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- Чарльз Буковски
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"
Well
,
I
can
’
t
fuck
,
I
don
’
t
want
to
fuck
.
"
"
Relax
.
"
We
sat
on
the
couch
.
We
didn
’
t
kiss
.
Mercedes
was
not
a
good
conversationalist
.
She
wasn
’
t
interesting
.
But
she
had
her
legs
and
her
ass
and
her
hair
and
her
youth
.
I
’
d
met
some
interesting
women
,
God
knows
,
but
Mercedes
just
wasn
’
t
high
on
the
list
.
The
beer
flowed
and
the
joints
went
around
.
Mercedes
still
had
the
same
job
with
the
Hollywood
Institute
of
Human
Relationships
.
She
was
having
trouble
with
her
car
.
Little
Jack
had
a
short
fat
dick
.
She
was
reading
Grapefruit
by
Yoko
Ono
.
She
was
tired
of
abortions
.
The
Valley
was
nice
but
she
missed
Venice
.
She
missed
riding
her
bicycle
along
the
boardwalk
.
I
don
’
t
know
how
long
we
talked
,
or
she
talked
,
but
much
,
much
later
she
said
she
was
too
drunk
to
drive
home
.
"
Take
off
your
clothes
and
go
to
bed
,
"
I
told
her
.
"
But
no
fucking
,
"
she
said
.
"
I
won
’
t
touch
your
cunt
.
"
She
undressed
and
went
to
bed
.
I
undressed
and
went
into
the
bathroom
.
She
watched
me
coming
out
with
a
jar
of
Vaseline
.
"
What
are
you
going
to
do
?
"
