Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man

19

Mr. Stephen Joel Adel

c/o American Express

Cuernavaca, Mexico

Dear Steve:

As you’ll note, I am no longer living at 74 Bleecker St. I’ve given up the apartment and have signed over the furniture to my erstwhile landlord, a George Ribbentraub. I mention this because it’s possible he may get in touch with Fran in order to recover her set of keys. If she has them on hand, you might suggest that she send them to him at Ribbentraub Realty Corp., 414 East 14^th St. I don’t know the zip code.

But that’s nothing to be overly concerned about, Steve. In a way my change of address is linked to the subject of this letter, but that will become more apparent as you read on, and as I write on.

The thing that bothers me, Steve, and that has caused me to resume writing to you after having more or less determined to discontinue our correspondence, is that I have been given to understand that things are deteriorating between you and Fran.

And this bothers me.

To be frank, it bothers the hell out of me. Much as it hurt me to be deprived of my wife and my best friend in one swell foop, I was able to stand it because I was comforted by the thought that you were both involved in a total love relationship that transcended anything you could have had independent of one another.

Now it seems that you aren’t getting along so well. Well, this sort of thing happens all the time, Steve. It seems to have begun rather quickly with you two, but maybe that’s all to the good. The sooner trouble rears its ugly head, the sooner you can reach out with your terrible swift sword and lop that ugly head clean off.

Listen, old buddy, don’t bother to tell me that everything’s roses with you and Fran. I know better. As a matter of fact, I may know better than you do.

Fran sent me a letter. Undated. (I wish you people would get in the habit of dating your letters. It only takes a second and simplifies things all around.)

A depressing letter, Steve. I’m enclosing a Xerox copy of it so that you can read it for yourself and see how bad things really are. I wish I had Fran’s letter here so that I could refer to it, but Rozanne took it along to the office with some other documents so that she could Xerox them. I used to do my own Xeroxing, but Rozanne pointed out that I was taking unnecessary risks by so doing. This is simpler, and saves me the trip to and from West 44^th Street.

She’ll be back around five-thirty, and by then I should be done with this letter, and I’ll enclose the copy of Fran’s letter and get the works into the mail.

Read Fran’s letter, my oldest, dearest friend.

Read it and weep.

Done weeping? Good. Dry your tears, Steve, and sit back so I can do you a favor.

And I’m not kidding about this, either.

You know, both you and Fran have gone to great lengths to impugn my motives. It sort of tears me up to realize that both of you, two people to whom I have been very damned close, are so willing to believe I’m some kind of an ogre. I can’t understand it. Rozanne loves me, Jennifer loves me, the daughters of Lancaster think I’m the greatest thing since the Pill, but my wife and best friend can’t stand the written word of me.

Well, I think it’ll be pretty obvious that I have no ulterior motive in writing this letter. My motive, and there’s nothing the least bit ulterior about it, is to give you some information that will make it easy for you to restore things between you and Fran to the way they once were. More than that, I think you can actually raise your relationship with Fran to new heights.

What do I get out of this? Well, the satisfaction of having helped you both out. And the comforting knowledge that I haven’t lost my wife and best friend for nothing.

I don’t know if you know anything about Rozanne. Among the things she took to the Xerox machine this morning were a few letters to and from her, including one which I sent a carbon copy of to Lisa. (You remember Lisa.) There’s no description of Rozanne in any of those letters, largely because I didn’t know what she looked like, except for her mammary endowment, which is the first thing anyone would think of noticing about her.

I know you’ve always been partial to large breasts, Steve. That was one thing that surprised me about your running off with Fran, incidentally. Oh, she’s not flat-chested, not by any means, but a man wouldn’t take a look at Fran and automatically ask for a glass of milk. I always thought of her breasts as small but honest. For my own part, I’ve never cared that much either way. I like large breasts on large-breasted girls and small breasts on small-breasted girls. What I like, when all is said and done, is girls.

