… The best place to hide anything is “in plain sight”… I confess I never knew it but thanks to SSays Advisory Board Member “Barry The Greenwich Village Idiot” the TRUTH WILL OUT. … UNC Legend Linked To Derm Sex Trade and it is NOT Michael Jordan or Charles Kuralt. Naturally those two “randy boys” first came to mind … This BLOCKBUSTER EXPOSE is a BIGGIE not just because of the “who” involved but because 99.9% of UNC’s alumni have not a clue.
Some would have us believe that those awful awful “rich white boys” of the Duke Lacrosse Team crossed some “line never crossed before” in their apparent curiosity relative to the erotic ebony pleasures of Durham’s legendary “black beauties”. Yea verily the historically hysterical perspective being squawked by President Dick’s puppetmasters fails the fact test (as does so so much of faculty squirrel bloviation).
You really want to know “which UNC legend” don’t you? Not Michael, not Kuralt … Dean? … oh for goodness sakes NO! How can you call yourself “a real Tar Heel” (if indeed you do?) and NOT know. I’ll tell you how many UNC alums might know this … everyone that was NOT in Carmichael for “8 points down w/ 17 seconds to play”. That narrows it to seven … until I meet those seven I’ll question there are any.
What is the most famous book in UNC history? No, not “the one” that Lawrence Taylor opened during his four years on campus … nor “the one” that JR Reid colored all the pictures in at Jeff’s Pornography Shop. This is a serious question.
This book is so famous that while recruiting Rasheed Wallace, Dean offered Rasheed a leather-bound signed edition. Rasheed turned it down in favor of “another one of those lobsters” but Dean was ready nonetheless.
If I said “Lily Jones” would that help you? … still 1,000s of blank faces staring back through the keyboard …
Would it help if I said “the name” has already been discussed significantly relative to the Duke mess (or as Charlotte Simms might say, Dupont?) … but this one is not a Manhatten dandy in a trademark white suit.
OK … all you Tar Heel ANGELS … It”s time to LOOK HOMEWARD! … Thomas Wolfe hisownself was apparently a regular visitor and partaker of the carnal pleasures of “the Bull City” during his days “on the Hill” in the 1920s.
Wolfe’s protagonist Eugene Gant (Wolfe’s alter ego) visits Lily Jones’ Bawdy House, introduced to it by his friend Jim Trivett. Gant lives in Pulpit Hill (duh!) where he attends college; but he and Jim travel over to nearby “Exeter” to find Lily’s. This experience mirrors Wolfe’s own introduction to the pleasures of the flesh courtesy of Mamie Smith, a local Pulpit Hill whore. Thomas Wolfe, arguably UNC’s most touted alumnus of the non-basketball variety, was a rather notorious “whorer”. … with a sweet tooth for “chocolate”.
“….”Wait a minute!” whispered Jim Trivett. “I think this is the place.”
They had turned away from the centre of the dreary tobacco town.For a quarter of an hour they had walked briskly through drab autumnal streets, descending finally a long rutted hill that led them, past a thinning squalor of cheap houses, almost to the outskirts. It was three weeks before Christmas: the foggy air was full of chill menace. There was a brooding quietness, broken by far small sounds. They turned into a sordid little road, unpaved, littered on both sides with negro shacks and the dwellings of poor whites. It was a world of rickets. The road was unlighted. Their feet stirred dryly through fallen leaves.
They paused before a two-storey frame house. A lamp burned dimly behind lowered yellow shades, casting a murky pollen out upon the smoky air.
“Wait a minute,” said Jim Trivett, in a low voice, “I’ll find out.”
They heard scuffling steps through the leaves. In a moment a negro man prowled up.
“Hello, John,” said Jim Trivett, almost inaudibly.
"Evenin', boss!" the negro answered wearily, but in the same tone. "We're looking for Lily Jones' house," said Jim Trivett. "Is this it?" "Yes, suh," said the negro, "dis is it."
Eugene leaned against a tree, listening to their quiet conspiratorial talk. The night, vast and listening,
gathered about him its evil attentive consciousness. His lips were cold and trembled. He thrust a
cigarette between them and, shivering, turned up the thick collar of his overcoat.
