The trouble is that I’m making it sound like an orgy, and it wasn’t at all like an orgy, not in the least. First of all, there was an air of utter innocence about the proceedings that couldn’t have been greater if we had been playing Parcheesi. We all liked each other and we were all having fun and it was all a lazy, giggly, delicious, magical thing.
Absolutely no urgency about it. The kisses were long and deliberate, the petting warm and wholehearted, but there was none of the rise and fall of serious sex about it. I find myself groping for words, perhaps because the whole ambience was one I had never experienced before, neither personally nor in fiction.
How to describe it? I could say that I engaged in two hours of incessant sex play and not only did not have an orgasm, but never much felt like having one. In youth I remember that sort of experience leading to an advanced case of testicular congestion, which I think we used to call Lover’s Nuts. I didn’t get this now. Perhaps it’s because I’m older now, but I rather doubt it.
Oh, hell, most of the time I didn’t even have an erection. It is not exactly unheard of for me not to have an erection in erotic situations, as I have not the slightest doubt Fran has told you. (Should you experience similar failings, you’re likely to hear about it, man.) But when that happened it was always because my mind was elsewhere, whereas this evening my mind was very much on what was happening. As a matter of fact, I cannot recall ever being so entirely involved in the Now, and entirely concerned with my partners.
So I not only didn’t have an erection but I didn’t want one. I just wanted to go on kissing and fondling and saying clever things and hearing them say clever things. Do you want to know what happened? I fell in love. I fell in love with all five of them. I fell in love with Merry Cat, too, and without laying a hand on her.
We played all the way to Darien, and they said I was their own personal Mad Poet and they would all share me forever, and I told them I wanted to take them all to Utah and marry the six of them and live happily ever after.
“And have children with all of us?”
“Only daughters.”
After we go to Darien—
But that’s enough. This typewriter not only says what it damned well wants to say, but it knows when it’s said enough. I would sort of like to tell you what happened after we got to Darien, and where I spent the night, and what happened the next day, and other things along those lines. I would like to tell you some more about the various girls, and some of the conversations we had and the things we said.
The typewriter has other ideas. It thinks I’ve said enough, and I have to abide by its decision. That’s the way we’re doing this.
The girls say they can’t understand why Fran left me. That they can’t understand why any woman would leave their wonderful Mad Poet. I don’t know, Steve, what sort of effect it would have on you if six beautiful, rich, sweet, sixteen-year-old girls said this to you. Maybe you would yawn. Not me. Not bloody likely.
Perhaps I’ll write more later. I seem to be in a letter-writing period, and after all, how many people are there for me to write to? So you may be hearing from me again. I might even tell you what happened later on.
Ah, well. It is Monday night and I am in New York, in my humble little flat on Bleecker Street. In a few minutes I will go to sleep in the very same bed where Fran and I so often shared connubial bliss, and in which you and she no doubt shared occasional moments of extranubial bliss. I wonder if I’ll dream, and of what.
Send the fifteen hundred as soon as you can, Steve. No big rush, but whenever you can spare it. And keep Fran with you. Not that I have any particular hatred for her, but I don’t much want to see her, and I honestly don’t think I could fit her into my schedule.
Eat your heart out, you son of a bitch.
Buenos noches,
Larry
3
MUGGSWORTH, CAULDER, TRAVIS & BEALE
ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW
437 PIPER BOULEVARD
RICHMOND, VIRGINIA 23219
17 June
Mr. Laurence Clarke
74 Bleecker Street
New York, New York 10012
Dear Mr. Clarke:
I am writing to you on behalf of our client Mrs. Lisa Clarke, in reference to her telephone conversation with you on 12 June and your letter to her of that date.
As of today’s date, your alimony payment to our client is seventeen (17) days overdue. While the special circumstances described in both your telephone conversation and your letter might ordinarily be construed as mitigating, your previous history of incessant delinquency in rendering such monies to Mrs. Clarke leads inevitably to the assumption that the present delinquency is nothing more than adherence to a standard pattern. In light of the above, I can only urge that you make speedy payment in the amount of eight hundred fifty dollars ($850) in lawful money to my client, and must advise you that unless such payment reaches this office within one (1) week we will have no course open but to seek legal redress.
Furthermore, I must insist on Mrs. Clarke’s behalf that you cease and desist from entering into any communications with her of the order of your most recent letter of 12 June. As you perhaps recall, the terms of your separation agreement with Mrs. Clarke, later embodied in your agreement of divorce, forbade any such unwarranted communication on the part of either party. Mrs. Clarke does not welcome such verbal attention from you, nor does she have the slightest wish to be made privy to aspects of your life as discussed in the aforementioned communication. It is our considered opinion that such communication constitutes a direct and unwarranted invasion of privacy, and a repetition of the offense will be dealt with accordingly.
