‘And how nicely you blow; my recalcitrant member just twitched at the memory,’ he writes. Updike wasn’t one of those lazy recliners who failed to reciprocate. A giver as well as a receiver, he was an avid snorkellist. ‘The faint taste of your cunt in my mouth has become the most precious thing in the universe.’ Pages later, ‘I thirst for your cunt.’ To Martha: ‘Your fantasy of having some of my sperm to lace your tea makes me wish I was all cock ... instead of being only a tiny fraction cock.’ But Martha, my dear, ‘You, in truth, are all cunt – your mouth is a cunt and your eyes invite me in and your whole being is as rosy if not as wrinkled as your very wonderful cunt.’ ‘You must help me look for your clitoris sometime,’ he urges. The letter continues as Updike makes fifteen additional numbered notes, running through the pad of Hotel Australia stationery helpfully provided by management. Number 15: ‘My cock is yours – up or limp, your toy and acolyte and (sometimes timid) explorer.’
James Wolcott · What you can get away with: Updike Reconsidered
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