Chapter 1

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Consensual, BiSexual, Fiction, Group Sex, Polygamy/Polyamory, Analingus, Exhibitionism, Masturbation, Voyeurism, BBW, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Berkeley's agent is planning a college campus poetry reading tour for him. In the meantime, he is becoming acquainted (if you catch my drift) with a new friend while maintaining a relationship with...well, you get the idea...and he is also entertaining a young admirer.

i. Meet the poet...

Gertrude Schmidt is opening her door as Berkeley strides down the second floor hallway, a lock of his fine, gray hair falling across the left side of his face and brushing his mustache. She stands in her doorway looking at Berkeley. He beams at her.

“Hi, Gertrude,” he says.

She eyes him coldly as he continues to grin at her. He enters his apartment. The telephone rings. It is Eustacia Hathorne.

“I want to see your new apartment, Berkeley. You’ve been there for weeks already. I heard it’s all women on your floor.”

“There are just three other tenants on this floor.”

“Still, it’s nice for you.”

“The woman next door hates me. I don’t know why, though. She’s a prim and dowdy sort. Gertrude Schmidt.”

“I know her. Your description is too kind. She’s a fright, really. And not your type at all, I wouldn’t think. Stringy brown hair, sallow, pocky skin, eyebrows that meet, week chin. An egghead but with sort of a dumb look on her face all the time. You want to have lunch tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The telephone call finished, Berkeley strips off all his clothes, lights a joint, and strolls around the apartment smoking it--and drinking a glass of whiskey with it. The doorbell rings. Berkeley looks through the peephole. It is Andy, a tall, gawky, handsome youth. Berkeley pulls the door open and invites Andy in. Andy lopes into the living room. He smiles at Berkeley.

“Hey, Ber, you’re nude. Cool.” He nods his head up and down, grinning. “I brought this joint over.” He takes off his leather jacket and pulls a joint from his shirt pocket.

“I admire you older guys,” Andy says through a cloud of dope smoke. “I’m mean a guy like you ... you’re cool. I mean, you’re what? thirty?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Thirty-four. Cool.” He nods some more and takes another hit from the marijuana cigarette. “Thirty-four years old,” he squeaks, holding in his hit, “and you’re handsome and well built.” He let out the smoke. “I mean, look at you, man.”

“Thanks.”

“And you know I love your poetry. I have all your books.” He lit a cigarette nervously.

“I’ll autograph them.”

“You would?”

“Certainly.”

“I brought this over, man,” Andy pulls a bag of marijuana from the pocket of his baggy chinos.

“Cool.” Berkeley skips into the bedroom and comes back with money, his penis slapping his thighs as he approaches. He pays Andy and Andy is on his way.

“Come over tomorrow night, Ber. I’m having sort of a party at my place.”

Berkeley lights some incense and strides into the bedroom. It is evening now, the room is dark, and sitting down on the bed he notices the light from the window next door, a mere six or seven feet away. Dannis Briskin walks into view in the lighted room. Berkeley does a double take. Dannis is dressed in bra and panties, striding past the open window. She makes several passes, with a sort of determined saunter. She walks towards the window and away from it. She stands still a moment facing the window and lights a cigarette. She smokes it till it is finished and then puts out the light and pulls the curtains shut.

The next morning is Saturday. He wakes up at 11:00. He’s been up most of the night writing poetry. He puts on espresso and lights a cigar. He rolls a joint and smokes it. He masturbates, takes a shower, and meets Eustacia Hathorne at the restaurant.

“Berkeley,” she smiles up at him, her face momentarily alight before sinking back into its characteristic austere repose. Berkeley takes a seat opposite her and picks up a menu. Eustacia is seventy, her face a network of wrinkles. She wears lipstick and eye make-up. Her hair is dyed black and fastened in a chignon.

“You live next door to my friends, the Briskins, Berkeley,” Eustacia announces in the prim and Victorian tones in which she customarily declaims.

“Yes, that’s their name. Do you know them?”

“I’ve known Corky Briskin for years.”

“I’ve only seen her to speak to once and we just said hi.”

“She goes to the Episcopal church, the one I go to.”

“I didn’t know you went to church, Eustacia.”

