He was a pimp that dealt in a unique business. His clients were not only the restless young men that needed women's bodies. He also catered to the bored housewives and the super rich divorcees that needed something thick and solid between their legs.
His stable consisted of luscious young women, more than ready to use their mouths and their cunts in any way the customer wanted if the price was right. And there were also the boys.
Fresh young studs that knew how to turn on those women that needed the hard rhythms of fucking and the softer more intimate pleasures of having their cunts lapped.
CHAPTER ONE
The reputation of a pimp travels before him. His girls are his public relations staff and his image is dependent upon their feelings. They talk about him. Brag about him. Exaggerate his power and his success. They speak lovingly of his nastiness or they curse him out. If they are not convinced that he is the most virile pimp in the business, they will leave him. Ironically, it is not necessary for a pimp to sleep with his stable for the girls to believe that there is no lover superior in prowess.
I was twenty-two and living in the penthouse apartment of a small brownstone off Park Avenue when Florida found me. Business was rolling and I didn't need her really, but I had learned to keep a reserve of women, a variety of types, and Florida, even at first sight, struck me as having most unusual possibilities.
It was a December morning, the end of a long snowy week. Cars buried under mountains of white, clogged the streets. No buses could run. I had gone out for a newspaper and some air. The crisp weather appealed to me and because the day was windless, I felt I could walk for hours.
Many people toiled with shovels to clear a path, to dig out cars, to clear off stoops. I paid little attention to them and perhaps would have walked on past Florida, too, except that she swung her shovel with such ease and exhilaration in the exercise that I had to pause in admiration for her sheer animal pleasure in physical activity.
She wore a black sealskin jacket that twinkled with flakes of snow blown onto the shoulders. She had no hat on. Her hair, a flame red, made a sear of fire that seemed to lick back and forth as it swung. From where I stood diagonally across the street, I could not see her face immediately. I found myself pausing to enjoy the spectacle of an energetic woman.
I had to wait quite a while before she rested her shovel and looked up at the sky for signs of sun or more snow.
My expectations were fulfilled. A great aesthetic satisfaction filled me as I surveyed the sharp outlines of her large face. Obviously she came from peasant stock that had been refined through generations. The feminine quality of her strength implied that she was not accustomed to work, that she enjoyed pleasure and bodily movement for its own sake. As she rested one forearm on he handle of the shovel, I began to consider what this woman would be like in bed; this person who could so easily have paid a boy to clear her car but who had chosen, instead, to do it herself.
I suppose she felt me looking at her for certainly I didn't think to hide my interest. Or perhaps she just happened to glance across the street as people do. At any rate she met my gaze and I smiled at her.
Her expression of pleasure in the day and in her activity changed to something remote. Instantly I realized that she didn't want me looking at her but preferred being alone with herself and with whatever thoughts suffered her imagination.
I had not been accustomed to women pushing me off with Florida's special kind of self-sufficiency. I began to wonder what those thoughts were which could make her so happy to remain alone with them. I asked myself if she might be demonstrating a new kind of flirtatious pursuit yet at the same time I knew that with Florida, I was up against a strong manifestation of sincerity. She really wanted to be left alone.
The challenge of her nature intrigued me. Something in my own nature, the drive to understand as much as possible about women, moved me to cross the street and strike up a conversation despite her obvious lack of desire to participate.
"Good morning," I said as though we'd been neighbors for years. "Looks like a nice car you've got hidden under there. A Jaguar?"
Florida didn't give me the courtesy of a smile. Her lips moved into the upward formation of a smile but her clear rust-colored eyes remained cool.
"No, it's a Mercedes," she replied with an undercurrent of contempt for my lack of recognition.
"Ah, yes, I should have noticed."
Because I stood there with no obvious intention of passing on, she began again to shovel.
I felt no inclination to offer assistance. She wouldn't have wanted it anyway. I simply remained standing with the newspaper rolled under my arm, watching her toil and waiting for her to tire again.
Stone-gray fenders gradually appeared through the encrusted snow. She moved the shovel with care and I sensed that she loved her car dearly. It seemed to be more than a car to her? a pet or a companion. I could imagine her taking long drives alone through the countryside, content with her own company and pleased by the smooth machine responding to her control.
A woman with this independent temperament could never be a whore, could never submit to the demands of another. Despite her apparent coldness to me, I understood that she lived for the personal touch in all things.
"You'll pardon me for interrupting you," I said after a while, "but there seems to be a beer can cutting into your back tire."
Florida's disposition changed. Her head swiveled round to me to determine where I was looking. Her gaze then followed my own.
"Oh, God," she breathed, as though suddenly faced with a catastrophe.
I understood what troubled her. It was a snow tire and not readily replaceable on short notice.
"Well, maybe it didn't slash through," I said, bending to the tire. "Let's see."
We examined it together, investigating, feeling, testing.
"Seems all right," she concluded. "What do you think?"
"I don't know. You ought to take it into a garage anyhow so you won't get stuck someplace where you can't get help."
"Yes, you're right."
Offhandedly I took the shovel from her and cleared a path around the tires so that she could drive out of the space. With great difficulty, ricking and skidding, she maneuvered out into the piled up street.
I was still standing with the shovel and felt confident that she couldn't drive off and leave me even if she could manage it through the snow.
Some ten feet further on, the car came to a halt. Florida put her head out through the window and looked back.
"I'm not going to be able to make it," she said.
"Oh, nonsense, of course you can."
I took my cue and went to the car, opening the door on the driver's side.
She slid over from behind the wheel. I laid the shovel on the floor in the rear, got in and began to rock the car gradually onward toward Madison Avenue where the plows had gone through.
By the time we got to a gas station and had the tire checked out, it was one-thirty. I had been so much of a help to Florida that she had decided to forget her aloof stance temporarily and join me in recouping energy at a local steakhouse.
The talk between us was of the most casual nature, yet I began to feel something in Florida reaching out toward me and the more she reached, the more seemingly passive I became. She spoke about cars for a while, of course. Then I found out she had just come back from Greece after two years there painting on the islands. It seemed to me that she must be either very wealthy herself or kept by someone quite generous. I could not immediately understand why it struck me that there was something very important missing from Florida's life.
We spent a leisurely couple of hours in conversation, with relaxed spaces between as we watched people and cars toiling along the avenue. But, inevitably, it came time for us to part. The evening was coming on and I had connections to make. Business first.
I paid the check and offered to walk back with her to her house, where I expected we would part.
When we reached the front door, she leaned against the side of the doorway and said, "Must you go?" Her voice was unexpectedly soft, almost shy.
I really didn't expect this reversed of her disposition and attitude toward me. Perhaps I had made a mistake. Perhaps Florida wasn't the serene, self-sufficient cookie I thought I had seen.
"Unfortunately, yes," I answered gently. "I work at night, you see."
"Oh?" she said, in an effort to prolong the conversation. "What do you do?"
I smiled. I felt like telling her right out, but I didn't. "I'm a personnel manager," I answered with a crooked, private laugh at the peculiar truth of this description.
She wrinkled her high forehead. "What kind of personnel manager works after five?"
I let a silence fall between us. "Some do," I answered noncommittally.
I could see that she was intrigued now, as I had been originally with her. Perhaps she was accustomed to men trying to pick her up and pursuing their interest unabatedly. I, on the other hand, had made the overture but was now ready to withdraw. Probably this was something quite novel in her life.
I began to play with the notion of Florida, conjecturing what her reaction would be if and when she saw exactly what I did do for a living. Why not? I really had nothing to hide. I was quite proud of my accomplishments.
"If you'd like to know what I do," I said, "you might come home with me."
Maybe there was something ominous in my voice or something irresistibly mysterious.
"I wouldn't mind," she said.
I took her arm then and we began to walk toward Park Avenue. My personal interest in Florida flagging, my business interest rose in inverse proportion. After all, she was and must be like every other woman to whom I was attracted, a person of profound inner loneliness.
My apartment was empty when we arrived, but I knew it would not be so for long. I was expecting a particular client from Madrid, a man of unusual tastes, for whom until now I had been able to supply the kind of woman who would satisfy his particular requirements. I had devoted some of the early morning hours to considering which girl I might supply for him this night. Now it seemed to me that he just might enjoy Florida's ability to appear independent.
I got her a scotch and water and settled her down in the large, comfortable living room that served as my office. I began telling her bits and pieces about my expected visitor to see if I could find a way of pinching her curiosity. First of all I let her know that Mr. F. was in the ship-building business and watched carefully to see if she could be lured by this implication of money.
She rather took it in stride and I tried again by telling her that Mr. F. had a deep interest in athletics and sports, particularly horses.
"Racing or riding them?" she asked.
Immediately I sensed that I was close to pay dirt. "Riding," I said. "Do you like riding?"
She stretched out her legs and crossed them at the ankles. Her elasticized slacks emphasized the line of her calf and thigh. "I do," she said, "very much."
"Well, in that case," I sipped at my drink with an offhand gesture, "you and Mr. F. will get on quite we'll. He keeps a fine stable in Argentina and I know hell be delighted to have someone to talk to about it all."
"I have some horses myself," she said, "in Pennsylvania. I should be there now, instead of New York," she mused, looking out at the whitening sky which again threatened more snow.
"He's a friend of yours, is he?" Florida continued after apparently having thought about the situation in some private way.
It was a time to step in a little closer to the truth. I refilled her glass and my own. Then, standing over her, I said, "Not exactly a friend, Florida. A client."
"Oh? In what business?"
She sounded innocent. I wondered if she were being purposely obtuse or whether she simply could not bring herself to connect all the bits and pieces of information I had been feeding her obliquely.
"I match men and women of similar tastes." My gaze slanted down upon her steadily.
"You don't look like the head of a lonely hearts club." She made an effort to smile.
"I'm not. My approach to this matter of love is much more direct, Florida."
She didn't answer me but while she kept looking up into my face, I saw the high color drain from her cheeks and knew that she had finally caught my meaning exactly.
"Do you want to leave?" I asked.
She wet her lips, took another long drink from the glass and shook her head, no.
I still couldn't be certain that Florida intended to cooperate or participate in any way. Perhaps she was just curious and wanted to test the water a little to see what it was like to be in the company of a man out to purchase her body for the night. Obviously, if she gave in to it, it would be a novel experience. Maybe she wanted to do it for kicks. Maybe she had nothing better to spen her time on tonight. I couldn't really feel secure as to what Florida was feeling or thinking. All I knew was that, for reasons of her own, she wanted to participate.
Good enough, I thought. We'll see what happens. I was betting on the fact that if she were predisposed to staying around, she would submit eventually to Mr. F's personal predictions, or at least experiment.
A half hour later Mr. F. arrived in energetic good shape. He was, to my mind, not an unattractive man. Small, wiry, quick moving. One had from him the sensation of exuberant life and an appreciation for the finer pleasures of living.
He had come in bundled up against the cold in a black Russian style, fur hat and bulky coat with matching Persian fur lapels. He began immediately to talk with Florida as I took his things and I couldn't help being amused at Mr. F.'s thundering enthusiasm that rolled toward her with complete confidence.
After a few introductory remarks, I maneuvered the conversation around to the subject of horses, knowing that my client had more than a normal interest in such a discussion. As he and Florida became engrossed in talk about saddles and trails and the comparative enjoyments from different breeds, I watched Mr. F. warm to the girl. I could not have provided him with a better companion, and he glanced at me once, just once, to inform me of my absolute genius for satisfying his particular taste.
I knew what he wanted. It would take Florida not a little while to find out.
Gradually Florida and Mr. F. began to overlook me in their conversation and I helped matters along in this way by going off to the kitchen for more ice cubes. From there I listened, not so much to their words as to the underlying tone of their voices. I felt confident that very soon I would absent myself from the apartment altogether, leaving them to their growing intimacy and companionship. For special clients, such as Mr. F., I was in the habit of making my apartment available as a convenience. Then the couple would have the option of either staying and making themselves comfortable, or moving on according to their own tastes.
I therefore felt surprised to see Florida standing in the doorway of the kitchen, with Mr. F. directly behind her, both of them, it seemed, reluctant to let me go.
Glancing from face to face, I assured myself that all was working smoothly between them. Both people wore congenial smiles and I felt a certain tell-tale exhilaration glowing which meant that all had progressed thus far smoothly. What, then, did they want of me?
I could only imagine that as yet Florida had not gotten the complete message, that Mr. F. was letting her take the bit in her teeth, so to speak, or that in some ways yet unknown to me my participation was required.
"It's just begun to snow again," Florida said.
"Oh, has it?" I went along with the irrelevancy.
"I suppose I ought to be getting home soon," she continued. "Or I might be stuck here for the night and have to help you dig your car out in the morning."
"I was suggesting to Florida," Mr. F. said, "that we all go to my place now while we can still get out."
"Fine," I said, in a relaxed way. "Let's go, then."
We all proceeded to put on our heavy clothes and went down to where Mr. F.'s car was double-parked.
I took up my usual position of vantage in the back seat, while Florida sat up front with him.
I knew that he kept a place in the city but, instead of going home, he headed the car toward the East River Drive. Traffic on the highway was still light and we made reasonably good time through the slush and progressed at a slow but steady rate northward, in the direction of Connecticut.
The conversation became desultory. No one felt the pressure to remain vocally sociable. There was a comfortable, easy going atmosphere in the car and my expectations for an agreeable night increased with each passing moment.
After some couple of hours of driving, Mr. F. pulled the car off the main highway and proceeded underneath arbors of snow-burdened trees to his private estate. My nerve ends were most attentive to Florida's changing reactions. She seemed to be looking forward to a new atmosphere and my original conjecture was confirmed that somewhere, deep in the core of her being, she was a lonely girl.
But we didn't go to the house. Mr. F. pulled the car around and parked behind the stable. The smell of horses was pungent on the clean, crisp air. We trekked from the car through a bright plattering of snowflakes into the tack room.
The atmosphere, one of leather and hay, seemed to excite Florida. Her eyes, which had been so calm when I first met her, took on an intensity and depth as she walked about fingering saddles and boots and reins, neatly arrayed from pegs on the wall and on dummy horses.
"It would be good to go for a ride," she said.
"I agree," Mr. F. murmured softly. "It is so beautiful to ride in the snow."
"Shall we go?" she said suddenly, whipping her head toward me. "Would you like to ride, Joe?"
"Why not? It's up to you both.
"We will have to change into our riding clothes right here," Mr. F. said, without apology.
Not waiting for an answer, he opened the door to a makeshift closet and brought out three pairs of black pants'. "You will have to find your own size boots," he said.
I glanced at Florida and saw her already beginning to undress, without any pretense of needing privacy. In the back of my mind I commended her for this straightforward attitude and youth. She was truly a child of nature though, perhaps, in some perverted way I had yet to discover.
I caught more than a glimpse of her legs. My original opinion of her body was confirmed by the sigh of tight muscles, gracefully, compactly aligned.
Mr. F. openly looked at her nakedness and I saw on his face the same expression of appreciative judgment as I myself, felt.
It amused me to observe how Florida took in our admiring glances and did not make an effort to turn from us as she pulled the pants up over her neat hips. Apparently she liked her body and enjoyed showing it off, an attitude with which I heartily agreed. Mr. F. had also provided her with a bulky sweater and soon I saw the top of her body contoured of a white sateen bra.
Her tits were fuller than I might have imagined, somewhat oval. I could not see all that the flesh of her cleavage was so smooth and inviting that I knew she must be as beautiful and exciting as any woman could be. Particularly because of that aura of vitality which she exuded.
Florida had sufficient good taste and knowledge of seduction not to draw out her process of dressing. I sensed that she was well aware that a glimpse was better at this stage of the game than it would have been to present me with, just yet, a total offering. And I gave her credit for having some good knowledge of the psychology of the male sex.
She looked, somehow, like a book cover standing there with one hand on her ass, her legs in a graceful wide stance. There was something provocative, somehow, in the black silhouette, so feminine, yet so strong, her high boots emphasizing the neat line of what was obviously an excellent horsewoman.
And Mr. F. didn't look so bad himself, springy and energetic, fitting easily into his clothes and obviously enjoying the prospect of our ride.
As for myself, I looked forward to following the progress of events, knowing from her on in that whatever happened, I really had nothing to lose. Obviously Mr. F. was already excited and Florida, whether she knew it or not, played into the projection of his sexual needs simply by being herself. It was a perfect match.
I stood there, taking in the sight of that horsey pair and I heard, not far off from the stable, a snorting sound as though the horses themselves already sensed that they were going to be let out in the clean, wild countryside.
Yes, there was an undercurrent of wildness, even there in Weston, Connecticut. For we had gone beyond the fringe of civilization, somehow, I felt, and were going to ride even further from it.
At that time in my life I knew only the most superficial details concerning bestiality and fetishism in combination. Now I better understand how Florida was drawn by the sense of herself in her riding clothes. I understood the strength of the magnetism that drew her to the dark chestnut horse with which she seemed almost immediately to fall in love, stroking its nose, feeling into his lips to the strong, yellow teeth and talking to him in a nuzzling way, almost as one might address a lover of long standing.
Mr. F. supervised the operation of saddling our mounts and soon we were each astride and heading single file across the rolling tract of land which led to a snow-covered trail some half mile distant.
It was all Mr. F.'s property and the trail had been laid out most scenically between trees and along the edges of a lake. The lake tonight was frozen over. One could see shadows of small animals upon it, lit by a pinkish haze from a lowering sky that glowed luminously. The sound of horses hooves made a muffled counterpoint through the encrusted snow. Their breath made small clouds that rose to dissolve in the air. They seemed to prance, each one of them, shaking their heads and moving their ears about alertly for night sounds. I saw Florida lean over the side of her horse's neck, stroke him on the jawbone and whisper something. I could not tell what, but I had the eerie feeling they were words of love. Yes, I had chosen well for Mr. F.
He took the lead and soon the horses had moved from a walk into a trot and then, as the ground flattened out, Florida used her heel and sped ahead of him on her own cantering mount, her hair flying behind her just as the horses tail did. They seemed to be a single creature.
Mr. F. looked behind him at me and said, "Come along, then."
Now we both cantered, catching up with Florida easily, for she was not trying to out-distance us. The rocking motion of my hips in the saddle indicated to me what Florida must be feeling. I saw how she pressed her thighs into the side of the horse and clung to him and knew how that rocking motion massaged her pussy, stimulated nerve ends and consequent sexual feelings. I could imagine her riding naked in the summertime, needing nothing and no one other than the horse beneath her, her cunt riding bare against the leather saddle.
We were very soon far from the house and sight of any other dwelling. Only the trees and the occasional sound of owls animated the countryside. Without being aware of it, we all began to give our horses rein. The wind, a pale stirring, began to whip up heat in my cheeks.
Mr. F. urged his horse forward. I saw him approach Florida and come so close to her that the flanks of their horses grazed each other momentarily, then glanced away in reaction.
Mr. F. pulled his horse's head to the left and again brought his steed in close, too close to Florida. But she didn't try to evade him in any way.
Their horses whinnied in a high, undulating sound that cut through the night silence. Mr. F. continued to edge his horse in toward Florida and, eventually, he himself leaned across and grasped her around the waist, lifted her from her mount.
He couldn't have done it if she had not cooperated. I saw that she was helping him in every way possible and that somehow between them, in a fashion I could not really determine, Florida was lifted off her horse and onto his. It seemed almost like a circus trick because it went so smoothly.
Neither of them felt any compunction about leaving a riderless animal and the horse itself simply trailed along.
Florida, riding behind Mr. F., clasped her hands around his waist, bringing herself in close to him, shoving her cunt into the back of his ass. I wondered if they were saying anything to each other, but this I could not tell. What I knew, however, was that their bodies were touching in an intimate way.
CHAPTER TWO
It was not yet time for me to leave. I understood that what they needed as well as their personal communion was a third party, an audience, an appreciator. They needed the voyeuristic completion and I spurred my own horse forward for this reason and for my own curiosity. I knew I would learn something of human nature tonight which would tame me well.
A half hour passed in this fashion and soon thereafter the ground fell steeply away into what seemed like a gully filled with snow. Some few turnings of the trail brought us to a tremendous lean-to with enough room in it for the temporary stabling of half a dozen horses. It was a place where people could come to rest during a ride or for an emergency or for, perhaps, to fuck and suck.
It was this last reason, I knew, that drew Mr. F.
He swung off the horse and helped Florida from it. I heard him say, "Ah, my beautiful filly," to her and kiss her on the side of her mouth as her feet touched the ground.
"Ah, you think I am as beautiful as the horse," said she, obviously delighted.
"Yes, as beautiful," he said, "more beautiful, even. What a beautiful name you have," he continued, stroking her hair. "And that nose, those nostrils." He kissed her on them. "Passionate, beautiful nostrils." , I was still astride and watched as my horse beneath me pawed the ground, making for himself a clearing down to the warm earth beneath the snow.
