Chapter Four
Joe woke up most agreeably being sucked by Jenny, and she rolled on a condom as soon as she saw he'd awakened and settled onto her back, legs wide. Joe's mouth headed to her pussy.
"I'm horny enough," Jenny complained.
Joe made sure anyway, and continued to until she was near cumming, only then moving up and driving in.
By the time Joe came, Jenny had reached her third orgasm, the first arriving almost immediately upon his insertion.
"So good," she murmured, pulling him down for a kiss. They hadn't kissed until then, and lingered on it.
They shared a shower, dressed and went out for breakfast at the Pink Teacup, a favorite of Joe's. Afterwards they went shopping, to a couple record stores.
At the first, Jenny exclaimed, "They have my friend's single!"
"Cool," Joe laughed. "I'll buy it for you."
"Thanks."
He found a couple singles as well from bands he liked at Max's, and a bootleg tape of Suicide recorded there. He thought he might have been in the audience for that amazing show.
The second shop had more avant garde music, and Joe picked up a Derek Bailey album and one with a sax player who actually played accompanied by a creaky floor. They didn't linger since it really wasn't Jenny's cup of tea.
They rested in Washington Square Park near a busker singing his heart out for a small crowd, Joe dropping a five dollar bill in the guitar case before they left.
They headed to the East Village for some clothes shopping, Joe finding a cool Stetson that fit his big head and bought Jenny some black jeans and a t shirt featuring Johnny and his current band. Jenny wanted to see the shops Anne had turned her on to, and she found a cute skirt and even cuter baseball jerseys at one and a really nice and really inexpensive velvet dress at another. As usual they never had Joe's size.
After Joe purchased another couple of nickel bags of pot, they headed to Fifth Street for some Indian food, something new for Jenny and she very much enjoyed it. They walked back to Joe's apartment, Joe continuing to be the pack horse mostly and was relieved when they finally arrived.
His roommates were up, the couple getting ready to cop and looking like they needed it. "No thanks," said Joe. The bottle blonde came out of her room and handed the couple a twenty for her cocaine. Gail barely glanced at Joe, the glance with disdain.
"Fuck her," Joe thought, but chuckled to himself.
"What?" Jenny asked.
"You sure you don't want in?" asked his roommate, Greg.
"I'm sure," Joe replied, heading to his room, Jenny following.
"What was the chuckle?" Jenny asked, nestled against Joe on the bed where he basically collapsed.
"I was remembering you had that cocaine but didn't offer it."
"I guess I was kind of pissed. If Gail hadn't been there, I'd bet we could have hung out with Richard Hell."
"Except we wouldn't have been there," Joe pointed out.
"True," Jenny chuckled.
They kicked back for a while, Joe working at his long poem, beginning it's rewriting while Jenny sat up in bed reading Stranger in a Strange Land.
"We should probably go," Joe sighed.
His token dressing up was wearing a white button down shirt, a black Max's shirt beneath it, and a bolo tie with a turquoise slider. Otherwise his usual black jeans and white tennis shoes, with the leather jacket as his jacket. He did add his new hat.
Jenny put on the velvet dress Joe just bought her and just panties underneath it. A pair of black flats, her only other shoes, finished the look. "I should buy some more panties," she told him.
"You look great!" he said, hugging her. "We'll do some more shopping tomorrow."
"Maybe some make-up too," she pouted.
"You don't need it."
"Thanks," she smiled.
She'd had a makeup kit and some lipstick, but decided it was too teenager for her and left it.
"Could we go to Bloomingdale's tomorrow?" she asked, adjusting his bolo.
"Of course."
"You look so handsome."
"Thanks."
The gallery show was intense, and not just the nude, homoerotic, sado-masochistic images, but the people as well. Patti Smith was there as was Richard Hell, whom Jenny finally got to talk to, along with Tom Verlaine from Television and Alan Vega from Suicide, and several New York artists of renown whom Joe recognized. Joe talked to Alan, having known him from Max's, but mostly hung out with Carol and then Stella and Mark, and it was like Carol handed him off to them, a sort reverse cutting in. Joe actually enjoyed their conversation, and he found it easier to stick with them than meeting some of the heroes of his, both musicians and artists, which he'd never had been comfortable doing. Jenny though had no problems with it, bouncing from celebrity to celebrity and seeming to amuse them, charming them with her wide-eyed innocence.