“Not terribly often. Corky has five children, four daughters and a son.”

“It doesn’t seem like I’ve seen that many people around.”

“The oldest daughter is in college, Regalia. She’s a beatnik, if ever I saw one--long, straight dark hair, wears tights and a sweatshirt and a black beret and black-rimmed glasses. She’s enormously intelligent. For the time being, she’s doing sculpture. I like her. The second daughter, Dannis, is the beauty of the family, and terribly self-possessed for a young lady of her age. Natalie is eleven. She’s blond like her father.”

“I haven’t seen him.”

“He’s not in the picture any longer. Corky divorced him years ago, when she was pregnant with Natalie. Her second husband ran away with a much younger woman, one of his undergraduates and they were killed in a car accident, leaving town. Actually, they were a thousand miles from here when it happened. He left his son behind from a previous marriage, Patrick. He’s fourteen.”

“So he’s a step-son/step-brother.”

“Yes, that’s correct. He’s wonderfully handsome but a bad boy. He smokes and drinks and does drugs and skips school--that sort of thing--and he’s apparently sexually active as well.”

The waitress takes their orders. Berkeley has beer with lunch and Eustacia has red wine. Having waited a long time for service, the food comes quickly. Eustacia comments on this to Berkeley. “At least it came quickly after we were finally allowed to order.”

“We eat here all the time, Eustacia. The service is always like this.” She purses her lips at him and he laughs cheerfully. Someone at his shoulder speaks to Eustacia in a high, childish voice.

“Hello, Eustacia.” Eustacia looks up and Berkeley turns his head.

“Melinda. Do you know Berkeley?”

“We’ve met. Hi, Berkeley.”

“Good morning. Won’t you join us?”

“No thank you, Berkeley. We’re just on our way out. Teddy’s paying the bill. I just saw you two sitting here and came by to say hello.” She sits down anyway next to Eustacia. Melinda Archer is short and slender, with long gray hair wound into a thick braid on either side of her pretty head. Unlike Eustacia, she apparently eschews make-up and though well above forty, she has a youthful glow about her. Her voice is high and quirky. She leans conspiratorially close to Eustacia. “Teddy was so turned on that night when you and Randolph stalked into the living room naked.”

“He heard you, you know.” Eustacia indicated Berkeley with a nod. Melinda put a hand to her mouth and giggled. “He’s blushing,” Eustacia continues, “Anyway, that’s nothing compared to the time you urinated into a whiskey bottle at a party.”

“I’ve got to go, dear.” Melinda gets up and walks away, joining a tall, young lummox at the door.

“That lad is only twenty six,” Eustacia informs Berkeley, “younger even that my Randolph.”

“She’s cute.”

“I expect you’re too old for her.”

“Is that a challenge?”

Eustacia laughed. “You like older women, don’t you, Berkeley?”

“Yeah and younger women too.”

“You remind me of ‘The Man Who Loved Women.’”

“My favorite movie.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“I wish I’d seen the urination-in-the-bottle scene.”

“It was an all-female party.”

“Sounds great.”

“I thought you’d say that.”

“Who’s the lad?”

“The lummox, as I call him, though I suppose he’s handsome in a rough-hewn way, was one of her students a few years ago.”

“How scandalous.”

“SHE claims nothing happened until after he graduated. Or at least until after he was no longer taking one of her classes. She was married at the time. Oddly, she had only gotten married the fall before. And then she met Teddy.” The waitress arrives with the bill and Eustacia pays it. “You didn’t ask how Corky Briskin got those scars on her face. She’s quite disfigured. Her first husband set the house on fire smoking a cigarette--he was a drunkard--and she got burned on the face saving the children. That’s why her skin is corrugated as it were with scar tissue. But only her face is scarred. She has a gorgeous body. I’ll give you a ride home. I expect you walked.”

In front of his building, when she leans over to give him a peck on the cheek, Berkeley gives her a long kiss on the lips.

“I can tell that you’re a lover,” she tells him, “by the way you kiss.”

“Thanks for lunch.”

“There’s Harriet Wiedlespach, one of your admirers, sitting on your front stoop.”

“God, Eustacia, you’re snorting and sneering.”