“Does Miss Lily know you’re comin’?” the negro asked.
“No,” said Jim Trivett. “Do you know her?”
“Yes, suh,” said the negro. “I’ll go up dar wid yo’.”
They ascended the path quietly and, mounting two or three steps,went in under the latticed door.
A woman stood beside it, holding it open. When they had entered, she closed it securely. Then they
crossed the little porch and entered the house. They found themselves in a little hall which
cleft the width of the house.
“Hello, Lily,” he said.
“Gawd!” She smiled crudely, and continued to peer at Eugene, curious at what the maw of night had thrown in to her. Then,turning to Jim Trivett with a coarse laugh, she said:
“Lord a’ mercy! Any woman that gits him will have to cut off some of them legs.”
“I’d like to see him with Thelma,” said Jim Trivett, grinning.
Lily Jones laughed hoarsely. The door to the right opened and
Thelma, a small woman, slightly built, came out, followed by high empty yokel laughter. Jim Trivett embraced her affectionately.
“My Gawd!” said Thelma, in a tinny voice. “What’ve we got here?” She thrust out her sharp wrenny face, and studied Eugene insolently.
“I brought you a new beau, Thelma,” said Jim Trivett.
Lily is described as “po white trash” and “a plain country woman” but Eugene (Wolfe) is fascinated by the experience. Through frequent visits to Lily’s and rounds with her stable of multi-hued harlots, during his college days, Eugene is more than ready when he returns to Altamont (“Asheville”) and encounters Ella Corpening, a “mulatto woman”.
Ella Corpening sat facing the door in a rocking chair, purring lazily in the red glow of a little kitchen range, with her big legs stretched comfortably out on the floor. She was a mulatto of
twenty-six years, a handsome woman of Amazonian proportions, with smooth tawny skin.
She was dressed in the garments of some former mistress: she wore a brown woollen skirt, patent-leather shoes with high suede tops pearl-buttoned, and gray silk hose. Her long heavy arms shone darkly through the light texture of a freshly laundered white
shirtwaist. A lacing of cheap blue ribbon gleamed across the heavy curve of her breasts.
There was a bubbling pot of cabbage and sliced fat pork upon the stove.
“Paper boy,” said Eugene. “Come to collect.”
“Is you de boy?” drawled Ella Corpening with a lazy movement of her arm. “How much does I owe?”
“$1.20,” he answered. He looked meaningfully at one extended leg, where, thrust in below the knee, a wadded bank-note gleamed dully.
“Dat’s my rent money,” she said. “Can’t give you dat. Dollah-twenty!” She brooded. “Uh! Uh!” she grunted pleasantly. “Don’t seem lak it ought to be dat much.”
“It is, though,” he said, opening his account book.
“It mus’ is,” she agreed, “if de book say so.”
She meditated luxuriously for a moment.
“Does you collec’ Sunday mawnin’?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“You come roun’ in de mawnin’,” she said hopefully. “I’ll have somethin’ fo’ yuh, sho. I’se waitin’ fo’ a white gent’man now. He’s goin’ gib me a dollah.”
She moved her great limbs slowly, and smiled at him. Forked pulses beat against his eyes. He gulped dryly: his legs were rotten with excitement.
“What’s–what’s he going to give you a dollar for?” he muttered, barely audible.
“Jelly Roll,” said Ella Corpening.
He moved his lips twice, unable to speak. She got up from her chair.
“What yo’ want?” she asked softly. “Jelly Roll?”
“Want to see–to see!” he gasped.
She closed the door opening on the bank and locked it. The stove cast a grated glow from its open ashpan. There was a momentary rain of red cinders into the pit.
Ella Corpening opened the door beyond that, leading to another room. There were two dirty rumpled beds; the single window was bolted and covered by an old green shade. She lit a smoky little lamp, and turned the wick low.
There was a battered little dresser with a mottled glass, from which the blistered varnish was flaking. Over the screened hearth, on a low mantel, there was a Kewpie doll, sashed with pink ribbon, a vase with fluted edges and gilt flowers, won at a carnival, and a paper of pins. A calendar, also, by courtesy of the Altamont Coal and Ice Company, showing an Indian maid paddling her canoe down an alley of paved moonlight, and a religious motto in flowered
scrollwork, framed in walnut: God Loves Them Both.
