WhiteNotes
KlaraRoberts, talented writer, who writes occasionally on the net,
also writes and publishes a popular newsletter in New England, The Reluctant Entrepreneur, among other publishing and public relations activities. In her last edition she wrote:

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Julie and I didn't see eye to eye on the subject of free trade.

"I see sex rather as an even up exchange of goods. Like exchanging say an apple for an orange. You got an orange I like, I got an apple you like. We trade goods. Get it. An exchange. Not that the woman give me her goods, I take them, give nothing in return. Now if that was possible, then I might see the wisdom in paying. But since I always give in return, I can't see where the woman gets off asking for me to pay in addition to that."

She goes into this, "No money," but pulls the back door on me, says, "Will you buy me a coat."

"Uh, no."

"How about a wig?"

"No."

"I can get it wholesale," she continues. "You only have to pay a few dollars a month."

I didn't go for that few dollars a month like the fucking Internal Revenue Service, but finally agreed to buy her the god damn wig, since at that time I was really into her big ass and thin legs, and to her credit, she did see me regularly while I paid on the son_of_a_bitch wig. It was a long black straight hair wig, and she looked strange as hell in it, but to each her own. She was happy as a fucking kid, getting paid from me and to make it worse, I knew it, could read her like a black book. Then she wanted to up the ante, a suit of clothes, like a fucking working girl outfit, maybe the executive look at the "Ladies" house she managed. I told her to go to hell, in fact, I didn't pay the last payment on the wig, as I remember. Now, she figures if she comes over to pick up the present for her birthday, and in the process has a few drinks, then fucks me, I'm somehow getting something free, and she will in fact, be paying me for the twelve nine_five Kodak camera present. Weird bitch. Her god damn reasoning drives me nuts. Well she came over and we had a few drinks celebrating and went to bed and I took her home. She forgot the Kodak, and so did I. It still occupies space in the closet. The perfect gift. There's always next year.

WhiteNotes

Now and then I’d meet a girl who brought out my best, or maybe my worst. Without doubt, part of my problem was my own sensitiveness. Just too damn sensitive for my own good. If there’s one thing that New Yorkers have that I wish I had, it’s their trademark callous attitude, a ‘don’t care, don’t wanna get involved’ way of life. It may not be morally correct, but for less painful living, one has to have some of it, unless you want to go through life like a fucking social worker, and a pushover one at that.

Angel was her name. After we’d been together for an evening and I dropped her off near where she said she lived, I slipped a ten dollar bill into her hand.

"This’ll keep the next guy at bay for awhile," I said.

She accepted the ten and the sarcasm with equal calm, but I thought she blinked a tear. Good act, I insisted in my mind, well worth ten dollars. Shit, who am I fooling? It’s one son-of-a-bitchin’ world. I’d given her my last ten, and had two dollars and thirty-nine cents left. A half gallon of milk and a loaf of bread, if I bought day-old. Noting is free, no sir. And Angel, if she give her goods away for next to nothing, how would she live? She’d given me her body, her only asset worth a fucking dime, and my fair play mind rebelled. Maybe I was just trying to break her down with the crummy ten spot.

I turned the old dirty VW back toward my apartment. Once I neared the apartment I called the dungeon, though, I drove on past. Not yet. I’m not yet prepared in my psyche to face the fucking bloody sheets and the smell that would partially remain for two days in the poorly ventilated basement. I hadn’t wanted to do this to Angel, but the drive in us all can't be ignored for long. It’s only after the eruption and the mind cools that sanity returns to the brain, like unwanted rats sneaking back to a ship. The smell becomes putrid, the scars are livid and the professional scares come to mind; sick, alright, and the raging lion gets smaller and smaller as the life oozes from it and the thoughts beat it down.

