Stories in an Almost Classical Mode [Harold Brodkey] on I will say, with some seriousness, that “Innocence” is not only one of the most gutsy. Complete summary of Aaron Roy Weintraub’s Innocence. Unlike many of Brodkey’s short stories collected in Stories in an Almost Classical . Harold Brodkey. Harold Brodkey (October 25, – January 26, ), born Aaron Roy Weintraub, was an American short-story writer and novelist.
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I wondered broodkey I should try and say something and try to trigger some fantasy in her; but I didn’t want to risk saying something she’d find unpleasant or think was a reproach or a hint for her to be sexier.
She made sobbing noises–and held onto me. No one ever explained that to me before, no one ever made it clear. I was achingly nagged by sensations; my prick had been somewhat softened before, harild now it swelled wit ha sore-headed but fine distension; Orra shuddered and held me cooperatively; I began to forget her. Sometimes we were surrounded by the lights of her reponses, widely spaced, bobbing unevenly, on some darkness, some ignorance we both had, Orra and I, of what were the responses of her body.
I went on; I wanted to hit the jackpot now. She cried, ” Wiley, I feel a lot!
It’s like being a collector, finding something of great value, where it had been unsuspected and disguised, or like earning any honor; this partial success, this encouragement gave rise to this pride, this inward innocence. The first time I’d gone to bed with her, she’d screamed and thrown herself around, a good two or three feet to one side or another, as she thought a sexual tigress would, I’d supposed.
But it wasn’t really my taste, that kind of fuck: And that I mustn’t think about whether she came or not. It seemed to me that she was turning a factual thing, coming, into a public relations thing. She pushed, she egged us on. Partly what kept me going was stubbornness because I’d madeup my mind before we started that I wouldn’t give up; and partly what it was was the feeling she aroused in me, a feeling that was, to be honest, made up of tenderness and concern and a kind of mere affection, a brotherliness as if she were my brother, not different from me at all.
In Which It Gets Your Body Moving – Home – This Recording
Bad sex can be sometimes stronger and more moving than good sex. Brodkey’s career began promisingly with the short-story collection First Love and Other Sorrowswhich received widespread critical praise at the time of its publication. Views Read Edit View history.
Brodkey had apparently decided to omit them from the novel, for when, inhe published The Runaway Soula very long novel pages dramatizing Wiley’s early life, no material from Stories in an Almost Classical Mode was included.
I fucked still faster, but on a shorter stroke, almost thrumming on her, and angling my abdomen hopefully to drum on her clitoris; sometimes her body would go limp; but her cries would speed up, bird after bird flew out of her mouth while she lay limp as if I were a boxer and had destroyed her ability to move; then when the cries did not go past a certain point, when she didn’t come, I’d ahrold and start again.
Pretty used to being with Gwyneth.
She was slightly tearful, as I said, and gentle, and she held me in her arms after I came, and I said something like, “Don’t relax, I want to come again,” and she partly laughed, partly sighed, and was flattered, and said, “Again.
I bumped against the stone blocks and hidden hooks that nipped and bruised me into the soft rottenness, the strange, glowing, breakable hardness of coming, of the sensations at the approaches to coming. She said, “Damn you–why couldn’t you wait?
I discovered that a not very slow sort of one-one-one stroke, or fuck-fuck-fuck-Orra-now-now-now, really got to her; her feelings would grow heated; and she could shift up from that with me into a one-two, one-two, one-two, her excitement rising; but if she or I then tried to shift farther to one-two-three, one-two-three, she’d lose it all.
She heaved like a whale–no: She said, “I’m not as smart as you, Wiley. How unpleasant for her, how unreal and twitchy had the feelings been that I’d given her? Who broke this cup?
I had no money. Sometime earlier, without knowing it, I’d begun to cry. The familiar Orra had vanished; she said “GodohGodohGod”; it was sin and redemption and holiness and visions time.
Three long stories from “A Party of Animals” were collected in Women and Angelsand a larger number, including those three, appeared in ‘s Stories in an Almost Classical Mode. The same things happened to each of us but in amazingly different contexts, as if we stood at opposite ends of the room and reached out to touch each other to receive identical messages when then diverged as they entered two widely separated sensibilities and two such divergent and incomplete ecstasies.
But she did not come. She made the whole bed bounce; then my head bounced away from her; but I still held her down with my hands; and I fastened myself, my mouth, on her twat again; and she yelled in a deep voice, ” Wiley, what are you doing!
The great Harold Brodkey? I felt strained as at poker or roulette, sweaty and a little stupid, placing bets–with my tongue–and waiting to see what the wheel did, risking my money when no one forced me to, hoping things would go my way, and I wouldn’t turn out to have been stupid when this was over. When that died down, she said — angrily — “I always knew they were doing it wrong, I knew there was nothing wrong with me Don’t be like this.
When she was quieter, she was gasping, she said, “Oh, you love me When I delivered a second thrust, a somewhat more obvious one, more amused, almost boyish, I was like a boy whipping a fairly fast ball, in a game, at a first baseman — she jerked almost wolfishly, gobbling up the extra power of the gesture, of the thrust; with an odd shudder of pleasure, of irresponsibility, of boyishness, I suddenly realized how physically strong Orra was, how well knit, how well put together her body was, how great the power in it, the power of endurance in it; and a phrase — absurd and demeaning but exciting just then — came into my head: That, too, excited her.
And if I apologized or complained or explained in that problematic future why I was sexually a little slow or reluctant with her, she would then blame my having tried to give her orgasm, she would insist I must not be bored again, so I would in that problematic future, if I wanted her to come, have to lie and say I was having more excitement than I felt, and that, too, might diminish my pleasure.
Email Article Print Article Permalink. Her throbs were very direct, easily comprehensible, but without any pattern; they weren’t in any regular sequence; still they were exciting to me, maybe all the more exciting because of the piteousness of her not being able to regulate them, of their being like blows delivered inside her by an enemy whom she couldn’t even half domesticate or make friendly to herself or speak to.
Harold Brodkey – Wikipedia
There was nothing but that wake. The man would have to fuck while in a stage of siege; not knowing what she’d do next, he’d fuck and hurry to get it over and to get out. That was too complicated for her: My God, her doubts! She raised her torso, her head, she looked me clearly in the eye, her eyes were enormous, were bulging, and she said, ” Wiley, it’s happening!
A form of trash.
I really didn’t know what I was thinking: I haven’t that kind of daintiness. Her body jumped and contracted interestingly but not at any length or in any pattern that I could understand.