Ronald Rabbit Is a Dirty Old Man Read online

  How on earth did you manage to filch my personal letterhead, Clarke? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear from you or of you ever again. While I cannot go so far as to say that I wish your death, I must allow that your obituary is one I would read with some pleasure.

  I am sending this letter to your old address. I assume you did not play the same odd prank on the Post Office that you visited upon Mr. Ribbentraub, and that this will reach you in due course.

  Clayton Finch

  CF/rg

  26

  Ribbentraub Realty Corp.

  414 East 14th Street

  New York, New York

  “A Realty Corporation With A Heart”

  July 20th

  Mr. Laurence Clarke

  c/o Gumbino

  311½ West 20th Street

  New York 10011

  Dear Clarke:

  All right already, you little bastard. This is to notify you formally that Ribbentraub Realty Corp. hereby formally agrees to termination of the lease on premises occupied by you at 74 Bleecker St., New York City, and further agrees that no obligation, financial or otherwise, exists between the parties.

  You got what you wanted, you little son of a bitch. I fired that moron Carbo but hired him back again. You ever show up around 74 Bleecker and Carbo is probably going to break your fucking head for you.

  As far as I’m concerned you’re a dirty little son of a bitch, but credit where credit is due and all of the rest of it. Which is that I have to admit that you’re one sharp little cocksucker.

  You ever want a job, I can probably find something for you to do, you little bastard.

  George Ribbentraub

  GR/rls

  27

  c/o Gumbino

  311½ West 20th St.

  New York 10011

  July 20

  Mrs. Lisa Clarke

  c/o Mr. Roland Davis Caulder, Esq.

  Muggsworth, Caulder, Travis & Beale

  437 Piper Blvd.

  Richmond, Va.

  Dear Lisa:

  Forgive me for writing you in care of your attorneys. I somehow misplaced your address, but knew that it would be safe to write you in this fashion. Certainly a man like your father would not dream of opening your mail, not with his high ethical standards.

  Of course if he did open it, he would be sure to seal it in such a way that you wouldn’t suspect a thing. Makes you stop and wonder, doesn’t it?

  But my purpose in writing is not to provoke you, much as you may think so. Actually I’ve mellowed lately to a degree which might surprise you. If you’ll think back to your last letter, you were dead certain while writing it that I would pass it on to your father. As a matter of fact, I haven’t passed it on to anyone. Of course Rozanne has read it, along with various people who have turned up at the apartment, but there’s no reason for that to bother you.

  As a matter of fact, it’s that very letter that prompts me to write this one. For a couple of weeks now I’ve been expecting you to write or call or turn up on my doorstep, and was rather looking forward to a reunion with you. I know Rozanne has expressed an interest in meeting you, and it is an interest I share all the way.

  I really expected you to show up this past weekend. You might say I was counting on it, and so was Rozanne. But fortunately we did have company, as it happened. Ellen Jamison turned up Saturday afternoon and stayed with us until just after lunch Sunday, when she had to catch a bus back to Bryn Mawr. While her presence wouldn’t have made you any less welcome—Ellen has heard a lot about you and would like to meet you sometime—it might have been just the slightest bit awkward having two guests, as our space here on West 20th Street is somewhat limited. There’s only the one bed, and four would be an awfully tight squeeze.

  Well, if nothing else, Lisa love, I can at least tell you what you missed out on. You already know a lot about Rozanne, because I remember I sent you a copy of a letter I wrote to Rozanne herself. Suffice it to say that the situation worked itself out surprisingly well, and that the cloistered Italian virgin was turned into a sexual dynamo by the simple expedient of—

  No, come to think of it, I’m not going to tell you how I did it.

  Some other time, perhaps.

  You’ll want a description of Rozanne, and of Ellen.

  I’ve already described Ellen for you, but how do I know if you keep all my letters as faithfully as I keep yours? Here we go, from a letter I wrote to Steve Adel:

  “On my right, Ellen Jamison, red-haired and slim-hipped and flat-chested and freckled. If her father ever loses his several million dollars, she can always earn a living posing for Norman Rockwell. She even has braces on her teeth.”

  And now a description of Rozanne, from another letter to Steve:

  “But one look at Rozanne and a guy like you would begin to salivate. The easiest way to describe it for you, Steve, is like so—picture your ultimate unattainable ideal in tits, improve on it, and you’ve got Rozanne…. Aside from her breasts, Rozanne is just an average beautiful girl. Long black hair, dark complexion, fierce eyebrows, deep, liquid dark-brown eyes, and a strong nose and chin. A slim, supple body that is far too slim and supple for those breasts (but who’s complaining, right?) tapering to a tiny waist and widening to a perfectly round ass. Hips designed for easy childbearing and joyful childconceiving. Good legs. Not great legs, but damned good legs.”

  So there the three of us were in our apartment.

  It was awkward at first, I’ll admit it. See, Rozanne had never made it with a girl before, and she was nervous about it, and the nervousness was contagious, as nervousness so often is. We had talked about it, Rozanne and I, but talking about it is not the same thing as doing it.