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WhiteNotes

Brome writes about the first time with the Entertainer Dyke
Before the Dyke's murder, I had for some reason, consciously or sub-consciously, been sticking close to bi-sexual and dyke types since first witnessing the E.D.'s act. Hard to get the big cunt out of my mind. Let me say that following the scene at the Bull’s house, where she let me see her preview act up close and personal, I seldom went at myself without her in mind, right up until the end. Common sense told me there was nothing there, but she had made the mistake of letting me think I had a chance. Even so, the fact I fell no further than I did probably should be attributed to some reservations I had. Like what in fuck would a Dyke with some of the better looking young cunt in town want with a thin-faced,thin-bodied rather inarticulate man ten years older than her, at least. Probably closer to fifteen. I was a dreamer if nothing else, starting to freelance, hardly any money, living like a bum. And other than some admittedly hard-earned expertise with eating cunt, not the smartest guy in the world concerning sex. I had started cultivating a beard and mustache which came out brown red, giving me a sort of Van Gogh-ish look, and in ways, I was or had been nutty as him. My deep set blue eyes and light brown hair combed back over a high forehead was not any conscious attempt to look like the Dutch painter but probably helped. And, since I had been in and out of sexual obsessions, most of the time I really didn't give a fuck for personal safety, live or die was my attitude much of the time. Maybe that appealed to some of the black cunt. Who knew?

A particular Saturday, I phoned the Dyke’s house and when one of the young voices came on, asked if Renaee, who lived there, too, was in.

"Who callin please?"

"Brome."

I waited and was surprised when the Dyke Andrica,herself,came on, all over me, "Brome? Brome,darling, how are you. So good to hear your voice." This had to be an act, but she was good. I didn’t believe she recognized my voice, but thinking faster than usual, said, "Yeah, friend of Julie’s, saw you last night at your house, doing your act. Thought we might get together sometime. That is if you have any free time. I’m working on some notes about Detroit entertainers, thought we might talk." Pulling the old writer's bit.

"Oh, Brome. Yeah?" She didn’t buy the working bit, I don’t think. Probably could tell from my sort of excited voice I was just after her big fine cunt.

"Maybe a drink, talk about your act. Very original." Like Time Magazine would run an entertainment piece about a black Dyke who could manipulate her cunt, voice sync like a rock and roll singer, and in a pinch, was an accomplished ventriloquest besides. Not fucking likely.

"Yeah? Well. Sure, why I’d like that. You know Moe’s Awright? Meet me there at six. Maybe a drink before I have to go to the Showtime." She didn’t ask me about my relationship with her friend Julie, that would be revealing she thought I was after more than a little background for something I might write.

Say I was excited. More than I expected. I had a few hours to kill before six, and tried to work, do some grocery shopping, anything to not think of six, and why she had agreed to see me. Had my "writer" bit worked again? Not likely. She was too sophisticated, been around too much to fall for that. Whatever, I was excited and couldn’t wait.

Moe’s Awright was within walking distance, that is to say, about a half block from the Showtime Lounge. The Dyke was there and waiting when I arrived.

We talked a little bit about the lesbian bar scene, and show business and writing. Finally I sort of blurted out,

"You ever kiss guys?"

"No, never."

"Never wanted to, not even when you were young, not yet committed to women?"

"Maybe I did. Yes. But I was a fat hairy thing, not exactly your typical teenage beauty. Really never met a guy who really tried anything, except maybe old men. Some pretty girls liked me though."

"Beauty and the beast?"

"Exactly. How about you, ever make it with a guy?"

"No, not exactly. Closest I came was in Germany drinking at a German family home about half drunk when this ex-master sergeant in the German army give me a kiss, but that was right in front of his family. I was shocked and unfriendly the rest of the evening, and you might say I was a real innocent."

"Poor baby." She laughed.

"What is it about lesbians and show business people that make them so desirable to the average guy?" I asked, making a subtle play.

"I don’t know. Are they?"

"I think so."

"Are you saying you find me attractive?"

"Yes. Very much. I guess you could say you are both a lesbian and in show business, quite a parley."

We laugh. Talk. "You know the Star Theater?"

"Sure."

"I’ll see you there Sunday at seven, in the lobby."

She said it like there's no doubt I'd be there and there wasn't.

I said, "Date. We can talk later."

The Star was anything but a first run theater, but she wanted to see the old movie, Bonnie and Clyde, and we went. Then she said where did I live? I told her in an apartment on the Boulevard. We went there and after a drink went to bed. The interview was forgotten for the time.

I didn’t push it although I wanted to kiss her big facial lips. Quite a change from the first black I went to bed with back in Midtown, Indiana, and never offered to kiss her, just went into her in the back seat of my car. Now we relaxed over our drink. Her a gin and tonic and me a Bud. Relaxing in the bed. I tried to hold back a move on her. Waiting, not pushing my luck.

