Fools for Lust (10 page)

He thrusts forward into her. There is no resistance. She is totally lubricated and gaping for him like seldom before. He sees all the way into her mysterious pinkness. He slides in.

Surely
, he wonders as he fucks her,
not all married couples love each other this blissfully? Surely all the people in the streets outside, dressed all proper, coated with the veneer of civilisation, do not become wonderful savages like us in the privacy of their sex lives? No, we must be unique
.

My Narrow Mind – Villa Paquita, Juan-les-Pins, France, 1926
The summer had been absolutely gorgeous and their skin had tanned grandly. Evenly. Golden brown. Of course, Zelda had to wear a floppy straw hat to protect her face from burning, but she had nonetheless come out all over in sumptuous freckles, evenly scattered across her nose, dotted across her pink cheeks and staining the invisible part of her chest like paint stains in an Impressionist painting.

They had made friends so easily with the American contingent of the Riviera set. Also with a lot of French aristocrats. Lazy days spent lounging on deckchairs and dipping an occasional toe in the warm water of the Mediterranean, while the children, little Scottie always busy with the Murphy kids, were kept happy at a short distance under the careful eye of their minders. The conversation was witty, the rhythm of summer languorous, the parties at night in a variety of glamorous villas easily reached by automobile, by the sea or in the hills, flowing with good wine and gaiety.

Wit and repartee and laughs and fun; this was another side of paradise.

Scott and Zelda found it delirious. They rented a succession of villas after a stay at the Hotel d'Hyeres. Zelda in particular loved Provence. She would later evoke it meaningfully in the only book she would ever write. At first, Scott managed to write most days, while Zelda busied herself shopping with Sara Murphy and others and organising picnics on the beach later in the day.

America felt so far away.

Ernest Hemmingway had come down to the coast for one week, but left after only three days, mumbling under his breath of their parasitic status and accusing Scott of prostituting his talent with all the layabouts down here. But nobody really took Ernest that seriously then. Just another spoilsport, and a bit too earnest anyway. Zelda wondered sometimes why Scott and Ernest managed to stay friends. There was an undercurrent of envy, she sensed. And Ernest looked at her strangely when he was around, almost undressing her with his eyes. Not her sort of guy.

Unlike some of those handsome French military types, who came and went with the set throughout the summer. Dashing, exotic, supremely elegant, whether in or out of uniform.

She was still in love with Scott. A good man, he loved her back dearly. And he attracted the sort of glamour that enchanted her. Her husband, the famous novelist. But he was also a bit predictable. Boring? Zelda wanted to write her own books, regretted the loss of her planned dancing career; she didn't just want to be “the wife”.

Yesterday. A whole group of them had gone up to that famous restaurant in the hills behind Nice. Expensive and overrated, she reckoned. You were mostly paying for the view. They had all divided up into several cars afterward.

‘A last drink, a coffee, Madame Fitzgerald?' the French army officer had asked.

‘Why not?' she had said, without thinking. Scott had gone ahead with Gerald and Sara Murphy, already quite sloshed. By now he was probably passed out on the bed with his clothes still on.

Another man's body. Another man's touch. His kisses tasted different, the movements of his hands over her skin held new, changing rhythms. He undressed her slowly, as if performing a ritual. Stood back at regular intervals to admire her, allowing her each time the opportunity to say ‘No, no further,' but Zelda had wanted to see where this would go. It was like an adventure. Another crazy one, like the drinking, the false gaiety, the jumping into swimming pools with her dress still on, the day she had swum so far out to sea until none of the others were nearby and she had slipped out of the cumbersome costume and paddled about until tiredness set in, stark naked in the blue Mediterranean water.

The officer had kissed her everywhere, worshipped at her altar like no man ever before, inserted his tongue in all her nooks and crannies, opened her up and delved and tasted her between the puffy lips of her cunt, which Scott had never even thought of doing. She had come twice even before he got around to fucking her.

Finally, he'd undressed. Jeez, he was big. She had stared.

‘
Qu'est-ce que c'est, ma chère Zelda?
' he had asked.

