"Miller, Henry - Opus Pistorum" - читать интересную книгу автора (Miller Henry)

This leads into a discussion of the women with whom Ernest has lived at one time or another. The list he makes astonishes me until I discover that he is cheating. Any woman with whom he has spent more than ten minutes he counts as having lived with.
"Shit," he says, speaking of one when I challenge her position on his list. "I took her to dinner, didn't I? And didn't she sleep in my bed that night? Bed and board, if you give them that they are living with you."
Ernest is astonished to learn that I've never laid a Chinese. I'm astonished myself. With all the chop suey joints back in New York you'd think I'd at least have gotten next to one of the waitresses. The subject of races comes up, and Ernest is prepared to give me advice on all of them. Don't try the Japs or the Chinks in the whorehouses, he warns me. They're all shaved and bathed and perfumed but they carry a skull and crossbones between their legs. They take on any man who comes along and wow! SYPHILIS! The galloping kind that carries you off in six months, nothing that you can pass off as a bad cold. The far Eastern brand of the syph, Ernest insists, has a special deadliness for the Occidental race. It all sounds like shit to me, but Ernest is positive enough to scare me away from the Orientals forever.
Then, when he has the piss scared out of me, Ernest tells me that he knows of a nice little cunt who's quite safe. She's not a whore, just a nice Chink girl who he knows, and there's not a chance of catching anything. Her father has an art shop, one of those joints filled with salvaged junk that was probably thrown out of the palaces with the garbage a few hundred years ago, Buddhas and screens and ratty chests, and so on, and the girl helps with the place and waits on the young blades who come in looking for a jade necklace.
Ernest writes the address on an envelope and gives it to me. I may have to buy something just to keep up appearances, he says, but it's a certain fuck if I work it right. He isn't going with me . . . he has a date with some cunt who paints and he's going to try to fuck her into doing a portrait of him for nothing, but he assures me that it will be all right.
"Find out if they sell cocaine, will you Alf?" he asks. "I promised to get this cunt of mine a little . . . she's never tried it. I'm afraid to go back to my old neighborhood for it. I owe them a little bill yet and they're sore because I moved away . . ."

Armed with this address I take a stroll down to this shop after I've done my two hours in the office. On the way I change my mind half a dozen times, and I almost go off with a black wench who gives me the signal from a park bench. There was a time in New York when I spent almost every night in Harlem. I was nuts about a black cunt for a few weeks and wouldn't touch anything else. I got over that, but I still like it, and this girl is so husky and black . . . shit, she looks healthy enough to withstand a barrage of germs. Ernest really has frightened me with all his talk about catching something. But I pass her up and go on.
I never know how these things are done. When I'm stinking drunk I can talk to any cunt on the street, make the most insulting propositions without batting an eye, but to go into this joint cold sober and make my little speech . . . it's too much for me. Especially when I find that the girl is one of those cool, poised bitches who speaks perfect French. I expected to have trouble understanding her accent, and instead she makes me feel that I speak French like an American tourist.
I don't know what the fuck to say. I haven't even the slightest idea of what I want to buy, if anything. She's a pretty cunt, I'll say that, and she's as patient as she is good looking. She shows me everything in the damned shop . . .
I like her looks, especially the odd way in which her nose is flattened against her face and pulls her upper lip up. Nice ass and bubs, too . . . something there I hadn't expected. I've noticed that most of the Chinese women I've seen appear to have no teats, but this cunt has a beautiful set. Still, they're not quite the thing to begin a conversation around.
Using Ernest's name doesn't help matters a bit. I was sent here by a friend, I explain, and I mention Ernest, but she doesn't know him! So many people are in the shop every day, she suggests politely . . . I find that I have bought a hanging, a gorgeous thing with dragons to hang on my wall. The cunt smiles and wants to give me a cup of tea . . . her old man rattles out of the back of the shop and whisks the hanging from under our noses . . . he's going to wrap it.
I don't care for tea, I tell her. I was thinking of going around the corner for a pernod, and I would be charmed if she would accompany me. She accepts! I can't say a word . . . I stand gaping like a fish and she trots back through the shop.
She comes back wearing a trick hat that makes her look more Parisienne than the Parisiennes and she carries the package under her arm. I still haven't invented anything clever to say and our departure out of the shop is made even less graceful by a little bastard of a street urchin who tosses horse turds at us from the gutter. But the cunt has wonderful poise . . . we march down the street with a grand air and I'm soon at ease . . .
Questions! She wants to know who I am, what I am, my entire history. Also the matter of my income comes up. I don't understand what she's leading up to, but she begins to talk about jade. There is a little trinket, she tells me intimately, which has just been smuggled in, a true gem of the emperors which must be sold for a mere fraction of its worth . . . and she mentions my month's salary almost to the sou.