I saw Mr. F. continue to stroke Florida's hair and her arms went around his neck. She was looking into his face with the expression of one who had come a long way for her reward and who was beginning to believe she had found it at last.
He kissed her along the side of her neck, pulling away the turtleneck of her sweater and planting another kiss there, low. They were both quite warm, obviously invigorated and ready for each other. Her tits were heaving with anticipation.
The lean-to was built much deeper than I had originally seen. Trust Mr. F. to have all the conveniences, of course. He moved her back into deeper shadow and leaned her against he flank of her original mount. She turned to the horse and began to stroke its belly and the muscles of its hind legs, saying more to herself than to him, I think, "Am I really as beautiful as all this?"
The horse swung its head around and gave her a playful nip, as though in answer and she laughed aloud like a child who had made sudden, surprising, though inevitable, communication with the object of her passionate thought.
For some while she continued her conversation with the animal, her wide-spread gloved fingers caressing the sleek curve of muscle that reminded me of Florida's cunt. It would have been possible, I thought, for this girl to have been a horse in some previous incarnation or, perhaps, at some untold hour of the night she might change into one.
I know that Mr. F. had this same eerie, beautiful feeling about Florida as he stepped in closer to her and pressed her backward against the horse as his mouth found her lips.
The animal's hind quarters quivered and stepped aside, at which point Mr. F. grabbed Florida hard into his arms. The two black-clothed silhouettes became one and I watched with growing concentration from where I continued to sit, fascinated, with the reins slack in my hand.
Their embrace became more passionate and then, abruptly, Florida pulled back.
"Will you mount me?" she said, "and ride me, too, tonight?"
It was a naive question and would have to come from a knowledgeable prostitute. The very fact of this simplicity, this plea, this strong hint of longing, inflamed Mr. F.
"I will do everything," he said. "I will make you happier than you have ever been."
"I know it," she said, "I can tell."
And again they were in each other's arms, kissing fiercely and rubbing the fronts of their legs each to each, as Mr. F. had touched his horse to hers.
My horse took a step closer to the other two who were seemingly ensconced for the night. As I came inside the lean-to, I felt the i i heavy warm air, cozy by contrast with the outside. I heard Florida's breathing, almost an equine snort, as though she was sniffing and snuffling her growing exhilaration and her preparedness to take off at any minute at full gallop. I
I saw one of Mr. F.'s hands disappear beneath the bottom of her sweater along her back. He was stroking upward, feeling her flesh there, which I knew would be velvet in contrast with the cableknit stitching. Then, with the other hand, he gave her ass a slap. The movement was whip-like and seemed to perform its function, to spur her on. I saw her ass muscles tighten. Florida thrust her hips forward against him and felt, I could tell, the pressure of his jabbing cock between her legs. Their clothing seemed to make little difference. It was as though they were already naked with each other, running side by side along a different trail.
Running with each other along a trail. I knew I had to follow. I dismounted and brought my horse in line with the other two. Then, walking in front of their heads, I came to a position of vantage in relation to Mr. F. and Florida.
Their mouths were open and pressing hard in contact. I saw the movement of Mr. F.'s cheeks and knew that he had thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. I knew their spit would be flying back and forth between their mouths.
She accepted it, sucked it in gladly. Her hands at the back of his neck were stroking upward into the short hair at the nape and higher until she grasped his skull, much as she had caressed the flanks of the horse. His hands had slipped down to her ass and held her in place, adjusting her against him while their hips moved in slow, investigating circles.
As I watched, I felt my cock stiffen fully which made of me a true and proper voyeur, which was, I knew, exactly what they wanted and needed from me.
They did not consciously show signs of being aware of my participation, but there were smaller, inadvertent clues to this, a leaning toward me from time to time as though offering to touch me by the fact of proximity.
Their embrace continued to take on a growing intertwining closeness. I felt gratified that Mr. F. and Florida found each other through me. The very merest of happenstance had led me to the girl but I had somehow worlessly sensed her value, not only to herself, but to this man. And for once I felt that I was earning more than a living as a pimp. I was earning a special kind of human thanks.
I couldn't help but notice how Florida's nostrils flared and her neck arched as though, in her mind, she had become a wild horse in the process of being tamed. Her eyes grew large as she gave herself up to Mr.F.'s embrace. It was easy to see that she was being fulfilled in some deep portion of her being, that she would find a tremendous release here, somehow.
Despite the cold they began to undress each other. I could see that all they felt was their own body heat and the desire, overwhelming, for connection.
They sank together to the hard-packed earthen floor, Florida's body covered and protected by her eager lover. I watched the heightening movement of her ass, even to me she was horse-like, a beautiful animal racing, the same undulating motion of galloping became the movement of her pelvis, buttocks and thighs. A graceful motion, intensified by the act of love.
Even Mr. F., that urbane, worldly person, seemed to have peeled off his surface layers and life attitudes. He rode her hard and deeply, talking words of encouragement against her mouth, her cheek, her ear and into her hair which seemed to have become a mane of fire.
I remembered back to the first redheaded woman I had known, a sleazy prostitute in my home town. So very different had been that moment from this. My participation then had been complete and personal. Now I realized how far I had evolved from the impulsive boy whose nature I could only recall. I stood watching Florida and my client and I felt like an artist who had created a perfect composition in human flesh.
As they fucked, Mr, F. from time to time slapped Florida along the side of the thigh or across one cheek of her behind, much as though he were shifting a horse into greater speed. Each time he slapped her she responded with an increased motion of her ass, a lifting her weight high, her strong back arching mightily. The only light that entered the place was the reflection of silver from the snow, itself bright from the moon. The entwined couple, in shadow and silhouette, easily took on the appearance, to my imagination, of horses in copulation. Particularly did this occur to me when Mr. F. turned her around and entered Florida from the rear. She seemed easily to withstand the weight and pressure of his cock up her ass, her cheeks spread and strained with ecstasy of arousal.
For a while I stood, listening to their grunts and love sounds, smelled the strong stench of the horses beside me and the perfume of flesh rising from those other two. But after a while I turned and walked out into the snow, leaving them alone to their fulfillment of fantasy.
Later that night, when we had all returned to the house, a long discussion ensued in Mr. F.'s living room concerning human bestiality. The subject came up, of course, in terms of horses.
Florida, sitting cross-legged in front of the fireplace, sipped at a mug of hot cider and stared at the low glowing coals. "Are there really instances," she asked, "of women having intercourse successfully with horses? I mean, without getting killed or hurt or something?"
"Yes, of course, my dear," answered Mr. F. with full assurance. "There are a couple of very famous cases, particularly one in Russia, you know."
"I don't believe it," she said, shaking her head, stroking her hair. "People just made it up because it sounds so exciting."
There was a tremor in her voice evident to Mr. F. and myself. He looked at me askance, mutely asking whether he could really allow himself to believe that Florida wanted to be screwed by a horse.
I had to make a snap decision about this. It seemed likely that she had often dreamed herself in that position, but I didn't want to take the responsibility for what might happen if I encouraged such behavior. If only I had known Florida better and could do more than surmise.
I gazed from one to the other of them and realized that they were both edging toward experiment. Florida wanted to try out her dream and Mr. F. was aglow with the desire to see it all in action. His face was taut. His skin and eyes were bright with increasing fantastic desire. I understood that he wished he himself could become the horse, or at least have the specification of a horse's cock. But he was smart enough not to press his point to Florida for, although she yearned to put her yen into action, she wasn't about to do anything that might endanger her body.
For myself, I was not so sure as to how far Florida would be willing to go if, for instance, she got drunk or became enmeshed with possibilities. It would be easy to forget where the line between reality and dreamland lay. I had known too many women who had damaged themselves in an effort to fulfill particular cravings. I, therefore, did not trust to Florida's good sense and felt it necessary to protect herself from herself.
"Look," I said, "It's getting late and we have to return to New York, you know."
I had developed a way of saying this without seeming to intrude upon the party. But now, even my gentlest, most reluctant tone fell flat. Mr. F. would have no part of my suggestion.
"Stay here. Stay," he said, waving an arm in an effort to eradicate the changed direction of our talk.
I felt myself surrounded by people in the process of losing their good sense. I also knew that this was a magical moment. I could get any amount of money from Mr. F. if only I would promise him that Florida would and could do what she seemed obviously to want.
But I insisted in having no part of this affair. Particularly since Florida was not a member of my own stable. I had no way of predicting whether the trouble all this would put me through would assure me of Florida's continuing loyalty. And loyalty was the price she would have to pay if I were to go to the lengths necessary to insure both safety and success for the venture
Mr. F. like all good clients, was growing impatient with my hesitance . He wanted his way and would insist upon having it. Perhaps even tonight. He filled my mug again with some more cider. It was strong stuff, heady, and with a certain aphrodisiac quality. I wouldn't have put it past him to have added certain coaxing materials to the drink for I felt my own blood stirring in an unaccustomed way. Yes, I could feel my body coming alive and I struggled to maintain a cool head despite everything.
They were ranged against me, both Florida and Mr. F., settling into further conversation between themselves and ignoring me since I did not seem to participate with an enthusiasm equal to their own. I sat back and said nothing, just listening to the talk about sex and methods and whether or not the cunt could stretch sufficiently for the purpose.
The next thing I knew, dawn was beginning to lighten the room. Mr. F. put out the lamp and the new day grew strong, making its attempt to dispel the dreams of the previous night.
Yet no one seemed sleepy, only excited. Soon enough, the two were convinced that the only way to discover whether women could sleep with animals of such size was to try it and find out.
I could not tolerate that. If anything took place, it would have to be after I agreed to the proposition, for I had to maintain some kind of control in this dangerous area.
It took every bit of finesse on my part to maneuver Florida back to the car. I only accomplished this after promising her that we would all return again to Connecticut and see what we could see. I even promised to procure a horse sling for her which would hold the animal aloft at the proper elevation, at the proper time.
I drove now and Mr. F. sat in the back. Florida, beside me, gazed out with unseeing eyes upon the snow-laden spruce along the highway.
"Oh, Joe, you're such a prissy miss," she said. "I never expected this of you."
She had known me a day and now she was saying she had never expected this of me. I smiled to myself with an inner chuckle. Our intimacy had grown by means of an explosion into something huge and deep-reaching. I could feel Florida's affection and the beginnings of a certain tell-tale dependence upon me, for a security I knew I could give.
I was glad to be back in New York amongst the various situations I could handle without having to pay attention to them directly. My mind, distracted by this problem with Florida, needed to focus upon her craving. I needed to come up with a suitable answer, as satisfying as possible. For if I could work something out, a kind of compromise, perhaps, I knew that Florida would be a fine addition to my business.
Yes, I kept thrusting her into that commercial perspective which allows a certain balance to enter one's thinking. Otherwise, I might have gone into a rage at the thought of a beautiful girl so willing to have her insides torn out. Not that I was a victim of middle class morality, by any means. I had seen and done so much myself. But I had also seen horrible conclusions for people who did not respect the limits of their physiology and I was determined that none of my girls should ever put themselves in the least amount of physical danger. That was my cardinal rule upon which I insisted more firmly than anything else.
Florida, of course, could not know this about me. If she had, what would her response have been? Only a laugh and maybe the statement that I ought to go to hell. It was hard seeing how rapidly she might withdraw from a suggestion that did not jive with her own desire. But I had to take my chances. I had to do what I could to prevent Florida from her own sexual being. The thought of horses cock up her ass was freaking me out.
The growing daylight hours seemed to bring a little sense into the car and into the world at large. Things looked different in daylight and even Florida calmed down, at least temporarily, so that I could change the trend of our conversation to something less controversial.
Since Mr. F. had taken the time and effort to return to my apartment, I knew he expected something for this, a commitment on my part, a date set for the time of our scientific venture.
And, of course, I had to avoid this kind of specific detail, avoid it at all costs. I did not wish to ruin Mr. F's confidence in me that I would keep my word whenever I gave it. At the same time he was not allowing me to say 'no', which was my strongest inclination.
He got me alone in the kitchen.
"What have you got to lose, Joe?" he said.
"A very beautiful girl," I answered without hesitating for a second.
"You are too cautious. You'll never get wealthy this way."
Why did I feel protective toward Florida? I was hardly aware of it but now, in retrospect, I realize the deep, abiding sense of responsibility I felt toward her as though she were a child bawling for her fourth ice cream cone which would do more damage than merely ruin her appetite for dinner.
"I'll think about it, " I said to him. "That's all I can promise you."
"I know that ploy," he answered, leaning against the refrigerator door and crossing his arms over his chest. "I use it myself. But why must you be so particular?" His voice took on an edge of small contempt. "She's far from a virgin. I can tell you that."
I could feel everybody clawing at my back and I had to stand firm. The more I felt over-cautious, the more I knew I had to resist the temptation to give in to everybody's fiery desires. It was my position to keep a cool head. T, the qnly one capable of this, for the others were already consumed with expectations. It seemed to me that if they really wanted to go ahead, they could do so without my consent. Since they did want it, both of them, apparently dread, fear, did exist. I had to know this, recognize it, and act accordingly.
And so I remained firm, entrenched against all arguments.
"Look," I said to him at last, "why don't you just give me some time to think this through? Maybe I can find a way so that everything will work out the way you want it to do."
"I hope so," Mr. F. said, putting his hand into his pants pocket. "There's a lot in it for you, you know, Joe, if you see things my way."
I nodded, acknowledging that his offer of money was, indeed, motivation for me to work out something.
It was a relief to me when Mr. F. finally left the apartment. Mistakenly, I thought that I could better handle Florida when she didn't have an ally in her whim. What I didn't know was that her contemplations had nothing at all to do with whim but were founded in a deep-rooted need, so complex of nature that she was psychologically incapable of giving up her idea now that it had become voiced.
She began following me around the apartment, talking about all kinds of irrelevancies, but which always led back to the same theme.
"No, no and now," I insisted, my voice growing with an increase of firm negation.
"Why are you such a coward?" she said to me, challenging with a tone that had become sinuous and almost snake-like.
I knew the potency of Florida's poison. She would soon attack me, I sensed, in the area of my maleness. I could see the whole argument being prepared in the back of her brain, how I was afraid to witness the human cock in comparison with something superior to him, both in size and perhaps capacity. Ordinarily such and argument would faze me in the least, but coming from Florida, a girl whom I found so agreeable, I knew that some small area of my being might indeed become vulnerable to her challenges. I had to resist telling her that if she needed to be fucked like that, I would get her a kind of man like she couldn't have known existed, some ape-like, over-sexed creature who would ram his prick into her up to her ears.
With great patience, however, I continued to refrain from responding to her variety of insistances. Our conversation was like a see-saw with each of us trying to get the other stranded up in the air. I could only hope that my weight of good sense would prevail.
She followed me around the house for two days and for two days I listened, sometimes saying nothing but maintaining my positive attitude that she would have to calm down on the subject.
At last I said in desperation, "Florida, if you want to go out and get yourself kissed, go on. But leave me out of it. I want no part in this."
I could tell that my words fell upon deaf ears. The structure of her life had changed profoundly. The experience with Mr. F. had torn away all her camouflages and rationalizations. "I can't do it alone, " she said.
"Well, you don't have to, " I continued my jibe. "Hell help you. Go to him. Just let me be."
"Oh, Joe, why must you be like this?"
"Because I have too many other things to worry about without getting all tangled up in this kind of rot."
I was treading on dangerous territory by showing contempt for the dearest, it seemed, of her desires. But I had to keep myself separate. In the business that I was in there was no room for the kind of experimentation which could destroy as Florida's desire could destroy. Yes, it seemed to me she was bent on destruction, tobogganing downhill toward it and I must not become involved.
The less I wanted to do with Florida's purpose, the more insistant she became to inveigle me.
At last I said, "Why are you doing this?" in an echo of her voice. "Why do you need me to be part of your craziness?"
I had spoken to her with a certain direct sincerity. We were looking into each other's faces. We were standing very close, It was as though I could see through her luminous eyes into her soul.
"I don't know why I need you, Joe," she said quietly, "but it seems I do."
I understood. There didn't have to be a reason for such a feeling. In fact it was this very irrationality that I respected most in Florida for it seemed the truest part of her nature. Perhaps the truest part of anyone's nature. I nodded. "Well, if you want to remain with me, you'll have to cool it, honey."
My voice, purposely empty of affection, acted like a rein, signal to her of the path she would have to take. I knew some slight something about myself. And what I knew was self-preservation first, last and always. Without safety there could be no snug harbor for women such as Florida to settle into when they needed and ached with inner longings.
She whirled around, unable to look at me now that I had rejected her in that area for her being. I sensed that she hated me with a fiery rage but it didn't concern me in the least. Women had often hated me, which didn't mean that they still weren't dependent, somewhat anxious, or even in love with me. But love didn't really matter. Just a word, a blanket, for the most contradictory of sensations. Love had so little to do with the kinds of needs in people which made them seek out each other. I had learned this lesson so well during the past few years that it seemed to me that love was a quality men could only show to their pets.
"I'm going out," she said.
"So go."
A silence fell. Perhaps Florida had expected me to object. But she didn't know me well enough to realize that my reactions were not going to be like any other man she had dealt with before. I didn't need her in the way that men had probably needed her. I respected her but I was not standing in awe of her animal beauty. And, most importantly, I didn't love her, couldn't love her. Maybe this lack on my part was the ultimate magnetism that kept Florida close.
Yet she had to follow through with her threat or lose face and she was not the kind of girl who would submit to domination openly.
I was sitting on a couch with the newspaper folded open to the latest stock transactions and was busily engaged in watching Florida's donning of her clothes, not with my eyes, but with my ears. I had perfected the technique of watching people while holding a newspaper in front of my eyes so that they thought I didn't give a damn. And maybe I didn't give a damn but I liked to know what was happening and usually made it my business to find out.
Florida, as good as her word, put on her coat and boots and slammed out of the apartment.
Well, I was alone but not lonely. There were lots of girls I had to check on. Florida was only one small fraction of my life and I could not afford to lose perspective on that either.
Fortunately for me, business was good at that time. My attention was not wanted, except in the most routine ways, by any of the other girls. I laughed with some, consoled others, cursed out a few more and spent the day in a fashion very well known to me and quite comfortable, too. My list of clients was large enough to satisfy my ambitions of the moment. The money was rolling in. I could give myself over to thoughts of Florida's problem now in solitude and see what I could see about solving it in the most effective and sensible manner.
But I didn't come up with anything much. All I knew was that she, if I could help it, was going to have absolutely no actual intercourse with a horse. That kind of fucking would have to be left to the history books and to the pornographic drawings that had no doubt inflamed her senses at some previous time, then sunk down into her subconscious, only to be lifted up again by the experience with Mr. F., with horses nearby.
But if she could not have her complete desire, she must at least have something good enough to approximate it, something that would settle the question in her mind and leave the girl in peace. One cannot ignore the framework, the pattern, the many years that go into building up a physical need so very different from experience. I settled down on the couch, let the paper fall to my knees and began to muse over the fact that I had no idea of Florida's sexual history or her experiences. Maybe she was accustomed to playing with animals, maybe she had even had, by one or two or three of the smaller kinds, some form of intercourse. I had not thought to ask her this but if I did ask, would she tell me? Yes. I decided she would pour out everything she had to give, if she believed that by doing so she would come closer to victory in the present.
As I sat there, deep in my thoughts, the phone rang again and this time it was Mr. F.
His voice had a coaxing quality that made me suspicious. He said, "Joe, I'm fixing up a very good party for this Friday night. I want you to come and bring Florida. You'll have a good time, I promise-and there'll be some things in it for you, too, that I'm sure you'll like."
Now Mr. F., being a successful businessman, understood that my mind never roamed far from watching the store. So all I could imagine was that he had some good contacts for me, some wealthy clients which would make it doubly worth my while to bring him Florida once again.
I understood his form of bribery and agreed privately that Mr. F. knew how to influence me when he wanted to.
"I'll be there," I said.
"With Florida?"
"Of course with Florida," I laughed a little. "But I'm not bringing a horse and don't you bring one, either."
It was Mr. F.'s turn to chuckle. "Well, there's no place for one to sit in my living room anyway."
Despite the feeling of good will and agreement between us, I knew that Mr. F. had no more intention of giving up his ideas than Florida. I could feel myself being drawn, as though by an undertow, deeper into the situation. But on the face of things, there was nothing yet to do. I would have to proceed casually and see where events led.
On the night of the party I felt unusually self-confident. Partly this was because business had been increasingly good for me and I felt, I suppose, that I could dispense with Mr. F. as a client without feeling any pinch. To have such a sense of option was so comfortable that I even felt a bit of humor creeping up, concerning the situation. I could look at both Florida and Mr. F. as a historical moment in my life, in that it was I who was more necessary to them than they to me.
