When I awakened it was 1:30 pm. I took a bath, got dressed, checked the mail. A letter from a young man in Glendale. "Dear Mr. Chinaski: I am a young writer and I think that I am a good one, a very good one, but my poems keep coming back. How does one break into this game? What is the secret? Who do you have to know? I very much admire your writing and I would like to come over and talk to you. I’ll bring a couple of 6-packs and we can talk. I’d also like to read you some of my work. ...”

The poor fucker didn’t have a cunt. I threw his letter into the wastebasket.

An hour or so later Liza returned. “Oh, I’ve found the most marvelous costumes!”

She had an armful of dresses. She went into the bedroom. Some time passed, then she walked out. She was in a high-necked long gown and she whirled in front of me. It fit her very nicely around the ass. It was gold and black and she had on black shoes. She did a subdued dance.

“You like it?”

“Oh, yes. ...” I sat and waited.

Liza went back into the bedroom. Then she came out in green and red with shots of silver. This one was a midriff job with her bellybutton showing. As she paraded in front of me she had this special way of looking into my eyes. It was neither coy nor sexy, it was perfect.

I don’t remember how many costumes she showed me, but the last one was just right. It clung to her and was slit up each side of the skirt. As she walked around, first one leg came out, then the other. The dress was black, it shimmered, and it was cut low in front.

I got up as she walked across the room and grabbed her. I kissed her viciously, bending her backwards. I continued to kiss her and began pulling up her long gown. I pulled the back of the skirt all the way up and saw her panties, yellow. I pulled the front of her gown up and began pushing my cock against her. Her tongue slipped into my mouth—it was as cool as if she had been drinking ice water. I walked her backwards into the bedroom, pushed her on to the bed and mauled her. I got those yellow panties off and got my own pants off. I let my imagination go. Her legs were around my neck as I stood over her. I spread her legs apart, moved up, and slid it in. I played around a little, using different speeds, then anger thrusts, thrusts of love, teasing thrusts, brutal thrusts. I would pull out from time to time, then begin again. Finally I let go, gave her the last few strokes, came, and sank down beside her.

Liza continued to kiss me. I wasn’t sure whether she had gotten off or not. I had.

We had dinner at a French place that also served good American food at fair prices. It was always overcrowded which gave us time at the bar. That night I left my name as Lancelot Lovejoy, and I was even sober enough to recognize the call 45 minutes later.

We ordered a bottle of wine. We decided to hold off dinner for a while. There isn’t a better way to drink than at a small table over a white tablecloth with a good-looking woman.

“You fuck,” Liza told me, “with the enthusiasm of a man who is fucking for the first time and yet you fuck with a lot of inventiveness.”

“May I write that down on my sleeve?”

“Sure.”

“I might use it sometimes.”

“Just don’t use me, that’s all I ask. I don’t want to be just another one of your women.” I didn’t answer.

“My sister hates you,” she said. “She said that all you’ll do is use me.”

“What happened to your class, Liza? You’re talking just like everybody else.”

We never got around to dinner. When we got back home we drank some more. I did like her very much. I began to abuse her a bit, verbally. She looked surprised, her eyes filled with tears. She ran to the bathroom, stayed 10 minutes or so, then came out.

“My sister was right. You’re a bastard!” “Let’s go to bed, Liza.”

We got ready for bed. We got into bed and I mounted her. Without foreplay it was much more difficult but I finally got it in. I began to work. I worked and I worked. It was another hot night. It was like a recurring bad dream. I began sweating. I humped and I pumped. It wouldn’t go down, it wouldn’t come off. I pumped and I humped. Finally I rolled off. “Sorry, baby, too much to drink.”

Liza slowly slid her head down my chest, across my belly, down, got to it, began licking and licking and licking, then took it into her mouth and worked on it. . . .
I flew back to San Francisco with Liza. She had an apartment at the top of a steep hill. It was nice. The first thing I had to do was crap. I went into the bathroom and sat down. Green vines all around. What a pot. I liked it. When I came out Liza sat me down on some big pillows, put Mozart on the machine, and poured me a chilled wine. It was dinner time and she stood in the kitchen cooking. Every now and then she poured me another wine. I always enjoyed being at women’s places more than when they were at mine. When I was at their places I could always leave.

