Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

15

Miss Rozanne Gumbino

311½ West 20^th Street

New York 10011

Darling Rozanne,

You’ll note that I am not writing this letter on my official Ronald Rabbit’s Magazine for Boys and Girls stationery, nor am I sending it to you at your office. That’s because it is not official company business. On the contrary, this is a personal letter from me to you, from a man to a woman, and thus I am using ordinary typing paper and sending it to you at your home.

The reason I am writing you, Rozanne, is to provide you with transcripts of several telephone conversations I’ve had over the past few days. Perhaps you have already made notes of these conversations. If so, then this letter is a waste of time for both of us. But you seemed so agitated when I talked to you that it occurred to me that you might have failed to make a permanent record of the conversations, and so it seems worth the risk of duplication to put this down in writing for you.

I’m sure you’ll appreciate that I am rendering the conversations in simple dialogue, without identifying the two speakers. This is precautionary, to prevent identification of the speakers should the letter fall into alien hands.

“Hello?”

“How do I know that’s all you’ll do?”

“Who is this?”

“What I mean is, if I knew that was all you wanted to do, if I thought I could trust you—”

“Oh, hello there!”

“You know who this is?”

“Yes, I think I do. I think I’ve heard this voice over the telephone before.”

“Yes, telling you to come to his office.”

“Yes, indeed. It’s as though the earpiece of the telephone suddenly filled up with tits.”

“You shouldn’t talk like that!”

“Tits, tits, tits.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Tits, tits, tits. Did you get my letter? The offer still holds.”

“You’re really terrible, aren’t you?”

“Not to those who know me.”

“The thing is—”

“Yes?”

“Oh, my God.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong number. This is the Mad Poet of Bleecker Street.”

“I know who it is.”

“For a minute I thought—”

“Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“What you wrote in your letter. Are you listening to me?”

“I’m all tongue.”

“What did you say?”

“Ears. I’m all ears.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“True.”

“I ought to hang up.”

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“If I thought you meant it—”

“Of course I meant it.”

“I mean if I thought that was as far as it would go, if it would be just that—”

“Yes?”

“I have to hang up.”

“Tits, tits, tits.”

“I’m hanging up. I can’t listen to any more of this. I’m hanging up.”

“Tits and cunt, tits and cunt—”

“Good-bye.”

“Hello? Hello, is anybody there?”

“Hello.”

“Don’t tell me, let me guess. It’s the girl with all the tits.”

“You make it very hard for me.”

“Au contraire, ma cherie. You make it very hard for me. I’ve got it right here in my hand.”

“Oh, my God, the way you talk!”

“Aren’t you ashamed that you love it?”

“Oh, stop it.”

“All right.”

“...Hello?”

“I’m still here.”

“Listen to me.”

“I’m listening.”

“Oh, my God, I know what I want to say but I can’t even say it.”

“Give it another try.”

“If I thought—”

“If you thought you could trust me—”

“Yes.”

“—to just eat your juicy little cunt—”

“Yes, yes.”

“—and if you thought I would stop there and not try to screw you—”

“Yes, yes—”

“Then what?”

“Huh?”

“If you could trust me, really trust me, then what?”

“You know.”

“Then you might be interested.”

“Maybe.”

“How old are you?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Probably nothing. Don’t you remember?”

“I’m twenty-six.”

“Uh-huh. I guess you lived at home for a long time and now you have your own place.”

“How did you know?”

“The Phantom knows everything. He has spies everywhere. Are you a virgin?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Probably nothing, but I guess you don’t remember that, either, huh?”

“Suppose I am.”

“I already supposed you were. When you play with yourself, do you like to pretend your finger is a tongue?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“I bet you’re playing with yourself right now.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“You can trust me, you delicious cunt.”

“Trust you? I can’t even talk to you.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You’ve been doing pretty well.”

“I have to go now.”

“Come on over and I’ll eat you.”

“But you would want to do other things.”

“That’s not what you’re afraid of.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re afraid you would want to do other things.”

“No, no, no—”

“I’ll tell you what. I won’t rape you even if you beg me to. How’s that?”

“Oh, Mary and Joseph.”

“Don’t forget St. Anthony. Do you want me to put the promise in writing?”

“You’re an awful person.”

“I’m fun in bed.”

“Stop it.”

