Samuel R. Delany - Equinox.pdf - Samuel R. Delany - widez2

Equinox

Originally Published Under the Title Tides of Lust

Samuel R. Delany

1973

ISBN 1-56333-157-8

A hard-hitting, controversial title from one of science fiction’s legendary careers. The

Scorpion has sailed the seas in a quest for every possible pleasure. Her crew is a collection of

the young, the twisted, the insatiable. A drifter comes into their midst, and is taken on a

fantastic journey to the darkest, most dangerous sexual extremes—until he is finally a victim

of their boundless appetites. A reprint of Delany’s classic The Tides of Lust now bearing the

author’s original title.

This is an artificial, extravagant, and pretentious book, Joe Soley. But it is honest before its artifice;

and in this age of extravagant expressions, honesty is the last pretension.

Paul Caruso, you have made heroic attempts to keep me from going mad. But these pages bear the

most circumscribed reverence for sanity. They concern form—which saves no one, but is icily instructive.

I offer you both, then, this book in exchange on strictures of transactual calculus. In it are infinite

summary informations. Summate only if you would.

Note Of Moral Intent:

First finished by Delany in autumn 1968, Equinox con—tained a number of (fortunately secondary)

characters below the age of consent. Need we say that the sixties and even the seventies were more

morally lax decades than our current one? Certainly they were times of greater license—if not looser

sexual ethics. Delany’s novel has sus—tained considerable intellectual attention since its appear—ance in

March 1973 and has been the subject of praiseful analysis in various journals and books—one reason,

clear—ly, for republishing it today. (For a partial bibliography, see page 171.) We are torn, then,

between faithfulness to the verbal artifact we would herewith reproduce (under the writer’s original title,

rather than the sleazy, editorially—imposed Tides of Lust, which it was renamed by its initial publisher,

Lancer Books in 1973, for exploitations sake alone) and the dictates of the present’s greater sense of

moral responsibility. To that end we have added an even hundred years to the direct mention of the age

of any char—acter in the original version clearly presented as a minor associated with licentiousness:

Bethy, Benny, Marny, Pietro ... We remind you how powerful such a strategy is: a six year old in a

context such as this invites unspeakable possibilities; a 106 year old we just assume the komme moyen

sensual, much less the pedophile, finds anaphrodisi—ac if not—in such a context—ludicrous. We hope

the dis—ruption of the image will prevent the age of these charac—ters (now emended throughout the

text) from functioning as a node of libidinal exploitation, as all directly stated ages in the novel are now

eighteen or significantly above.

Chapter One. Riders Of The Scorpion

Mordecai played Mephistopheles—so much less impres—sive in Marlowe’s than in Goethe’s

version. He delivered the lines that begin, “Why this is hell, nor am I out of it,” with chilling grace, as

though this admission of irrevoca—ble damnation and despair were nothing more than an epigram, some

piece of inconsequence by Sheridan or Wilde.

— Camp Concentration, Thomas M. Disch

The color of bell metal:

Longer than a big man’s foot; thick as a small girl’s wrist. Veins made low relief like vines beneath

the wrinkled hood. His fingers climbed thè shaft, dropped to hair tight as wire, moved under the

can—vas flaps to gouge the sac, black as an overripe avo—cado: spilled his palm (it is a big hand),

climbed the shaft again.

There is little light.

What’s here bars the shutters in gold. Water lisps and whispers outside. The cabin sways, rises.

There is a wind out to sea, that means. That means here at port it is clear evening.

The dog on the floor claws the planks.

The captain’s toes spread the footboard. His chin went back and his belly made black ridges. The

long head rolled on the pillow, brass ring at his ear aflash.

The hood slipped from the punctured helmet.

The knuckles, like knots in weathered cable, flexed on him. The rhythm started with the boat’s sway.

Increase: his hand and the boat syncopate. The doubled pace pulled his buttocks from the blanket. The

rim of his fist beat the tenderer rim (one color with his palm). His breath got loud. It halted, and halted,

and halted.