But one look at Rozanne and a guy like you would begin to salivate. The easiest way to describe it for you, Steve, is like so — picture your ultimate unattainable ideal in tits, improve on it, and you’ve got Rozanne.

(The hell you do. I’ve got Rozanne. You’ve got Fran, buddy.)

Aside from her breasts, Rozanne is just an average beautiful girl. Long black hair, dark complexion, fierce eyebrows, deep, liquid dark-brown eyes, and a strong nose and chin. A slim, supple body that is far too slim and supple for those breasts (but who’s complaining, right?) tapering to a tiny waist and widening to a perfectly round ass. Hips designed for easy childbearing and joyful childconceiving. Good legs. Not great legs, but damned good legs. A nice little Italian girl from the Bronx. A nice little Italian virgin living all by her lonesome in Chelsea and working as secretary to a eunuch who, for some unaccountable reason, never had the gumption to flip her onto her desk and fuck her eyes out.

That’s Rozanne. Now, to further set the stage, read the rest of the Xeroxed letters.

Okay. Now you’re set for your lesson, even as Rozanne was set for hers. No more delaying tactics. We’ll get right to the point.

After I wrote her the letter about Naughty Nasty Nancy, I figured one of two things would happen. Either I would hear from her almost immediately or I would never hear from her again. I figured either of the two developments would constitute a consummation devoutly to be wished.

A day or two after I mailed the letter, my phone rang. I picked it up, and the conversation went something like this:

“Hello?”

“Hello.”

“Aha!”

“I got your letter.”

“I hoped you would.”

“How can you write letters like that? I mean, how can you do it?”

“It’s a talent, I guess.”

“It was here waiting for me when I came home from the office. I must’ve read it three times, maybe more.”

“Did you masturbate?”

“Can’t you talk nice to me?”

“I could, but you get more of a kick out of it when I talk nasty.”

“How do you know so much about me?”

“Intuition, I suppose.”

“I never met a man like you.”

“Neither did I.”

“Can I—”

“Yes?”

“I can’t say it.”

“You want help?”

“Yes.”

“You want to come over here, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Come right over.”

“Shall I, uh—”

“Yes?”

“Well, couldn’t you at least meet me somewhere, or something?”

“I’m not sure I would recognize you. Come up to my apartment, Rozanne. It’ll save time.”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll expect you in a half hour.”

“All right, if I can get a cab.”

“A half hour. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, yes.”

She was early. I took a shower first, dried off, and fished around in the closet until I found a robe. It was practically new. I don’t think I had ever worn it. Lisa gave it to me for my birthday once, or maybe it was Fran. (That gave it to me, I mean. Not that Lisa gave it to Fran. An ambiguous construction that I wanted to clear up.) I wonder if any man ever bought a bathrobe for himself. Or if any man ever wore the bathrobe his wife bought him.

I put the robe on with nothing under it and waited for her to turn up. She turned up, knocking timidly at the door. I opened it, and there she was.

“Hello,” she said.

“Why, hello.” I said. She was wearing a knit dress. It was red, and so tight that it looked like a blush. “You look good enough to eat,” I said, and her face turned the same shade as the dress. “Come in,” I said, and she came in, and I closed the door and locked it. She winced as I turned the lock, as if it meant she couldn’t change her mind now. Which was precisely what I had been thinking.

“Now what?” she said. “Do I just lift up my skirt and you’ll do it or what?”

“Is that what you think you want?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m new at this.”

“You silly,” I said, and kissed her.

She really didn’t want to respond to the kiss, Steve. She wanted to get eaten and have an orgasm, but she was so tense she couldn’t have had a Coke, let alone an orgasm. So I took a lot of time kissing her, and then I put some music on the radio, good old WPAT, nice mood music that you could fuck to without listening to.

(What do you do for music to fuck by in Cuernavaca?)

