Slowly, taking maybe two seconds per step, Jim Morrison descended the stairs. The crowd went wild. He was wearing a black pea coat over his maroon velour shirt, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes, and of course, those incredible, tight, black leather pants.
Felicity's mouth was dry. She swallowed several times as Morrison walked to the microphone, wrapped one hand around it and groped with the other for the adjustment. He placed his left foot on the base of the mike as he adjusted it to his height, moving his head slowly from side to side upon his strong neck, as if to loosen it, his prominent Adam's apple jumping in his throat.
Morrison took the mike in both hands and slowly aimed it at his lips. His head lifted up, and then he came crashing down on the mike, sending an agonized scream through the Fillmore East's sound system. A few girls in the audience shrieked. Felicity was on the edge of her seat-that scream had shot right through her.
Morrison screamed, and Krieger sent a wail of electronic terror flying from his amps. Slowly, the wail receded. Morrison began to sing.
He held the mike with both hands, as if it were a girl, rocking forward on the base with one foot, and the audience rocked with him. As he sang he created waves, magical vibrations that set up a response in the bodies and hearts of the crowd. Felicity felt herself lifted up on the waves . . . felt herself floating off, going into a kind of trance. The Fillmore East and the people around her disappeared . . . even the musicians on stage faded and grew dim. She was alone now with her idol . . . her god. Closer and closer she drew to the hypnotic figure, looming solitary and larger than life in the brilliant glare of the spotlight. And then she was gone, had gone over . . . to the other side.
. . . Crawling on her hands and knees across the floor toward the black, gleaming columns of his legs. Looking up she meets the dark, brooding eyes and obeys the unspoken command: Down! She flattens herself out on the dusty floor and continues to crawl toward him on her belly. Slowly, inch by inch, she slithers forward . . . she does not dare look up again but concentrates on the leather boot that is tapping . . . tapping . . . to the strong relentless beat of the music. The leather leg shimmers and vibrates before her eyes; the rhythmic tapping gets louder as she nears her goal, crashing and cracking in her ears. The blunt-toe boots and the leather shafts above them are now within her reach; yet she lies still, groveling in the dust, afraid to touch the sacred body of the shaman-king. He is the Lizard King. He can do anything-
At last she overcomes her hesitation . . . her fingers make contact with the mystic leather. A jolt of electric power shoots through her body and she draws back, her fingers tingling. She lies quietly, trying to still the violent beating of her heart.
Now she grows bolder. Her hands firmly grasp the leg that is not moving . . . the other is a blur before her eyes. The feel of the leather thrills her to her depths-so cool and smooth, yet so alive . . . throbbing with hidden promise . . . the animal skin outside and the animal skin within forming a magical unity. She pulls herself forward so that her snakeskin belly rubs up against the edge of the leather pant and her tightly encased cunt sits on the tip of the boot. She trembles, and groans with deep satisfaction. Her hands are traveling the length of the leather column now, stroking and squeezing the slippery pole, feeling the muscles beneath jump under her probing fingers. The smell of the leather, with an undertone of male sweat, is intoxicating; she darts out her tongue and begins to lick worshipfully. She moans, and shudders with the goodness of it. . . the leather is cold, yet it nearly burns her tongue. She holds on to the leg with both hands and runs her tongue up and down and around, all over the sleek taut surface . . . exploring the creases, sliding the tip of her long, pointed tongue between the folds, the ridges and valleys of that mysterious terrain which, for the moment, constitutes her world. She licks and sucks with complete abandon now; she has let herself go . . . sunk in a sensual miasma, and the rhythmic wail of the music fills her. She has wrapped herself around the leg and is clinging to it, like a drowning woman to the mast of a ship. She rocks in time to the music and humps herself on the toe of the boot that is digging into her cunt. Her lips and tongue are working frantically upward . . . up . . . up toward the top of the column and the wondrous bulge there. Her mouth fastens greedily over the bulge, marveling at the length and breadth of it. The leather covering the bulge is stretched to its limit; it feels rock-hard yet pulsingly alive, straining against its confinement. She sucks and nibbles wildly, trying to get a grip on the meaty bulge with her lips and teeth. The leather around the huge swelling is completely wet now, slick and shiny with her saliva, and hot-burning hot against her starving mouth. Sweat runs down her face and trickles from her armpits . . . her cunt is on fire . . . her inflamed clit aches as she grinds it compulsively against the boot. "Oh God," she groans in frustration. "I can't stand it . . . " Muttering to herself now, totally lost in passion . . . "want it so much . . . got to take it out . . . wanna kiss and lick and suck . . . stuff it in my mouth . . ah, so good. . . . " Her breath comes in ragged gasps; blindly, she reaches for the zipper hidden in the leather, finds it and begins to pull down.
She feels the violent jerk of his body and looks up just in time to see the gleaming steel of the mike descending upon her. She ducks, covering her face, and the blow catches her on the back of the shoulders. She almost comes right then from the shock-she is that close. Frightened, she gazes up into the beautiful, sneering face, her eyes pleading to be forgiven, to be punished, for her bold presumption. Curling his sexy lips in contempt. Her demon-lover grabs her by the hair and pulls her away from him. She screams, more from loss of contact with his body than from pain; the stinging kick of his boot in her ribs is almost a relief. Oh, don't leave me yet . . . don't cast me aside, she begs wordlessly, trembling and twitching all over, as if in the throes of orgasm . . . or death. And her plea is answered. With his booted foot in the small of her back, he makes her lie on the floor, her face, breasts and belly flattened into the dirt-rides the snake to the ancient lake-Then he lies on top of her with his full weight and, still holding tight to the thick red mane of her hair, bites deep into her neck.
Blood trickles from her neck, staining the splendid feathers. The scaly legs twitch spastically, then lie still. The music rises to a climax and her released spirit soars with it to majestic heights . . . music her only friend until the end-her astral body a pure flame now, at last worthy of union with the divine . . .
The roar of a thousand waterfalls was merely applause. It went on for a long time, but now that she knew what it was, the noise didn't seem so intense. Felicity, struggling with re-entry, was grateful for the distraction of the noise; it gave her a chance to pull herself together. She was doing yoga deep-breathing to cool herself out, stop the feeling of vertigo and nausea crawling inside her. Whew! What a trip! She felt really spaced out and wondered why real sex, no matter how groovy, never made her feel anything like this. She never lost her cool, that's why-but then, how could she?
"What's the matter, baby, you look a little green around the edges?" Clara had stopped applauding and was looking at her friend with concern. "Can I get you anything? A red? No? Down's are no good. An up? How about some water, they must have some in the lobby."
Felicity shook her head. "I'll be all right in a moment. Bit too much noise and excitement. It's awfully hot in here."
"Take off your vest," Clara suggested. "That suede and all those feathers-must be stifling. And those pants are so tight. I mean, they look gorgeous, of course, but aren't they uncomfortable?"
"Oh, come on, stop fussing. I'm all right." Felicity, definitely back to earth now, looked at her friend with a critical frown. That Clara was something else! She was wearing crushed velvet, for heaven's sake! Velvet had been out for almost a year, and that bit of chiffon at the neck didn't help a bit. It was just not the thing to wear to a Morrison concert, but Clara would never understand that. She was groovy-looking enough, with her black, tousled curls and large dark eyes and her luscious body. She had her make-up on okay, and the midnight blue of the velvet looked good against her creamy skin. But somehow, Clara didn't have her thing together. No real style. And nowadays, if a girl didn't have her thing together by the time she was twenty. . . .
"I was just trying to help," Clara said in a hurt tone. "You looked really terrible for a while there, though your color's coming back now." She lapsed into silence and stared at the stage, where the Doors were getting ready for the next number. Clara looked adorable when she pouted, Felicity had to admit. No use being annoyed with her-she couldn't help being . . . well, being Clara.
Sighing deeply, happy again, Felicity ran her hands down the sides of her snake-skin pants. They were a subtle blend of red, purple and maroon, with slender ridges of black, the skins matched so well that the patchwork was not noticeable from a distance of more than a foot. She was wearing no panties underneath, because they would have ruined the line of the pants and besides, she loved the feel of the animal skins against her naked body. It felt so snug and slithery . . . like a second skin. Felicity flexed her long legs, and the seam of the pants bit deliciously into her cunt. The thought of her pussy juices staining and caking the new pants filled her with strange satisfaction. They were terribly expensive and could not be cleaned-neither could the vest, butter-colored suede and rare feathers already darkened and matted with her sweat. But then, she had no intention of wearing the outfit again after tonight.
Clare glanced at Felicity out of the corner of her eye. "By the way," she said, "it helps if you keep your eyes open, you know. I noticed you had them closed a lot. I mean, don't you even want to look at him ? "
Felicity grinned. "I see him more clearly in my mind's eye," she said dramatically, putting her hand over her breasts and rolling her eyes to the ceiling.
"Okay, okay." Clara settled back in her seat with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm glad to see you're feeling yourself again, anyway."
She paused a few moments for effect, then dropped her bomb.
"You should have kept your eyes open.
Because I think he noticed you. Yes, I'm sure he did-he looked over this way several times."
"What are you talking about?" Felicity scowled, really irritated with Clara now. What a goose!
"Well, why not?" Clara defended herself. "In that outfit, and with all that red hair, you're not exactly inconspicuous. I mean, everybody stared at you when we walked into the theater."
She tried to say something else, but the music had started again. Felicity, eager to avoid further discussion, put her finger to her lips and pointed to the stage.
Morrison was singing Back Door Man. Very down-to-earth and kind of raunchy. Felicity had her eyes wide open this time. She was seeing the figure on stage in a totally different light. He was a god no longer. Altogether human now, and not too proud to play the stud at the back door. She noticed that the hands holding the mike were small and delicate. Seen in a certain way, his face looked soft . . . the sensual features were almost girlish. The way his dark hair curled around his face and neck reminded her of Clara.
Felicity smiled slowly, and sank down into her seat, spreading her legs a little. Okay, back door man, she whispered. Do your thing!
He stands before her, tall and proud, his lips curled in a cynical smile. He stands with his legs slightly apart, thumbs hooked in his leather pants. He is magnificent, but she has no intention of letting him know that she knows it. Very coolly, she looks him up and down, pursing her mouth in speculation. She takes her time looking him over, hoping to shake his confidence. He is too arrogant . . . he will have to be taken down a peg before he can be of use to her. At last she speaks:
"Okay, let's see what you're selling. Show me your wares."
With a slow grin that is just a little too smug to suit her, he reaches for the zipper in his shiny black pants. He is teasingly slow about it. Tantalizing her deliberately, he runs the tip of his tongue over his full lower lip. He spreads his legs a little more, does a mocking bump-and-grind, then pulls the zipper all the way down.
Out it pops, in all its splendor. She has difficulty suppressing a gasp. It is so longabout nine inches from head to root-and so thick . . . her thumb and forefinger would barely close around the head.
It is beautifully shaped and tapers gracefully, from the shaft, bulging with blue veins, to the huge purplish crown. A single bead of moisture, like a pearl, gleams at the mouth of it. It's the most beautiful cock she has even seen, but she pretends she's not all that impressed.
She stands up and walks around him, studying it from all angles. His naked prick, sticking out of the black leather, looks larger than life and wondrously obscene.
"Not too bad. I've seen a lot worse. If you know how to use it, it may do nicely."
She smiles as he acknowledges the grudging compliment with a barely perceptible nod of his head. She returns to her chair and sits down.
"First of all, let's see if it fits."
And with that, she lifts both her legs into the air. The stud in front of her gasps with shock. Gone is the arrogant sneer . . . he stares at her crotch with eyes that are all black and gleaming with lust. There is a mirror on the ceiling; she is seeing what he sees, and the sight is making her hot.
From an opening that has been artfully cut and sewn in the reddish snakeskin of her pants, protrudes the red-on-red intricacy of her cunt . . . like an exotic, carnivorous flower . . . like a rare underwater mollusk. The flame-red curls of her pubic hairs frame the purple-red of her nether lips, which are swollen and glisten with moisture. They gape open just enough to show a glimpse of the pink-red inner lips and the erected clit. A stunning picture, calculated to ruffle the composure of even the coolest of back door men.
"Lick it a little," she tells him. "It tastes as good as it looks."
Obediently, the big stud bends down and runs his tongue around the fleshy redness. She begins to squirm at once . . . it feels so good . . . his tongue is soft and thick and knows just what it's doing. She wraps her snakeskin legs around his head and draws him in closer. His tongue darts into the dark, juicy interior, stabbing in and out with quick, short jabs; she groans and slides further down in the chair, giving herself up to the rapidly-building pleasure. But it builds too quickly . . . after a minute or two, she is on the verge of coming. She releases his head and pushes him away.
"Fuck me now," she commands. He gets up off his knees and, holding himself with both hands, positions the head of his cock at her red center. He bends his knees a little for leverage, and with a single thrust of his powerful hips, slides into her buttery depths.
"Ahhhhh . . . Ohhhhh . . . " The sound is pleasure-pain and it comes from both of them as he lifts her up and forces her down upon him. She winces as her insides try to accommodate the gigantic cock. But the adjustment does not take long-her willing cunt opens, fills up with juice, and now it feels wonderful; the huge prick fills her completely, touching areas inside her body that have never been touched before. Her legs are locked around his back, her arms encircle his neck. They begin to rock together, in time to the music. Back and forth, back and forth the length of his pole she slides, riding him in slow, sweeping strokes . . . her head is thrown back, her red mane is hanging almost to the floor. His head is thrown back too, and his eyes are half-closed; the muscles in his neck are straining, as they do when he sings.
Her excitement is almost unendurable. She grows impatient with the slow ride and quickens her pace. Fast and furiously she gallops now, getting nearer . . . soon she will be home. Thrusting madly . . . almost there. . . . She is crashing up against him, groin to groin, snakeskin hitting leather with a thud.
The ride goes on, her high-heeled boots are pummeling his leather ass; then they dig in, hard, and he cries out, his beautiful face contorted with pain. But he does not stop, and she digs in deeper; her nails claw at his neck, his back, his face. She has gone insane with her pent-up need. She is teetering on the very edge of orgasm-it is heavenly, it is maddening. She's been on that edge for a long time. She wants to go over the edge so badly, and she claws and strikes at the stud, goading him with her boots-she wants to hurt him now, wants to rip and tear and bite-wants to see the bright red blood staining the black inviolability of his leather pants.
"Hey, Filly, what's the matter? You feeling bad again?" It took several light-years of traveling through inner space for the voice to filter through, for the hand that was shaking her to be connected to its owner. Those waterfalls were going again; Felicity looked around at the people standing on their feet and applauding. The concert was over. The Doors were taking their bows.
She tried to get to her feet, but her legs felt like butter. "Just sit tight, don't try to get up right now." Clara looked really worried, and Felicity felt a twinge of guilt.
"Let's just sit here and wait till most of the crowd has left, okay?"
Felicity nodded and squeezed Clara's hand, which was still resting on her shoulder. Then she joined in the applause, so as not to attract attention. Several people had turned their heads to look at her.
Morrison had taken his final bow, and was walking off the stage. "Goodbye, my love," she whispered, smiling a little in self-mockery. "Until we meet again."
"What's that? Were you saying something?" The applause had died down, but Clara couldn't possibly have heard anything. She must have seen her lips moving.
Felicity shook her head and sighed. "The Doors were fantastic, weren't they?
"I'm not really sick," she admitted after a pause. "It's just that certain groups . . . like the Doors . . . well, they really move me-I sort of go off on a trip . . . it's hard to come back, sometimes . . . and it takes more out of me than I realize."
"Yeah. You really get carried away, don't you." Clara smiled affectionately, glad to have Felicity looking herself again and talking to her in this friendly, confidential way.
Felicity was still savoring the recent experience, her cunt still slowly twitching, only dimly aware of the movement of people around her and not listening very closely to what Clara was saying.
". . . afterwards. There's supposed to be all kinds of groovy people there, besides the Doors, and he offered to introduce us when he got the chance."
Felicity was paying attention now. She was also annoyed. "I told you before, I don't want to go to . " She frowned. "I don't want to meet Morrison. Or any of the other Doors."
