Blue Tango

Chapter Six

We have an evening at the Cosmo Club. Claire giggling as we enter. Walter Bramsby looks distinguished. An evening jaunt. A powdered flunkey in the vestibule. Then we walk down. Shall we sup on the balcony? Claire would like a table on the main floor. She says the people in the balcony are all from South Kensington. On the main floor we settle at a table and Edward orders champagne. Couples crowding the dance floor. Bare backs and throbbing violins. Barristers, bankers, doctors, here and there a duchess from Belgravia. My bosom is almost bared. I feel the eyes of the men. The eyes of Edward and Walter. The eyes of the others. People in crowds are awful. Edward glances at me. Our secret. He sits opposite me and I can't avoid his eyes. Is he uneasy? I feel nothing. Not a shred of anxiety. Not a speck of guilt. I suppose I ought to feel guilty, but I don't. One can't contrive it when it doesn't exist. I am arrogant in the absence of guilt. I suppose I shall be punished for it. I suppose I shall suffer misery for it. Edward yearns for me. He says so. He says he dislikes the hours without me. The days and evenings. We can rarely touch each other in the evening. And during the day I have Walter's doting. His letters. His carriage is always waiting. He wants to force my love. I don't love him. I will not tell him that I love him. I suppose Claire would tell him something. She despises hesitations. She would commit the gravest sin rather than dawdle in a hesitation. She smiles at me now. She feels very much at ease in places like this. Walter seems to be writhing in discomfort. He's waiting to dance with me. He's jealous each time I laugh at something Edward says. He's too well brought up to push himself at me. I suppose he blushes each time he remembers that lark in his theater box.

Claire doesn't want to dance yet. She wants to look. All these smart people dancing the Boston. And the others not smart at all. The smiles of the women.

“I do like rhythm,” Claire says.

“Talking nonsense.”

“Bad style…”

“They respect nothing…”

“Look how she's clutching him.”

“That woman's worse.”

A feeble laugh from somewhere behind me. Walter's tie is white and his face is pale. Edward's cheeks are pink. Claire has shadows in the hollows of her cheekbones.

The music goes on, the dancing. What will things be like in six months? If only I could tell. I think Claire looks tired. Her eyes look bleak.

“That's just when I don't like them.”

“It's a bit of a pose, isn't it?”

“I could sit and watch people all day long.”

“It's not day, it's evening.”

“Edward, don't be a bore. Why can't you be as charming as Walter?”

“There's something to be said for that.”

“Look at that one.”

“Substantial.”

“She's enormous. Don't you think so, Julie? Don't you think that woman is enormous?”

Yes, the woman is enormous, a regal woman with voluptuous curves. A brocade gown and jewels at her throat. She dances with a man with a drooping moustache. One imagines them afterward in a bedroom in Belgravia. He tells her to open her legs properly. She has laughter in her eyes. Her fingers hold his root. She opens her white thighs to his gaze. He approves. A bubble of saliva forms at his lips. She holds the pose. She holds his affair. Then she rises. She turns with a swaying of her hips. Her eyes glitter with wickedness. She moans softly as he strokes her rump. Then her knees sag upon the bed. She kneels. She wriggles. His fingers tease her bottom-hole. He finds no rebellion. He pushes at her, he thrusts. She moans again, her tongue peeping. She moans and hangs her head as he corks her fundament.

I do like the dancing. The feet are curious, the spats and shoes with high heels, the buckles and buttons. Walter's eyes are upon my breasts again. I like his white gloves. I would have him again in a theater box. I would have his root beneath my fingers.

Another couple dances near our table. The woman laughing. I think of them together. His knob pushing at her slit. The tightness of her sex. His mouth twitching as he takes her. The rhythmic movement. Their feet sliding as they dance.

We dance at last. I dance with Walter. He gazes at my bosom. My shoulders are bare. His hair gleams under the light of the chandeliers. His hand presses against my back. Does he want me? His face is so vague. He says he thinks of me. He says I dispel his loneliness.

Is he truly lonely? He ought to have nothing to do with me. His tone is so earnest. He has no understanding of selfishness. I think that's his greatest fault. He smiles constantly. “I'm very fond of you, Julie.” I think of his root. How shocked he was in that theater box. How easily devastated he is. I should like to expose him here. His masculine part dangling as we dance. He talks of dinner tomorrow. I don't want to promise anything. All these people around us. What does he think about? I gaze at his eyes, but I can never understand what he thinks. We glide past a group of women cackling at each other with their noses raised. Walter does dance decently. He has dreamy eyes as he follows the music. He wants romance. His lips are finely made. His mouth has a certain softness. Does he want the truth? No, he does not want the truth. He wants a life of fine sentiments.

