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  in getting ahead in academia. From time to time I interjected with

  appropriate responses.

  After the food arrived, Annie turned again to my manuscript,

  having read the copy I had sent her. She offered a wide variety of

  additional observations.

  Then the conversation switched back to the subject of her career. I

  teased Annie mildly about her area of study, Romance Languages.

  The simple truth is that I admire the hell out of her intellect, and view

  the pursuit of an academic career as a truly worthy occupation.

  I, of course, would have no patience for it, having expended all my

  educational energy on my paltry little four year degree.

  Smart as Annie is, what I dig most is that she is a hot babe of the

  first order, and realize that I have yet to mention her most outstanding

  physical feature, which happens to be a large and decidedly luscious

  upper rack.

  Annie is the proud owner of two hefty, solid, and very shapely

  breasts. Atop each squeezable item is a pink and perfect nipple,

  which I would have been happy to kiss and suck far past the ten

  minute span she allowed me.

  Nevertheless, we had good sex while she was here, the best since I

  have known her. Only the regular stuff, though. Nothing too exotic.

  She is quite conservative on that score.

  46

  My strategy with Annie and any woman of her sophistication is to

  get her slightly drunk, make her laugh, feed her a delicious meal, and

  then start kissing her with passionate abandon.

  Thus it was with Annie, who returned my kisses after we came

  back from the restaurant, sitting on the sofa in my living room/dining

  room.

  "You make me so hot, Patrick," Annie said.

  I pulled Annie’s hand down to my crotch, gently, not trying to rush

  things, but to keep them going forward.

  "Feel this," I said.

  Annie felt me, rubbing her academically inclined fingertips against

  the swollen head, and then down along the shaft.

  "Oh, yes, Patrick," Annie said, surrendering to more of my kisses.

  "Oh, yes!"

  Not too long afterwards, we were in my bed. Annie was on top of

  me, my cock buried in her to the hilt.

  Like a pair of windshield wipers, my lips went back and forth

  across the milk white expanses of her lovely breasts, to kiss, lick,

  suck, and generally anoint the tiny crowning points.

  "Oooooaaahh..." Annie murmured. "Aaaaahhh..."

  Oh, it was heaven. This went on, I estimate, for maybe ten, twelve

  minutes, until Annie indicated that she wanted to roll off and get into

  the missionary position.

  "It gives me the best feeling," she explained.

  "Okay," I said.

  I got in between Annie’s soft thighs and eased my cock in about

  half way. She is very sensitive upon penetration, as I have learned

  from my previous times with her.

  Gripping my hips on either side, Annie carefully drew me up inside

  her, until I was sunk all the way. Then her hands grasped my butt,

  gripping me tightly.

  "Oooohhh ... ahhh ... you’re so big," Annie said, her eyes closed,

  twisting her head from side to side, her nails digging into my rump.

  47

  Annie’s pussy was hot, tight, and sweet. My cock felt like it was in

  a small, silken sleeve, a chamber that could clutch and ripple in

  response to each of my gliding pushes.

  Usually, the first time for a couple who have been apart for a while

  is not all that great. Such was not the case for us.

  After about another ten minutes of diligent humping, Annie brought

  her mouth to mine, her tongue going into my mouth. It was a sign

  that she was about to cum.

  Sensing her impending orgasm, I redoubled my efforts, pounding

  my cock in and out as fast as I possibly could.

  We had a satisfying mutual orgasm, crying out as we tumbled into

  it. Thank heavens, Annie isn’t a screamer, certainly not like Polly

  Ellsworth was in the throes of orgasm. Annie just does this incredible

  tensing thing, accompanied by a whine/whimper that is very exciting

  to hear.

  In harmony with her whimper, I made my usual barking

  exclamations, with both of us more or less nutting ourselves off into

  the stratosphere.

  Afterwards, we sat up in bed and talked. Annie had a pack of these

  Indonesian clove cigarettes and we each smoked one. I told Annie the

  old joke about the woman who was asked if she smoked after sex and

  was surprised to learn that she had never heard it before.

  "Go ahead," Annie said.

  "A woman was asked if she smoked after sex. She replied that she

  didn’t know because she never looked to see."

  Annie laughed. "That’s funny," she said.

  As usual, Annie refused to let me eat her pussy but showed not the

  least hint of reluctance to restore me with a nice long sucking after our

  first fuck.

  Too bad, too. Annie has a naturally hairless pussy. Oh, there are a

  few thin sprouts over her clitoris, which she keeps shaved. So there is

  none to speak of, really. It’s very unusual, but sexy as hell, in my

  opinion.

  However, Annie is very sensitive about her nearly bald pussy and

  won’t let me (or anyone else, I imagine) apply tongue and lips to it.

  48

  After our second session, we must have slept for about six hours,

  and when we woke up, we must have felt pretty good, because we did

  it again, with me giving to her doggy-style, with no switch to

  missionary position this time.

