Queenie (17 page)

Then we bust out laughing. And that’s how we decide to go on one.

Cutch won’t. Or not with us. For us, he disapproves hotly. As a retired orgiast.

Sherry says, “It’s all very easy to disapprove of something for somebody else, after you’ve done it.”

“I’m just telling you,” he says, very upset; he has put down his axe. Very Eagle Scout of course, in the wedge it lives in; he wouldn’t hurt a flea with it, not even an old one. “Dig, what if you three find out you even fuck alike?”

Oomph strikes her forehead, sensitively. “That word. That effing word.”

I say, “We could try spelling it with two effs.”

Sherry says maybe we can think of a synonym while we’re doing it.

After which Cutch, as a protest, pays for his own milk four days running. He walks a very pure path.

It takes us that long, anyway, to find out where the compatible orgies are. Not that we’re snobs—but on campus the computer-dating frame of mind is still very prevalent. It’s not the VD we’re afraid of, it’s the personality quotient. Like finding the right coffeehouse for instance; you don’t pick your mind mates just anywhere. Or like on the barricades, you would want to protest with the right people.

The same goes for when you hunt for a group grope. You want to be in a rather selective frame of mind.

What you do, Dr. Werner, is get on the right mailing list. For hot news on fuck-ins. Frankly, the word “orgy” is out, even for your age group….For the ones who keep themselves up, that is, which with your teeth and waistline, you certainly are. Plus the way some of the seniors say you are hung. Why, you could fake down your age group ten years, they say—if you would consider not trimming your beard….

Anyway, you’re sure to find your level somewhere among all these newsletters circulating Manhattan. And even the boroughs! We even find one for Sherry’s father’s life style, which she right off mails to him….I may even find one to include for you, by the time I finish this. Who knows, in another nine weeks of education, maybe I could fake my age group ten years up?…

Meanwhile, here are all these dope sheets whizzing across the island; Ivy League to underground, it’s a new form of unity.

“And class destruction,” Oomph says. “The City University registration can park its carcass right on the Park Avenue slopes.”

I say, “And in groups. Which Doctor Werner tells us anything done that way tends to have more significance.”

Sherry says, “And think how healthy! Because when you get right down to it, a fuck-in has nothing to do with dope.”

Some do, of course. But a fuck-in can relate to anything.

For, in only four days of research—which is why I cut conference last week—we turn up tip sheets for every gender. Or like classified by intended profession even. Even for members of Mensa, that superior IQ society you would think cubical chess would be enough for, but it isn’t. You can select from informal neighborhood arrangements down to very black-tie; there is even one hall that advertises itself strictly for exhibitionists. But basically, the basic human idea remains undefiled.

I’m a little depressed by one bulletin, set in antique type, which has already latched onto my two effs. But Cutch advises give up the struggle to be original while you’re being educated; he’s in touch with any number of boys living in college basements; any day one of them will latch onto his axe.

“You three plotting your pub crawl?” he says, and I admit it’s all set. We are both mournful.

The night we go, he oozes up the stairs to watch us get ready; we are having trouble over what to wear. So would he, we tell him, if he were facing first a ballet grope—which we’ve picked as likely to be limber, then an art grope—because we are all three in the Appreciation course, and finally one from a leaflet called
Rabble
, which we hear gets the really exclusive activist trade.

“Skin’s always in,” Cutch says.

“Not on the subway,” Oomph says. “Which is all we can afford on an itinerary like ours.” And has our cozy furnace room made him forget it’s still winter?

Sherry explains that since we are unknowns, we want to make a good showing. “Fur coats over nothing is too much like those call-girl jokes. Besides, we don’t all have the coats.”

I suggest, “Why not go as we are? With maybe a few mad touches.”

So soon, there we are:

A leotard under a poncho—to which Oomph adds her mother’s Indonesian silver evening bag in the shape of a cat—to carry our addresses in.

A body shirt under a ski sweater with matching high socks, which gives me the idea of the ski pole; we’ll be in some rough neighborhoods.

Sherry has already washed her hair and let it out to sit on—which means nerves. And she is wearing blue jeans. Which means God knows what new insight. But at the last minute, she adds her old suede shorts.

