How to Screw a Coot

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How To Screw A Coot  by Ronald Sukenick

At my age we start slower but we last longer. Sometimes it’s an
advantage sometimes it’s not. Maybe she didn’t know that. She was only
in her mid-twenties so who knows what she knew. Some women know a lot by
that age some next to nothing, which doesn’t have anything to do with how
sexy they are. What that has to do with is how interested they are in
sex, which must have to do with chromosome arrangement or something at
that level because you can sense it in some girls still too young for
sex, little girls I mean, little girls who probably get off on playing
doctor despite all the taboos, without even knowing they’re getting off.
Maybe it’s some heightened sense of smell sexy

people have, as well as a
smell they emanate. Like some people are hot, they literally give off
more heat. One way of putting it is to say that sex engages their
imagination, but that doesn’t really explain anything because

what’s imagination? What I mean to say is that sexiness is not a matter of meat,
not merely of the body, but an extension of the soul if you define soul
as a sum of the senses that amounts to a kind of intelligence albeit a
kind not normally recognized in our civilization. So sexiness is a kind
of intelligence and people who aren’t sexy are kind of stupid. And have
no soul. And lack imagination.

As I was saying, I don’t know how much she knew, but by those criteria
Genevieve was brilliant. I sensed it but I didn’t think about it until
she hugged me goodbye, you know, the way the New Age does this casual
hugging number where my generation shakes hands or waves or confines
itself to something verbal. It was like hugging a container of erotic
nitroglycerine, that hug, her body a live animal, thermosexual radiation
beaming into me from her nipple tips which I could feel hard and hot
through her bra, her dress and my own clothes.

Next time I got to see her was at dinner with her fiance. Rufus. Rufus
was a tall bald guy with tumid cheeks and a florid complexion. He had
narrow shoulders that ran into his thick neck with only a slight
indentation. What with his pink skin and his bald head, to be honest
with you, he looked like an erect cock.

The waiter seated our “party of three.”
Blonde Genevieve was sitting between us. She was wearing a leather mini,
black stockings and a semi-transparent white shirt that let you see that
her breasts were bare underneath. We started with martinis and before
you know it I felt her thigh against mine. I froze. Her fiance was
sitting right across the table from me. But I didn’t move away. The
tablecloth came down to our knees so I knew he couldn’t see anything. I
could feel her leg moving up and down, rubbing against mine, it was
unmistakable. At the same time she placed her hand over his on the table
top and that was what really turned me on. For some reason the gesture
of intimacy with him while she was secretly playing footsie with me was
exciting. Perverted but exciting. Though the thought flashed through my
head, Who’s to say what’s perverted? Or even that perverted is bad.
Maybe perverted is good if it gets you excited.

Genevieve’s leg was getting more active, her calf sort of curling around
my shin. We were into our second martinis and Rufus’ glans-like bald
head was getting rosier by the sip. Now the conversation too turned to
sex. Because what I was talking to

them about, as a novelist known for
his evocation of sexuality, was starting an erotic magazine for sexually
mature people of all sexes. And this presented certain problems. Most
erotic magazines are strictly porn,

and that was precisely not what we
were after. Though in my opinion the difference between pornography and
the erotic is ambiguous.

“Porn is what you like,” I repeated my favorite definition, “and erotic
is what I like. That’s not the problem. The problem is that the erotic
publications we know in this country are basically kid stuff. Organ
grinding and airbrushery for hot-handed novices whose hair triggers could
just as easily be pulled by the fleshy flanks and pendulous sausages
hanging in a butcher’s window. And then to make matters worse, they’re
confused about sex and love.”

I slipped my hand under the tablecloth and let it rest on Genevieve’s
knee as I looked into her sky-blue eyes. Her expression didn’t change —
she had a sort of fixed Mona Lisa-ish smile. “You think, then, that
desire has nothing to do with love?” she asked.

“On the contrary. Sex is love, that’s what our culture persists in

“You’ve never made good love with someone you didn’t like?” asked Rufus.

“Of course. And it’s very sexy because it gives you license to ignore
everything about them except sex. And that makes for good sex. But then
I end up liking them because the sex is so good.”

“Liking,” said Rufus. “But loving?”

My hand was moving up his fiancee’s stockinged thigh as I pointed out
that liking and loving and desiring were on a continuum, and if you admit
one you admit the others. “So,” I added, “love leads naturally to

“Are you saying that love is a form of pornography, Ron?” exclaimed
Genevieve as my hand slid under the edge of her leather miniskirt. She
squeezed Rufus’ hand.

“Love is the most intense form of porn,” I reaffirmed. She shifted the
position of her shoulders slightly and her shirt, whose top buttons were
unbuttoned, fell open exposing to me the curve of a small but perfect
breast, its perky blonde nipple erect and pointing up toward my mouth.
“I’ll go further. Love without its erotic component is sicko. And that
goes for love of friends, of parents, of children, of pets, you name it.
If you love any animate being, sex is involved, and maybe that goes for
inanimate things too.”