"But it wouldn't be like going backstage, or anything like that," protested Clara. "I mean, it wouldn't be like a groupie scene. We'd be introduced properly and all, by Bill, who manages all those big groups."
"Look," Felicity interrupted. "You can go if you want to. No one is stopping you."
"I don't want to go without you." Clara sounded as if she were going to cry. "I'd like to know why, that's all. I mean, we could go for just a little while. We could leave right away, if it's boring, or if it's an up tight scene. What have you got to lose? You don't have to get introduced if you don't want to."
Felicity sighed and closed her eyes for a moment before opening them and leveling her hard, green-eyed stare at Clara. "That's a lot of bull and you know it. The only reason for going to that party is to meet Morrison. Well, I've explained it all to you before. I'm not interested in the real Jim Morrison. It's the one on stage that turns me on. I've met enough rock stars to know that the image they project on stage is much more exciting. That's the real thing . . . to me. The best part is up there, all distilled and perfect."
"Oh, come off it." Clara too was angry now. "It gets pretty boring, this kinkier-than-thou attitude of yours. You don't get all dressed up like a peacock, and you don't get front-row seats because you don't want those guys on stage to notice you. Why don't you admit it? It's your own image you're worried about-you're afraid they'll think you're just another groupie. But don't tell me you wouldn't make it with Morrison if you got the chance."
Oh, but I do, thought Felicity, suppressing a smile. She wasn't about to tell her friend, though. If Clara thought she was kinky now, what would she think if she knew how Felicity got her kicks?
She let the argument rest, and they sat in silence until the crowd had thinned enough so they were able to leave the theatre without a hassle.
When they mere standing outside, Felicity said "Why don't I drop you off at and go on home. No sense ruining your fun because I'm feeling a bit out of sorts."
Clara shook her head, somewhat mollified by her friend's conciliatory tone. "I don't want to go without you," she repeated. She glanced at Felicity. "You do look a lot better now."
"I feel a lot better." Felicity took from her purse a small silver whistle. She blew it, but no cab appeared.
"Are you absolutely sure you don't want to come-just for a little while?" Clara asked tentatively. "We could leave right away-honest."
"No, really, I'd better not. I'm kind of done in. What I need is a good night's rest. I have to meet Daddy for lunch to-morrow, and I mustn't seem too strung-out. You know how he is, always worried about my health, telling me I'm too skinny, that I take too many drugs. . . . "
Clara giggled. "Well, he's right about that, you know."
Felicity grinned. "Look who's talking!"
Then she strode out into the middle of Second Avenue and gave several short, loud blasts on her whistle. A few seconds later, an empty cab rounded the corner and pulled up in front of them.
"Wow, I can't believe it. That thing really works," Clara exclaimed admiringly.
"It's not just the whistle," Felicity admitted as they climbed into the taxi. "It's my super special psychic powers."
"I believe it," said Clara, too good-natured to stay angry very long. "Maybe I will look in on that party after all-that's if you're quite sure you're feeling all right."
"Sure I'm sure," said Felicity, and gave the driver the address. Then she kissed her friend warmly on the cheek. "I'm glad you're going, and you look just smashing. I've always liked that color on you."
Clara, happy again, popped an ammy and began to giggle, as she always did on amylnitrate. It only lasted a couple of minutes, and Felicity hardly felt it at all, beyond the instantaneous kick. They decided against smoking a joint because the driver's name was Irish, he had a beefy, lush-red face and had glared at them disapprovingly when they entered the cab.
Clara stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel where was, looking small and forlorn. Felicity lowered her window and stuck her head out.
"I want to hear all about it in the morning," she shouted and blew a kiss to Clara, who smiled and waved back gratefully.
CHAPTER TWO
She was a half hour late when she walked into the lobby of the Plaza Hotel. She saw him first and he looked older than the last time . . . the circles under his eyes had become pouches and the skin under his chin sagged. He drinks too much, she thought, and caught herself at once. She was a fine one to moralize-young people were just as dumb about this as their elders. Whatever didn't happen to be their bag was automatically no good. If Daddy John wanted to drink to excess, that was his business.
He saw her then and smiled, rising to meet her. With the smile, he looked much younger-really quite dapper, with his graying sideburns and thick British moustache. His blue eyes had their old sparkle as he chided her affectionately for being late, and she was glad she was wearing the mink trenchcoat he had given her for her twentieth birthday over her simple, expensive black sheath. The costume wasn't really her; she would have preferred to wear a slack suit and her cheap, shaggy fur, but Daddy liked her to be elegant, like himself, and she had wanted to please him today.
They decided against eating at the Plaza and sauntered up Central Park South to the Cafe de la Paix. Daddy John was tall, but Felicity, in her high heels and high-piled hair, was just a little bit taller. It was a pleasure going out with Daddy John, who kept a wad of five-dollar bills in his pocket for doormen and headwaiters. The Plaza and the St. Moritz weren't exactly her scene, but if she were going to be there, she liked to be treated like royalty-it suited her secret image of herself . . . her "princess complex," as Clara liked to call it. She considered it quite natural that people should stare at them-with admiration, she thought-but she noticed that Daddy John was made uncomfortable by the attention they attracted.
"My daughter," he said to the head-waiter, who bowed and smiled his plastic smile in her direction, left menus and departed.
Felicity laughed. "Darling, you really don't have to do that, you know. He already has his tip and he doesn't give a shit one way or the other. If anything, his opinion of you would probably be higher if he thought I was your mistress."
Daddy John frowned. "I would appreciate it if you would not use vulgar language in my presence. I quite realize it's the fashion today, but it happens to offend me."
Felicity put her slim white hand over his broad, hairy one. "I won't do it any more, I promise, but please-don't be stuffy and pompous with me today, okay?"
Daddy John sulked through his first two martinis while she sipped her vermouth cassis and they chatted formally about mutual acquaintances and about what she had been doing with herself.
"But I like New York in winter," she protested when he complained about the weather. "I'm seeing a lot of shows and doing a lot of shopping and cousin Bruce's pad -apartment is very comfortable. When did you say he was coming back from the Bahamas? By the way, speaking about shopping, there's a matter of a few charge accounts that need taking care of . . . "
Daddy John waved his hand, dismissing the subject. "I'll give you a check later . . . incidentally, I saw your mother when I was in London."
Felicity made a face. "How is the old . . . how is she?"
"Oh, about the same. She never changes. Very busy with her charities, and such. Young Tom is away at school now."
Felicity toyed with her roll and butter. "I guess he must be about fifteen now. I sort of miss him-sometimes. We used to have a lot of fun together. Did mother ask about me?"
He shook his head. "I'm afraid she's consigned you to oblivion. And in any case, I'd be the last person she'd ask. I'm only the second husband, after all . . . the one in between, who never even gave her any children, never gave her any social status or anything else she wanted, except money."
He drew himself up, shook his head as if to clear it, and continued in a changed tone.
"But that's all beside the point. You really ought to write to her once in a while -or ring her up. I'm sure she worries about you. After all, she is your mother."
Felicity didn't reply, busying herself with the filet of sole which had just arrived. Daddy John was okay, but he belonged to an age where family relationships transcended personal hatreds and one dutifully looked up one's kin and wrote to them at Christmas no matter how much one despised them. He knew she did not share this compulsion, but he found it harder to accept than her drug-taking, her free-and-easy hippie ways. She wondered if he realized she only took money from him because she liked him.
By the time they returned to the Plaza, Daddy John was feeling much more mellow. There had been wine with the meal, besides the martinis, and he'd had a double brandy with his coffee; his speech and his manners were more relaxed, and she could tell spirit was upon him from the way he held her arm and the glint in his slightly blood-shot eyes. Felicity had to admit she liked him better this way.
As they were going up in the elevator, he absent-mindedly handed the operator one of the five-dollar notes.
The old man's dentures became very prominent, his face creased into a million wrinkles as he smiled. "Oh, thank you, Mr. Johns, what a lovely young lady she's grown into," he gushed. "Your daughter, isn't it? There's a marked family resemblance."
"Stepdaughter," Daddy John muttered curtly, ushering her out the elevator and toward the door of his suite. Yes, but why did he have to be slightly drunk, Felicity wondered, before he stopped caring about the opinions of headwaiters and elevator men and treated these fawning parasites with the contempt they deserved?
Daddy John removed his coat, his jacket and tie and loosened his collar. He sat on the bed and poured himself a big glass of brandy. Felicity sat in a chair opposite him, her nyloned legs demurely crossed at the ankles. She declined brandy and wondered how he was going to lead up to it this time. Part of the fun of the erotic game they played was waiting to see exactly what scheme he was going to come up with to make it seem as if the sex happened accidentally, he never used the same device twice, she had to hand him that. Perhaps, if he were to come right out and admit what they both knew, she'd find it much less exciting.
The silence between them lengthened . . . and grew charged. Daddy John did not look at her, but his desire for her hung thickly in the air. Felicity began to squirm a little as the silence continued, punctuated by the tinkling of ice cubes. Obviously, Daddy John didn't know how to begin, this time, but the effect couldn't have been stronger if he'd planned it. The vibes between them were so strong, she could almost touch them. If he'd simply reached out for her just then, she'd have been his, to do with as he pleased.
But Daddy John couldn't quite manage it, though several times he looked as if he might. Instead, he poured himself more brandy, absentmindedly beginning to pour a drink for her too.
In the end, it was she who had to break the silence. "No, thank you," she said, waving away the brandy. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
Daddy John shook his head, and she proceeded to take from her purse a small pipe and a small vial containing some excellent pale-gray hash from Lebanon. He watched her, glassy-eyed, as she crumbled a little of the powder into the pipe and lit it. She took a deep drag and offered the pipe to him, formally, and he, just as formally, declined it.
The operation, however, never ceased to fascinate him, and he kept watching her, in the same way he might have watched her undressing. After the third drag she grinned at him over the pipe and winked.
"Tell me something," he found his voice at last. "This passion of yours for pop music -does it extend as well to pop musicians? I mean, do you ever make love to any of them?"
Felicity almost laughed out loud. So it was going to be sexy conversation this time. The last time he had pretended to be very interested in a rather far-out Indian garment she'd had on, examining its construction to find out what held it up, or together. Anyway, it had been an excuse for him to feel her up, and one thing had led to another. Well, if he wanted to pump her about her sex life, that was okay too. She had been on the verge, for a moment, of taking his passion seriously. It was just as well that he'd spoiled it . . . it wouldn't do at all to take Daddy John seriously.
Felicity shrugged. "Sometimes," she said, "I make love to a musician. Not as often as you might think, though, and I don't seek them out. It's a fact that, apart from their music, most of them are just not very interesting."
Obviously, this was what Daddy John wanted to hear. He brightened considerably and leaned forward a little for the next question.
"What sort of man interests you? What is it you look for in a lover?"
Oh boy, she thought, how obvious can you get? But she went right along with the game. Why not?
"Well . . . " she pretended to think. "I like a man with a little maturity, a little sophistication and understanding going for him. The physical thing isn't all that important-I mean, he doesn't have to be handsome or anything. . . . "
I'm laying it on a little thick, she thought, he's bound to be hip to it. But Daddy John was eating it up. She smiled at the double entendre, and her cunt responded to the memory of his thick, warm tongue. No sense drawing this out any longer, she thought, and boldly took the lead.
"As a matter-of-fact . . . " she smiled at him slowly, seductively. "If you weren't like sort of my father and all that, you'd be pretty close to my ideal type man. . . . "
Have I gone too for? She wondered as Daddy John sat for a moment, as if stunned. Then he was on his knees in front of her chair, his gray head buried in her lap. "Oh, darling . . . darling . . . " he groaned. "If you only knew . . . the torment I go through. . . . I promise myself each time I'll be strong, but then I see you and. . . . " The rest of it was lost, as he mumbled incoherently into her skirt and-oh my God, her dress was getting wet-he was crying!
This is terrible, Felicity thought guiltily, and had an inkling of what men go through, telling a girl they love her when they only want to fuck.
"Come," she said gently. She helped him up, took him by the hand and led him to the bed. In a way it was thrilling, to have a man so hopelessly in love with her-so completely in her power. It was the next best thing, she supposed, to being in love oneself.
He lay on the bed, breathing heavily, while she stood close to him and with slow, deliberate motions, unzipped herself and shrugged out of her dress. Underneath it she was naked, except for her sheer pantyhose and high-heeled black pumps. Felicity twisted a little so that she could watch the expression on Daddy John's face and at the same time catch her own reflection in the dresser mirror. Unlike most redheads, she never freckled; her skin was a perfect, almost luminous white, with bluish shadows in the hollows of her shoulder blades. Her firm, cone-shaped breasts were topped with extraordinarily long nipples-almost an inch long when, as now, they were hard and fully erected. They were neither pink nor brown but a real rich red, so red that she'd been accused or rouging them. The effect of the red nipples against the pallor of her skin was marvelously erotic; in fact, the sight of herself in the mirror was turning Felicity on, while Daddy John was practically foaming at the mouth. His eyes held a stricken look as Felicity stretched her arms over her head, took out the pins that held up her hair, and shook loose the Titian-red tresses that cascaded over her shoulders to her slender waist. She cupped her breasts in both hands and slowly bent over, proffering the luscious tidbits; he reached for her hungrily, fastening his greedy mouth upon the candy-red nipples. As he sucked, she turned her head a little so she could watch both of them in the mirror. She was kneeling on the bed, legs spread, her nyloned rump sticking into the air, red thatch of pubic hair clearly visible beneath the thin fabric. A curtain of red hair covered the man's face and it was easy to imagine that he was somebody else . . . a total stranger, maybe, in a strange hotel room. The whole thing was splendidly lewd . . . faceless man, fully dressed, half-naked woman in black nylon and fetishist heel, all ass and legs and cunt, daylight filtering through the drawn curtains. She had the imaginary camera zooming in for a close-up as she began to wiggle and squirm her upraised butt; it looked sexy as hell, and besides, the sucking was beginning to get to her. Daddy John was really into it now, milking her with tongue and lips and just enough teeth, using his hands to roll and tweak the unsucked nipple. They were very sensitive, these nipples of hers; sometimes it seemed as if there were a direct connection between nipple and clitoris-once or twice, when she was very hot, she thought she was going to come just from having her breasts worked on. Her cunt was responding now. She could feel the little knob growing and hardening. He let the nipple plop out of his mouth, took a deep breath, and transferred his attention to the other breast. He licked the neglected nipple first, then took a playful bite . . . her clit jumped, and now she was squirming in earnest, her movements no longer voluntary, and moaning a little in counterpoint to Daddy John's wheezing, and the smacking sounds he made from time to time.
He seemed content to go on sucking her breasts forever, but she wanted more now. She was warmed up good and proper and the kneeling position was growing uncomfortable. She disengaged her breast gently and lay down on the bed beside him. Daddy John caught his breath; he raised himself up so he could look at her. He took off her shoes, then her pantyhose, feasting his eyes on her white nakedness. He ran his hands along her legs and thighs, her belly, her throat.. . he began to lick her then, all over, leaving a snaking trail of saliva as his tongue traveled from the inside of her elbow up over her shoulder, down over breasts and rib cage, lingering in the deep pit of her navel, moving on to the hip bones and down to the sensitive inner thighs. Oh, he was good, he knew how to make her tingle. Felicity stretched herself out like a cat; she had her eyes closed now, preferring not to see Daddy John's sweating face right now, giving herself over to the power of his hands and mouth, savoring the exquisite sensations. She was growing very excited now, her cunt open and moist already, but without urgency, knowing there was time, secure in the knowledge that Daddy John would not let her down, would bring her slowly but surely to the peak and over it.
Now he was separating her cunt hairs with his fingers. Gently, he probed around the inner lips, accustoming her to the feeling.
