July 27th, 1967

Sunday we go to the Aquarium & Japanese Tea Garden in the park. Steve Miller Blues Band playing at the Band Shell.

We’re lying on the grass when she starts talking about having a baby with me, says she doesn't care what happens to us afterwards as long as I visit the child.

I could go away, start going with someone else & come back & she'd still feel the same about me.

“I’ll always love you,” she says.

I tell her I don't want her loving me when she's making love to her husband someday.

“But I will,” she says.

She has me baffled.

Insight later in bed—the way several facts & a conclusion hit you simultaneously when you're high. Here she's been talking so casually about sleeping with other people, yet with all my suspicions she's spent every night with me.

I tell her I love her when we're in bed—not really sure I do—she hugs me passionately but doesn't reply.

After making love in the morning, she says: "I never feel lonely when I'm with you."

I tell her I love her, but she embraces me tightly to avoid a response.

We're quiet for a while, I push her face back to look at her: "I know you love me, but you're just afraid to say it."

She embraces me even more tightly. Quite sure she loves me more than I love her, but she's afraid to verbalize it. Frightened of committing herself.

After making love again, her whole body is soaked in perspiration, her hair sticking to her neck. I lick the wetness under her arms, kiss the moisture under her eyes.

"You shove that thing so far into me," she says. “You hit places no one ever knew about."

Her bangs fall loosely like a mussed little girl. I enclose her eyes with my hands. Sometimes her eyes are more blue than green, other times more green than blue. The bangs hide the fear in them.

I lay pleasantly exhausted, stroking her soft skin, my mind wandering, imagining her as the naked infant in her mother's arms, the innocence of it, & now the woman of her.

I play with her clitoris, then stop & look curiously to see how much I can open her up. When I open her up, I can see all the way up beyond her vagina.

We begin to make love again & I hold her legs in the crooks of my arms. She can bend them back to her shoulders.

"It's so erotic," she says.

I become a ramming machine, my cock like a piece of steel, concerned only with delighting her & hearing her gasps & exclamations.

When we finish, she just lays there smiling at the ceiling: "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!"

Sometime I want to write a book of poetry about making love to her.

She talks more about moving to Berkeley. Wants to become involved in art modeling, maybe some acting, take a course in photography.

She admits she likes to be around arty people because she can't do anything artistic herself. Wants to become more involved in the anti-war movement. Claims my commitment to writing has inspired her.

Bart got inducted today. On a bus to boot camp.

» July 29th, 1967 : Molotov Cocktails!