Sensuous

5 March — Friday

I just finished talking to Bill. I don’t drink, but if there were liquor in the apartment I would have a drink right now. It’s late and I’m sure the liquor stores are closed.

I don’t really need it anyway.

I want to put down the conversation as well as I can remember it before it slips away. I called every fifteen minutes from the time I got home. This time the line was constantly busy. I’m sure he took it off the hook. I kept calling because I knew sooner or later his guest would leave and he would hang up the phone. Unless she stayed all night.

Around eleven I got through.

Bill: Hello.

Me: Hello. Is this Bill?

Bill: Yes, it is. I was hoping you’d call.

Me: But you don’t, I’m not someone you know.

Bill: I was still hoping you’d call.

Me: I called a few days ago. But I couldn’t talk. I sat there and couldn’t talk and finally hung up.

Bill: Happens a lot of the time. Do you feel like talking now?

Me: I think so.

Bill: It’s a little scary, isn’t it? The unreality of two voices coming at each other over the wires. Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?

Me: Like what?

Bill: Anything.

Me: Uh. Let me think. My name is Jennifer and I live in Manhattan. I’m single. I live alone. I’m twenty-six years old. I—

Bill: What’s your sign?Me: Uh, Virgo.

Bill: I’m Leo, Scorpio rising, moon in Pisces.

Me: I don’t know die rising and moon part, just the sun sign. I don’t pay much attention to it. I used to read my horoscope in the Post but I usually don’t bother.

Bill: Uh-huh.

Me: I’m five foot seven and weigh one-twenty-eight. I have dark hair and brown eyes. I’m not beautiful but I’m not ugly; I don’t think. I wear glasses for reading. My skin is good. I never had pimples or blackheads. I’m clever but no one knows it because I’m so timid. I suppose I’m the shyest person in the world. For days I kept dialing the first six digits of your phone number and hanging up. Or I picked up the phone to call you and called the time bureau instead. I do Double-Crostics in half an hour.

Bill: In pen?

Me: Pencil.

Bill: Show-offs use a pen. I live on 35th Street near Fifth. Would you like to come over?

Me: You mean now?

Bill: Sure.

Me: No.

Bill: Okay.

Me: I would like to but I can’t. I’m too nervous. I have to, I would want to, know in advance just what would happen. And I can’t even say what I want because of my nervousness. I’m shaking. I’m looking at my hand right now and the fingers are trembling.

Bill: Would you like to give me your number and I’ll call you back in a few minutes?

Me: No. I don’t want anyone to have my number.

Bill: Would you like to call me, then?

Me: I would tense up and not call. No. This is important to me. Oh, God, I’m surprised you put up with this hysteria instead of just hanging up. Just give me a minute. I want to get a cigarette.

Bill: Take all the time you want.

Me: Hello?

Bill: I’m still here, Jennifer. Is it Jennifer or Jennie?

Me: Jennifer.

Bill: You sound more relaxed, Jennifer.

Me: I am, a little. Just let me plunge in and say this. I am a passionate person. I am, I am. But I cannot let go. When I am with someone I freeze. Your ad. Something about it gives me hope. Oh, I don’t know. If I could believe you, trust you.

Bill: All I want is whatever you want, Jennifer.

Me: Just to be — I can’t say it. Why can’t I say it?

Bill: Take your time.

Me: To be eaten. There. I said it. To lie back and drift off and be eaten. But nothing else. And knowing you wouldn’t want anything else and wouldn’t be disappointed.

Bill: Fair enough.

Me: And that I could walk out afterward and never see you again if I didn’t want to. And that you wouldn’t try to find out where I work or where I live or my phone number. That you won’t even ask those questions.

Bill: Understood.

Me: You must think I’m crazy.

Bill: No.

Me: You ought to. I know I’m crazy. Being so obsessed with secrecy when there’s no one to keep secrets from. No one knows me. No one knows who I am.

Bill: We all have our hangups, Jennifer.

Me: Including you?

Bill: Christ, yes.

Me: I guess I trust you.

Bill: Good.

Me: I would like to see you.

Bill: When?

Me: Not tonight.

Bill: All right.

Me: I’m too keyed up and it wouldn’t be good. And it’s late. I have to get to work in the morning.

Bill: You work Saturdays?

Me: Oh, tomorrow’s Saturday. No, no, I don’t. But even so. I couldn’t come tonight.

Bill: Let’s set a date, then.

Me: Sometime tomorrow?

Bill: I’m afraid I’m going to be busy tomorrow. Are you free Sunday?

Me: I’m always free Sunday.

Bill: As soon as you finish the Double-Crostic.

Me: In pencil.

Bill: Absolutely, Sunday afternoon?

Me: I, oh, yes. Sunday afternoon. Around two o’clock?

Bill: That’s perfect. Do you want to take down the address? 98 East 35th Street. That’s between Fifth and. Madison. It’s apartment 3-J. The last name is Cubbins. William Cubbins, known to the world as Bill.

Me: Jennifer Starr.

Bill: One “R” or two?

Me: Two.

Bill: That’s a beautiful name. Jennifer Starr. I think it fits you. Two o’clock. And if something comes up—

Me: I know. If you can’t come, call.

I looked him up in the phone book. Cubbins, Wm, 98 East 35th Street, 868-9413. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight. But I hardly ever have trouble sleeping. Even when I’m like this. I get into a fantasy and the orgasm works like a Nytol commercial.

Sunday afternoon. I shall bathe just before I leave the house. And soap my pussy until it is squeaky clean. And perfume myself. I’ll buy perfume tomorrow. Something musky. And dress as prettily as possible.

Should I get my hair done tomorrow? Not much to be done with it. It’s long and straight and suits me this way.

I can’t write any more now.