They'll walk home drunk past the church and Grace rolls her eyes, says she can't stand the looks of the steeple, Soo phallic. She won't even call herself a Christian anymore. She chats Randy up to her friends, He's his OWN man – a real rebel (even though he's never worn handcuffs)…and a musician TOO. Randy brags to his guy friends that he's the only one getting regular ass, that she's nice and tight like, lika gal should be, and, MAN - She's got enough tongue for 10 rows of teeth! Grace is more adventurous than Randy in the sack, probably spurned on by years of corked-up sexual energy and a fear of missing out on something, he thinks. On their first "date" she said she wasn't scared but she lied, and just leaned back, unable to participate. It hurt, but she didn't show it, instead she muttered out O-O-O the whole time and squeezed her eyes shut. How are ya? he asked afterwards. Then she didn't respond, but now she tells him to come inside or on her face or in her hair and Randy does neither though this doesn't stop her from asking. He wonders where these ideas come from. She doesn't like to talk when she's being dirty, but moans and groans, almost painfully, and will whisper something about a hairbrush but it's unclear what and – to Randy – this is a relief. When she finishes, she lets out this charged wail of exhilaration and will only allow herself to be embraced after she swabs her gummy crotch with Randy's t-shirt. That was nice, she says.
Last Exit to Brooklyn
Hubert Selby, Jr.