CHAPTER THREE
On the night of the party I put aside my negative feelings, and even managed a slight sense of humor.
I think Florida had a certain feeling of humor about it, too, even though she was so deeply involved. She bought herself a special dress for the party, a peacock blue sequined sheath with a train attached behind at the small of the back which resembled nothing so much as a horse's tail.
She turned slowly for my inspection and appreciation, which I gave her heartily. She reached down and stroked the tail, glancing at me sideways with a devilish smile on her lips.
"Do you think I'm beautiful?" she asked.
"Mr. F. will think so."
"And what about you, Joe? What about you?"
Her insistence gave importance to the question.
"Yes, I think you're beautiful," I replied truthfully. "Beautiful woman, though," said I, emphasizing woman.
"Oh, I know about that." Her voice was tired, almost impatient. "People keep telling me that I'm a beautiful woman."
"Doesn't it make any difference to you?"
"I don't really believe it."
"Why don't you?"
"Oh, I don't know." Her thoughts seemed to drift to other times. "I suppose if I were beautiful-I would have love by now."
From Florida this was a surprising sentence but then I realized once again how important love was to the female sex. Love junctioned for them as a nourishment without which they could not pursue any of their own life with vitality. They might try. They may put up a brave front of excitement but only love gave them a true feeling of being alive.
"I'm sure dozens of men must have been in love with you, Florida. How could they help it?"
The smile seemed to tell me that I was a sweet thing for saying so but that it was far from the truth.
"Well, my dear," I continued," you must have set it up against yourself if you're disappointed with men."
"How do you mean, Joe?"
I didn't really feel like explaining Florida to herself, and perhaps there was on my part a presumption in thinking that I could piece together the whole story of her psychology based on the short while we had known each other. But I did feel, in truth, that this horse substitution matter did not distract her from the essential starvation in her being for human contact. I
"Well, shall we go?" I said. "Mr. F. awaits you."
My grandiose manner, with its touch of burlesque, created an atmosphere which Florida accepted readily. She was, above all things, a good sport. She could take a joke played on herself as well as any woman I had met.
I had put on a dinner jacket and together, Florida and I, made a handsome couple, not at all visible as pimp and whore, for which I congratulated myself with profound appreciation.
Mr. F. had given me a different address for where the party was to take place and we arrived at the penthouse apartment of a high-rise building facing Central Park.
Mr. F. had a penchant for space, as so many wealthy men do. Space and distance, a feeling that one could move about easily, that there were no traps or cramping boundaries to life.
We had arrived about nine o'clock along with some others. The rooms were not yet filled with all his guests. I had a sensation that this was going to be a week-end affair, with people coming and going at will informally, despite the somewhat formal attire of some of us.
At first, Mr. F. was not in sight. He did not feel it necessary, I realized, to greet every arrival. A sense of protocol was obviously missing, which amused me and seemed to indicate that he really meant it about freedom. His guests were not guests, but at home at his parties.
Out of habit my professional eye came into play. I began to scan the men and women for possible future clientele. Sometimes one can spot the hungry ones, the frustrated ones, easily.
While I was doing this, I saw that Florida was already making a big hit. People's gazes went to her and remained upon the unique beauty which was tonight so highly dramatized. That exquisite mane of fiery hair flowing down to the exotic blue of her gown and set off by the gracefully moving curve of her shoulders was indeed something to dwell upon. Besides which, she gave again that aloof appearance of being so completely self-possessed and self-sufficient which had originally attracted me to her. One could not know at first glance the depth of hunger inside.
Florida acted like a magnet. People came over to be introduced, to make conversation, to try to stir her interest in them. Casually I met high-placed executives in some of the most powerful business organizations in the country. I made mental notes of names for future reference, my insides smiling with satisfaction at the multitude of possibilities opening before me.
Florida wanted a drink. We went to the elaborate bar which, at this moment, Mr. F. himself was tending. He had on a navy blue sharkskin suit and looked quite suave; also cheerful and energetic and more than pleased that we had arrived this early.
He came around the counter and kissed Florida on the cheek in what was obviously a sincere, warm welcome. One could tell immediately that he appreciated her, of course, in his own special way, but in a true way.
Florida leaned toward him slightly. Obviously, she enjoyed a personal understanding with him that fed her warmth.
As I watched this interplay, again I wondered how come these two did not simply pick themselves up and run off to find their fate in sexuality, in total abandon and privacy. Yet they had not done it and I knew they would not try. Something was missing which prevented them from completing their circle of self-sufficiency.
I let them alone and went to the glass doors which led out to the penthouse terrace and stood there gazing over the city of lights which made a bright constellation in the darkness.
But they would not let me alone with my thoughts. Soon I heard Florida's voice behind me.
"What are you doing, Joe? Why aren't you sociable?"
I did not rum to her but continued gazing into the distance. I put my fingers to the cold pane, enjoying the sensation of chill to my fingertips.
"What would you have me do?" I asked. "Join us."
"What for?"
"We like your company, even if you don't like ours."
I turned half-way. She was there with Mr. F. They seemed to enjoy trailing after me and somehow it was getting to be a bit of a nuisance that they wouldn't leave me alone.
"What have you in mind?" I said to mr. F. "To do this evening?"
He shrugged, lifting his shoulders with a casual, easy-going manner indicating that the world was his, that he could take whatever he wanted, if he would just reach out and do so. But it wasn't an accurate gesture in terms of his outlook, really. He had to supercede my opinions. He had to achieve a certain triumph over me for some reason I could not at the moment guess.
"I have a project for you," Mr. F. said.
I turned my gaze directly upon his face, trying to anticipate the labyrinthine workings of his mind.
"Are you interested?" he continued.
"I don't know until I hear it."
"Ah, you are a difficult man, Mr. Canon," he said, sliding one arm around Florida's waist and drawing her casually close to him.
"Well, tell me your suggestion," I replied, ignoring his comment.
He rolled his eyeballs toward the ceiling with the first flicker of impatience I had ever noted in him and then said, "Well, perhaps another time when you are more at ease."
"I'm at ease plenty." My voice was a whip flick.
"Ah, no, no," he shook his head. "You are not agreeable this evening."
Actually, I was very agreeable, only slightly annoyed that he still insisted on pursuing me.
"Look," I said, "why don't you and Florida go someplace and enjoy yourselves together."
"I have exactly in mind to do that," Mr. F. grinned. "But I thought you might like to come and observe us for a while."
So they still needed an audience. At least Mr. F. required one and it was I, the chosen, of course.
There was no real reason why I should delay matters. After all, Mr. F. was paying me handsomely for my time and for Florida. So I went along as he led the way through some corridors to a private elevator. We rode up slowly for the distance of a single floor and came out on the upper story of the duplex apartment.
There was no party up here. The lights were on but not a single person inhabited what seemed to be more of an amphitheatre than an apartment.
I looked around me without surprise but curious to see what was coming next. By this time I had some knowledge of Mr. F.'s imagination about life and good times and I figured that he had something very special in mind for tonight, though I could not immediately tell what it was going to be.
I glanced at Florida and saw her looking around with a noncommittal expression, her gaze taking in the circular red benches fixed around the center, rather large stage area with ceiling lights focusing down upon it as though we had come gere to see a play.
I was still looking at her face when the first sound of horses whinnying came through what must have been hidden loudspeakers. The aloof manner dropped from her and surprise, mingled with delight, suffused her expression.
"Marvelous sound effects," I said, with all the casualness I could muster.
"If we can't go to the stable, the stable will come to us," said Mr. F. in his efficient, good-natured way.
It was then that I realized that a faint aroma of horse was being wafted into the air. I appreciated the great lengths Mr. F. had gone to in order to synthesize the proper atmosphere for his lovemaking.
He touched Florida's arm. "Would you like to come with me to the dressing room, my dear?"
When she nodded yes, he glanced at me with a silent expression that told me to wait here, which I did gladly as they went off and disappeared behind a small door.
I climbed to the top row of benches, sat down, crossed my legs, feeling that I was waiting for the show to begin. Actually, I was beginning to enjoy myself, too. There's nothing like a little bit of ingenuity to lighten the effect of sexual predilections. Somehow the artifice and artistic touch indicated a certain sensitivity in Mr. F.'s nature and gradually I began to realize that my fear on Florida's behalf was perhaps unfounded, that Mr. F. with his. eminent good sense and taste would manage to pull off the show without damage to anyone.
They took quite a while to change but, when they reappeared and went toward the podium, I began to appreciate the reason for the length of time they had spent in preparations.
They were both of them dressed beautifully in skin-tight elastic garments, black, each with an arched horse tail properly attached.
Florida's hair had been pulled up to the crown and was held there by a band so that the full length of it fell now like a true mane and glinted breathtakingly in the spotlight.
I must admit that the vibrations of their fantasy reached me. I felt a certain respect and admiration for the freedom that permitted these people to fulfill their fantasies. How many people in life have the courage to make their dreams come true? Particularly dreams that seem to the outside world to be outrageous. Mostly, human nature suppresses its deepest desires, holds those desires close in deepest secret, while at the same time leading a so-called normal, dull existence from day to day while continuing to hunger for the unspeakable need. ' x
But not these two.
I settled back with the utmost admiration for the play being presented to my view. I realized that, in fact, this was reality, a true, profound reality, for them and everything else a mere facade over life.
Mr. F. pranced round his love object, stepping high, stallion-like, his tail swishing and swinging, his head arched gallantly.
I could readily picture him outlined against the sky, trotting on the crest of a green hill toward his selected female.
Florida seemed to be waiting with impatient yearning. She shook her head. The mane of hair danced as though in a breeze. She turned in a slow circle, keeping her back toward him always, so that he approached her from the rear, sliding his hands upward from the small of her back over her shoulders and down. I saw his fingers widen as his palms clutched tightly over her high, moulded tits that stood proudly, acceptingly. She shuddered as he squeezed them and at that moment I heard the high whinnying sound of a horse in heat coming across the loudspeaker. The cry might have come from Florida herself.
She jutted her behind backward, spreading her legs, pressing her ass backward against the fronts of his thighs. She rubbed him in slow motion, as though trying to touch him with every inch of her flesh and muscle. I saw her flank quiver.
He pressed forward, rubbing himself up and down along that full, firm ass. Then she danced away and he had to pursue her again.
They played out the spectacle of a love dance beneath the staring spotlight and the mating ritual took on a particular magic of immortality. The world would always be thus, the pursuer and the pursued intent on love.
Apparently there was a convenience in their costumes which I could not, from my distance, have noticed. The results of this convenience, however, I soon saw quite clearly.
Florida reached her hand round behind her. Her fingers searched until she found and grasped his cock, drawing the erection out into view. She shoved back against it. He, thrusting forward, entered her through a similar aperture in her own apparel, spreading her ass wide with his hands. Then he pressed in deeply.
Now I heard a sound which would come from nowhere except Florida's own throat. The unmistakable cry of ecstasy of contact. His cock sunk deeper and deeper into her ass-hole as I watched on.
They worked their hips with hard, strong motion, greedily taking sex, grabbing and swallowing sensations with almost unmanageable hunger. I saw them throbbing beneath the spotlight, their flesh in motion detailed. How strong and direct their caresses were. How magnificently alive. Even the tremblings of their bodies as they galloped toward orgasm. His cock was flying in and out of her rapidly. He was almost like a fucking mad man.
There was a sound of twin voices from somewhere as I saw the beginnings of orgasmic convulsion which seemed to last and last as though the ocean itself were being drained.
All of a sudden they began coming like crazy. I watched their faces change to expressions of total ecstasy. The come shot in hot heavy gushes into Florida's ass-hole, and she was loving every fucking minute of it.
Afterward, they lay down side by side. Then Florida rolled over on top of him as he rested prone. She seemed to enjoy being stretched out upon his back, stroking his head and his sides and rolling about upon him as though tasting the last luscious morsel of passion. Gradually her movements became more languid and it seemed that she might fall asleep there and rest to recuperate within the silence and peace of oblivion.
I did not want to interrupt and waited for Mr. F. to end the evening's performance himself.
But as I sat and gazed down upon the players, I saw that now they were able to utterly forget my presence and drift away together into their mutual sleeping dreams.
I got up from my seat and went back to the elevator which took me downstairs where the party was still in swing.
I spoke to many people but their voices seemed to reach me from a great distance. My thoughts were still upstairs with the couple. Because I was so seemingly aloof to the goings on about me, I became more popular that night than I had been for a long while.
The situation between Florida and Mr. F. continued during the next week but then other matters called to him and he left the country.
Somewhat abruptly, I thought.
Florida, in my living room, put her legs up on the arm of a chair and gazed into the amber coloration of her scotch. She sat like this for hours and I knew of what she was dreaming. Neither of us had to say a word on the subject.
At last she said, "Do you suppose he'll ever come back to me, Joe?"
"If not he," I replied, with hope of consoling her, "there will be another man."
Florida shook her head. "Somehow, Joe, I doubt it." Her voice was wistful but accepting.
Some days later Florida left my apartment and never came back.
Florida, as I think back upon her now, was one of the few women who was a whore for me based on a single precious circumstance. The needs of my life and hers had converged accidentally. She had taken her fill of satisfaction and was smart enough to know when the end had come. I think of her always with a private pleasure and sometimes I'm not sure whether Florida herself was a reality or a dream.
There is a place, not too far from Lincoln Center on the West Side of New York, where the ten dollar whores congregate from about eleven at night till three. It is a busy corner and, logically, they should pick up a lot of trade.
It was my habit to cruise that neighborhood from time to time to see what the world was doing and how it was progressing for the girls who were not so fortunate as to have the direction of a strong-minded pimp.
Actually, the area is quite pleasant, particularly in the fall. There is a small, park-like island that dissects the broad avenue lengthwise. Along with the whores congregate drag queens, mostly young boys, quite attractive, lively and ready for anything. I sometimes would sit on a bench not far from their group. At first they ignored my presence, then they recognized it, and the more fun-loving of them would even flirt with me.
It came to pass that one night I was sitting by myself in a swank bar on the east side. The reason I was sitting alone I cannot remember but I do recall that I was thinking about taking a vacation from it all and going to Europe for a couple of weeks. I was playing with my drink and mulling over the idea of this pleasant change from my daily occupations when a man whom I did not know sauntered over to my table and hesitated, looking down at me.
He was a tall, slender, rather attractive person, shy-looking, with horn-rimmed glasses and well-tailored clothing that emphasized the neatness of his athletic manner.
"Pardon me," he said, "but you're Joe Canon, aren't you?"
I nodded, aware that fame travels fast, that my name and reputation were probably known in corners I would never think of. I'd also sensed that he needed to talk to someone and, from the looks of him, he needed to talk to someone especially like myself. I was immediately interested.
"Sit down, sir," I said, motioning to a chair beside me. "What are you drinking?"
His face, which had been vacillating between tension and friendliness, showed strong signs of relief as he lowered himself into the chair and ordered an Irish coffee.
After the waiter had brought and left it, my new acquaintance introduced himself as Kent T. and handed me a business card.
I glanced down at the raised letters and realized that if I had not seen and done so much in the world, I would be impressed by this man's position in life. But I knew better. I especially knew that since he was coming to me, he was no one high and mighty at all, but some kind of starving soul seeking some kind of companionship which he hoped I would supply.
As I slipped his card into the inside of my jacket pocket, I examined his face. There was still much trace of nervous uncertainty in the dark brown eyes behind the glasses. He was so overwrought that it did not occur to him that perhaps we ought not to talk about his troubles here in public.
When I suggested that we leave for someplace more comfortable, he put a restraining hand upon my wrist and said that it was all right to talk where we were, that there was no place to go which would be private.
He seemed to think that the whole world was tapped and listening in on his private thoughts. I wondered if he ever had a full night's restful sleep with such an attitude burdening him.
"Well, then, Kent," I said, "what's on your mind?"
He drank some of the Irish coffee and seemed to be searching for the right words with which to open his private world to me.
I pulled my chair forward and tried to appear attentive without pressing. The fact was that I didn't much care to be delayed from my own thoughts at that time. Only how could I help but listen to a fellow traveler on the road of life when I knew so well the rocks and pitfalls on that route.
"I have something in mind," he said, his voice half-whisper, half-hoarse with the rise and fall of erratic nervousness. "Something I have to do, you see."
"We all have something we have to do," I smiled.
He shook his head. "Not like this, Joe. Not like this."
I could feel the weighty burden upon him. He thought he was unique, that no one suffered a trouble similar to his own. Perhaps he had concluded that there really was no help for him on earth. I was his last resort, a desperate attempt at salvation.
I waited, without pressing him, knowing that the words would tumble out soon enough, and they did.
"You see, it's this way, Joe," he said and squinted down hard into his coffee as though seeing an evil mask there. "I need to be a woman."
I still didn't say anything. There were many men who felt they needed to be women. It would seem that Kent would have an easier time accomplishing this than many who were not quite so attractive.
CHAPTER FOUR
"What I mean to tell you, Joe, is this: I want to be a woman, but a certain, special kind of woman."
Again he hesitated and now I thought I could, perhaps, fill in the missing pieces.
"What you're trying to tell me, Kent, is that you want to be a lesbian?"
He smiled, seeing the humor in it, the humor of irony. No doubt he had often turned over the problem in his own agile mind. And I had to admit to myself that it was a real problem, a bona fide problem. He wanted to have a woman, but he could not take one as a man. He had to take a woman in the guise of another woman. A complicated, roundabout method of human fulfillment, but one hwich I respected. Who was I to challenge the ego image of another?
"Well, what have you done about it so far, Kent? Anything?"
He shook his head. "Not very much, I can tell you."
"I guessed that already." My voice remained gentle. "But you must have made some forays into the lesbian world."
"It's not easy, you know. A man just doesn't walk in on them and settle down as one of the girls." He smiled with self-irony. "They don't always like men around, you know. Particularly a man who wants to make out."
"And what about outside of the United States? Hasn't it been better for you anywhere else?"
Kent shrugged. "The country I'm in doesn't seem to make any kind of difference. It's the old saw, you see. Wherever I go, I'm an intruder, an outsider. What it actually is," he said to me with strength of sincerity, "is that I'm a friend dressed in the sex of an enemy. Do you see that?"
I saw, too, that it wouldn't do him much good to dress up in the guise of a woman for, when it came down to the actual physical act itself, he would be in a worse position for having tried deceit.
In my own mind I paused. Kent did, in fact, have a dilemma. And I found myself becoming interested in trying to help him solve it.
"Well, Kent, I'm supposed to be going on vacation myself now."
"Don't do that," he said, with a little crooked smile. "Wait a while. I'll make it worth your time and effort."
"Of course you will," said I, with full assurance. "But what I was thinking was this: supposing we leave the States together and see what we can find for you in more obscure territory."
He laughed aloud now. "What are you going to do, find me a Sherpa?"
I joined him in the laugh. "No, that's not what I had in mind, exactly."
"Well, then, where?"
It was my turn to hesitate about giving him an answer. "I don't know, but we can look."
"You don't have any idea better than that for me?" His voice was taking on a tinge of hopelessness.
"I can think about it, though, with a clearer head than you have," said I with conviction. "That must count for something."
He thought his thoughts and mused aloud. "You wouldn't think that nature would make life so difficult. I am a man, after all. I can never forget that. In fact I rather enjoy being a man in some ways. But I just don't enjoy being a man with a woman. Funny kind of quirk, isn't it, to want to be a woman with a woman?"
"And there are many women who would so gladly change places with you, Kent."
"That would be something."
Again I paused. It would have been relatively simple if all Kent needed was to change his sex. But I knew that kind of operation wouldn't help him at all. He'd still have his own head on his shoulders, thinking his masculine thoughts and having his masculine feelings.
I finished my drink. "Look," I said, "Let me give this my consideration for a couple of days and see what I can dream up. I'll be in touch with you, Kent. All right?"
As I stood, he looked up at me with an expression that said that he was loath to let me go, that he was afraid that I might shove his problem aside or forget about it altogether and leave him stranded where he was. At the same time he could not very well stop me from leaving.
"You will call me then. You have my card."
"Yes, I promise you."
I left the bar and strolled the cool autumnal streets, feeling a real concern for my new acquaintance and for his needs. On the face of it there didn't seem much I could do. There were plenty of women I knew who would sleep with him readily, and men also. I could get him a boy of any age, most beautiful boys. But the problem lay, not with the people I might procure for Kent, but for the persons Kent, himself, was.
I had gotten about three blocks when I heard footsteps behind me, turned and saw the man there. He had been unable to part with me and, after a struggle, had given in and trailed after.
"Well, now," I said, pausing for him to catch up with me. "What good is this going to do you?"
He didn't try to offer excuses or apologize for making a nuisance of himself.
"Look, if you really want to go to Europe, I'll go with you. I don't care."
"I'm not running away from you, Kent," I said. "My word is good."