When Cutch sees this, he volunteers as bodyguard.

“Don’t be divisive,” Oomph says. She wants to conceal from him tonight is just a tour. Unless we’re taken by surprise, Oomph says, or enthusiasm, Sherry says—we’re not yet really planning to connect.

And, Dr. Werner, do you know we have trouble! Touring, I mean. That first night’s a fizzle; we might as well be selling encyclopedias. Half those bulletins must’ve been put-ons; the rest give the wrong address or the party has moved; we even go to Queens. Queens Boulevard, when it’s snowing! Those doormen don’t even know the number of the high-rise across the way, much less which of their own tenants is having a “community skin-in for all sociables.” Which is the term the regional letter has advised.

“We’ve been had,” our leader decides. “Or is this some jokester’s idea of it?”

Sherry grumbles it is far easier to connect one by one. She only brightens when I remind her of the address on the tip she sent her father—in back of the bandstand in the ball park, on the other side of Old Lyme.

I do not have to be consoled.

And in the end, turns out we freshmen just take the printed word too seriously. Everything worthwhile here goes by word of mouth. Plus a corner of the gym bulletin board the Phys. Ed. people haven’t caught onto. Bottom right.

For the faculty though, maybe I better describe what even a swinger like you might be up against. Because an orgy isn’t just an orgy these days, Dr. Werner. Which is why I thought you would be interested.

Dr. Werner, orgies are not what they were. Or not like in English 36.

No masochism to speak of, absolutely no bullwhips—at least not in the college crowd.

And nothing in Latin anymore, which kind of disappoints Oomph who had six years of it.

But all those ploys can get along without it, believe me; as Sherry reminds her, you don’t have to know the name of what you are doing.

Nature’s what’s in; we’re young and we have a lot of it.

Unless you have a real hang-up; well these days, hangups are sacred anywhere.

But most of all—the trend in our orgies is to the affirmative.

If you could just take the message back, Dr. Werner. Oomph says it best:

We’re not out to destroy everything destructively. We’re out to fuck the world in a positive way.

Sound minds in sound bodies, and all together! Put your bod on the line for the universe.

Or at least for the improval of local government.

Ideally, every fuck-in is a creative thing.

But the night I want to describe to you in detail is the night I go into politics.

By this time, which is shortly, only Oomph and I try to make the route; Sherry has momentarily dropped out. She’s always going off in a corner with just one guy anyway, leaving us open to “Who’s your snooty friend?” Her alibi being, she makes more progress toward reality like that. And now she has got there, in a wild oat sort of way; her father is sending her to Puerto Rico for a short vacation with clinical confrontation—she’s preg.

Which, even if you don’t know who by, is a serious moment for your female friends.

“We go out Saturday night——” Oomph says “——I want it to be someplace with
meaning
.”

And I feel the same.

We’ve already copped out quick from the Phys. Ed. secret program. Too many push-ups—and too many big, well-coordinated girls. A fast rebound to a French-conversation grope hasn’t done much for us either. Endless prelims, which Oomph got impatient with, and I knew the French was terrible.

Besides, we’re wise now that only freshmen go cruising. By at least sophomore year, you’ve got your crowd. After that, unless you’re living with some spoilsport who doesn’t approve of the open secret life—you find your goals.

“Let’s be precocious,” I say, “let’s do that.”

So, one fine morning, we shop the departments, and what do you know—if you look close enough, there’s a goal on every bulletin board in the school. And since it happens to be the day after the President of this land goes on an anti-youth kick again, yours, Dr. Werner, is kind of full of them. We finally pick a tiny typed slip tacked to one corner, which says, “Declare your rights in rites, in liberal company, at a good Riverside Drive address.” Top left.

Meantime, I’m suddenly in a dilemma I know by now is classical—how to tell your folks what you are doing at school. My aunt and uncle phone to say they are back from the beach. She didn’t have her face lifted for it. But she and Oscar learned to ride the three-wheeler bikes. And on the bike next to theirs, they have met a tycoon who would like to buy my big diamond-in-the-bank. He hasn’t seen it yet of course, but he’s seen a picture of me, and considers it unfortunate I am not confined to a bank.