“Good luck. Ta ta.”

Berkeley gets out of Eustacia’s Cadillac and walks up to Harriet. She has red hair in a pageboy cut. Her face, arms, and legs are sprinkled with freckles. She is wearing a short, sleeveless cotton shift and sneakers without socks. Berkeley notices the wonderfully soft looking fleshiness of her slender thighs. She sees him looking and moves her knees closer together.

“You haven’t left for school yet?”

“It doesn’t start until after Labor Day,” she says in her low husky voice. She looks at Berkeley, who is wearing baggy chinos, moccasins, and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “It’s getting hot. Can I come in? Are you busy?”

He holds the door for her and they go upstairs to his apartment and into the kitchen, where Berkeley starts making espresso.

“I like this little garret window, Mr. Hays.”

“You’re going away to college. How exciting.”

“I know what your thinking: I look too young.”

“I wasn’t thinking that.”

“I know I look younger than I am.”

“That usually turns out to be an advantage.”

She sipped her coffee. “That’s why I never had dates in high school. Because I look like a little kid.”

Berkeley raised his eyebrows.

“And because I’m supposed to be a geek, because I’m such a brain.” She rolled her eyeballs dramatically.

“Being a brain usually turns out to be an advantage too, Ms. Weidlespach.”

“You’re making fun of me, Mr. Hays, calling me Ms. Weidlespach. Goll, you’re rolling a jay. Cool.”

“Well, it’s about that time of day for me.” He hands her the joint and she sucks on it.

“There’s somebody here, Mr. Hays.”

A fat woman wrapped in a white sheet waddles into the room. She has long, curly, thick, black hair streaked with gray and wears wire-rimmed glasses. She speaks in a slow, sleepy voice, “Berkeley, I smell pot.” Harriet hands her the joint and she takes a puff.

“Where did you come from,” Berkeley asks.

“Bedroom.”

“Are you naked under that sheet?” Harriet asks.

“Harriet!”

The fat lady unwraps the sheet, exposing her naked body for Harriet, and then wraps herself up again.

“Harriet, this Rhonda. Rhonda, Harriet.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” Rhonda quips. The front door opens, everybody turns, crowded in the kitchen doorway, to see a lady stride right into the apartment. She is dressed in short shorts and a halter top, is in her sixties and has short, yellow hair and enormous eyes.

“Did she knock?”

“ ... Harriet blurted, almost rhetorically,” Rhonda mutters.

“Oh, Berkeley,” the lady begins, “you really should keep this door locked.”

“Anybody could walk right in,” Berkeley says. Harriet laughs and puts a hand to her mouth. Berkeley looks at the long, slender, fingers on her freckled hands. “This is Ms. Putnam,” he announces, “my landlady.”

“Goll, I guess I’m on my way out,” Harriet blurts out and scuttles towards the open door and scampers down the hallway. They hear her bounding down the stairs.

“You scared her away,” Rhonda tells the landlady, who gives her a sharp look.

“Do you live in this building?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think I knew you.”

“I’m Rhonda Cougat.”

“Berkeley has lots of admirers.”

“And I’m one of them.” Rhonda lights a cigarette and blows smoke towards Ms. Putnam.

Ms. Putnam backs down. “I’ll come back later, Berkeley.” She scuttles away. Rhonda closes the door behind her and locks it and turning to Berkeley, drops the sheet and steps over it. She slaps her bulging belly. “Do you like looking at me naked? Aren’t I fleshy? I have a big bust, don’t I?” She grasps her heavy breasts and shakes them.

“You have pendulous breasts. They’re wonderful really.”

“Pendulous breasts. I love to hear you say that. Pendulous breasts.”

“You’re lovely.”

“You think?”

“Certainly. Of course I do, Rhonda.”

“Pendulous breasts, but my stomach’s bigger than my boobs. When I was thin, my boobs were teeny. Of course, I was younger then. I’m twenty now. I wonder if that makes a difference. I suppose some body parts mature at different rates. I was always a hairy ape. I remember noticing when I was ten that my legs were covered with down.” She swaggers towards the bedroom, calling over her shoulder, “Well, let’s head for the pit and the pendulum before the landlady comes back ... or Wiedlespach.” Berkeley strips off his clothes as he follows her into the bedroom. He kneels and putting his face between her formidable thighs, he suckles the clitoris that pokes its head up through soft mounds of fur-covered fat.

ii. At the party...

