The War Years (The Americans Have Landed)
. . into this feast of ooze and death that St Adolf had set before the palates of the English - parched these long dark twenty-five years - Mr. Roosevelt began with Olympian hands, to shower the American forces. . . Labelled 'with love from Uncle Sam', and packaged in uniforms so tight that in them their owners could fight for nothing but their honour, these 'bundles for Britain' leaned against the lampposts of Shaftsbury Avenue or lolled on the steps of thin-lipped statues of dead English statesmen.
Their voices were like warm milk, their skins as flawless as expensive indiarubber, and their eyes as beautiful as glass. Above all it was the liberality of their natures that was so marvelous. Never in the history of sex was so much offered to so many by so few. At the first gesture of acceptance from a stranger, words of love began to ooze from their lips, sexuality from their bodies and pound notes from their pockets like juice from a peeled peach.
These young men walked, not behind, but beside you and at once began a conversation with some such words as 'You and me's interested in the same things, I guess.' If you wanted, like Madam Butterfly, 'a little bit of tease them ' and said, ' But I'm interested in the life of the spirit ,' they replied,'Me too.' If they were rejected without equivocation, they accepted the fact good-naturedly. Even when it was obvious that they had mistaken me for a woman, they allowed themselves to be enlightened with no display of disgust.
American: 'Can I walk you home, ma'am? '
Me: 'You think I'm a woman, don't you? '
American: 'You waggle your fanny like a woman. '
Me: 'Oh, I should ignore that. '
American: 'I'm trying to but it's not that easy. '
While the G.I.s were still around. I lived almost every moment that I spent out of doors in a state of exhilaration. . . Never before had a physical relationship been presented to me so completely without stint and without overtones.
Their voices were like warm milk, their skins as flawless as expensive indiarubber, and their eyes as beautiful as glass. Above all it was the liberality of their natures that was so marvelous. Never in the history of sex was so much offered to so many by so few. At the first gesture of acceptance from a stranger, words of love began to ooze from their lips, sexuality from their bodies and pound notes from their pockets like juice from a peeled peach.
These young men walked, not behind, but beside you and at once began a conversation with some such words as 'You and me's interested in the same things, I guess.' If you wanted, like Madam Butterfly, 'a little bit of tease them ' and said, ' But I'm interested in the life of the spirit ,' they replied,'Me too.' If they were rejected without equivocation, they accepted the fact good-naturedly. Even when it was obvious that they had mistaken me for a woman, they allowed themselves to be enlightened with no display of disgust.
American: 'Can I walk you home, ma'am? '
Me: 'You think I'm a woman, don't you? '
American: 'You waggle your fanny like a woman. '
Me: 'Oh, I should ignore that. '
American: 'I'm trying to but it's not that easy. '
While the G.I.s were still around. I lived almost every moment that I spent out of doors in a state of exhilaration. . . Never before had a physical relationship been presented to me so completely without stint and without overtones.