Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp (41 page)

“
I talked to Madame Poco, Morag.”

“
Oh?”

“
She said you told her you were a hermaphrodite, but now she doesn’t know what to believe.”

I sighed, Reina sighed. At a loss for words, I kissed her instead. She didn’t seem to mind.

“
All we have to do, Reina, is make it through another month with the circus. I’ll think of something to tell Madame Poco.”

“
Like what?”

“
I don’t know yet. But I’m a resourceful guy.”

“
Are you? As I recall you came in third.”

“
Don’t worry. And I plan to be way more helpful than Tarkan too.”

“
Frankly, Rick, so far you haven’t been.”

“
Reina, do you want to marry some guy who burns people with lit cigarettes?”

“
Tarkan said that was an accident.”

“
It was no accident. I watched him do it. It was very deliberate.”

“
I should never have agreed to this contest, Rick. It’s brought out the worst in all of you.”

“
I think it’s been very educational. And don’t forget, darling, I’m in the lead.”

She didn’t pull away when I cupped my hands around her breasts.

“
Rick, this has been the strangest summer of my life.”

I kissed her hungrily; she pushed her body against mine. Many minutes later, we came up for air. She rested her head on my shoulder and hugged me close.

“
What are you doing, Rick?”

“
Caressing your nipples through your shirt. How does it feel?”

“
Rather dangerous. I advise you to stop.”

I was never one to take unsolicited advice.

“
Why doesn’t it feel like that, Rick, when I do it?”

“
I don’t know, darling. I think it has to do with the way the brain is wired.”

“
Very curious, Rick. There seems to be a direct connection between my breasts and . . . and another part of my body.”

I made an educated guess and placed a hand on that part. She moaned and nibbled lightly on my ear.

“
Remind me again, Rick,” she gasped, “how old you’ll be when I’m 40.”

“
An equally ancient 38,” I replied, stroking lightly up and down with my middle finger.

“
Oh dear,” she sighed. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.”

And then I felt her body go quite rigid as the cataclysm approached and finally engulfed her. She clung to me as ripples of energy coursed up and down her body.

“
My God, Rick,” she said at last. “Did you do that to me?”

“
Well, it wasn’t the camels.”

“
Are you, uh, equally excited?”

“
Oh, you might say that.”

“
Can I see it?”

“
Sure.”

I pulled down Mrs. Fulke’s stretch pants and displayed the desperately over-stimulated organ. Reina studied it with interest in the dim light.

“
I don’t see how it could fit.”

“
It will, take my word for it.”

“
Shall I touch it?”

“
Sure.”

“
It’s very warm and hard.”

She gave it a few tentative strokes.

“
If you keep that up, darling, you’re going to get a nasty surprise.”

“
I don’t mind, Rick. I want to see how it works.”

Seconds later I demonstrated the process in its explosive entirety. Reina seemed to find it most fascinating.

“
And you propose to do all that inside me someday?” she inquired.

I kissed her and pulled up my pants. “Yes, darling, that is my greatest dream.”

THURSDAY, August 18 — I’m writing this in a small café in Bèziers, where I’m enjoying the customary French protein-free breakfast. Decided I better avoid the cookhouse for a few meals since I haven’t thought of anything to say to Madame Poco. I’m hoping she’ll lose interest in the subject. After all, she’s a busy circus manager, and Mrs. Fulke is merely her lowest peon. I’m sure she has more important things to worry about.

The businessmen of Bèziers come in looking sharp in their neat dark suits and stand at the counter, where they drink their café au laits and read their newspapers. I envy their orderly, established lives. I wonder what, if anything, they think of the old lady in the corner typing on her laptop. Would they be surprised to learn she is a famous video star on the lam? Do they dread going to the office or do they look forward to their jobs? Do they wish they had more exciting lives in Paris, or are they content with their sedate small town? Hard to tell their states of mind since the French not big on smiling. Would I trade places with them? Sometimes I think I might.