Tamara Lamb is as tall as Berkeley and broad shouldered and big-boned and large-featured. Handsome in a rough-hewn way. She is swarthy and brown-eyed, her head haloed in a wild nest of coarse, thick, brown hair. Berkeley hands her a drink and sips his.

“My name is Tamara Lamb,” she tells him. He says he already knows her name and that they have met. She smirks with embarrassment and nods several times. She has a slow, somewhat idiotic manner of speaking. Her voice is deep and breathy. They make conversation. Her coarse features and skin make her look older than her age. She is wearing a dark blue silk blouse and snug blue jeans. She has prominent hips and formidable thighs. She moves her large hands awkwardly when she speaks. It turns out she is with a date. He approaches them, having broken away from one of the half-dozen small groups sitting and standing around the apartment, and asks if she is ready to go. He is bald and has a dark beard covering his face.

“I don’t want to go yet, Oscar,” she tells him in her deep voice and her halting manner of uttering syllables. He says, “Okay, I’m going anyway.”

“Okay,” she tells him and turns back to Berkeley. Oscar shambles off and then out the door of the apartment. Andy walks up to them.

“Hey, Tamara, Oscar left.”

“I know. That’s okay.”

“Splif, mahn?” Andy hands her an enormous joint. “There’s some toot on the coffee table, man, so enjoy.” They take the joint with them and go kneel at the coffee table. After a few moments of sharing the drugs at the coffee table, Tamara lights a cigarette and leans back to exhale smoke. Berkeley puts his lips to her ear and whispers.

“Did anybody ever tell you you look sexy smoking a cigarette?”

She reaches up and pats his cheek with her large, clumsy hand. “I’m as high as a kite,” she bleats haltingly. She rises up on her knees and takes another snort of cocaine.

“You have such a delicious butt, Tamara,” Andy’s girlfriend, Colleen, says. She is extraordinarily thin and wearing a floor-length cotton shift.

“Thank you,” Tamara says.

“You do for a fact,” Berkeley says. Tamara reaches out seemingly automatically and slaps Berkeley on the face. Colleen laughs, and Tamara smirks at Berkeley.

“I’m taking you home, Berkeley Hays,” she says bluntly. She drives them to her apartment building in her ancient car, an enormous two-door, dappled with rust. Her building is on a quiet lane, one without curbings and lined with large maple trees--rural and rustic looking, but only a few blocks from Andy’s house. The apartment itself is a mess and looks like it is always a mess: boxes and crates full of what appears to be an enormous assortment of junk--old electric eggbeaters, wrenches, videotapes, and so on. Berkeley has a bottle of whiskey Andy pressed upon him when they left. They sit on the living room floor and drink directly from the whiskey bottle. Berkeley kisses her on the mouth and she returns his kiss. They kiss for several minutes--long, intimate, kisses. Their tongues explore each other’s mouth.

“Don’t kiss me anymore, Berkeley. After a little while, I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Okay.” Berkeley sighs and leans back against the sofa, which is full of junk--magazines, cigarette cartons, etc.

“Maybe we should fuck,” Tamara muses. Berkeley sits up straight suddenly and then leans back again.

“That sound’s like a good idea.” He speaks as nonchalantly as possible.

“Would you like that?”

“Yes, I’d like that a lot. Since the first moment I laid eyes on you at the party tonight, I’ve been imagining you naked. I couldn’t help it.”

“But not the first time you ever saw me?”

“I don’t remember.”

She reaches up quickly and slaps his face.

“Ow. That hurt, Tamara.”

“I know. It was supposed to.” Her low, breathy voice gives an almost sinister gravity or else an hilariousness to everything she says.

“I want you to sit on my face, Tamara.” His voice is low and matter-of-fact. He looks directly into her eyes. “I want to see you naked.”

