Free St. Urbain's Horseman by Mordecai Richler Page B

sex pot. He breaks off a piece of bread, chews it, and slides it into her mouth with his tongue. Right in the restaurant. Rye bread.”
    Finally Brother Bloom shuffled into Harry’s cell with the revised accounts he had demanded. Harry flung them aside, saying, “We’ve got to get a computer in here one of these days, don’t you think?”
    â€œYou’re a born
momzer,”
Bloom said, knowing how it grated on Harry to be spoken to in Yiddish. Claimed. Especially if Miss Bailey was within range.
    And then it was time to go and Harry pondered alternatives. He could squeeze in a session at the Graphic Arts Society or take in the new flick at the Cameo-Poly. Or see Ruthy. He opted for his digs and the telly, remembering to pick up his laundry first, and settling into the
Evening Standard
with his fried eggs and beans. When David Bailey goes shopping, he read, if the bill comes to ninety-and-something pounds, he hastily buys more items before making out his check, because he doesn’t know how to spell ninety. David Frost is giving another breakfast party for thirty at the Connaught. Everybody who counts is in a dither about what to wear at Lady Antonia Fraser’s masked ball next Wednesday. Forty-year-old Bernie Cornfeld, head of I.O.S. with a personal fortune of more than a hundred million, is accompanied on all his travels by at least four mini-skirted lasses of
Playboy
pulchritude.
    Harry dialed the Savoy. “May I speak with Miss Lollobrigida, please?”
    â€œMiss Lollobrigida is not accepting any calls. Would you like to leave a message, please?”
    â€œYou better buzz her, baby, and see if she will accept a call from … John Huston.”
    â€œYes, sir.” A pause, then, “She is unavailable at the moment, Mr. Huston. Would you mind calling back in ten minutes?”
    â€œHaven’t you got phones by the bathtubs there yet?”
    A giggle earned.
    â€œWell now, lemme see. I’m just leaving here. Could you please ask Miss Lollobrigida to stay right where she is. I’ll be along with a towel and my riding crop in ten minutes.”
    Sprawled on his bed, unzipped, Harry reached for
Mayfair
, “a wedding night tussle for Susan Strasberg and film husband MassimoGirotti.” In the photograph she lies nude on the sheets, head arched back tensely, the hairy dago sucking her nipple. “Above right: see-through temptation fails to arouse her husband’s ardor quite enough. Below: the result – the husband’s cousin moves swiftly in.” She is spread on a bench, nude except for leather knee boots, and the cousin’s head is buried busily in her crotch. Lapping it up.
    Harry turned to another page, “Quest,” a survey on the sex life of single girls in London today.
    Â â€¦Â I was sitting on the floor and he came over and kissed me and pulled me down on the floor with him. He pulled my dress off over my head and I suddenly realized I was blushing like mad, but he was ever so gentle. He put his arm under me and unclipped my bra and started to kiss my breasts and he rolled my nipples between his fingers to make them stand up. We were pushing our tongues into each other’s mouths as far as we could and I could just feel the edge of his thumb and fingers on my panties. They were only a tichy pair of paper panties and he tore the front of them open in a slit. His hands seemed to be everywhere, it drove me mad. I lifted my legs over his shoulders and rubbed my calves against the side of his head and then we made love – through my panties. We did it three times.
    Afterwards, Harry dipped his fingers in his seed and smeared Susan Strasberg’s mouth and breasts with it, then he tore
Mayfair
to shreds, dressed hastily, and started up Haverstock Hill, toward the pub.
    Harry paused at the corner of England’s Lane, looking for a phone booth, his little book of ex-directory numbers in his breast pocket, when he