And we gradually worked our way to the bed, and I gradually got her out of her dress and paid the proper sort of homage to various parts of her anatomy. She kept saying that she knew she could really trust me, and I kept earning that trust by taking my time with her, being very gentle, very gentle, ever so gentle.

The poor kid had never really relaxed with sex before. She always dated these louts who would kiss her hard enough to bruise her lips, then grab her tits to test their grip, then make a beeline for her twat. She never had a chance to enjoy necking because she was too hung up with fears of what it would lead to.

Now she had her chance, and she was making the most of it. As I ran my tongue along the undersides of those incredible breasts and listened to her purr and throb, as I stroked the satin skin on the insides of her taut thighs, I thought how incredible it was that this girl had managed to maintain her hymen to the ripe old age of twenty-six.

“You can trust me,” I said from time to time.

“I know I can trust you,” she said now and again.

“I swear on my mother’s life that I shall not penetrate your quim today, even if you decide you want me to.”

“You’re a gentleman, Larry.”

“Of course you can change your mind at some future date, but not today. You walked into this apartment a virgin. You’ll walk out of here a virgin.”

“A gentleman. Oh, do that some more, it’s wonderful. A real gentleman. I never met anyone like you before, never in my whole life. Oh, God, do you know what it does to me when you do that?”

I had a fair idea.

One thing, Steve. I meant that oath, and the fact that my mother died several years ago doesn’t detract from it a bit. I used that wording for the impression it would make, not out of some perverse streak. (You and Fran seem all too willing to believe I have a perverse streak.)

Anyway, the oath couldn’t have been any more binding had I had a living mother. I was determined not to violate that maidenhead. Rozanne was providing me with a rare enough pleasure anyway, the pleasure of slow seduction.

I didn’t realize until then just how much I’d grown to miss that pleasure. That’s one of the unfortunate by-products of the sexual revolution, Steve. There’s no more working up to it. A girl either fucks or she doesn’t, and the two of you decide it in front, and if she does, you both get into bed and you do it, and if she doesn’t, you go away and that’s it.

Even with the daughters of Lancaster, the most precious angels on earth, there was no gradual pursuit. They knew the game and enjoyed playing it, and they didn’t have to be conned into anything. There were some things they had to be shown, owing to relative inexperience on their part, and it’s always fun to play teacher, especially with such willing and adept pupils, but it’s not the same thing.

Don’t get me wrong. I approve of the change in morals. Seduction as a steady diet is a bore. Artificial as hell, and hard on the nervous system.

Once in a while, though, I miss it. Maybe it’s ninety percent nostalgia. Still, once in a while I miss it.

So I took a long and lazy time with Rozanne. I inspected every bit of her body, turned her this way and that, kissed her here and there. A dozen times along the way she was within a couple of yards of the orgasmic goal line, and each time I would change the subject and throw her physically offside and penalize her half the distance to the goal. I kept building her up and letting her down, until she reached a point where her blood-pressure level was dangerously high.

Until finally I said, “Now I’m going to eat your cunt.”

And she said, “Thank God.”

I’ll do the Victorian novelist number and draw the veil here, old buddy. The modesty bit. Let’s just say that she got what she came for and came what she got for.

And liked it.

A little while later, after she had stopped talking about how divine she felt and how she had dreamed about this but had never, even in her dreams, imagined it would be quite this good, after she had finished bathing my ego in a salve of words, she said, “But what about you, Larry?”

“What about me?”

“I know men have needs.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But aren’t you—”

“Frustrated? Tied up in knots?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of course I am. Don’t worry about it. Let’s talk a little.”

“Because there must be something I could do.”

“Later, perhaps. If you want.”

“Of course I want to help you.”

“But first let’s talk. Why is it that you’re so afraid of getting popped?”

“Getting popped?”

“Of not being a virgin anymore.”

“Oh, getting popped.”

“Right.”

“I didn’t know what you meant at first.”