‘It's – it's ... different,' she had said.

‘
Ah, oui
. I see. I am circumcised; it's for hygienic reasons. You like?'

‘Yes.' She nodded. ‘It looks ... nice.'

He moved closer to her. Presented himself to Zelda.

‘Would you,
ma chère?

She would.

It was morning by the time she got home.

Scott was awake.

He was already (still?) drinking.

‘Who?' he quietly asked her.

There was no point pretending, she thought.

‘The officer,' Zelda answered. Knowing all too well that things would never be the same again.

He set his glass down, looked slowly at her – was she still flushed? – and, slurring his words slightly, said ‘I'm sure it wasn't your fault, my darling. It was his. I shall challenge the bounder to a duel.'

‘You wouldn't.' Zelda had to smile.

‘Yes,' Scott replied, ‘and after I have avenged my honour, you and I shall then pack up and return to Paris.'

Carrying Sin in My Sack – Paris, Autumn 1929
Ernest and Scott were having a pee in the toilets of the Coupole in Montparnasse. They had earlier been moaning about the state of New York publishing and Max Perkins's editorial edicts, the sizes of print runs, and likely future level of advances against royalties.

Scott broke the silence.

‘Hey, Ernie, can I ask you something?'

‘Sure,' Hemingway said. ‘Shoot, buddy.' He directed his stream of urine toward the metal wall of the convenience so as to avoid splashing his shoes. Next to him, Scott also concentrated on his aim, pensively looking down at his member.

‘Well,' he said, ‘it's a bit delicate ...'

‘Oh, come on ...'

‘Do you think my cock is of a normal size?'

Ernest grinned broadly and turned to look down at Scott's still-dribbling penis. Reflected one moment, then said, ‘Seems more or less the same size as mine, man.' He pulled back from his standing position and held his own cock for Scott to see.

Scott sheepishly turned and looked.

‘Yeah, I suppose so ...'

Hemingway suddenly roared with laughter.

‘What is it?' Scott inquired.

‘I was just imagining my wife, the bitch, seeing us here with our damn cocks out on display. As it is, she said the other week that she thought we were both two queers anyway!'

‘Really?'

‘What does she know, eh?'

Scott slipped his penis back into his trousers. Hemingway shook the last few drops off his.

‘It's just that I think Zelda finds me inadequate, you know,' he confided.

‘All women want you to feel that way, you know, Scottie boy. I wouldn't let it worry you.'

They found their way back to their table and ordered another round of pastis.

Scott had told Ernest some years back of the affair with the French officer, and made a whole song and dance of the duel he had threatened, and how it had scared the guy right away from the Riviera, never to be seen in their circle of friends again. What he hadn't revealed was that the French officer had just laughed and declined to participate in such a farce.

‘I've never had the courage to ask her if his was bigger than mine, you know?'

‘Listen, Scottie boy, you fucked that gal, that English singer, the other month, didn't you? Did she complain about the size of your equipment, eh?'

‘Well ...'

‘It's not the size; it's how you use it,' Hemingway insisted.

Scott had not told him that he had come too quickly with the British woman, and that one hour later he had been impotent and incapable of performing again. Maybe it had been the drink inside him. He hoped.

They downed their drinks.

‘But,' Ernest said, unwilling to change the subject of the conversation, ‘talking of size, I saw the Tijuana movie loop the other week at Gerald and Sara's last party. The one you couldn't attend. There was a guy in it with a monster of a cock, must have been at least ten inches. Darn breathtaking. But this girl he was with managed to accommodate it without too much strain, I must say. But when he turned around and disposed her on all fours, you could see her ass stretching to criminal proportions as he impaled her there. Memorable, Scottie, you should have been there to watch it. Now, that cock would have made you feel inadequate ... And the actress – well, if you can call it acting – actually looked a bit like Zelda, I must say. Picture was a bit grainy, and you couldn't see her face, but small boobs and a nice white ass. Could have been her sister, eh?'

He roared with boisterous laughter. Other customers looked at the two men. ‘You sure she hasn't been taking some side trips to the Mexican border while she is visiting her parents?'

