she lived in Galveston and was into
T.M.
and I went down to visit her and we made love
continually even though it was very warm
weather
and we took mescalin
and we took the ferry to the island
and drove 200 miles to the nearest
racetrack.
we both won and sat in a redneck bar—
disliked and distrusted by the natives—
and then we went to a redneck motel
and came back a day or two later
and I stayed another week
painted her a couple of good paintings—
one of a man being hanged
and another of a woman being fucked by a wolf.
I awakened one night and she wasn’t in bed
and I got up and walked around saying,
“Gloria, Gloria, where are you?”
it was a large place and I walked around
opening door after door,
and then I opened what looked like a closet door
and there she was on her knees
surrounded by photographs of
7 or 8 men
heads shaved
most of them wearing rimless spectacles.
there was a small candle burning
and I said, “oh, I’m sorry.”
Gloria was dressed in a kimono with flying
eagles on the back of it.
I closed the door and went back to bed.
she came out in 15 minutes.
we began kissing,
her large tongue sliding in and out of my
mouth.
she was a large healthy Texas girl.
“listen, Gloria,” I finally managed to say,
“I need a night off.”
the next day she drove me to the airport.
I promised to write. she promised to write.
neither of us has written.
Other works by Charles Bukowski...
