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skip this one… it's about sex.

he knew mary mary would be there like she said.
his rabbit heartbeat wouldn't let him think.
this was a moment to simply knock on a door and soon everything would be different.
a few steps down he descended. he lifted the brass knocker on the heavy street door. the light in the window was red.
the knocking broke the silence in minetta lane.
s. was happier than he could ever remember being. his unbelievable luck.

this beautiful gentle loving woman would open the door to him and he would give himself to her heart and soul.
the door opened and there she was letting him in.
she wore a french boating jersey with horizontal blue stripes; long sleeves pushed up to her elbows and nothing underneath.

the living room was the bedroom.
"take off your clothes and get into bed, i'll be right back."

s. sat erect in a brass double bed melting with anticipation.

mary came out of the bathroom pulling off the blue striped jersey as she walked slowly towards him.
the scent of burning sandalwood, the warm light of candles, fresh flowers and this nubile creamy skinned enchantress with cherry cheeks and nipples was a vision. and she was all his. and there was no fear because he loved her.

s.'s senses were all alert. the first touch of skin as she slipped in beside him was electric… she was perfumed and warm. both moved as if attuned to some 'a priori' choreography. that was the first time and afterwards he showered her with kisses loving every part of her. the second time they tangled together in different forms she led the way until it was finished again. this time she wouldn't let go down there. mary had a trained vagina. she had a grip on his wilting willie. " no, don't go. never leave right away, that's what stupid men do. you are going to be a great lover." and she let him rest a while on top of her.
"a school of love", s. thought, "and i'll come every day for these classes." she let him rest awhile and catch his breath, no more words.
s.,with her first nuzzling and gentle kissing began to grow again inside her. he was a tender novice and an obedient one and she was like a concubine from "the perfumed garden" or the kama sutra (even 'auparashkosh' was practiced.

they lay apart cooling in the night air which drifted in a soft jazz ensemble; sounds of languishing lovers…. john coltrane at the gaslight cafe' that night.
they slept entwined like the righteous until well after noon. venus must have loved him.

a cute mexican girl with guitar sang that night at the gaslight; i think her name was stella. 'stella by starlight' sticks in my mind.

"whatcha gonna call that
pretty little baby….
ohhh oh pretty little baby
ohhh ohhhh pretty little baby

think i'll call him jesus
yes i'll call him jesus
ohhh oh think i'll call him jesus…. she sang sweetly
ohhh oh yes, i'll call him jesus….

i heard that song and many others waiting for mary mary at the 'gaslight cafe'
the gaslight was a down the stairs cafe bar; a real 'bistro'; across mcdougal from the commons (later, "the fat black pussycat"). mary travers was the cashier and sang across the street for nothing but tips and soft applause, snapping of fingers; not to disturb the peace of residents in the five story walk-up.
she sang between the poet's sets and peter yarrow's stand-up gig.

2 a.m. and mary hadn't come. it was too late to go to doc stanley's pad. i could have climbed the fire escape and got to bed, but i had tried that before. coming in the window in the wee small hours, i had startled mike stanley one night. he almost peppered me with a machine gun. he kept it on the wall beside him where he slept on the top bunk. i didn't want to go through that again. i knocked on mary's door. it was dark inside. she didn't answer.

so i wound up spending the night slumped over my knees on the stoop by the gaslight. i was tired. my heart felt like someone had slammed it against a brick wall and stomped on it.

the circle in the square was surrounded by new york university campus and expensive brownstone houses; the kind with carriage houses. it was both a campus and non campus; a well kept park with an 'arche de triumphe' at the start of fifth avenue. in the center was a circle with a fountain and wide steps leading to the water's edge. i went there. it was a great place to take a morning nap in the sun.

i woke up to a hulabaloo as a gang of young italian toughs brandishing bats and clubs attacked the blond poet and turk leclair who were asleep when i arrived. they really wanted the young 'rimbaud' but we all ran. we took off north up mcdougal and they chased us all the way to eighth street where they gave up trying to catch us. fear has wings. the 'beats' in the village had devastated the virgin population in 'little italy'. the young italians were mad as hornets. but they weren't crazy, there were too many people on eighth street for them to bang heads. we were lucky. turk led the flight and he knew instinctively to run to a busy street.

doc stanley showed up at the circle around noon as he usually did. i told him about me and mary. he said something philosophical which went over my head or didn't help. he held out a handfull of pills. i remember they looked so pretty; all different bright colored capsules and pastel tablets.
i asked, "which one should i take?"
"take 'em all."
well, i tossed them back without a care. i mean i swallowed them all.

about an hour later, oblivious to the state i was in, i gave the sidewalk art festival a piece of my mind;scott the panjandrum of aesthetic purity.
like jesus in the temple with the moneychangers, i harangued and browbeat those poor artists with all the arrogance only a teenager would dare display. i tore their work apart. with enthused eloquence and telling criticisms i left them one by one staring at the pavement… heads hanging in chagrined embarassment. my vehemence escalated and soon a crowd was following rather gleefully my 'dressing down' of the paltrey efforts i surveyed. i handed out to each complacent bewildered painter of 'sweet florals',every collection of 'elves and fairies on mushrooms and flowers' an equal share of biting criticism.
the tiger painter, the countless specialists who painted only clown faces, even the insipid amateur abstractionists couldn't escape my wrath. at one point i got so excited i was pounding the pavement with the palm of my hand. i can still see that moment. then it was over. i'd come to the end of my tether standing in front of the last poor soul and the one i had started with.


nena was sitting in a chair in front of the television in front of me in her nightgown. her feet were up on the chair. her knees had drifted apart. she'd had too much to drink. she was in a stupor.
nena aleman cortez alejandro de cervantes villarosa della anjou, exiled with her whole aristocratic
family from cuba, was an alcoholic who had known me since i was five in jamaica. she was sure i was some kind of a genius. she was married to a very rich theatrical agent and lived in a penthouse apartment on fifth avenue.

nena was a patron of the arts. she had me over to dinner now and then. i was used to spending the night on those occasions in the guest room. she gave me money and a few designer sport jackets from her husbands wardrobe. he didn't care. ben was hardly ever there.

one day it rained all day and into the night. i was coming down with a cold; i could tell by the taste in my mouth. i must have been a little rundown. i went to nena's. the doorman let me in. she wasn't there or she was sound asleep so i went up on the roof. it was still raining. i curled up in a chaise lounge on the sundeck. my sleep was more like hallucinations than dreams.

in the early morning i went down and nena was happy to see me and very concerned; popped me into a hot bath and fixed me a hot toddy (hot cider and rum, a pinch of allspice with cinnamon and butter), and put me to bed. when i woke up a darvon's time lapse later, i was burning up with fever and spitting yellow globs. off to the hospital we went. the doctor said i had 'walking pneumonia' i wondered what was the difference.

nena called bob, my father, who sent plane fare and after a few days on antibiotics at st. vincent's hospital, i flew back to winter park, the andersons, the old farmhouse, my garret under the eaves and the beautiful loving kids who had missed me so much and expressed that with hundreds of hugs and kisses. except for robbie of course… jealous robbie; and matilda, who was too grown-up.