Then he inserted the thick middle finger of his right hand all the way into her, and she let out a little scream; it felt so incredibly good, as good as a cock, and she pushed down on the finger and squirmed around on it, trying to get it into the right spot. Daddy John took his finger out, and she screamed again, this time in frustration. But he put it back almost immediately, adding the index finger as well. With his two fingers he began a vibrating, rotating motion that pretty soon had her climbing the wall. She gripped the bedposts and groaned and ground her cunt against the amazing fingers, lisping little phrases of passion. "Oh yea, Daddy . . . do it . . . do it to your little girl. Oh, God, you don't know how good it is. You're really doing it to me. Oh, yea . . . like that . . . and like that . . . uhhh. . . . " He finger-fucked her, with a hard, steady, rhythmic motion and she lost herself, finally, in those deep murky regions where there is only blood singing and nerves screaming for release and the mind is on holiday. She had reached that edge now, that precipice she had climbed so often and where she so often got stuck, unable to climb any higher and unable to get down, afraid, perhaps, to fall over the edge into the dark abyss of bliss. But Daddy John did not fail her, he knew what to do. While his two fingers continued their thrusting vibrating motion, he bent his head to her overheated cunt and fastened his mouth on her clitoris. He sucked her cunt and finger-fucked her at the same time, and it took no more than half a minute of this treatment to bring her over the edge.
"Iiiaaaiii.. . " The sound did not seem to come from her at all. It went on and on, and she was afraid she would never stop coming. Daddy John hung right in there with her all the time, and her orgasm must have lasted a full two minutes-to her it seemed like two hours. It was almost scary, it was so intense and it went on so long. She kept getting little after-shudders as she lay there, breathing heavily, trying to recover her composure. She had never had an orgasm this powerful before. She must have been super worked up from the night before. Her uncompleted session with Morrison. At last she opened her eyes, and closed them again immediately, brought down by the expression of triumph in Daddy John's eyes. Of course he thought he did it all, and in a way he did. But in another way he didn't. She found herself strangely disappointed and a little angry that it had to be him. He was getting undressed now, and she found she couldn't look at him; his hairy, paunchy body with the smallish, half-hard prick absolutely repelled her. Oh God, she couldn't stand the idea of fucking him, he'd never gone this far before, but he was mounting her now, his erection probably as hard as it was ever going to get, and she couldn't think of a way out.
"Please . . . no . . . I . . . can't" She felt like a damn fool, some dumb idiot virgin would come on that way, but she just couldn't help it.
Daddy John stopped, his prick in his hand, looking like someone who's just had a pail of cold water thrown on him.
"Oh, please, Filly . . . you must. Why not?"
"I . . . I haven't been taking my pills," she stammered. "All that health scare, and well, I just did not think to bring a diaphragm or anything."
Daddy John nodded, sighed pitifully, and moved himself to one side. He looked just awful, holding his cock in his hand and pulling at it absently, a look on his face that said more clearly than words: you're gonna leave me like this, you cunt?
She had to do something. She took a deep breath, dove down, took his hand away and stuffed the softening cock into her mouth. He tried to stop her, in a half-hearted way, but she persisted, sucking furiously, eyes closed, doggedly determined to bring him off just as soon as she was able and get the whole business over with. She was good at it, and she felt his cock grow almost completely hard in her mouth; just before he came, he tried again to push her away, but she stuck with it, swallowed the small amount of salty liquid and kept milking him gently till his spasm subsided. She sensed it had not been altogether satisfactory for him, but it was better than nothing.
They lay together without speaking for a while. Finally she got up, went to the bathroom, rinsed her cunt and mouth. She put her clothes back on and freshened her makeup. When she came back out, Daddy John was dressed too, sitting in the same chair, a glass of brandy in his hand, almost as if the sexual encounter between them had never taken place. He looked very unhappy.
"Come on, Daddy, cheer up," said Felicity. "It's not all that bad, you know."
"Apre's faire I'amour, I'homme est triste," he muttered.
Felicity grinned. "Always?" she asked.
He shook his head. "No. Really I'm sad because you're going away, because I'm going away and I won't see you again for God knows how long."
Felicity squirmed uneasily in her chair. "It really doesn't matter that much, does it ? "
He looked at her with an expression of naked pleading that made her want to run and hide. "It does matter, darling," he said gently, "It matters terribly. I haven't wanted to admit it, of course, but I've got it bad, real bad.
"Look here," he said, encouraged by her silence. "There's really nothing keeping you in New York. Why don't you come with me? We'll take this cruise around the Mediterranean; visit Greek islands . . . bright sun, blue water."
"You know I hate the sun," she started to protest, but he cut her short.
"You can stay in the shade. Wear long pajamas and hats. Oh, Filly, please. It's only three weeks-what's three weeks out of your life? It would make me so happy."
"Now please, Daddy, pull yourself together." Felicity was frightened and sounded harsher than she intended. "You know you can't afford a scandal. I know what you're going to tell me, there'll be other people on the yacht. I'm your stepdaughter, nothing more natural, we'll play it cool. But you know better than that. You know we couldn't play it cool on a hundred-foot yacht, or even an ocean liner, for that matter. Everybody would be hip to what's happening an hour after we left port.
"Besides," she went on, mercilessly now in her panic to get out of the situation. "There is something keeping me here. I have to attend this concert. The Rolling Stones are giving a concert in California, and it may very well be their last.
"Anyway," she finished lamely. "It's just not good, Daddy. You know it as well as I."
He nodded. When he spoke, his voice was shaky but calm. "You're probably right, Filly. Guess I just got carried away."
He smiled wryly. "Funny. I never believed in unrequited love, and hopeless passion and all that rot. I had to wait till I was fifty for it to happen to me."
With a great effort, he pulled himself together. "All right, my dear, do what you must. We'll see each other again . . . real soon, eh?"
Felicity got up and kissed him on the brow. "Of course we will," she said. "You know I dig you. Take care of yourself now. And try to take it easy on the brandy."
Daddy John managed a grin. "Fresh," he said, and gave her a playful slap on the ass. "You take it easy on that smoke and the pills too. You don't eat enough, and you're really a little too thin."
Felicity laughed, relieved at the tone of their parting. Daddy John was okay-it was amazing how he'd snapped out of it. Still, she'd have to watch it in the future. Cool it on the sex. It was fine as long as they both played it for laughs, but it was getting too heavy. Today had been much too heavy.
She was half-way down the hall when he called her back. She had forgotten her check. He put on his glasses to write it out, and Felicity felt a pang of remorse-he looked so old, so vulnerable. Would it happen to her too one day? Would she grow old and have to go begging, a pauper in the streets of love? She shook the thought away, accepted the check with thanks, kissed him on the cheek again and was gone.
In the street, she gratefully breathed in great draughts of cold, sooty air. Whew! She couldn't wait to get home and out of these clothes. Maybe have a long, relaxed soak in the tub.
CHAPTER THREE
The first-class section of the jet airliner was almost empty. There was a gentleman sitting in the window seat of the aisle across from them, otherwise they seemed to be alone. Felicity nudged Clara, pointing to a cloud bank outside the window.
"What's that look like to you?"
Clara looked, smiled, shook her head, and looked again. "I don't know. A couple of elephants balling?"
They giggled together like a couple of schoolgirls. "No, come on, take another look," Felicity urged. "It's beginning to change now but you can still see it quite clearly."
Clara was game. "I know." She brightened. "It's a giant ostrich giving head to a huge female Cyclops."
That really cracked them up. They spluttered and tittered for about a minute; the gentleman across the aisle, busy with some papers in a briefcase, stole a glance at them and quickly looked away. Felicity poked her friend in the ribs with her elbow. "Oh you . . . can't you ever think of anything but sex?"
Clara batted her big brown eyes innocently. "Oh? Is there anything else?"
That was good for another bout of merriment. They were good and high . . . on the verge of getting completely stoned. They'd smoked six pipes each before boarding, and they'd just popped a couple of redbirds. The stewardess had brought them coffee, and they were slowly chewing up some rather ghastly-looking cookies, half hash, half Betty Crocker, making faces at each other as they doggedly chewed away. Planes were a drag, after all; what was there to do for five hours except drink and watch some dumb flick? Might was well get out of it. Stay that way, if possible. Southern California was a drag too-a super drag, all that glary sun and all that plastic. If it weren't for the possibility that this might be the Stones' last concert . . . "
"Can I get you something else?" The stewardess' eyes behind the plastic smile, glinted with hostility and her movements, as she cleared away the coffee, were too abrupt.
They slept through the movie, declining dinner, and had a hard time pulling themselves together when the loudspeaker announced they would be landing in ten minutes. Felicity caught the eye of the man across the aisle. He was grinning at her. She gave him her haughtiest stare and turned away, busying herself with coat and handbag.
"I hope you enjoyed your trip," said the stewardess, with obvious sarcasm, as they staggered from the plane.
"Oh, splendidly, thanks a heap," said Felicity, staring the angry girl straight in the eye. "The service, especially-really, quite extraordinary . . . "
They were standing at the crowded gate, looking for old Harry, who was to drive them to their hotel. Suddenly the man from across the aisle was at their elbow.
"Here's my card," he said. "I'll be in town for several weeks. If ever you have a free evening, you and your friend . . . I know quite a few chaps here who like to have fun . . . perhaps we could all get together . . . "
Felicity held the card extended between two fingers. She waited till he had walked away a few steps, but could still see her. Then she tore the card in two and threw it away.
"You know what? He thinks we're call girls." Felicity laughed, but Clara looked embarrassed and didn't even smile. She seemed very subdued, and didn't say a word throughout the long ride to the hotel.
They had been driving through the grim California countryside for hours, it seemed. Felicity didn't dare ask their dates if they were almost there. They didn't seem to have the same attitude toward distances out here. Where else would they hold a concert hundreds of miles in the middle of nowhere? In California, people didn't seem to mind having to drive all day and all night to get where they were going. They got stoned, and they got into their cars, which sort of became extensions of themselves, and time just sort of seemed to stop until they reached their destination. They didn't seem to get thirsty-they didn't even have to go to the bathroom. They only stopped when the car needed gas -for the rest, they seemed to put themselves into a kind of trance, and stopping the car broke the trance. Once or twice, Felicity had asked them to stop, and they had seemed annoyed. The temperature outside was over 100 degrees, and the car was air-conditioned, it was true, but she sensed that was only part of it.
She and Clara sat in the back, just like a suburban couple on a double date, she thought, but it was just as well. Not that she would have had to make conversation or anything like that-their escorts didn't believe in talking, fortunately-but she didn't want to bug them with her negative vibes.
"You're English," Roger said, as if that explained everything.
"What's that got to do with it?" Felicity had wanted to know.
"Well, it rains there all the time, doesn't it? It's dry out here in the desert. Really much healthier for you, once you get used to it."
Felicity had started to point out that she was only half English, had been mostly raised in the United States, had traveled all over, and that the miasma which passed for air in and around L.A. couldn't possibly be healthy. But she thought better of it. These Californians were very touchy about their country, she'd noticed. No sense getting him uptight. Roger and his friend Paul were actors; they were handsome, in an empty sort of way, and affected Steve McQueen mannerisms. They were okay as far as that went, liked to go places, seemed to have lots of money and access to plenty of drugs. Didn't seem to be very interested in sex-at least not with them, Felicity thought. Perhaps they had a scene with each other. Anyway, they were not too demanding. Felicity and Clara were "lookers"; that seemed to be enough for them.
Felicity stared morosely out the window, wishing she had never come, Stones or no. The prospect of a concert with one of her idols had never before failed to put her in a mood of excited expectation. This time she only felt nervous. A strange apprehension . . . a kind of heaviness and lethargy . . . she didn't understand it and it made her irritable. Clara was scrunched up in the other corner and seemed equally depressed. She's too dependent on me emotionally, thought Felicity for the thousandth time.
On the other hand, the landscape was enough to depress any but the hardiest Southern Californian. Not that it was all barren and empty out there-that at least would have had a certain grandeur. No, the highway was lined on both sides with low, boxlike buildings and yards full of non-descript junk, and signs of various kinds. They must have passed hundreds of gas stations and used auto lots and diners and motels-God knew what business they transacted in those dreary box-like buildings, but they went on and on, on either side of the highway, and she thought with a shudder that people actually lived here, and worked in those squat buildings, and spent their lives under these white, glaring skies.
Felicity closed her eyes but that didn't improve matters. She shuddered with the artificial cold, and the sound of the hi-fi, which had been going full blast for hours, seemed to increase in volume as her sight was shut off. She felt extremely claustrophobic, all at once, and tore open her eyes. The car slowed down and came to a stop-it was gas-up time again.
Roger was smiling at her, all gums and "Ultra-Bright" teeth.
"Feeling any better?"
Felicity wrinkled her nose. "I don't know," she said. "I seem to have a super case of the blahs. . . . "
Roger nodded. "I know what'll fix you up," he said. "Best thing in the world for the blahs." He extended a small white pill.
"What is it?" Felicity wanted to know. "Acid?"
"Yeah." Roger handed one to each of them. "The very best. It'll start to hit just about when we get there. Would have given it to you before, but didn't think it was a good idea, you being a little up-tight about the car, and all."
Felicity still didn't think it was a good idea. She'd had a little speed that morning, and they'd been smoking all along, and it hadn't improved her mood any. Her instincts told her not to take the acid; she thought she might be able to fake it, pretend to swallow the pill, then spit it out later. She felt a flash of resentment against the stupid code that forbade one refusing acid when everyone else was going to take it; it was simply not done, unless one was pregnant, or on a yoga-health-food kick, and off drugs altogether.
But after she'd held the pill in her mouth for about a minute, she decided, what the hell. The acid would either make things a lot worse, or a lot better. Both possibilities seemed preferable, at the moment, to the way she felt now. Besides, she'd be all by herself, really isolated, and unable to relate even to Clara. Maybe, once the music started, she'd really be able to get into it behind the acid; at least, she could try. Sucking in her cheeks to collect the saliva, she swallowed the dissolved pill.
The sun had gone down and the air was much cooler, but by no means cool enough to account for her icy hands and feet. The acid chill was the worst she'd ever experienced. It wasn't just the occasional shudder of cold that was almost pleasurable. She felt numb all over, frozen to the bone and beyond, to the cramping insides of her stomach. No amount of covering would help this deathly chill; still she drew her black cape tight about her as they walked between endless rows of parked automobiles. Felicity caught glimpses of herself reflected in car windows. Good God, she thought, I look like death! Under her long black shroud of a cape she wore a thin white cotton tunic and matching pants, completely unadorned save for a silver pendant in the shape of a pentagram. A large white floppy hat and enormous dark glasses hid most of her hair and eyes, and accentuated the natural pallor of her face. The effect was much starker than she had intended, but the costume served its purpose. It protected her from the elements, and while it did not entirely protect her from the stares of the crowd (she looked too different, too bizarre in this sea of suntanned bodies and sunbleached hair), at least she did not feel personally exposed-the stares were deflected and did not penetrate as she walked with lowered head, secretly fingering the pentagram.
The walk went on and on. Felicity looked neither to left nor right, keeping her eyes on Roger's muscular ass as they left the rows of cars behind at last, and began threading their way through a complicated maze of aisles. She felt strangely disembodied; at the same time, her limbs were very heavy. She tried to move her arms and legs to help the circulation, but she was barely able to lift her feet.
Still, so far so good. She did not really feel bad and she was too busy concentrating on the simple physical necessity of moving her feet to notice much of anything else. She was minutely aware of the ground under her feet, covered with trampled cigarette butts, and of Roger's mobile ass, but the sounds of the crowd, the music and the lights, came to her as from a great distance. She was all right. She had her walking together now and knew she could go on indefinitely. She felt she was on a pilgrimage . . . a pilgrimage to some distant shrine. There were thousands of other pilgrims, of course, but she did not have to look at them or talk to them; she could keep her thoughts inward, preparing herself, maintaining the proper frame of mind.