When I dance with Edward, the mood is something else. We are here in peculiar circumstances. Claire now dances with Walter. I am in Edward's arms while my sister glides with the man who is my suitor. Edward and I glide with our secret. Our scandal. His face beams. One would think his features suffused with spiritual expression. He seems so happy to have me in his arms again. Perhaps he's not used to it. His eyes devour me. “I've been thinking of you all evening.”

“Indecent thoughts, I suppose.”

“I should think so. I want to make love to you.”

“Darling, not here.”

“When?”

“I don't know when. I don't think we ought to.”

“You can't mean that.”

“But suppose I do.”

“I won't have it.”

The situation is evidently completely hopeless. We must compromise. We are under Claire's gaze. She smiles at me as we pass. I soothe Edward. At intervals I press against him. His mouth is wet. He whispers at me. He says he's grateful to have me in his arms again. He says he wants to kiss me. He whispers at me that he will put his lips everywhere. His passion is so fierce. I want to touch his root. I want to hold his balls. I want to feel his urgency. I want to feel his quivering.

“He does it constantly,” Claire says.

“Does what constantly?”

She frowns. “Oh, you haven't been listening again.”

Tea in the drawing room an hour after lunch. “Please tell me.”

“I said Edward is always after the maids. Now it's the new one.”

“But we do the same.”

“That's quite different.”

“I don't see how.”

“And John?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don't like it when Edward does it.”

“Darling, you can't be jealous of a maid.”

“It's not jealousy. I don't know what it is, but it's not jealousy. Edward is so incorrigible. I wish he were more like Walter Bramsby.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“I think he adores you.”

“Who does?”

“Walter, of course.”

“Don't be silly.”

“I can tell by the way he looks at you. I can always tell by the eyes.”

“He's a puppy.”

“But sweet.”

“Yes, that too.”

“Will you marry him?”

“I don't think so.”

“You do look lovely together. You look made for each other. Do you think Edward and I look made for each other?”

“Yes, I've always thought that.”

“Walter does love you.”

“Oh, hardly at all. Or only in the smallest degree.”

“I do want you to be happy. You know that, don't you? I do want you to be happy.”

“I'm not unhappy now.”

“I think you need a husband. Every woman needs a husband.”

“That's too conventional.”

She laughs. “Yes, I suppose it is. You were always the unconventional one, weren't you?”

“I did marry John.”

“And you won't marry again?”

“I don't know.”

Selby comes in. The new maid. Edward often talks to me about her. He says she has an exquisite bottom. He says her rose-hole is exquisitely tight.

Claire has a birthday party. The house is filled with guests. Claire beams with the pleasure of it. People are so easily pleased. I don't like society. I find these people hopeless and stupid. I hate the chatter. The long hours of a dull party to celebrate my sister's birthday. How tedious it is. The doings in the smoking room. The pretensions of the overdressed women as they snicker at some latest amusement. The pompous conversations of the men as they estimate each other's income. Claire has provided a sequence of juvenile entertainments for the guests. She loves her deevy parties. She is so charming. I mustn't sneer because she is so charming. I mustn't be malicious towards my own sister. It's not pleasant. One wants to be pleasant. One wants a perfect existence. One wants all the qualities of a heavenly life. These pink and blonde English faces. Not a puzzled face in the mob. They want to have their fun. The eyes glitter, the cheeks glitter, the jewels glitter. I am too stupid to like it. The only thing important here is to have thirty thousand a year and a fresh crop of servant girls at Christmas. One must always be with the right people. One must be with people well suited to one's inclinations. I do think of the future but I see nothing. Am I unwilling? I have images of myself and Edward upon my bed. And images of Claire and Edward upon her bed. I feel an immense jealousy. Claire is jealous of the maids and I am jealous of Claire. Her gown is exquisite. Her eyes are lovely. Her complexion is perfect. She seems ravishing this evening. She floats like a bird. For whose benefit? For Edward's? I don't know. I don't know what she thinks. She always possesses someone. All the years of her life there was someone to be possessed. Every morning I am alone. I live in the world, but the world goes on without me. I watch them at night. Not always. He visits her room less often these days. On occasion she groans. One has the aspect of many things. My evenings with Ellen Terry. My turmoil afterward. The feeling of complete devastation. I ought to lose myself here in entertaining conversation. I ought to be coquettish. Walter Bramsby is in the house somewhere. Instead I think of the grate, I think of Claire and Edward laughing on her bed. You're grumbling, darling. You make the most awful connections. Now Claire takes me away to meet someone. Another unfamiliar face. A thin-lipped gentleman from Oxford murmuring that he once knew John. Sometimes I do miss John. If John were here, I should not have to talk to these people. Or is my impression a result of bitterness? The men are drinking too much. In a minute they'll be kissing the maids. How awful it is to be in a room filled with people when all the people are totally blind. Does Edward have other women besides the maids? Does he have a mistress in Portobello Road? Claire's face is so radiant. Is she mocking me? Is Claire mocking me?