‘Come on, Ernest, that ain't funny any more,' Scott said.

‘I know,' the other man said. ‘It's just I so like to see you squirm, you Irish prick!'

‘I know,' Scott acquiesced. Then: ‘Have you ever measured yours?'

‘Sure,' Ernest said. ‘Six inches, just above average. And all in perfect working order, I hasten to say ...'

‘I didn't know that was the average,' Scott remarked.

‘Well,' Hemingway added, ‘your average red-blooded all-American male ... Don't know about French guys ...'

He laughed out loud again.

As One with the Spirit, Yes, She Goes Where It Goes – New York, 1932
Scott is in California, talking to some producers. Zelda is restless. She wants to start more dancing lessons but has been told she is too old now. A friend has told her about this discreet club, this speakeasy in the East Village where money can buy you anything. Well, money is no problem these days. Scott's books aren't selling as well as before, but a short story for the
Saturday Evening Post
or
Harper's
or
Esquire
every now and then takes care of the bills and more.

‘It would be advisable if you wore this,' the plain-looking woman shepherding her in says, handing her a domino mask. ‘Discretion is most necessary.'

Zelda slips the mask on, ruffling her auburn hair in the process.

Still holding her complimentary cup of champagne in one hand, and her tasselled Italian-made handbag in the other, Zelda is escorted into a small, empty, dark room and shown to a chair at its centre, facing a velvet-curtained wall.

‘Do make yourself comfortable,' the woman says. ‘I shall return in a few minutes, when you have made up your mind.'

She leaves the room, and the curtain Zelda is facing opens slowly.

Behind the glass, there are half a dozen men. All quite nude. Standing against a white wall. It makes her think of an identity parade, as in the gangster movies. Each holds a square of cardboard with a number. Her first thought is that the numbers are not consecutive. 3. 6. 2. 9. 7. 12. She wonders briefly about the missing numbers, the men who are not available to her today. Then lowers her gaze and sees their cocks. Long. Thick. Straight. Bulbous. Crooked. Heavy. Some just dangle there against a thigh, others are being gently stroked by their owners as she watches.

One man is bald, but his body hair is absolutely everywhere else from chest to feet, thick and curly, his cock like an explosion of dark purple in his forest. Another has pale blond hair, his white chest quite hairless and his pubic thatch like golden down.

Another, number 6, is a black man. Tall, standing proudly, legs apart, his regal chocolate cock already at half-mast, impossibly elongated and sharp. She gulps.

Time freezes momentarily.

The men are all looking in her direction, but she knows they cannot see her behind the one-way glass partition.

The door opens and the woman returns.

‘Have you chosen, madam?' she asks.

‘It's difficult,' Zelda says. ‘They are all so different. Age. Appearance. Colouring ... Size,' she adds.

‘I understand,' the woman sympathizes.

Zelda looks over the parade of naked men again, thoughts swirling in her head. And some guilt already.

‘Some of them are really quite appealing,' she blurts out. Blushing ever so slightly in the penumbra of the small room.

She fixates on the mole staring at her from just above number 12's crotch.

Sensing her indecision, the plain-looking woman intervenes.

‘Could I make a suggestion to madam?'

‘Certainly,' Zelda answers.

‘Well, has madam ever thought of two?'

‘Two?'

‘Double the pleasure. Even more staying power at your disposal. They can take turns, or you could have them in tandem.'

‘You mean ...?'

‘Servicing both front and rear, madam. An experience to cherish, I am told. They are all well-trained in these variations, I assure you.'

Zelda finally selects 7 and 9.

She is taken to the bedroom and told to make herself at ease. The four-poster bed is the largest she has seen, sitting there like a throne, dominating the whole room. Crisp white sheets. A silken dark bedspread. A thick scarlet rug. Erotic etchings on the walls. She knows at least one of them conceals some peephole and that she is going to be watched. That is also part of the price and adds to the spice of this new experience.

There is a gentle knock on the bedroom door.

‘Enter,' Zelda says.