Читать книгу How to Have an Affair and Other Instructions - Michael Hemmingson - Страница 6

THE INSTALLATION

I.

Kathleen Barter, an American student working on her Ph.D. in cultural anthropology and postcolonial theory, woke up inside her London flat one day and realized she was broke, she was in trouble; the only thing she had that could possibly save her was the pink little wet thing with lips that resided between her legs; she was twenty-eight-years old, pale and petite with very small breasts and skinny legs and raven-black, greasy hair and she still wore braces because of her crooked teeth so people thought she was fifteen or so, and her passport was always scrutinized as being a fake when she went to a pub for a pint of Guinness, the only liquor she drank. Some of the men she met at the bars would give her money, but it was always £10-20 and that was nothing, really; quid to last for a day…she needed more…much more…she was not a prostitute…but her rent was two months past due, her credit cards were over the limit, the electricity company was going to shut off the lights, the U.S. government wasn’t going to give her anymore financial aid because she had not made progress on her thesis…she had no job and little in her checking account…so she had an idea. She placed an ad in the paper; the ad read:

FEMALE WILL DO ANYTHING FOR £5,000

II.

“What I want you to do, dear, is masturbate in public,” Edward Kaff told Kathleen during their first meeting at his lavish house in the Whitechapel area, “in front of all my friends, colleagues, ex-lovers, business partners, enemies, critics and curious on-lookers. It will be part of an art exhibit, of course—a very snooty, very snitty, very uptight sort of exhibit that I want to put a bit of arse-kicking into. You, in fact, will be part of the exhibit, you will be a work of art, an installation lying there naked on the floor in front of everyone and diddling your clit for, oh, an hour, maybe an hour and a half.”

“Okay,” said Kathleen.

“Have I lost you let?”

“Not yet.”

“I need a pretty girl, like you. Not a model, not someone so…perfect.” Just a regular young lady like yourself. You are the sort of young lady I am, in fact, looking for. You’re very pretty, as they say in the vernacular.”

“Thank you.”

“But…now I have to tell you the finale; this is a big art show and my sixtieth birthday party—the finale is I will get naked with you and, by the bye, fook the fuque out of you.”

“Okay.”

“In front of everyone.”

“Okay.”

“And I don’t mean some wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am sort of deal. It will be a long, sweaty, healthy fuck. I may be an old man but I’m in top shape and practice Tantric love-making techniques. Do you know what this is?”

“Is it like Feng Shui?”

“I can go on up to six to eight hours of straight pussy, ass, and mouth-pounding and not ejaculate.”

“Oh.”

“How does that sound?”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You don’t have a problem with an old man like me?”

“No,” Kathleen said.

“After all, your ad said ‘anything’.”

“And I meant it.”

“So what do you say, first impression?” he asked.

“I think it’s something to think about,” she said.

“Go home and “think” on it, pretty little thing,” he said, “but I need an answer in the next day or so…the exhibit is in two weeks…if you don’t want to, I need to find another young lady. If I have to, I’ll hire a call girl. But I’d rather have…someone like you.”

III.

She called Edward Kaff and told him yes, she would take the job.

“Good,” said Kaff; “good.”

“I guess we should talk arrangements.…”

“I have a simple contract ready for you to sign, half a page long, straight to the point. I’ll pay you half upon signing—that’s £2,500—and the other half will be paid upon completion of the art project.”

“Okay,” said Kathleen, “okay.”

“The rest, we need to discuss in person.”

“When?”

“When is good for you, dear?”

“Anytime. When is good for you, Mr. Kaff?”

“None of that mister stuff, girl, you can just call me Edward.” Can you come to my house in, oh, three hours?” he asked.

She said: “Yes.”

“We’ll seal the deal then.”

IV.

Indeed, the contract was simple: at the art show, she would whack-off for no less than an hour and no longer than two hours, using her hands and various dildos that would be provided; she would do this in front of the people there and she would not stop; then she would engage in up to, but not exceeding, five-to-eight hours of sexual intercourse with Edward Kaff: basically a live sex show.

She signed the form and Kaff handed her a check for £2,500.

She looked at the check and thought: This will save my life.

She could cash it and take off, go on the road, to Greece maybe, start her life anew somewhere, forget the past.

But a deal was a deal.

And she could use the other half.

What the hell, all she had to do was fuck this guy.

“How do you feel about intergen sex?” Kaff asked her.

She shrugged.

“Oh tell me.”

“I don’t know if I have any feelings.”

“Have you ever slept with a man my age?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know?”

“No,” she said, getting annoyed, “I never have.”