Then Walter is at my side. He takes me away. He questions me. His curiosity. He shows the inevitable sweetness. His eyes pleading in his tormented face. His pleading eyes. He says he admires me. He says he hopes to be my companion. He says he hopes we shall find a spiritual union. His forehead is damp. His hand is damp upon my arm. He wishes to dance. What does one do with a perspiring suitor? I smile. I receive a grateful look in reply. Will he write me love letters? Then he says nothing. He seems detached as he looks around him. How absurd it is to be in his arms, to be dancing at Claire's birthday party with Walter Bramsby. How absurd it is that he has intimate memories of me. He thinks of the encounter in the theater box. Do I know what I want? I want a kiss. I want a sensation of pleasure. I want a feeling of ardor. Instead I have his damp hands. He looks at me again and now I have the longing in his eyes. My misfortune is a deflated balloon somewhere over the Channel. The London Ballooning Society expresses its sympathy to the widow of John Haversham. Walter Bramsby expresses his sympathy to the widow of John Haversham. How bored I am. I thought I would like the party, but I don't like it at all. Will Walter be offended if I tell him how bored I am? Perhaps he thinks me frivolous. Perhaps he thinks only a frivolous woman would fondle a man in a theater box. How stupid he is. I feel the impulse again. I want to hold his root. I want to feel his throbbing. Careful, darling, you'll make an awful scene. You must maintain self-control. You must make an effort of will. You must uphold your dignity.

Later Edward takes me away to the library. He sees the tedium in my face. How considerate he is. He chuckles in his amusement. He says the people in the house are a silly lot. Claire's friends. Too many foreigners. Too much noise. “It might be better to have a moment of quiet. Claire won't mind. I have something new from Turkey. Do you like gold coins? I expect you've never seen any like these.”

The library door is closed, and in a moment my eyes are confronted with the ancient coinage of Asia Minor. All his life Edward has collected things. How obstinate he is about his trivialities. He touches my arm. Is he certain Claire hasn't seen us? Men are so careless. Or perhaps he wishes to provoke a storm. He beams at me. He plays with his gold coins. His interests are so old-fashioned. Gold coins and Saracen daggers. Then he whispers at me that he wants to make love to me again. Shall we have an occasion? A twitch at the corner of his mouth. He breathes heavily. The lust in his eyes is absolute. I have my triumph. I glance at the front of his trousers. I see the firmness.

“I don't know when. Edward, it's impossible.” Dejection in his eyes. “You can't imagine…” A sort of stupor comes over him. What does he want? Our situation is completely outlandish. He remains Claire's husband. He touches my arm. We shall be condemned by society. He leans close to me. He kisses me. His hand moves along my arm. His hand moves again and covers one of my breasts. I touch the front of his trousers. He quivers with excitement. I touch him again. My fingers trace the stiffness. My fingers work to undo his buttons. In a moment I have it. I have his root in my hand. His knob blushes. I push back his cowl to uncover the nut. I squeeze the tip. Edward groans. “My darling…” He stands in evening dress with his penis exposed. Long and hard. What mischief, darling. His root dangling. His face glows. His breath is warm upon my cheek. Claire's husband. Is there any suspicion? Edward murmurs in my ear. My hand closes upon his girth. He whispers at me. “You drive me mad!” How impatient he is. We both watch my hand. My fingers stroking, sliding the cowl back and forth over his angry knob. His face is flushed. He mumbles at me. How nice it is. His excitement in my hand. The pleasure in his throat. His handkerchief appears. “Good Lord!” He spends. I feel the twitching in his root as he spends. I finish the milking. Squeezing the flesh. His groaning as he finishes. His murmuring.

