Read Online Crazy Cock by Henry Miller - Free Book Online Page B

the rear of the basement was the kitchen, in the front a bar about the size of a coffin. A genial buzz of voices greeted his ears; the faces were cheery and the beverages looked colorful andinviting. He stood a moment at the threshold, soaking up the warm, liquid glow of the room. They were standing three deep at the bar, the women outnumbering the men. Everyone seemed to be gay and tipsy. A woman was scratching her behind; she saw him look at her but it made no difference. It was her behind and she had a right to scratch it, since it needed to be scratched. A sort of proclamation of emancipation. . . .
    As he was about to ascend the stairs leading to the dining room a tall, well-proportioned female, lit up like an ocean liner, started waddling down. She smiled heavily and gave a signal to stand clear. Her dress was high at the bottom and low at the top; she kept hitching it up as if she feared she would trip. Slowly and cautiously she lowered herself—like a grand piano. And all the while she smiled, as people smile when they’re paralyzed. He stared straight into her eyes, and then a little lower, at the expanse of flesh between her knees and her waist. It was solid, olive meat polished here and there by glowing patches of shadow. He glanced from her thighs to her face and back again. She raised her skirt a little higher; her grin spread wider. She was ages hoisting herself down. She wasn’t just lit up—she was fumigated.
    â€œHave a drink?” she said, soon as she realized she had hit the bottom. He tried to refuse politely. “Oh, come on . . . have one!” she said, and he felt her thigh pressing against him.
    â€œAll right,” he said, “but just one.”
    â€œHell no, one won’t do you any good. Let’s have a flock of them. I’m sitting upstairs with a bunch of old hens. We’re having a regular old hen party . . . ain’t that fierce?”
    â€œYeah, fierce!” he said.
    â€œSay, I don’t look like an old hen, do I?” She squeezed hisarm in her painfully playful way. “Tell me,” she repeated, “do I look like an old hen to you?”
    â€œI wouldn’t say you did . . . except for the feathers.”
    â€œFeathers? What feathers? Say, you’re full of feathers yourself.” With this she gave a lurch that nearly tipped him over.
    They ordered martinis. She insisted on paying. The woman always pays. He looked at her dumbly and wondered where she was putting it all. The room was spinning; he had to watch her mouth to get what she was saying. The voices came to him in a confused blur splintered now and again by the staccato shouts of the waiters. They were lapping it up like flies at the bar. There was no need to hold himself erect; everyone leaned against everyone else. He was not so befuddled, however, but that he could tell whose hand it was pressing against his thigh. It was a hot, heavy hand, and every once in a while it got spasms or something. When he shifted a bit he felt her legs moving in and squeezing hard.
    â€œAre you feeling all right?” he asked.
    She grinned and her legs twitched some more. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, and taking him by the hand she led him toward the stairs. “Jesus, your hand’s cold,” she said. “Feel me . . . I’m hot as hell.”
    The idea of going upstairs to join a bunch of old hens didn’t appeal to him at all. He tried to pull away from her. “Come on,” she whispered. “I know what I’m doing.” When they got to the second landing she stopped short. He saw a pink light over the door at the end of the hall. She had her hand over his mouth and was pressing heavily with her drunken weight. He raised his eyebrows questioningly toward the pink light over the door while she wagged her head from sideto side like an automaton. Suddenly, chewing her lower lip, she gripped him tight. What the hell! he said to himself,