"What’s with you and Julie?" She asked.

"The usual. She’s a really sexy girl."

"I know."

"Bi, I guess."

"She told me about you being a writer."

"Trying to be."

"She’s a sweet kid."

"I know."

"She’s very jealous."

"Of who, me, or you?"

The Dyke laughed. "Maybe both. I don’t think it would be a good idea to let Julie know we have seen each other. Not even for business." And she sort of snickered, reminding me of my opening ploy.

That was a major understatement.

(link) Edit Delete Delete a comment

Mon 1/26/2004 7:30 AM
Brome figures out his girlfriend murdered the Entertainer Dyke
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In Writer’s Notes, most especially in On Detroit, the mind of a man who would be writer lies bared as a whore’s cunt, how he thinks, what his ideas are and from where they come. Written for anyone who wonders about the puzzling thought processes of such a person, one who aspires to be a "writer." Perhaps these notes will remove some of the mystery. Maybe not.

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A couple of days later Julie calls, says she wants to go out. Clubbing.

After a few drinks at Moe’s Awright, not far from the 24-hour after hours Showtime club,where E.D. was killed, Julie says why don’t we stop in the Showtime, face our nightmares so to speak. It would be the first time I had been back since the incident, and I supposed, the first for Julie. I say, sure, and we go into the club. It’s early, no charge for another half hour. We drink a slow beer and the show starts. The first girl comes on quick, leaves after about two minutes, a quick set. Warming up the audience, which consists mostly of white guys in suits and ties, conventioneers having a good time looking at the black ass and thinking they are in a special place, since it had no official liquor license and was hawked by taxi drivers and hotel clerks mostly.

"See, the entertainer always come on stage right, leave stage left." Julie said noting the stripper who had just left.

"Oh," I say. "Yes?"

It was later I remembered Julie had been a pretty successful go go type dancer herself, before she met brothers Skag and Moonie, pimping, prior to sitting up the house, going more legit. Skag sold her on being able to make more money working with him, managing his new house, later making her a sort of junior partner, cutting out Moonie, who was ready to leave for New Orleans, anyway. Guy run a house can run a house anywhere and New Orleans was wide open. Plenty of raw material where you go. I’m not going to pull that old shit that it came to me in a dream, but my mind did work on what Julie said at the Showtime a couple of days without any conscious help from me. Then I knew.

The entertainers looked at the stage from the prospective of facing the audience. I from out front facing the stage. Julie must have overheard the Dyke telling me she loved me. Knew she came off stage right, waited and killed her. I knew she was the one. As Shakespeare said, she had been hit by the green sickness. A woman scorned. Fucking Julie was losing it anyway. She was starting to become forgetful, talking strange. And perhaps worst of all, picking up weight in the stomach. I could stick by her after she killed the Dyke, but that stomach was something I had a hard time overlooking. Her mother could carry it, but with Julie, it didn’t take, too skinny otherwise. A skinny woman with a big ass can’t carry a big stomach. It was just a matter of time before our little thing was finished anyway. The Dyke was gone. Maybe Julie did me a favor. I was just short of becoming obsessed by the Dyke's snapper cunt, without doubt, it would have been trouble. I let it lie. What I knew was not proof. Besides, black crime. One dead black. Who cared? Other than me, who mourned the most talented cunt show business had ever seen or heard.

WhiteNotes

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That left me in the unenviable position of having to cater to Teliah’s strangeness, her bitchiness, her fucking around with the assholes fum de islands since in my wildest thoughts and most ego-moved moments I did not want to lose that pleasure of her mouth and cunt, both huge.
The remembrances of her mouth haunts me still, then, drove me deeper into depression. Only by writing about it, to the exclusion of all else, was I able to bring about a semblance of a sound mind. If indeed I ever had a really sound mind. I’ve been told that in appearance, I was the image of a noticeably crazy uncle, and when I changed my name to Jack Brome, I, without knowing it assumed his middle name, so legally I was Jack Conrad Brome. Uncle Conrad once picked up one of the kids and threw her or him into the fireplace for making too much noise. Who hasn’t wanted to do that?