I might further take it upon myself to state that both the tone and nature of the communication above described is such as to raise serious questions as to your own mental and emotional state. In this connection, let me offer the disinterested suggestion that you seriously contemplate seeking responsible psychiatric guidance, should you be financially capable of so doing after having discharged your just obligations to Mrs. Clarke.
I remain, sir, your most obedient servant,
Roland David Caulder
RDC:sj
4
74 Bleecker St.
New York 10012
June 19
Mr. Roland David Caulder
Muggsworth, Caulder, Travis & Beale
437 Piper Blvd. Richmond, Va.
Dear Mr. Caulder:
I cannot thank you sufficiently for your letter of 17 June on behalf of your client Mrs. Lisa Clarke. It is entirely possible that I will have it framed.
It shames me to admit that of which you no doubt have by now apprised yourself, to wit, that there is no check for eight hundred fifty dollars ($850) in this envelope. My ability to discharge my just obligation to your client is contingent upon the success of a new business venture presently in the formative stages. While the details are necessarily cloaked in secrecy at present, I suppose I can tell you at least that my associates and I are planning a coast-to-coast network of blood banks. Rather than depend upon human volunteers, we intend to use turnips.
Let me thank you as well for your expressions of concern over my mental and emotional health. I too have had my doubts on that score, and have been pondering the entire problem for the past two or three hours (2-3 hrs.). As I cannot presently see my way clear to employing professional help in this regard, I wonder if I might impose upon you to apply your esteemed diagnostic talents to another letter. Toward this end, I am taking the liberty of enclosing a Xerox copy of my letter of fifteen June (15/6) to Mr. Stephen Joel Adel. You may remember that Mr. Adel was mentioned in the earlier communication previously cited.
I look forward with interest to your reply.
Very truly yours,
Laurence Clarke
5
74 Bleecker St.
New York 10012
June 19
Mrs. Lisa Clarke
219 Maple Rd.
Ri
chmond, Va.
Dear Lisa:
Christ, have they been spiking your father’s Ken-L-Ration lately? You wouldn’t believe the letter I got from the old bastard. I’m enclosing a Xerox copy of it along with my reply. You’ll note I sent him a copy of my letter to Steve. See if you can get him to show it to you. I know he won’t want to, and I also know it’s unethical of him to withhold it. I’d be interested to know which way the son of a bitch jumps.
Has he gotten worse lately or what? He’s always been pretty bad, but that letter was the limit. I mean, has he reached the point where he talks like that around the house?
Must end this, fun though it is. Jennifer’s in the shower, and I have to get her dressed and out of here before the girls get down from Darien.
But before I go, I want to say that you’ve got to stop bugging me about the money. I might send it if I had it (though I’m not sure I would, to tell you the truth) but I don’t have it, and won’t have it in the foreseeable future, so you and the old bastard have got to call it quits for the time being. I really think you ought to marry Wally. But you’d better elope with him. If he meets your father before the wedding, there goes the wedding.
Be assured that I have only my own best interests at heart.
Passionately,
Mad Poet
6
WHITESTONE PUBLICATIONS, INC.
67 West 44th Street
New York 10036
From the desk of Clayton Finch, President
June 18
Mr. Laurence Clarke
74 Bleecker Street
New York 10012
Dear Mr. Clarke:
This is to advise you that a check of our records indicates that our terminal payment to you included an improper overpayment of $75.63. We would appreciate your remitting payment in that amount at your earliest possible convenience.
We also understand that you have on several occasions since leaving Whitestone’s employ returned to our offices to avail yourself of the Xerox machine. Mr. Finch has asked me to remind you that use of the Xerox facility is restricted to company business. While it is true that employees of Whitestone habitually disregard this corporate policy, Mr. Finch feels it is ridiculous in the extreme to extend such latitude to those who are no longer with us.
Your attention to this matter will be appreciated.
Sincerely,
Rozanne Gumbino
Secretary to Mr. Finch
RG/s
7
Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls
67 West 44th Street
New York 10036
LAURENCE CLARKE, EDITOR
June 19
Miss Rozanne Gumbino
Whitestone Publications, Inc.
67 West 44th St.
New York 10036
Dear Rozanne:
Thanks very much for your letter. I’ve been getting quite a few letters lately, and I’ve been writing more letters myself than is my usual custom, but I wanted to take the time to let you know that your letter was one of my favorites. On the off chance that you failed to keep a carbon of it, I’m enclosing herewith a Xerox copy for your files.
