Blue Tango

Chapter Four

Claire has gone off to Mitcham to a meeting of the Society for Homeless Pets, while Edward and I do a promenade in Holland Park. We pretend. I hold Edward's arm and we pretend we are husband and wife. There is music somewhere, a band playing, the sound of voices. Edward pats my hand. Does he pretend with me? Does he have secret thoughts? Does he have hot and turbulent feelings? I want to know the surging in him. In Claire's absence. I want to know it. Or perhaps he thinks of nothing but his collection of shells and his tobacco and the disposition of his mother's house in Kensington. Men can be so trivial. They must be pointed to it like a hunting dog in training. They must be shown the way. I don't have a grudge against the world. I will not be unhappy. I don't like the idea of it. Darling, it's the jealousy that disturbs you. He must think of something. Edward is certainly not preoccupied with love and religion. So quiet this morning. His dignity. I must allow him to be himself. I have not watched in more than a week. He does not visit her room. No more mumblings in the dim light. Ellen Terry covers the grate and behind Ellen Terry the ghosts are silent. Here is one room and there another. I lie awake in my bed imagining a shuffling sound in the corridor. I lie awake with my odds and ends, irrelevant recollections of all sorts of little things. I would like to go dancing. I imagine myself dancing.

And these people we pass, these couples that walk in the park like ourselves, do they take me for Edward's wife? That young man, the girl upon his arm with inquisitive eyes. They ought to be riding together in a wood somewhere. Perhaps it was done yesterday. Laughing in a wood. The halting conversation. There is nothing as silly as an Englishman alone with a woman he wants. This fellow is thinking of the horses, of the stable, of India, of the presence or absence of the Crown in the Red Sea, anything to avoid thinking of the obvious, while beside him the girl quavers as she waits for an indication of something, of anything at all. Finally the moment in the wood arrives and she pants for pleasure. They kiss. She presses against him. He pulls back, begs her pardon, then kisses her again. Oh, I can see it. In another moment he nods at the horses and suggests they ought to return to the stable.

Edward pats my hand again. “Are you tired?”

“No, not at all.”

“I do like walking with you like this.”

“Is that a flower-bed?”

“Where?”

“Over there, at the edge of those trees.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Let's have a look at it, shall we?”

Yes, we shall. I pull at his hand. I laugh as I make him hurry. Then I drop his hand and run. It's madness. I'm sure a thousand eyes are watching us. They think us lovers. And what does Edward think? He smiles as he comes up to me. I'm rather out of breath. I like it. I like the feeling. I take his hand again. How odd it is to hold the hand of my sister's husband. Does he find me beautiful? Do I have the power to charm him? How taciturn he is. I shall crumble his reticence. I feel the working of it, second by second. Heaven knows I want it. I say something silly and he smiles. In another moment he laughs. Men are so easily turned. I'm sure at breakfast this morning he had no thought in his head of holding my hand in the park. How amusing he is, at times so dull, at other times a hint of something in his eyes. I do like his smile. Is it important to like the way a man smiles? How strange it is to think of Edward apart from Claire.

At the flower-bed we stand side by side. Edward turns, presses against me, then suddenly mumbles an apology. I see a glint of metal in the distance, a motor car passing in the road. Are we watched? I don't think so. I see no passers-by. Edward leans to me again and this time he kisses me. First my cheek and then my lips. His hand upon my arm. His male hand. I look beyond the flower-bed again, but there is nothing to be seen. I quiver as he kisses me again. Shall I go to Oxford Street tomorrow? Shall I visit Atkinson's scent shop? Edward presses his lips against my own.

In the evening I sit with Walter Bramsby in a theater box. I think he's a mere boy. In the cab he talked of nothing but his business affairs. Then in the lobby of the theater his face was flushed as he gazed at my shoulders. His manners are so impeccable. I'm sure if he were French he'd manage the most correct little bow. He's a man incapable of an outrage, no matter if the outrage would save his life. We shall go on, we shall go on. I shall suffer these people around me, this theater crowded with Walter Bramsbys. I have the memory of Edward's kiss upon my lips. His apologies. He thinks himself so insolent. I ought to be with Edward now and not with Walter Bramsby. Walter is too awful. Walter is an intolerable ass. His business affairs, His society. The bowler hat he wears in the City. Yes, very eager. I wonder what sort of lover he is. I wonder concerning his attachments. His mother's blandishments. It's always the mother that produces the lover. Is he frightfully clever? I can't imagine it. Perhaps if he's cajoled. They must be given things. They have their inducements. Tomorrow I shall have breakfast in bed and avoid any difficulty with Edward at the table. I shall breakfast in bed and think of myself as a duchess, a woman descended from one of the Henrys. I shall imagine myself in Chatsworth rather than Kensington. I feel such lethargy. This play. The voices emanating from the stage.

