Women Read Online Free PDF

selling drinks. Then she said, loudly, “ DRINK UP! WE’RE GOING TO LAND!” We drank up and landed. Fifteen minutes later we were up again. The stewardess asked if anybody wanted a drink. By then we all needed one. Then she said, loudly, “ DRINK UP! WE’RE GOING TO LAND!”
    Professor Peter James and his wife, Selma, were there to meet me. Selma looked like a movie starlet but with much more class.
    “You’re looking great,” said Pete.
    “Your wife’s looking great.”
    “You’ve got two hours before the reading.”
    Pete drove to their place. It was a split-level house with the guestroom on the lower level. I was shown my bedroom, downstairs. “You want to eat?” Pete asked. “No, I feel like I’m going to vomit.” We went upstairs.
    Backstage, just before the reading, Pete filled a water pitcher with vodka and orange juice. “An old woman runs the readings. She’d cream in her panties if she knew you were drinking. She’s a nice old girl but she still thinks poetry is about sunsets and doves in flight.”
    I went out and read. S.R.O. The luck was holding. They were like any other audience: they didn’t know how to handle some of the good poems, and during others they laughed at the wrong times. I kept reading and pouring from the water pitcher.
    “What’s that you’re drinking?”
    “This,” I said, “is orange juice mixed with life.”
    “Do you have a girlfriend?”
    “I’m a virgin.”
    “Why did you seek to become a writer?”
    “Next question, please.”
    I read some more. I told them I had flown in with Captain Winehead and had seen the Game of the Week. I told them that when I was in good spiritual shape I ate off one dish and then washed it immediately. I read some more poems. I read poems until the water pitcher was empty. Then I told them the reading was over. There was a bit of autographing and we went to a party at Pete’s house. . . .
    I did my Indian dance, my Belly dance and my Broken-Ass-in-the-Wind dance. It’s hard to drink when you dance. And it’s hard to dance when you drink. Peter knew what he was doing. He had couches and chairs lined up to separate the dancers from the drinkers. Each could go their own way without bothering the other.
    Pete walked up. He looked around the room at the women. “Which one do you want?” he asked.
    “Is it that easy?”
    “It’s just southern hospitality.”
    There was one I had noticed, older than the others, with protruding teeth. But her teeth protruded perfectly—pushing the lips out like an open passionate flower. I wanted my mouth on that mouth. She wore a short skirt and her pantyhose revealed good legs that kept crossing and uncrossing as she laughed and drank and tugged at her skirt which would just not stay down. I sat next to her. “I’m—” I started to say. . . .
    “I know who you are. I was at your reading.”
    “Thanks. I’d like to eat your pussy. I’ve gotten pretty good at it. I’ll drive you crazy.”
    “What do you think of Allen Ginsberg?”
    “Look, don’t get me off the track. I want your mouth, your legs, your ass.”
    “All right,” she said.
    “See you soon. I’m in the bedroom downstairs.”
    I got up, left her, had another drink. A young guy—at least 6 feet 6 inches tall—walked up to me. “Look, Chinaski, I don’t believe all that shit about you living on skidrow and knowing all the dope dealers, pimps, whores, junkies, horse players, fighters and drunks. ...”
    “It’s partly true.”
    “Bullshit,” he said and walked off. A literary critic.
    Then this blonde, about 19, with rimless glasses and a smile walked up. The smile never left. “I want to fuck you,” she said. “It’s your face.”
    “What about my face?”
    “It’s magnificent. I want to destroy your face with my cunt.”
    “It might be the other way around.”
    “Don’t bet on it.”
    “You’re right. Cunts are indestructible.”
    I went back to the couch and started playing with the legs of the one