“I understand. Is it that you’re afraid of getting pregnant?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“Because they have pills for that sort of thing.”

“I know.”

“And they’re a hundred percent effective.”

“Oh, I know. It’s not that.”

“Some kind of sin thing? That good girls have to stay virgins until they get married?”

“No. I don’t believe that anymore.”

“Thank God.”

“I lost my faith. I suppose I’m an atheist.”

“So am I, thank God.”

“As a matter of fact, I guess I’d respect myself more if I wasn’t a virgin. I mean, it’s abnormal, being a virgin at my age.”

“It’s certainly unusual.”

“Yeah.”

“Then what is it, Rozanne?”

“Well, it’s an irrational fear.”

“Oh?”

“I went to a psychiatrist once. Actually I didn’t go to him, I went out with him on a date. We saw Plaza Suite. Have you seen it?”

“No.”

“I didn’t even know he was a psychiatrist when I dated him. Just that he was a doctor. His sister was married to my sister-in-law’s cousin.”

“Aren’t they married anymore?”

“I guess they’re still married. What difference does it make?”

“No difference at all. I’m sorry I interrupted.”

“It’s okay.”

“You were saying about the psychiatrist?”

“Oh. When I wouldn’t, you know, what you said, that I wouldn’t get popped. He told me I have an irrational fear. That’s how he put it.”

“Of what?”

“Pain.”

“Pain?”

“Pain.”

“It only hurts for a minute.”

“I know that.”

“Sometimes, for a lot of girls, it never hurts at all.”

“I know that.”

“Then—”

“That’s what irrational about it. I know all that, but knowing doesn’t help. I lie awake nights thinking about getting popped and I start to cry at the thought. I guess you must think I’m pretty hopeless, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“I know people who have a thing about heights, they won’t look out a high window, they won’t even have an apartment or work in an office on a high floor. That’s another irrational fear. If I had my choice, I’d rather have that. At least I could let myself get popped like a normal human being instead of living like some kind of a nun.”

“You’ve got a problem.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Perhaps someday you’ll be able to face it,” I said gently. “But not tonight.”

“No, I guess not. No, not tonight. But—”

“What?”

“I wish I could do something for you.”

“You can.”

She licked her lips anxiously. I suspect she was thinking that what I had in mind would involve her lips, and I further suspect she was trying to decide whether it was something she really wanted to do. While she played that tape through her mind I took off my bathrobe.

“Oh, my God,” she said.

“What’s the matter?”

“The size of it. Of your, uh—”

“Cock,” I supplied. “It’s average, actually.”

“Honest to God?”

“Well, I never measured it and checked the Guinness Book of Records or anything, but I think it’s about average. It’s nothing exceptional.”

“It’s the size of a cannon.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

“It is. It would kill a woman.”

“It never killed one yet.”

“It would split a woman in half.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can touch it, you know. It won’t bite.”

“It’s as hard as a rock, too. Holy Mother of God, imagine putting this in a fifteen-year-old girl. I didn’t know they were this big.”

“They?”

“Cocks.”

She went on talking like that, handling the subject of the conversation with both hands as she talked. As you may know, Steve, you can tell a great deal about a woman by the way she handles a penis. Sometimes I think it’s a better index to sensuousness than actually fucking her. Bill Adams used to keep an abstract cock on his desk as a paperweight. It was a cylindrical iron bar. Outside of that, there was nothing particularly cocklike about it. Girls who came over to his desk almost invariably picked up the thing and fooled around with it. He did or didn’t date them on the basis of their reactions to it. A pretty good test, he always said. One day a girl picked the thing up and smacked it rhythmically against the edge of his desk as she talked. Paula, her name was, and she was the one he picked out to marry. Which tells you as much about Bill as her behavior told about Paula, come to think of it...

But to return to Rozanne. She went on with her fondling, doing a very good job of it. Her hands were soft, except for the tips of her fingers which were roughened from typing, which made a pleasant contrast. (Ellen Jamison plays the guitar, which makes for even more of a contrast.)