  Rozanne was all for it, actually. She liked to talk about what she would do in a situation like this, or have me talk about what the daughters of Lancaster had done with each other. Talking about it served as an exciting prelude to sex for her. But now Ellen was right there in the room, and we all knew we were all going to ball, and none of us were coming right out and saying so, and it created a certain degree of tension.

  Rozanne asked what kind of a summer Ellen was having.

  “A dreary one,” Ellen said. “Perfectly drab. There are no people around.”

  I said, “I gather nothing happened with Ralph.”

  “His name isn’t Ralph.”

  “I didn’t really think it was, but I couldn’t remember it for some reason.”

  “It’s Ronald.”

  Rozanne said, “How could you forget that? Ronald as in Rabbit.”

  “It guess that’s why I forgot.”

  “I wish I could forget,” Ellen said. “He’s Ronald Rabbit, all right.”

  “Oh, then something did happen.”

  “Barely. He came while he was on the way to the bed. It won’t be hard to follow your advice about not falling in love with him, Larry. And he won’t fall in love with me. He won’t even look at me. My poor mother.”

  (Oh, I forget to tell you, Lisa. Ralph—I mean Ronald—is Ellen’s mother’s current husband. But not for long, if Ellen is to be believed.)

  Well, that at least got the conversation around to the topic of sex. Next, I told Ellen to come over and give me a kiss because I had forgotten how braces tasted. (She wears them on her teeth.) (Where else?)

  We have a long absorbing kiss, and then I went over and kissed Rozanne, and then I said, “Well, that’s two sides to a triangle. Now why don’t you two kiss and make out?”

  Rozanne’s face took on a troubled look. She had already told me once or twice that she could see herself doing all sorts of more obviously sexual things to a girl, but couldn’t quite picture herself kissing one.

  Ellen didn’t share this hangup. She went right over and put her arms around Rozanne and kissed her full on the mouth, and I looked at the two of them, and all at once my pants felt too tight.

  Rozanne’s face was all flushed when the kiss ended, but whether this wa
s from excitement or embarrassment I couldn’t say. Perhaps a mixture of the two. She sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed and Ellen sat next to her and put her head on her shoulder. (Put her head on Rozanne’s shoulder, that is to say. It’s a lot easier to describe situations involving only one person of each sex, let me tell you. As soon as there are two girls in the game, pronouns start getting screwed up.)

  Rozanne looked down at her, then put an arm around her. “God,” she said, “you’re just a kid.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s scary.”

  “It must be,” Ellen said. “After all, you’re old enough to be my older sister.”

  “Well, when you put it that way—”

  “Have your breasts always been that big?”

  Rozanne’s color deepened. “I wouldn’t say always.”

  “When?”

  “Well, just about since I was your age. Wait a minute, let me think. You’re sixteen? No, they were still growing then, because I went to an E cup just two months after I turned seventeen.”

  “Somehow I’m not encouraged. An E cup!”

  “Right now I’m not wearing anything. Larry doesn’t like me to wear a bra. He says he likes to watch me bounce.”

  “I don’t blame him.”

  “But I have to at the office. It’s a rule they have; everybody has to wear a bra.”

  “Even the men?” I put in. But neither of them paid any attention.

  “I don’t blame them, either,” Ellen said. “If you bounced around the office, nobody would get any work done. I’m not wearing a bra either. Big beastly deal. There’s nothing to bounce. When I don’t wear a bra, nobody notices.”

  “Well, don’t let it get to you, Ellen.”

  “I wish I was built like you.”

  “Are you kidding? I used to walk around feeling like Elsie the Cow. And the men are terrible. I wouldn’t mind if they just wanted me for my body, but it wasn’t even my body, it was a small part of my body.”

  “Small?”

  “I mean, it’s no fun going through life following your tits from room to room.”

  “I suppose. I hope I’m not bringing you down now, making such a fuss over them, but I can’t help it.”

  “No, of course not.”

  “They’re beautiful. Pardon me, you’re beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “You’re adorable. You make me feel all funny inside.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “May I cross your heart?” Ellen grinned impishly and drew a cross with the tip of her finger, first a vertical line from the hollow of Rozanne’s throat down almost to her waist, then a horizontal line from one nipple down the slope of the breast and across the forbidden valley and up the slope of the other breast to its nipple.

  “Oh,” Rozanne said.

  “Maybe you wouldn’t mind taking your sweater off.”

  “First kiss me.”

  They kissed and Ellen’s hands fastened on Rozanne’s breasts.

  “Oh,” Rozanne said again.

  “Now take your sweater off.”

  “Yes.”

  “In fact, maybe you could take everything off.”

  “That’s a very good idea. You, too.”

  “Sure.”

  “I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to relax with you. I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get in the mood.”

  “And?”

  “Silly of me.”

  “Oh, Rozanne!”

  “Just the way you look at my tits makes me hot. Do whatever you want to me. Anything.”

  “Lie down. Do you like when I touch them? I want to kiss them. Your nipples are bigger than my breasts. My mother didn’t breastfeed me. God forbid that anything should happen to her precious figure. That, and my mother hangup, and not having a decent figure myself—”

  “I like your figure. I like your body.”