Suddenly, Roger stopped. They had reached their seats-the seats that were being "held" for them. They had to climb over all these legs and feet, with many an "excuse me," muttered mostly as an incantation against the hostile vibes coming from the people who were being disturbed, and wait for "these guys we know who owe us a favor" to go through the same maneuver in the other direction. It was considered very hip, in show biz circles, to have connections with hood-types who could muscle their way into and out of things-for a price, of course. But Felicity was in no way prepared for the shock of what she saw when she raised her eyes. She'd had no intention of doing so. The man had somehow compelled her to look at him, and now she stood, frozen in horror and fascination, unable to tear her gaze away. He was maybe six foot two or three, with huge muscled arms bulging out of his sleeveless leather vest. The arms were covered with tattoos-she caught a glimpse of writhing dragons-and the vest was covered with silver studs. A thick mat of chest hair showed between the leather laces of the vest, and above the low-slung belt of his jeans. The buckle of the belt must have been six inches long, and almost as wide. In spite of herself, she had to look up. She took in the peroxided blond hair, rather short but with long sideburns, and the single gold earring. She saw the scarred ravaged face of a man of about thirty-five, heavy features, thick sensual mouth, and the eyes of madness-bright blue and piercing, with tiny black dots for pupils. This grotesque apparition now smiled, revealing a mouth full of long, yellow teeth, and Felicity shuddered. Part of her wanted to laugh-he was really too weird to be true-but there was no denying the power of the creature. Even now he held her in his spell, and she fidgeted and fussed with her glasses and could not sit down until she felt that, somehow, he had released her. Fingering her pentagram again she thought, I have made my pilgrimage . . . to hell. This is one of the native guides. They call them Angels.
She looked up and saw the scaffold-the stage-lit by giant floodlights, for it was dark now. She saw all the wires and all the machinery and knew them to be strange and exquisite instruments of torture. She had a vision, it was in another century, another land. The crowd of thousands had come to witness the execution. No simple hanging, this, but a major event-a series of complex tortures and stylized killings, performed with ritualistic care. She turned to look at the faces around her, lit by the hellish light, and saw the blood lust in them, the flush of sexual excitement at the spectacle to come. The air was oppressive; she could not breathe. The exhalations of evil were everywhere . . . they threatened to suffocate her, and she felt a moment of panic. She tried yoga deep-breathing but it did not work; she gasped like a fish for air that was not there.
Easy now, she told herself, one part of her mind steady and clear. Let it be. Ride with the tide-don't try to fight it.
She tried taking rapid shallow breaths, and it seemed to help; her heartbeat slowed, her lungs opened and let in air. Fear is the enemy, she crooned to herself. There is nothing to fear. The demonic forces are part of the cosmic wheel. Satan too must be given his due.
There was a tremendous roar-the crowd was on its feet; they shouted, they clapped, they whistled, they stamped their feet. But Felicity refused to look. Not yet-she was not ready. Then the music began, and with it came sanity. A sudden, beautiful interval of lucid thought and clear vision. The Stones were on stage-the fabulous, the one and only Stones, but what she saw was four frail-looking young men, looking pale and rather tired. Mick Jagger was haggard and thinner than she remembered. The famous bangs disguised but could not completely hide from her acid-sharpened gaze the livid purple circles under his eyes. The bright lights accentuated the mottled pallor of his skin and when he moved his head, his eyes became empty black sockets. A death's head! Felicity shuddered and looked away.
Jagger was singing. He sang, and suddenly he was not frail any more, or tired. His slender body was taut with vitality and hidden power, his beautiful-ugly face, expressive as only such a face can be, ran the gamut of emotions, from sneering cynicism to intense longing-a longing for something he could not name. Felicity understood him, understood his need for excess, for pushing things to their limit. Mick, my brother-I too can't get no satisfaction. Take me with you . . . I too want to be one of the damned.
He has introduced himself; he's a man of wealth and taste. He flops down next to her on the huge blood-red velvet cushion. He is wearing very skinny, very tight lavender pants and a black-and-white diamond-patterned shirt of very thin silk, open almost to the waist. His chest is very white and completely hairless. His heavy-lidded eyes are drooping; they look both sexy and sad. He has a big mouth, wide and full; the lips are very red and hang slack, slightly open. She can easily picture that mouth sucking a cock . . . a great fat red cock. The image excites her.
He looks bored, and rather petulant. They are in a long, low room, lit by indirect lighting from the ceiling. The walls and the ceiling are black; the corners of the room are in shadow. She is aware that there are cushions all around the room and people reclining on them, men and women, in various stages of dress and undress; engaged, in rather desultory fashion, in various forms of erotic play. It is all very posh and expensive-looking-and very cheap. A tawdry scene.
The bizarre-looking bouncer with the bleached hair and earring, jeans and leather vest, comes over and whispers something to the decadent-looking dandy by her side. He waves his hand impatiently. "Well, get rid of them, for Christ's sake."
He yawns, not bothering to cover his mouth, and turns to her. The accents of his speech are very lower-class.
"My dear, you've no idea what a drag it is, playing host to orgies night after night. Always the same old thing. I know you're new here and supposed to be initiated, and all that. But I'm really so tired." He yawns again, deliberately, ostentatiously, exuding a foul odor of stale cigarettes and dyspeptic stomach. He lies back on the cushion, languorously opening his fly. "Tell you what, why don't you suck me for a while . . . get me in the mood."
No!! ! Cut and blue-pencil! Felicity pulled herself upright and shook off the nightmare. It was too close to home, that one-too much like the real thing. Truth unadorned was for heroes and martyrs, the hell with it!
She experimented with different settings and costumes, lingered lovingly on the picture of him in Louis XVI powdered wig, brocade and lace, silk hose and buckled shoes; it suited his slightly effeminate, debauched-looking face, his thin-sexy body.
But in the end she placed him in the period of Oscar Wilde and Aubrey Beardsley. In a dimly-lit room hung with heavy velvet draperies, covered with thick soft carpets. The room sparsely furnished, the colors muted and dark; the smell of incense heavy in the air.
In the center of the room is a low platform. She walks toward it. It is a slab of black marble, the length of a man. Torches burn at either end of it; she can smell the acrid black smoke. Behind the platform is a sort of alter, covered with black cloth. Candles burn on the alter. There are people in the room; she can sense their presence, hear their movements, but she cannot see their faces.
She lies down on the slab of black marble. It is cold, and she shivers in her thin white cotton garment. She folds her hand across her chest. The pentagram! She remembers, searches for it, but it is gone. Soon, she knows, the virginal garment will be stripped from her . . . she will lie there naked, exposed to all those eyes she can feel but cannot see. A delicate shudder of fear and expectation passes over her motionless body.
She does not hear his footsteps but senses his presence. She opens her eyes, searching his face for a clue to her fate. He is wearing a long black robe that covers him completely. It makes his face look even more pale than usual. His eyes are neither kind nor cruel, but seem to be contemplating something in the distance. The expression on his face is unreadable. Still, he seems to her, in these strange surroundings, a familiar reassuring figure. There is that quality about him . . . something sad and sensitive. It is easy to feel sympathy for this devil.
His voice reaches her, but it seems as if he were far away instead of standing right beside her.
"You know what you are here for?"
She doesn't, really-at least not exactly. She nods anyway.
"Are you quite sure you're prepared to go through with it? You can still change your mind."
She shakes her head. She trusts him, somehow, and besides, it is far, far too late to turn back.
"You will do whatever is demanded of you? Submit to anything-and I mean anything-that may happen without protest?"
She nods again, and swallows, the fear not in her mind but in the involuntary reactions of her body. At the same time, she experiences a sense of calm and peace. It is out of her hands now . . . she has submitted. It is at once terrifying and voluptuous, thfs passivity . . . this waiting for whatever unspeakable things he and they (whoever they were) might do to her.
With one very white, very slender hand he pulls aside a fold of his robe, and his cock springs out. It is very long-incredibly long, and pointed. It is greenish in color and does not look as if it is a part of him. In the flickering light of the torches it looks like a dagger, a pale, gleaming dagger, and it is pointed at her throat. She looks up at him; his face wears the same enigmatic expression, but he has placed himself so that his cock is right in front of her slightly parted lips.
Obediently, gratefully, she opens her mouth wide to receive him. He kneels now on either side of the narrow slab, and thrusts the long cock all the way into her throat. She gags, she chokes and tries to push him off a little, but he slaps her hands away. His cock is in her throat up to the hilt, her nose is buried in his coarse pubic hairs and she cannot breathe; nevertheless, she manages not to suffocate, and after a moment or two, she does not gag anymore. He begins to move in and out of her mouth and she finds she can take it. And not only take it. It feels good to her now. The skin of his cock is very smooth, very slick. She uses her lips to slide the skin back and forth over the hard inner core, and tickles it with her tongue as he continues to thrust into her; she is gratified to feel him respond to her skill. There is a subtle, intoxicating odor coming from his balls; she reaches a hand out tentatively to fondle them, and he does not slap it away. She really gets into it now feeling the pleasure she is giving over her entire body . . . her mouth and throat are wide open now, eager to receive the enchanted phallus of the Master. She is sucking him as she has never sucked before, wholeheartedly, with complete devotion and utmost delicacy, responding to the subtle but unmistakable signs of his building excitement. She knows the things she is doing with her lips and tongue are getting to him; his breathing is heavy, his hands are tangled in her long red hair. She prays he will let himself go and come into her mouth, there is magic in his semen, and she wants to partake of it. She sucks and licks and nibbles and squeezes his balls; he lets her do it, lets her bring him to the very edge. His cock is rock-hard and very hot now; she can feel it throbbing in her mouth and knows he is close. His hands are behind her head and he is thrusting hard. He is fucking her mouth, hard and steady . . . it is only a matter of moments before he comes . . . she senses it and stays right in there with him. Now! . . . She knows he is on the bursting point and her body arches with excitement, with the anticipation of fulfillment.
Ahhhuhhh . . . the sound is hers, a howl of disappointment coming from her bereaved mouth. He has withdrawn at the last possible moment, and for an instant she thinks, he is going to fuck me, oh I love him so! Then she feels it on her breasts and belly, all wet and sticky. He has come all over her, and the white cotton blouse is stuck to her body in big, gluey patches.
She shivers, from cold and disappointment, and looks into his face, hoping at least to find he has derived some satisfaction from her humiliation. But he is just as ever, completely impassive, as he wipes his still-hard cock on the hem of her garment and tucks it back inside his robe.
She is breathing hard from her exertions, and trembling. Now she becomes aware again of her surroundings. The light from torch and candle flares and flickers, casting sinister shadows upon the ceiling. Strange, eerie music fills the room-music that penetrates her nerve-ends like pain . . . that could not have come from human throat or hands alone. And now she feels the presences crowding around her, no longer vague and shadowy, feels their fetid breaths upon her body. She keeps her eyes away from them as long as she can, she does not want to see, but they . . . they want her to look. By now they have completely surrounded the slab on which she lies, and she perceives the pale sheen of many naked bodies. Then one of them tickles her feet; she looks up, startled, and almost screams.
The creature might have been a female, save for the shriveled cock dangling beneath its huge belly. It has wide, fat breasts with tufts of hair around the nipples, and it is grinning at her from a wide, toothless mouth set in rows of fat and double-chins. Desperately, her eyes sweep over the assembled demons, hoping to find a face or a body that might hold some attraction for her. Some were old and some were young, some fat, some thin, but all of them-men and women and a few that seem hardly more than children-were hideous. The evil, flicking erring light reveals nothing but the glittering eyes of cruelty, the slack mouths of greed-faces that reflect the ugly lusts of lynch mobs. Yet some of the faces seem strangely familiar . . . one of them even bears a faint resemblance to Roger.
She knows she can expect no mercy from faces such as these, and she looks around for His Satanic Majesty, but he is nowhere to be seen. Somehow, she has expected him to remain with her, to sustain her in her ordeals, and she weeps bitterly over his defection, while the demons snicker and poke at her with dirty, long-nailed fingers. It is for him, and him alone that she has consented to become willing victim and sacrifice.
Then her tears dry and she no longer feels any emotion. She gives herself up to it, does not resist, and as the demons assault her, she wonders at the banality of their imagination. They strip her naked, and stuff her full, one demon cock in her mouth, one in her cunt, a third in her ass, she is so open and passive that the pain of the double entry is not too bad, and the cock trying to gag her is . . . well, just another cock-foul-smelling, mottled and with a huge wart on it, to be sure, but a cock just the same. A fourth demon is cutting his teeth on one of her tits; another sits on her belly and pisses on her.
The warty cock spurts a drop of bitter liquid into her mouth, withdraws and is replaced by a cunt-a huge, wet, fishy-odored cunt with bristly hair. This is perhaps the worst moment, but she gets over it too-a cunt is, after all, only a cunt, and she has eaten them before. She opens her eyes just once; the faces are Bosch instead of Beardsley . . . the monstrous and the deformed are holding sway. But when she closes her eyes it is not so bad after all. As a matter-of-fact and against all sense, she experiences a burning, itching sensation in her cunt that strongly resembles sexual excitement. She tries to keep her mind cool and aloof, concentrating on her diabolical Master. Is this how you want it? Am I doing it good for you? she asks him silently. But she knows he is not satisfied because of her detached attitude, and she feels the burning, yearning sensation building in her cunt, feels it coming on strong and hard, the orgasm she doesn't want and can't believe will happen, but the thing builds inside as she is being pounded and pinched. The demons are pulling her hair, they are sucking her toes, so hard it seems they will come out of their sockets; they are slapping her ass till it stings, and all the time this insane thing is blowing up inside her, like an immense balloon getting ready to pop, and she is grunting now, riding the old ceaseless ride, heading into oblivion, yes, almost there now . . . almost.
And then it stops. At an unseen signal, they all stop at once and she is left once more alone, trembling, befouled, hung up. Once more, he is standing before her, his loose, full mouth curled in a contemptuous grin.
"Marvelous, my dear. Very well done. And since you've been such a charming victim, we will reward you with the ultimate experience . . . the greatest thrill of them all."
He is gone and in his place stands the grinning giant with the yellow hair and green teeth, the dragons on his bulging arms writhing as he flexes his muscles for her. Very slowly he walks toward her, grinning lecherously. There is something in his hand. It clicks open and she sees the knife . . . it gleams and glitters in the light from the torches. Nearer and nearer he comes, she can smell the sweat-soaked leather. She tries to scream, to rise from the her marble tomb, it is as if invisible hands are holding her down, and she cannot make a sound.
Nooo!! she struggles and squirms in the grip of her nightmare, trying to wake up. Oh God, what if she can't? What if she is stuck in this absurd inferno of her own creation, having forgotten the key to the return ?
She was awake now, sitting in the back seat of Roger's car between Clara and Paul. Clara was crying softly, and the lights were on; Roger seemed to be asleep, his head lolling over the back seat, his feet hanging out the open front door of the car.
Felicity shook her head to clear it. "What happened?" she asked softly.
Clara and Paul came to attention. Both looked at her strangely. "What's the matter with you?" Felicity wanted to know. "Why are we stopped here. Why is everybody acting so funny?"
Paul turned to Clara as if to confirm something. "I think the thorazine is working. She's snapped out of it."
"Yeah." Clara turned to Felicity and threw her arms around her. "Oh, baby, you've had us so worried."
"Worried? Why? Last I remember we were at the concert and . . . "
Paul and Clara exchanged glances. "Everything's okay, baby," Clara said soothingly, stroking Felicity's hand and hair. "You had a bad trip, is all."
"What do you mean? What did I do? Felicity was not sure she really wanted to know.
"Well, you kind of freaked out. You were screaming, and you didn't talk sense, and you were fighting somebody off. We had to get you out of there."
Felicity nodded. She felt very tired suddenly, and only wanted to sleep. "It seemed I was having some kind of a nightmare," she started to explain. But it was too difficult. "I . . . don't know what happened, but I can't talk about it right now."
Clara squeezed her hand. "Sure, baby. You don't have to say anything. We've all taken downs, and we're going to flake out here for a little while. Roger's already gone, as you can see."
Felicity turned to Paul. "Say, thanks man," she said awkwardly.
He looked surprised. "What for?"
"Well, for taking care of me, you know. I mean, you might have panicked and called the authorities, or something. I mean, the kind of thing I went through can be scary."
Paul smiled, and she thought he was really very nice. "Don't be silly. Anybody could have freaked out at that scene. If you hadn't done and forced us to get out of there, I might have flipped out myself. Some pretty bad vibes out there . . . lots of very uptight people, it was just a bad scene, baby. I was sure all along you'd come out of it."
I wasn't, thought Felicity as she slumped onto Clara's shoulder and passed out.