WhiteNotes
Brome on the ms behind the Cure.

“The writing was composed of an odd mixture of type and handwriting. There were original and copied quotes intermixed with prose and poetry, with crude illustrations at times. I edited, rewrote, worked on logical order, collating and paginating. It was written in first and third person over several years I guessed, a period of time right up to the present year. Most interestingly, to me, it purported to be a method by which one could cure himself of sexually obsessive thoughts which almost always lead to deep depression.
“Later I sought to extract the message and to retain the original intent of the work. At the same time I decided to take the cure myself. Certainly, I needed one, after years of depression from various and sundry sexual obsessions.
“This interpretive labor in itself brought me measurable relief from my depression. So, I continued to study, rewrite and modify the apocryphal manuscript, as I followed my own muse. Within my ability, it is true to TL.'s original tone, namely of a man obsessed by sex, obsessed into a stultifying depression~the depression of a sexual deviate, or, in his case, as I was to learn, most likely a world renown professor. That is the way it is presented, with allowances for my own dark tastes. The hand that scrawled those demented pages, and typed that error-filled script was, I felt sure, obsessed by youth and by youthful college students, generally white, while the scribe of these pages you now read suffers from sexual obsessions, decidedly black...
“The professor, or doctor, if indeed he was both or either, apparently labored in a youth-fed environment as he drifted into obsession, while I report from an abounding black milieu: environments peculiar to our disadvantage; environments that oil the flames of our obsessions, accent our depressions. Why T.L. left or was forced to leave the scene of his obsession (escaped?), may always remain a mystery, grounds for conjecture. I saw no clue in the writing, other than the fact that part of the cure was a necessity to leave the environment of one’s obsession. And I suppose there comes a time when self preservation becomes greater than obsession. Certainly I face my fate, my black obsession and depression in Detroit and cannot leave by free will, but as it is written in the Method, leave I must for a cure.”

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WhiteNotes
My writing turns morbid as Poe, turns inward when trying to record the events of yesterday and today. I rationalize my quick temper. Blame it on other than the thwarted sex drive. Blame it on a job turndown earlier in the day. Those officious bastards and of late, as likely bitches; those who have a job, who can pass you on to the next level of interview on whim; those who are in life and death decision making positions: hire or no, make life good or no, make life so fucking difficult: Those great givers of life.

So, I write.Write of today. Today, always of today. Don't think about tomorrow. Or too much of yesterday, what might have been. Just write.

Everyone wants to be a writer except possibly my friend, would-be girlfriend, Kris Prince. She wants to do something; anything, as long as it includes college, learning, going to the university like her hairy-legged friends are doing or are planning to do. The peer lesbos. That lesbo thing hurts too, probably has some part in my blowup. Feeling, might as well say, knowing, the sexy hairy Kris goes for women, plays up to them, exposes her personality for women, seldom for me. I know that. Hard to swallow that thought.
A lot of people I meet want to become "a writer." But few, make that none, of those I've talked to about writing and becoming a writer know the first thing about the sacrifices, dedication, work it takes to be a writer. I tell them to just write. And when you've lived a bit, write some more. And when you've lived a bit, writing may not seem that important. That is about it. I admit I don't know myself. Who does? I know some of what it takes, not being too harsh on myself, some of what it takes. Know it takes willpower, tremendous willpower to write when a lot of things is coming down around your ears, the years adding on, blood pressure up, energy level sinking, eyes burning, something in the stomach not quite right, burning in there too, too hot or too cold in the dirty apartment. God damn books everywhere, dust taking over the planet, roaches not far behind. Got to be part of what is wrong with my lungs, the dust that is. That and eating too much too late at night. Could be I got the Rock and Roller's plague: fluid on the lungs. Don't have to be a doctor to know what causes that.

Afternoon of the day before, Leewanda, a bowlegged black chic, aging faster than me, comes by. She has a few pages of notes to show me. I hadn't seen her in years, some unkind years.

"Book I'm working on," she says, handing me the bundle.

She wants me to check it out. She wants me to advise her. She wants to write. I read the notes, scan more like it, check out a few lines, talk to her, reassure her.

"Not bad L.L, could be something. Right track. Good street stuff."