"I wasn't questioning it."
"Then what?"
"I just can't seem to let you go. Now that I've told you everything, it's like I've given myself over to you."
"All right," I said. "I understand. You want to come home with me. Come along."
I took Kent back to my apartment where he behaved himself quite well and unobtrusively, playing the piano, reading books, even fixing breakfast the next couple of days while I went about my usual business. There seemed some relief for him simply in being away from his normal environment. Being away from the accustomed routine gave him a chance to relax with his being. His company became a pleasure, even though the problem hovered always overhead.
Slowly and carefully I went through my mental file of all the women with whom I dealt, trying to uncover the one whose psychology could accept Kent as a combination male-female lover. I knew that many of them would be able to put on a good enough act, if any act could be called good enough. But I knew Kent couldn't settle for that, that it could not fulfill him. He did not wish to be humored in his desire. He wished, as all of us do, to be accepted.
On the night of the third day my telephone rang and the woman's voice was one I had not heard for years.
"Dorris," I said, "Dorris, you just dropped down into my life from heaven."
"Glad to hear that, Joe, but why?"
I did not explain to her on the telephone but asked her to come pay me a visit. She had been a client of mine, once, in the early stages of her marriage, as a convenience. She was a lesbian and had known it then but had not wanted it to interfere with her equal and opposite need for a normal life. She had wanted a husband, the status of marriage and all the trappings of convention. At the same time she had known her own proclivity and had settled her problem peacefully by coming to me for one-night stands with women who could make no demands upon her personal life. Our relationship had been a good one, profitable to us both, and her telephone call tonight was by way of telling me that her homosexual need was in the ascendance again and she would placate it as rapidly as possible so that she might return to her other, more secure world in peace.
I did not immediately figure out how I was going to work out a relationship between
Dorris and Kent. I knew that Dorris would resent my palming off a man on her, of all things. A man she could get any time and, indeed, had a very good one all her own. Nevertheless, I felt that there was some connection to be made between these two people and I felt that I had better follow the nose of my intuition, rather than pseudo-facts of logic. I had learned to trust my feelings, my intuition, and my experience with human nature regardless of how foolish or hopeless or irrelevant the action might seem at the moment of initiation.
Dorris, who was in New York for the weekend, accepted my invitation to come over that night with unconcealed eagerness.
"You have a woman for me, don't you?" she said. "I can feel it in your voice. Tell me about her."
"Not over the phone, my darling. Come on over and I'll tell you then."
The receiver clicked down in my ear. I sat staring at the sapphire pink earring I had taken to wearing lately and felt the mind remain stubbornly a blank as to how to further proceed.
Kent said, "I suppose you want the place to yourself tonight, don't you, Joe?"
I shook my head. "Stay," I said. "You'll enjoy the woman who's coming over. She has quite a head and a great personality, Kent. You'll like her, I'm sure, and I know she'll like you."
I was talking in the dark, yet my voice echoed with a firmness of conviction which seemed to be battering at the stronghold of reason.
Kent didn't need any coaxing to stay. The apartment was a nest for him. Besides, he was curious, I suppose, to meet a woman who was coming to me for business purposes. The idea intrigued him and he knew that he was about to meet a lesbian of means and poise. Probably she would be a person very different from the homosexuals he had met or known in the past. This was the possibility that I think we both counted upon to make some kind of difference in his life, but neither of us could specify exactly how.
Kent became excited as a child and went off to take a shower with a springy step. I smiled to myself at the sense of youth and hope that motivated him, whether he knew it or not. There would have to be a happy ending to his problem, I decided then and there. I liked him and his perversity seemed to have been placed under my personal jurisdiction.
I had no idea where Dorris had called me from but she seemed to be taking her time in arriving. I had not known her to be a woman late for appointments. If anything, she was quite punctual, if not early. After all, in coming to me she was coming to something good and would step around all obstacles and delays with utter and profound pleasure.
For one thing, she had changed her style of dressing. Even the appearance of her body had changed, metamorphosed from a sturdy girl to a slender, sophisticated woman. She wore a beige suit and carried herself erectly, but with ease, polished ease developed gradually through years of secure living. Her hair, as always, was closely cropped but soft, curling around the ears and combed into a diagonal wisp of bangs over her high, intelligent forehead. She had, years ago, worn glasses. But they were gone now, transformed into contact lenses that increased the perspicuity of her expression. She had a high color in her cheeks, probably from walking, and she walked past me now into the apartment, making herself at home, setting down her alligator handbag on one of the coffee tables and opening her jacket which I helped her slip off. The blouse beneath fell softly about her elegant form. Her tits did not bounce as much now as they had but were held in place by a well-tailored bra, emphasizing the loveliness of her femininity. Apparently through the years she had come to respect and enjoy her identity as a woman and felt more sure of herself, too.
"Dorris, you're truly beautiful," I said. "What happened to you?"
She laughed at my left-handed compliment. "I guess it's just years," she replied, pulling off her soft leather gloves, finger by finger. "How long can you fight something? I just gave in and I feel better for it."
I nodded. "Well, I'm glad," I said, kissing her on either cheek. "And what can I do for you?"
"Oh, the usual."
"Exactly the usual?"
Her chuckle became a smile. "Well, maybe I have some few small changes in my taste these days."
"I'll be glad to hear them. What can I get you to drink?"
"Oh, just a tonic and lime juice," she said. "No liquor, please."
"You off that stuff?"
"I don't need the calories," she smiled.
"You look like you know exactly how to take care of yourself, Dorris."
"I'm learning."
We settled down comfortably into opposite ' but facing club chairs and we both stretched out our legs, at ease with each other and glad to be together, for our business relationship went deeper than the mere transaction of business and both of us knew it and were glad for the experience.
"I've been dreaming about a girl," she began.
"Someone I know?"
"No one even I know. Just a dream."
"Well, it's my business to fulfill dreams, Dorris. Tell me about it."
"It's really hard to capture in words, Joe, you know. Let's see. I'll try. The first quality is attentiveness. I want someone who will really listen to me, if you can find such a creature. A person with two ears and a responsive brain between them."
"And the body?"
"Well, the body is really secondary. I know you'll find me someone shapely, of course, but I couldn't care less about the color of hair and complexion, and that sort of thing. I'm more interested in the personality this time."
"You sound like you're looking for some kind of," I hesitated, "relationship."
Dorris blushed. She did not stop looking at me though, through her immediate embarrassment. "Maybe that's exactly what I want." She sipped her tonic and touched her finger to the floating piece of lime. "Maybe that's what I need. Something to last me for the duration."
"Of your life?"
"Why not? I'd like to set up some girl close enough to be accessible yet far enough not to be a threat to my home life."
"You'll pay her on a monthly basis?"
"I have the means to do it, Joe. That's why I've come to you."
"Well, go on. Have you anything more to tell me?"
"Lots, Joe. Lots." She grinned. "These are the characteristics. She has to be good at sports. I mean, I'll need a companion to come with me skiing, you see, or in the winter time swimming when I travel south."
"That sounds like a healthy relationship."
"Well, it's a good beginning, isn't it?" She set the glass down beside her and examined her cuticles. "There's another couple of qualities, also, if you can find them. Someone who can take care of the secretarial chores I might have for her."
"I thought you didn't want a girl close to home."
"Well, you see, I'm vacillating already," she laughed at herself. "You want a wife."
"No, no, no." Her words were firm, clipped, like chops of an axe to stubborn wood.
"Why are you so sure of that?"
"I can't afford it, Joe. I may want it, but I can't afford it. No, no, no," she repeated.
"You're still afraid, Dorris."
"I'll always be afraid. It's like being an addict, being a homosexual. I mean, you stay away from it for years but the yen never leaves you. You know, I could come very close to making a fool of myself without half trying and that's the very thing I must avoid."
I took a deep breath. "Tell me, Dorris, have you had children during these years?"
She nodded. "One, a boy. He's away at school, though. His father wanted to get him started in a career early."
"And you had no say in the matter?"
"I didn't want to interfere. I don't think I'm qualified when it comes to men to know what's good for them."
"Don't underestimate yourself, Dorris. You're qualified for lots more than you imagine. But, of course, that's not going to help you here tonight, is it? Let's reconnoiter. You want an athletic, companionable, and no doubt respctable girl whom you can keep about or not without any tongues wagging by spiteful neighbors or husband's vested interests such as your own."
"Joe, you understand me exactly," she said with satisfaction, and leaned her head back against the over-stuffed cushion of the chair. She stared at the ceiling for a few moments. "That would be ideal, Joe. Do you have anyone for me?"
"You know what's peculiar, Dorris, is that you haven't mentioned a word about love and I have the feeling you're tripping over in that direction just now."
"I wouldn't dare."
"You might, without realizing it, you see."
"I have my rules and I play by them, Joe. I have no intention of falling in love but I have every intention of enjoying my life in a casual, fulfilling manner. I spent enough years being the perfect wife. I've stayed away from women. I've even stayed away from thinking about them as much as I could. I've given all to my home and now that the boy is away at school and my husband does the amount of traveling he has to do for business, I see no reason why I should not begin to set in order my own feelings and cater to them a little bit. I think they deserve my attention."
"Or they might desert you?"
"You never can tell," she said, nodding.
"And you don't want to die anonymous."
"Anonymous. That's a funny word, Joe. Why do you use that?"
I began! to think then about Kent, whose shower water had just ceased running. He would be into the living room soon and I had not yet mentioned a word to Dorris about what kind of man she would be meeting.
"Well, Dorris," I said, "you'll have to give me a few days to go over this matter thoroughly and come up with exactly the right woman for you. I just don't want to toss anyone into your lap since this is taking on a certain seriousness in your mind which I hadn't expected."
"Take all the time you want, Joe. That's how you are and that's what makes you worthwhile, finally. You don't rush into things. You don't toss people around as though they were so many beads running loose from a broken string. Yes. Take your time. Take your time."
She was quite right about me. My eagerness had long since ceased to function as a substitute for good sense. And now I cautiously began to introduce the advent of Kent T. into our midst.
"Well, I knew you weren't along the minute I walked in here," Dorris said, without the faintest hint of annoyance. "I didn't expect to barge into your life and find you one hundred percent ready and waiting for me alone. I'm not that self-centered or unrealistic. So tell me about your friend Kent. What is he like?"
This was my opportunity to put Kent's psyche out on the table for Dorris to explore with me. Perhaps she might have some suggestions on the matter, yet I hesitated. Some sixth sense told me not to divulge everything right away, to let Dorris find out gradually for herself and respond naturally in a growing sort of way as people must if they are to accomplish anything solid.
The question I asked myself at this time was why I so completely took for granted that Dorris and Kent would have a world in common and that they should know each other. But I did. I took it for granted and I tell you I felt like a matchmaker more than a pimp that night. Of course a good pimp is a matchmaker, in the ideal situation, for even though he makes most of his money on quick turnovers, a long run relationship can yield him a steady profit, too, without an extra added investment of time, but with an extra added yield of personal satisfaction in having done something continually constructive.
I told Dorris about Kent's status in the business world and about his personal appearance, that he liked athletics, and seemed quite agreeable.
"So you've only met him tonight."
"No, a couple of days ago."
"Well, you speak about him as though he's some kind of new toy, Joe."
Her voice had a tinge of challenge and annoyance in it and it occurred to me that here was Dorris, being protective of someone she had not yet met. On top of that, being protective of him against me. I sat back and studied her face. What was she doing? What was she feeling? And why?
"Maybe you're right,"I said. "Maybe he is a toy."
"How can you do that to a person? You, Joe, of all people. How can you make a person an object?"
"Is that what I'm doing?"
I knew very well what I was doing. But I didn't want Dorris to see it just yet. I rather enjoyed the rise of her human patriotism against me, the enemy. It seemed to indicate that I had said something about Kent which pleased her.
Or had I said something against myself which displeased her?
No. The latter was not too likely. She knew me well enough, closely enough, not to transform her opinion of me based on a couple of quick sentences concerning a mutual stranger. The better conclusion seemed to be that I had inadvertently stumbled on a description of Kent which appealed to her.
I couldn't have done better had I tried, I realized, and I decided to shut my mouth on the subject rather than run the risk of neutralizing the good I had already effected.
Dorris, however, was not on to her own responses and soon the subject changed from Kent back to women and Dorris began to pump her here and there in the hope of dredging up a name or a face which might not have occurred to me as yet.
I was willing to cooperate. I wanted the best woman possible for Dorris, as usual. She deserved the best. The more I thought about it the more I realized that the girls I knew were all transient types. I had never had an opportunity to place any of them in positions of apparent permanence. Those who had been of an aptitude for a single steady affair where already ensconced. What I would have to do for Dorris was to plow a new field. This, we both knew, must take time, perhaps exploration. Yet she had come to me for someone now. That was my job. That was the good I could do her. If she had to wait, she might just as well go looking on her own, probably already had.
We sat facing each other with friendly yet blank expressions when Kent came into the room.
From where I sat I could see their instant response to each other. Dorris's lips and eyes smiled with habitual friendly courtesy that went skin deep only. She leaned forward in her chair and extended her hand for greeting.
Kent, perhaps the more sensitive of the two, realized her disappointment but I didn't know whether he understood why she was disappointed, whether he realized that she would have preferred for him to be a woman. I really wished I could tell him this for I knew it would give him more confidence.
He fixed himself a drink and by the time he finished it, Dorris was already making motions to leave. She did not seem abrupt about it yet made it clear to me that since we already understood each other and what she had come for, there was no reason to stay here in the company of another man.
I saw her to the door and promised her that I would do my best to find the kind of person she needed.
She told me the name of the hotel where she was staying for the next week. "I hope you'll get in touch with me," she said.
I kissed her on the cheek. "I know I will."
I closed the door and went back to Kent.
"Well, you see," he said, "Lesbians run away from me."
I smiled. "How did you know about her."
"Oh, I felt it."
"Well, I suppose you're right," I sighed, and we both fell into the silence once again of his dilemma.
I lay awake that night staring into the dark. This was the first time in a long while that I was being confronted with the problems of two people as difficult as Dorris and Kent. I kept asking myself why I thought I could make a match between them of all people, particularly since I knew that Dorris certainly didn't want a man. She did have a husband, after all, and probably had tried to work something out with him these many years. Still, I couldn't help feeling that Kent could fill her every need and that her lesbian inclination was more one of psychology than pure physical desire.
Sometimes it is part of a pimp's job to enlighten his clients about themselves, for the pimp can see more objectively. And if, in fact, he is a good pimp, doing his job well, his intuition is intense and sensitive.
I am better able, somehow, to think outdoors while walking and the next day I took myself out onto the streets to let my mind wander far afield from the subject of Dorris and Kent. The air was cool and good for walking. I don't know how many hours passed before I found myself on the West Side, where I paused almost absentmindedly to watch a new building going up. New York is a city of change and continual restructuring of its skyline is congenial with my own nature, for I am not one who enjoys staying in the same routine for very long. Noontime came and passed. Toward the end of the day I had covered many blocks and felt inclined to sit for a while on one of the benches outside of Central Park.
The evening's action had already begun. People strolling back and forth, looking for each other with covert, yet hungry faces. I had little expectation of picking up anyone here who might be suitable for either Dorris or Kent, yet a sixth sense kept me watching.
Suddenly I heard an outburst of dog barks and the frantic ringing of a bicycle bell. I turned my head and saw a young Doberman pinscher jumping at the front wheel of a bicycle being slowly pedaled along the curb.
The cyclist was a young girl in turtleneck and jeans, tits waving ingesticaly out in front of her, frantically turning the handlebars this way and that, trying to get away from the dog's playful attack. But because she had to slow down almost completely, the bicycle tipped over and she fell to one side. The dog, intrigued with his new toy, began to paw and chew the wheel spokes while the girl looked around for the dog's owner who was nowhere in sight.
She wasn't at all hurt, only annoyed. It was an amusing scene to me, watching her try to get the dog away from the bike. The more she pulled and pushed him, the greater became his energetic playfulness and soon he was nipping at her ankles, jumping this way and that. He barked and pawed her, too. Obviously she wasn't afraid of him and finally caught hold of his chain collar and pulled him away. But the minute she let go of him he was at her again and she seemed stranded there between her bicycle and the Doberman.
The more I looked at her the more attractive she became. She had her dark hair in pigtails and wore large round glasses in a light blue frame. Her skin had the creamy tone of youth with two high spots of color from the cycling. Her light blue turtle-neck fit loosely but could not hide the fullness of young, ready breasts. And, of course, the tight-fitting jeans showed off her supple, rather, sturdy physique.
I liked her looks and I liked her spirit.
I rose from the bench and went over to see if I could help at all.
She didn't notice me when I approached. She was too busy for that. I got up close, bent and grabbed the dog by his collar and yanked him back.
"You ought to keep your dog on a leash," she said, half angry, half flippant. "Unless you want him run over or something."
She spoke well and easily, with a certain charm that attracted my attention.
"I would," I said, "if he were mine."
Suddenly she caught my full meaning and the rosy spots on her cheeks deepened and spread. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought he was yours."
Some minutes had passed and still no owner. I told the girl to go on and I would stay with the dog until somebody came for him, but she refused.
"I won't leave you alone with that monster," she laughed. "You might be stuck here all day." Her voice was pure consideration for me now. I realized that this girl had a wealth of consideration just waiting to be tapped and appreciated by the right lover. I could almost believe that she was a virgin.
She leaned on the bicycle against a tree and stood with me, both of us waiting for the appearance of the dog's negligent master.
She bent over and stroked his head down between his ears. "He doesn't seem to miss his master," she said, "and I guess I don't blame him."
We were both squatting on either side of the animal. I turned the collar around looking for the ASPCA tag and perhaps some other mark of identification.
"Look, Here's a name and address," she said. "Maybe we ought to take him back home."
The thought occurred to us both simultaneously that perhaps the dog had run off.
I read the address aloud. The house number was not too far from where we stood.
"It will only take me a few minutes," I said. "I'll return."
"You need a leash." She began to unbuckle the belt of her jeans. "Here, take this."
"Okay, thanks. I'll return it to you."
She nodded. "I'll wait here."
CHAPTER FIVE
I hooked the belt around the dog's collar. He came with me in leaps and gallops and erratically we made our way down the street to a large, old-fashioned building with a blue canopy and two fat doormen in gray uniforms.
"Joan Carter?" I said, repeating the name from the dog tag.
"Seventeenth floor," one of the men said, and patted the dog's head. "Hi, Spider. You have a nice walk today?"
I didn't bother repeating the dog's adventures but proceeded with him to the elevator and up.
It was Joan Carter herself who opened the door. I could tell because she took one look at the dog and grabbed him to her.
"You son of a bitch," she said, lovingly to him. "What the hell happened?"
As she spoke to the animal and welcomed him home, she motioned me into her apartment without one single word of thanks of apology for my inconvenience. Yet there was something about Joan that made me feel as welcome as the animal. An aura of warmth came from her that seemed to take in the whole world.
The first thing that struck me about her apartment was the number of paintings that hung all over the walls, some in frames, others in clips and still others matted and obviously stuck up just for the moment. I looked at one or two of them closely and saw, down in the corners, the initials J.C, which didn't surprise me at all. There was something about Joan that was interesting and artistic but in a way I could not put my finger on directly.
She had on white slacks and a navy blue blouse, well tailored but not flashy. Her tits were gigantic. She was braless and her nipples were jutting out in front of her. Her short cropped black hair fell over one ear as she tumbled with her dog and she didn't seem to mind at all that he got paw prints all over her clean pants. For a while she danced around with him in her bare feet. The sound of their movements were muffled by the thin, obviously expensive, oriental rug. From the record player came the string sounds of a Bach partita, the music unobtrustive, making a classic atmosphere that seemed to emphasize the informality of Joan's attitude toward life. The apartment, a hodge-podge of old furniture, gave one the impression that the pieces had fallen in from the sky and were left to their own devices to find a place for themselves. Eventually they had settled into a peaceful relationship with one another, rather tentative, but yet congenial.
At last she gave off playing with the dog, offered Spider a rubber squeak toy, which he took with great alacrity. He bounded off with it, tossing it into the air and knocking it around with his nose.
She sighed, stroked back some strands of hair from her ear and smiled at me now, giving me her full attention.
"You know, she's been gone since this morning," she said, "and I've been at my wit's end."
It was hard to believe. If she'd been at her wit's end, what was she doing at home instead of out looking for him?
"Did you notify the police or the ASPCA at all?"
She nodded. "Both."
"Well, I suppose you'd better call them and tell them the hunt's over."
"Yes, I had, hadn't I? she said with a soft laugh and went immediately to the telephone.
She was the kind of woman who followed through on her intentions. There seemed an immediate connection between desire and act which pleased me. I sensed that she was accustomed to success in life on many levels and that if life gave her half a chance, she had much to offer in return.