CHAPTER FOUR
Felicity thought of it as taking the cure. What her mother thought, she could only guess. If she was surprised and curious about Felicity's sudden call, asking if she might come and visit, about her arrival a day or so later and her uncharacteristic subdued behavior, mother was too well-bred to show it. Thank God for British reticence! Everyone behaved as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to be there, and no one asked her any questions. Not Uncle Reginald, who disliked her, and certainly not Grandmother Sybil, who was past liking or disliking anyone and sometimes became confused as to who exactly Felicity was. Just the same, she was Felicity's favorite relative. The old lady must have been pushing ninety; she was quite daft, really, and probably stone deaf, though she faked it so well no one could be quite sure. Still, she looked hale enough, got up and down the stairs by herself-slowly, of course, and with the help of a cane, but it was a matter of pride with her to be self-sufficient. At first Felicity had wondered what kept the old lady going; what did she do with herself all day? She'd watch her sitting in her chair, dozing, waking with a start and mumbling to herself. What made her want to go on and on with it, thought Felicity, unable to imagine herself wanting to live much past thirty. Then she realized it was Sybil's upper class dignity and sense of self-that, and those dream-memories she seemed engrossed in most of the time. Could she be afraid of dying? Felicity could hardly believe that. Her hold on life seemed so tenuous . . . there was nothing she seemed really attached to, not even her little dog, who would rub up against Sybil's feet and whine for attention for ten minutes, sometimes, before the old woman noticed it. But she never complained; when asked about her health (one usually had to ask several times, very loudly) she always replied : "Fine, just fine, thank you," in a surprisingly loud and clear voice.
Uncle Reginald, on the other hand, complained about his health all the time. He was a lush, of course. His liver was bad, his kidneys didn't function properly, he was always short of breath. He was mother's oldest brother, but he wasn't that much older. Mother was looking remarkably well, as always, and her energy was amazing. She was busy all day, gardening in her hat and gloves, giving orders to the servants, driving off in her station wagon to one of her charity bazaars. Mother was very indulgent of her brother, but it was plain she had no more respect for him than she'd had for any of her husbands. Still, it didn't seem to bother her. She seemed to have accepted long ago that strength and character were the prerogatives of the females in the family. Perhaps that was the reason she'd been so much harder on Felicity than on her half-brother Tom. She just expected more from a girl. As a youngster, Felicity had not been able to see it that way, of course; it had seemed to her out and out favoritism.
Tom was away at school, but he was expected home for a holiday very soon. Felicity was looking forward to seeing him after more than three years. He would be fifteen now. She remembered a chubby kid, painfully shy and very quiet, who never looked anyone in the eye and seemed very immature for his age. She asked her mother if he'd changed much, during one of the very few and always civil conversations they'd had since her arrival. "Oh, dear, yes," her mother had replied. "I'm afraid you'd hardly know him." She had not elaborated, however, and Felicity had not pressed the point.
What a wonderful thing was an old-fashioned English country house! It was overlarge on purpose, permitting people who despised each other to live together with a minimum of friction. The code of good manners which forbade prying into one's personal life was designed for the same purpose, Felicity perceived. She had always hated this hypocrisy, but now she could see certain advantages to her mother's life style. Accustomed to hotels, and flats, and pads, Felicity appreciated the fact that days went by without her exchanging more than cursory greetings with the other members of the household. Fortunately, there was none of that nonsense about mealtimes and being punctual. Felicity had explained that her appetite was poor, and that the doctor had told her it was better to eat small amounts whenever she felt hungry, rather than four large meals a day, and mother had been agreeable. So now she went to the kitchen for a snack, and chatted with cook, and ate what she felt like eating rather than the dreadful roasts and potatoes and kippers that were the mainstay of the family diet. Occasionally, she took tea with the others-it was the most informal and relaxed time to do her social bit, and conversation was always kept pleasantly neutral.
All in all, it turned out much better than Felicity had hoped. Preferable to a private sanatorium with a lot of doctors and schedules. She didn't need anybody messing with her psyche, she knew it was messed up and she knew what she had to do about it. She was off all drugs-except a very little pot, maybe half a joint late in the evening. She ate pretty well, slept a great deal, took long walks around the countryside. At first she felt too shot down, but after a week or so she was strong enough to go riding. She hadn't ridden in years, but it all came back to her, as soon as she established rapport with the horse who, she suspected, had been rather ill-treated by Reginald. She wore simple slacks and shirts, no make-up, and with her hair pulled back into a pony-tail, she looked no more than seventeen. As a matter-of-fact, they kept telling her she hadn't changed a bit, which made her want to laugh. Still, it meant the damage to her body and mind was not serious. In a few more weeks, she'd be as good as new again, and no one, except maybe Clara, would have to know that she'd been close to flipping out . . . nervous breakdown is what they liked to call it in her family. Her father had had several before he did the decent thing and removed himself from the scene via a freakish and highly suspect sailing accident. Felicity had been only three at the time, and mother had married Daddy John within the year.
No drugs, no sex, no fantasies! The feverish world she'd lived in for the past few years seemed far removed from the old stone house, the well-tended grounds, the ritual and stylized human interchanges: "Good morning, Miss."
"Good morning, Compton, how's the family."
"Can't complain, Miss. Youngest had the flu, but she's all better now."
"I'm glad to hear that. Fine weather we're having for this time of year," Etcetera and so forth. Best tranquillizer in the world, life among the Upper Middle Classes.
One day she came back from a long morning ride to find a visitor in the hall. Aside from the family and the servants, she'd seen no more than half a dozen people in the three weeks she'd been home. Callers at the house were few, always the same, and all well past fifty. Once her mother, already inside the station wagon, had asked if she wanted to come along wherever it was she was going-more out of politeness than genuine interest, Felicity had felt. When she'd declined, mother had said: "Well, let me know if you want a lift somewhere." And that had been that.
This visitor, however, was a young man -very young. She guessed him to be perhaps seventeen. He was tall and painfully thin; he wore a tweed jacket with leather patches, the sleeves and trousers too short. He had these very long, elegantly slender, very beautiful hands that he did not seem to know what to do with; the hands reminded her of someone. His face was heart-shaped and very pretty, with long soft lashes, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and a sulky mouth. Soft, reddish-blond curls framed his face and neck. There was something familiar about him but she could not place it.
"Yes, may I help you? Everyone seems to be out at the moment."
The young man's face creased into a grin. "Filly, for God's sake. What are you doing here? I had no idea."
"Tommy?" It was still a question. It couldn't be anyone else, of course, but Felicity just could not believe it. How and when had this radiant butterfly emerged from his little-fat-boy cocoon? It was incredible, this metamorphosis. Of course, now that she looked at him again she could see the similarities-those same sad-tender eyes of watery blue, that same little space between the teeth when he smiled.
"I'm not going to say it. I'm sure everyone's been laying it on you." Felicity smiled. "How long ago did this all happen?" She made a gesture which encompassed his entire figure.
He was really charming when he smiled. "Only in the past year. Less, actually. Shed about forty pounds in three months. Felt quite weak for a while."
"I bet it feels pretty good now," Felicity said. "In case anyone hasn't told you, you're beautiful. But how did it happen-I mean, what made you do it?"
They had walked out into the garden by then and were sitting down in garden chairs. Tom looked thoughtful now, more like the serious boy of old.
"Well, you know they say that inside every fat man is a thin man screaming to be let out." He shrugged. "I guess I didn't need all that protection any more. That's what that fat thing is, you know. Something to hide in, so they can't see who you really are."
Felicity looked at her kid brother in amazement. Had he always been this hip? She knew he was supposed to be smart, good at school things and all that, but she had always believed him to be stupid and insensitive about what really mattered, like the rest of her family. Evidently, she'd been wrong. He'd only been covering up, so he wouldn't get hurt. Felicity, who'd always been out there, exposed, giving and taking her licks when she was a child, would have considered his withdrawal sheer cowardice as recently as a couple of years ago. She didn't think so any more.
Tom broke the silence between them, which had gone on too long. "And you-I suppose they're telling you, you haven't changed a bit, right? Well, it's not true, you know. You have changed. Not on the outside so much-on the inside. I don't quite know what it is . . . but you're different."
Felicity leaned forward eagerly, seeking his eyes. "How-tell me how I've changed!"
Her intensity put him off a little; she could feel him retreating somewhat. "I . . . I can't say exactly," he said, avoiding her eyes. "But you're much nicer," he added, looking up and favoring her with another of those radiant smiles that always came as a surprise.
"That's good enough," said Felicity, cautioning herself to go slow, not to press too hard this new and totally unexpected intimacy. She wrinkled her nose, the way she used to when she was much younger. "I know
I must have been a horrible brat-mother's said it often enough."
"Oh, you weren't that bad," Tom said softly, and they both fell silent, shyness springing up between them like a wall. That was all right, though. The wall could be breached again, there was plenty of time. As they rose to meet mother and Uncle Reginald, just emerging from the station wagon, Felicity felt jubilant. It had been so long since she'd had any real contact with another human being and who'd have thought young Tom would turn out to be so groovy? He was not shallow, like the rest of them. He thought a lot, and had obviously figured out some things for himself. Felicity was eagerly looking forward to the next two weeks.
Every day, Felicity and Tom went riding together. The weather held up for them, and they explored the countryside, venturing further than she'd done by herself. She had been avoiding the village and people as much as possible, but now she was quite willing to be seen; people smiled and waved at them admiringly, and she knew they were indeed a beautiful pair, the family resemblance obvious, the difference in their ages not at all. Even mother could not suppress a gleam of pride as she watched them chasing each other across the lawn, they had inherited her looks and breeding at least, Felicity could almost hear her mother thinking.
She was not quite sure why she enjoyed Tom's company so much. They were still quite reserved with each other. Felicity told him only that she went to a lot of rock concerts and parties, Tom was equally reticent about what went on in his school. They talked a bit about the state of the world and the family, enough so she could tell he had a pretty good nose for detecting shit, in whatever sweet-smelling guise it might appear. He called the vicar a fag so casually that Felicity had to laugh; since the vicar was one of the regular visitors, they had a hard time keeping a straight face when he spoke to them about The Spiritual Crisis of Youth and Abiding Values. They found they could not look at each other during these sermons without getting the giggles.
But the intimacy, the promise of a real connection she had sensed during their first meeting, never flowered. It didn't matterin fact, it was probably just as well. Felicity enjoyed being with Tom; above all, she enjoyed looking at him. There was a gawky grace, something new and fresh and tender about him, that touched her . . . he was not like other boys, he was her brother, and she took pride in his beauty and in his riding skill as she did in her own. It felt good to be near him. Sometimes she wanted to reach out and touch him, very, very gently, as one wants to touch a child.
One evening, at the beginning of his second week of holiday, he came into her room to borrow something and caught her smoking a joint. He was curious and interested, and asked a lot of questions about what it did for her. She explained as best she could, trying not to sound too enthusiastic, for she had a pretty good idea of what would happen next. Sure enough, when she did not offer, he shyly asked if he might try some. Felicity was hesitant. Tom seemed cool, but you could never be sure, she'd seen too many freak-outs, this was her baby brother and she really didn't want the responsibility. Still, she couldn't very well refuse. She showed him how to inhale and hold the smoke down, and took the cigarette away from him after three puffs. "That's enough for the first time," she told him. He complained he didn't feel anything. She told him to relax and give it a little time. Sometimes it came on slow. If nothing happened after a while, he could have a little more. She put a Ravi Shankar record on and told him to lie down, let his mind flow free. He did, and after a while he said: "It's working . . . I feel something. . . . "
She asked him what he felt. "I'm not sure," he said. "Nothing specific, really. I just feel good-kind of relaxed. Maybe if I could have just a little bit more."
Felicity nodded and lit the joint, passing it to him. He took a deep drag and held the smoke in longer than before. Then he lay back on the sofa with a sigh and closed his eyes. He opened them again and became absorbed in looking at something for a long time. She let him be, letting the anxiety drain from her own mind. Tom got up and started moving around, touching various objects, studying them. "It's fantastic," he exclaimed, "the colors . . . the patterns . . . everything looks so. . . . " He spread his hands, giving it up, smiling at the uselessness of words. The expression on his face was one of sheer bliss. Felicity sighed with relief; it was going to be fine, Tommy was a natural. She sort of envied him-he was getting almost a mescaline kind of high off four tokes of pot. She was delighted, all at once, getting something of a contact thrill from his experience. It was a pleasure to be mentor and guide when you had a good subject. Felicity told him just to feel and let things happen, not to analyze it or try to put it in words till later. She let him have two more tokes, at intervals, and snuck down to the kitchen for milk and a sweet when he started to come down and got the hungers. The hungers, for God's sake! She couldn't even remember the last time grass had made her thirsty, let alone given her a craving for sweets. Well, Tommy had a lot of virgin kicks ahead of him -lucky devil.
The next morning they got up too late to go riding. Tom looked sleepy but happy, kept wanting to talk about it. She told him no, she didn't experience quite what he did every time she turned on, and tried to explain about increased tolerance and diminishing returns. He wanted to do it again that night, but she talked him out of it, persuaded him to wait another day and digest the experience. He had his whole life before him, after all.
Felicity no longer felt quite so good about turning Tommy on-in fact, she felt distinctly uneasy. He kept looking at her all the time, in the oddest way. When she caught his eye he'd smile and look away; once or twice she could have sworn he was blushing You've started something here, she told herself. No use pretending you haven't. Oh well, you'll just have to be very careful and cool him out as much as possible without hurting his feelings.
The following evening, she made her preparations, this trip would have to be directed, she knew. She found art books for him to look at, pens and paper in case he wanted to get into sketching; she selected some albums she thought would not be too exciting, arranged a beautiful bouquet of flowers she'd picked from the garden, laid in a supply of sandwiches and cakes and soda. Two joints were neatly rolled and laid out on the table. She had no real doubts about being able to keep control of the situation.
Tom came in and looked around. "I see you're having a party," he said grinning. "Hope you're not expecting anybody else." Felicity felt herself flushing, grew annoyed and flushed some more. So he was hip to her, so what? "I thought we might as well be comfortable." God damn it, she thought, why was she apologizing? The whole thing was getting off to a bad start.
Tommy wasted no time. He'd already smoked a third of his joint before she got around to even lighting hers. Now he was smiling at her disarmingly. "Don't be cross, Filly. It's all very lovely, really, and you've gone to a lot of trouble. It's just that I'm not all that interested in art-at least not tonight. I'd sort of like to talk to you, if you don't mind."
He pushed his hair back with both hands, and sighed. "You know," he said softly, "I've never been able to really talk to anybody in my whole life. No one at all." He looked at her then and in his eyes was such naked pain that it wrenched something deep within her. She tried to hold his gaze but couldn't.
"Of course you can talk to me, Tommy," she said, and without thinking, reached for his hand. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it, hard enough to cause pain. A chill went through her at the contact. She realized it was the first time they'd touched; the way he'd grasped her hand, the intensity and desperation of it, frightened her, and she extricated her hand as gently as she was able.
There was a long silence after that. She realized he didn't know where to begin, he needed help. She knew what he needed to talk about-it would be better if he got it out of his system in words.
"Tommy, have you ever had a girl?" There, she'd done it-taken the bull by the horns, so to speak. It was the only way, really. Why then were her palms sweating, why did her heart hammer so hard? She realized, with a little shock of surprise, that she was stoned. She had absentmindedly smoked almost a whole joint. So had Tom-she saw there was only a small roach left on his ashtray.
"No," he said, "I've never had a girl-not really." Then it was as if the floodgates had been opened-he talked and talked and talked; Felicity just sat there, stunned, unable to say a word or do anything at all. If the last time his trip had resembled mescaline, tonight it was speed-speed with a dash of truth serum. It was more than she'd bargained for, she really didn't want to hear it all, but there was no way to stop him now.
He told her about the fag scene at school, how everyone was after him all the time, hounding him, trying to seduce him; how it was a torment to him because he was tempted all the time, though when he yielded on occasion, he felt terrible afterward; how he didn't want to become a fag, but how he thought about sex all the time-couldn't hardly think of anything but sex. Was he some kind of a freak or did everyone go through this?
