Invisible man: читать книгу онлайн полностью и бесплатно

She smiled, "Oh, no, that was a dear friend of mine. But do you know what, beautiful," she said leaning forward confidentially, "I think I'm a nymphomaniac."

"You? Noooo!"

"Uh huh. Sometimes I have such thoughts and dreams. I never give into them though, but I really think I am. A woman like me has to develop an iron discipline."

I laughed inwardly. She would soon be a biddy, stout, with a little double chin and a three-ply girdle. A thin gold chain showed around a thickening ankle. And yet I was becoming aware of something warmly, infuriatingly feminine about her. I reached out, stroking her hand. "Why do you have such ideas about yourself?" I said, seeing her raise up and pluck at the corner of the pillow, drawing out a speckled feather and stripping the down from its shaft.

"Repression," she said with great sophistication. "Men have repressed us too much. We're expected to pass up too many human things. But do you know another secret?"

I bowed my head.

"You don't mind my going on, do you, beautiful?"

"No, Sybil."

"Well, ever since I first heard about it, even when I was a very little girl, I've wanted it to happen to me."

"You mean what happened to your friend?"

"Uh huh."

"Good Lord, Sybil, did you ever tell that to anyone else?"

"Of course not, I wouldn't've dared. Are you shocked?"

"Some. But Sybil, why do you tell me?"

"Oh, I know that I can trust you. I just knew you'd understand; you're not like other men. We're kind of alike."

She was smiling now and reached out and pushed me gently, and I thought, here it goes again.

"Lie back and let me look at you against that white sheet. You're beautiful, I've always thought so. Like warm ebony against pure snow -- see what you do, you make me talk poetry. 'Warm ebony against pure snow,' isn't that poetic?"

"I'm the sensitive type, you musn't make fun of me."

"But really you are, and I feel so free with you. You've no idea."

I looked at the red imprint left by the straps of her bra, thinking, Who's taking revenge on whom? But why be surprised, when that's what they hear all their lives. When it's made into a great power and they're taught to worship all types of power? With all the warnings against it, some are bound to want to try it out for themselves. The conquerors conquered. Maybe a great number secretly want it; maybe that's why they scream when it's farthest from possibility --

"That's it," she said tightly. "Look at me like that; just like you want to tear me apart. I love for you to look at me like that!"

I laughed and touched her chin. She had me on the ropes; I felt punch drunk, I couldn't deliver and I couldn't be angry either. I thought of lecturing her on the respect due one's bedmate in our society, but I no longer deluded myself that I either knew the society or where I fitted into it. Besides, I thought, she thinks you're an entertainer. That's something else they're taught.

I raised my glass and she joined me in a drink, moving close.

"You will, won't you, beautiful?" she said, her lips, raw-looking now without makeup, pouting babyishly. So why not entertain her, be a gentleman, or whatever it is she thinks you are -- What does she think you are? A domesticated rapist, obviously, an expert on the woman question. Maybe that's what you are, house-broken and with a convenient verbal push-button arrangement for the ladies' pleasure. Well, so I had set this trap for myself.

"Take this," I said, shoving another glass into her hand. "It'll be better after you've had a drink, more realistic."

"Oh, yes, that'll be wonderful." She took a drink and looked up thoughtfully. "I get so tired of living the way I do, beautiful. Soon I'll be old and nothing will've happened to me. Do you know what that means? George talks a lot about women's rights, but what does he know about what a woman needs? Him with his forty minutes of brag and ten of bustle. Oh, you have no idea what you're doing for me."

"Nor you for me, Sybil dear," I said, filling the glass again. At last my drinks were beginning to work.

She shook her long hair out over her shoulders and crossed her knees, watching me. Her head had begun to weave.

"Don't drink too much, beautiful," she said. "It always takes the pep out of George."

"Don't worry," I said. "I rapes real good when I'm drunk."