“What yo’ want?” she whispered, facing him.
Far off, he listened to the ghost of his own voice.
“Take off your clothes.”
Her skirt fell in a ring about her feet. She took off her starched waist. In a moment, save for her hose, she stood naked before him. Her breath came quickly, her full tongue licked across her mouth.
“Dance!” he cried. “Dance!”
She began to moan softly, while an undulant tremor flowed through her great yellow body; her hips and her round heavy breasts writhed slowly in a sensual rhythm.
Her straight oiled hair fell across her neck in a thick shock. She extended her arms for balance, the lids closed over her large yellow eyeballs. She came near him. He felt her hot breath on his
face, the smothering flood of her breasts. He was whirled like a chip in the wild torrent of her passion. Her powerful yellow hands gripped his slender arms round like bracelets. She shook him to and fro slowly, fastening him tightly against her pelt.
He strained back desperately against the door, drowning in her embrace.
“Get-‘way nigger. Get-‘way,” he panted thickly.
Slowly she released him: without opening her eyes, moaning, she slid back as if he had been a young tree. She sang, in a wailing minor key, with unceasing iteration:
“Jelly Roll! Je-e-e-ly Roll!”– her voice falling each time to a low moan.
Her face, the broad column of her throat, and her deep-breasted torso were rilled with sweat. He fumbled blindly for the door, lunged across the outer room and, gasping, found his way into the
air. Her chant, unbroken and undisturbed by his departure, followed him up the flimsy steps. He did not pause to get his breath until he came to the edge of the market square. Below him
in the valley, across on the butte, the smoky lamps of Niggertown flared in the dusk. Faint laughter, rich, jungle-wild, welled up from hived darkness. He heard lost twangling notes, the measured thump of distant feet; beyond, above, more thin, more far than all, the rapid wail of sinners in a church.
So perhaps Reverend JJ was on point … the fascination of young college boys for the carnal pleasures as only practiced by those of African origin is hardly a new socio-cultural phenomenon.
Were the “rich white boys” of Duke Lacrosse truly acting of their own accord or were they simply following a time-honored tradition to which they were destined by simply attending college in the Derm-Chapel Hill area … a vortex not unlike the Bermuda Triangle where a young man may lose control over his primal instincts. When those wild jungle drums beckon from “across the tracks” can a young man truly resist.
Think for a moment of all the captains of industry, courtroom stars, and operating room magicians that have matriculated thru both UNC and Duke over the past 100 years.
There is a line from a song in “Big River” … The Nonesuch … “no education of a man or boy is truly complete until he has gazed upon “the Nonesuch…” …
In “Paint Your Wagon” Ben Rumson (Lee Marvin) takes the naïve young Mormon boy to a bordello and turns him over to one of the ladies with the order … “I give you the boy, return to me the man”.
If you are, or if you know of, or if you are married to or divorced from, one of these UNC / Duke show pony graduates … show them this column with the simply question … “was your education complete?”
Will the self-righteous pointy-heads at UNC now abandon one of their most esteemed heroes … Thomas Wolfe … no better than “a Duke Lacrosse player” … lawdy lawdy lawdy …
Many of you have been reading this website for going on five years. It would be arguable as to how incredibly beneficial it has been to your development as a man (or woman as the case may be) … but by gawd if nothing else … you finally read at least a few hundred words of Look Homeward Angel … who’d athought that would ever happen.
Mike “The Narget” Nifong is sending another Derm Police goon squad to raid the “rich white boys” dorm rooms. He suspects they might have torn those Do Not Remove tags off their mattresses. Mike’s latest campaign promise to Black Derm … PLEASE Vote For Me and I’ll name EVERY street in Derm after Martin Luther King. JUST VOTE FOR ME. His back-up job if he loses the election … Mike Nifong will be a lawn jockey on Mayor Bill Bell’s front yard.
Indeed, Luca sleeps with the fishes.
Who was Lee Marvin’s co-star in Paint Your Wagon (the movie)?
Want to e-mail BobLee