Then, not waiting for an answer, he told her about the girl. Yes, there had been a girl. She lived nearby, and he was mad about her, thought about her constantly, spent most of his waking hours in sexual fantasies involving the girl. Her name was Harriet. It was for her sake he'd lost the forty pounds, gotten so sick even mother had been worried and allowed him to stay out of school. And it had worked! The girl, previously so aloof and unattainable, scarcely aware of his existence, had begun to take notice. She became distinctly interested, and as much as fourteen-year-olds were able, they managed to spend a lot of time with each other. And then a strange thing happened. As he got to know her better, his desire for her disappeared. She was so stupid, so conventional! Oh, he still got excited when she let him kiss her and fondle her breasts, but he didn't fantasize about her any more; in fact, he felt less and less the more they were together. Finally, it was she who accused him of not caring; there were tears and scenes, till finally he begged to be allowed to go back to school and away from sniveling Harriet, whom he no longer even found pretty. Maybe he ought to accept the fact that he was a fag after all-stop fighting it. Did Felicity think he was a fag?
Felicity couldn't think at all; she was in a state of shock. What was happening didn't seem very real-it seemed a lot less real than her fantasies, and at the same time, it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Somehow, Tommy was in her arms and he was covering her face with kisses: the kisses were moist and awkward, but the trembling of his slender body, the terrible urgency of his desire, were more exciting than the skillful caresses of the best lovers she'd known. There was no resisting such a desperate appeal. Her cunt warmed and twinkled in response to his boyish eagerness. They lay on the floor together . . . she ran her hands through his soft hair and tightened them on his scalp, then let her fingers trail down to stroke and message the nape of his neck. Tommy gasped and writhed and clutched at her hair, he sounded as if he were coming. A little alarmed, she looked down at the fly of his trousers for any telltale darkening.
There wasn't any, and she continued to caress him, careful to be very gentle and tender. He seemed to have an orgasm every time she touched him-it was like playing some kind of magical instrument, where every note you struck made a beautiful sound. He was so incredibly turned on . . . every time she touched a new part of his body, he gave a little scream and flailed about; she knew he could not keep doing that much longer without coming in his pants.
Throughout, he kept trying to kiss her on the mouth. It was distracting. "Just lie back and relax," she whispered to him, her long-dormant cunt now awake and purring with excitement. He obeyed, and she unbuttoned his shirt and removed it, stopping to kiss the tiny pink nipples on his narrow chest. His skin was as smooth as a girl's. She felt a rush of pity and protectiveness along with a desire to possess him. Don't worry baby, I'll make it good for you, she promised him wordlessly. You'll never worry about being a fag again. He let her unbuckle his belt and remove his trousers, gasping and gritting his teeth as she eased his briefs over his erection. His cock was just lovely . . . pretty and graceful, his small sweet balls, covered with soft blond fuzz, all high and full to bursting. She kissed his belly and he jumped; finally she could contain herself no longer-she wrapped her long slender hand around his velvety smooth cock. His entire body tensed; he began to move himself within her hand . . . she helped him and felt the warm liquid come welling up, pouring over her fingers.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, after she'd gotten up and returned with tissues.
"Don't be an idiot." She laughed and tousled his hair. "I'll bet that little bird will lift up its head and fly again in about ten minutes."
Tommy relaxed and grinned at her gratefully. "Make that five minutes," he said. They laughed together and she hugged him. He started to kiss her on the mouth again, extending his tongue in a clumsy manner. She returned the kiss with closed mouth, then put out the tip of her own tongue to press against his teeth so he'd open his mouth . . . showing him how to do it. He was learning fast. By the time he kissed her again, he had it down, and he had it up as well, pressing his sturdy erection against her cunt. She made him lie back, and straddled him, easing her spongy cunt over his bobbing cock, slipping it over like a glove. God, it felt good! It had been such a long time . . . she felt she could come, sweetly, lingeringly, any second she chose-she just sat on top of him, moving not at all, for a while, wanting to make it better for him, wanting to make it last. Then she began to move, it was fantastic, she could make it hit exactly the right spot by moving a certain way. Tommy was quite passive in his bliss; she ground herself the way she needed to the sure quick orgasm she had known was hers as surely as if she'd been masturbating. But she hadn't been masturbating-r-that was the difference. She'd been making love, and now she felt the replay of her own climax as Tommy took over and did his thing, arching and thrusting himself over the brink. His orgasm, this time, was cataclysmic; he vocalized for several minutes, and when the last spasm had subsided, there were tears in his eyes.
She held him tenderly, soothing him to sleep. "I never dreamed it could be this good," he whispered in her ear. It will be a night to remember. Felicity made another silent promise, this one to both of them, feeling that delicious mixture of tenderness and power-loving ravisher and willing virgin-of the bridegroom on his wedding night. They slept and woke, smoked some more and made love, ate something, slept again, woke and made love. Was it six or seven times? (They argued about it later on.) Felicity sucked him to orgasm once; they fucked straight missionary style. It didn't matter what they did or how, it all felt wonderful.
The holiday feeling lasted through the following afternoon. She had been afraid Tommy might be embarrassed or remorseful when he came down, but not at all-he acted like a kid who's just discovered some secret treasure, which, in a way he had. It was when he followed her to the kitchen and pushed her into a closet, making her lie down on the floor despite her protests and fucking her quickly and breathlessly, that Felicity began to get worried. It was the pot thing all over again, only much worse. He wanted to do it all the time, and he was after her again five minutes after they'd made it. She pleaded with him to cool it; he would blow the whole scene, they simply had to be more discreet. Tommy tried hard, but he just couldn't control himself very well. The worst of it was, his fever was catching; she found herself getting the hots for him every time she saw that stricken, out-of-it look come into his eyes. As for him, he admitted that he practically came in his pants just thinking about her. They balled in the stable the following day before going for their ride; they balled again in a meadow that was altogether too exposed. Felicity knew they were being most uncool, but there was something driving her-driving both of them. His body was so much like her own . . . they had come from the same womb, after all; she knew instinctively what would feel good to him, his responses were like her own and he was learning so quickly-he was such sin incredibly apt pupil. That night, settling in for another all-night session in her room, he asked if he might eat her. Felicity balked; it was too soon, she told him, it might turn him off. Tommy insisted, and she let him do it, and he did it beautifully, with a minimum of guidance, and raised his angelic head, his eyes radiant, his mouth moistly fragrant, to tell her it was lovely down there, simply lovely, and had he done all right?
It was like a dream and it had to end. Caught up as she was in the scene, Felicity found herself thinking, only another day or so, then he'll go back to school. They couldn't go on this way-Tommy grew less cool instead of more so as the time of his departure neared. On the night before he was to leave he broke down and cried; he pleaded with her not to let him go, to take him with her to London, if only for a while. Just a little while longer-he couldn't lose her yet, it was too soon, he simply couldn't bear it. He wouldn't be a nuisance, honestly. Meanwhile smoking her pot, paying no attention to her when she asked him to stop, to please, for God's sake cool it, before he caused a scandal.
"That's all you care about, what other people will think," he cried and ran out the door. Felicity lay awake the rest of the night, worrying about him, wondering at herself, trying to figure out how this insane thing could have happened, praying that Tommy would come to his senses and leave in the morning without making another scene.
Mother was to drive him to his train at ten in the morning. Felicity stayed in bed till noon. Finally she got up, dawdling in her room, trying to postpone the moment she would have to go downstairs. It was unnaturally quiet in the house . . . she didn't like it. Mother was in the garden, pruning a rosebush; everything looked cool, but Felicity was getting some peculiar vibes from the old lady. Something about the rigid way she held her back, the way she managed not to see Felicity till she was standing almost beside her.
She couldn't stand the suspense any more, she had to find out. "Did Tommy get off all right, mother?" Her own voice sounded to Felicity strange and forced. Mother did not answer at once. She attacked the bush with the pruning shears in such a way that Felicity felt herself inwardly recoiling.
"Yes . . . he got off all right," mother said at last, Siberia in her voice. "No thanks to you, of course."
There was another deadly silence, punctuated by the click of the shears.
"I must say, you had me fooled for a time," said mother. "I almost found myself thinking you might turn out all right after all. Now I know better. You must be madthere can be no other explanation. Quite insane, just like your father. I could have you committed you know, but I won't do that."
Her mother's voice was dangerously low and quiet; she did not look at Felicity as she spoke.
"What . . . exactly did he tell you?" Felicity didn't want to ask, she just wanted to walk away, but she had to know.
Mother did not answer at once. Finally she had herself enough in control again. "I do hope you're not going to deny everything," she said. "He didn't go into any details . . . simply said he didn't want to go back to school, that he couldn't live without you; he was quite hysterical, but I managed to calm him down. Hopefully, he will be strong enough to get over the shock."
She turned now and brought the full brunt of her hatred and outrage to bear on Felicity. Her eyes bored holes into the girl. "I don't care what you do, you understand. But why did you have to bring your filth into my home? Why did you have to do this to Tommy?"
Then she turned to the rosebush again. Her voice was calmer. "It can only be because you're insane. I suppose you can't help that, but you must understand I cannot have you staying here any longer."
"I'll go pack right now and make a reservation," Felicity said hastily. There were so many things she might have said. It was impossible to say anything. She knew that what had happened with Tommy was one of the least dirty things that had ever happened to her; it had been weird, perhaps . . . exciting and beautiful and scary, but not sordid. No one was really to blame, it had just happened; she hadn't meant to blow Tommy's mind . . . she was sure it would do him no serious harm. But who else would see it that way? Never mind her mother-who, of all the people she knew, would not consider her affair with Tommy as kinky, to say the least. Maybe mother was right-maybe she was really crazy.
She was ready to leave in an hour. She stood downstairs, with her luggage, waiting for mother to bring the station wagon. No goodbyes, yet she could not help looking back over her shoulder at the house she'd known so well and hated so long and would never see again. Well, that's what they say, you can't go home again. Felicity put on the familiar, protective garment of flippancy-it felt good to wear it again, to wrap herself in aloof contempt as in a blanket. It blotted out the terrible sadness, and the fear.
CHAPTER FIVE
Felicity stood in front of the full-length mirror, frowning critically at her reflection. She was wearing a pants suit of antique-rose satin trimmed with red fox. The outfit was okay, especially the fox trim. But there was something wrong with the total picture. Was it her hair-was it piled too high? No, it had to be that way-if she wore it down it would hide the fur collar and ruin the line of the suit. On the other hand, wearing her hair up like that made her face look too long and thin. Should she fluff it out a little at the sides? She tried it. A strand came loose and she couldn't put it back together again the right way. She cursed under her breath. It wasn't going right, she had better try to relax.
Walking away from the mirror, she took the hash pipe out of the bureau drawer and lit up. One, two, three tokes . . . there, that was better. She returned to the mirror and fixed the loose strand of hair. Her face was too pale-it was the antique rose-it just wasn't her color, it washed her out. No wonder it had taken her so long to decide on buying the suit. It was the red fox, of course, that had turned her on. Oh well, she told herself, you can't win them all. Make the best of it. Maybe a little more rouge on the cheeks-yes, definitely, and maybe a little more eye makeup too.
She was busy with makeup and brush when she heard the knock on the door. Clara already! "Come in," she called absent-mindedly, concentrating on the green eye shadow that refused to blend just right above her lids. She did not look up till Clara was standing right beside her, and then she simply gaped, her mouth slightly open, eye shadow brush poised in mid-air. Clara looked absolutely fantastic, better than she'd ever seen her look, better than she'd imagined Clara ever could look. She had on this very sheer Indian thing, the colors all sort of bled and blended into each other, black and purple and red and green, and the thin material hugged and clung to the curves of her body. Clara had put band-aids over her dark nipples so the see-through effect was subtle enough; under the Indian tunic she wore these very skinny pants of some slinky, shimmery material. Her black hair was curled and puffed into a modified afro, it framed her face like a dark cloud and looked absolutely stunning. And that necklace! Wherever had she found it? It was the most beautiful thing Felicity had ever seen. Yes, she had to admit Clara was finally getting her thing together. She looked both sexy and hip; everything about her tonight was perfect.
"You look groovy," said Felicity, wondering why she couldn't express the real admiration she felt. "Thanks," said Clara, just as casually, then bent to finger the rose satin. "Crazy," she said, and immediately turned away, emphasizing, Felicity thought, the insincerity of the compliment. Oh God, is that what it's come to, she thought despairingly. Such petty jealousy! Clara's your best friend, she reminded herself. Can you only dig her when you feel superior to her? No . . . Felicity rejected the thought. It was just that she felt a little out of sorts, a little nervous and insecure. It was her first night out since she'd returned from England, and she wasn't quite ready yet; that scene at home had shaken her up more than she'd realized and she would gladly have postponed going out for a while longer. But one didn't cop out on a Jimi Hendrix concert-not when it was New Year's Eve and she and
Clara had planned and prepared for this event for such a long time.
Clara had been talking, Felicity suddenly realized.
"I'm sorry, baby, what did you say?" Felicity smiled at Clara with as much warmth as she could muster. "I didn't catch that last bit."
Clara looked at her hard. "You haven't been listening at all, have you," she said at last. She got up, walked over to the mirror and began fluffing up her afro. "You do that to me quite a lot, you know," she said, careful not to look at Felicity. "It's really quite annoying."
Felicity was growing more and more depressed. "I'm sorry," she said. "It's just that I'm not feeling altogether right, and
"That's funny," Clara cut her off, coldly rejecting her bid for sympathy. "You haven't felt quite right before each concert we've been to lately."
"That isn't true," Felicity protested, without conviction.
"Isn't it?" Clara was relentless. "Okay, that California concert was a bad scene, and you'd had acid, but what about the Morrison concert. Remember that? You almost passed out on me a couple of times."
Something cold and hard began to gather itself inside Felicity.
"What do you suggest?" she inquired. "Would you like me to stay home. Do you want me to give you my ticket so you can call someone else? I will, if you're afraid I'll embarrass you, or that you'll have to take care of me."
"Of course not." She had Clara on the defensive now. "It's just that I'm a little worried about you."
"I don't think it's me you're worried about. I think you're worried about yourself -and quite rightly so, I might add." Felicity was immediately sorry she'd said that; it was a low dig, a reference to the fact that Felicity paid for the tickets and picked up Clara's tab in general; the implications of the remark, far-reaching and nasty, were not lost on Clara.
She was silent for a long time. Then she sighed. "Perhaps you'd rather I didn't go," Clara said carefully. "If that's so, I wish you'd come right out and say so instead of
But Felicity had thrown her arms around Clara and was hugging her with a kind of desperation. "Oh please, let's not fight," she begged, close to tears. "I'm sorry I was nasty just then . . . I-I just don't know how the whole thing got started, but let's just stop it, what do you say, and go to the concert and enjoy ourselves, okay?"
"I'm sorry too." Clara sniffled a little as she returned Felicity's embrace. "It's just that . . . well, things just haven't been the same since you got back, somehow. I don't know what it is and you won't talk about anything."
"I know, I know," Felicity said hastily. "I will tell you about it one day, I promise. I just have to get it clear in my mind first, like kind of put it in perspective, you understand?"
Clara nodded, without conviction. Felicity broke out the hash and they smoked the pipe of peace. It was an uneasy reconciliation, there were too many things unsaid, too much unresolved tension between them, but it would have to do for the time being.
They rolled some joints to smoke later, and took the elevator down. As they walked through the lobby, every eye in the place was turned in their direction. That cheered them up quite a bit; Felicity felt generous enough to tell Clara just how gorgeous she really looked, and paid her the unheard-of compliment of asking her where she'd gotten the Indian tunic and the necklace. Clara, immensely pleased, mentioned a boutique she'd never heard of. Clara had just discovered it for herself and promised to take Felicity there the very next day. There was an uneasy moment in the taxi when Clara brought out an ammy and stuck it under Felicity's nose. "Cut that out," said Felicity sharply, pushing Clara's hand away. "I mean," she said, softening a little, "ask me first, will you. I really don't dig ammies that much any more . . . they give me vertigo. I mean, you just outgrow some things."