And I'm really thinking she better not give up her night job working the street. Maybe I'm jealous of her material. At the time I'm not into analyzing myself to death. She has some good material for damn sure: ho'ing, drugging, into her third husband. Both of the previous ones died by gunfire. What one might call deaths by natural causes in Detroit.

And hard to believe, the third one is currently in the hospital from gunshot wounds. She thinks he's survive. What the hell is that all about? Her husbands were in high risk businesses, all dealing. Of course, that's why she married them.

Still the insurance companies shell out and she runs through the settlements between husbands, buying drug. Couldn't wait to get married again to get free drugs,

"First one I got a little settlement, last one I got a quarter mil," she said. I had no reason to think she was lying, but god, running through a quarter million dollars in a few short years. Yeah, she could do it. Her and her habit were expensive. When I first met her, fifteen years or more back, she was taking big funny steps with those huge bow legs, and she was pregnant. Her only other habit was pop. Drank a lot of pop,

I'm thinking, if her story were written by Henry Miller, when he was alive, it might sell.

"You want it? Want to write it?" she asked me. "We could go fifty-fifty."

"Well, thanks L.L., but I'm working on something right now. Maybe after."

Back then, when I was young and horney, and thinking of myself as Henry Miller of Detroit, when I first met L.L., I would have strung her along, made an attempt to at least start something, any excuse to see her and her long bow legs, to get her in bed. But now, she just don't look that great any more. And I've come to terms with the idea that I'm no Henry Miller.


(link

Finished with the sexual interplay she’s ready to talk, will talk, as who won‘t?

With a cute half smile, not serious, but serious enough, she muses, "Brome, you have been to college; studied psychology, know a lot of general things. So, what do you think, is it possible to love two people?"

After being satisfied, no mean feat for anyone, Brome thought, seemingly really so, for she was as easy as a virgin, she compliments and picks an odd subject. After sex was time to talk, if ever there could be, if ever they could, but such a strange beginning. She continued, not waiting for an answer, "I'm involved with three people." Paused, maybe to judge his reaction.

What else is new, not surprised, Brome well knew about the old Kraut she called her husband; and there’s himself, of course, but he's a little surprised she was willing to tell him there was yet another in her mind, knowing him to be the jealous type even if she hadn't the foggiest concept of jealously. There are a few people who just don't care what their boyfriend, husband, or whoever does, and don't think twice about doing anything and everything themselves, but, not that many. Most people have that bit ofjealously deep inside, even if they don't want to admit it. Brome readily admitted it. He wasn't surprised that she had lovers, other than himself; in fact if anything he was a bit surprised that she admits involvement with only three, for he has the feeling she can't pass a bro on the street, especially one fum de islands, or with braids down to his asshole. Can’t say no to insanity. No is not in her vocabulary. He supposes he's included in the three, and the old Kraut, the money man, most certainly, although he can't imagine anyone being in love with the old fucker. The bastard is some sort of big shit in a sex cult, has something on her, however. Brainwashed the dumb cunt until she probably thinks she loves him.

Brome ventures: "The guy you were telling me about that you cared for fifteen years ago. Your first love? Is he one of the three?"

"No. Not him. He's long forgotten. The third guy you don’t know about; he’s someone in Kenya. He calls me long distance almost every day."

Probably giving her the old, "Come home to royalty" bit, Brome thinks. "Yeah, baby, come here, live with me. You be a fuckin tribal queen."

Teliah would be the type to fall for a line like that, or any line for that matter. She had an active mind, always looking for something, anything for a change.

She goes on, "I have a feeling for him." She confesses but found it difficult to do so to Brome. But they were in a mood. Even so, he's no fucking forgiving Pope. Easy to arouse, testy, quickly upset when his ego was touched.

He tried to be conversational about the bitch's revelation and not too sarcastic: "You feel for him long distance and are here fucking me," he said, continues on in a sort of professional voice, "Everyone has to make choices in life, unless he or she is so ugly no one cares. And most people have second thoughts, wonder if they made or are making the right choice. Passions never remain the same, sometimes hot, sometimes cooler. Even love goes through good and bad, you know. The mind tends to remembers the good times past with someone else. That was great; this, now is just good. But sex is seldom as good as the imagination portrays it. How great it was in memory. The thing to look for is compatibility. It's not easy to find someone who is compatible. Sure, in bed, hot, it can be good with a lot of people, but later, you have to live with the guy, or girl. If you were with him as much as you are with your other two, you might not be so much in love with him. So we make choices all the time. You must; I, too. We're a lot alike I think, especially sexually.