She called me in to dinner. There was salad, iced tea and a chicken stew. It was quite good. I was a terrible cook. All I could fry were steaks, although I made a good beef stew, especially when drunk. I liked to gamble with my beef stews. I put almost everything into them and sometimes got away with it.

After dinner we took a ride to Fisherman’s Wharf. Liza drove her car with great caution. It made me nervous. She would stop at a cross street and look in both directions for traffic. When there wasn’t any she still sat there. I waited.

“Liza, shit, let’s go. There isn’t anybody around.”

Then she would go. That was the way it was with people. The longer you knew them the more their eccentricities showed. Sometimes their eccentricities were humorous—in the beginning.

We walked along the wharf, then went and sat on the sand. It wasn’t much of a beach.

She told me she hadn’t had a boyfriend in some time. What the men she had known talked about, what was important to them, she found unbelievable.

“Women are much the same,” I told her. "When they asked Richard Burton what was the first thing he looked for in a woman, he said, 'She must be at least 30 years old.'”

It got dark and we went back to her apartment. Liza brought out the wine and we sat on pillows. She opened the shutters and we looked out on the night. We began kissing. Then we drank. And kissed some more.

“When are you going back to work?” I asked her. “Do you want me to?”

“No, but you have to live.”

“But you’re not working.”

“In a way, I am.”

“You mean you live in order to write?”

“No, I just exist. Then later I try to remember and write some of it down.” “I only run my dance studio three nights a week.”

“You make ends meet that way?”

“So far I have.”

We became more involved with kissing. She didn’t drink as much as I did. We moved to the waterbed, undressed and got to it. I’d heard about waterbed fucks. They were supposed to be great. I found it difficult. The water shuddered and shook beneath us, and as I was moving down, the water seemed to be rocking from side to side. Instead of bringing her to me, it seemed to take her away from me. Maybe I needed practice. I went into my savagery routine, grabbing her by the hair, thrusting as if it was a rape. She liked it, or seemed to, making little delightful sounds. I savaged her some more, then suddenly she appeared to climax, making all the right sounds. That excited me and I came just at the end of hers.

We cleaned up and went back to the pillows and the wine. Liza fell asleep with her head in my lap. I sat there an hour or so. Then I stretched out on my back and we slept that night on all those pillows.

The next day Liza took me to her dance studio. We got sandwiches from a place across the street and we took them up with our drinks to her studio and ate them. It was a very large room on a second floor. There was nothing but empty floor, some stereo equipment, a few chairs, and there were ropes strung high above, across the ceiling. I didn’t know what any of it meant.

“Shall I teach you to dance?” she asked. “Somehow I’m not in the mood,” I said.
The following days and nights were similar. Not bad but not great. I learned to manage on the waterbed a bit better but I still preferred a normal bed for fucking.
I stayed 3 or 4 more days, then flew back to L.A. We continued to write letters back and forth.

A month later she was back in L. A. This time when she walked up to my door she wore slacks. She looked different, I couldn’t explain it to myself but she looked different. I didn’t enjoy sitting around with her so I took her to the racetrack, to the movies, to the boxing matches, all the things I did with women I enjoyed, but something was missing. We still had sex, but it was no longer as exciting. I felt as if we were married.

After five days Liza was sitting on the couch and I was reading the newspaper when she said, “Hank, it’s not working, is it?” “No.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll leave. I don’t want to stay here.” “Relax, it’s not that bad.”

“I just don’t understand it.”

I didn’t answer.

“Hank, drive me to the Women’s Liberation Building. Do you know where it’s at?”

“Yes, it’s in the Westlake district where the art school used to be.” “How did you know?”

“I drove another woman there once.”

“You bastard.”

“O.K., now. . . .”

“I have a girlfriend who works there. I don’t know where her apartment is and I can’t find her in the phonebook. But I know she works at the Women’s Lib Building. I’ll stay with her for a couple of days. I just don’t want to go back to San Francisco feeling like I do. . . .”

Liza got her things together and put them in her suitcase. We walked out to the car and I drove to the Westlake district. I had driven Lydia there once for a women’s art exhibit where she had entered some of her sculpture.

I parked outside.

“I’ll wait to make sure your friend is there.”

“It’s all right. You can go.”

“I’ll wait.”

I waited. Liza came out, waved. I waved back, started the engine and drove off.