  That was by far the longest round of three fucks that first night.

  Made a big wet spot on the pillow I stuck under Annie’s belly to raise

  her butt up.

  The next day we took a drive up the coast, stopping to take in

  several viewpoints. Then we headed up to the north jetty to look

  around. Annie had a good camera with her and took a few snapshots.

  I talked a guy who was there into taking one of us together, with the

  ocean in the background.

  I have no idea how it will turn out.

  Then it was back to Bay Street for a tour of the shops. When we

  got back to the cabin, I made dinner and we drank more wine. The

  sex was a reprise of the first night, except that all three were

  missionary position.

  "That other one," Annie said, meaning doggy style, "kind of makes

  me sore."

  Truth be told, my literary efforts seem to turn her on, it would

  appear. It was cold in my bedroom so we had to snuggle very close.

  For once she didn’t talk me to death, just threw her head back and let

  it happen.

  Still, she seems to be wary of me for some reason. Or maybe I am

  projecting my own fears. She is of course adorable. I really wish she

  were a tad less inhibited, but she really has the most flawless skin and

  a lovely complexion.

  As for my book, Annie was encouraging, but realistic.

  "At least you’ve got a book written," she said. "Whatever faults it

  may have can probably be corrected, or you can write another one.

  Yours is a pretty unique accomplishment, Patrick. I don’t think you

  o
ught to be ashamed of anything. And don’t take my criticisms too

  hard. Promise me?"

  "Well, thank you, and I will not," I said.

  49

  The next thing I knew, Annie’s sweater was off, and I was once

  more kissing and sucking her big white boobies, nuzzling them like

  there was no tomorrow.

  But there I go again, dammit. The woman has an I.Q. of 180 and

  typically all I can focus on is her bod.

  We laughed a lot. I like Annie so very much. If she was going to

  remain in the state I know that we’d see a lot of each other. But she’s

  heading back east in a week or so.

  Working hard on getting her PhD.

  Soon they will be calling her "The Professor," like that fellow on

  Gilligan’s Island. And I will be the Skipper’s half-wit little buddy in

  a sailor cap.

  Reading Raymond Chandler’s Killer in the Rain and other stories.

  Has reading dear old Raymio’s stuff altered my style in any way?

  Sure hope so. That guy could really write.

  I had the right idea there in the first draft of the book, but I was

  terribly clumsy. Annie said she’d be happy to try a chapter by chapter

  breakdown, as she does with her own reading material. For that, I

  would indeed be very grateful. Maybe I’ll help by giving her my

  shiny red pen.

  Work at the office is still okay. Perhaps I should stay here for two

  years and try to buy a cabin in the woods, like Thoreau. A place with

  a lot of psilocybin mushrooms around. If I found a place before

  summer maybe I could even grow some dope. Get me an illegal cash

  crop a-going. That might be fun. If I’m going to live in the sticks, I

  might as well live in the real sticks.

  Haven’t heard from Ms. Ellsworth, nor do I really expect to. My

  last missive was somewhat heavy-handed, I will admit. But who

  cares? I have gotten contradictory messages from her and I’d like to

  be clear on what she is saying before I turn away for good. I can

  always try another letter again. Nothing succeeds like persistent

  failure.

  I am meanwhile moving along, getting into the final portion of my

  manuscript. Annie says the third part is the hardest and I agree with

  her. She is very perceptive about things.

  50

  * * * *

  March 17, 1978 St. Patrick’s Day

  I’ve always hated this day. I don’t like being named after that

  stupid jerk who drove the snakes out of Ireland. I think they should

  have kept the snakes and drove the Catholic Church out. I like

  snakes. They are useful in controlling vermin.

  On the other hand, few institutions have been responsible for more

  suffering in the past 2,000 years than our Holy Mother Church. They

  even cut a deal with Hitler during World War II to look the other way

  while he murdered the Jews, although the Vatican denies it.

  But the Jews all know better. Annie said her parents and their

  relatives are totally convinced the Vatican sold them out to Hitler. I

  agree. Although I am not Jewish, I have a hell of a lot more respect

  for their religion than I do my own.

  The certified letter turned out to be from Bill Beckwith, the former

  boyfriend of Lori Sanchez. Somehow or other Bill still had one of my

  old poetry manuscripts, Inner Space Commando I must have given it

  to him during one of my drunken moments.

  Well well well. I have recovered all of my ancient literary artifacts

  in the space of one week. That is a good thing.

  I can’t get over how bad my poems are.

  A couple may be salvageable, but otherwise blech. Perhaps I try

  some new ones over the summer or strike out in a new direction.

  Right now I’m just not ready to do it. I’m not ready to do anything. I

  am very tired and must go to sleep.

