The Fuck

Mother of God—he actually had a cloth and a spray bottle of something, because he was dusting his truck. His truck was blocking up our street that we live on.

As I ran away from him, I shouted, “I am not try­ing to run away from you!” Brutally, I kicked what I decided was my own stone, and I found a limp walk­ing stick—a dead tree branch, smooth, just the right height—after it was boring for me to be brutal.

Ferocious, hateful dogs, working as a team, barked at me.

What are the Williamses putting that up for? I wondered, when I turned my corner. Now, he was over there, in their yard, not looking at what he was doing with their swing set, speaking only to me, when I came along.

There was no mention of being ill or an illness mentioned which was of an extreme or of a debili­tating nature. Pleasure was the centerpoint, sexual pleasure, fun, surprise, gamy delight—seldom—well, all right, once!—disgust. He did not express desire other than sexual, which he was confident he would gratify soon. He had no concern that any woman, man, girl, or boy would not be a good-enough provider for him, or could somehow disappoint him, or turn up incompetent. Beauty, intelligence, educa­tion, gentility, cleanliness, worldly success, a moral attitude—none of these he ever referred back to. No concern over betrayal, no money problem was ex­pressed, and yet, even so, I behaved curtly. I behaved as if he had digressed.