Late, was Teliah, but in one of her good moods, it seemed. When a woman is in a good mood, she's all teeth, smiles, lets the man know she's ready to fuck in rather explicit ways, laughs easily at his not so amusing comments, touches him, gets close when she doesn't have to. That was Teliah this time around. She was horny as a frog in June, she was very sweet. But not so sweet that she offered any reason or excuse for being late, and Brome, taking her as she was, didn't give a fuck either. For once, he was wise enough not to complain. Hi Brome, how's the boy. Big kiss. Hi Teliah, great, great seeing you. You look great. Really good, in thick sweater and jeans, shoes. She wanted to take a shower, smiles, no stranger to the bathroom she quickly adjusts the water, standing in the old fashioned iron tub, holding the spray over her glistening body. Brome watches her from the doorway, keeping her company. She finishes, gets her hair wet without washing it, and Brome tosses her a large white towel. She dries slowly as Brome again watches her go all over her body, drying her short hair on her head, drying her cunt hair; he, thinking more than talking; his mind full of her. Both seem to be content in the moment. She, slow as a turtle, giving him time to idly reflect on her shape, her stomach, thighs and her best feature, which runs in the family, big hairy cunt; and her worst, which doesn't run in the family, big flabby grey-black tits. The tits seem to be bigger and flabbier than he remembered. He mementarily wanted to beat her down in his mind, not to get too excited about her, therefore not to retain too intense an image of her naked body, for future peace, to try and cut the obsession in themaking, but the big mound of hair, the meaty lips peeping through stop him cold. He can't put that down. No fucking way. He turned away from her nearly dry body, back to sit on the bed. It was an obsessive reaction. That meaty cunt was surely obsessive.

She walked smiling to him, leaned over and kissed him full with her big wide mouth open, large face-dominating lips letting him feel her teeth and tongue. The waiting was getting to him but he tried to retain his cool, waiting was hell for a man in real heat, and Brome was that. He also was a man who hates to be late, finds it difficult to wait on anyone, not even five minutes, was nearly always early, but now, the wait was over, and his mind told him the wait would be well worth it. She's in a rare and sexy mood and when she gets into bed beside him, he takes full advantage of her compliant mood, eating her leisurely, slow and easy, slow and easy, the way he knows she likes it. And, thanks a lot oh unknown God, the way he likes it too.

Like most young women, especially those with certain desirable sexual traits, a shapely ass, or large lips, big eyes, solid hairy thighs, Kris could be very charming if she so chose. And she could be sympathetic, even caring, it would appear, add Brome's way of seeing her: at times she could be a cold bitch also. In other words, not unusual among the beautiful and sexy of America, who knew for sure they were God's gift to the working man, many who appeared to wear cold bitch like a badge of honor. She has insisted she cared for him but admitted her caring was probably not as profound as he wanted it to be, or as passionate, not as time monopolistic caring. The egotistical lover wants mind and body control. That was not to be with Brome. He gave a decent game, but as those who try too hard often fail, he fell short in the taking. Yet, ever the pragmatist, the Brome did better than alright with the black cunts of Detroit. Like a door-to-door salesman, who knocked on one hundred doors to sell ten, Brome played the numbers game. He scored his percentage. Wisdom of the aged.

Brome's obsessive devotion to Kris' big hairy cunt drove him to continue seeing her when possible; he continued to want to see her often and as long as possible even as he saw her less and less often.. She knew and somewhat reveled in his devotion, was sort of flattered at the stupid whitey's all too obvious infatuation. She knew the effect she had on him, knew his obsession for her thin hairy body, and more to the point, the big hairy cunt lips. What else is knew, she thought, for she had seen it with other guys; knew how women, too, went for her excessively hairy body and parts, which she advertised with hair on her face, and hair that could be seen on her chest, between her small firm tits when she wore an open blouse. The latter she did, like a man who showed his chest hairs with a shirt half buttoned.