Clara bristled for a moment, then relaxed. "Yeah, I guess ammies are kind of kid stuff," Clara admitted. "I still like them though," she added, grinning mischievously. "Guess I'm just a kid at heart."
Felicity grinned and made a gesture that said, by all means, do your thing.
Clara put the white plastic tube in her nostril and took a deep sniff. "Different strokes for different folks, eh?" she giggled cheerfully.
Felicity nodded. "Wish I could get a hold of some good coke," she said wistfully. "It's so hard to come by. Now that Lee's been busted, I don't know anybody who handles it.
"Yeah, coke's nice," Clara agreed. "Nobody wants to deal it though-too expensive for most people, not enough profit in it, I guess."
"I'll see what I can do about it," Felicity promised. "Tomorrow I'll call some people."
Clara hugged her. "You get us some coke and I'll throw away my ammies, how's that?"
"A deal," said Felicity, smiling, as they drove up in front of the theater.
The Fillmore East again. Jimi Hendrix on stage, enveloped and isolated by the spotlight. His dark mass of hair like a halo around his head-like a crown of black thorns. His guitar white and gold and female in shape, a beautiful instrument that would be made to perform the impossible, to produce sounds never before demanded from a guitar. Hendrix, under the glaring lights, exuding calm confidence, his strong face wearing an expression haughty and aloof, and perhaps a little mocking. When he is ready-if he chooses to-he will begin to move his whip-like body in the sexy, insinuating way that will make the women scream and squirm in their seats and yet is never vulgar because you know it is a put-on; because you can sense that beneath the showmanship the inner man has remained untouched by the crowd's adulation. Hendrix gives the impression that he loves his music more than he loves himself, and that he loves his audience not at all, though he will give them what they paid for, and then some.
At the opening bars of his first song, Felicity sank back in her seat and shut out all distractions, once again she experienced the familiar lightheadedness, that voluptuous tingling all over her body which meant she was about to enter the twilight zone.
She is sitting alone at a table in a cafe. The dim lights and red leatherette do not hide the fact that it is a low-class dive. A primitive light show of sorts is provided by the moving beer ads and by the juke box, which is blasting out music at full volume. There is a pin-ball machine in one corner, a bar at the other end. The place is full of men. Young men and old, short and tall, fat and thin but all of them dark-skinned; she cannot quite think of them as black, though she knows that is what they like to be called. The hatred and desire they have for her is indeed black, it is a dark, palpable force in the smoky room. She can feel all those eyes upon her, stripping off her clothes; she can hear the snickers and the whispered comments: "Jimi's white bitch." The waiter comes to take her order. He leers at her boldly and winks; he knows she is helpless.
She is all alone. There are three girls at the bar plying their dark trade . . . their coffee-colored bodies are squeezed into low-cut sequined dresses. They wear their sexuality as blatantly as their lipstick, and they glare at her with open hostility. She can expect no pity from them. The hostility of the men is more disguised, they make it a point to walk past her table; they smirk and brush against her and try to catch her eye. She is frightened and humiliated; at the same time, she finds it exciting-she cannot help but be sexually stirred by the lust which surrounds her, the thick desire which envelops her and which is her protection. Yes, they hate her and would gladly see her dead, but they want her too-they long to be given free access to her pale, slim body. They will not harm her, she is beautiful, she is Jimi's white bitch. He has told her to wait for him here and she waits.
What if he doesn't come? The thought is a stab of terror. Will they permit her to leave? Or will they pounce on her like a pack of famished wolves? He is very late . . . how much longer should she wait? She is certain now that he will not come. She tries to leave but cannot. She sits and waits.
When at last he walks through the door and it is like a reprieve. He moves like a cat. Over red velvet pants and white brocaded shirt he wears a black velvet jacket, tight at the waist and flaring at the hips. He is at once elegant and dangerous, sophisticated on the surface only. He could be wearing her own clothes-satin and lace and fur-and it would only enhance his maleness. He was born to dominate; his power is sure, he does not need to assert it.
He sits next to her. He does not speak but leans back in his chair, looking her over. He nods his approval and his thick, chiseled lips part in a smile. It is a mocking smile, but she returns it gratefully; she bathes in the questionable warmth of that smile, for it is all she has. His contempt for her is only slightly less than that of the other men, but he too desires her. He wants to fuck her and that is her security. For tonight, the age-old antagonisms-man and woman, black and white-will be forgotten, or at least transmuted into some other form. He reaches out and takes her hand. His fingers are long and strong, thick and calloused; she feels herself melting inside. She wants him so much it makes her shy and she lowers her eyes. He is the king. She is his northern princess-his captive.
Suddenly the door opens. In walks the most beautiful girl she has ever seen. It is Clara! Every eye in the place is riveted upon her as she walks to a table on the other side of the room and sits down. She moves like a queen, her gorgeous body undulating in her shimmery garments, proudly ignoring the lecherous men who crowd near her. There is a hum of excitement in the cafe, the stir Clara has created far surpasses the effect Felicity produced. Much as she hated the attention she was getting, now that it is gone, now that no one any longer looks at her, she feels lost, her safety threatened, her pride destroyed. Her man is staring at Clara with all the rest. And now he is getting up, oh no, he can't leave, he must not do this to her! Forgetting her cool, she puts her hand on his arm to detain him, looking into his eyes pleadingly.
He gives her a cool, cynical smile. "Hang loose there, Foxey Lady," he tells her and walks away, across the room to sit down next to Clara. Felicity remains where she is, staring sightlessly into her empty glass. She sits absolutely still, not moving a muscle, not betraying herself, while the ten thousand demons of jealousy assail her. It is the age-old story . . . her lover, her best friend, Frankie and Johnny and Nellie Blye; love and hate, jealousy and betrayal. She does not want to but she has to look at the two of them together, their dark heads close, their hands touching-she cannot tear her gaze away but stares at them with hatred, wallowing in the exquisite torment, she is falling, falling, lost in the abyss of her dark passions.
And once more, she is reprieved. Jimi kisses Clara's hand, whispers something in her ear, and gets up to go. Thank heavens! He is returning to her table. A great gasp "ahhh . . . " goes up from the audience, which has been watching the drama unfold with tense excitement. He is smiling down at her again, mockingly. "Ready to go, Foxy?" he asks, needlessly. As they leave the cafe, she looks neither to left nor right; she especially does not want to see Clara, toward whom she now feels a kind of pity. It is Clara's turn to be abandoned and betrayed.
They are in a hotel room. It is not quite a flea-bag hotel, there are drapes and a carpet, and the furniture is motel-modern. Nevertheless, the room is cheap and sordid-looking, a room designed for casual sexual encounters. They are both naked on the bed. Her bluish-white skin contrasts beautifully with his sooty-ash coloring. He is not really very dark. The bed is rumpled, the sheet and blanket bunched up and hanging to the floor. Her thighs and belly are covered with sweat, but his body is dry, dry and hot. He has been fucking her for over an hour; they are taking a break. Now he is mounting her again. His celebrated cock, whose plaster likeness has been seen throughout the world, is even more impressive in the flesh. It is truly a king-size scepter, jutting out from his narrow hips at a proud angle, bobbing its majestic dark head imperiously at her flame-colored cunt. She opens her legs wide to let him in. With one sharp jab, he enters her all the way, and she lets out a gasp, tensing against the pain. She wills her body to relax . . . she becomes soft and pliant, letting the regal cock iron out all the wrinkles inside her cunt. He fucks her in every way imaginable-now he bends her legs all the way back over her head-now he makes her put her legs straight down and together, narrowing the passage and squeezing him so he groans with pleasure. He takes her sideways, so that one of his hard muscular thighs protrudes from between her legs like a giant prick; then he turns her over and takes her from the back. She is the perfect receptacle, passive and yielding, firm and resilient; he can do anything he likes with her. He is battering her cervix, he is twisting her into positions that are awkward and painful, he is hitting spots inside her that have never been hit before and were never meant to be, he is drawing sounds from her-grunts and squeals and yelps-that do not sound quite human, sounds she would never believed herself capable of making. Now and then, when he has her doubled up like an accordion, or forced her into some other contortionist position, she thinks, this is impossible, he will puncture something, he is ripping me apart. But he is a master at what he does, and he understands her body better than she does herself; somehow he makes the impossible happen, again and again, and he not only fails to injure her, but gives her a very special thrill, pride in the unexpected resources and capacities of her pampered body. She is really digging it now. She has reached that point of mental excitement where physical pleasure and pain are almost transcended, and getting there is not only all the fun, but it no longer even matters whether you get anywhere at all. They have been fucking for hours now, just for the sake of fucking; they are at the point where they cannot come and they cannot stop, and do not really want to. They will fuck until he is exhausted, for three days if necessary, and she knows she can go on as long as he wishes.
Suddenly the door opens. Felicity stiffens and twists her head to see the intruder. It is Clara! She is wearing a black garter belt, black stockings and high heels and nothing else. She has on bright red lipstick and heavy eye makeup; the dark-brown nipples of her full breasts are touched up with rouge. With a cry of joy, her lover pulls out of her and leaps upon the sluttish girl; he has her on the bed, her black-nyloned legs bent back beside her head, and is burying his accomplished cock within the fleshy folds of Clara's cunt. The girl moans and squeals, "fuck me, Daddy, sweet Daddy, hm . . . fuck, fuck, fuck," she croons; the tip of her tongue comes out to play obscenely in the corners of her too-red lips. They are making the bed-springs creak. He is fucking her to a fare-thee-well, and Clara is loving it. It is the most exciting thing Felicity has ever seen. She can hardly breathe, she is beside herself with lust, her deprived cunt feels as if it is possessed by a fire-breathing dragon. She can hardly stand it, but she can no more prevent herself from watching than she can stop the terrible burning itch inside her; in fact, she scrunches down so her head is right near the point of juncture, black wiry hairs tangled in black silky ones, and she can smell the heady odor of their mingled sex. She almost faints from the intensity of her excitement. Her hand steals to her cunt and tries to do something there that will relieve the awful burning.
Suddenly she feels another hand joining hers. She raises her head in surprise. Clara is leering at her, winking and wiggling her long red tongue.
"Come on, baby," she says in a slurred voice. "I bet I know just what baby needs. Come and sit on my face."
She does not have to be asked twice; she is in ecstasy. Her cunt is being laved and soothed by that lurid red mouth, her clitoris is a blissful captive of the white teeth and skillful tongue. She can hear the man's increased excitement by his labored breathing, all three of them are getting there now, she can feel the charged vibrations, the crazy build-up. They are so beautifully together now, fucking and sucking in unison; she is going to come, oh very soon, and just then she feels the man's thick fingers penetrating her asshole. She shrieks and her sound is echoed by Clara as she feels the man's hot come spurting out and climaxes at the same time.
The roar of the waterfall again, pulling her roughly to the surface. Felicity struggled against it, each time it got a little harder to pull herself out of the dream. She felt drained; her body and her mind were numb. She did not have the strength to join in the applause. She could feel Clara looking at her. With a great effort, she pulled herself together, and turned to face her friend. Their eyes locked for a moment; then both of them looked away.
"Oh by the way, I am going to after the concert," said Clara with studied casualness. "I figured you wouldn't be going so I've arranged to meet Frank at Max'. You can drop me off there on your way to the hotel."
Felicity was quiet, digesting it all. Something cold and hard was forming inside her again. She still felt weak, but her mind was clear now. She took a deep breath.
"As a matter-of-fact," she said, careful not to look at Clara, "I was planning to go to that party myself. Yes, I've definitely decided to go. We can pick up Frank at Max' or, if you'd rather, I can drop you off and go ahead by myself, and Frank and you can come up later."
"Of course not, don't be silly," Clara said hastily. "Frank will be delighted, I'm sure. You know there's nothing between us. It's just that . . . well, I didn't expect you'd want to go."
Felicity smiled. "Well it just goes to show you, doesn't it. I hate to think I'm so predictable."
Clara began to say something, but just then the music started again, giving Felicity an excuse to drop the subject and turn her attention back to the stage. She felt herself being nudged. "Want an up?" Clara whispered in her ear. The offer was not entirely friendly, Felicity felt; it implied that she was not quite up to par. "No," she said, shaking her head. Then she beckoned Clara to come closer so she could whisper in her ear. "I could use a couple of downs," she told her. "Do you have any?" Clara nodded, her face expressionless, and fished in her purse. Felicity took the proffered Librium, filling her mouth with saliva before swallowing the capsules.
"I think I'm going to have to lie down for a moment," Felicity said to the young man who was telling her about the booking troubles his group had experienced in Boston.
At once, he was all solicitude. "Oh sure," he said. "There's a bedroom back here somewhere. Come, I'll take you there." He steered her firmly past the blur of faces into a small dark room which contained a big bed.
"You haven't o.d'd or anything like that, have you?" the young man asked anxiously. She wondered if it was his apartment.
"No, I don't think so." Felicity tried to sound as cool as she could. "I've had a little too much of everything, but not too much of any one thing. I'm just a little dizzy, that's all. A little rest will fix me up."
"Right," said the young man. "Take your time. You can stay the night, if you like-no one uses this room much. Can I get you anything-water, a down . . . ? "
"No, no," she protested quickly. "I don't need a thing-except to get horizontal. Touch of vertigo, you know."
The young man nodded. "It's those poppers," he said. "Sometimes they do that to me too. Well, you will call me if you need something, won't you?"
And then he was gone, and she was blissfully alone, with only the sounds of the party. So at long last she'd made it to the "party afterwards." Of course, she used to go to all of them, those early years in London, when it seemed unthinkable to turn down any invitation. But that had been so long ago!
Still, it had seemed important, somehow, that she go to this party. Not just because of her thing with Clara; not just because it was New Year's Eve. The time had come to stop hiding her head in the sand-face up to it, whatever it was, or was not, the scene, her life . . . the whole trip. If it was turning into a bad trip, and it sure looked that way, then she'd have to. . . .
Bu, here her mind boggled, and would not go on. This party had been a bad trip for her, that was certain. Relief at being away from it, at no longer having to pretend and play the game, swept over her with such force that she began to cry, tears welled up from nowhere and ran, unhindered, down her cheek. All night long she had felt as if she were in an isolation booth. It was transparent, of course, she could see people and they could see her, nor was it sound-proof; in fact, in some strange way, it seemed to amplify noise. She had tried, a couple of times, to break out of her plastic shell, several faces had seemed worth reaching out to, had shown some flicker of recognition and sympathy for her plight. One in particular kept floating out of the people blur, an interesting face with penetrating eyes. There was a voice attached to the face, and a nameBruce-that was it, Bruce Jones. She'd tried to hold on to him once, when she felt that she was sinking, within her isolation booth, into an invisible sea, but others kept coming between-Clara, in particular. Clara, who seemed to have a clearer understanding of what she was going through, but couldn't have cared less. It was Clara's night, her big triumph, and nothing and no one-her cold looks said-was going to spoil it for her. So Felicity just kept going through the motions, grateful that most of the people there were too self-absorbed to notice her trouble.
And now it was over-except for the physical effect of getting home, but that was really no problem. She'd gone on with it as long as she could, long enough so no one, not even herself, could accuse her of copping out. She closed her eyes, thinking she might sleep. It was impossible. Despite fatigue and fear and sorrow, or perhaps because of it, her mind was on fire; she listened to the sounds coming from as if they contained a clue to her destiny. The crowd had thinned-there was less of a hum and only an occasional peal of laughter, a voice raised above the others. It was the music that dominated now, the sound muted, yet in some mysterious way intensified, within the small dark room.
All night long they had been playing Jimi Hendrix records. Because was ostensibly in his honor, though no one really expected him to show up. Felicity ceased to think and gave herself over to the music. The sound enveloped and penetrated her; slowly, it began to take on shape and form. Before her closed eyes, out of the heavy darkness, appeared a shimmering hallucination-a white guitar, pulsing and luminous, larger than life, with a strange insistent reality that was somehow personal, not just symbolic. As she watched, the phantom guitar grew larger and more intensely white-there was something ominous about it now and she tried to will it gone. She turned on her side and opened her eyes, so that she could dimly make out objects in the room, but the image persisted. It hovered right in front of her wide-open eyes, monstrous in its brightness and surrealistic detail. She could see the frets and the glistening strings, closer now, and she realized, with a shock of fright, that the instrument was moving toward her, in slow pulsing motions, and that it was threatening to engulf her. For long moments she struggled, trying to free herself, clutching at sanity, not quite able to believe herself in the grip of this most bizarre of hallucinations. Nearer and nearer the phantom came. What is happening? she asked herself, and just then-it happened.