Another anniversary coming up. Tomorrow it will be one year since I met Sheeni Saunders at that trailer park at Clear Lake. One year since that cute stranger whispered “Your robe’s open” as I passed her by the men’s shower. Three provocative words and my life ran straight off a cliff. What a ride it’s been, and how I wish she were here sharing this table with me. She would sip her coffee and read the newspaper—pausing now and again to inform me indignantly of the idiocies going on in the world. I would smile, and admire the passion with which she spoke, and feel again a sense of pride that this marvelous person chose to associate with me. But if I linger on this subject, I’ll only depress myself.

Time to go. The last contest of the Tour de Wife starts in less than an hour. Wish me luck, kids.

11:46 a.m. At 10:00 a.m. the three contestants and three committee members assembled for the final showdown in the Plateau des Poètes, a sort of English public garden in Béziers. But we had not come to admire the pretty trees and languid ponds.

Donk began with a surprise announcement. Since the contest was so close and this was the final event, only the first-place finisher would be awarded points. After all, he pointed out, there was only one girl up for grabs. A tie would be pointless. No, in the Game of Love there are no consolation prizes.

The contestants having voiced no objections to this ruling, Donk then requested that we turn over all of our cash and pocket change to Captain Lapo for safekeeping. This I always take as a bad omen, but we meekly complied. The prior events, Donk explained, had evaluated us for those practical, down-to-earth qualities essential in a good husband. But now it was time to delve into those intangible matters of the heart.

Very good, I thought. How about a poetry contest? I, for one, had some burning passions clamoring to get down on paper. But shouldn’t they be confiscating our rhyming dictionaries instead of our cash?

Attractiveness, announced Donk, that would be the theme of today’s contest. We participants would have one hour to roam about the town seeing how many people we could persuade to sleep with us. No bribes or any such inducements could be offered. The seducees must come willing of their own volition.

Tarkan was confused. “But where are we supposed to fuck them?”

Such a gentleman of the old school.

“
I was coming to that,” replied Donk. “Naturally, you won’t be expected actually to perform the act. You will be accompanied by a committee member, who will ascertain from each party whether indeed they intended to sleep with you.”

Skeptical Jiri raised an objection. “Reina. She has said yes OK to this?”

I could see why he might be apprehensive. He may not have looked exactly like the Creature from the Lost Lagoon, but he certainly resembled its musical brother. Clearly, if he were to have any hope, he would have to locate immediately a ladies’ home for the blind and/or insane.

Marcel answered Jiri’s question: “The broad general outlines have been cleared with Reina.”

“
One other thing,” said Donk. “The people have to be adults. No little kids or teenagers. And no prostitutes!”

Practical Mrs. Fulke raised her hand. “What if the seducee doesn’t speak a language familiar to the committee person—say Turkish, for example?”

Tarkan fired me a dirty look.

“
A good point, Mrs. Fulke,” replied Donk. “OK, all parties have to speak French or English. That is the rule.”

I was glad to see Tarkan drew Marcel instead of the gullible Captain Lapo. But why did I have to get stuck with Donk? Would you confess to some inquisitive giant that you had the hots for a wacky old dame? Clearly, I was starting from a position behind the eight ball. Damn, and I had skipped my morning shower too. Never a sex bomb, Mrs. Fulke was not exactly looking her best. Fortunately, guided by some unseen hand, I had donned a dress this morning. It was that cabbage roses number from Paris. Freshly laundered, so it didn’t smell so bad, but all too obviously unironed. I resembled the proverbial unmade bed. Meanwhile, Tarkan was looking pretty sharp in his ‘Cowboy from the Bosporus’ outfit. He combed his greaseball hair, while Jiri sucked nervously on his wine cork, and Mrs. Fulke performed an emergency tune-up on her makeup.

Then the committee members synchronized their watches and Donk blew his whistle. Operation Alien Seduction had commenced.