When the calls were over, she asked me did I want a drink or a light bite with her, and I said that what I would like was the belt from the collar.
"Oh, yes, of course," she laughed with recollection, called the dog back, removed the belt and handed it to me.
At that point I could have made my exit. But, somehow, I was hesitant to leave. There was something in her dark eyes, an exuberance, which held me and since Dorris and Kent were still on my mind, I began to conjecture whether this woman would be of any use to me for one of them.
It was a far-fetched idea, of course, but my mind was far-fetched. One never knows the hidden desires lurking under the most facile of attitudes.
And so, even though the girls was waiting for me, I accepted Joan's offer of a sandwich and a cup of coffee.
We talked on for a while. I discovered that she was separated from her husband, was spending most of her time painting the pictures that were displayed around the large room. She liked to paint and did much traveling, too, she said. I had the impression that her social life was something less that active, as though the world struck her as a hard, withdrawn place. Instead, she had found comfort and entertainment in her own company and was using herself to the utmost.
"I meet so few people in my kind of business who are self-sufficient that Joan Carter struck me as being a rarity and I felt inclined to want to know even more about her than she would care to reveal right off. But how to make friends with her? How to see her again? I would have to do this delicately so that I did not appear to be an intruder.
But there seemed no way.
When I had gotten through my second cup of coffee, I took the belt and said, "I'll have to give this back to the little girl who helped us."
Joan gazed at the belt. I could see her face closing in upon itself, as though she were imagining the shape of the belt's owner. "I'm sorry you didn't bring her up with you," she said. "I would have liked to have met her."
She offered no explanation and none was necessary. On the surface she meant, of course, that she wanted to thank the girl also for helping bring Spider back. But underneath that thin veil I thought I sensed a different kind of interest, one which sparked my own interest even more intensely now.
"Maybe she'll come back with me,"I said, smiling, "if you'd like."
"Oh, no, no," she shook her head. There was a certain shyness in the gesture. "She won't want to be bothered, after waiting for you all this while."
I thought I understood Joan's hesitation completely and I didn't press the issue. "Perhaps you'd like to take Spider for a walk yourself now and we can both go back to the girl."
She gave me a penetrating look which in one instant told me I had no business pushing the matter out of shape, the way I seemed to be doing.
My response to this was such an immediate sympathy that Joan seemed to change her mind during that second of wordless interchange between us.
"Yes, it might be nice to go out for some air tonight."
I didn't know whether she wanted to go out for air or not, but, whatever her excuse was, it served my purpose. I finished the last dregs of coffee while she put on a dark suede jacket and pulled the wrap-around belt tight, cinching the waist in to show off her rather slender figure. She was no longer young but her supple movements created an attractive atmosphere which would endure.
The last light of day had already faded and when we reached the bench where I had left the girl, I saw that the bicycle was no longer against the tree and that the girl herself had already left.
"Well, she's gone," I said, conforming the obvious.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I kept you upstairs with me too long."
"Well, I guess she didn't really want her belt all that much," I said, making light of it.
I looked at Joan and saw obvious disappointment. She had wanted very much to meet the girl and the reason suddenly seemed quite clear to me.
Immediately I felt on safe, familiar ground. In Joan Carter I had found a person more hungry to make the right contacts but unable to find suitable doors of entry.
My mind connected Joan with Dorris. I felt I had fallen into luck.
We walked for a while along Central Park West with Spider between us, leaping and bounding about, completely untrained, which Joan didn't mind at all. Obviously she loved him but couldn't cope with him and had accepted her own incapacity with good cheer.
In order to give her more confidence and encourage her to open up about personal matters, I began telling her about my own life, not pulling any punches and trusting to her intelligence.
I found my judgment quite justified. She did not object to what I did for a living and seemed rather curious, for mine was a way of life which she did not often meet in people. Soon she began questioning me about the kind of women I dealt with.
Here was my opportunity, I felt, and I began gently, obliquely, to tell her about Dorris.
The more I talked the more I sensed an increase in Joan's interest. She did not seek to hide her attention and pursued question after question which I answered as best I could.
"It might do me good to meet a woman like Dorris," she said eventually, without further explanation.
I knew she knew I understood her. "Yes," I said, "and it might do Dorris a lot of good, also, to meet you."
"Well, then, when?"
I loved Joan's openness. "Why not this evening?"
"Yes, why not?"
We walked on to Columbus Avenue. I went into a drugstore to call Dorris to tell her that I had a possible friend, if she were available tonight.
Dorris laughed into the phone. "Of course I'm available. That's what I'm here for, Joe. Bring her over."
"She has a dog."
"So she has a dog. I like dogs."
It all seemed so auspicious I could barely believe the coincidence of events. I turned to Joan who was waiting on the corner and we took a taxi over to Dorris's hotel.
The room was up high in a corner of the building with double exposures that looked out over the city quite romantically.
I introduced the two and watched them look at each other. Immediately I wished I could leave and let them alone together to find each other as they might. I felt like kissing each of them on the forehead and saying some kind of benediction. The idea of playing godfather to these two amused me for they were, each of them, quite sufficient as mature adults. And yet, underneath it all, so helpless and lost.
Ordinarily in my business people get together physically right away. There is no excuse needed for the passing of time and formality. It is a money transaction which brings people into contact with each other and they make no bones about leaping into instantaneous action. But not these women. They seemed to require a testing and tasting of personalities, a mutual exploration, for to each of them this meeting could possibly be the most important introduction of their lives.
And so I could not leave.
Not yet.
I waited around maybe half an hour or so to smooth things over and then, almost insistently, I took my departure, knowing that they would have to stumble and fumble about on their own and that my company, my presence, would really be no help now that I had done my job of liaison work.
From there, because the mood was upon me, I went to a lesbian bar where I was thinking, in the heat of my success, that I might be fortunate enough this evening to come upon someone for Kent, too. Good luck comes in groups and I felt as though I were riding high on a wave of fortune.
Homosexual bars in New York City come and go but there are some old-time places that seem to survive raids and closings and election years. There was one in particular that I rather enjoyed. A large, dingy place downtown, not altogether devoted to lesbian clientele but mixed with an influx of gay men and fringe heterosexuals, too.
I knew the bouncer and the bartenders and the manager. I also knew some of the girls and had helped them on and off during the years when they'd been in trouble. It had taken some work and time on my part but I was no longer considered an intruder and no one stiffened with self-consciousness at my appearance on the scene.
It was a crowded night. Girls were dancing with each other in the back room. I found a small table which happened to come vacant, ordered myself a beer, sat down and watched the prettiness around me with personal enjoyment as well as with the vested interest of Kent on my mind.
I find it pleasant to watch girls dancing. I like the sight of their bodies close, the gracefulness of their touching and movements together, the intimacy on their faces, and the impending caress in the way they touch each other. One can feel the intense sexuality to come later that night. My observation was similar to the sniffing of the aroma of the delicious food and following a trial to the table. It wasn't long before one of the girls came up behind me, bent over and whispered into my ear, "Hey, Joe, I need some money tonight."
I turned my head and looked up into the clear brown eyes. She was young and on the verge of getting drunk but not quite there yet. Her blonde hair slicked back, tried to make her face look hard but didn't quite manage.
"You want to make twenty bucks?" I said.
"Why don't you just lend it to me, Joe? I'll give it back to you on Monday."
I laughed. "Sure," I said, and reached into my pocket and handed her a bill. "But why don't you want to work for a living?"
"I do."
"Wouldn't you like to do something else for a change?"
She slapped me on the shoulder. "I don't like your kind of work, Joe. It's not my style."
I agreed with her. This wasn't the girl for Kent. I was wasting my time in trying it out.
She thanked me, kissed me on the cheek and went off to the bar. I watched her buying a slender, dark-haired feminine creature a scotch, acting like a big shot on borrowed money. It was a vicious routine with some of these dykes, no confidence in themselves, pushing money and drinks and hoping to receive a lay in return. I suppose that Kent had seen a great deal of this and was, quite naturally, put off. And yet I knew there must be a woman for him, just as Dorris and Joan existed for the purpose of each other. So there must be someone for Kent. Only who and where would I find her? There just had to be a woman he could fuck.
There comes a time in a gay bar called the desperate hour when people who have come to make out realize that they are not going to and realize, also, that they will take anything rather than go home alone. It was getting to be just about that time when I looked around me with a last reconnoitering glance before leaving.
The blonde who had borrowed twenty dollars was sitting at the bar now all by herself. I was surprised that she had lost her girlfriend and even more surprised that she was sitting there glumly with her hand holding up her chin and gazing at me, of all people.
I sidled over to her and sat down on the stool beside her.
"Rotten luck tonight, eh, kid?" I said. "It gets to be a drag," she said. "Been coming here long."
"Too long."
I shrugged and ordered another beer for myself and a scotch for her. "I still say you could break it up a little."
"With what."
"With a guy?"
"Oh, God, don't pull that story on me, please."
"Maybe you don't know what you're missing."
"Maybe I do, thank heaven."
I laughed. She laughed. This was no time to get grim about anything. The desperate hours are too grim all by themselves without people adding an extra burden.
"You sure you don't want to try it out?"
"What's in it for me?"
I put my hand in my pocket. "More of the same."
"Yeah, I know. I could make a fortune."
"Well, maybe you could."
She looked at me with curious intensity. I had not expected to touch her with offers of money, not this girl, but I saw that possibly I had made a mistake.
"You wouldn't mind having money," I pursued the issue. "Lots of it, would you?
You know what money buys."
"What does it buy?"
She was kidding me and I saw right through it to her intense hunger for luxuries, cash, the kind of freedom that cash would buy and perhaps the kind of women it might buy her for a while, anyhow. There was something about having money that would give her strength where she needed it and give her the opportunity to hunt out her women in other places besides this dingy bar.
I waited in silence and continued to wait while I knew these thoughts were sinking into her brain. And making the proper impression there, the impression I wanted. It was obvious that she was one of the lost souls and too young to be lost. Again, my own need for change came into the ascendant. I felt a strong need to have this girl change in some way, change the pattern of her life to something more satisfying so that that sweet young face would soften again to its natural expression and the joy of living would bring that youthful body into exuberant play.
"For openers," I said, "how about coming home with me and trying it out?"
She grimaced and twisted her Up into a small sign of contempt. "Are you asking me to go to bed with you?" she said.
I nodded. "Umm hummm."
"So that's why you gave me the bills."
She was disappointed but not rightfully so.
Only I couldn't explain to her that my thoughts concerning her life had come to me much after I had given her the money. Well, there's no use in banging one's head against a hard skull. Let her think what she would.
"Well, so what about it?" I continued. "You got no one better to spend the night with anyway. And I won't hurt you."
"Yeah, I know. You'll be good to me.
That's what they all say."
The bitterness was high in her and I found myself asking myself if I could enjoy sleeping with this girl since she seemed so reluctant. I don't need challenges of this kind. There are too many women available, eager, happy to please, glad for the cash it brings them. What did I need with this sour kid? And yet I felt something, undeniably, like a creative urge to recast her more in the image of my own imagination. We talked on for a while. I told her where I lived and that it would be a nice warm place, cozy and friendly, with company through the night. I knew this last would get to her. She didn't want to go home to her own place alone. I could imagine where she lived, in some small back room, maybe with the sound of rats in the walls. It was not hard to know this.
"Yeah, how about a little luxury for one night?" I continued in a bantering tone. "What would it hurt?"
She had given up answering or arguing with me and the desperate hour was getting to her, cutting in deep.
She swallowed down her scotch and then another. Her eyes were getting a little bloodshot and her direct, open look was fading, showing behind trembling leaves of thought.
"Come on," I said, sensing my opportunity. "We'll take a cab uptown. I've got good booze and a color television and maybe I won't even bother you if you don't want to be bothered, kid."
"Don't call me kid."
"What's your name, then."
"Just call me Nebbish."
"Nebbish means nothing."
"That's my name. Nothing. The over-dramatization did not surprise me in one so young. It is the young people who feel despair most keenly, I had learned. Older people know that one can live and survive hopelessness of every type. She slid off the bar stool, put her hands in her pockets, pulled herself up at her diaphragm, took a deep breath, cleared her throat, coughed, settling all the fragmented pieces of herself into some semblance of a unit.
"Okay, buddy," she said, "I'll go home with you."
She knew very well tha my name was not Buddy but was deliberately insisting on keeping the situation between us quite anonymous, impersonal, and cold, which was part of the accepted routine, I knew. It didn't make any difference to me how she approached the matter, just so long as she did, in fact, come home with me. I would attend to the details of her attitude later, if at all.
We had to wait a while to find a cab at that hour of the night but finally caught one and zipped uptown. I sat away from her, not making any move or play in her direction, not wanting to crowd her or make her uneasy.
She took out a cigarette and stared out the window while she smoked, stretching out her legs in front of her, propping them up on the jump seat and crossing them at the ankles. She had an attitude of utter casualness that might have fooled someone else but didn't even reach me. Not that I thought her pathetic or lost forever, but quite the contrary. If she were really down on her face, I knew I wouldn't have made an attempt. What I sensed in this girl, in Nebbish, as she wanted me to call her tonight, was a struggling of her vitality to get through the chicken wire out into the world. And I appreciated her effort, approved of it.
I had not forgotten that Kent was still at my place, but I had temporarily put it aside. I was almost surprised when I turned the key in the lock, opened the door and found him lying on the living room sofa wide awake, with all the lights bright. He didn't look like himself and it was immediately evident why. Something in him had jarred itself loose and he had yielded to an impulse, the impulse of cosmetics. He had rouged his face and put on a light coloring of lipstick. Strangely enough, the make-up did not distort his features in the least. He didn't look decadent or evil, but more somehow like himself.
Nebbish said, "Who is this?"
"Another Nebbish," I said. "Nebbish meet
Nebbish."
Kent sat up, took the girl in from top to toe, then gazed at me with a flicker of question. What was I doing? That question asked. What was I bringing home to him? "She's not for you," I said immediately. "She's for me."
Kent fell back on the sofa, clasped his hands behind his head. "I think you must have forgotten all about me, Joe," he said. "I have not."
Nebbish, the girl, jangled the change from the twenty dollars in her pockets. "What are we supposed to be doing?" she said.
I looked at Kent and said, "I'm taking her into the bedroom. Please don't disturb us."
"I wouldn't do that for a million dollars," he said, with a heavy weight of acid.
"I'll get you when I can get you," I said, snappishly.
"Yeah, I know. My problem is horrendous."
"What's his problem?" the girl said, I suppose wanting to delay getting into bed with me.
"He needs a lesbian," I said, "because he's a lesbian and is starved for companionship." I was speaking the truth, but I was saying it in such an ironic way that both Kent and
Nebbish laughed simultaneously.
"He doesn't look like a lesbian."
"Take another look," I said.
She did, walking over to the sofa and staring down into his face.
"What in hell's name do you want to be a lesbian for?" she asked. "God, if I could be a man, would I!"
"You think there's something in it, do you?" Kent said. "You're lucky. You don't know."
She shook her head. "Why don't you be a fairy or something."
"Because I'm not."
"Well, you sure as hell aren't a lesbian."
"How would you know?"
Her face went into a shattering puzzled expression. "Are you kidding?"
"No," he said quite casually.
"Well, how do you expect to pull it off, mister?"
"I don't," he said, in his hopeless, low tone. "That's what the problem is."
"Oh, God, you really have one," she concluded, realizing that Kent was serious all the way. "And I guess there isn't much you can do about it. A girl can wear a dildo or something. But a guy, how can he make himself a cunt hole?"
"Exactly," Kent said, with scientific approval. "How can I make myself a cunt hole?"
"You can't even use your anus," she added.
"No, I can't even use my anus."
"And even if you could," she proceeded, warming to the topic, "what would you do with that stiff cock up front? It would get in the way."
"It does."
"Oh, I feel sorry for you, mister. I certainly feel sorry for you."
"I feel sorry for me, too."
"I could hear it."
"Well, why shouldn't I fell sorry for myself?"
"I agree. You ought to. You ought to go to the window and jump out. This minute. And then you won't have to worry about being a lesbian anymore."
"I think I'll do that."
I stepped in between them. "Cut this shit," I said. I took the girl's arm. "Are you coming?"
"No, I rather prefer being here." Kent said to me, "She seems to like picking on me, so you might as well let her do it." His face had an interesting relaxation about it that implied he was being entertained by Nebbish's agreement with his despair.
Immediately I thought, well, maybe I ought to go to the bedroom myself and see if they can work out anything. It was getting around four-thirty and who had any brains to use. Maybe Nebbish would give up and play a game or two with Kent which would take both their minds off whatever was bothering them.
I acted upon my decision and began to walk away.
"Oh, no you don't," Nebbish called after me. "You're not going to leave me alone with this lesbian."
"Why? You think she'll make you pregnant?" I said. "She could."
"Take a pill," I said. "I have lots of them."
"I don't take pills."
"Maybe you don't sleep with girls," I said.
CHAPTER SIX
I was purposely confusing the issue for her, turning the image of Kent from male into female in conversation as a kind of transition between fact and Kent's desire. If I could get Nebbish to talk about Kent as she, from there, perhaps, we could move on to the next step. I don't know whether Kent understood what I was doing. He sat up, paced the room a couple of times and I watched Nebbish look him over as he walked.
"You're not a bad looking guy," she said.
"Why don't you straighten up and fly right?"
"Your're not a bad looking girl,"he said. "Why don't you do the same?"
"I wouldn't sleep with a man-"
"I wouldn't sleep with a man-"he echoed, grinning.
"I wouldn't sleep with a man," I concluded with an even larger grin. "Nobody in this room is going to sleep with a man. Everybody's women."
"Then you ought to leave," Kent said to me. "I'd be delighted to leave," I said, easily. Nebbish said again, "Oh, no you don't." We playing sexual musical chairs, a game I was accustomed to in certain circumstances. Shy people, hesitant people, confused people. They liked to do a lot of talking. They liked to make a lot of nonsense noise, kind of wallow in the buzz of sound and feel the proximity of others around them, a certain security in the closeness of chaos reflecting their own chaos.
Well, I had plenty of time and I was very good at confusing matters, stirring things around, bringing up dregs and bits. "Nebbish, how about another scotch?" I said.
"Great idea." She went, herself, for the bottle which was standing on the coffee table and poured it into a glass. I guess it must have been Kent's glass, drank the liquid neat, smacked her lips loudly with a certain bravado and poured another.
"She drinks a lot," Kent said.
"I'm a cheap drunk," Nebbish commented.
"Don't worry about it."
It occurred to me at that moment that Nebbish should be apprised of the fact that Kent was no ordinary lesbian but that he had a hell of a lot of cash to back up his image. "He doesn't have to worry about cheap or expensive drunk, Nebbish. He can afford you, dear. Just relax."
"Whose apartment is this, anyway?" it occurred to her to ask. Kent said, "It's his."
"Then what are you doing here?" she said without shyness.
Kent smiled. "Waiting for you."
It was a nice parody, I thought, that Kent was going through. He had picked up my manner and was carrying it along. We were like two foxes surrounding this girl, running circles around her, actually, and it was obvious to both Kent and myself that she was going to capitulate in some fashion at some time before dawn.
Nebbish herself realized it. She sat down on the sofa, poised at the edge of the cushion, legs widespread, arms on her knees and hands dangling between them. She looked down at the space between her shoes, hiccoughed once or twice and said, "What the heck am I doing here, anyway?" to herself. None of us had an answer for that. I didn't know what she was doing there. I didn't know what Kent was doing there. I didn't know what I was doing there, except living my life from day to day and trying to make the best of it, which I consider a good philosophy for anyone at any time. This need for justification for self-importance, for meaning in action, is a snare and a delusion, I believe, and I told all this to Nebbish directly, not concerned with how much she heard, but needing to get it out of me and into the open air so that there would never come a time when someone would confuse me of immoral standards to which I didn't subscribe.
"All you're saying," Nebbish summarized, "is that I ought to fuck this quirk over here." She jerked her thumb in Kent's direction. "And someone's gonna pay me for it." Kent said, "I'm going to pay you for it."
"How much?"
He looked her over, came to an assessment, said, "Enough to make your eyes pop out."
"Nothing could do that anymore," Nebbish said.
"Oh, I know," Kent leaned back against the sofa arm, "you've been disappointed in love and nothing can ever touch you again."
"I didn't say that."
"You did so. You said it."
"When?"
I sat down between them for a second time, warding off an argument by the proximity of my physique. I was getting impatient with all this jabber. And yet these two people needed to talk, needed to bump against each other and see how hard they actually hit. Well, I had time, I had patience. In the long run it wasn't going to affect me one way or the other if Nebbish came around to an agreement with Kent or not. But I was concerned for him. I knew his heart was in his mouth and that his body was hungry to touch a woman, regardless of what his attitude was in the process.