“We cannot go into this particular piece of art blind,” he told her; “like any performance, we need to rehearse for the show. This is why I wanted to get started now. Do you understand?”

“I think, yes.”

“Good. Get undressed.”

She looked at him like he was a naughty uncle peeking in on his niece taking a shower.

“I need to see your body,” he told her. “I’m sure it’s quite nice, a pretty form in the buff; but you must get used to being naked, since that is how we will work together.”

“I see,” said Kathleen, and she casually, mechanically removed her clothes, panties and bra and stood in front of Edward, looking down at the floor, her hands in front of her crotch, goose bumps forming on her skin.

“Let me see your cunny,” he said, “let me see that thick bush.”

She removed her hands.

“Nice,” he said, nodding, “very nice.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Turn around and let me see your arse.”

She did so.

“Nice. Now reach around and spread your cheeks, I want to see that shit hole.”

She did so.

“Nice. Not a virgin in your poop chute, it seems.”

Kathleen started to get wet.

Her nipples were hard.

Thinking about that night at the frat house party was getting her excited.

She liked what she was feeling…however alien and odd it all was.

“Turn around, pretty girl, and look at me.”

She did so.

“Look at me.”

Kathleen’s eyes met his.

“You’re not just a pretty girl,” he said, “you’re one sexy bird.”

She smiled.

“Your nipples are hard, and I know it’s just not the draft.”

She stared at him.

“You like this,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“I want you to lie down on the couch over there,” he said, “and masturbate for me.”

She felt flush.

“It’s what you’ll be doing, and you need to practice.”

“I know how to jill-off,” she said.

He laughed and said: “‘Jill-off,” I like that. Okay, show me.”

She moved to the living room couch. It was white, it was big, and it was very comfortable—softer than her bed. She could just fall asleep on it.

“Keep your eyes open,” Edward told her, “look at me, look at the ceiling, look at your feet, or look at me, but don’t close your eyes. When you do it at the gallery, your eyes will be open, you will look at the people looking at you and you will make yourself come. You can make yourself come, can’t you?”

“Of course I can,” she said, fingering her clit.

“Go to town, baby,” he said, “slip a couple fingers into that hairy little twat.…”

She did this.

She looked at the ceiling and then she looked at him.

He was standing far away, observing, touching himself between the legs, squeezing the penis he had inside his pants.

“Do it,” he said, moving closer.

She was rubbing her pussy hard, her pussy was dripping wet, and she came…and came again.…

She was breathing hard…

“Oh fuck,” and she made herself come a third time.

“Good, good, I bloody knew you had it in you,” Edward Kaff said.

He was stroking her hair. He was sitting next to her. He touched her neck, her tits, her belly.

“You have nice skin, nice sweat,” he said, “it smells sweet…it smells so…what’s the word I’m looking for… feminine.”

She smiled.

“You will do this to yourself, at the show, and then I will come to you like this, I will touch you like this, and I will do this,” and he reached down and gave her a kiss. It was just a peck. He gave her another kiss, his tongue in her mouth. They kissed and he reached down and slid a finger into her.…

“Okay?” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

“I’m going to eat your pussy now,” he said.

“That sounds…okay,” she said.

“I’m very good at it,” Kaff said, and this was no boast. When he got between her legs, and licked her pussy and her asshole for half an hour, she came three times. No boast at all. The man knew what to do with his tongue and two fingers.

He stood up and took his pants off. His cock stood up straight, was long and thick and veined. She said she wanted to suck on it but he told her that wasn’t necessary; he told her it was time to fuck. “I’m going to fuck that cunny of yours for a very long time,” he said, “and you’re going to love it.”

V.

Did she love it? Well, she enjoyed it—she got off—the old man was a great fuck, and let’s face it: he was probably the best fuck she’d ever had. He kept going and going and she wondered how he was able to do that, what this “Tantric” stuff was all about. Maybe it was Viagra®. But he fucked her for a good three hours and after her twentieth orgasm, she stopped counting. They did take a break, when they drank some water and moved from the couch to the upstairs bedroom.

“Suck my cock now,” he said, and she did, tasting the strong taste of her cunt juice all over that fat dick.

And then he came.

He came a lot.

He came so much she coughed, almost choked on all that semen going into her mouth and down her throat.

“Oh, oh,” she said, spitting the stuff out.

“Yeah,” he said, touching her hair.

“That’s a lot.”

“Lick it up.”

She licked some of the sperm off the bed sheets and his flesh. He scooped a glob of it onto a finger and inserted the finger in her mouth and she sucked on his finger until all the semen was gone from it.

“Wow,” she said.

“Did you have a good time?” Kaff asked her.

Kathleen admitted that she did.

“Good.”