  “But being flat-chested, I guess I have a breast fixation. It was never this obvious before, but then I never met anyone like you before. How can they be so firm and still be this big? I mean even when you lie down. I’ve never seen anything like it, it’s fantastic.”

  “God, what you’re doing to me.”

  “Do you mind if I just adore them for a while? I just want to kiss them and touch them. I want to curl up like a baby and suck your beautiful tits.”

  “Ohhhh!”

  “Oh, wow, Rozanne. You like this, don’t you?”

  “God, yes.”

  “I’m going to be able to come just from this. I can feel it. Not touching myself or anything. Just lying here and sucking on you. I wish I had two mouths so that I could suck them both at once.”

  I had more or less decided to sit out this dance, Lisa, but that last remark was too much of an invitation. I walked around the bed and got on the other side of Rozanne from Ellen and popped Rozanne’s breast into my mouth. Well, popped the nipple in. Not even Martha Raye could have managed the entire breast.

  What total contentment. Ellen and I were Romulus and Remus while Rozanne played Mama Wolf. Ellen, true to her word, reached a climax just from sucking Rozanne. Rozanne, who had made no predictions either way, had an orgasm just from being suckled.

  I just had a good time. No climax, just a good time. Which was all right, because we had a whole night ahead of us, and I didn’t want to use up all my ammunition in the first battle.

  What a night, Lisa.

  I could tell you who did what and with which and to whom, but I’m not sure I would remember everything or get it in the proper order, and besides I don’t want to make this letter too long.

  But you’ve always been an imaginative girl—I’ll swear to that—and I don’t doubt that you can exercise that imagination and get a good idea of what went on. Whatever you can imagine, we probably did it.

  It’s wonderful, how completely Rozanne overcame her inhibitions. Bisexuality came naturally to the daughters of Lancaster, as you may have gathered from past letters. Their school is at least partially responsible for this, and while I personally think that’s easily the best thing to be said for the Convent of the Holy Name, I somehow doubt they would want it noised about.

  The school wasn’t the only factor, though. There’s also a generational thing. I’ve gotten tired of hearing all this garbage about a New Morality, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Kids are simply more open today than we ever were. Lisa, you and I were born too goddamned soon. Kids have so much more fun than we ever had during those years. They do things that feel good.

  Rozanne, six years younger than me and ten years older than Ellen, is far closer to my generation than to Ellen’s. Add to this her extremely cloistered upbringing and you generally have a girl who wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful, as the feller says.

  Well, she’s certainly come a long way, even further than the girl in the Virginia Slims commercial.

  At one point, pausing to glance up from between Ellen’s parted thighs, she said, with an air of Archimedic discovery, “You know, it would really be ridiculous not to enjoy doing this just because I happen to be a girl.”

  And then she went back to what she was doing.

  Maybe it’s just as well you didn’t show up, Lisa. If you had been Rozanne’s first experience, and if Rozanne had been your first experience as well, it might have been like two virgins on a wedding night. No blood on the sheets, but the same kind of awkwardness.

  Or would it have been your first time?

  Ah, well. Hardly matters now, does it? In any event, Rozanne’s first time, like Rozanne herself, has come and gone. Gone shopping, as a matter of fact. She’s down in Chinatown doing her marketing for the week. She always comes home with a couple of sackfuls of things that look as though she found them in a garbage can, and then she dices and slices and swirls them around in her wok, and the result is a meal fit for a mandarin.

  A wok, for your information, is a shallow Chines
e frying pan suitable for cooking things in a small amount of very hot oil. I mention this not to flaunt my culinary expertise but because it occurs to me, on reading the last paragraph, that you might not know the word and might think it a euphemism for cunt. Rozanne does lots of things with her cunt, but so far she hasn’t filled it up with bean sprouts and water chestnuts.

  Although, come to think of it, it just might beat soy sauce.

  Inscrutably,

  Julia Childs

  28

  Camp Arondequois,

  RD #2, Seaford, Vt.

  July 19 or 20,1 think …

  Mr. Laurence Clarke

  c/o Miss Rozanne Gumbino

  311½ West 20th Street

  New York 10011

  Beloved and treasured Mad Poet—

  Naughty Nasty N. and I absolutely flipped over your letter. Quelle brittle! Are Rozanne’s breasts that much better than mine? I think I’m jealous!!

  And NNN is jealous because you didn’t do unto her as you did unto Rozanne. We’re both afraid that our Mad Poet doesn’t love us anymore, and if you’re not terribly good to us we’ll hire your first wife’s father to sue Rozanne Gumball for alienation of affection.

  Your advice got here too late—I’d already made the mistake of letting the lifeguard get to me. Beautiful romantic setting, full moon, blah blah blah. He gave me a totally boring fuck on the diving board and all I could feel was the burlap under my behind. It took forever for the marks to go away. He’s a beautiful guy, great body, outstanding equipment, but no idea what to do with it. Wham, bam, and not even thank you, ma’am. He came before I even left, and then he let out this yell and flipped off into the pool!!! I’m not kidding, he really did!!! When I politely suggested that perhaps he could eat me, he announced that a real man never did a thing like that. Can you believe it????