Last night I was browsing Molloy, as is my wont during the insomniac hours. The problem, in the wee hours of the night, is the occasional fits of laughter it still provokes..."She went by
the peaceful name of Ruth, I think, but I can’t say for certain. Perhaps the
name was Edith. She had a hole between her legs, oh not the bunghole I had
always imagined, but a slit, and in this I put, or rather she put, my so-called
virile member, not without difficulty, and I toiled and moiled until I
discharged or gave up trying or was begged by her to stop. A mug’s game in my
opinion and tiring on top of that, in the long run. But I lent myself to it
with a good enough grace, knowing it was love, for she had told me so. She bent
over the couch, because of her rheumatism, and in I went from behind. It was
the only position she could bear, because of her lumbago. It seemed all right
to me, for I had seen dogs, and I was astonished when she confided that you
could go about it differently. I wonder what she meant exactly. Perhaps after
all she put me in her rectum. A matter of complete indifference to me, I
needn’t tell you. But is it true love, in the rectum? That’s what bothers me
sometimes. Have I never known true love, after all? She too was an eminently
flat woman and she moved with short stiff steps, leaning on an ebony stick.
Perhaps she too was a man, yet another of them. But in that case surely our
testicles would have collided, while we writhed. Perhaps she held hers tight in
her hand, on purpose to avoid it." Ah God, Sam, Sam. Bedside reading for sure.