  * * * *

  March 18, 1978

  Got lots of things to do on this, my Saturday. First of all, I’ll have

  to make a trip to the dump to get rid of the trash I’ve been

  accumulating since I got here. Also need to change the oil in the bus.

  And it would be nice to complete another chapter today.

  A long one, like Chap. 31.

  The landlord came by this morning and said it was okay if I paid

  him from the first to the first. We agreed on a pro-rated sum for the

  rest of this month. I’m not sure what I will do about money until then,

  51

  however. I only have about $10 left. I wish the State University

  would let them send me my refund. I could make it to the end of the

  month easy on that.

  * * * *

  March 19, 1978

  It is Sunday and I did not have such a great weekend with the

  typewriter. I think I burned myself out on Friday night and did

  nothing yesterday except work on my tan.

  It might be because Chap. 31 is such a difficult grind, and it may be

  because I am no good. But I really think worrying about money is the

  cause of it. I am broke. Either I get money soon or else I’ll be in deep

  shit.

  The hunger thing really does not appeal to me. Today I only

  managed six or seven hundred words.

  A dismal effort. Tomorrow I must call my mother and ask to

  borrow some money. Groan. Normally I would not do it but she

  owes me a giant favor. I spent three months and over $300 last fall

  fixing her garage. Now it is usable instead of unusable.

  As with any project relating to her, it started fairly small but

  ballooned into this huge unbelievable undertaking, eating my days off

  for three months. I did it mainly to shut her up but of course that did

  me no good. She doesn’t ever shut up. Now she can do me a tiny

  favor in return. Twenty bucks ought to cover me. That is how I will

  put it to her in fact.

  Talked to my neighbor Harry Williams today. He’s about my age

  or so. Within a year, I’d say. Very pleasant and smart. He’s in the

  process of getting a divorce from his wife, Shana.

  Although Harry works hard and gives her every penny, Shana is

  dissatisfied with their marriage and wants out. The marriage was her

  idea six years ago – an "unplanned pregnancy" was the impetus. Now

  that the child is older Shana is bored with Harry and disillusioned with

  married life in general.

  Women. The only thing worse than not giving them what they

  want is giving them what they want. This is my interpretation as

  Harry absolutely refuses to be critical of his soon-to-be ex-wife. It is

  52

  all his fault, he says, for spending too much time on business instead

  of family.

  For working too hard and ignoring her many complaints. I said

  nothing negative about her while he castigated himself but thought to

  myself that she has done a real job on him.

  Not very eager to go back to work this week. If it weren’t for

  Megan, I’d really fucking dread it.

  * * * *

  March 23, 1978

  Finished Chap. 35 yesterday. On page 103 now. A difficult dream

  sequence has gone pretty well so far. Expect to finish it tomorrow.

  Work is a grind. But with Megan’s help I am making progress and

  getting the hang of it.
I like this kind of work much better than the

  physical type jobs I have held in the past. All I really think about is

  my book, though. I want to get through this draft in an artful fashion.

  Borrowed $30 from my mother to get me through the end of the

  month. I told her I’ll pay her back with interest the very instant I get

  paid. Wish Oxygen State would send my balance because my refund

  comes to substantially more than I currently owe them.

  Talked politics with a quadriplegic client named John Delano

  today. He says Jerry Brown will run in 1980 but thinks nobody can

  dislodge Carter at this point. Mr. Delano says the system is ripe for a

  political takeover, most likely a right wing one. He says the

  Republicans will win with Ronald Reagan. I disagree.

  Perhaps I am a foolish dreamer, but I believe our generation will

  make some positive changes. I believe we will do the right thing and

  make a difference politically.

  * * * *

  March 24, 1978

  I may have to ditch this writing scam once I am finished with The

  Dark City. It takes too much out of me. I am alone too often and I am

  turning into a drunk. The booze doesn’t seem to hurt my prose – yet –

  but I think it might be hurting me. I’m drunk now, really drunk. I

  drink every night. I smoke cigarettes constantly when I am writing.

  I’m smoking one now.

  53

  That idiot Chesley failed to take the phone out of the house on 25th

  Street. Now I’m stuck with an extra three week $40 bill since the

  goddamn thing was in my name. Sonofabitch!

  Did he do it on purpose because I moved out? I can’t believe he

  would be so deliberately shitty. I called the phone people today and

  told them to take it out. I think he just moved and forgot about it.

  That would be more like him.

  He told me he would cancel the service and I relied on him to keep

  his word. It really burns me up. He flakes, I pay.

  Finished Chap. 36 tonight. Kept the good stuff, eliminated the bad

  stuff, or so I like to think. Major changes overall, with an

  intermediate notebook draft that was very helpful.

  Anyway, I like the result.

  Slip-sliding away. The nearer my destination, the more I’m slip-

  sliding away. What is the purpose of this journal? It has grown