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PARTISAN REVIEW
toward our bed with a toothbrush in her hair. The style was
hygienic Afro, and a pair of Mortimer Snerd falseteeth bucked
out of her mouth. The overbite was remarkable. Fingers clench–
ing hips, she sneered like Dracula through the chompers, "I
trink you blooood."
I laughed and, full of play, she threatened me again then
jerked her foot up on the bed and began hissing, her fingers
clawing, and suddenly I noticed she was stark raving naked, and
if I hadn't been laughing so hard I'd've prayed; maybe I did
anyway, but all I remember saying was asking her in a stutter if
she weren ' t cold.
She blared out again, "I trink you blooood! "
I told her, "Come lie with me."
"I trink you blooood!"
"Come here, Naked Lady. "
"I bite you in the neck-I trink you blooood."
"Shut up and come here," I said, reaching up for her.
She clawed at me. "I take-your essssence-into meeee."
I laughed, as I often do when I achieve, without feeling
lusty, the mystical state of tumescence.
"My my," she said, spitting the toy teeth out on the carpet.
"My my," she said, admiring the teepeed sheet. "My my my."
Actually it was my knee making the sheet rise. I didn't tell her
because my knee at that moment was serving a valuable func–
tion.
It
was protecting me from any sudden ferocious onslaught
she might make. Of course, my knee wasn ' t really protecting
anything.
If
she'd wanted to hurt me she could have. Easily.
Even in play. But she didn't, at least then. She only smiled,
warmly, and removing the toothbrush from her hair and drop–
ping it, she said with admirable piety, "Shall I minister to you
now?" I blinked. She was no vampire. She was a saint. We were
both in the bosom of the Lord: ourselves. Perhaps we still are,
though things are not the same. The Lord's bosom isn't as
ample as some have reported.
I just read Jerome's palaver.
It
was noticeably accurate-for
him. As usual , though, he left out what I call the flesh . He also
put some phrases in my mouth which I never uttered. For