Tamara stands up and takes off her silk shirt. Berkeley sips from the whiskey bottle. Tamara walks around the room in front of him. She lights a cigarette and blows smoke out her mouth. Berkeley unzips his jeans and takes his penis out. He takes off his shirt. He reaches up towards Tamara, who is standing in front of him, and unfastens her jeans and pulls them down--and then her underpants. She steps out of them.

“You’re wonderfully beautiful, Tamara,” Berkeley tells her and she beams with delight.

“You like to look at me naked?” she rumbles in her deep, halting voice.

“Yes, I do.” He smiles at her. Her breasts are flat with prominent, purple--almost black--nipples. Her stomach is flat. Her buttocks and thighs, however, are wide and fat and fleshy. Her calves are thick and muscular. Berkeley’s mouth hangs open and his eyes bulge as he looks at her. She laughs at his ardor.

“I’m fat and I have tiny boobies,” she says, “but you like that. You like a big fat ass on a lady, don’t you?”

“Your genitalia are really marvelous.”

“I have long lips, don’t I, just like my mouth. There must be a connection there.”

“Some kind of relationship, huh?”

“Uh huh.”

Berkeley stands up, his penis jutting from his jeans. He starts masturbating. Tamara looks at him. He takes her hand and pulls her gently down to him and directs her to lean over the edge of the sofa. He gets behind her and stretching her butt cheeks apart, puts his mouth on her anus, licking and kissing it for about nearly an hour, while she whimpers and grunts. He arises at last, masturbating, and inserts his penis into her vagina--from behind, her anus gaping up at him.

“Jesus, you’re fuckin’ me!” she yells, “You’re such a nasty bastard!”

He sticks his finger in her anus.

“Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!” she is repeating in a deep staccato. Berkeley directs her to turn around and sit on the sofa, wedged between litter and clutter. He pulls her stout legs apart. Her vaginal lips are long and purple and gaping beneath him. They show plainly through the shock of wiry dark pubic hair, as wild as the hair on her head. She grunts as he slips into her and thrusts deep inside while she drapes her legs over his shoulders. She grunts animalistically. While he fucks her, she masturbates, wagging her clitoris, her prominent vulva wiggling energetically. “God damn it, god damn it,” she growls over and over while she experiences orgasm. Her vulva swell up dramatically and darken to purple black.

iii. The day after...

Berkeley opens the door. “Berkeley. Were you up? It’s nearly eleven.”

“Colleen, hi. Come on in.”

“Did you have fun last night?”

“I woke up this morning and I was by myself.”

“Does that mean you weren’t when you went to bed?”

“Weren’t what?”

“Weren’t alone.”

“I thought that’s what you were asking me about.”

“I meant about the party at my house.”

“Oh, of course. Yes, it was a wonderful party.”

“So I guess you hit it off with my best friend.”

“Tamara’s your best friend?”

“Uh huh. I thought I might find you naked, like all the stories--I read Pierre’s book, you know--but I guess I’m too late.” Colleen has a high, musical voice that slides up and down. “So did Tamara stay over?”

“Well, she was gone when I woke up.”

“But she went to bed with you.”

“Well, yeah. You want to smoke a joint?”

“You start early, don’t you? Of course I do.”

“Breakfast of champions. There’s a pot of coffee on. I’ll get you cup.”

“Thanks.” They sit at the coffee table, drinking espresso and passing a joint back and forth. Colleen slips off her tan windbreaker. She is very thin in her jeans and tee-shirt. “Who’s that bitch in the hallway? Your neighbor, I guess.”

“Gertrude Schmidt.”

“Ha,” she laughs, “you knew exactly who I was talking about. Skinny, horsy, unpleasant?”

“That’s her.”

“You like Tamara, I guess?”

“Yeah, we had a good time together.”

“She’s a dumbbell but she’s got an earthy charm.”

“How old is she?”

“The same age as you, thirty-four. The same age as I, for that matter. She likes older men. You might do, of course, with your sexy gray hair and all. I like younger men, of course. Andy’s twenty-three. I’m a cradle robber.” She laughs briskly and takes another hit on the marijuana cigarette. “I’d lend Tamara the book, but she never reads. I don’t think she has very good reading skills.”

“What book?”