At the same time I realized that Nebbish, too, was suffering her own brand of starvation and I wished, really wished, that she might be able to get something out of Kent's attention to her. But it didn't seem likely at all. All those defenses that she had grown throughout the years of her young life seemed rigid, like little sticks of steel in front of her to which she clung.
Rigidity is another quality of the young. Nebbish, with her need to be a strong-armed lesbian, was never going to bend and admit that anybody but a sweet, fragile girl could attract her or touch her heart. I knew then that I had made a mistake. I had been overly optimistic about what this girl would be capable of doing when given an opportunity.
But Kent was not in despair, I saw. He leaned around me and looked up into the girl's face.
He said, "Look, if it's a choice between going to bed with this guy or me, don't you think you ought to choose a lesbian?"
She smiled. "Mister, you never give up."
"Stop calling me Mister."
"Well, whoever you are, you never give up.
That's a laugh."
"I'll give up. You want me to give up?"
"I don't care what you do."
"But you're not going to go to bed with him instead of me, are you?"
The situation was prolonging itself too long for my comfort. I said, "Why don't we all go to bed together and get it over with?"
"What?" Her voice shrieked in horror. "Me with two men? One is bad enough. What am I gonna do with two?"
"Earn a living," I said quietly.
Her body went stiff. "I'd rather give you back your twenty bucks."
I heard the challenge in her voice and the rebellion, and it didn't phase me. "Okay, so do it," I said, knowing she didn't have the money to return.
Obviously she was trapped. She didn't have the money and really didn't know how to bluff herself out of the situation.
Kent said, "Don't force her, Joe. That's no fun."
I ignored him, knowing that there was certain times when a little forceful direction could ' break down phony barriers. It may seem far-fetched that I believed that Nebbish could enjoy herself with a man, even a special man such as Kent. But I knew that Nebbish didn't really know whether she was coming or going, wasn't certain of her own mind in many respects. I had seen girls, particularly young ones, transfer their energies from homosexual to heterosexual and even the reverse. In Nebbish I felt a vacillation underneath her adamant exterior. She wasn't having a good time with women, anyway. What she needed was someone to love her. To my mind it didn't really matter which sex she chose.
She stared at me with a combination of hate and helplessness. Then, in her rebellious way, slowly began to undress. What she intended to do was to give of her body without yielding one iota of emotion. She would show me, she thought.
I had seen rebellion before. I was no stranger to its variety of forms. The whore, by her very nature and sense of worthlessness, incorporates rebellion into her psychology. But she is not rebelling against the world around her, rather against herself. It is not so subtle a form of self-rejection and the pimp who hopes to direct her must understand this deep-rooted denial of being that so often motivates the whore to sell her body. In Nebbish's case I saw the prototype not only of self denial but of fear that she would get lost in the shuffle. Also, she suffered quite blatantly from a sense of being boxed in, of having no alternative. She felt trapped, not by her own nature which was, in fact, the case, but by those around her. To Nebbish the world was a place of vultures out to pick her bones clean of flesh. I knew at that moment she hated me more than any other person alive.
It would seem, therefore, on the surface of things that she would be the most unlikely prospect as a lover for Kent, but I knew differently. I knew that in bed Kent would act as a counterfoil to me. He would show her affection, consideration. He would be the refuge to which she ran because she had to run someplace. Had she been the kind of person who knew how to withdraw completely, I would not have selected her for Kent. What I counted on was that she was still young enough to seek help and protection and Kent, here, was the only other person from whom he could get it.
Neither Kent nor myself made a move while Nebbish took off her clothing. She had been dressed in conventional butch garb,, shirt and slacks that fit her neatly. In her dress she tried to imitate an urbane masculine look. Yet one could sense beneath this the softness, the woman.
She undid her blouse rapidly and pulled it off her shoulders, revealing graceful curves. With defiance she unhooked her simple cotton bra and let it fall away. The young, beautiful tits stood up, twin banners of assertion, their pink nipples already hardened at her emotions of anger and spite. The creamy, conical flesh appealed even to me and I felt sorry to see the rapid rise and fall of her rib cage in response to her angry, fearful breathing. I decided not to touch her but to let Kent do it all instead. Nebbish continued unzipping the fly of her slacks, pulling them down over her hips to reveal white nylon panties. Through them one could see the outline of her pussy, the pubic hair some shades darker blonde than her butch haircut. She stood on widespread legs, somehow unable to make the last step and remove her panties. To encourage her, I moved back a few paces and sat down, letting her know by my action that I had no intention of grabbing her or reaching for her in any way. I crossed my legs, leaned back and watched, even though my cock was roaring hard with excitement.
Kent said to her, "I'll take off my clothes, too, if you don't mind," in the gentlest of voices. Nebbish was startled by his statement and looked at him for a moment as though he were nuts asking her permission. Her gaze rested upon his face and took in minutely the details of his make-up.
"God, you do look like a woman, somehow," she murmured. "Do I? Thank you."
"And not a bad looking one, either." Her voice had lost its edge of strain. "You know, I used to go with a girl who looked something like you. Maybe she was a little shorter, though."
"I hope so."
They both laughed, for Kent was quite tall. Then Nebbish said, "On second thought, maybe you better leave your clothes on. I don't want to see too much right away." What she meant, of course, was that she didn't want to be confronted with the cock before she was ready for it, which Kent seemed to understand.
"I'll do whatever you say." His voice was still gentle and willing.
Nebbish flung an uncertain glance at me but I returned no expression whatsoever, giving her what I could of utmost freedom in feeling. I somehow always preferred the position of pimp to participator. It gave me a better point of vantage from which I could learn and control.
Neither of them seemed interested in proceeding to the bedroom. They had the sofa and the carpeted floor, soft cushions everywhere, and all the booze they could drink. The only thing that remained to be done was to turn down the lights, which I, myself, did. I plunged the room into total darkness so that Nebbish would have the aid and benefit of her imagination rather than the stark reality of her sight. Yet it was not so dark that I could not see at all. A pale cast came in from the kitchen and I could watch the silhouettes come together and embrace.
Kent sat down on the couch. Nebbish stood before him, leaning over in an aggressive stance. Each of them was taking the attitude most natural and it was Kent who reached up, putting his arms around her neck while she drew him close to her tits.
A sigh came from him, a woman sound.
I heard Nebbish's voice say to him assuringly, "I won't hurt you." Her tone had picked up a faint note of confidence.
Their faces came together, open mouths touched. I heard the sucking sound of tongues making contact for a while and I sat there with my eyes closed and listened to the heavy breathing and the grunts of sexual foreplay. I could not tell whether Nebbish was play-acting or really giving herself up to the moment, and
I didn't much care. It was Kent who concerned me, for he was the more difficult of the two to satisfy.
When I opened my eyes, I saw Nebbish pushing him down upon the couch lengthwise. Then she threw herself down, lying on top of him. Her head made short, erratic gestures as she nipped at his mouth and ears, then ducked her face down to his neck. Her hands moved over his chest, searching for the breasts which were not there, finding the masculine flatness and accommodating herself to it somehow, I suppose, because his hands were moving all over her, too. I knew that Nebbish was responding with some sensation and that her sexual needs would help distort Kent's body into a more satisfactory form for her purpose.
Apparently he knew what to do with a woman better than most men. He could imagine more clearly, more closely, what a woman needed. He was willing and eager to give it, too. Kent wanted to be the perfect lover to make up for his deficiency in physiological structure. I admired his agreeable nature at that point and felt that he would eventually be amazingly successful in finding exactly the kind of woman he needed in life.
His hands grasped her ass and pulled her tightly to him. I could almost see her body submitting to the caress, submitting with need, out of hunger too long unfulfilled. She began to move her hips in circles, that familiar action which told me she was rubbing herself against his erected penis. Her movements became larger, more forceful. She arched and hunched herself to get the greatest friction against her between her legs.
"Oh, God, I want to suck you" she cried and then, "I can't! I can't!" in a crying, pleading voice.
Something snapped. I knew it was the end of the line but still waited, hoping that she could break through her inhibitions. "No. Please don't."
Kent, in a hoarse voice said, "Don't be afraid, you mustn't be afraid."
"But what am I going to do with this cock?
You're so large."
"Forget it. Don't touch it," he pleaded in return.
"But how can I? It's you."
"Put your hands elsewhere. In back," he said desperately.
"I don't want your ass-hole."
"What difference does it make? It's a place."
"No."
Apparently Nebbish decided that she would suck Kent's cock. I knew she really didn't want to, but I figured she decided that since she was here she might as well go ahead with it.
She suddenly became very forceful, and demanded that Kent stand up at the head of the couch. His cock was huge, and jutting out in front of his slender body, actually looking quite menacing.
I was surprised at the gusto with which she tore into his prick. She pulled both of his huge sagging balls into her mouth and sucked away on them fiercely.
Kent almost fell over from pleasure as her hot saliva-coated tongue swirled about the base of his cock. His balls were gigantic, but she didn't seem to mind. I think she was getting lost in the act of cock-sucking, forgetting if even for a moment, that she was a dyke, and basically hated all men.
She began to let the saliva flow freely from her mouth, spewing out over the base of Kent's cock, getting it wetter and wetter. I watched the expression on Kent's face. At first he was a little embarrassed at what was happening, perhaps because I was watching on so close at hand, but after a short time he gave into the girls frantic ways completely, enjoying every suck she gave him thoroughly.
Inch by inch she worked her sucking mouth up along the base of his cock, getting closer and closer to his huge plumb-shaped cock head. It was a bright red, and I could see a tiny pool or pre-orgasmic cum dripping out of the tip of it. Kent was ready to shoot his load all right, and I was sure that it wouldn't take much effort on Nebbish's part, once she closed her mouth over the top of his prick, to get him to shoot gallons of hot gooey cum into her mouth.
Finally, after several long minutes of passionate foreplay Nebbish moved her mouth to the top of his prick. With one sweeping movement she flew herself down over Kent's huge cock, engulfing the entire length of his love pole.
Kent screamed out as her passion seared his flesh. Her face began to blur she was moving so fucking fast up and down on his cock. 'Kent's body began to quiver, and I knew that the inevitable was not far away.
All of a sudden I saw tears begin to stream to Nebbish's face. It was very strange, She began to sob uncontrollably, even though she didn't let up on her sucking of Kent's massive mauler for a second.
I realized that she was going through a lot of changes. Something had possessed her to suck away on the man's cock, but there was also a battle going on in her mind about her sexuality, and the result was this horrendous stream of tears.
All of a sudden Kent began to come. I saw his body trembling as he began to grab Nebbish's hair and shove her face on and off his cock. He had become somewhat of a savage in the throes of his sexual bliss.
The come poured into her mouth, so much in fact I saw it dripping out the corners of her mouth, mixing with the flow of tears streaming down her cheeks. It was a strange scene, one which I will never forget as long as I live.
Kent panted as his orgasm completed, pulled his cock out of her mouth, and fell over on the couch.
With a tearing sound in her throat, Nebbish wrenched herself free, sat up and leaped backward away from him. She put her face in her hands and began to sob without control.
Kent began to creep toward her, then stopped himself. I saw his face turning in my direction.
"Joe, you made a mistake," he said.
I reached across and pulled on a lamp light. There was no point in forcing something that could not come to pass with pleasure.
I sat there, confronted by two frustrated souls and wondered what I was going to do.
They both stayed over the rest of the night, Kent maintaining his lair in my apartment and Nebbish, completely drained of energy, tottered off to the bedroom, shut the door and withdrew into sleep. I crossed my hands on my stomach and thought and thought, feeling the increase of challenge, aware that I had to rectify my error in some way.
Dawn did not bring deeper understanding or any solution at all and my mind, tiring of the problem, wandered away from it temporarily.
I was still sitting in the chair, half dozing, when the aroma of scrambled eggs and coffee reached my nostrils. I came to, listening to the sounds of Kentputtering around the kitchen. He came in after a while with a pot of coffee and set it down on a protective trivet and poured three cups in a good-natured way. I almost expected him to burst out humming.
At that moment I realized how accustomed Kent was to meeting with frustration and failure. Even though he had come, he was mentaly dissatisfied.
"Poor kid," he said, more to himself than to me. "We really gave her a hard time last night. I don't want to do anything like that again, Joe. It doesn't help anybody."
I agreed and leaned forward to take the cup of black coffee that he handed me. I sat back, sipping it as he set the table. He put out the eggs, orange juice and strips of crisp bacon that he knew how to make so well. I thought with a small laugh that Kent would actually make someone a delightful wife, that ther must be a woman on earth who would not only appreciate but would prize these qualities in him. It was just a question of more searching and more trying.
Both of us hesitated to wake the girl, agreeing that she required all the sleep she could get after the night's upset. So Kent and I ate our breakfast in peace and talked about what we would do next as though Nebbish had become invisible.
Nebbish was just coming out of the bedroom, her face puffy and worn, when the doorbell rang and in came Dorris and Joan in high spirits, filling the room with smiles and good cheer that lapped over everything and everyone.
The gaze of both women caught Nebbish in transit.
The girl was, of course, far from looking her best. Yet, because she was naked and her body smooth and slender, they stared at her, each in deep and private appreciation.
I saw Dorris's gaze linger upon the girl's body while Joan's left it and flitted over to Kents.
I looked at him and realized that he still had on remnants of make-up and must look very weird to Joan. She didn't seem repelled by his appearance and instead she looked at him with curiosity at first and then with a more lingering, detailed gaze of an artist's assessing eye.
Kent stood up under the scrutiny without flinching. I wondered if he knew how he looked. I supposed he did, but felt he had nothing to hide, particularly in my place, in front of anyone who might come to visit me. Of course he was right.
Nebbish proceeded to the bathroom. Kent offered Dorris and Joan coffee, which both women accepted.
Doris took off her jacket and settled herself on the sofa, facing the corridor through which Nebbish would have to pass again when she returned from her shower. Joan stood with her coffee, smoothed back her short cropped hair and began to talk to Kent as though they had known each other forever.
Although I had seen Joan only once before, I knew that she was not so often at ease with people as she was with Kent. Soon they were talking about painting, in which Kent had a deep and educated interest. She moved toward him and together they went to the window, looked out upon the skyline and became engrossed in the subjects of color, form and, apparently, each other.
I looked at Dorris to see how she was taking it but she hardly seemed to have noticed the loss of her friend to Kent's company.
"Well, how'd you spend the night?" I said to Dorris in a casual way.
She answered me off-handedly, her gaze still attentive to that place where Nebbish would appear in time. When the girl finally did arrive, her body wrapped in a large turkish towel, Dorris's smile took on an unmistakable glow.
Nebbish, unaware of the happenings, wandered into the living room, picked up her clothing and went off again to the bedroom without saying a word to anybody.
From my glance in her direction, I saw that Dorris found this utterly charming.
"Would you like to go in and help her dress?" I said to Dorris, jokingly.
Dorris looked up at me with a wink. "Don't read my mind," she said in a half-laugh.
"The girl's not for you," I said. "She's too young and confused."
"Let me worry about that." She fumbled in her bag, took out a lipstick and fixed her own make-up.
I nodded, perfectly willing to allow Dorris to worry about it.
The two at the window remained there, seeking and finding each other. It was incredible, even to me, that Joan and Kent should make a couple, yet there it was, without explanation or logic. I had no way of knowing, of course, if it would come to pass or how long it might last even if the essential connection were made. I had a sudden desire to know Joan better, just to settle my own curiosity, but I left well enough alone.
Nebbish finally came into the living room, all dressed and looking like the little boy she preferred to masquerade as being. She couldn't help but look at Dorris who was staring at her intently. I saw Nebbish's face fluster under the flattery of Dorris's approval.
So this was how it was going to work out, I told myself. A simple case of swapping which I might never have thought of.
There is no happy ending to this episode. I write it as a simple description of a chapter in time. Kent and Joan did go off together, back to her apartment, I suppose, and then to his, until they tired of each other.
Dorris easily captured Nebbish's heart. The young girl was so eager to be had by some woman that any woman would have done and I doubt that she appreciated Dorris's qualities. Probably she fed from the older woman and finally left her when she felt full.
Yet for that week four people were satisfied, I know. I also know that there are many people on earth who cannot be satisfied, even for a day.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Some months passed before I heard from Joan Carter again. She did not bother to tell me about her affair with Kent but asked, instead, if I had a supply of models for her. She had some pictures in mind to paint and could not seem to find the right women subjects.
I said I didn't know what she had in mind, of course, and would she like to meet me for a drink. We would discuss it over a martini and maybe I could help her.
As I dressed for my appointment with Joan, I had an intuitive feeling that she didn't really want models at all. They could be found through more conventional channels, I knew. So what did she, in fact, want of me? I was interested to hear.
I pulled up in front of the canopy of her house. She came down promptly, looking quite sun-tanned, as though she had been away for the winter. Even though I had known her but briefly, I could see changes. Not the ravages of time but something which looked like a turning back of time. I sensed that she had found a deeper recess of herself that she wanted to explore and in some way she expected that I would be able to help her materialize her desires.
"Well, what have you been doing with yourself?" I said as we drove off into the traffic.
"Oh, this and that," she began. "I spent the winter in Greece."
"Yes, I see the sun was good for you."
"The sun and a few other things," she smiled with gentle introspection.
"Such as?"
"My work."
Her voice trailed off and I knew that there was lots more to hear, lots more that she would tell me eventually this day.
Joan was not a woman to immediately reveal her thoughts or feelings and I was content to wait until she settled herself and felt inclined to speak at greater length.
We went up to a cocktail lounge on the top floor of one of the taller buildings on Fifth Avenue and settled ourselves at a table near a wall-length window. I ordered martinis and we both finished two of them before she loosened up enough to talk.
"I liked Greece very much," she said. "I always do."
I nibbled a Spanish peanut and waited in silence.
"But the Greek women. You know how they are. Very fiery."
"You ought to enjoy that," I smiled.
"Up to a point only, Joe." Her voice sounded quiet with an edge of tiredness, as though something had drained her.
"Would you like me to supply you with Greek women, Is that it?" I asked with the utmost gentleness. "I know a few. Very beautiful ones, too."
"No. That would be too easy. And not very interesting, I'm afraid. What I'd like, Joe, is for you to come back with me to Greece. I want you to meet somebody and help me."
That was a tall order and I felt astounded that
Joan let it fall from her lips so readily after all her show of reluctance.
"I don't think I can leave the States just now," I said, truthfully.
"Just for a couple of weeks, Joe. I'll pay you well, you know."
I knew. But it wasn't the money just then. It was the fact that I didn't want to become entangled with problems about which I knew nothing and I really didn't know Joan sufficiently well to form a judgment as to whether or not I would be able to help her.
I told her this.
She sipped her third martini and sighed. "You're being evasive, Joe. What is there to know about me?"
"You're a complex woman, Joan. Don't sell yourself short. You like men. You've been with a person like Kent. Not any woman could go for that kind of relationship. You like women and yet you are somehow separate from everybody, I sense."
"Perhaps I like myself best of all," she offered.
"Well, that's a good idea. Quite sensible. The Hebrews had a saying, you know. 'If I am not for myself, who will be?' "
"Oh, Joe, you're so erudite," she mocked. "I didn't say I was for myself, only that I must be myself."
"That's what makes you interesting. You are very much yourself. And I must say, just sitting here and looking at you is convincing me to go along to Greece."
"Then you will, Joe."
My vein of reluctance was fading. I was so curious to understand what made Joan tick. The temptation to be with her for a week or two were overriding my usual business-like approach.
When my interest is aroused, I am at my best. It brings me alive to be curious about human nature and there was no one around at that time more interesting to me than Joan Carter.
I made up my mind with a flick of snap judgment and agreed to accompany her to Athens on the following Monday.
Because it had been easy for her to sway me, did not mean that I was going to leave in the United States all my abilities to observe and judge. I suppose I needed a change from home, too, and had leaped at Joan's offer from a point of predisposition rather than that she had swayed me.
Whatever the motive, I found myself sitting on the plane beside her, reading a copy of 'Holiday' magazine and visualizing the sunny climes of a country I had always loved. I dozed and dreamed of Sappho and the plump Greek goddesses of myth. I imagined myself strolling about among the ruins and finding beautiful curly-headed urchins to play with. I conjured up visions of strolling about the port of Piraeus, eating an orange and a sweet Greek honey pastry. I felt relaxed in my sleep, somewhat like a hobo strolling through life with neither concern nor responsibilities to burden him.
It was noon when the plane landed. There was a car waiting for us, a red Buick convertible, of all things. We went into the center of town and to a hotel not very far removed from the busy plaza.
Joan had taken a suite with a large terrace that overlooked the hills bright with gleaming white houses close together upon them. The cloudless sky, a fascinating vibrant blue, relaxed me with a special kind of exhilaration.
As I stood looking out upon the scene, Joan, behind me, said, "I hope you like it here."