Brome joked in his mind that he wanted that big hairy black cunt once a day; twice on Sunday. He, like the nuts on the street, was often his best audience. Sure I want it. What the fuck is wrong with that? Alone in his apartment, alone way too much, with too much time on his hands, he talked to himself, joked and berated, like a street fool, feeling defensive of his treatment by her and other black cunt in Detroit. "Bitches, lesbo cunts." And he had some justifications to talk to himself about his treatment. Probably as much as the average street nut.

Against his better judgement, but forging almost against his own will, he commented wryly, "Half an hour every two weeks or month is not excessive, I think you will agree." He tried to present a diplomatic front, smiling ruefully, his hands out to her palms up.

She studied the aging thin white man, Brome, a serious study with her big brown eyes wide like a starlet, giving him the once over. His arguments one way or the other didn't move her. She had great possession of her senses because, for one, she didn't go nuts for sex like he did. She knew the look he was giving her, had seen much the same in Karen Walker's eyes, too. The difference was, she could and did return the sexual intensity with Walker, never really got that intense with Brome. If he could read her mind, he'd really be depressed. God, or whoever, anyone out there, mercifully, did not give him the talent to know for sure what was in her mind. Unfortunately, he possessed the ability to guess fairly accurately.

Thinking she might be open for further wisdom, as a fool will, he cannot but go on, whimping, now gently berating, "You see others more often. Especially the Zombie. You play up to her, and other women. 'The good little girl, loves everybody,' he quotes with his fingers, quoting within his quote. "Always too busy to see me though."

She smiles at his use of the "Zombie" name for her friend, Karen Wilson, and his general theatrics, says, "the Zombie," as if it were a joke.

Irrational perhaps, his growing accusations of lesbian actions. Still, he goes on, "I've seen how neat and clean you get for your girlfriends, but not for me. What's that all about?" That neat and clean thing really bugged him. And true, Kris affected a hippy type or style. The last time they were together she had what he suspected was dried come on her black cunt hairs. It was a whitish, milky substance and he'd seen the like before on his own hair. He remembered she was wearing old, not too clean, army fatigues, top and bottom. Cute, he had to admit. He preferred the casual look, but that come juice was a bit too casual, sort of gave him pause. Damn near turned him off. She seemed to have a general air of not giving a shit how she looked most of the time, with him or anyone else. The exception was when she and Karen went out to eat. Karen, very much her opposite, was a neat freak, her jeans were pressed, her blouse white on white. Her hair usually styled. Kris played along, tried to look presentable when with her. Now, in jeans and boots and wool shirt, she didn't look particularly neat, unless one was a lumberjack back from lumbering. But still sexy.

She took the question and comment rhetorically and they stood in silence. He continued his thoughts, finally decided on some sort of apology, "Sorry, I got so personal."

Again she did not acknowledge him. Just continued to study his face, as viewing a strange, perhaps fascinating animal.Looking for what one wonders. Trying to find out what made Brome so obsessive? Perhaps.

Jealous as hell of the fucking Z, he, jealous of how Kris always looked so nice and clean and neat for the fucking Z. Nice and neat and clean. Happy and laughing. Like love, in love. Oh yes see us laugh and prance together. He got highly emotional, almost sick thinking about the whole fucking scene.

While Brome was wrong again in his actions, he saw the Z as a fucking double-crossing lesbo. When he phoned her, she would come on with that sexy low voice, speaking slow and sure as hell enticing him to continue. Then later, she would call Kris and tell her of the call. She's hoping to break us up, Brome reasoned correctly, so she and Kris can get together more without me being in the background. Yet, he had to admit if honest, the Zombie was a tall lanky sex machine and he would eat her cunt in a hot Motown minute. He was too carried away by his ego, feeling that if he connected with his tongue, she would enjoy it, be willing to meet him and keep it a secret. Too dumb to stop the calls, or too carried away by his sexual visions of her, he will press on until either there is a clear signal that he has no chance of getting to the Z's enticing cunt and ass, or Kris tells him she is finished if he continues.

He is such a weird wrong one.