Then Walter takes my hand in his. I feel the warmth of his palm. How amusing it is. Is it the play, or thoughts of his mother, or an indication of sublime passion? Does he want me? Does he imagine us in a life together? His life with a Kensington widow? I think he doubts his own taste in things. I feel the softness in his hand, the idle years in London drawing-rooms. In a week he'll find some reason to offer me an expensive present. A pompous little present from an impossibly pompous man.

Darling, don't be awful. You mustn't be awful. I pull my hand away. Does it make him sad? I slide my hand over the cloth of his trousers. Now the moment of sadness is gone and he quivers. Shock and disbelief. Oh, you poor little boy. My fingers walking in his lap. I would work at his buttons, but I'm afraid poor Walter will faint. I want to feel the weight of his balls. They think it's the root we want, but of course it's the stones that command attention. John's plumpness in my hand. Always impressive without clothes. His nakedness. And Walter's nakedness. I imagine Walter naked. His white skin. Now I find him. My hand upon his part. His member. My fingers closing.

He whispers to me. Frantic whispering. “Julie, darling…”

“Bring it out.”

“Good Lord, that's impossible.”

But he does the impossible. His fingers fumbling at his buttons. In a moment I have his huge thing in my hand. Stiff. Throbbing. More substantial than I expected. Oh yes indeed. Here in a box at the Criterion. Walter Bramsby's cock in my hand. His lengthening. His amorous extension. There is nothing as marvelous as the feel of it under one's fingers. The muscular jerking. How helpless he is. I have an inclination to laugh. I long to see his face clearly in the light. Now the pomposity is gone, the talk of business affairs, the comic sniffing.

He's well-formed. Indeed perfectly formed. The cowl easily down, the knob full and firm. He reminds me very much of John. Quite full in the bulb. Oh yes. Pity I can't have his cods in my hand. Hold them and confront the procreation of the race. Instead my fingers have the wicked serpent. Throbbing beneath my fingers. Walter Bramsby throbbing. How solemn he is. His eyes fixed upon the stage below, the actors, the scene, as I stroke his throbbing with my fingers. His face shows nothing that I can see. He's never been married. He thinks he wants to marry me. Or did think so when we entered the theater. And now that my hand holds his hot root, does he forgive my widowhood? So much force beneath my fingers. One wants to forget the man and adore the instrument.

I rub the stalwart soldier, amused at the eyes that occasionally gaze at us from the boxes across the stalls. They can't imagine that Walter's trousers are unbuttoned and his affair in my hand. This impressive instrument he has. He's pensive now. He thinks I'm a woman without scruples. He does not understand my intention. He quakes in my hand, but he does not understand my intention. He does not understand the talk of my fingers. Mr. Bramsby in a bout of persistent sang-froid. Stiff and hot. I clasp the heat of it. The fierce erectness of him. I would have more light to see the full view of it. What a state. He whispers again. “My darling! You must not.” Well, yes I must. I must continue the operation. My hand filled, stroking, cajoling. His throbbing in my hand. The tip is leaking now and my fingers are bedewed with it. I would inspect it. The weeping. Walter Bramsby in my possession. So large. One can't imagine actually receiving it.

Then a sudden movement. Walter's voice, his desperation. His limb jerking beneath my fingers, throbbing in his desperation. His utmost extent. Another muted groan as he feels his pleasure. The spasm beneath my fingers. Hissing at me. “You drive me mad!” Pity I can't see the tip. With a large one like this. The finish now. My fingers working. He groans again at the final moment. His body jerking in his chair as he spends. His sweet sperm spouting out of his balls. An exquisite flood of it. Jetting out to splatter against the velvet of the balustrade.

Down below on the stage, someone laughs. Walter slumps in his chair. My fingers curl and squeeze, squeeze again, until finally Walter comes to his senses and offers me his handkerchief.

