Portnoy's Complaint - Philip Roth [66]
Smolka comes back into the kitchen and tells us she doesn’t want to do it.
“But you said we were going to get laid!” cries Mandel. “You said we were going to get blowed! Reamed, steamed, and dry-cleaned, that’s what you said!”
“Fuck it,” I say, “if she doesn’t want to do it, who needs her, let’s go—”
“But I’ve been pounding off over this for a week! I ain’t going anywhere! What kind of shit is this, Smolka? Won’t she even beat my meat?”
Me, with my refrain: “Ah, look, if she doesn’t want to do it, let’s go—”
Mandel: “Who the fuck is she that she won’t even give a guy a hand-job? A measly hand-job. Is that the world to ask of her? I ain’t leaving till she either sucks it or pulls it—one or the other! It’s up to her, the fucking whore!”
So Smolka goes back in for a second conference, and returns nearly half an hour later with the news that the girl has changed her mind: she will jerk off one guy, but only with his pants on, and that’s all. We flip a coin—and I win the right to get the syph! Mandel claims the coin grazed the ceiling, and is ready to murder me—he is still screaming foul play when I enter the living room to reap my reward.
She sits in her slip on the sofa at the other end of the linoleum floor, weighing a hundred and seventy pounds and growing a mustache. Anthony Peruta, that’s my name for when she asks. But she doesn’t. “Look,” says Bubbles, “let’s get it straight—you’re the only one I’m doing it to. You, and that’s it.”
“It’s entirely up to you,” I say politely.
“All right, take it out of your pants, but don’t take them down. You hear me, because I told him, I’m not doing anything to anybody’s balls.”
“Fine, fine. Whatever you say.”
“And don’t try to touch me either.”
“Look, if you want me to, I’ll go.”
“Just take it out.”
“Sure, if that’s what you want, here … here,” I say, but prematurely. “I-just-have-to-get-it—” Where is that thing? In the classroom I sometimes set myself consciously to thinking about DEATH and HOSPITALS and HORRIBLE AUTOMOBILE ACCIDENTS in the hope that such grave thoughts will cause my “boner”’ to recede before the bell rings and I have to stand. It seems that I can’t go up to the blackboard in school, or try to get off a bus, without its jumping up and saying, “Hi! Look at me!” to everyone in sight—and now it is nowhere to be found.
“Here!” I finally cry.
“Is that it?”
“Well,” I answer, turning colors, “it gets bigger when it gets harder …”
“Well, I ain’t got all night, you know.”
Nicely: “Oh, I don’t think it’ll be all night—”
“Laydown!”
Bubbles, not wholly content, lowers herself into a straight chair, while I stretch out beside her on the sofa—and suddenly she has hold of it, and it’s as though my poor cock has got caught in some kind of machine. Vigorously, to put it mildly, the ordeal begins. But it is like trying to jerk off a jellyfish.
“What’s a matter?” she finally says. “Can’t you come?”
“Usually, yes, I can.”
“Then stop holding it back on me.”
“I’m not. I am trying, Bubbles—”
“Cause I’m going to count to fifty, and if you don’t do it by then, that ain’t my fault.”
Fifty? I’ll be lucky if it is still attached to my body by fifty. Take it easy, I want to scream. Not so rough around the edges, please!—“eleven, twelve, thirteen”—and I think to myself, Thank God, soon it’ll be over—hang on, only another forty seconds to go—but simultaneous with the relief comes, of course, the disappointment, and it is keen: this only happens to be what I have been dreaming about night and day since I am thirteen. At long last, not a cored apple, not an empty milk bottle greased with vaseline, but a girl in a slip, with two tits and a cunt