In addition to and because of, his sex life, economics also were weighing on his mind. He needed to find work that paid a good buck. It was great to have the time to pursue cunts, without that eight hours off for work, but in Detroit, women wanted a man who had a job; at least the women he had met. Black women didn't want a laid-off whitey, for sure. Laid off meant an eventual lack of money. The summer hasn't been a total loss, however. He had continued to write what he hoped would be a major work and if sold, hopefully could solve his financial problems; the work he called On Detroit. And spare time allowed him to see Teliah, get to know her again, reintroduced, so to speak, to her big cunt and lips, more so than he thought would ever be possible. To the extent that he would become obsessed, and subsequently write, The Cure: A Journal of Sexual Obsession. A work he thought would be his seminal writing project, and hopefully an insurance police for his old age. If Teliah continued to be so nice and loving, he might just see her, to hell with others, he thought. But Teliah, like Kris to some extent, felt he was too possessive, complained he wanted too much of her, her loyalty, love, whatever. He knew it would be self-defeating and useless to demand she see just him at the present time. But he had hopes for the future. The old Kraut she lived with had been good for her, giving her money, a house, getting her away from Detroit, he admitted. She seemed almost normal with all the pressures of life lifted. Still, Brome felt confident of being able to come out ahead of the Kraut in the end; felt he could defeat a man at least twenty years his senior. Felt especially confident when he was in bed with Teliah, listening to her appreciative comments and sounds. While he again had reason to be confident, he was wrong there. It was not to be. The old Kraut was to win this battle with the American.

As for Kris, he thought, she never tried to be fair or recognize my desires and only saw me on her terms.
To her, I'm just a cunt-eating whitey.
Maybe to both Kris and Teliah, he was just a cunt-eating whitey.

"Fun, Jack, fun. But I really have to be moving on, got to go." Fun and sex took a lot less of her time, yet when in the mood, she preferred to linger and love with Karen Walker.

He writes:
One page a day. 365 days a year. Add it up: A book, a novel, a book-like journal could be written in a year, just a page a day. It began to sound possible.

Kris moved to go, suddenly, she turned and kissed him full on the mouth with her thick lips; a quick unexpected kiss, before she turned again and opened the kitchen door, hastily out into the parking lot. And she was away.

Brome retained the strong image of her and it pulled him to the bed, passionate for her. But, perhaps unexpectedly, at the time of truth, he found it easier to switch his mind to the more readily available and accommodating sister, Teliah, for the grand finale.

In his sexual daydreams, Teliah, for the first time in the long interrelationship, was beginning to win out. But, as he had told Kris, it didn't have to be. Just show me you care and I'll show you I can be true to you. She didn't want to go all the way, make any commitment, and probably, he didn't either. She never did. And he, put to the test, would have failed too. But for many years he retained the idea that Kris was someone he could live with, love and be happy with. Odd that it was Teliah that drove him to depression, and eventually, to write about it in the Cure.

After more than a decade of comparative silence when they were together, he noticed, just lately, that both of the sisters, Kris and Teliah, had started to converse more, even to show they were actually thinking human beings, not just dumb black cunts. So long to communicate. It struck him strange when they exchanged thoughts or ideas. He liked it when Teliah told him about her move into a house of her own, purchased for her by the old Kraut, and how life would now be easier for her. Maybe it will be better for him, too. Then again, maybe not. Success with the Prince sisters, or blacks in general, had a way of destroying Brome. A natural pessimistic person, It might not be as good as before, he thought. He found it difficult to be optimistic regarding the on again, off again, sisters.

Teliah lived a strange timetable of her own. She seldom rushed, literally, seldom moved faster at one time than another. If she were catching a train or bus, or walking to the grocery, the same modest gait. And certainly she did not recognize time, appointments, as something necessary for her life.

She did finally come to him Tuesday night, late as always. The time agreed on was four o'clock. Like a fool, he began to listen for her to ring the doorbell. He fought the time, read, wrote, even turned on the television. Anything to pass the time to her. It was after eight and he was beginning to give up any hope of seeing her that night. He called her house and the mother said she wasn't home. He went into the bathroom and took a sinus tablet. If and when she did arrive he probably will find it difficult to get hard, he thought. The fucking medicine worked on his fluids, dried up his whole body. Even make it hard to piss. When he came after taking a cold or sinus pill, it felt strange; very thick sperm ejaculated slowly from a half-hard cock. Sure as hell now that I have taken a sinus tablet she will show up, he thought.

And she did.