"I know I will," I answered.
We were sharing the suite, naturally, an arrangement which I didn't mind at all. I liked her company and she was not the type to pressure. It was easy to relax with her around, never forced into conversation.
"I suppose you'd like to rest a while," she said, "and take a shower. Come downstairs when you're all in order, Joe. I'll be in the lounge."
I did exactly that, took a shower and a nap, stretching out on the cool, firm mattress and really glad to be on what would amount, in my case, to a vacation.
Afterward I dressed in a cream-colored suit with a beige tie that I held in place with a small emerald stickpin, a present from some pleased customer a few years before. A successful merchant of flesh was exactly how I felt and I left the room with an easy, expectant attitude.
Joan, true to her word, was waiting for me in the lounge, a high-ceilinged room with comfortable chairs scattered about on a mosaic floor. The air-conditioning was just exactly right and congenial people conversed, some in a lackadaisical fashion, some more heatedly. I heard many languages, with a great deal of German sprinkled among them. One had a sense of well-being, of material success here in this room and it did not seem at all to represent what I had expected Joan to enjoy. Her tastes, as I remembered them, had been a great deal more pure, not so readily to understand as this hotel implied. Or perhaps, I told myself, this place was not her choice alone. She had perchance come here because of someone or something. I would have to wait and find that out later.
She was dressed in a white linen sheath that looked-quite fresh and emphasized the long line of her athletic shape. Her even tan looked darker against the white and her short hair seemed more continental than strange. There was no doubt that she had all the looks necessary to make a social success of herself, if she desired that. But I knew instinctively that she was out of her milieu in some way.
I crossed the room to where she was sitting with her drink. She immediately stood up and by that action prevented me from ordering a cocktail for myself.
"Well go out," she said. "I'll take you somewhere much more interesting than this, I promise."
"Gladly," I answered, meaning it.
"No, this place isn't my cup of tea, either," she laughed, sensing my thought. "Let's go."
I followed her out of the hotel and we strolled the wide, busy avenue in the late afternoon. The sun was still hot but we walked in the shade where it was quite pleasant. I couldn't help remarking to myself how much resemblance there was between this thoroughfare and some aspects of Fifth Avenue.
There were differences, too, important ones. The profusion of greenery, vistas and, most of all, of course, the people.
Joan hailed a taxi and soon we were riding out of the wide center of town, up into the hills where the streets narrowed and the cab had to go quite slowly in order to avoid hitting chickens that ran loose over the cobbled streets.
I looked out upon shuttered windows and wondered to what dark place Joan was taking us.
We finally arrived at a street where the cab stopped. I got out and could look across to ancient ruins on a hilltop, pillars of the Acropolis mutely speaking of a more splendid time.
But none of this seemed to touch Joan at all. Her mind was elsewhere. She paid the driver and motioned me to follow her into one of the alley-like streets, which I did with growing curiosity.
The small houses, built close together, reflected the strong sun and, as we walked, occasional aromas of cooking touched my nostrils. I followed her long, eager stride. She seemed to be running toward a secret treasure hidden half-way down the hill.
She finally paused in front of a low door, knocked and pushed it open without waiting. I noticed the informality of her manner. She was going toward something known, obviously, perhaps a love affair in progress, one that had burned high during the winter months.
He entered a fair sized room, quite dark, the sun successfully blotted out by the closed shutters. The odor of cooking was strong here and the room was sparsely furnished, almost primitive. I glanced toward Joan and saw her face alive with tension and expectancy. She seemed transformed from her usual withdrawn attitude into something both strong and anxious. "Natasha."
She called the name as though tasting it. The syllables moved around in her mouth with full, delicious appreciation by tongue and lips.
But there was no answer. Apparently no one was at home.
"She wasn't expecting you?" I asked.
Joan neither nodded nor shook her head. "I can never tell with her. It's always a question of accident whether I'll find her in or out."
It seemed to me that we might have to wait a while. I didn't know if Joan wanted to do that or leave and return later.
She settled this question by scraping forward a wooden chair and motioning me to be seated. There was something almost pathetic in her courtesy.
I shook my head no, preferring to stand. Not only because the chair looked so uncomfortable but because I had an interest in looking around the place, predicting what Natasha would be like by examining her possessions. The conclusions I immediately drew were obvious ones, of course. That she had little money, perhaps even less education, was probably a wild, free soul, the antithesis of Joan.
But perhaps I had misjudged Joan herself or under-estimated her qualities and ability to become abandoned in a love situation. Yes, she looked so very much out of place in her well-tailored dress, neatly done nails and hair. Her continental groomed appearance came over even more dramatically as she, herself, sat down on the edge of the straight-back chair and adjusted her spine to an erect position. The effort was too much for her, however, and soon she was standing again, pacing the room, obviously ill at ease because of waiting.
"She's worth waiting for," Joan said to me after a while. "You'll see."
"I'm sure she is," I answered, wanting to keep her morale high.
She gave me a small smile of appreciation for my aid, but her gaze was obviously distracted by other thoughts.
"As long as we're waiting," I said, "why don't you tell me something about her?"
"I could talk about her for hours," Joan grinned. "I'd bore you."
"Probably not."
"All right, then." She didn't need to be coaxed very hard. "She's probably one of the most beautiful women I've ever known, Joe."
From there Joan went on to tell me how she had met Natasha one December evening near the Piraeus docks. Apparently the girl had been out looking for sailors, but had found none to her taste. Joan had been at loose ends that night and had taken to following the adventures of her beautiful target, more out of amusement than any thought of actually meeting her. The girl, however, had quickly spotted Joan's interest but had chosen to ignore it, preferring sailors to a woman. As the night progressed and the possibility of success seemed less and less imminent, Natasha had paused and allowed Joan to come up and begin conversation.
"There's something about Americans with money, isn't there?" I said to Joan matter-of-factly.
"Yes, you're right," she agreed without bitterness. "Money was my opening gambit and my most attractive point to the girl."
"You took advantage of that, didn't you?" I chuckled.
"Of course. I took advantage of everything I had in my favor."
"And she took it gladly."
"Happily," Joan grinned. "Like a child."
"That's satisfying, too, in a way."
"That's always pleasant."
"And satisfying, too, in a way."
"And the more you gave her, the more she wanted."
Joan leaned against the wall, folded her arms across her bosom. "Elementary, my dear Watson," she said.
"But you didn't stop, did you."
"I couldn't," she admitted. "The more I gave, the more addicted I became to giving."
"And you got nothing in return?" My question seemed to hit her squarely between the eyes. Her forehead wrinkled for an instant, then smoothed again. "Oh, I got bits and pieces. She knew how to dangle the bait, all right."
"And you didn't tire?"
"Every time I got discouraged," Joan shifted her weight and the opposite hip rose in a rather voluptuous movement, "she would give me a little something to keep my hopes up. A kiss, a hug."
"And a promise."
"Oh, yes, that of course, Joe. A promise. Many promises."
"But she kept telling you to be patient, didn't she?"
"How do you know so much?"
I felt my eyelids lower under the burden of many years experiece, but I said nothing.
"All right, so you know the whole story." Joan's manner became clipped, as though losing her patience with me.
"But what I don't know, dear, is where you stand now, and how come you're coming back for more."
"I'm going to get my money's worth," she said, adamantly.
"Oh, I see." My voice became soft. "You're in love with her."
She had not wanted me to say that. It was though I had brought something secret and terrible to the surface.
"Perhaps I'm not really in love with her. I hope not."
"So what you're doing is trying to find out."
"No."
"Then what else?"
"I'm going to have her, that's all. Whether she loves me or not. I just am going to have her. I must."
There was nothing for me to say. Joan's attitude was so clear-cut and direct. She had fooled herself into a state of aggression concerning Natasha but I could hardle envision her in the act-of rape. I knew her desperation but what could she do about it, not being a man?
"Well, what do you want of me, then?" I asked. "How can I help you?"
"I've decided that the one way to Natasha's heart is through bribery."
"But you've given her all the money she could possibly desire and are willing to give her more. What kind of bribery do you mean, Joan?"
"Don't you know?" Her voice was insinuating.
I supposed I did know but I wanted to hear it from her own lips rather than jump to my own conclusions.
"You'll supply her with me. She loves men. And the price shell pay for them is sleeping with me."
"But I'm sure she can get all the men she wants without a pimp, " I-said bluntly.
"Apparently not, Joe. There's something curious about it. She's a gorgeous girl and yet nothing, no one, seems to satisfy her."
"She needs quantity, does she?"
"And variety."
I made no comment. Was it possible that this object of Joan's love had nymphomaniacal tendencies which Joan, herself, refused to recognize? If that were the case, I would have no part in it. Psychopathology, especially when it has sexual symptoms, creates too many entanglements. I would have preferred to extricate myself immediately and take Joan along, too, for her own protection.
Only I couldn't.
"I'll do what I can," I said, meaning it, "but in the meantime why are we waiting here? If your true love is man crazy, she might be out somewhere rolling around in a warehouse or someplace."
"Don't remind me," Joan said wryly.
"You have to face the facts if you want to get anywhere."
"I suppose so. You're right, as usual, Joe."
I grunted. Already Joan was attributing to me qualities of competence which she could not know that I possessed. No doubt she was judging from the single experience back in New York with Dorris and Kent, and hoping by extension that I could again provide her with someone worth having.
Our conversation dwindled and still no sign of Natasha. I decided that it was useless to wait any longer, and that we ought to come back another time.
Joan, reluctant to leave even the atmosphere of her passion, nevertheless allowed herself to be convinced. We would return later.
Getting back to the center of town gave me a chance to view the lovely Greek women and consider the possibilities of taking some of them back to New York. I was not in the import-export business but the thought of varying my stable women always held an uppermost position in my thoughts.
At Osmona Square, the Forty-second Street of Athens, we went into the cool atmosphere of a bar, drank ouzo and looked around.
I was glad to see that even Joan could manage an interested glance at people who caught her eye, for whatever her reasons. She was not, I saw, necessarily predisposed to the homosexual view. She looked at men with equal attention, her artist's eye ascendant. Nevertheless, the conversation was peppered with Natasha's name. There was no denying the fact that Joan was driven and would have to have her way before she could find peace.
As I sat close to her in the cool, relaxed atmosphere, I sensed the vibrations of passion moving electrically through her body. I realized that she had probably made love to no one during the past few months in the hope and dream of possessing the single object of her compulsion.
The more she drank, the greater seemed to be the intensity of heat coming from her flesh. I understood what was boiling around inside her. Her sexual starvation was eating her alive. Gradually I began to realize that my own sexual interests were being stimulated by the proximity of this attractive, hot woman. After all, I was on vacation, wasn't I? I deserved an interlude of my own.
It was about eight o'clock when I suggested to Joan that we go back to the hotel.
She looked at me through her thick eyelashes with an uncertain expression. She did not know exactly what I was after but sensed it from my manner as well as the suggestion itself.
"Joe, do you want to go to bed with me?" Her voice was filled with surprise.
"Yes, I do," I answered. "There's nothing so strange in that, is there?"
"But you're supposed to be my friend."
I laughed aloud. "You mean there's a line of demarcation drawn between friendship and physicality?"
"It'll be muddled if we do that."
Well, I wasn't going to force anything but I couldn't help saying, "It might do you good, Joan. It might give you a perspective and level your head a bit so that when you go back to Natasha you won't have to leap on her like a lion out of the jungle."
She sipped her drink and thought about my image. "Lion out of the jungle, eh?"
"Don't you think so?"
"Two lions out of the jungle," she smiled, pushing up one side of her mouth. "I could claw her alive."
"Well, maybe that's what's getting in your way, dear."
"Blinded by my own passion and all that rot, eh?"
"You may sound urbane, my love, but you're not acting it, you know."
She had to agree. "I don't want to make a fool of myself, Joe."
"That's exactly what I mean."
The thought of chasing after Natasha like a hot, blind animal seemed to impress Joan and it was for this reason, more than for any interest in me for myself, that she did, in fact, finally consent to return to the hotel and bed. . I couldn't have cared less about her immediate reason for sleeping with me. Knowing women as I did, their excuses were of no consequence. Only the act itself could make a difference.
By this time she was half drunk and it showed, not so much in her face as in her movements as she fumbled with her clothing.
"I'll undress you," I said softly. "You just relax."
She seemed more than willing to put the whole matter completely into my hands.
I undid the small buttons in the dress placket at the nape of her neck, then put my lips to the tanned skin there over the bony projection of vertebra. She wore an expensive perfume that reached my nostrils only when I came up very close. There was a citrus aspect to the fragrance that stimulated me and seemed to tell me that the closer I came to her the more secrets I would uncover. This was an idea that appealed to me greatly.
She kept talking while I touched her, about Natasha, about her painting and even a few words now and then about her ex-husband, a violinist whom she had supported through seven years of alternate misery and euphoria.
"So you like to spend money on people, in general," I said. "Natasha isn't the exception."
"I don't know about that, Joe. I'd rather somebody loved me for myself, you know."
I knew. It was a statement that was familiar to my ears, made mostly by rich men deep in their cups, desperate and just plain unconcerned with who heard them voice their inmost thoughts.
She stroked my fingers while my hands moved to take off the dress. Then she guided my touch to her tits. I cupped the texture of hand-made lace and felt a combination of delicacy and strength in her tits beneath the material. Her breathing was shallow but not rapid, yet. She seemed like a creature poised, waiting for the signal to fly.
I'm not easily impressed by women. Perhaps my senses have been dulled by too much contact, too much intimacy. But I remember the sharp pleasure that raced through me as her bra came away and my hands touched the cool points of her nipples. They were large, round and dark and seemed to come alive to my touch, growing hard, thrusting forward, pressing to my palms. The response of her tits to my massaging told me that she had no qualms or hesitation about going to bed with me this night, that Natasha's image did not come between us or interfere in any way.
Joan put her hand on top of mine and pressed me to her harder. She leaned her head back against my cheek, sighed with her eyes closed as I put my lips to the edge of her eyebrow and kissed gently down over her eyelids to the side of her nose. She turned in my arms and slid her hands up the back of my neck into my hair, pressing her body to me as though she were riding in on a high, long and hard-driving wave.
I enjoyed the freedom of her short hair, ruffled it with my mouth while I felt her tits press their warmth to the front of my shirt. "I must undress you," she said thickly. I would let Joan do anything she wanted that would make her comfortable and help increase her passion. Even though she seemed on the brink of explosive desire, I wanted to push her even closer to the edge. I knew that in the dark well of her being was a passion I could truly enjoy and I intended to do so to the fullest.
Her movements against me seemed to agree with all of my intentions. She undid my shirt, pulled it off sleeve by sleeve, then began to open the buckle of my pants belt and zip down my fly. I felt her hands reaching in to me, searching ' and grasping my prick where it hung, not yet erected, but waiting for only the smallest encouragement to stand. She squeezed it just behind the head and my senses leaped.
"Oh, I like the way you're built," she muttered. "Kind of large, nice. Good."
I didn't answer her. My thoughts were wandering at random in an appreciation of the physiology at hand.
She continued to mumble about genitals, all the while, massaging mine with an appreciative touch, firm and loving. My cock began to throb under her sensual touch.
"Come, let me get the rest of your clothes off and we'll lie down somewhere," she whispered.
Word and deed became one. She had my pants off and then my underwear, all the while stroking my ass cheeks and down the backs of my thighs, her hand taking my body as though she were a sculptor feeling her model-which, perhaps, she was.
We were finally nude together, standing and looking at each other's bodies. She, in front of the pile of her expensive under things which she carelessly kicked away with one thrust. I noticed that there was polish on her toenails, unexpected gold glint, a note of humor, of lightness, of feminine self-absorption, perhaps of vanity. All the womanly traits that made the female alluring Joan had taken for her own and adapted to her unique personality.
That was the attraction for me, her specialness. One could single out Joan Carter from any battalion of women. Her strong personality superseded all convention. She was a human being in the true, admirable sense of the word and I responded, my arms tightening with pleasure at the prospect of intercourse with this vessel of secrets.
Were I not a pimp, would I likely have found a woman such as Joan? I do not know.
CHAPTER EIGHT
We stood and admired each other for a long while. I enjoyed her gaze focused upon my upright cock which I twitched from time to time, just to make her smile. It was a smile of lust that she gave me though, exactly the kind I wanted.
I, in turn, took in the curves of her well-kept body. There was not an ounce of flab anywhere to be seen. Faint outlines of muscle in feminine contour indicated her interest in athletics. Long musculature from swimming. Her belly made a small curve that moved down rapidly into the lovely cunt. She stood with her legs slightly spread and I could see that the lips were tight in there, rather than flabby from misuse. I could imagine how she was the first night of love when she had been a virgin. Not very much different from this, I decided, for Joan had the exquisite ability to come to each new experience as though it were the first. This, the true artist's attitude.
I stepped toward her and put my hands down along one thigh, moved my fingers inside it over the long curve of firm flesh there. Then I turned my hand upward and fingered those tight lips. I felt inward an inch or so, backward toward the vaginal entry. As my third finger probed deeper, it touched ooze. She was wet and ready.
"Go on, press deeper," she encouraged me. "Don't wait."
I didn't. I sent my finger up deep and she spread her legs even wider for me to enter with greater ease.
"Go on. Press. Press."
I did as I was told gladly and soon added a second finger into the canal there.
"You can put in another," she said, breathily.
I added a third and kept them stiff, beginning now to pump her as though my fingers were a prick.
She squatted slightly, moaned for my touch. She leaned forward against me, balancing and strengthening herself by clinging to my shoulders.
"Let's lie down," I said.
She didn't want to but I knew she'd better. Her knees were getting weak from the effects of the liquor, as well as from the sexual stimulation.
There seemed no reason for us to take time to go off into the bedroom. With dispatch I lowered her to the floor right there and lay beside her, continuing to pump her cunt as she wanted me to. She gave me the rhythm of movement through the gestures of her hips, an up and down movement, quite slow, that signalled me to remain within her and proceed with my action of strong, long strokes.
She extended one leg to the side, turned slightly onto her hips, pulled me closer.
"Go on, put that fat hairy cock in me," she said.
I saw the gathering of perspiration along the side of her nostrils. Her mouth, half parted, seemed flaccid. She wet her lips from time to time but they dried because she was breathing through her mouth. I moved to lie on top of her.
She took hold of my prick and guided it into her juicy and more than willing cunt.
Her pussy, wet and ready, was tight enough to hold me in a firm caress.
"Oh, it feels so good," she sighed.
I began pumping her gently, poised and attentive to take direction as she would signal me to do. I had the odd sense that though Joan had been to bed many times with a variety of people, I was, nevertheless, capable of hurting her with my organ if I made a wrong move.
"Harder," she said. "Don't worry," as though reading my thoughts.
I jabbed harder, pushing my throbbing cock against her snatch.
She swung her legs up and around my hips, embraced me with them, clasping her ankles together. She lifted her ass higher, giving me all the room in the world I needed and ready access so that I thrust upward till the tip of my cock touched the mouth of her uterus.
When that contact was made, she moaned a new note of ecstasy. Her nails dug into my back. I felt the sharp, biting sensation of claws digging into my flesh. I knew that she was with me all the way.
"Marvelous," she said. "God, you feel so strong and hard and large. You are large, Joe. You're the biggest prick I've ever had."
Whether this was the truth or not, I couldn't know but it did not matter. She was enjoying herself and I was enjoying her. The moment was important. Neither the past nor the future could touch us as we lay, sliding, slippery, moving up and down on the floor. Our wet flesh grew hotter with perspiration, damp between us, shared passion, turning liquid into the essence of the orgasm to follow.
Yet she could not reach fulfillment immediately. We paused from time to time while Joan caught her breath and seemed to gather together her strength for another attack upon the field of pleasure.
Time became as nothing, a void. We clung to each other in sexual play, our muscles straining and relaxing alternately, reaching, striving for that special moment which would shatter tension into release.
I knew how to hold myself back and could fuck for hours, if necessary. She seemed to need lots of time and the sensation of fullness within her. I reached down and found the tip of her clitoris with one finger and began to rub it in circles rhythmically with the movement of myself inside her. It is not an easy position to assume and yet I managed it.
My reward was the expression that came to
Joan's mouth.
"Yes. Just like that," she whispered forcefully.
On and on we went. Her hand reached around and pressed into my anus a single finger, screwing me there. This touch stimulated her further and she gave out a small cry. Her finger jutted in and out of my ass-hole driving me wild with lust.
I was not really expecting her to come when she did. The suddenness of it swept me along and my insides began to pump out their load and shoot deeply into her. I thought about my ejecting sperm invading the walls of her pussy as my whole body seemed to dissolve into semen.
She clung to me for quite some while until I felt the clenching and unclenching of her orgasm begin to subside.
Afterward she lay in my arms there on the floor and slept.