As she said, “What would you like me to do?”

“Well,” I said, “there is something.”

“Anything,” she said, and her eyes modified the word.

“It’s a little unusual,” I admitted, “but there’s no pain involved, certainly. I want you to get in a certain position, and then I want to just touch my cock lightly against your bottom.”

“And then what?”

“Then I’ll have an orgasm.”

“Just from that?”

“It’s all in the position you’ll be in. It’s particularly exciting to me, God knows why. Maybe I saw my parents in this position as a child or something. We could ask your friend the psychiatrist.”

“I guess if I can have an irrational fear, you’re entitled to an irrational thrill.”

“That’s a good way to look at it.”

“Well,” she said. “What’s the position?”

I positioned her. On her knees on the bed, arms straight, palms of hands planted on the bed sheet, breasts hanging down like ripe fruit. I studied her from various angles, reaching out to touch and adjust, and provided a little heavy breathing.

“Perfect,” I said, huskily.

Then I positioned myself behind her, kneeling. I reached around to cup her breasts momentarily. I would have needed the hands of a basketball player to do them justice. I played with the nipples until they stiffened, but that was all the excitement she showed.

“Divine,” I murmured.

I stroked the cheeks of her bottom, pulled them gently apart, pressed them together again, pulled them apart, pressed them together.

“Magnificent,” I cooed.

I spat silently into the palm of one hand and anointed my cock with saliva, then dried my hand on the sheet and went back to playing with her buttocks.

“Paradise,” I moaned.

And then I stabbed my cock straight into her tight little asshole.

Christ, how she screamed! I’m still amazed nobody called the cops, I would have called the cops, and I never call the cops. But it was one hell of a shriek.

Once I was in, all the way in to the hilt, I clapped a hand over her mouth and pressed my body down upon her, flattening her on the bed. She was pinned like a butterfly. She couldn’t move. She could struggle, and the more she struggled the better it felt, and for the longest time I just clung to her and let her struggle while I enjoyed it.

I almost dropped the ball right then and there. That old familiar tickle started building up in my balls, and all those little sperm cells wanted to rush out and win this one for the Gipper. I didn’t go through any horseshit like figuring the multiplication tables in my head. I’ve never had much success with that sort of nonsense.

Instead, I met the problem head on. You’re going to fuck this helpless little girl into a blind stupor, I told myself, and you’re going to be so busy ramming it home you won’t have time to worry about coming.

And that is precisely what happened.

As soon as she gave up the struggle, I started to throw it to her. I was about as gentle as Attila the Hun. I gave her solid full-length strokes, delivering them as though it was my intention to knock her asshole through the top of her head. Once I had established a certain rhythm, I took my hand off her mouth. She wasn’t going to scream anymore. She just lay there whimpering from the pain and begging me to stop and invoking various saints in the hope that they might intercede.

“Oh, merciful Heart of Jesus, he’s killing me!”

Bang!

“Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God, I’m on fire!”

Wham!

“Oh, Saint Anthony, blessed Saint Anthony, make him stop before I die!”

Pow!

Thank God she was an atheist.

Steve, old buddy, it took forever. There was a time, Steve, when I must confess I didn’t think it was going to work. I knew it was perfect in theory but I didn’t think it was really going to work in actual practice. And if it didn’t work, of course, then I was making a horrible mistake and really fucking things up for Rozanne.

One thing I’ve learned, Steve, is that once you’ve crossed the Rubicon, you might as well march right on to Rome. Even if you strongly suspect you made a mistake. Better to follow through with a wrong decision than to try changing your mind after the ball is in the air. I may have mangled the metaphors there, but you know what I mean. You just don’t switch horses in the middle of a Rubicon.

So I kept on flailing away at her, never slowing the pace, never breaking the rhythm, never easing up on the sheer brute force of it. Do that for a while and your back starts to ache. Do it a little longer and you worry that your pelvic bone isn’t going to be able to stand it.