“Did you?” she asked him.

He said: “I always enjoy fucking women…especially young women like you.”

“I bet you do,” she said and smiled.

“So…I think we should rehearse this at least two or three more times before the show.”

“Yeah,” said Kathleen, “me too.”

VI.

Kathleen went home that night feeling freshly, wonderfully fucked and even a little bit sore. She couldn’t help herself and she masturbated, thinking of Kaff and his man meat and his impressive stamina. In the morning, she wanted to see him again, she wanted to “rehearse.”

She went to the bank and deposited the check.

Her pussy was wounded so she knew she’d have to wait a day or two before more action. She didn’t want to call him; she didn’t want to appear over-anxious, eager, or horny—this whole matter was wrong, illicit, odd, not the sort of thing normal people engaged in when it came to sex, money, and the refuge of art.

She paid all her bills, paid rent for two months in advance, bought a lot of groceries and rented some movies to watch.

Three days later, Kaff called.

“You should come over,” he said.

“Okay,” Kathleen said.

VII.

And who was Edward Kaff? He was born not long after World War II, his father came home from the war (where he saw no action, he was a supply clerk) and married a girl he saw walking down the street one day. She was as pretty as sunshine. “Sweet one, some day I will marry you,” the father said, and the mother said: “What’s stopping you today, handsome?” They were wed a month later. Edward Kaff came along a year or so after that. He had an okay childhood, as far as childhoods go; nothing major happened until he was nineteen was his father shot himself in the head, in shame and fear, after his mother ran away with a woman. “My mom, the lesbian,” mused Kaff; he never saw her again after that. He didn’t even know if she knew her husband committed suicide. These are things that made Kaff a very cynical and angry young man. So he joined the Royal Marines and was shipped off to Northern Ireland to help keep the peace. He took some shrapnel in his leg from a poorly-made bomb that exploded 100 feet away from him. In the hospital, he befriended another soldier, Lance Williams. Williams had a semi-famous father who wrote pulp novels in the 1940s, a lot of science-fiction, mysteries, true confession, soft-core erotica, you name it, the man did it. The pulp days were over but Lance’s dad, Luke, was writing the occasional space yarn or private dick tale under pen names as well as publishing some low-grade skin magazines out of a small office in Liverpool. “I’m going to go work for him, and so should you,” Lance said. Kaff figured what the hell, why not, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do with his life. Instead of working there, Kaff became an investor; he had some money in the bank left over by his father and this girly magazine business looked like it had potential—if nothing else, it provided an atmosphere for him to score plenty of pussy. Girls—beautiful, pretty, so-so and ugly—waltzed in every day wanting money for their nude shots, ideas in their silly heads that this one day might lead to Hollywood and some kind of stardom on the screen. They were all hippy chicks, of course; at first Kaff didn’t care much for this drug-and-sex culture, mainly because they all seemed to hate soldiers…but what did it matter if he fucked them? So he fucked them, and he smoked pot with them, and he went to orgies and did a lot of acid and let his hair grow long and started wearing bell-bottom jeans and beads and granny glasses and saying the usual shit like, “heavy, man” and “I can grok that.” He read Richard Brautigan and Jack Kerouac and Robert Heinlein and Kurt Vonnegut. What he did around the office was dubious; the outfit was called The Beck Consulting Group but that was just a shell to keep the cops away; they were putting out half a dozen girly magazines with revolving names like Twat and Public Pubic and Beach Gal, etc. What Kaff mostly did was interview potential models, take some photos, and fuck them. Lance Williams was doing editorial work, and dealing with distributors, while his father also did editorial and a lot of the writing, using up to twenty pen names. Luke had an idea about starting a line of soft-core sleaze novels—the genre was hot, others were making money off it, and Luke knew plenty of starving sci-fi and hardboiled detective writers who could churn these things out. Kaff figured why not, and took the money he’d made so far and re-invested it into this paperback line, dubbed Moonlight in Lace Editions. Moonlight started with six titles a month and graduated to twenty. They paid the writers $1,000 a pop, no royalties, and sold an average of 100,000 each, pocketing the profits. The more books they published, the more money they made. Kaff sat down and penned one himself. It was awful, but it sold. It was a lesbian novel called Housewives of Sin, and he imagined his mother the whole time he sat behind the typewriter. It was a grueling, two-month task that he had the occasional hippy chick fuck bunny sit behind the typewriter (naked, of course) and write some scenes. “I love eating pussy,” one would say, and Kaff would say, “Go write about it.” Anyway, they moved this operation out to San Diego—better real estate, better weather, and no more cops coming around looking for handouts. Once in San Diego, they published more books and magazines and made more money. They became millionaires. Kaff invested his money to make more money to insure he would grow old in comfort. He knew this business would never last. Eventually they sold the business off. Kaff traveled around Europe for a while, enjoying his money, and moved three years later to Los Angeles, thinking about getting into Hollywood. He hated the Hollywood people; he tried writing screenplays but was no good at that. He knew there was some kind of art in him so he began to paint, and painting was something he knew he was good at. He returned to England. He had gallery showings; people bought his stuff. He sculpted and did pottery. He began to write poetry. He went back to America in the 1980s and traveled a lot with a young girl he met (there were so many of them). Women! Oh there were many women, many women, and he learned a lot about fucking, about love-making, about how to keep his cock hard for hours: those ancient techniques. Yes, lots of women, but he was never serious with them; he never married or fell in love; when a woman became too close, he sent them on their way, damn the tears! Back to Queen and country he went, broken hearts behind him. No, Edward Kaff never knew love, until he met Kathleen. How absurd, yes! But it happened. And we know how it happened: one day Edward Kaff was nearing his sixtieth birthday and all his art crowd friends in London wanted to throw him a shindig/birthday party at a gallery. Kaff thought about his wild sexual days in the 1970s, recalling a party he was at where three women masturbated as a show for all the attendees. How marvelous would that be? Kaff was going to hire a call girl to do this, until one day he was looking at some classifieds and saw Kathleen’s ad.