“I’m more fun than a finger.”

“Oh—”

“I really am.”

“I have to go now.”

“I know, you have to wash your hands.”

“Good-bye.”

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

“I was wondering when you’d call.”

“Listen, I just wanted to tell you that I’m not going to call you anymore.”

“And you called to tell me that?”

“Oh, you always twist everything I say.”

“Why don’t you put the phone to your pussy? I think these conversations would work better if we didn’t have to detour them through your brain.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“You put the earpiece of your phone to your cunt, and I’ll lick the mouthpiece of mine. How does that sound?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“And you’re never calling again.”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing from you, my proud beauty.”

Well, that’s the way it went, Rozanne. I suppose you’ll call again in a day or so, but in the meantime I wanted to type all of this up and send it to you so you would be able to avoid repeating yourself in future conversations. And now that I’ve got you on the phone, in a manner of speaking, I’d like to tell you a story of what happened this past weekend.

I had a house guest. An apartment guest, really, since I don’t have a house. You might say that I don’t have much of an apartment, either. You might say that what I had this weekend — just this Saturday, actually, she arrived Saturday afternoon and left Sunday morning — was a hovel guest. The hovel was so dismal that we spent almost all of our time in bed.

My hovel guest was a fifteen-year-old girl named Naughty Nasty Nancy Hall. You might be interested to contemplate the fact that she is eleven years younger than you are and stopped being a virgin over two years ago. I don’t know what contemplating this fact will do for you, but it’s something to think about.

You may have already read something about Naughty Nasty Nancy. It gets difficult to remember just what letters I sent to what places, and of course I may have left a copy of those letters around the Xerox machine, in which case they might have passed over your desk and beneath your gaze. At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll refer to copies of past letters and include what observations I’ve already made about Naughty Nasty Nancy.

“We’re sixteen. Except Naughty Nasty Nancy, who is fifteen.”

“ ‘A mere child,’ murmured Naughty Nasty Nancy. She was one of the two in the back seat, and wore a peaked witch’s cap and granny glasses.”

“In the backseat Naughty Nasty Nancy sat directly behind Dawn. Naughty Nasty Nancy does not speak too often, but her occasional remarks are always incisive. There is a distinctly fey quality to this girl, Steve. If you were casting Hamlet, you would pick her instantly for Ophelia.”

“I couldn’t remember whether you wore jockey shorts or boxer shorts,’ Alison said, blue eyes sparkling and plump cheeks glowing. But Naughty Nasty Nancy remembered.”

“Hardly the sort of thing she’d forget,” B.J. said.

“Meow,” said Nancy Hall. She was still wearing the witch’s hat, and mordant madness danced in her eyes. “Meow, meow, meow. Look at Merry Cat, she’s positively radiant. Orgasm brings the most beatific look to her face. Are you in a state of grace, Mary Katherine?”

“...We all watched for a while, and Naughty Nasty Nancy kissed B.J. on the neck and touched her breasts, and Alison petted Naughty Nasty Nancy gently on the bottom...”

There may have been a couple of other references to Naughty Nasty Nancy Hall, but those are the only ones I can spot readily, and they should refresh your memory if you’ve already read this material or put you in the picture if you haven’t. What I want to tell you about, Rozanne, is what happened with Naughty Nasty Nancy at my place Saturday night and Sunday morning.

I won’t bother describing the apartment. You’ll see it for yourself when you finally get up the courage to come over and let me eat your box. Nor will I bother describing what went on for the first hour or two that Nancy (I’ll call her that for short) spent in my bed. I’ll just say that I licked her all over her body and then had prolonged intercourse with her. We shifted from one position to another on a sort of Cook’s Tour of the Kama Sutra. Throughout all of this, Nancy remained active and supple and industrious, and glee glinted in her gray-green eyes.

But somewhere along the way, Rozanne, I began to get the feeling that something was missing. Nancy was enjoying herself, but I wondered if perhaps she wasn’t enjoying herself a little less than she possibly might be. To construct a metaphor that you should appreciate, it was as if I had prepared a great plate of spaghetti for her but had stupidly failed to put any oregano in the sauce. It tasted good to her but it just didn’t taste right.