“The Story of P, of course.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.” She lights a cigarette and blows a wave of smoke out her mouth and draws it into her nostrils. She exhales the smoke from her mouth and taps her cigarette smartly on the ashtray. “Tamara’s sort of cute, isn’t she?”

“She just seems so sexy to me.”

“She’s got a big ass. But you like that, don’t you?”

“You read the book.”

“What book? Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.” They both laugh. “She’s got a boyfriend, you know.”

“The guy I met at your party?”

“She’s seeing him this noon. They’re going to ‘The Beef Stock’ for steak. Oscar.”

“He doesn’t look like much competition.”

“You’re so conceited. Of course, I can see why--with your looks.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“No, I’m not. Who are the other people in this building?” She looks around as if expecting to see them in the room.

“Well, you met Gertrude.”

“Ugh.”

“She’s in the apartment next door. And then there’s a fat lady across the hall.”

“You like that.”

“I’ve only seen her in the hallway and said hi. The name on her mailbox is Tanisha Wells. And the lady directly across the hall is tiny and blond.”

“Well, it sounds like you’ve got quite a selection here.”

“Gee, it hadn’t thought of that.”

“You did too. Of course, you’re in love with Tamara, anyway, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“You needn’t sound so defensive. How many women are you in love with?”

“A few, I guess.”

“Yeah, at least a few, I guess. You’re the man who loves women.”

“Everyone keeps saying that.”

Colleen laughs. “Come over tonight. I’m going to make wine goulash, your favorite. I’ll invite Tamara of course.”

“But not Oscar?”

“Of course not.”

“Okay.”

“Seven o’clock. I have a large variety of things to do. I have to go.” She gets up, pats Berkeley’s knee, and exits. Berkeley takes a shower. In his robe, he smokes another joint while he drinks a glass of white wine and makes a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. There is a knock on the door which turns out to be Harriet Wiedlespach in her little, cotton shift and holding a book in one hand and a polaroid camera in the other. He offers her a sandwich and gives her the one he has just made. She stands at the counter eating it while he rolls another joint. She drinks from his wine glass and he refills it and pours himself another. While she sucks on the joint, Berkeley peers at the book she set on the kitchen table.

“You brought a copy of Homeric Tradition.”

“Will you autograph it for me?”

He finds a pen and writes on the title page and sets it down. She picks it up and reads out loud, “‘To be respected by such a judge as you is an honor to the poet. Berkeley.’ Berkeley, It’s wonderful.” She touched the page with her fingertips. “I have all your books.”

“You can just sign my name yourself to the others.”

“That’s silly. You can be so silly, Mr. Hays.”

“Me?--silly. I suppose you read the book, too.”

“What book?”

“The Story of P.”

“Whose it by?”

“You haven’t read it?”

“No. Whose it by?”

“P, of course.”

“The Story of P, by P, huh?”

“Yeah. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Why not?”

“Nothing.”

“Never mind--I’m going to read it.”

“I believe you.”

“You’re funny. Before I met you, I always imagined this imposing individual like the pictures of Tennyson. But then I saw a picture of you. But I still didn’t know what you were like.”

“That’s what the camera’s for?”

She bites her lower lip and then tosses her red pageboy. “I want a picture of you.”

Berkeley picks up the camera. “Here you go, I’ll take a picture of you in my apartment.”

“Then we can trade pictures.” She goes into the living room and stretches out on the sofa with one arm raised over her head, one knee flexed. Berkeley aims the camera and shoots. The picture shoots from the machine and Berkeley gingerly sets it down on the coffee table. Harriet jumps up and grabs the camera. “Now you.” She points the camera at him. He rests one foot on the coffee table and he gives her a sultry look. The picture shoots out. They finish smoking the joint and then the pictures are done. “Oh, Jesus,” Harriet squeaks, “are you going to keep this?” He takes it from her and hands her the picture of him. “Oh Jesus, I’m going to keep this,” she says and shoves the picture into her copy of Homeric Tradition. “I’m so stoned,” she blurts out. She waves the book in the air and announces, “I’ll cherish this forever.” At the sound of a knock on the door, Harriet twirls around. “What was that?” she says, her eyes bulging, her fingers tensed at her sides.

“A knock on the door.”

“I know that, Mr. Hays.”

