The contempt Josh Clark felt for Sandra Stone was off the human scale. Not only had she rejected him, she then spread the word that he was gay: “Well, Josh,” she was reported to have said, “he’s at least bisexual.”
Remembering no doubt the jungle fucks they had in her friend’s apartment in the City—those “nooners” she tagged them in honor of her philandering philatelist of a father, his rare stamp store only a brief walk from where she was roundly possessed from the hallway to the kitchen table. The high vaulted pale light of Manhattan winters cast a pall of other days, other lovers, other lives.
The fact was Sandra Stone was an incurable Daddy’s girl and would depend on his musky five o’clock shadowy beard to arouse her desire for new men…men doomed to failure in comparison.
Josh let out the rumor that Sandra in climax screamed “Daddy! Daddy! Harder, Daddy…Harder!” and the other associated verbalisms issuing from her little deaths of maddening orgasms.
Josh knew she’d never escape paternal possession of her unless she left Manhattan and that would be like saying: Go, enter the Great American Desert, never to return. Once in fact she tried to take a train to the West Coast to prove her freedom. After hours of endless farming vistas, by the time Sandra hit Chicago, she’d booked a flight from O’Hare to Kennedy.
“The nightmares of all those yellow corn hairs wriggling against the train windows! I was quite literally suffocating. Oh Josh by Gosh…I’m so happy to be home in dear dear Mannahatta, darling!” etc., in ever greater flourishes of Big Apple theatrics.
Josh could take no more. He was living in the shadow of the great man with his tiny, expensive stamps. Still, occasionally he longed for Sandra’s Rubenesque curves, her maddening spasms of lust; but with time, Josh found other lovers and came to thank Big Daddy and the silky corn hairs.