And this perception made it impossible for me to continue. Not physically impossible — I remained quite the upstanding citizen, actually — but spiritually impossible. And so I withdrew from the choicest part of Naughty Nasty Nancy, who is indeed a collection of choice parts, who is in fact a synergistic young woman whose (w)hole is greater than the sum of her parts, and I propped myself on an elbow and my cock on her thigh and looked long and searchingly into her baby gray-greens.

“Is something the matter, Larry?”

“You stole my line.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“You just did it again. Something’s the matter, and you don’t follow me. Am I doing something wrong?”

“Of course not.”

“But I seem to have left out the oregano.”

“I think I must have missed the opening credits,” she said. “I don’t get it.”

“That’s just it.”

“I mean, I’m having a wonderful time.”

“But there’s something you like that I’m not doing.”

“Not exactly.”

“That means yes.”

She put her hand on my cheek. Her hand was cold and dry. I brought her fingers to my lips.

“I don’t always come, if that’s what you mean. I can enjoy it without that.”

“But you sometimes come.”

“Sometimes.”

“Just with girls?”

“No. In fact I usually have a better chance with boys. I’m not really into girls that much, to tell you the truth. None of us really are. It’s having nothing but girls around all the time, and also that we love each other very much, and if you love someone you ought to love them physically. And also it feels good.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So it’s not that.”

“It’s something special that you like to do.”

“Sort of.”

“So tell me and we’ll do it.

“Well, you might not want to, Larry.”

“Only one way to find out.”

She turned her eyes away from me. “The thing is that it’s perverted.”

“Most everything is.”

“Well, more perverted than most.”

“So?”

She looked at me again. She was having trouble saying this, but her eyes still reflected a good measure of delight and amusement.

She said, “The thing is, it has to hurt.”

“Ah. Naughty Nasty Nancy.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Whom does it have to hurt?”

“Me. Although—”

“Yes?”

“When I get off, I can go a little bit crazy. Biting and scratching and things like that.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“Also damned antisocial.”

“So let’s do it.”

“It doesn’t turn you off? Oh, my, I guess it doesn’t. How big and hard it is. Do you really want to?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She took a breath, and I watched her face change, her mouth slackened and her eyes glazed slightly. “Lie on your back, that’s right. No, spread your legs. Now get inside me. Oh, God, you’re so big and hard, and now I’ll put my legs together and squeeze you. Can you feel how tight I am around you?”

(I could, Rozanne. I could.)

“Now hook your feet around my ankles. That’s right, so I can’t move. Now spank me.”

“On the bottom?”

“Yes, right on my ass. Don’t move your hips, don’t move your cock around, just do everything with the spanking.”

“How hard?”

“As hard as you can. And if I say to stop or if I yell that it hurts, don’t pay any attention to me. Just go on hitting me harder. Use your other arm to hold me so I can’t move. Yes, that’s right. Now start beating the shit out of me. Oh, yes. Oh, Jesus. Naughty naughty naughty. Oh, naughty girl. God! Oh, you’re killing me! Oh, Jesus Christ, stop, you’re killing me, naughty, naughty, don’t stop, harder, oh, Jesus, oh—”

She had an absolutely overwhelming orgasm.

She wasn’t the only one, Rozanne.

Now you may be wondering why I took the trouble to tell you all this, Rozanne. You might even suspect that I simply wanted to write something that would get you all hot and bothered. I’ll admit that the thought did cross my mind that you might well read this letter with one hand tucked up under your skirt. In fact it pleases me to picture you that way.

But there’s more to it than that. You see, you want very much to come over and have me eat your pretty little cunt, but you’re afraid I’ll make a stab at your virginity. Or that I’ll be upset with you for wanting only to be eaten. So I offer this story as proof that you can trust me.

Naughty Nasty Nancy wanted to be spanked. So I spanked her. Because it was what she wanted. And, simply because it was what she wanted, it became what I wanted, and I enjoyed the whole process as much as she did.

Think of me as an instrument for your pleasure, Rozanne. I don’t know why you’re afraid of losing your cherry. I don’t have to know why, any more than I care why Nancy Hall can only come good when someone is reddening her rump. People who get hung up on why, wind up losing all their whats.

Call me. You can trust me. I’ll give you more fun than you’ve got fingers.

cc: Mrs. Lisa Clarke

Mr. Clarke You are behind your rent, landlord says you owe two months says pay up rite away or out you go and the missus both.

Sup’t