She moved forward. Bits of her were touching me. I simply couldn’t respond. There was a space between us. The distance was too great. I felt as if she was talking to a person who had vanished, a person was no longer there, no longer alive. Her eyes seemed to look right through me. I couldn’t make a connection with her. I didn’t feel shame for that, only rather embarrassed, and helpless.

When you drank the world was still out there, but for the moment it didn’t have you by the throat.

I’m not a lady’s man. I have never been. To be a lady’s man you have to make with the sweet talk. I’ve never been good at sweet talk.

She was strange; she was always hot in the morning with her hangovers. I was not so hot in the mornings with mine. I was a night man. But at night she was always screaming and throwing things at me: telephones, telephone books, bottles, glasses (full and empty), radios, purses, guitars, ashtrays, dictionaries, broken watch bands, alarm clocks… She was an unusual woman. But one thing I could always count on, she wanted to fuck in the mornings, very much.

I had a sudden hunch that I might save my job if I gave him the right answer. “I just got married. You know how it is. I’m on my honeymoon. In the mornings I start getting into my clothes, the sun is shining through the blinds, and she drags me down into the mattress for one last fling of turckeyneck.”
It didn’t work.

“What kind of man am I?” I wondered aloud. “My father told me I’d end up like this! Surely I can go out and get something? I’m going to go out and get something… But first, a good drink.”

–A woman is a full-time job. You have to choose your profession.
—I suppose there’s an emotional drain.
—Physical too. They want to fuck night and day.
—Get one you like to fuck.
—Yes, but if you drink and gamble they think it’s a put down of their love.
—Get one who likes to drink, gamble and fuck.
—Who wants a woman like that?

My ambition is handicapped by laziness.

“Mr. Big Horseplayer. You know, when I first met you I liked the way you walked across a room. You din’t just walk across a room, you walked like you were going to walk through a wall, like you owned everything, like nothing mattered. Now you got a few bucks in your pocket and you’re not the same any more. You act like a dental student or a plumber.”

I understood it too well now—that great lovers were always man of leisure. I fucked better as a bum than as a puncher of timeclocks.

People don’t need love. What they need is success in one form or another. It can be love but it neddn’t be.

If I was any kind of man, I thought, I would rape her, set her panties on fire, force her to follow me all over the world, make tears come to her eyes with my love letters written on light red tissue paper.

I kept telling myself that all the women in the world weren’t hores, just mine.

Her face was sagging, she was getting jowls, she was ten years older than I. It was only when she was made up and was dressed in a tight skirt and wearing high heels that she looked good. Her ass was still shapely as were her legs and she had a seductive wiggle when she walked. Now as I looked at her she didn’t look so wonderful. She was sleeping partly on one side and her pot belly was hanging out. She was a marvelous fuck, though. I had never had a better fuck. It was the way she took it. She really digested a fuck. Her hands would grip me and her pussy clutched just hard. Most fucks are really nothing, they are mostly labour, like trying to climb a very steep muddy hill. But not Jan.

Nothing is worse than to finish a good shit, reach over and find the toilet paper container empty. Even the most horrible human being on earth deserves to wipe his ass.

When I went to the Yellow Cab Company I passed the Cancer Building and I remembered that there were worse things than looking for a job you didn’t want.

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