“For Christ’s sake, call me Berkeley. ‘Mr. Hays’ sounds so awful.” He opens the door to Tanisha Wells. She is short and fat and dark. Her dreadlocks are strung with beads.

“Hello. I’m sorry to intrude.”

“Not at all.”

“I’m Tanisha Wells.”

Berkeley introduces himself and they shake hands. She looks over at Harriet and then turns her dark, round head to give him a sidelong stare, narrowing her otherwise large, brown eyes. “Are you naked under that robe,” she whispers.

“I’m always naked under my clothes,” he replies in sotto voce.

She presses her lips together meaningfully and muses, cryptically, “So that’s how it is.”

“Would you like to come in? We’re just having a glass of wine.”

“And pot,” Tanisha states. “I’ll have some pot and wine. Thank you.”

Harriet watches the fat lady lumber into the living room and rolls her eyes. “Here we go again.”

“This is Harriet Wiedlespach.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Tanisha says.

“I’m just on my way out.” She starts for the door but Berkeley grabs her wrist.

“I want to wish you the best at college. You’ll like it. You’re one of the greater lights and I have enormous respect for that.”

Harriet’s eyes grow wide and moist. She faces him and standing close, plants a kiss on his lips and bolts from the room.

“Did I scare her away?”

Berkeley shrugs.

“She’s going to college? What is she, Doogie Houser?”

“She’s eighteen.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“I think.”

“That’s what counts, I suppose. This is good wine.”

“It’s cheap.”

“Everything’s cheap now.”

“Yeah. Everything’s the same price as when I was poor.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a poet.”

“Get the hell out of here.”

“Somebody has to do it.”

“If you’re a poet, you must still be poor.”

“I guess I am--by hopelessly middle-class standards.”

“I’ve only been here a few minutes and you’re already insulting me?”

“You scared my admirer away.”

“Your quarry, you mean.” She puts her hands on her hips. Then she slaps her forehead. “Oh god, you’re Berkeley Hays.”

“Yeah?”

“The poet.”

“A minute ago you didn’t believe me.”

“But I mean, I know who you are.”

“You’ve read my poetry?”

“No, I read The Story of P.”

“It had to be that.”

She laughs at him. “Now I am worried about whatsherface.”

“Harriet.”

“Yeah--the skinny white lady.”

“So what do you do?”

“Where’s the dope?”

Berkeley rolls a joint and they smoke it, earnestly, in silence.

“I’m so stoned,” Tanisha says at last, dropping the roach into the ashtray.

“Everybody keeps saying that.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Huh?”

“I’m a graduate student.”

“Good for you.”

“You asked me what I did.”

“Oh yeah, I guess I did.”

“Is there some electricity going on between us?”

“Yes.”

“I like the way you say that. It’s very definite.”

“Electricity.”

“You betcha.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-five. How old are you?”

“Thirty-four.”

“Wow. You still look good though.”

“Thanks.”

“And the gray hair. But I like that. Probably everybody does.”

“I get that all the time.”

“I bet you do.”

“I think I’ll roll another joint.” He reaches for the box of marijuana on the coffee table.

“Good idea.”

“Why did you come over, may I ask?”

“To meet you.”

“No.”

“I didn’t even know you were a famous poet then.”

“I’m not famous. Hardly any poet is, for that matter. Living poet, that is.”

“Notorious, then.”

“I should be so lucky.”

“I read the book, you know.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right. Well then, I guess I am notorious.”

“You must be terribly conceited.”

“In my case, it’s charming.”

She chuckles lightly and leans over to stand up from the sofa. In doing so, she puts one hand for leverage on Berkeley’s thigh, but the robe moves and her hand rests on his bare thigh. “Oo,” she exclaims and continues to push her fleshy bulk to a standing position. She puts out her hand for Berkeley to shake, thanks him, and waddles out the door. Berkeley drops his robe and sits at his computer, writing poetry. He smokes a cigar. Then he takes a shower, puts on a pair of chinos, moccasins, and a short-sleeved sport shirt, and walks over to Andy and Colleen’s apartment. Tamara is already there. They have drinks, smoke some pot, and sit down to dinner and red wine at 7:30. When dinner is finished, they remain around the table smoking pot. Then Andy starts laying out some lines of cocaine and that goes around the table a few times. Colleen gets a glass decanter from the buffet and four large snifters and the four of them wash down the cocaine with brandy. Andy rolls some more joints.