Stop-action film: a white orchid from bud to bloom.

Breath regular.

Mucus drips his knuckles. Still stiff, the shaft glis—tens. Pearls on black wire.

“Kirsten?”

He swung his feet over the edge, his shoulders hunched (dull as cannon shot); his dirty shirt was

sleeveless. Buttons: copper.

“Kirsten!”

His voice: maroons, purples, a nap between vel—vet and suede.

“Come down here!”

When the door cracked, he laughed.

Her hair was yellow, paler than the light. Her smock, torn at her neck, hung between her breasts.

One dull aureole rose on the blue horizon. Her face moved with its laughter before she saw, “Captain,

you ...?” saw, and smothered it, to have it break again. Blue eyes widened in the half dark. “What do you

want?”

She stepped onto the rug. A copper anklet sloped beneath the knob of her ankle, crossed low on her

callused heel. (Uneven hem brushes smudged knees.) A print sash bound her belly.

“Where is your brother?”

“In the wheelhouse, asleep.”

“Where were you?”

“On deck. I was sitting in the sun.”

“With the men on the docks all coming by to stare? How many with their hands in their pockets?”

“Oh .. A”

“None of them with what I got.” He leaned back. His fingers tracked his stomach. “Come here. Tell

me what’s for supper.”

“Your thoughts have gone as high as your gut, now?”

“How do you and the boy get chores done if you sleep and sun all the time?”

“But what is there to do in port?” She stepped across the rug, laughing.

He grabbed her wrist. She stumbled and he caught: “How many times!”

She pushed his chest. Her wrist turned under slippery fingers.

“Five times? Six? I’ll say seven—”

“But see, you’ve already—”

“Once already. Six more now.” He kneaded her inner thigh.

“Captain ...!” She tried to pull away.

His hand went beneath the hem.

She shrieked and bit the sound off. What spilled after was a giggle.

“How many years have I had you two, now?” His forearm shifted like bunched blacksnakes. She

tried to push his hand from under her skirt. Stopped trying.

She opened her lips and caressed his arm.

“How many years? Seven. Now, once for each year you’ve worked on my boat.” He looked down

at himself.

She touched where he looked: she took it, slipping the loose skin from the head. When she fingered

beneath the twice-full bag, he arched his back.

“Pig. Sit on it. Little white pig ...” Three callused fingers were knuckle-deep in her. She bent; her hair

swept his face. He caught it in his yellow teeth, twisted his head. Kirsten grabbed at her hair, and made

an ugly sound. His teeth opened on laughter; it and her hair spilled black lips mottled with cerise.

Barking.

Claws at wood.

Black paws and long muzzle lapped the bunk. The captain kicked the dog with his bare foot (the big

chain around his ankle jangles). “Down, Niger! Down, you stupid dog!”

Down; then back, nuzzling between them: dog’s tongue. One color: Kirsten’s nipple, the dog’s

tongue, the captain’s palm. Niger lapped her crotch for salt.

“Down, Niger!”

The dog barked.

Then the captain looked up: frowned.

One shutter had swung open. A woman’s face pressed the glass (dock-side of the boat), tongue

caught at the corner of her mouth. Her fingers tipped the sill. Sunlight behind her exploded in loose hair,

dimmed her features.

Niger barked at her once more.

Her eyes shifted; she saw the captain. Her mouth opened, her palm slapped the pane, a sail of

sunlight slapped the far wall: the window cleared and burned.

Niger wheeled the room, leapt on the door. It banged the hatchway wall. Claws clicked at the

lad—der. The door swung slowly back.

The captain: frowning. But Kirsten’s hair, brush—

ing his neck, fell from his face like lamé, swept back from hers: she had not seen.

One knee was beside his left hip, one beside his right. She swayed, pulling at her brush; dug in the

lips. His head lodged. Her hair rasped the plum glans. He gasped and grabbed her head.