Do it long enough and a miracle happens.

I did it long enough, and the miracle happened. I had expected the miracle, I was counting on it, and that didn’t make it any the less miraculous.

Because gradually she stopped not liking it, and gradually she began liking it, and then all at once we were over the top and into the homestretch, and she was shouting things like “Fuck me!” and “Kill me!” and “Tear me apart!” and wriggling her ass, not to escape but to cooperate, and just as she got there I put a finger on her clit and threw her off the cliff.

Christ, did she come! Her entire rectum quivered and undulated around my cock like a vibrating condom. I hammered three more strokes into her as she came, and at the end of the third the dam burst. My sperm was backed up clear to the Holland Tunnel, but she quivered and twitched and milked every drop of it out of me. You know how, when you come really great, your balls actually ache with it? (But of course you know. I’m not talking to a schoolboy, am I?)

A little while later, almost as an afterthought, I withdrew from her. There was this delightful plopping noise reminiscent of opening a champagne bottle. I stretched out next to her. She lay inert, her face on the pillow, her eyes closed, her forehead bathed in sweat.

Ultimately she opened her eyes and looked at me. Just looked at me.

Then, abruptly, she began laughing.

Not a giggle or a chuckle. A full-throated, wide-open, all-woman laugh. She roared.

“Talk about irrational fears,” she said finally.

“Yeah.”

“Jesus, I honestly thought I was going to die. And then I didn’t die. And then I lived. I’m twenty-six years old. God in Heaven, I wasted twenty-six years.”

“You really couldn’t have done much for the first thirteen, anyway.”

“Maybe not. What is it they say? ‘If they’re big enough, they’re old enough.’ Is that what they say?”

“I’ve heard the phrase.”

“If I have a daughter, that’s what I’ll tell her. But I’ll never get a daughter from what we did, will I? It’s considered perverted, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so. Almost everything is.”

“What do you call it? What we just did.”

“Anal intercourse, I guess. Sodomy. Buggery.”

“Isn’t there a good word for it?”

“You mean a polite word? Those are all about as polite as you can get.”

“I don’t mean a polite word, I mean a good word.”

“I don’t know. Ass-fucking, I guess.”

“Ass-fucking,” she said, reflectively. “You fucked me in the ass.”

“I certainly did.”

“I liked it.”

“You certainly did.”

“You fucked me in the ass and I loved it. It was even better than when you ate my cunt. I think I have to go to the bathroom. I feel as though I just had an enema.”

“You just did.”

“That’s what it feels like. I’ll be right back. Don’t go away.”

She was back before the toilet stopped flushing. “Oh, my,” she said. “I don’t feel like the same person anymore. I feel very different. First you ate my cunt and then you fucked me in the ass and now I went and took a huge crap. And now look how I’m talking. I never talked like this before. I never said words like that aloud.”

“But you said them inside your head when you played with yourself.”

“How did you know that?”

“Everybody does.”

“They do? I thought I was the only one. I used to worry about it.”

“You can stop worrying.”

“I already have. Are you going to fuck me in the cunt now?”

“Not tonight.”

“Because of your promise? I’ll release you from it.”

“Because I haven’t got the strength.”

“Oh.”

“And the first time ought to be a good one.”

“I guess you’re right. Will it hurt as much as this did?”

“Not a tenth as much as this did.”

“Oh. You liked this, didn’t you? What we did? Ass-fucking?”

“Couldn’t you tell?”

“Uh-huh. You roared like a bull, do you know that? Larry? Have you done this a lot? With other girls?”

“Hardly at all.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Why?”

“They mostly don’t want to.”

“Are you serious? I guess you are. Why?”

“Afraid it will hurt. And they occasionally think it’s disgusting.”

“Do you think it’s disgusting?”

“Not at all.”