I can see the three of them bowling down the tarmac, in a huddle over how easy it is to lose your diamond in a dormitory. I gather he might buy mine just to give it back to me….And what am I doing Saturday night?

Oh, family influence!

I say, “Date.”

She says, “Who?”

I say, “Nobody special. With a crowd.”

She says, “How are they dancing, these days?”

I say, “Nothing special. All together.”

She says, “What are you wearing?”

I say, “Nothing much.” Which should please her.

She’s not prying, she’s only hungry for details. And it’s not that I can’t lie to her, by now. Only the more education I get, the tougher it is to know when I am doing it; the difference between good and bad faith is different here.

She says wistfully, “I hope you’re in with a good crowd.”

I say, “Good? They’re seniors.”

Then there’s a mutual silence. Into which she says, “What is this party called, they don’t do anything special with nobody special and not wearing anything much? I hope you’re not wasting yourself.”

I say quick that no, I’m applying myself. “It’s a grieve-in.”

She says, “A what?”

I repeat that.

She says, “For who?”

Here I have to think quick, since though from class discussion I suspect our goal may be general, I’m not sure yet. So I pick a certainty.

I say, “For the President.”

She says, “But he’s still alive!”

Even she is politically aware!

I say, “This one’s the kind you can do it for early.”

And only twelve weeks ago, I didn’t even know I ought to know the name of my congressman. Or how far back he stands on what youth is for.

I still don’t. But I know I ought to. And tonight I’ll find out our whole platform.

So I tell her nix on the diamond; I’ll keep it until I know my goals.

She says why don’t I take the tycoon to the party anyway, he could maybe use some.

I say, “Uh-uh. Oomph says tonight we’ll find out everything we’re against. Nine out of ten, he’ll be one of them.”

What she says next—I know how far apart fifty blocks can be.

She says, “Who’s Oomph?”

Y
OU GO
ON
ONE
of these affairs, Doctor. Not
to
. The idea being you are only rising a very little higher on the excitement circuit than where you normally are.

So that Saturday night, Oomph and I set off for Riverside Drive. On our way bumping into the two cookies, all kickied and curled; they are going on a date. With two scholarship boys from St. Olaf’s who’ve cut the term short to come east from Minnesota early—which these two consider very dashing. “Enjoy your evening,” they say side-eyed, and slide by.

“Oomph,” I say. “They know we’re political.”

She says education helps everybody some. But that the most those two can look forward to is getting laid Lutheranly and separately in the back and front of a Volks.

Unless they are saving it, which I have found is still possible, but don’t say.

Dr. Werner, is holding back publicly a revolutionary act? Because by now quite a few of us silent minority—who want world-selves but haven’t yet made our minds up on what to do with our personal ones—we’re committing it. Like it’s even easier than holding back privately.

What you do is play musical chairs. And get left out.

Not that I think you’d be interested.

But if you’re me—the first thing you notice there is how everybody’s acting very nonchalant—like having four hands come at you plus an unassorted head is simply your daily bread. The other point is that when anybody does get made, everybody has to know—it’s only honorable. So what with everybody seeing to it how nonchalant
they
are, and
you
are, or emitting little savage cries to the general committee—how can anybody ever really say what has happened with who?

But the most important thing is, whatever is not your bag, everybody is very tolerant. You just indicate your bag is something else. And if it’s something new, you might even gain admiration for it.

Say you’re a girl, and you are surrounded by three or four fat-bellies. You merely let it be known you’re waiting for a team of acrobat friends who are expected shortly; you haven’t been able to make it any other way for the past month. If they’re cynics and crack wise, let ’em; you’ve already broken away to another group in a corner, who likely are acrobats. To whom you can say in a moment or two, “Oh, excuse me. I see my
friends
.” Just like a cocktail party. By the time either of these groups is checking up on you, there you are having an apparent yen for a football type! To whom you shortly say sorry, but you seem to be building up to a thing for homos lately. Which is catching on from both sides, but is still fairly new.