I cradled her and wondered what was to come next in her life. Whether she would or would not permit herself to be ruined by the Greek whore, Natasha, who was obviously intent on nothing more important than taking what she could get.
I gazed down upon Joan's tranquil profile and hoped that she would come to her senses before giving herself over completely to her Greek passion.
Some while later she came awake and pulled apart from me. She sat up and patted my cheek and smiled.
"How do you feel?" I asked.
"Mmmmmm good," she said without hesitation.
She stood up with surprising energy, as though rejuvenated, walked around the room until she found a half empty glass of wine.
"Don't drink that," I said.
"You're right, Joe. I guess I'd better stay sober now," and she padded off to take a shower.
Our screwing temporarily placated Joan's interest in Natasha, or so I thought. After I, too, had showered, we dressed and went back outside to listen to the Greek bouzouki music and drink thick black coffee instead of either retsina or ouzo.
The place, was alive and we sat at a sidewalk cafe watching the passing scene. I enjoyed every minute of it and hoped that Joan was, too.
She looked at her watch.
"It's eleven o'clock," she said. Maybe Natasha is home by now."
My heart sank slightly as I realized that I had not distracted her from her original intention.
"You really mean to go through with this thing."
She nodded. "All the way."
"But, Joan, supposing it's a mistake. I mean, supposing it's all futile for you?"
"I don't care. I'm going to have my way."
"At any cost?"
"Yes."
I realized that Joan had been touched at her central nerve, that she could not let the situation drop between herself and Natasha until she had made some move toward conquest. The acknowledgment of success with Natasha was what she needed, I decided, more than the actual success itself. It occurred to me that maybe I could help Joan without her knowing it. But, first, I would have to meet Natasha.
I hoped that the girl spoke English.
We finished our coffee. I persuaded Joan to have a second cup but she was firmly against any further procrastination.
We proceeded to catch a taxi, which was no small feat at that busy time, and again returned to the hut on the hill.
This time when Joan pushed open the door, the light of candle flame flickered. Somebody was home.
Obviously Natasha was not alone, for we heard voices. That of a girl and one of deeply male. They were speaking in Greek from the sound of it, laughing and enjoying themselves intimately. It was clear to both Joan and myself what we were intruding upon.
But Joan didn't mind barging in on anything at all. I wondered if she had not, perhaps, thrust herself into Natasha's private life many times before. It seemed likely.
The couple were seated upon a cot and the candlelight made a pale yellow glow upon the two entwined bodies.
They had not yet really begun to make love, the sailor in his white clothing and the girl in a blouse and skirt, still looked fairly neat and comparatively unrumpled considering the passion with which they were kissing and rubbing against each other in total oblivion to the world outside.
Joan and myself stood for some few minutes unnoticed by the love-makers. I sensed Joan holding breath as though fighting off a tantrum of fury. I felt sorry for her. But how sorry could I really feel when it was so obvious that Joan insisted on bringing this trouble upon herself. She was dragging them down on her head like a naughty child, pulling at the edge of a tablecloth laden with food. She would have the clatter, she would have the destruction.
I could not simply stand by and allow Joan to stare with such large, voracious eyes. I shuffled my feet, kicked something, making it quite obvious that Natasha was to pull herself away from her activities and acknowledge our presence.
What happened was that Natasha, instead of leaving go of her lover, turned him around and looked at us over his shoulder.
The girl was indeed beautiful. In a hypnotic way her warm complexion, smooth as an olive, was heightened by flashing blue eyes. Not the normal brown or black of the country. She was a cross-breed with a wild, free look, intense, demanding and hot tempered. A profusion of dark curly hair fell about her face. She might have just walked out of the jungle. Yet I saw. too, a fine intelligence on her features, her high forehead and even somewhat delicate eyebrows. These made a touching contrast with her emotional make-up. I could see what it was that held Joan enthralled.
I think the sailor saw us but also did not pay any attention to our presence. I was not sure what country he came from. I could only know that he was an anonymous male figure passing through Natasha's life without leaving a mark.
With stubborn will Natasha deliberately shut her eyes now and resumed her intense embrace, pulling the sailor even closer, I think, for spite, to show off in front of her familiar audience. She had not paid much attention to me at all, merely noted my presence and had, in the fraction of an instant, sized me up for availability.
Joan, who continued to stare upon the passion so openly and carelessly displayed, could not simply stand by and quietly watch like an accustomed voyeur. She was not that. She was a ball of jealousy and rage.
I took Joan by the wrist.
"Come on, let's get out of here," I said.
She was deaf to me, yanked her arm out of my grasp.
"You're being foolish," I said. "This can only harm you. We'll come back another time."
She shook her head, no. I understood that she had probably come back numerous times to find one version or another of the scene that faced us now.
"Well, what do you want to do, then?"
"I don't know," she said hoarsely, "but something.'.
I understood that the worst possible feeling for her was this sense of impotence, of the suspension before Natasha's flaunting. And yet, what was there to say or do? Natasha certainly had a right to her life and Joan the option to leave and never come back. One could not force the girl on the cot to capitulate.
Meanwhile, Natasha had apparently forgotten us as she moaned and writhed in her lover's arms, rubbing her tits back and forth with sinuous relish. She seemed almost deliberately to be egging Joan on to murder. But the worst part of it all was that I knew Natasha was really oblivious, didn't give a damn. And that was what hurt Joan most, the indifference.
Even as I felt this, the situation intensified. Joan, with an almost animal cry of pain, lunged forward. She grabbed Natasha by the shoulders and began to yank her backward. It was a futile attempt. Joan's face contorted with rage. Natasha shrieked with outrage of a very different sort. She jabbed one elbow back into Joan's diaphragm. Obviously the girl was accustomed to brawls. She swung and with curved fingers clawed down Joan's cheek.
I saw red welts rise, then droplets of blood filled the torn flesh.
But Joan didn't seem to feel it.
"Whore! Slut!" Her voice was a defiant call to the gods. She tore down the front of Natasha's blouse, revealing the naked tits which swung as Natasha moved to defend herself.
The sailor lunged between them and tried to push both women apart. They did not seem to notice his presence but were at each other again like two leopards.
I raced forward now. The fight would get Joan nowhere, even if she won it. I knew I had to get her out of the situation regardless of success or failure. There would be nothing for her to gain by opposing Natasha except more misery.
I came up behind Joan, grabbed her around the waist and yanked backward. She was a strong woman and the pumping of adrenalin gave her an even greater strength. But all her force could avail nothing. How clear did it have to be made to her that the situation was futile? I could tell it in Natasha's tone as she washed Joan down with a barrage of foreign words. Contempt and disgust seemed to pollute the air. Natasha could never be won over to Joan's love.
So I did what was most humane under the circumstances. I punched Joan in the jaw, just in the right place to knock her out. She went limp in my arms and I carried her from the hut.
I managed to get a taxi. By the time we returned to the hotel, she was sitting up, conscious, but dazed, aware enough, however, not to have anything to do with me. I knew at that moment she hated my guts.
She hated me all through the night, too, and would neither talk to me nor listen.
I was content for us both to be quiet.
We sat in the bedroom of the hotel suite, watching the dawn rise. It was a fresh day, clear, sunny, cloudless, another of the many Greek days unparalleled for beauty.
Joan got out of bed and walked to the window. She touched her jaw lightly, tenderly. She tried to smile but her face hurt too much.
"I guess you were right, Joe," she said. "Let's go home."
Intuitively I had counted on Joan's sense of balance about life and my faith had been justified. She had lost her head for a few months and no doubt had enjoyed the masochistic pleasure of an unconsummated love affair, but the pain had run its course and was ebbing.
I thought to myself I would find Joan another woman as beautiful as Natasha and more satisfying. But I knew I could never find her one she would love as intensely. There is no doubt that the unfulfilled love is the most delicious of all.
CHAPTER NINE
There is a famous rest home in Long Island where famous alcoholics go to dry out. It is a large, rambling place, restful to look upon, with many straight-trunked trees, rolling lawns, a tennis court, a swimming pool, of country club atmosphere. There is no city close by, only the town. And the town's inhabitants are as separate from the rest home as though the place did not really exist.
I had no idea of its existence either. I had stopped over to spend the night on my way home from Quebec. I had taken a ferry across the Sound and felt that I'd had enough driving for one day. The small town looked cozy, inviting. I parked the car, had dinner and then began to look for a room for the night.
As I walked, I realized how long it had been since I'd stretched my legs and, before I knew it, I had come to the end of the town and was strolling into an area of lovely, fragrant bushes, rustling trees overhead and that felt good to the feet.
I was preoccupied with some matters of no especial consequence now but at the time they held my full attention and I hardly saw where I walked.
Even as I write this, I cannot recall how long I strolled without being acutely aware of my surroundings. I think I had gone perhaps a mile before I realized that I must have wandered onto someone's estate.
I did not wish to trespass but, regardless of which direction I looked, I saw no sign of how to get off the property again. I was surrounded by manicured lawns with the loveliest of landscaping. It was too dark for me to see any buildings and I thought that if I simply continued to walk straight on, the path would lead eventually back to the road. Or if it led to the house and someone came out to me, I felt sure that I could explain my error and be shown the way back.
With this in mind I continued my stroll with great pleasure and security. I have always enjoyed being close to nature and though I was looking forward and returning to New York, my inclination was to do so the long way round.
Little could I know how long a way round my route would actually be.
I soon came to a more lighted area and the sound of voices told me that other people were out on the lawn, taking the night air. But, before I had a chance to reach them, I heard footsteps in the grass and a young girl's voice calling to me.
Gladly I stopped and waited for her to come up to where I stood. I smiled with pleasure when I saw her for she seemed, even in the uncertain light, to be vibrant and attractive.
"Hi," I said. "If you belong to this place, maybe you can help me. I seem to have lost my way."
"Oh, did you?"
There was something uncertain and curious in her tone that I did not yet understand. It was as though she did not believe me.
Because I saw no reason for her to doubt my word, I did not trouble to explain the details of my meandering route, but only repeated that I was no burglar and wanted to get back to town as soon as possible.
The light fell upon her soft blonde hair. Her profile had an upturned look to it that struck me as strangely familiar, though I could not understand why.
"You really aren't staying here then," she said.
I assumed that she meant that the place was a hotel. "No," I said. "But you are, apparently. Do you like it?"
"Oh, it's all right, you know, for what it is."
"Well, if you recommend it," I continued, "perhaps they can put me up here overnight."
"Oh, not for just one night," she laughed. "And, besides, one has to make reservations months in advance."
"Yes, I would imagine so."
"There's no place like it on the east coast, if you need this sort of thing."
"Well, everyone can use a vacation," I said, "and it's too bad I can't stay. But do you suppose you can tell me how to get off the grounds and back onto the main road?"
"Well, I can tell you, all right," she said, linking her arm through mind, "but wouldn't you prefer that I show you?"
I heard an undertone of breathlessness which her casual manner could not quite hide. Had I been an ordinary man without intimate experience with women, I might not have noticed that she was excited about something.
"I'd be delighted for your company," I said, truthfully.
"Then come with me this way."
She turned me around and we proceeded to retrace my steps almost exactly. She apparently knew the route by heart, was familiar with every inch of the ground and I suppose she had been staying at the hotel, as I still thought it to be, for most of the summer.
We chatted about all manner of trivia, quite pleasantly. Finally we did reach the main road which led onto the grounds without either fencing or signs for direction.
"You see," she said, "this is a most casual atmosphere. But you know you're still quite a ways from town." She glanced up the highway for signs of cars. "Perhaps we can hitch in, if you'd like."
"Oh, no need to do that. I'll be glad to walk it. Thank you."
"Oh," she sounded disappointed. "You don't want me to come with you all the way?"
The way she put it it seemed an insult to deny her the trip. I gathered from her tone that there were no romantic interests at the hotel to keep her there and she would be glad to break up the monotony a bit with my company, for I was, obviously, an older man and, perhaps, in relation to her, somewhat challenging.
"Well, I still don't think we should hitch a ride," I said. "Isn't there a way to get a taxi?"
She shook her head. "This is the country, my friend."
"Well, don't people in the country walk, then?" I asked, noting her apparent good health.
"Yes, they do," she laughed. "Let's go."
By the time we had traversed the mile back into town, Loretta and I were close to being friends. She was easy to talk to, open about herself, and it hadn't taken long to discover that she had been a child movie star, now temporarily out of work. The problem of age transition had presented the classic obstacle to her career. It had been necessary for her to sit out the physical changes of adolescence.
"But you look ready for work now," I commented as we reached Main Street, and I saw her in the full flood of the street lights.
She took my compliment in stride, yet smiling with acknowledgment and pleasure that I had troubled to say so.
"Well, yes, I expect my agent will be able to get me some work come this winter."
"And meanwhile?"
She sighed. "I'm at loose ends, that's all."
"And not interested in any other career?"
She shook her head, no. "Acting is a disease of the blood for some of us. There just is nothing else."
We were passing a bar and she paused. "Would you like to buy me a drink?"
Since we had been enjoying each other's company so well, I could see no reason why not, and in we went.
It was a mid-week night and the place was fairly empty except for a few locals, sitting at the counter watching a television perched on a shelf up in one corner of the room. As I followed Loretta to a table at the rear of the place, I sensed something almost sly in her movements as though she were putting something over on somebody.
I tried to guess what it might be. She was certainly not under age. I doubted if a couple of drinks could be an obstacle to her career, particularly now when she wasn't working at all. Maybe she came from a strict family background that had given her a guilt complex about anything which might be labeled hedonistic activity.
To me she seemed perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She looked well rested, high in spirits, and with the world before her.
I did not even pay attention when she ordered a scotch neat and drank it down in a single swallow. Young people could do that without harm. Or perhaps I had been too accustomed to drinkers. Anyway, it wasn't till the fourth shot that she followed down with equal alacrity that I began to question what was going on.
"It's getting late," I said "and I haven't a place to stay for the night."
"Oh, you'll find one." She put a staying hand on my arm. "Don't leave yet. The evening's young and we have lots to talk about."
Her inviting voice almost fooled me into believing that what she wanted, in fact, was my company and not just the booze. Yet my realistic attitude did not altogether fail.
"Well, then, let's go outside, or maybe for some coffee."
"We can stay here. You can get coffee." She called to the bartender for a cup of coffee for me. "See? Now just relax. How many times in a girl's life does a stranger wander in?"
I saw her through one more drink and then insisted that we leave.
By now there was no budging her. The clear eyes had become somewhat bloodshot, a trifle bleary, but her speech was still even without a single trace of thickness. She was only on the verge of becoming inebriated, not yet drunk and I knew that if I could get her out of the bar now, she would still be all right and I could part company with a clear conscience.
Her stubbornness intensified. She clutched my wrist as I stood, became irritable as I insisted that we leave.
"Well, if you must go on like this," I said, finding it necessary to be adamant, as she was, "I'll take you back to the hotel and you can finish drinking there."
"Hotel." Her voice did not seem to comprehend my meaning.
I heard the hollow ring as she echoed the word.
We looked at each other, each of us puzzled.
"Isn't that a hotel where you're staying?" I asked, feeling a small wave of premonition creep upon me coldly.
She exploded with a small, contemptuous laugh. "I wish it were a hotel."
I said nothing. My jaws clamped shut as my mind worked over what had just transpired and the new fragment of knowledge that was being offered to me obliquely.
"If it's not a hotel ... " I let my thoughts come out aloud.
"Oh, sure, sure," she hurried to rectify her mistake. "It's a hotel, okay."
"Loretta, what are you trying to hide from me?"
She turned her face away, looked down at her empty glass. "Get me another drink and I'll tell you. I promise."
I knew better, wasn't going to get her a single drop, and would rely on my own abilities to figure out what was going on with this girl.
I took the empty glass from her fingers. "You really like this stuff, don't you?"
"No."
The lie was a wall between us and through a thunderclap of understanding, I realized the situation in which Loretta was enmeshed.
"But if you're not supposed to drink," I said, "why don't you cooperate?"
"I do, as long as I can. I'm not out to kill myself, but there's something in my system that seems to need alcohol. Don't you see? Can't you understand?"
I sighed, realizing that I had helped Loretta to take a step backward.
"Besides which," she said into the silence, "it's boring there. Who needs to play volley ball? If they would just give us something to do that would take our minds off things, maybe I could get cured. But that country club and that house isn't for young people. It's for ancient alcoholics who have no where else to go."
There was desperation in her voice. She was telling me the truth right from her heart. At the same time her emotions were colored by the alcohol she had consumed already and I knew I had better be alert and keep my wits about me or she would con me into a fifth of alcohol before the night was out. Not that I minded buying her the stuff, I just didn't want to see a good thing go to waste.
But what to do about her? The most sensible arrangement would be to try to get her back to the sanitarium.
"Come on, Loretta," I said. "We have to be on our way."
Her face took on a mulish look, not beautiful, distorting her features with a frenzy of fear.
"You know what they're going to do to me when we get back?" she asked.
I didn't know. I didn't want to know. I didn't want her to think about it, wallow in it beforehand.
Her fear infected even my spirits. I knew I ought to be callous and just cart her back there. What difference would it make, though, if she spent the night with me?
Still, I had no place to stay, no facilities to offer her. I had to remain reasonable.
I paid the bill and started to walk out of the bar alone, knowing that Loretta had no money with her and would have to follow me. The bartender would certainly not extend credit. Maybe she could con a drink or two out of him on her looks but that would be about all.
I was halfway up the street when I heard her stumbling after me.
"Don't be a louse, Joe. Don't run out."
I turned and caught her in my arms as she tottered forward against me. She was warm and soft, something like a child, something like a woman. The alcohol had skinned her of that facade of adulthood which was only a new fuzz upon her being. At twenty-one Loretta felt herself to be halfway through life. I guess it was based on the prodigy era. She had known adult responsibilities much too young and was, somehow, it seemed to me, going backward rather than maturing.
"T don't care where you take me," she said against my shoulder. "Just don't bring me back to that horrible place. Not tonight, Joe. I'll go tomorrow. I know I have to go and I will. I'll be a good girl. Only not tonight. One night away Please, Joe, please."
The begging didn't reach me. I had been begged and pleaded with many times in many situations and T was no longer available to it unless the argument was based on rational sense. This was the case with Loretta. I understood the horrors of the sanitarium, the impersonal approach which had to be the rule there. What she needed was someone to pay attention to her, directly, personally, with warmth. I wondered how come a girl who had so many fans in her youth was not left without, apparently, a single friend.
"All right," I said. "You can stay with me.
But where? Where can we go?"
"Oh, there's a nice little hotel up the street a way, see? You can just about make out the neon lights. Look."
I followed the direction of her pointing finger to where a vertical neon light in blue letters said, "The Oak Tree." Then, with my arm around Loretta's waist to support her faltering steps, we proceeded slowly in the direction of the hotel."
It was the typical transient combination restaurant-bar and rooms upstairs. The building, made of clapboard, was painted pale blue with white trim in an effort to be respectable-looking.
We went into the lobby, a small, musty smelling place.
The clerk, seated on a worn, velour sofa, looked up from a copy of "Popular Photography" spread on his knees and said, "Hi, Loretta. how's it going for you?"
I realized in a flash that tonight was not Loretta's first break-out from the sanitarium and my heart sank for her and her future.
My impulse was to return her to the sanitarium right then and there but I realized that the fight she would put up against going back would be more difficult to contend with than spending the rest of the night with her. Hopefully, in the morning she would be sober and more reasonable.
The room clerk gave her a key. She made her way quite well up the single flight of stairs, wobbling only slightly from time to time. She hung onto the banister and seemed to reach the room more out of habit than out of current awareness.
Then we were alone together. The room was large and meagerly furnished with a double bed, dresser and rug, all of which had seen better days. Loretta went to the sink and splashed water on her face.
"You think I'm drunk, don't you, Joe? But I'm not."
I said nothing. I had no way of judging exactly how drunk she was. Just as I thought this, she wandered to the bed and fell down upon it, face forward.
Passed out.
Her pale face, limp, expressionless, took on a new and marvelous beauty. She looked hardly more than sixteen and a healthy sixteen, too. The alcohol had not yet begun to destroy the smooth, peach-like complexion.
I knew there was nothing more I could do for her. She would sleep safely through the night.
I fell asleep beside her, feeling a burning in my cock. Something about Loretta made me want to fuck the living shit out of her. I had an idea that she would be a really good lay. Because of my experience, in the business that I was in, I could usually tell when a woman would be a good fuck, even before touching her. This was the case with Loretta.
I wanted to jerk-off before I went to sleep, but decided that I would wake her up with a good fuck in the morning. That was just exactly what I did.
When I woke up, Loretta was still resting comfortably. She was snoring slightly, and I realize the alcohol she had consumed the night before had afforded her a tremendously peaceful and heavy sleep.