Her lips struck his. His mashed open and swal—lowed hers. His tongue troweled her teeth; her teeth

opened. He licked the roof of her mouth. He pressed her neck, her shoulders. Her breasts, bared now,

bulged between the black bars his fingers made.

Gold brush lowered to iron wool.

Their mouths were windy with one another’s breath. He thrust, and caught her lips in his teeth. She

fell, clutching him. Tried to push away. He took her buttocks, his thumb tobogganing her, moist. He

opened the wrinkled bud. She tried to block his tongue with her tongue. She failed.

He rolled with her. His knuckles scraped the wall. When she was beneath him, he braced his feet on

the footboard and twisted on her. His belly slapped her. She tried to hold him in with her legs, but he

pulled up, to fall, and: her fingers arched his neck, mashed his rough hair, arched. He rocked faster than

the boat around them.

In stop action: an ice shard melts in a copper cup.

He lay on her. Her hair was wet to brass blades on her neck. He touched them with his tongue. Then

he pushed himself up.

She gargled and reached for him. He glistened above her. (She sees him glance at the porthole, does

not understand why.)

Her fingers palped the gold and coral wound.

’Two!” he panted. ‘Turn over”

Her eyes were closed, her legs apart. She moved her head on the crushed blanket, hands on her

stom—ach.

“Turn over!”

He grabbed her leg and pulled. She felt lazy, she felt hysterical. Opened her eyes as he yanked her

ankle again. (Why was he staring at the porthole? The light, like blood, varnished his big lips, his flat

nose, flamed on his sloping brow till rough, rough hair soaked it up.) “Owww ...!”

Her knee struck the floor. She stretched her arms over the blanket, and rocked her face on the

damp, hot wool. The smell of him: She moved her lips there, her tongue. The taste of him.

The captain breathed hard. He raised his hand, high, drew back lips and shoulder and hip.

Crack!

Her buttocks shook. Redness bloomed and faded. She gasped, then bit her tongue. His hand swung

back the other way. She gasped again.

He pulled apart her cheeks, puckered his lips, and pushed out his saliva. It trailed in the discolored

cleft. When the foamy tear reached the sphincter, he leaned on her. The hood peeled. Entrance, and her

shoulders came up. The heat of her surprised him. He caught a breath: then let it chuckle from him as he

eased. Kirsten clutched the end of the mattress. He grasped her wrists, fell. She screamed, and her back,

wiggling, slid under his chest. He hissed, “Swing it.” He whis—pered: “That’s right, girl.” He hissed again,

“Dance on that black stick, little monkey!”

Soft things slipped and broke. Something with points crumbled by him as he tunneled and plunged.

Her buttocks mashed and spread under the blades of his pelvis. He bit her shoulder, kneaded the skin in

his big teeth till it bruised burgundy.

He let go of her arm, felt under her belly. He thumbed the dry hairs; thumbed the wet. Four bunched

fingers, in and in further. He spread them in her slop.

She made sounds in her chest.

He felt his swollen passage beyond her, wet and tender. His thumb, again, slipped under the

thicken—ing tab folded in the roof.

Her sounds were between simper and growl. Her smock was a wet roll at her back’s small. She

heaved at him. When he withdrew, she butted up to impale. His down stroke pushed her to the bed. And

again. And—

In marble: white rock crumbles from the freshet.

In the shadow his back shone. Heavy, twinned breath. Sweat ran Kirsten’s side, curved at her breast

bulging out.

“... three,” while cooler air came between her back and his belly when he pulled—

“No! Don’t take it ../’

He stood, panting. His shirt lay on the floor. His belt dangled at each hip. The canvas pants creased

down over his buttocks. “Once more ...”

“You’re not tired yet?” She let herself slip to her knees beside the bed. The triangle of sheet by the

bunched blanket was wet. He let his knees bend, touched her back. As his hand walked on her

shoul—der she dropped her head back. He scratched her neck, ran his forefinger in the damp troughs of

her ear. He cradled her head when she rolled it over his palm. (It is a big hand.) Her hair fell in ingots on

his forearm. His fingers deviled them to cloudy snarls.

