Harry´s Blog

a novel by Herbert Kuhner (excerpt)

                            -45-

Then life became Rosy. She was thirty years old, had two daughters and was going through a divorce. She was fantasstic with a double s. I took her to the Magic Castle, where famous magicians performed their tricks. Then I took her home and performed my tricks on her. It was hard going. I’d given up sex for the yogi thing. But she initiated me right back to where I’d left off.

When we went to her place, I’d lie on the car floor so that her divorce case wouldn’t be damaged. From the floor I’d sneak into her bed.

I got back to being what I was and doing what I do best. I’d been out of the saddle for some time. It was good to get back in.

It was a rosy time. It was Rosy time. She’d say, “Give it to me, Herby! Give it to me! I need it so much. I love getting it from you!”

I’d lose myself in Rosy. She was so juicy I had to take a ladle with me. As I was getting close, she squirmed out from under me and dove down.

She liked to have her back facing me: She wanted to expose herself. “Herby,” she’d ask, “do you see me?” I ‘d guide her with my hands on her haunches, looking at her creaminess, black thatch and rosiness. After she’d been going at it for a while, she’d slurp. It sounded like cymbals clashing, and I’d give her slaps for good measure.

We were a two-man drum and bugle corps. When she climaxed it was like having a dynamo over me.

Those were rosy days. I saw the world through rosy glasses. The celibacy part of my religious conversion was over. But I kept the vegetarian diet and left cigarettes alone.

Coming back home one night I heard the phone ringing. It was my brother calling from Ischl. My mother was in the hospital with a heart condition.

I was frantic. I love my mother more than anyone in the world. How could I get home? I had an Austrian passport, but no American visa.

I’d had the foresight to ask Peter for his Canadian passport. I carefully pried-up the corners of his picture and peeled it off. I made a wax impression of the part of the stamp that was on the photo. This I brought to an outfit that made metal stamps, hoping that they wouldn’t recognize what it was. They made a stamp and gave it to me with no comments I felt like a kid buying his first pack of contraceptives from a druggist. I cut a picture of mine down to size. Then I pressed the stamp onto it and pasted it into Peter’s passport. It looked perfect. I fit Peter’s description, except for my height; I was a bit taller. I bought flat-heeled shoes and hoped for the best. Usually I wear elevated boots.

Rosy brought me to the airport. She was crying as we said goodbye. The rosy times were over. My heart was fluttering as I went through the customs ritual. I left the States with the alias of Peter Kornfeld.

When I got to Ischl, my mother was recovering. She was soon released from the hospital and went to back Grundlsee to recuperate. I had begun to establish myself as an actor in the States, but back in Europe I had to start from scratch again.

I got letters from Rosy. She wrote that she was waiting for me. I was tempted. I probably could have gone to the States via Canada by using Peter’s passport, but I didn’t want to take the risk. Besides, as you know, I never go back.