Success Stories by Russell Banks

Author:Russell Banks
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

Throughout that long first night of rising and falling passion, we spoke almost not at all. At first, in the hallway, I asked in a high, windy voice, “Where’s Art?” and she said, “Gone to Miami for three days … for the store.”

“Oh,” I said.

A little later, she asked me if this was the first time I’d ever made love to a woman, and I said, “No, not really,” and she gave a pleasant little laugh and started kissing me all over my hairless chest again.

When at last I left her bed, she said in a sleepy voice, “Earl, honey, you are the sweetest thing. I got to be careful you don’t get to be a habit.”

I nodded, as if understanding everything, but I understood nothing. I did know certain things, however. I knew, for instance, that in one night Donna had become a habit for me. At least, making love to her had. I still had no interest in becoming her friend, however. What I wanted near me, next to me, around me, was her femaleness, her smooth skin, breasts, nipples, dark thatch of pubic hair, hips, mouth, eyes, ears—I wanted to dive into her as if into a warm, enveloping body of water, to roll, curl and swirl there, floating free of time, fear, greed and dread, never coming up for air to the cold world of men and boys and futures that may or may not turn out well.

Dreams, fantasies, drooling, lascivious wishes, were all amazingly coming true. I rushed straight home from work the next day, and instead of going downstairs to my cellar to change clothes and eat and leave for Thom McAn’s, I strolled casually back to the kitchen of Art and Donna’s part of the house, and sure enough, there was Donna in a watermelon-pink bikini, smelling of coconut tanning lotion, her hair tied off her slender neck with a black ribbon. She stood at the kitchen counter painting her fingernails to match the bikini, her elbows resting against the Formica, hands like birds touching bills, lovely, small breasts hanging down like soft fruit, plums or tangerines. She turned and cocked her head when I came into the kitchen, smiled, then went quickly back to her nails, while I watched in stunned, admiring silence.

“What you staring at?” she asked without looking up.

I made an uncontrollable noise, “Uh-huck!” like Mortimer Snerd, put my hands in my trousers pockets, felt my thighs, and instantly took them out again and started cracking my knuckles like a gangster in a movie about to beat someone to death.

Donna stood back a second, admired her pink fingernails, and suddenly lifted one leg like a dancer and placed the heel of her foot on the counter and began to paint the toenails. I was tumescent. “You want a beer?” she asked. “There’s some in the fridge. Get me one, too, will you?”

I grabbed a pair of cans of Colt 45, thrust one at her and wrenched mine open and gulped it down.

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.