Read Online The Merry Month of May by James Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Jones
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be called Cuntniks, as Kerouac, Ginsberg and company, a few years younger, were Beatniks. Harry laughed suddenly, ha-ha-ha, in a kind of crazy way. But the very first memory of his life was of sex. It was of lying in bed on a sunny summer morning jacking off. He couldn’t have been more than five: too young even to know what coming was, in any normal way; but lying there jacking his cock just the same. And what was in his mind? What were his thoughts, his fantasy, at the time? Cunt! The little girl next door! The little girl next door, when he was too young even to know what a cunt was, or looked like.
He had been a dedicated pussy-eater since the very first time he had indulged the pastime. Had been one before, even; since first learning such a technique existed via the pornography shown him by older boys. His own young porno collection had swung more and more toward pictures, stories, drawings, any material having to do with cunt-lapping. But the girls of his generation, at least while young, were backward in this respect. His first real opportunity did not come till he was 17, when he took out in his father’s big Studebaker a younger girl noted for going out with all the boys, and had gone down on her before he fucked her. She had not been at all surprised. All the boys liked to eat her pussy that way she said, and she herself loved it. She was his first blow job, and his first real fuck. He would never forget her. Wherever she was, he wished her well. But she was quite a contrast to the rest of them, who all seemed to feel that licking their cunts was dirty and immoral, a perversion; which of course only excited him all the more. Perhaps it frightened them because its intensity was so great, and made them find they were sexual creatures after all. Whatever, it gave him some anxious moments about his “perversion”. And as it was with sucking, so it was with fucking. There are other things in life besides sex, Harry, spoken in a high, protesting highschool—or college—soprano, was a sentence that would remain in his head the rest of his life. Later, of course, as he moved on from Boston to New York, and then to Hollywood, and then into the Service, and back to Hollywood, he realized that what he had found and taken unto himself; what he could, indeed, almost be said to have totally and alone created for himself, i.e., this preoccupation with and adoration of female cunt—was after all not really all that much of a singular experience at all.
His entire generation, or at least (here he nodded at me, allowing me existence, too, alongside himself), at least one element of his generation, had it, and suffered from it and enjoyed it.
He had analyzed it and analyzed it and, if you took away all the commercialization of it (cunt; and the adoration of cunt) in the advertising world; all the promulgation of it in films and magazines and radio and TV; if you took all that away— it was still there; still there, and existing in and of itself, by itself, antedating all the rest of it, all the media saturation. He thought maybe it had to do with some brand-new element of male masochism, introduced by whatever matriarchal environmental factor he had never been able to isolate. Masochism in the distorted male pleasure principle: the pleasure of giving pleasure to the woman. That, of course, was unnatural. Imagine a male dog or cat or lion concerning himself with giving pleasure to the female! Ridiculous! But men did it. And it had to be masochistic. There was something perversely pleasurable in making a woman enjoy sex. For example: You take a woman and, by whatever means, bring her on toward coming—toward her orgasm—and before long, you reached a point where you ceased to exist as you for her. You ceased to be Harry Gallagher for her and became just a man, any man, who is giving her excitation and stimulation. Carry it a while further and you ceased to be even a man, and became just some object, some thing which is
He had been a dedicated pussy-eater since the very first time he had indulged the pastime. Had been one before, even; since first learning such a technique existed via the pornography shown him by older boys. His own young porno collection had swung more and more toward pictures, stories, drawings, any material having to do with cunt-lapping. But the girls of his generation, at least while young, were backward in this respect. His first real opportunity did not come till he was 17, when he took out in his father’s big Studebaker a younger girl noted for going out with all the boys, and had gone down on her before he fucked her. She had not been at all surprised. All the boys liked to eat her pussy that way she said, and she herself loved it. She was his first blow job, and his first real fuck. He would never forget her. Wherever she was, he wished her well. But she was quite a contrast to the rest of them, who all seemed to feel that licking their cunts was dirty and immoral, a perversion; which of course only excited him all the more. Perhaps it frightened them because its intensity was so great, and made them find they were sexual creatures after all. Whatever, it gave him some anxious moments about his “perversion”. And as it was with sucking, so it was with fucking. There are other things in life besides sex, Harry, spoken in a high, protesting highschool—or college—soprano, was a sentence that would remain in his head the rest of his life. Later, of course, as he moved on from Boston to New York, and then to Hollywood, and then into the Service, and back to Hollywood, he realized that what he had found and taken unto himself; what he could, indeed, almost be said to have totally and alone created for himself, i.e., this preoccupation with and adoration of female cunt—was after all not really all that much of a singular experience at all.
His entire generation, or at least (here he nodded at me, allowing me existence, too, alongside himself), at least one element of his generation, had it, and suffered from it and enjoyed it.
He had analyzed it and analyzed it and, if you took away all the commercialization of it (cunt; and the adoration of cunt) in the advertising world; all the promulgation of it in films and magazines and radio and TV; if you took all that away— it was still there; still there, and existing in and of itself, by itself, antedating all the rest of it, all the media saturation. He thought maybe it had to do with some brand-new element of male masochism, introduced by whatever matriarchal environmental factor he had never been able to isolate. Masochism in the distorted male pleasure principle: the pleasure of giving pleasure to the woman. That, of course, was unnatural. Imagine a male dog or cat or lion concerning himself with giving pleasure to the female! Ridiculous! But men did it. And it had to be masochistic. There was something perversely pleasurable in making a woman enjoy sex. For example: You take a woman and, by whatever means, bring her on toward coming—toward her orgasm—and before long, you reached a point where you ceased to exist as you for her. You ceased to be Harry Gallagher for her and became just a man, any man, who is giving her excitation and stimulation. Carry it a while further and you ceased to be even a man, and became just some object, some thing which is
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