Myra-Breckinridge-Gore-Vidal

Students League and though I never once spoke to her, 1was constantly aware of her and learned a good deal abouther from the owner of the Ninth Avenue Delicatessen whereeach of us had an account, ours too seldom paid on time.Fortunately, I am no longer susceptible to the charm of thefemale body. Not that a straightforward invitation from theyoung Lana Turner or the young Ava Gardner might not, asthey say out here, "turn me on," but luckily for me there is nolonger a young Lana Turner or Ava Gardner and so my lusthas taken a different and quite spectacular form sinceMyron's death. Rusty has been avoiding me ever since theday of his humiliation. He has even taken to cutting Postureclass, which is a serious matter. This morning as I was onmy way to Empathy II (held in the auditorium because of thestudents' desire to be taught by me: the other teachers aremad with envy!), I bumped into Rusty--literally collided withhim at the turning of a corridor. I dropped my briefcase,which he swiftly retrieved. "I'm sorry, Miss Myra." Hehanded me the briefcase at arm's length as though itcontained a ticking bomb. "You really should watch whereyou're going." I was severe and he gulped like GaryCooper, his attractiveness greatly enhanced by a totalinability to look me in the eye. "You've missed two Postureclasses in a row. That's very serious, Rusty. Very, veryserious. You know how Uncle Buck dislikes that, and how itis bound to count against your final grade." "But I been realbusy, Miss Myra. Working, see..." "The garage?" "No, withthese friends, helping to start this business. Anyway, nextweek I'll be back in class and that's for sure, Miss Myra." He