My fingers, trailing along her thigh, suddenly felt smooth skin above
her stocking. I saw Genevieve’s hand tighten around that of her fiance.
“But what about Platonic love?” she asked. “Romantic love? Christian

“They’re all part of the same sick syndrome. The more you suppress sex
in love the more masochistic it becomes. And the

more it subjects you to
your master’s — or mistress’ — manipulation. The subsequent
domination can come from the beloved or the priest or the state. Plato,
with whom it all started, had his own totalitarian

agenda. Whereas
Socrates, his defiant hero, was an open lecher. Why do you think
totalitarian regimes are puritan?”

My hand was moving up the top of her thigh, her calf still glued to my
shin. I was employing a few special caresses I’d learned over the years.
Suddenly I hit the right angle of her belly and I realized she wasn’t
wearing anything under her mini. Genevieve grabbed Rufus’ other hand.

“You mean to tell me you love everyone you fuck?” asked Rufus. “That’s
pretty lame.”

“Fucking is a focused and narrow form of eros. If love is light fucking
is a laser.” Genevieve’s calf released my leg. Her knees parted and her
thighs fell open. The waiter brought our third round of martinis. I
moved my hand to the inside of her thigh and went on, inspired, “Sex
without love tends to be brutal; a culture that romanticizes loveless sex
romanticizes brutality, leaving the door open to control and power. And
sex plus power equals sadism. Or even, on another level, fascism.”

“That’s cool, Ron,” said Genevieve. “Don’t you think that’s cool,
Rufus?” Actually, I didn’t think Genevieve was listening anymore but
just talking to fill up social space while I caressed the inside of her
thigh. Her Mona Lisa smile was getting all soft and abstract. The next
thing I knew my hand was fondling a warm, wet pussy. Without hesitating,
I plunged in. “Kiss me,” she said to Rufus, holding his hand up to her
cheek. Then she put his finger in her mouth and started sucking on it.

“Sex is by nature unruly,” I droned on, eager to mask the real action
under the table. “That’s the politics of it. It’s a healthy antidote to
the excesses of law and order. It doesn’t know from perversion. In the
vocabulary of love there’s only excitement or indifference. So sex
becomes the playground of the psyche and the psyche is not carnal but
psychological and spiritual.”

I was rubbing and teasing her clitoris in certain ways, banking on a
lifetime of accumulated practice. Her whole body

started to squirm. She
pulled Rufus’ finger out of her mouth. “I love you,” she moaned. It
wasn’t clear whom she was talking to. If anyone.

Meanwhile, Rufus’ bald head was getting redder and redder, his whole
body was getting rigid.

I couldn’t resist slipping my other hand into her blouse, it seemed to
have a volition of its own. Just as I felt her nipple between my
fingers, Rufus exploded with a huge groan.

Suddenly I sensed a figure hovering over me. It was the waiter.

“Would you like something else, sir?”

“Like what do you mean?” Now I noticed the other diners staring. None
of them were eating. I noticed this by the way, with no pause in my
outrageous activities, completely out of control.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed. The waiter had stepped on my foot. Hard. It was
like stepping on the brake pedal.

“Like the check,” he said, dropping it on the table.

“I’ll take that,” said Rufus. “I think we better hustle out of here.”
He was panting and looked pale and wilted.

“What’s wrong with Rufus?” I asked.

“Nothing,” whispered Genevieve. “He just came in his pants.”

So Rufus was aware of the covert action, was permitting it, basically.
Or encouraging it. But while Rufus had gotten off I was excruciatingly
aware that I still had it on as we left the table amid complete silence
except for one lady. “Some nerve,” she hissed, staring at the bulge in
my pants.

“It’s not a nerve,” I replied, stopping. “It’s not a muscle either.”
Rufus gave me a slight push and we walked out the door.

“I’ve got to make a phone call,” said Genevieve outside on the sidewalk.
She went into a glass phone booth and dropped a coin in the slot. I
slipped in behind her, unzipped under my overcoat and lifted her mini,
Rufus standing guard outside. She leaned on the phone, bending over and
elevating her ass. She was as tall as me. It was no problem slipping
into her slippery slot. She came as she was talking into the receiver
with all sorts of sound effects, I don’t know what the other party
thought, though I still had it on. But before I knew it she’d shaken me
loose and wriggled free, pushing me out of the phone booth with a wet
erection wobbling painfully under my coat. Like I say, we last longer.
Sometimes it’s an advantage sometimes it’s not. I guess Genevieve wasn’t
as smart as I thought. Or maybe she was smarter. But this was a
terrible way to treat an old man.

Genevieve kissed me goodbye and walked off arm in arm with her fiance,
leaving me on the street corner feeling exposed and exploited. So much
for my lifetime of accumulated practice. The downside was I was
unbearably horny. The upside was I was ready for anything.

Ronald Sukenick