the love for the first whore

anti-woman, of course, and it’s too bad we must even
preface this with that, it’s gotten so damned bad
that the only safe person you can discourse upon
without ultimate recourse is the white American
male, preferably rich.
and now having wasted those words in this
enlightened year 1992, let’s get to it, I was
ugly but tough, say 25 years old, I drank
heavily, probably screwed over with a bit of
self-pity but who had nevertheless left a
few bloody lips and blackened eyes upon the
dumb bulls who hung about those cheap
bars.
the girls like this, but hell, you could hardly
call them
girls…
anyhow, being a stock clerk or an unemployed
warehouseman
I was left the error of my nights which I pissed
away in the cheap bars.,
got a rep as a tough drinker and a guy who
liked to say anything and was willing to
back that up.
you bored yet?
I am.
anyhow, in one of these bars was
Julia.
Julia of the GREAT legs
who never said anything
just sat there
drinking them down
head bowed,
large wart on left hand,
dropping her cigarettes everywhere,
then,
now and then
raising her head and pronouncing
in a rather profound way
(to me, anyhow,)
the word
“SHIT!”

it splashed upon the mirrors and upon
me and I thought, looking at those
great legs, I would really like to
know this woman.

there didn’t seem to be any barriers:
I sat down next to her and we drank
together and at closing time
we left for my hotel room
together.

getting   bored?
well, I wasn’t.

except getting her through the
hotel lobby was quite a trick–
those great legs on that great
body–she was wobbling on
these immense high-heeled
shoes–of course, this is
sexist–forgive me–
and I got her into the
elevator and up to my
room
where I plopped her and
began pouring drinks…
boring and standard,   you
say?–not so.
I plopped her in a chair
and she just smoked and
gulped down the
drinks.

but I didn’t want a simple
copulation
I wanted to exhibit my
qualities.
I felt that I had big arms,
muscles, you know,
and powerful legs
which I had somehow
become born with
and I also felt that I had
unusual things to say,
and I walked up and down
in my shorts
gulping down drinks,
pouring drinks,
burning holes in my
undershirt with red hot
cigarette ashes
but she just continued to
look
indifferent
so I started smashing full
glasses of wine
against the walls
and singing nationalist
socialist songs.

that awakened her a bit
and also the desk
clerk
upon who I told to
go frig himself,
then I hung
up.

by the time the police
arrived
I was in full bore
under a full moon
between those great
legs.
the door was bolted
and the universe
sang my
song.

I lived with that whore
off and on
for 5 years
and such a hell
you could never
imagine

unless you
were me
which we all have been
less or
more.

Author
Charles Bukowski
Written
1992
Source
Original manuscript