“Let’s have an orgy,” Andy says.

“That’s stupid,” Tamara says in her low, halting, breathy voice, “You’re just trying to help Berkeley, because he wants to fuck me again and thinks he can because he did already.”

“Jeez, Tamara,” Colleen says, “that’s so apropos of absolutely nothing.”

“Why don’t we just watch you fuck Colleen?” Tamara blurts out.

“Cool,” Andy says.

Colleen, lighting some incense, catches Berkeley’s eye and he nods at her and smiles. Andy turns on the CD player and the slow, quiet, pulsing notes of Bolero permeate an atmosphere already laden with paprika, marijuana, and coconut incense. Andy is now naked and Colleen pulls her dress over her head and is naked beneath. Her pubic hair is completely shaved. Berkeley strips naked and Tamara follows suit, sitting next to him on the floor, while they watch--gawk at--Andy crouching over Colleen on the sofa. They suckle each other’s genitals. Berkeley begins to masturbate and after a moment, so does Tamara.

“They’re jerkin’ off,” Colleen observes from the sofa. She licks and sucks Andy’s balls, his penis lying across her face. She stands and then lies down on the floor in front of Berkeley and Tamara, who are still masturbating. Andy kneels over her, his penis standing straight up parallel to the line of his flat belly. He thrusts himself inside her. She grunts. They set up a rhythm of thrusting and grunting. Tamara starts grunting, gutturally from deep inside her torso, as she comes. Colleen is masturbating while Andy slides in and out of her vagina. The room is billowing with incense and Bolero, apparently set to keep repeating, is throbbing through the incense. Colleen twists out from under Andy’s lean and handsome body and stands, clasping her slender hands above her head and dancing rhythmically and slowly to the insinuating strains of the smoke-filled music. Berkeley, still masturbating, stares mesmerized by her slim, white body, her flat breasts, peaked however with large, erect nipples, and her long bare slit at the base of her flat belly. She dances over to Tamara and thrusts the vertical smile of her pudendum towards Tamara’s face and Tamara begins to lick and suck, while Colleen simultaneously masturbates with rapid movements that make a blur of her hand. Both women are whimpering. Andy is standing in front of Berkeley and Berkeley puts his mouth around Andy’s straight-standing penis, which is slick from and scented with Colleen’s vaginal oils, and suckles him until Colleen’s pungent oils are mixed with Andy’s seminal fluid in Berkeley’s mouth.

Tamara is pulling her pants over her wide, fleshy buttocks. “I have to go. I am meeting Oscar...” She pronounces this Awe Scar. “ ... at nine.”

“Got a late date, eh?” Colleen arches one eyebrow dramatically. Tamara makes her mouth tight and gives her a sidelong glare. Berkeley leaves after Tamara but before leaving, smokes another joint and drinks a final brandy with his hosts. Colleen lies stretched out on the floor, still naked, her knees bent and legs spread. Andy sits on the sofa, his limp, blotchy penis hanging with erotic languor over the edge.

At home on his bed, he looks over at the window next door. The light goes on, and Dannis Briskin breezes into view--in bra and panties--slender and busty. Her bra sticks far out in front of her chest. She parades back and forth. Berkeley jacks off while he watches. There is a knock on the door. It turns out to be Rhonda Cougat.

“Naked,” she says, “all ready for me. And a hard on, too.” She heads for the bedroom while Berkeley rolls another joint. Rhonda struts naked back into the living room, her thick breasts swaying and bouncing atop her fat torso. “There’s a lady exposing herself next door in her underwear. I guess that’s why you had a hard on. Get me a glass of whiskey.” She takes the joint into the bedroom and Berkeley joins her with a bottle of whiskey, which she takes from him and takes a slug directly from the bottle. Berkeley lies down on the bed and Rhonda squats over his face for a mustache ride while she puffs on the joint and drinks from the whiskey bottle and watches Dannis Briskin strutting in front of her window.

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