Walter shows me his house in Beauchamp Place. He talks of marriage. He says the essential thing is that we are spiritually alike. He says we shall manage beautifully. His illusions drip from his lips. How tempting it is. Shall I be a wife again? I am weary. “Walter, I don't think I can devote myself to you.”

He nods. He says he admires my directness. He says he wants me to love him. He says he wants me to find myself. He says that after John's awful tragedy, I must regain my happiness. How blind he is. Does he think of my body?

“Let me beg you to consider…” He talks of possibilities. He talks of his intentions. His eyes are so sensitive. I am unwilling. I find it impossible to attempt anything. On the wall there is an engraving of Nelson at Trafalgar. Nelson on deck, gazing down at us, gazing down at the comical mess. I must have tolerant consideration. Walter says I must not act impulsively. He says we shall certainly enjoy a spiritual life together. He makes a vague gesture at his books. I have an impression of desperation. Then he moves to me. He kisses me. We cuddle against each other. He talks of marriage again. I think of uncomfortable crowding in a bed meant for one. How ridiculous it is to be courted. The intoxication in his eyes. Then he kisses me again and this time he presses against my body. His arms enfold me. He makes a mumbled pleading. He falls to his knees. His face presses against my legs. He pulls at my dress. I stroke his hair. I smile. I tell him I want to sit down. I must sit down. He crawls after me as I find a chair. On his knees. He rubs my thighs. I pull at my gown to expose my legs. He rubs my legs. He rubs the brown silk of my stockings. He kisses my knees. Subtle kisses upon my knees. Then the kissing is more fervent. His fingers above my stockings. A sound in his throat as he kisses the bare flesh of my thighs. The first time. His lips brushing across my skin. How amusing it is. I feel the tickling of his lips. I pull my gown further. My garters exposed. My nest exposed. His nose twitches. His face is flushed. Does he have my scent? Or is it the scent of my perfume stick? His lips are upon me. His face pressed against my source. Kissing in the quick. His lips against my nest. His nose pushes into me. His tongue pushes into me. I raise one leg to make the copse more available. He forages. He drinks from my tap. How sweet it is. You lack modesty, darling. I gaze down upon his head. He strokes my thighs with his hands as he sucks at my flower. His mouth absorbed. His tongue. I spend easily. My clitoris rubbed by his nose. His lips. My spending upon his lips.

Edward drives with me in St. James's Park.

“Will you marry him?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then I won't.”

He sighs. His eyes are puzzled. He talks about Claire. He asks about my doings in London. Am I comfortable in the house? He shows concern for my tranquility. He says we have our sympathies. He says he thinks of me often. He says he thinks of me often when he is with Claire. He knows nothing of the grate. He knows nothing of Ellen Terry. He has no idea how much I've seen. Their privacies. In the evening he drinks too much. I caution him. I speak of complications. He smiles. He says it's of no importance. He says our discovery of each other is important. How confident he is. Has Claire guessed? She always shows such innocence. She displays such benign approval whenever Edward and I speak to each other. Edward says his gravest sin is a lack of impatience. He talks of his club. His talks of his irritations with his acquaintances. He holds my hand. We've had no touching since the evening of Claire's birthday party. Is he randy? I have a yearning to tickle him. He kisses me. “I suppose you think…” He speaks of married life. He says my sister is no longer passionate. One feels so awkward in the midst of false confessions. I have seen them. I have seen Claire's enjoyment. And his own. Poor Edward has no idea I have seen them. He presses my hand. I do know what he wants. He wants me to do it again. What I did in the library the evening of Claire's party. I unbuttoned his flies. He mutters. He says he finds me bewitching. He says he is bewitched by the dexterity of my fingers. His penis is quite stiff, the cowl retracted. I tickle the shaft, the swollen knob. He kisses me. Is there any danger we'll be seen? Edward seems not to care. He chuckles as I explore further. I bring his ballocks out, his full stones. His cods are now bulging out of his flies. His virility is impressive. I tell him we must get home soon. I fondle his root. My hand stroking. “I don't want it on my dress.” His handkerchief again. I stroke and tickle his hot flesh. His chest heaves. He makes a noise in his throat as he breathes. His knob is so polished. Does Claire do this? Does she milk him when she has the inclination for it? Her fingernails are so carefully manicured. What is he thinking of? His root throbs in my hand. Rose pink. The knob is a darker color, the tip glistening. More quickly now. His head back. A spurt. A groan. I cover the point with his handkerchief. Milk him quickly. Milk him into his handkerchief. His essence. No sound except his groaning and the clapping of the horses' hooves. The carriage rolling through the quiet park.