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Authors: Truman Capote
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stimulate masturbation? And surely masturbation is the pleasanter alternative for men “on the muscle,” as they say in horse-breeding circles.
A Puerto Rican pimp stood sneering at the stooped man (“What you want with that when I got nice live
puta
?”), but I felt sorry for him: he looked to me like some youngish lonely minister who had embezzled the whole of last Sunday’s collection plate to buy those jack-off snaps; so I decided to help himpick them up—but the instant I began, he struck me across the face: a karate chop that felt as if it must have shattered a cheekbone.
“Beat it,” he snarled. I said: “Jesus, I wanted to help you.” And he said: “Beat it. Before I bust you good.” His face had flushed a red so bright it pained my eyes, and then I realized it wasn’t exclusively the color of rage but of shame as well—I thought he’d thought I meant to steal his pictures, when really what had infuriated him was the pity implicit in my proffered assistance.
THOUGH MISS SELF IS A most successful businesswoman, she certainly doesn’t squander on display. Her offices are four flights up in an elevatorless building. THE SELF SERVICE : a frosted-glass door with that inscription. But I hesitated (really, did I want to do this? Well, there wasn’t anything I’d
rather
do, at least to make money). I combed my hair, creased the trousers of a just-bought fifty-dollar Robert Hall herringbone two-pants special, rang, and walked in.
The outer office was unfurnished except for a bench, a desk, and two young gentlemen, one of them a secretary-receptionist seated behind the desk and the other a beautiful mulatto wearing a
very
contemporary dark blue silk suit; neither one chose to notice me.
“… so after that,” the mulatto was saying, “I stayed a week with Spencer in San Diego. Spencer! He is oooee some
rocket
, wow. One night we were parachuting along the San Diego Freeway, and Spencer picked up this spade marine, a real country-boy piece of smoked Alabama beef, so Spencer was like going after it in the back seat, and afterward the guy says: ‘I sho can see what I git outta it. It feel good. But what I sho can’t see is what you fellasgit outta it.’ And Spencer tells him: ‘Ah, man. It’s deelicious. Jes pussy on a stick.’ ”
The secretary languidly turned upon me a disapproving pair of wintergreen eyes. A blond, and how!—his skin had the golden oleo gleam that comes from long Cherry Grove weekends. Yet, overall, he seemed decidedly moldy—a sort of suntanned Uriah Heep. “Yes?” he inquired in a voice that crawled coolly through the air like an exhalation of mentholated smoke.
I told him I wanted to see Miss Self. He asked my purpose, and I said I had been recommended by Woodrow Hamilton. He said: “You will have to fill out our form. Are you applying as a client? Or as a prospective employee?”
“Employee.”
“Mmmmm,” mused Black Beauty, “that’s too bad. I wouldn’t have minded scrambling your eggs, daddy.” And the secretary, prissily pissed-off, said: “Okay, Lester. Shove your sore ass off sister’s desk and hustle it down to the Americana. You’ve got a five-thirty. Room 507.”
When I had completed the questionnaire, which asked nothing beyond the customary Age? Address? Occupation? Marital Status?, Dracula’s daughter evaporated with it into an inner office—and while he was gone, this girl ambled in, an overweight but damned attractive girl, a young
boule de suif
with a pink creamy round face and a fat pair of boobs squirming inside the bodice of a summery pink dress.
She cuddled down next to me and tucked a cigarette between her lips. “How about it?” I explained if it was a match she wanted, I couldn’t help her as I’d stopped smoking, and she said: “So have I. This is just a prop. I meant how about it, where’s Butch? Butch!” she cried, rising to engulf the returning secretary.
“Maggie! ”
“Butch!”
“Maggie!” Then, coming to his
A Puerto Rican pimp stood sneering at the stooped man (“What you want with that when I got nice live
puta
?”), but I felt sorry for him: he looked to me like some youngish lonely minister who had embezzled the whole of last Sunday’s collection plate to buy those jack-off snaps; so I decided to help himpick them up—but the instant I began, he struck me across the face: a karate chop that felt as if it must have shattered a cheekbone.
“Beat it,” he snarled. I said: “Jesus, I wanted to help you.” And he said: “Beat it. Before I bust you good.” His face had flushed a red so bright it pained my eyes, and then I realized it wasn’t exclusively the color of rage but of shame as well—I thought he’d thought I meant to steal his pictures, when really what had infuriated him was the pity implicit in my proffered assistance.
THOUGH MISS SELF IS A most successful businesswoman, she certainly doesn’t squander on display. Her offices are four flights up in an elevatorless building. THE SELF SERVICE : a frosted-glass door with that inscription. But I hesitated (really, did I want to do this? Well, there wasn’t anything I’d
rather
do, at least to make money). I combed my hair, creased the trousers of a just-bought fifty-dollar Robert Hall herringbone two-pants special, rang, and walked in.
The outer office was unfurnished except for a bench, a desk, and two young gentlemen, one of them a secretary-receptionist seated behind the desk and the other a beautiful mulatto wearing a
very
contemporary dark blue silk suit; neither one chose to notice me.
“… so after that,” the mulatto was saying, “I stayed a week with Spencer in San Diego. Spencer! He is oooee some
rocket
, wow. One night we were parachuting along the San Diego Freeway, and Spencer picked up this spade marine, a real country-boy piece of smoked Alabama beef, so Spencer was like going after it in the back seat, and afterward the guy says: ‘I sho can see what I git outta it. It feel good. But what I sho can’t see is what you fellasgit outta it.’ And Spencer tells him: ‘Ah, man. It’s deelicious. Jes pussy on a stick.’ ”
The secretary languidly turned upon me a disapproving pair of wintergreen eyes. A blond, and how!—his skin had the golden oleo gleam that comes from long Cherry Grove weekends. Yet, overall, he seemed decidedly moldy—a sort of suntanned Uriah Heep. “Yes?” he inquired in a voice that crawled coolly through the air like an exhalation of mentholated smoke.
I told him I wanted to see Miss Self. He asked my purpose, and I said I had been recommended by Woodrow Hamilton. He said: “You will have to fill out our form. Are you applying as a client? Or as a prospective employee?”
“Employee.”
“Mmmmm,” mused Black Beauty, “that’s too bad. I wouldn’t have minded scrambling your eggs, daddy.” And the secretary, prissily pissed-off, said: “Okay, Lester. Shove your sore ass off sister’s desk and hustle it down to the Americana. You’ve got a five-thirty. Room 507.”
When I had completed the questionnaire, which asked nothing beyond the customary Age? Address? Occupation? Marital Status?, Dracula’s daughter evaporated with it into an inner office—and while he was gone, this girl ambled in, an overweight but damned attractive girl, a young
boule de suif
with a pink creamy round face and a fat pair of boobs squirming inside the bodice of a summery pink dress.
She cuddled down next to me and tucked a cigarette between her lips. “How about it?” I explained if it was a match she wanted, I couldn’t help her as I’d stopped smoking, and she said: “So have I. This is just a prop. I meant how about it, where’s Butch? Butch!” she cried, rising to engulf the returning secretary.
“Maggie! ”
“Butch!”
“Maggie!” Then, coming to his
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