Through the closed shutter, bars of light reddened the bedding. The captain reached to close the

other. It swung to, the catch failed, and it swung out again. He made a fist in her hair.

“You want more?”

“... no/’all breathy.

“You want it!”

“But Gunner has tired me out, all this morning—” her smile a grimace as he tugged. She let her face

fall against his thigh.

“Kiss it. That little dirty-face has made you hot for more. Yes? You don’t, and I’ll beat you and that

little brother of yours. Kiss it all over, with your tongue.”

She swiveled her cheek on his hip. “But it’s all ...” She slid her hand into the sweaty fold between leg

and sack, “... all soft.”

“You make it hard.” He pushed her into it.

“And dirty!” She tried to pull away.

“It’s your dirt.”

She made muffled contest, but he pressed her face in. When he took his hand away, she didn’t pull

back. Her tongue went warm in the crevice. He grinned, and fingered her hair back. She took the limp

length in her hands, opened her mouth, and tongued him to the hilt hair.

“Underneath. Go down underneath. Get it all in, girl. Before it gets too big.” He moved his legs.

“There’s a lot of junk in the pocket. Tongue ... hungry. Yeah! Be sweet to it. That’s where I like to see

you. Be hungry. Be hungry and eat me. Hey, don’t back away! Take it, deep.” He brushed her distended

cheek with bunched knuckles. “It’s going, yeah, down. All the way. Get ready. Yeah,” and, “Yeah ...”

and, “Oh, yeah!” He held her hair. Hardness and then soft ridges over his thrust. He swiveled to mash his

hair on her mouth, till he felt her gag constrict him. He let her retreat to breathe, then filled her throat

again. “Yeah ...”

“Go underneath again.” He took his shining stock in his left fist; his right pushed her down; pushed

half of the sack in her mouth with his thumb. “Tongue it. That’s good—”

He tapped her. “Watch your teeth! No nutcrack—ers. A little tickle.” His left fist swung the long arc,

fell at her face. “Now the other one ... fine!”

He breathed like a dog. She held his hips and rocked her face between his legs.

“In your mouth, girl. Or let me leak it on your face ....”

She swallowed him, and felt the under-tube swell down her tongue, retreat, swell again. In a geyser

of black mud, a sudden eruption of white froth

(Eruption ...) and he pushed: thrust, and gout, thrust, thrust, gout.

He held his breath, and let her fall against the bed’s edge. The black, bright length wrinkled, sagged.

Her lips glistened. Her eyes were closed.

He sat on the bed and began to take loud breaths. She moved between his legs to lay her head on his

groin. He moved one finger over her forehead, wip—ing wet brass from beaded alabaster. She put her

palm on it, pressed it on her cheek.

“Why are you so tired,” he asked, “after so little?”

She opened her eyes. “Gunner worried at me all morning, I say. Please, Captain. Let me go up and

rest for a while. I’ll come back, maybe after only an hour or so.”

“And leave me to make love to my fists? First the left, after that the right. What then? I can’t lap

myself like Niger.”

“You’ve had me every way! What else do you—”

He squeezed her breast; Kirsten closed her eyes. “Oh, yes, I know the things you think of.” She

looked up again. “Let me go upstairs. I’ll send Gunner down.”

He frowned.

“Finish with him. I’m too tired.”

“He tired you out for me?” The captain tongued his lower lip. “Wake him up.”

“I will. Right now.” She stood.

She tried not to let him see her smile as she bent to pull her bunched shift down her hips. She

shrugged into the sleeve, tried to cover her breast.

The captain fingered himself.

The torn cloth would not cover her any more.

Suddenly Kirsten got a strange expression. She reached quickly, took his face in her hands and thrust

her tongue way in his mouth. He licked it. But when he reached beneath her hem she pulled away.

“I’ll send Gunner!”

She turned and ran through the lines of sun.

In the minute alone he thinks about the currents that have brought them here. He thinks about light,

and suddenly he remembers the woman at the pane. He turns to look.

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