As far as your overpayment to me of $75.63 is concerned, I can only suggest that you contact my attorney. I am sure he will assist in sorting this matter out and seeing it through to a mutually satisfactory solution. He is Roland Davis Caulder of Muggsworth, Caulder, Travis & Beale, with offices at 437 Piper Boulevard in Richmond, Virginia.
It certainly is good hearing from you, Rozanne. At the risk of offending you, I must admit that I barely remember you, having only had contact with you on the day I severed my connection with Whitestone. I remember your voice on the telephone, rather low-pitched and throbby, and I seem to recall that you have big tits.
Why don’t you come down to Bleecker Street and I’ll eat your box.
Sincerely yourself,
Laurence Clarke
Editor (Ret.)
8
American Express
Cuernavaca, Mexico
Dear Larry—
I promised Fran I wouldn’t write to you. But she went down to the market to shop for dinner and there are a couple of things I wanted to say.
I’m glad you’re taking this well. I don’t suppose I have to tell you that we certainly didn’t plan for everything to happen at once this way. I mean your losing your job the same day you lost Fran. Although if you think about it, Larry, you lost Fran a long time before the 12th of June. And I’m not talking about when she and I first fell in love, either. Your marriage went sour, Larry, and after that it was just a question of time before someone stepped in. You know that yourself.
Believe me, I didn’t want to be the one. I resisted it for a long time, as a matter of fact. But there was always this very strong current of attraction existing between Frances and myself, not merely a physical thing but emotional as well. If you’ll forgive me for pointing it out, Fran and I were always closer in this respect than were she and you. Even long before there was anything between us in any sense. It was just the way we responded to one another, a matter of human rapport.
Then one day we just sort of looked at each other and something happened. It’s that kind of situation where the words in the stupid pop tunes all seem to not only make sense but to have a private and personal message just for the two of us. As your friend—and I still consider myself your friend, and hope you consider me that way too, well—as your friend I can wish you nothing more than that you yourself find this kind of love someday with somebody, perhaps somebody you’ve always known, perhaps someone you have not even met yet.
Larry, as far as the fifteen hundred is concerned, Frances feels that it’s her fair share of what the two of you owned in common. In other words, not to cloud this up with any legal bullshit, she says you can keep all the furniture and kitchen utensils and odds and ends, and in return she’ll keep the money she took out of the checking account. If you want to be technical, it came to a little less than fifteen hundred. Frances has the exact figure, which I think ran somewhere in the neighborhood of $1475 or $1480.
The point is that on the one hand you don’t have to worry about me sending Frances back to you, since no power on earth could make me give up what the two of us have together, but I guess you can’t count on me sending the $1500 either, I mean the $1475, because in the first place I don’t have it and in the second Fran says it’s rightfully hers, and I have to go along with her on that.
Another thing I have to mention is the letter you sent me, which I got in Cuernavaca. Of course I showed it to Fran, although I can’t honestly say it was something I wanted to show her. But in the kind of relationship the two of us have, well, we just don’t keep secrets from one another, not even in small matters and certainly not in big ones, and so I showed it to her.
She found it a little unsettling, and speaking frankly, old buddy, so did I. My first reaction, actually, was that I was glad you were taking everything almost too well. But on second reading, or what you might call reading between the lines, I found myself changing my mind. For one thing I sensed a very definite undercurrent of hostility throughout the letter, and without going into a lot of Freudian bullshit I would be less worried if the hostility were right out there in the open than the way it is in your letter, sort of hiding behind the bushes and lurking.
And that whole fantasy about the teenage girls. To tell you the truth, I did think it was amusing and imaginative on your part to invent that routine, but Frances made me realize that it was also pretty sick, and I do mean sick. According to her, you always had a tendency to live a fantasy life that was more real to you than your real life. I would not go that far, although I always felt you may have had your feet planted a little less firmly on the ground than some of the rest of us. I always just figured that this was part of being a poet, the sensitivity bit.
But Fran says that it’s almost as if you actually believe the bit with the girls from the convent school. I didn?
??t think that was possible but on rereading the section, I have to agree with her. If that’s the case, or whatever’s the case, maybe you’re wasting your talents as a poet, fella. Maybe you ought to write dirty books or something.
Just kidding, as I’m sure you know.
But what I’m getting at, Larry, in my usual roundabout way, is that I hope you won’t write any letters of that sort to us again. I don’t mean that we are not interested in you and don’t want to know how things are going with you, because we are and we do.
That letter, though, was very upsetting to Fran, and to me too. The remarks you made about your private life with Fran and other things like that are not the sort of thing that belong in a letter, and if the purpose was to drive a wedge between the two of us, although I don’t honestly think you had that idea in mind, to give you the benefit of the doubt, well, if that was your purpose I have to tell you it pretty much fell flat on its face.