Edward mutters at me when he next finds me alone in the drawing-room. Something about a ball in Eaton Square. An invitation. Claire has no interest, but she would have us go. “A dance will do you good,” Edward says. “I shall take you myself.” It's not clever of him. It's much too dangerous. He sees my reticence. “I hope nothing is wrong.”

I've come to a decision about Edward. I will have him. I shall not be satisfied until the doing of it.

He holds my hand. He kisses me. My lips. His flushed face. He's dreadfully excited. I glance down at the front of his trousers. I regard his excitement. The memory of Walter Bramsby in my hand is still fresh. Do I dare? Do I possess the audacity?

“Is Claire at home?”

“She's gone to Guy's Hospital.”

“Whatever for?”

“I don't know. I think to comfort someone.”

I touch the front of his trousers. “And you remain here to comfort me.”

He closes his eyes. “It's not possible.”

“You kissed me before.”

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

“Then it's possible, isn't it?”

His buttons come undone. His root appears. I coax him a bit and his balls come out. Lovely firm testicles. I examine Edward. I explore my sister's husband. His pride.

Yesterday Claire annoyed me with a relentless chattering about her friends at Croydon. I don't care about her friends at Croydon. Now Edward's penis twitches in my hand. This is not Croydon, this is Kensington. I feel lazy. How lovely it is to have an idle afternoon with Claire's husband. His endowments. He waits for my ministrations. I have the power of knowing it now. The feel of his flesh beneath my fingers. Will the door open? We stand in the bright morning sun, and if one of the maids should enter she will see everything.

Edward shudders. “We ought to go somewhere else.”

“We oughtn't to be doing this at all. You're my sister's husband.”

“I do know that.”

“What do you want?”

“Want?”

“What do you want with me?”

“I don't know.”

What does he think of women? The fairer sex. What logical faculties does he bring to bear upon the difference? Men have thoughts of Empire, but not much thought for the origins of things. His ramrod being. He's quite robust. Without his family's money, he might be somewhere in the territories. In the Foreign Service perhaps. Edward would be an excellent representative of English complacency. He says this is impossible but he stands imprisoned by my hand. How little one knows people. Edward's randy cock. He seems unsteady upon his feet. He ought to be sitting but I want him to stand. I want his mind upon my fingers. One must seek out the important things in people. The odd affinities. All these people I've never spoken to, never known. One must believe in the possibilities. One must have no illusions. One must depend only upon evidence. Good Lord, how warm he is! He mumbles something, but I ignore it. I have no interest in anything except what he exposes to me. His balls in my hand. His thick root. Thicker than Walter but not as long. One catalogues them for an empty moment. That fellow in Bloomsbury shortly after John and I were married. His ranting about our detestable social system and so forth while I brought him off in a brandy glass. Giggling as he spouted in a brandy glass. Walter two days ago and Edward today. Darling, it's too much. All this playing about with masculine tumescence. My sister's husband. His wife is my sister. The way he pleasures her in her bedroom. Her face. What she feels in her face.

“Kiss me, Edward.”

“Come to my room.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“No, I don't think so. Kiss me here.”

He kisses me as I continue holding his root in my hand. His lips are warm. He touches my bosom. His fingers at the buttons. Yes, why not? I bare my breasts, hold them in my hands. “Kiss them.”

His lips upon my breasts. His lips enclosing a nipple. How delicious. How nice. The sensation is exquisite. I run my fingers around his neck. His hand holds my breast, as he kisses it. The other hand slides around to squeeze my bottom. He pulls at me with his lips as I grip his testicles. He mumbles about his room again. No, I won't have it. My legs are weak but I won't have it. I want him to suck my breasts in Claire's drawing-room. I want an intimate understanding of things. That fellow in the Times prattling about natural causes. What do they understand of natural causes? What does Edward understand? I'm sure he had Claire before they were married. And other French girls. Englishmen adore French girls. They say the French girl knows how to bring the passion out of a man. Out of an Englishman. One brings the passion out of an Englishman with fingers and lips. How harmless he is. He will suck at my breasts forever if I don't stop it. He wants to touch other places but he lacks the will. He wants the favors only lovers are permitted. My sister's husband. His red cheeks. His lips pulling at my nipples. My bonbons.

Finally I pull away. The danger is too great. His eyes are pleading.