want to fuck you even more.”

“O god.”

“What’s the matter, honey.”

“I don’t know.”

“You want me to get out.”

“No.”

“What do you want me to do.”

“Lock the door.”

“No problem.”

Schultz twisting the key. Returning to bed. Only slightly spraining one ankle stepping on the one lost shoe. Snaking in between the sheets. Rolling over into the arms of this armful. What a change of scenery grabbing these cornucopious bosoms. Locked sweet and delicious mouth to mouth. Honey this golden knight may not be golden and may not be slaying dragons. But he is going to fuck you with such compassion you didn’t know existed. And honey, by the way you’re squirming around like a live Prague Christmas carp, you’re going to do the same. My god. My Czech grandfather. Thanks for the big prick you bequeathed me. To plant in this joy toy. Who is everything I need at this moment. Her spine bones are just the most perfect keyboard for playing diminuendo crescendo of the nervous chord. Wish I could have seen with my bare eyes the gorgeous arse of this creature. With two handfuls already, my fingers are crying out for an extra helping. Just when I was suddenly feeling like an old dog who is petted no more, mangy and kicked in the teeth, here I am climbing up to go to sleep drowsily on a cloud. After a good fuck first. When ten minutes ago I thought I would have to end up letting my curls and whiskers grow. Go black hatted in a long black coat along a jammed packed Forty Seventh Street. Wearing ten pairs of eye glasses to see gems I’m blinded by all day long. Uncle Werb trying to teach me fucking Yiddish and Czech like my grandfather spoke in Prague. And now Jesus with a nectar flowing cunt, this is suddenly the garden of Eden after Adam and Eve have left. I got to taste this unforbidden fruit. Gripped right around my finger. A fucking miracle down there. Demanding insatiable investigation by all the senses. If only screwing women did not result later in my getting fucked in so many other disastrous ways. Nearly ruining my appetite for evermore. Except wow. To kiss, lips smacking, this real honey. Seeping from soft silky thighs spread wide. Conjuring hope to arise from the forlorn vistas of my life. This sure is an opening night at last. Just like no time is the perfect time for a producton. Everytime is the right time to fuck. Keeps me sane in this theatrical life which is too sparsely filled with infrequent peaks of ecstatic joy popping up isolated in a vast sea of tortuous uncertainty. But honey. This is one of the peaks. From which the prick of yours truly will salvo. Into this body you got which ought to go touring on stage in my private life. God, please don’t make the show a flop. Let’s settle between us for a soft hit. In London anyway, no one will speak to you if you’re too successful. In New York no one will speak to you if you’re not. Honey you cunt. You miraculous cunt. You love it. Don’t you. Heaving in rapture. The state of unhappiness can become so familiar that you don’t dare embrace any moments of delight. Then you fucking well dare. Holy shit she fucks like a horse cantering on her pampas. Who designed her. To sprout out of those vast treeless plains. That was the only thing I ever learned about Argentina in high school. And honey since you come off those grasslands. I’m going there in a hurry for further education. Showbizz makes you when you’re happy very happy. And when you’re sad you’re suicidal. But this is catapulting straight into heaven in one nice easy plunge. The wealthiest guys in the world say that no matter how rich you get, you’ve got only one mouth to fill and one asshole to empty. But what they forgot to say is that Jesus you can have more than one cunt to eat. This is it. What women are really good for. To transport you in two seconds. On their soothing bed of flesh. From a bed of deep piercing cold nails. Into a whole new world of perfect comfort. Holy mackerel. She’s pulling me off by the hair. Away from her delicious pulsating snatch. Jesus don’t moan fuck me so loud. And honey don’t rush me. In a ten second count down I’m going to slam it in all way to the moon. Kiss me goodbye. Kiss me hello when we both weightless get there. Momma meeo. Her teeth sinking sucking in my neck. The green green eyes you got I kept looking at when I was undertaken to the Savoy for the post funeral celebration after the disaster of my wedding. This is the first thing good now that’s come out of it. With your hand around my balls. Tugging and squeezing away. And you’ll get every ounce, honey. You firecracker. You just explode my amazement. Maybe my indelible motto I was for a second thinking of abandoning, should remain absolutely the same. Don’t waste time with women you’re not fucking. Unless later that was exactly what all the wasted time was for in the beginning. Honey don’t squeeze and pull too hard. They’ll hear my balls ringing. With the bitch down there who eats like a cement mixer listening. Uncle Werb says there are over two thousand categories of diamonds. And for him I’ve got news. Uncle Werb believe me when I tell you, there are twice as many categories of cunts. And my prick is in one of the most delightful examples. Which Jesus is now going to make me come like Niagara Falls after a deluge. Momma meeo. Something fatal is happening. I’m coming. All over the world. How am I honey, ever ever going to do without you. After this I could happily drift into senile paralysed old age like Al. Who should at his time of life be leaving young girls to the young guys like me. To screw without having a heart valve blow out. Like I think mine nearly just did.

Schultz reaching up a hand to feel if the top of his head was still on and to brush back Agnes’s silkily soft hair stuck in the beads of perspiration of his brow. Sounds out on the London night. And all’s quiet on the Arabesque front. Agnes half an inch away. Nice fresh air coming in the window from the back garden. Big Ben tolling a quarter to five. Holy Jesus I must have for a minute fell asleep. In a dream I was on my way from Woonsocket to Boston on the train. Lost my luggage. In the big shadowy gloomy station. Then found myself not knowing where to go out in the twisted streets. Kept asking everybody directions to the Ritz Carlton Hotel. They kept saying you go left, you go right, then through a door of an old office building and down a long tiled hall. And out another door. I’d get there. End up standing around hearing doors slamming. And ask and get the same direction from somebody else all over again. I kept saying it’s by the Public Gardens. And Agnes suddenly was there, magically opening up every orifice. And Jesus I found my way. Right up into a Ritz bedroom having sausages and buckwheat cakes drowned in maple syrup. Blueberry muffins and melted butter. And quaffing coffee. Reading the newspapers. Watching the television. Happy on top of the world.

“You’ve got to get out of here.”

“Holy cow take it easy, don’t push.”

“I thought I heard a sound.”

“Could be a cat in the garden.”

“I’ve just betrayed my best friend.”

“No you didn’t honey, you just did her a big favour.”

“I’m in her house. Her guest.”

“You’re in my house. You’re my guest too honey.”

“You sound like a cat who just got the cream.”

“Honey you just saved my life.”

“That’s nice for you. But I’m not in the life saving business. O dear, what’s that.”

“Nothing honey.”

“It is. Someone’s coming up the stairs.”