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| Mary McCarthy, novelist and critic |
Sense of Being Stuffed |
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It was at that same corner (Union and 34th) that he picked me up the next time. And this time, the Saturday, I was more nervous . . . I think that I knew now what we were going to do . . . He drove rapidly along the boulevards, looking for a lonely place to pull off the road. When he found one that satisfied him, he stopped the car and looked steadily at me with a faint amused smile. I must have appeared piteously tense . . .
Of course I knew what it meant: to fuck was to do it straight, with no love, the way men did with prostitutes. And now he was preparing to fuck me. The message had come through clear and strong . . .
He became very educational, encouraging me to sit up and examine his stiffened organ, which to me looked quite repellent, all flushed and purplish. But in the light of the dashboard, I could not see very well, fortunately. He must have thought it would be interesting for me to look at an adult penis — my first, as by now he must have realized. Then, as I waited, he fished in an inside breast-pocket and took out what I knew to be a 'safety.' Still in an instructive mood, even with his erect member (probably he would have made a good parent), he found time to explain to me what it was — the best kind, a Merry Widow — before he bent down and fitted it onto himself, making me watch.
Of the actual penetration, I remember nothing; it was as if I had been given chloroform. How long it lasted, whether or not we were kissing — everything but the bare fact is gone. It must have hurt, but I have no memory of that or of any other sensations, perhaps a slight sense of being stuffed. Yes, there is also a faint recollection of his instructing me to move, keep step as in dancing, but I am not sure of that. What I am sure of is a single dreadful, dazed moment having to do with the condom. No, reader, it did not break.
The act is over; he has slid under the steering wheel and is standing by his side of the car holding up a transparent little pouch resembling isinglass that has whitish greening gray stuff in the bottom. I recognize it as 'jism.' Outside it is almost dark, but he is holding the little sack up to a light source — a streetlight, the Marmon's parking lights, a lit match? — to be sure I can see it well and realize what is inside — the sperm he has ejaculated into it, so as not to ejaculate it in me. I am glad of that, of course, but the main impression is the same as with the swollen penis; the jism is horribly ugly to me, like snot or catarrh, and I have to look away. — Seattle, 1926
from How I Grew by Mary McCarthy (Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, © 1987)
© 2000 Nerve.com, Inc.
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