“Neither do I. I think it’s the closest thing to dying and going to heaven. Can we do this a lot? I don’t mean tonight, I know you’re tired. I mean, when we see each other from time to time. Unless you don’t want us to see each other from time to time.”

“I want us to see each other often.”

“That’s good, because so do I. And I want you to fuck me in the ass whenever you feel like it, and I want you to feel like it a lot. I think I have to take a crap again.”

“Be my guest.”

Flush!

“If the word gets around,” she said on her return, “the laxative market is going to collapse. A whole industry down the drain. Did you hear what I said? ‘Down the drain.’ I can only make jokes by accident. When I try to say something funny it never works. Are you ready to go to sleep?”

“Well, I was more or less thinking along those lines.”

“Could I sleep here? With you? Because I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Sure.”

“What it is, I don’t want to be too far from a toilet. Also I want to stay with you. You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

“Good. Larry?”

“Hmmmmm?”

“I think I love you.”

She certainly seems to. And it’s the most delightfully uncomplicated sort of love, Steve. I moved into her apartment, and she cooks me these marvelous meals of sweet-and-sour shrimp and chicken fried rice and moo goo gai pan. She’s a fantastic Chinese cook. (Hates Italian food, throws up at the sight of a tomato, can’t stand grass because it smells like oregano.) Every morning she toddles off to the office, and every afternoon she toddles home, and we fuck a whole hell of a lot.

She doesn’t care if I get a job. She doesn’t care if I screw other girls. She doesn’t even care if I have them over to her apartment and screw them in her bed. Likes me to do it, likes me to tell her all about it, what we said and what we did and what it was like. Sometimes she sits cross-legged on the bed while I tell her, sits there and plays with herself. It’s a lot of fun to watch a pretty girl play with herself...

All she wants in the whole world is for me to fuck her. In the mouth, between the tits, in the twat, under the arm, between the toes, anywhere, anytime, anyhow. And up the old wazoo. Especially that last. Loves to take it there. It still hurts. Not as much as the first time, but it still hurts.

I don’t know what we’ll do if it ever stops hurting. I suppose we’ll think of something.

Well, I talked it all over with Rozanne, and she agreed that I had to share this discovery with you. It’s not enough to love a woman, to cherish her, to adore her. It’s just simply not enough.

What you’ve got to do, Steve, is haul off and fuck Fran in the ass.

Really sock it to her.

But for God’s sake, don’t let her know about it in advance. In fact, be damned careful she doesn’t get hold of this letter.

Because if you tell her what you want to do, or if you try to build up to it gradually, it just ain’t gonna come off properly. No way, baby. Because the world is full of women who are totally stone-certain that the one thing they don’t want is to be buggered. Even the experimentally inclined ones tend to change their mind after it’s in an inch or so. Because it hurts.

Which, of course, is the whole point. First you burn their guts out, and then, just when they’re sure they can’t take any more of the pain, you surprise them with a wave of pleasure that really knocks them out because they weren’t expecting it. And once you’ve done that, you own them.

I’ve been trying to imagine what my life might have been like if someone had whispered this secret to me in my formative years. (Come to think of it, Norman Mailer more or less spelled out this idea in a couple of things. Maybe the trouble is that the important lessons of life are the ones we have to learn on our own.)

But if I had known then what I know now, Lisa would never have wanted to part company. She would have been transformed from an aggressive, castrating ball-breaker into a thing of beauty and a joy forever. And Fran, if truly buggered (we did it once, and she didn’t like it, so I hurried up and came quick and agreed never to try it again), would not be in Cuernavaca at this very moment.

Well, have the sense to learn from my experience. Wait for a night when you’re sure you won’t come prematurely. Warm her up plenty, get her in the mood. Tell her you want to try it doggie style.

And then, when she’s waiting with open box, give her the surprise of her life.

Pow!

Wham!!

Bang!!!

She’ll love you forever, old pal.

cc: Nancy Hall