VIII.

And so the big night finally came. “Are you ready?” Kaff asked Kathleen and she said: “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then let’s put on a show they’ll never forget,” said Kaff, giving her a light kiss on the cheek.

The gallery was located central London on Charing Cross Road. It was a big place with three levels and on every wall was a painting by none other than Edward Kaff himself. Kathleen didn’t know much about art, but what she saw seemed okay—a lot of it was violent and sexual and, well, weird. Everyone attending looked rich and cultured; there were about 100 people and they were well-dressed, of all ages, and mingled about, drinking imported champagne and talking and laughing and looking at each other and, Kathleen assumed, gossiping. She was glad she didn’t have to be around them; they were from a different world and they weren’t the kind of people she would ever want to know. She was here to do a job and get the rest of her quid. So: she entered the gallery completely naked, holding a bag of assorted sex toys. Needless to say, without a doubt, and completely to Edward Kaff’s plan, all chatter stopped, jaws dropped, eyes widened as Kathleen made her way though the people in the splendor of her skin.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Kaff, wearing a tuxedo and looking rather dapper, “may I present to you—my slut!”

No one knew what to make of this.

Kathleen walked over to a large beanbag that was placed in the center of the gallery. She lied on her back, spread her legs, closed her eyes, and went to work with her hand.

She could feel all the eyes on her, the heat of bodies closing in, the warmth of the lights…mumbles, confusion, fascination, one woman saying, “She has a small and pretty pussy.”

“Fear not!” said Kaff, “for this is all part of the show. This young trollop, this lover of mine, this luscious piece of girl meat, this comely little whore who loves to diddle—she is my new canvas, my finest work of art, my erotic masterpiece!”

Hearing his voice…doing this…the people around her…the excitement of the strange…it made Kathleen come, and she was quite vocal about it.

Scattered applause.

“You see,” said Kaff, “magnificent!”

She reached into the bag and took out the first sex toy—a small dildo.…

She peeked through her eyelids: so many faces and eyes watching her with blasé interest.…

“And now,” said Kaff, “I shall read a very long poem. If you get bored, have a drink, have a finger food, watch the girl jill-off…it is all part of the show.”

He read his poem, which took about an hour. She half-listened to it, paying more attention to her pussy and making herself come, going from the small dildo to the bigger one and to an even bigger one, as well as a butt-plug… fucking herself with the rubber cocks as Kaff read his words that were filled with images of Europe and travel and vampires and music and Russia. What it all meant, she had no idea. She was no longer concerned with the people watching her…it didn’t take long for most of them to become bored and go back to mingling, whispering, and drinking.…

When Kaff was done reading, he went to her, joined her, touched her, kissed her, put his mouth to her vagina…

“More avant-garde theater, Eddy?” someone asked with an appropriate amount of sarcasm.

“You haven’t seen nothing yet,” he replied.

He undressed, and began to fuck her.…

IX.

…and fucked and fucked for many hours like planned and promised and practiced. Most people got bored and left.

Then it was over.

“And so my latest art installation ends,” said Kaff.

X.

“Here is your money,” he said, handing her the second check.

She didn’t look at it.

“Where will you go from here?” he asked.

“Your home,” she said. “I would like.…”

He said, “I would like that too,” and that’s what they did.