I'm curious. There's obviously something fishy, and I get the impression that she wants me to understand that she's shitting me. Where can this stone be seen, I ask. Ah, everything comes to light, then! It's not safe to have it about the shop, she tells me . . . so she wears it on a silken cord tied around her waist, where its cool caress on her skin speaks of its safety. The purchase would have to be made in some secluded spot far from the shop . . .
It's a wonderful game once I understand how it's played. This cunt really has imagination about selling her body. But her asking price! I begin to haggle with her and over the third pernod we agree that a week's salary will be the price of this piece of jade. I'll have to live on credits until the ghost walks again . . . I've never paid so much for a tail, but this cunt makes it seem to be worth it.
I don't doubt that she has a French name like Marie or Jeanne, but in the taxi going to my place she coos something that sounds like the piping of a flute . . . Bud of Lotus, she translates it, so I call her Lotus. It's all such a marvelous fraud . . .
I add my part to the show. As soon as I have her tucked away in my rooms, I run down to buy some wine from the concierge and serve it in the small green glasses that Alexandra bought for me. Then, when Lotus is to show me the stone, I spread the lovely old hanging on the floor for her to stand on.
The bitch must have played a year in burlesque to learn a strip routine like the one she showed me. Artfully, she leaves her stockings and shoes on after everything else has been tossed off. And there's a red silk cord around her belly with the piece of jade hanging in her bush. It looks very neat, that little piece of green stone, snuggling into that bit of black. She leaves her clothes heaped on the dragon spread and offers it for inspection . . .
The stone is the cheapest sort of junk, of course, but it's what's under it that I'm interested in. Lotus doesn't mind when I pay no attention to the thing . . . she smiles quickly when I pinch her thighs and run my finger between her legs. There is an odor about her that reminds me of the tiny scented cigarettes that Tania used to smoke . . . she smiles down at me while I sit on the edge of the chair and run my finger into her tail. She says something in Chinese, and it sounds fascinatingly filthy.
I've forgotten all of Ernest's dire warnings by now. With the dong I've got I'd probably fuck her even if she did have a dose, and trust to a quick cure . . . but it's so fresh smelling and pink that I'm positive everything's all right . . . she lets me pull her fig open and sniff at it . . . then she moves away from me again. She breaks the cord at her waist and drops the stone into my palm.
I fuck her on the floor, right there on my new hanging with a pillow tucked under her head. I won't let her take off her stockings, not even her shoes. To the devil with the embroidered dragon . . . if she gouges his black eyes with her heels, if we leave a stain that won't come off, so much the better for it. I go after her fiercely . . . a French whore would object to such violence, the biting, the pinches, but Lotus smiles and submits.
Do I enjoy to squeeze her teats roughly? Very well, she presses them into my hands. And if I bruise them with my mouth . . . she gives me her nipples to bite. I put her hand on my dong and watch her long almond-colored fingers squeeze around it. She murmurs continually . . . in Chinese. Ah, she knows her business well. Her customers pay well for that spicy breath of the Orient and she knows what it is they buy.
Her legs and belly are quite hairless . . . it's only at one spot that the well-kept goatee covers her. Even her ass, the damp skin around her soft cul, is bare. She spreads her legs when I touch her rectum. Her thighs are beginning to feel hot and slippery close to her fig. Her abricot-fendu is almost as small as Tania's, but it has a more mature feel about it . . . it seems softer and more open . . .
John Thursday interests her. She pinches his neck and pulls his whiskers. I stop feeling her up and she sits cross-legged between my knees to play with him. Her con splits open like some ripe and rich fruit, and her stockinged thighs press against my knees. The stockings and shoes provide an anomalous touch that I like.
I couldn't tell by looking at her whether she was excited or not. But that damp patch around her silky muff gives her away. It spreads and shines between her thighs, and the smell of cunt slowly cuts through the odor of the scent she uses. She pats John Thursday's head and tickles my balls. Soon she's stretched out full length between my legs with her nose pushing along my dick and into my bush . . . her hair is blue-black, straight and shiny . . .
I don't know what they teach their women in the Orient . . . perhaps cocksucking is neglected there, but Lotus has had native French teaching. Her tongue curls into my hair and smooths against my balls. She licks my dong, kisses my belly with her flat lips . . . her slanting eyebrows arch together when she opens her mouth and bends to let John Thursday poke his head in . . . her eyes are wild slits. Her arms slip around me and her teats are warm against my balls as she sucks me off.
I scramble over her . . . she sits up with my dong still in her mouth, still sucking it, but I push her flat and crawl down to her open crotch. I rub her bush with my cheek and my chin, tickle her bonne-bouche with my tongue. I lick her thighs and even the flat crease between them . . . I want only to feel her thighs close and draw me in, pull my mouth to that deep-split fig. I throw both arms around her waist and pinch her ass while I lick the cunt juice from her skin and from the spread mouth that offers itself. Quickly she throws herself upon me. Her conillon presses my lips and her legs are weak and open. Her juice drips into my mouth while I suck the hairy tail.
