162
PARTISAN REVIEW
and she loves to fuck. I hadn't seen him in a long time and I hadn't
fucked with him either. It was all settled but painful, but then I
couldn't do it - I had dinner with him twice and realized there was
no escape.
It
added up almost mathematically to more than I could
resist-so I went back. What can I do about human contradiction? I
didn't invent it. He takes it as a compliment when one of his girl–
friends tries to kill herself. Men are so crazy: all they worry about
are their dicks falling off. They revere two things: their dicks and
motherhood. That's it. The pawn I am to some perversity that exists
deep in the systems of men! The D.A. says there are only two kinds
of women in the world, crazy or boring, and that his preference is
definitely towards the crazy. He takes me to the fights in very high
heels. One's feet pay the price for all that leg, but the higher I am the
wilder he gets, so why not? To the fights, first row ringside so we can
smell them sweat. The Cuban got knocked down. I saw him roll for
a second like a bug, and no one was revolted or disgusted, the crowd
warm and cheerful, having a good time. Everything unmasked there
about mankind's fun. The parties he takes me to. RichJews and fags.
Second-rate painters. Airhead showgirls. Deplorable human beings.
Sewage people. All of their noise and glitter and derangement and
destruction, and the degrading quality instantly apparent. Red rugs
and gold walls. Pukes and fuckers and dirty asses. Lives built on
nothing but names and labels and brands and status and deals. All
very hateful. Got drunk with the hostess's husband, a very dirty
bathing-suit manufacturer morbidly attached to cigarettes. Plying
me with gin, and the D.A. found me under a table; he said with my
tits hanging out. Worse, he said. The manufacturer kissing me on
the lips and mauling me in my very very expensive dress that was
drenched with his slobber and ruined. The D.A. said that I was
drunk and uproarious, "hideous, drunk, messy, raunchy, and bad,"
and that afterwards I was singing to the doorman in a disgusting way,
and that he could no longer stand for it. STAND FOR WHAT? I
want to know! Stand for what!
Him?
He is a powerhouse prosecutor,
but privately
he
lies, to himself and to me. He's secretive and tough
and manipulative and deranged. Fucking and lusting and treason–
mean, savage, and deranged to the bone. The pawn I am! The mad–
dening part I played in it myself! When you're skidding on ice, some
chauffeur once told me, don't use the brakes at all, but don't ignore
them either. Pump them, fast if you haven't much space to stop,
slowly if you have the time and the room. But pump
them-keep
pumping them.
Well, I don't. I call him back and make peace with him
