`Not very much. He says his teachers won't recognize dice decisions as a legitimate excuse for not doing homework.
Now out, Luke, you've got to go.'
Dr. Rhinehart looked away out the window and sighed. Then he dropped a die on the couch beside him and looked at
it `I refuse to leave,' he said.
Mrs. Rhinehart walked out of the room and returned with a pistol.
`The Die told me to make you leave. Since you deserted me, legally you have no right to be in this room without my
permission.` 'ah, but my Die told me to try to stay.'
Mrs. Rhinehart consulted a Die on the desk beside her.
`I'm counting to five and if you're not out of here I'm going to fire.'
`Don't be silly, Lil,' Dr. Rhinehart replied, smiling.
`I'm not `Two, three…'
`Doing anything which merits such extreme measures. It seems to me'
BAM!! The noise from the gun shook the whole room.
Dr. Rhinehart snapped up from the couch without undue delay and began moving toward the door. `A hole in the
couch is-' he began, trying to smile, but Mrs. Rhinehart had consulted the Die again and was counting to five and,
having only a limited desire to hear her reach the end of the recitation, Dr. Rhinehart sprinted with all deliberate speed
to the door and left.
Chapter Sixty-three
It must be admitted that the thought of penetrating the hairy anus of a man or of being so penetrated held all the allure of giving or receiving an enema on the dais before the American Association of Practicing Psychiatrists. The thought of caressing, kissing and mouthing a male penis somehow dimly reminded me of being forced at the age of six or seven to eat baked macaroni.
On the other hand, the occasional fantasy of being a woman writhing beneath some dim male was exciting - until the dim male grew a beard (shaven or not), a hairy chest, hairy buttocks and an ugly vein-bulging penis. Then I lost interest. Being a female could, in an occasional fantasy, be exciting. Being a male having `intercourse' with any precisely seen male seemed disgusting.
All of this I knew long before that November day in my habit-breaking life that the Die definitely asked me to shoulder the burden of going out into the world and being had. I went to the Lower East Side, where Linda told me I could find several gay bars, one of whose names in particular I remembered Gordo's.
At about 10.30 P.M. I entered Gordo's, a perfectly harmless looking bar, and was shocked to see men and women sitting together drinking. Moreover, there were only seven or eight people in the place. No one even looked at me. I ordered a beer and began doing research in my memory to see if I had in fact repressed or misheard the true name of the gay bar. Gordon's? Sordo's? Sodom's? Gorki's? Mordo's? Gorgon's? Gorgon's! What a perfect name for a gay place! I went to a pay phone and searched for Gorgon in the Manhattan directory. I drew a blank. Surprised and dejected, I sat in the booth and brooded out at the ineptly normal bar, Four young men moved suddenly past the glass door of my booth toward the front of the bar. Where had they come from? I left the booth and wandered toward the back, where I saw some stairs leading to the upper floors; from above I heard music. I wandered up, met the steely gaze of some ex-Cleveland Brown defensive tackle who was sitting at the head of the stairs and moved past him into a small anteroom. From behind large double doors came the music. I opened thin and walked in.
Three feet from me rocked two young men engaged in a passionate, deep-throated kiss. I felt as if I had been half-slammed, half-caressed in the belly with a slippery bagful of wet cunts.
I moved past them into a melee of dancing boys and men and made my way to a vacant table. It was about two inches by three and held the remains of three beer bottles, eleven cigarettes and a lipstick. After staring noncommittally and unseeingly into the chaos of noise, smoke and males for a minute or two, a young man asked me if I wanted a drink and I ordered a beer. Glancing around, I saw that at the two dozen tables only a few people were now sitting, all men except for one middle-aged couple immediately to my right. The man had a sickly smile on his face and the woman looked cool, and amused. When I looked over, she stared at me as she might at an inmate in a mental hospital, her husband simply appeared nervous; I winked at him.
My eyes couldn't seem to focus on any single person or couple but only on the torsos of males dancing. Finally, I raised my eyes and looked at the two men dancing nearest to me. The man, or rather the tallest of the two men, was in his late twenties, rather ruggedly homely, with a crooked nose and bushy eyebrows. The other person was shorter, younger and very good-looking in a young Peter Fonda sort of way. They were dancing rather disinterestedly and looking past each other at other couples. As I was watching, the younger man suddenly turned his eyes on me, lowered his lashes and raised one shoulder and gave me a sensual feminine sexual parting of moist lips. It was a sexual shock. It was one of the most lecherous and exciting looks I had ever received.
Ping! Did this mean that all my life I had secretly been a latent homosexual? Did my sexual response to a female come on in a male body imply healthy heterosexuality, debased perversion or healthy bisexuality? It was time to take stock. Was it the intention of the Die that I be active or passive: Zeus to Ganymede or Hart Crane to a sailor? Was I to be Socrates entering into the old dialogue with one of his boys, or Genet supine and spread before the onslaught of some six-foot walking erection? The Die had been ambiguous, but it seemed more appropriate and habit breaking to be passive arid feminine than aggressive and masculine. But where would I find a Zeus to my six-foot-four Ganymede? Where was the Great Cock that could split me in two? It would be much easier to find someone who saw in me the Awful Erection of his dreams. But ease was irrelevant. I needed to be a woman, to play the role of a woman. Even if I
loomed over my husband like Mount Everest over a stunted shrub I must learn to spread myself supine before him. My
femininity must be given freedom. The dice man could never be complete until he was a woman.
`Can I buy you a drink?' the man asked, standing above me like Everest above a stunted shrub. It was the ex-
Cleveland Brown defensive tackle, and he looked down at me with world weary knowingness. And a smile.
Chapter Sixty-four
You must never question the wisdom of the Die. His ways are inscrutable. He leads you by the hand into an abyss and,
lo, it is a fertile plain. You stagger beneath the burden he places upon you and, behold, you soar. The Die never deviates from the Tao, nor do you. The desire to manipulate your surrender to the Die so that you may gain from it is futile. Such surrender never frees
you from the pains of the ego. You must give up all your struggling, all your purposes, values and goals, and then, only then, when you have given up the belief that you can use the Die to gain some ego end, will you discover liberation from your burdens and your life flow free.
There is no compromise: you must surrender everything. from The Book of the Die
Chapter Sixty-five
`I'm a virgin,' I said in a thin, delicate voice. `Please be gentle.'
Chapter Sixty-six
There are two paths: you use the Die, or you let the Die use you. from The Book of the Die Chapter
Sixty-seven
`Christ,' I said heavily, `am I going to be sore.'
Chapter Sixty-eight
Dear Dr. Rhinehart, I admire your work so much. My husband and I do our dice exercises every morning after breakfast and again before
bedtime and we feel years younger. When are you going to have your own TV show? Before we began playing with emotional roulette and Exercise K we almost never spoke to each other, but now we're always shouting or laughing even when we're not playing dice games. Could you please give us some advice as to how we might better bring up our daughter Ginny to serve the Die? She's a willful girl and doesn't say her prayers to It regular and is almost always the same sweet shy girl and frankly we're worried. We've tried to get her to do the dice exercises with us in the morning or by herself, but nothing seems to work. My husband beats her every now and then when the Die says to but it doesn't help much either. The only dicedoctor in these parts left for Antarctica three months ago so we have no one to turn to but you.
Yours by Chance, Mrs. A. J. Kempton, (Missouri)
Dear Dr. Rhinehart,
I discovered my sixteen-year-old daughter on our living room couch with the postman this afternoon, and she referred
me to you. What the hell is this all about? Sincerely Yours, John Rush
Chapter Sixty-nine