She seems to tremble when she feels my tongue in her cunt. She can't think of enough things to do to my dong in return . . . she bites it, licks my balls, does everything but swallow the whole works. She even pulls her fig further apart with her fingers, until I have my tongue so far in that it must be tickling her womb. Suddenly there's a flood. She's come, and she almost bites my prick in two. I let her fuck my mouth with her juicy thing . . .
I want to see what she looks like, what she'll do when John Thursday blows up in her teeth . . . I lie on my back again and watch her work over him. Her head rises and falls slowly. The look of surprise . . . She's found something warm coming into her mouth. Then her slant eyes close. She swallows and sucks, swallows and sucks . . .
The Chinese, I've been told, or I've read someplace, measure a fuck by days rather than hours. When I ask Lotus about it she laughs . . . She'll stay all night if I want her. And could she please take her stockings off now?
I'm hungry and I suggest going out for something to eat, but Lotus puts me right. When a man buys a Chinese woman, she says, he's bought a woman, not something to fuck like a goat. She brings all her talents to him . . . and Lotus can cook. I like the idea, so we dress and go out to buy some food.
As soon as we're in the place again we take off our clothes and Lotus makes a meal with a towel pinned at her waist, covering her front but leaving her ass bare. I lie on the couch and she pauses to kiss my cock each time she passes me . . . she's an agreeable cunt and she doesn't mind if a pot burns while I'm feeling her up . . .
After we've eaten we try the bed. Lotus thinks it would be nice if we did the tete-beche again, but I want to fuck her . . . I jump onto the bed after her and immediately ram my dong up her tail. She stops talking about the so wonderful tete-beche when she feels what John Thursday is like under her ass.
It doesn't make any difference to Johnny what color she is. She's warm and wet and hairy around the edges, and that's all he requires. He really spreads himself. He fills all the cracks and crevices, and when he's in I tuck his whiskers around to cover the corners. A few swabs with him and the girl begins to glow . . . she wiggles her round, yellow ass and begs me to take the itch out of it . . . it doesn't matter that she jabbers most of the time in Chinese, we understand each other perfectly. Her small feet cross between my knees in back . . . her soft, naked thighs are stronger than I thought . . .
She's a positive relief! I think of Tania, remember that bookkeeper with his half grown daughter, and laugh. The white world is upside down . . . a man has to find a Chink for so simple a thing as a quiet, normal fuck. Lotus laughs with me, without knowing why we're laughing . . . perhaps if she knew she'd be laughing at me. She's a good cunt. I start to fuck the hell out of her. It's a great thing to have a bitch who can laugh while you fuck her.
And she's no whore! A concubine, rather. Lotus brings her passion as well as her talent for cooking . . . it's accidental that money's involved. The money simply buys a jade trinket . . . If she pants in your ear, it's real, if she moans softly you may be sure it's because she feels. She has life in her body, juice to oil the works, and she gives them ungrudgingly . . .
I play with her bubs and she wants me to suck them again. The nipples, I discover, have a lemon ring about them like a Chinese moon . . . Ah, Lotus, you'll soon find that you have a Chinese firecracker in your cunt . . . I'll singe your ovaries with Roman candles and sky rockets will flash through your womb . . . The spark is catching . . .
Lotus may fuck in Chinese, but she comes in Parisian French.
Later in the night we become very gay over our wine and Lotus teaches me a few filthy Chinese phrases, each of which I forget in turn as I learn a new one. I fuck her again and again and in the morning I find she's gone, leaving a cheap jade trinket tied with a silk cord to my tired prick.

Visitors! Two of them. Sid, whom I have not seen since the night when we gave Marion such a hell of a going over at his place, and a cunt. Or a female. They perch politely on the edges of their chairs and we talk delicately of the weather or literature or something equally safe. She's a Miss Cavendish. A Miss Cavendish, with no first name. You need only hear her hoity-toity "How do you do?" to know that she is something that will be forever England.
Miss Cavendish, Sid explains, is a friend of his sister who lives in London. The explanation seems purely conversational and it seems that the visit has no purpose save a politely social one. But Sid goes on to say that Miss Cavendish is going to teach in Lyons and, since the job does not begin for almost two months, she plans to spend some time in getting acquainted with Paris.
One has to be civil, even with a female who wears tweeds and cotton stockings. I ask cheerful questions, just as I will cheerfully forget all about her tomorrow. And where is she staying?
Her glasses gleam as she turns toward me. "That's one of my problems," she says. "Sid has suggested that I might be able to get an apartment here." She takes a look at the place as though she were just seeing it. "It appears very nice . . . and inexpensive?"
"Oh sure," Sid assures her. "Alf, you'll fix things, do all the arranging, won't you?"
I'll arrange to wring his fucking neck! But there's nothing to do . . . she's moving in somewhere in the house. Anyway, she has nice legs, and there's an outside chance that she may be good for a fuck. But what a fine fucking friend Sid is! I wish that I could see her without her glasses . . .
When she is settled, says Miss Cavendish, we must not forget her, for Paris can be very lonely for a single girl alone . . .