January 9, 1979 - East Village - Journal

This afternoon I ran into Dale on First Avenue. The slim divorcee stripper drags me over to her place on St. Marks, where we indulged in raw sex. I tied her to a door and whip her with a belt, until her ass was raw. On her knees she sucked my cock and I blasted a load down her throat.

"I love your leather cock," she whimpered before swallowing my balls.

Once hard I ravaged her anus. When I finished, she collected the semen and licked it off her fingers. I was her master, but also her slave. I wanted to fuck her another twenty times, but only did another.

LATER

Upon returning to 256 Alice smelled me and asked, "Couldn't you have held out?"

"It's the sexual revolution. It's just sex and I love only you."

"I don't understand that."

Neither did I, but I couldn't tell someone so pure that I desired depravity and people are born with it or not. I also wanted her purity. Problem you can eat cake and have it too.

I fucked Alice against the wall. I came too. Cum dripping down her thigh.

"You want to go out?"

It was raining and getting dark.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Something different."

"Than what we just did?"

"Yes." I knew a nearby alley.

And I knew she was into it too.

Thankfully because this her is better than the self-pity virgin. Not a Dale, but passable for us both. Night was only minutes away.

January 7, 1979 - East Village - Journal

Rain falls on the grimy snow piling up in the alley behind 256 East 10th Street. New York has declared a snow day. I love snow days. I blankly watch the James Bond movie on our black and white TV. The plot of YOU ONLY LIVE TWICE lazily saunters between fucking and killing tangents with 007 doomed to prevent the end of the Free World and save Capitalism with the help of the Japanese CIA. Alice sits in the kitchen frustrated by the demons of ambition. She has no snow days.

"I can't relax. If wish I could, but...."

My beloved hillbilly was close to tears. She wants her future yesterday. Fame and fortune last week. The TV switches to commercials and I go into the kitchen to massage her shoulders. The muscles are so tight. She shrugs off my hands, thinking that all I want is sex, instead of offering her comfort.

"What is wrong?"

"I don't know."

I don't know what is wrong with me either.

"Why don't we go out to eat at Leshko's?"

The Polish diner on Avenue A had the cheapest breakfast on the East Village.

"I'm fat."

"No, you're not."

"I want to be skinny like Susan." She wanted to body-double her anorexic partner from the New Wave Vaudeville. "I see the way you look at each skinny girl in CBGBs."

"But I stay with you."

"Faithfully." she laughed.

"I hate when you're this way." I hate when she hates herself.

"I know." She stares helplessly at her hands. "But I can't help feeling this way. Nothing is happening in my life. Nothing."

"It's January. Nothing is happening this time of the year and you had a great success with New Wave Vaudeville."

"I want something now." She would be happy or at least not unhappy until something happened.

"A director's job, to lose weight, and to be desired by men and women."

"You have it easy. You get into all the clubs for free. You fuck any woman you want, and are happy to be no one>"

There's no arguing that."

She had never caught me being unfaithful, but she had a good sense of smell.

The movie resumed and I left her to brood at the kitchen table. His world is on the edge of a nuclear holocaust and 007 breached the volcano fortress of a queer madman. After a bloodless battle James Bond saves the world and gets the girl. I wish my life could be so easy.

I would go out, except the rain and lack of money or a place to go. There are no other movies on TV and the clubs aren't open. Lost in the city with a sad girl at the kitchen table. The rain is once more snow. I pick up THE BASKETBALL DIARIES by Jim Carroll, wishing I could be a basketball junkie and skinny too, but no one plays basketball in the snow.

January 4, 1979 - East Village - Journal

Today is Alice's Birthday.

We wake naked in bed. I get up. I can tell she isn't in the mood.

No sex.

All I intend to do today is make her life a pleasure.

I do love her.

Especially naked in the next room.

Unseen, but I know she is naked.

She hates making love in the moring and once said, "The only reason you have an erectionis you need to pee."