Now I’ve heard that experiments have been conducted where average-looking fellows randomly walk up to women on the street and inquire politely if they wished to screw. Ninety percent of the time the gals screamed, ran away, or called a cop, but a consistent ten percent or so replied, “Sure, your place or mine?” I heard this from my old pal Lefty, but he claimed to have read it in a magazine. Apparently, there is a horny subsection of the populace willing to have impromptu sex with total strangers. And if the figure was ten percent for females, it certainly must be way higher for guys. And even higher still for randy, sexist French guys. It was now Mrs. Fulke’s task to root out these libertines. But would those amorous Frogs rise to the bait?

Fortunately, almost all French parks have a few snoozing oldsters leaning on their canes and mentally undressing the passing preschoolers. I sat down on a bench occupied by one such candidate, while Donk loitered discreetly on a nearby path.

“
Bonjour,” I smiled.

“
Bonjour,” he croaked, displaying dazzlingly artificial-looking dentures. I guessed his age to be somewhere north of 80.

Damn, how does one say, “Would you like to jump my bones?” in French. Mrs. Fulke would have to resort to pantomime. I made a circle with my thumb and index finger, inserted my other index finger, moved it rapidly in and out, pointed to my breast, then looked inquiringly at my victim. A look of astonishment, followed by incredulity, followed by disgust, followed by skeptical reappraisal.

He whispered something, which even I could translate as “How much?”

Rats. All those working girls in France were spoiling it for us gals who wanted to give it away. I pantomimed opening a purse, then waving no. I drew a heart in the air, smiled coyly, and pointed at him.

He looked dubious, then uncertain. Close enough for rural work. I squeezed his bony knee, grabbed his hand, and led him hopefully toward my companion. Smiling amiably, Donk made the meekest of inquiries, but it was all too much for my prey. He expostulated wildly, yanked free his hand, and tottered off down the lane. Two other solicitations ended just as disastrously. Time to go to Plan B.

Tourists, I need to find tourists. The cathedral! Just as I supposed, the medieval quarter around the church was lousy with camera- dangling Americans. I accosted three likely looking college-aged youths.

“
Hiya, boys,”

“
Sorry, Granny,” one replied. “We’re just as lost as you are.”

“
Say, boys, you see that giant over there?”

“
My God!” exclaimed his pal. “Is that Andre?”

“
Shhh, not so loud,” I cautioned. “He hates it when people ask that. No, that’s Donk my son. I have a little bet on with him.”

“
Is this a scam?” demanded the third youth.

Jesus, Americans are so suspicious these days. It must be all those e-mail solicitations rolling in from Nigeria.

“
Not at all,” I assured him. “It’s just that Donk doesn’t think he can get a date. It’s got him terribly depressed.”

“
My sister would probably go for him,” remarked the first kid, “but she’s back in Cleveland.”

“
No matter,” I assured him. “It’s just that I’m trying to convince him that looks aren’t that important. That even I could get a date.”

Rumbles of skepticism from my new pals.

“
Come on, boys,” I pleaded. “All I’m asking is for you to assure my son that you would sleep with me.”

“
Are you crazy, lady?” asked the third one. “Or are you some kind of weird old, uh . . .”

“
Streetwalker?” suggested his buddy.

“
OK, guys,” I admitted in my normal voice. “It’s a fraternity stunt. I’m really a guy.” I gave them a peek at my cloistered chest hair. “But I’ll win points if you tell that giant you dig me. You have to pretend like you really mean it though.”

Believe it or not, they agreed. Mrs. Fulke scored three Big Ones.

During the balance of the hour I employed variations on this theme with three cute girls from Wayne State, an elderly Irish couple (yes, both the man and his frail white-haired wife assured Donk that they would do me), three insurance salesmen from Colorado on a company-paid barge cruise won in a sales contest, and an English- speaking Béziers taxi driver and his two fares (gay guys from West Hollywood on their honeymoon). I was working on three visiting priests from Fall River when Donk blew his whistle. Still, 15 legitimate scores in 60 minutes is not bad for an old lady well past her prime.