"Ready to go?" Mark finally asked.
"Uhm, let me see if Jenny's ready."
"She doesn't..." Mark started before Jenny flung herself into Joe's presence. "This is so cool Joe!" she exclaimed.
"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," he laughed. "Mark just invited us to leave with them."
"I didn't..." Mark started and got a piercing glare from Stella, stopping him.
Jenny contemplated the suggestion, looking around the room. "I guess I'm ready."
"What about Carol?" Joe asked, spotting her.
"She'll be fine," Stella said, which Joe didn't think answered his question.
He gestured to her that he was leaving with Mark and Stella and Carol's wave seemed to confirm her staying.
"Let's go then," Mark said impatiently.
Half expecting one of the two limos waiting on the street to be Mark's, instead Mark bypassed them and waved down a Checker cab. Both Mark and Stella looked disappointed when Joe took the shotgun seat.
The place they stopped at and unloaded ended up posh, midtown Park Avenue posh. Mark's third floor apartment wasn't any less so. "How the other half lives," Joe thought.
And it was Mark's apartment. Stella explained during their intimate moments that she mostly stayed in a modest one bedroom in the Battery near her work.
Mark, their gracious host, took their jackets and hung them in a closet near the door. Their shoes followed. He gestured down the hallway to a door to the second bedroom on the left and the bathroom and the office on the right. All along the hallway pictures hung, nudes, both men and women, mostly both. Joe recognized a male nude done by Tom of Finland whom he'd read about somewhere. Most depicted non-European men and women of other races, like something from the Kama Sutra, a particularly athletic position, and a Japanese cartoon image of a cock spurting between extra-large breasts.
Past the hallway the apartment opened up to a large living room done in chrome and white leather with a mirror coffee table at the center, and on the other side of the chrome and leather sofa, what looked like a teak dining table with tall modernist wooden chairs surrounding it, a kitchen across from it with a white island, and white tile and white enameled fixtures.
The white shag carpet tickled Joe's toes.
"How do you clean this?" Joe asked.
"Steam cleaning once a week," Mark chuckled, heading to a closet, part of a wall that truncated the space, Mark's bedroom. A narrower area of the open space cut into by the bedroom was an entertainment center, a couch and armchair facing a large television set, set in a cabinet that also had his stereo component system, his record albums lining the bottom. Windows looking over Park Avenue ended the space, obviously a view shared by his bedroom.
The erotic theme continued on the walls of the open space, mostly paintings by artists Joe didn't recognize, although the one with nude men dappled by the reflection from a swimming pool looked somewhat familiar. Hockney read the signature. Again there was an exotic, international diversity. Aside from the Hockney, a much older painting looking to be of a Middle Eastern harem drew his eye.
"Mark's an import/export trader of fine art," Stella explained, standing beside Joe.
"Amongst other things," Mark chuckled, setting a large hookah down on the mirror table with several hoses to draw in the smoke, what he'd gotten from the closet, which surprised Joe, the mirrored surface presuming cocaine.
From a white enameled chest of drawers against the wall Mark pulled out a jar and a fancy dagger which he used to extract a black sticky substance. Opium.
"Almost ready," he grinned, opening another drawer and lifted out an ornately detailed silver jar along with what looked like an ivory spoon with a tiny concave surface at the end, also detailed, the cocaine.
Setting those down, he went back to the cabinet, bringing out a bottle of Armagnac and four snifters. "Could you pour us some water dear?" he asked Stella, who abandoned Joe to fetch them. Joe decided to accompany her, filling four glasses with ice from a small bin in the freezer in which she poured from a gallon carafe filtered water.
"He's getting himself into an optimal state," Stella explained.
"For?"
"Sex of course," Stella giggled, giving Joe a kiss. "Just the right kind of state, and he'll fuck anyone."
"Including Jenny."
"Yes. He's a very good lover Joe."
"Okay."
"What's taking so long?" Mark asked.