I void my urine. Still hard. For another reason. Only one thing to do. I masturbate and come in the toilet. Not really sex, but I'm not hard anymore.

Ingres - étude pour la dormeuse de Naples

January 8, 1979 - East Village - Journal

Sex becomes non status quo when one partner isn't interested in it. Alice wallows in self-pity. Last night we went to a party and I danced with men and women like a neanderthal high of cocaine. Alice drank heavily, expecting me to go into the bathroom with a woman or man, but I don't want to hurt her in this state.

Snow on the way back to East 10th Street. Alice can barely walk and there are no taxis east of Avenue B. No one is on the Tompkins Square basketball court. back in our apartment I turn on the gas stove to warm up the tenement rooms. I put Alice into bed. She can't even mumble good-night. I sit at the kitchen table and write my mind. Alice reads my journal, hoping to catch me in a lie or a sin.

Yesterday Andy Reese came over. Alice and he are friends from Tim Dunleavy. I met both of them through him. After reading a couple of pages Andy said, "Your writing is okay, but your poetry I can't stand."

My other friend, Grant Stitt, pretty much said the same thing, "Some is drivel and the rest deserves to be saved for posterity, but now right now." Why do I even bother? I have few critics of my cryptic ego-centric solipsism. The words dry, dead, slow, canned. It has no value. I want to burn my journal, but setting them on fire in this small apartment is too dangerous. Alice lays in the bedroom, wearing a quilted Moomoo like she as a Mormon wife. This flat is too small. Neither of us are out of sight of each other like we are in a space capsule. Chamber music on the stereo, which I think is music for kings to use the shitter. She is playing this music to annoy me and I keep my mouth shut. I have been yelling at her too much. More mad at me than her, although her pouting unhappiness kills my joy. Sometimes I think going to funerals would be more fun. Still I love her, even swamped bby melancholia. I can smell the sadness. She shuts off the lights. Tomorrow she has an early theater audition. I go into the bed home, expecting a good-night kiss.

"Isn't there anything on the TV?" She only like THE MATCH GAME.

"No, do you want to come watch something with me?"

"Is there anything interesting?"

"You mean like a play of Sartre or Moliere?" I wasn't joking. Alice might be a hillbilly by birth, but she knew her theater. "I don't think so. Just the Johnny Carson Show."

"As always." Both of us had fled our hometowns to escape Middle America.

I stood in the bedroom, paralyzed by the chamber music melanging with the clanging of the radiators, as if the building was conducting an avant-garde quintet. The snow has stopped. Time too. It's 11:35. Alice seems scared of what I might next do. I opt for nothing. It was a safe bet. I sometimes wish I were in a coma under nurses' care or a prisoner in solitary confinement or even a soldier. Everything in my life planned without any freedom of choice, but I relish the delight of waling up and going back to sleep, unfettered by a 9 to 5 job, the joyous liberty of sleeping into the afternoon or do with my life what I please, but truthfully that is my life without Alice. I own nothing and certainly not her.

I turned to go.

"Don't." Alice unschucks the nightgown. She's naked underneath. Her skin winter white. Untouched by any sun. Pure and beauty.

We haven't really had sex, except for the first night with her college girlfriend. Not a single blow-jobs or anal play, almost as if she had never read sexual manual or had a previous lover guiding her libido to freedom, but she doesn't fake orgasm, pleading with 'God' for release. AS an atheist I resent her need for a deity to create a menage a trois. At present our sexual acts are strictly missionary, but I love her for the purity, unlike the many women I fucked ziplessly from the clubs. More than a few, I had no idea of their names. Nor them mine.

I pulled off my clothes and lay with Ann. We fucked like Mormon and she once more called for God. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God."

Never my name, then again I cam not a God.

She cums fast and I fake cumming with a grunt. It's not the first time.

"I don't feel you inside me."

Thankfully I had her touch my cock. It was wet from her.

"See."

I don't understand why I can't cum with her, unless I think I'm fucking a nun or a virgin. I never fantasize about either.