The guitar was no longer in front of her. It was inside her, or rather, she was inside it. In any event, they had merged, she and the guitar were one. Her body was now a slender, finely-tuned instrument, humming with power, supremely sensitive to touch.
The metamorphosis was shocking, but complete. She no longer fought it. Hendrix' powerful, brooding face appeared before her for an instant. Let it be, she thought. I am your Electric Lady . . . do with me what you will.
As if she had uttered an incantation, she felt it begin. Slowly at first, starting as a tingling sensation all over her body. She felt the deep, dark vibrations radiating outward from some secret center, warming her. She was filled with expectancy, a profound sense of purpose. Everything else ceased to exist. . . her body tense, tight-strung, waited for the virtuoso touch of the Music Master. And when it came. When she felt those magical fingers, felt the snapping and the popping and ripping of her nerve-strings, the thrill was so profound it transcended all ordinary notions of pleasure or pain. Sound and sensation and emotion all orchestrated into a unity of experience-joy and sorrow, triumph and loss, the ecstasy of sex and the finality of death-all at once and all the same in the mystery of the music and her transformed being. And the glory and the power were hers too as he held her in his arms, one hand on each of her vital centers, mind and cunt, the head and the genitals, rulers of her sun sign, the constellation of Scorpio. He held her and tore and plucked from her the keening, wailing sounds of a creature in extremis, while he told of how manic-depression had captured his soul.
And it was enough . . . it was too much, but the divine madman was nowhere near finished with her-in fact, he had only begun. He'd been holding himself in check, and now he assaulted her in earnest, with crashing chords and a propulsive, drum-like beat over which a single loud clear voice rose to a screaming crescendo. A thousand volts of electricity jolted through her delicate frame, and the sound being drawn from her was that of a thousand howling banshees. It was impossible, human ear and brain and nervous system could withstand no more, and still it kept rising, the sound spiraling up and out, higher and stronger, farther and farther out, roll of thunder and wail of sirens, a churning cacophony of violence and chaos. And the black magus presiding over his orderly hell, running all the buttons and levers and knobs affixed to her milk-white body, merciless in his genius, purring and crooning to her in his deceptively light voice . . . letting her know how it was.
Something inside her exploded. She was wracked by deep, uncontrollable shudders, her body convulsed. She was having a seizure, the phrase "orgasm of the brain" flashed through her mind. And it would not stop. It went on and on, spasm upon spasm. Her mind snapped. Panic washed over her like a crimson tide, sheer, unmitigated terror held her in thrall. Stop! Make it stop, please make it stop! She was not even aware of praying, and her torturer and master gave no sign of letting up, telling her with every agonizing chord that for the sake of his music he would gladly . . . lovingly, savagely, destroy her. Do it then, she pleaded, burn me, smash me, kill me if you must but make it stop. Oh, please, dear God, make it stop, make it stop. All through the dread ordeal -the classic case of the horrors, while it seemed as if one fuse after another was blowing throughout her body-she lay curled up in fetal position feeling her nervous system being short-circuited. All the while the electric lady was dying, one part of her kept chanting, kept repeating, like a child the primitive archetypal prayer: "Please, dear God, make it stop, I'll do better, I'll change my life, make it stop, I can't stand it, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop."
CHAPTER SIX
Dr. Schmerz' office was on the nineteenth floor and overlooked Central Park. It was paneled in wood and decorated with floor-to-ceiling books. The desk was large, the carpet thick and soft, the lights soothing; the leather couch looked uncomfortable enough to be strictly business. There were framed photographs on the wall, of Freud, Jung and several others whom Felicity did not recognize but assumed to be other well-known heroes of psychiatry. Schmerz did not belong to any school, he had hastened to assure her of that at the beginning. The place had an air of solidity, meant to reassure the patient without intimidating him. It was the perfect psychiatrist's office-too perfect, Felicity thought. Everything looked just right, except for Schmerz himself. Oh, he had his outer image together, the slacks and sports shirt, elegant but informal, the horn-rimmed glasses, which she suspected he did not really need. He was fifty-ish, kind of short, with a stocky, European build that showed no signs of going to fat; evidently he exercised, played golf and tennis out in Scarsdale or wherever it was he lived, with his wife and two children. They always had a wife and two children, didn't they? What was wrong with Schmerz was his face. It was not a good face-the lines and wrinkles all went the wrong way. The face told her he was shrewd, but cold and selfish and vain. Felicity did not trust Schmerz and had told him so. He had grinned at her and seemed pleased; that did not matter, he had told her, most patients don't trust their doctors at first; he was glad she was able to be honest about it. Score one point for the patient.
This was her third visit, and so far he'd let her do all the talking. Now she was silent, having run out of material for the moment. Schmerz leaned back in his swivel chair and put his fingers together.
"What precisely is it you want me to do for you?" he asked, with unexpected sharpness. "As far as I can gather, you've come to me because you feel you can no longer continue with the kind of life you've been leading. On the other hand, you haven't indicated that you think there's anything wrong with that kind of life, nor that you could conceive of, let alone prefer, another type of existence."
Schmerz paused a moment to let this sink in. "Now it seems you're upset because, for no apparent reason, your mind and your nervous system have been rebelling against you and you feel you can no longer keep up with your scenes. What you want of me, then, is to get you back in shape so you can go on living in your fantasy world and destroying your body and your mind with drugs. Am I correct ? "
There was a long pause during which Felicity struggled with the urge to punch Dr. Schmerz in the nose.
"No, you are not correct," she managed at last to say, in a reasonably calm voice. "It might seem that way, doctor, but I'm not really all that stupid. I'm well aware that I've burned myself out on my scene. It is also true that I don't have anything to take its place. I can't go home, I can no longer relate to my best friend, I have no particular skills or interests to fall back on. I'm confused and I'm frightened and I don't know what to do. That's why I came to you. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe you can't help me. Still, I had to try, you see, I am really quite desperate."
"No need to become defensive," said Schmerz soothingly. "As long as you understand that a change is necessary-as long as you are really convinced that you can't go on the way you have been going-then we can get somewhere. Stupidity has nothing to do with it, by the way. You're quite an intelligent girl, actually, but that does not prevent you from having blind spots in regard to your problems. Okay?
"Now it's quite true I cannot help you," Schmerz continued, leaning forward and placing his thick, black-haired paw on the desk, "if you expect me to provide you with a ready-made, alternate life style, I will certainly not suggest that you marry a nice man and settle down in the suburbs. You might do just that, some day, but if and when you do, it will be your own choice. Nor am I going to suggest that you go back to school and learn a profession-you know you can do that, or anything else you want. The point is, you have to want. Right now, I am concerned with having you gain some insight into your problems and motives. Hopefully, when you understand yourself a little better, the decisions you have to make will come of themselves."
Felicity sighed. "My mother believes I am insane," she said. "My father was a certified paranoid-schizophrenic."
"Your mother," said Schmerz "is highly unqualified to make any diagnosis in your regard. I don't think you are insane despite the recent episodes you described. You came out of them, didn't you? If I really thought you were insane, I'd have turned you over to one of my colleagues. I do not handle patients who are psychotic."
Felicity made a grimace. "That means
I'm neurotic," she said. "How dreary! I think I'd almost rather be crazy."
Schmerz didn't cop to it. "What do you say we dispense with labels altogether," he said smoothly. "They really don't mean anything, you know. Let's just say you're a human being with problems."
"Lets," said Felicity. "What, to be very precise, is my problem, doctor?"
"What do you thing it is?" Schmerz threw it right back in her lap.
Felicity pursed her mouth and frowned, a parody of someone thinking. "Well, I'm not sure, but I think it has something to do with fantasy versus reality."
"Very clever," said Schmerz sarcastically. "We can continue in this flippant way indefinitely, it's your money and your life."
Felicity sighed. "I don't want to be flippant," she said. "I want to know why I'm such a freak."
"All right," said Schmerz, "let's talk about why you're such a freak. That affair with your brother, for instance. You were so light about it, so matter-of-fact. I find it hard to believe you wouldn't feel strong guilts and conflicts. It is incest, after all-one of the strongest taboos in our society."
She shrugged. "Maybe it is odd. But for some reason, I really don't feel guilty about it. I don't even feel it was particularly freaky. I mean I know there are taboos and all that, but every man I've ever talked to who has a sister the right age has admitted he wanted to or tried to fuck her at one time or another, and a few of them tried and succeeded. It's not talked about very much, but I really think it's much more common than most people believe. I don't know, it seems kind of natural, you're there, together all the time . . . anyway, it just happened, that's all."
"I'm not altogether sure it is as natural as you believe," said Schmerz, "but I'll accept your idea of it for the moment."
He leaned toward her abruptly, looking as if he were about to pounce. "But why did you have your affairs with your stepfather and your half-brother? What's the real reason? Schmerz' dramatics were beginning to annoy her.
"I don't know. I guess I'm a freak."
"That word doesn't mean anything to me," said Schmerz. "As long as you persist in acting like a smart-ass kid, we will fail to make progress."
"All right," said Felicity wearily. "What is the real reason?"
"They are safe," said Schmerz. "You knew there was no possibility of any real involvement. Your father and your brother are known quantities. You knew exactly where you stood with them, and thus were able to respond to them with some degree of feeling. At the same time, you knew this feeling could not lead anywhere, for obvious reasons. Still and all, you found yourself enmeshed, against all reason, in emotional complications you had not anticipated. How much more dangerous and frightening to become involved with a stranger, a man whose reactions cannot be predicted at all, a real man, who might make some real demands on you, and who'd have every right to do so. Do you see?"
Felicity felt very tired, suddenly. "And I suppose that's why I prefer sexual fantasies to the real thing-because they are safe?"
"Yes," said Schmerz. "But in the long run, of course, they are far more dangerous. You've already had an indication of where it leads. That's what insanity is, the inability to come back to the real world. You were afraid that you would not come out of your fantasy, and your fear was justified."
"I know that," said Felicity. "Also, I've been losing control over the fantasies. I mean, they're not really that pleasurable any more, all that fear and pain and humiliation."
Schmerz waved this aside. "Of course they're pleasurable," he declared. "In your real-life sexual affairs, you dominate your men, they adore you and you have power over them. In your fantasies, the situation is usually reversed. This is perfectly natural. I don't like to use labels, but I'm sure you know what masochism is. Besides, pain and humiliation in fantasy are altogether another matter from pain and humiliation in reality."
"What about Clara?" she wanted to know. "I'm really more upset about losing her friendship than anything else. And that fantasy I had about her, maybe I'm really a lesbian?"
Schmerz dismissed this too. "Clara is like your relatives," he said. "She is safe, no danger of involvement, and no threat to you. It was only when you felt you no longer had power over her that the trouble began. You see, you are afraid to deal with people on any other level."
Schmerz lowered his voice, and managed to sound almost gentle. "You think of yourself as being bold and free," he said. "In reality, you are nothing of the sort. You are a lonely and frightened little girl, too proud to admit your human needs. Your cleverness and sophistication have covered for you so far. But what happens now? They can't cover for you any longer."
"I don't know," said Felicity, surreptiously checking the time. She wanted to get out of the office, very badly. Ten more minutes to go! "I don't know," she said again. "There's always the overdose . . . a neat, simple way out. But not really," she added hastily, forestalling another criticism from Schmerz about her flipness. "As a matter-of-fact, I've never considered suicide very seriously, only if all else fails, I guess."
"That man you met at that party," Schmerz changed the subject abruptly. "That singer-what was his name?"
"Bruce," said Felicity. "His name is Bruce Jones."
"Yes. You told me he was interested in you. He asked your girl friend for your phone number. Has he tried to call you?"
Felicity shrugged. "Yes, he called once. I had them say I wasn't in."
Schmerz made that forward pouncing movement again. She found it most distressing. "Why? Why did you have them say you weren't in?"
"I don't know." She sighed. "I guess I wasn't really interested."
"All right." Schmerz leaned back as if he had won a point. "You did say you found him attractive."
"Yes," said Felicity wearily. "He's attractive enough, as far as that goes."
"And is he a good singer?" Schmerz seemed to be playing twenty questions.
"He's a pretty good singer," she admitted. "But that's really beside the point. I don't, despite my fantasies, really like musicians that much . . . or actors. I mean that show biz thing is all a big farce, and most of the people involved in it take themselves too seriously, like they're phonies and don't even know it."
"All right, all right." Schmerz was waving his hand again. "So you don't like musicians or actors. Do you like lawyers better? How about engineers? Or for that matter, psychiatrists ? "
Felicity laughed. Schmerz was pretty hip, she decided. "Okay, I see your point," she conceded. "And it's wrong to generalize about groups of people. I didn't want to go out with Bruce Jones because I'm too fucked up. I'm not sufficiently together these days to be able to relate to anybody."
"My dear girl, if people were to wait until they were together, as you put it, before they attempted relationships with others, I'm afraid there'd be no marriages or friendships to speak of in this world. In fact, one of the main reasons you are not together is your fear of relating to others. Do you see what I mean ? "
Felicity saw what he meant. But she was not convinced. "Are you trying to tell me going out with someone like Bruce Jones is going to help me? Aren't I supposed to be getting away from that type of scene?"
"I don't know what you mean by 'that type of scene,'" said Schmerz testily. "You have been involved in contemporary music for nearly four years-in fact, music seems to be a genuine love with you; you've told me you often felt music was the only thing that kept you going. Are you going to throw away the only thing that gives you real pleasure? You don't have to take dangerous drugs like acid because everyone else is taking it, that's 14-year-old behavior. And you don't have to retreat into fantasy for fear of becoming involved in a real love relationship. Many people in the music field don't fantasize to the pathological extent you do, or take drugs either."
Felicity decided not to say anything. She felt she was being backed into a corner.
Schmerz tried another tack. "Why do you think this fellow, what's his name-Jones -was interested in you. According to your story, you did nothing to encourage him, quite the contrary. You didn't feel well that evening; you were unhappy and depressed, and sorry you'd gone to . "
"That's right," said Felicity. "I can't imagine why he was interested in me. We hardly talked at all. I mean, I just sat there most of the evening. I'm no good at those types of parties any more. Jimi Hendrix never showed-they seldom do-and everybody was trying to impress everybody else."
"There you are," said Schmerz. "Maybe he found you interesting just because you weren't trying to impress. The way you described it, your girl friend was the belle of the ball; it was her night and she was getting most of the attention. Yet here this attractive and talented man asked her for your phone number. Why?"
"I really couldn't say." Felicity was growing irritable. "Maybe he thought I was weird, or something. Freaks are in, these days, especially with jaded pop singers."
"Perhaps," said Schmerz. "Somehow, I doubt it. For one thing, you're not all that weird. You seem to want to think of yourself as a freak-a form of vanity you can well dispense with-but the facts of the matter are that you are anything but a freak. In appearance and manner, you fit right into your peer group; you are, if anything, a conformist."
"Thanks a lot," said Felicity grimacing. "Maybe he liked me because I reminded him of the girl next door. Who knows? And who cares ? "
"You care!" Schmerz pointed an accusing finger at her. "Otherwise you would not have told me about him in such detail, or painted such a flattering picture of the young man."
Felicity maintained a sullen silence against Schmerz' persistence. Maybe, just maybe he would drop the whole thing. She just did not want to pursue the subject of Bruce Jones any longer.
"Tell me, what are you so afraid of? What have you got to lose? So if the young man turns out to be no good, so what? You can come back here and tell me 'I told you so.'"
Felicity decided to counterattack. "I thought psychiatrists aren't supposed to do that. I mean tell you what to do and who to go out with. If I don't really feel like it-if I'm not ready-your forcing me into it isn't going to help."
Schmerz allowed a note of impatience to creep into his smooth, lightly-accented voice. "Naturally, if you have made up your mind beforehand that my suggestions aren't going to help, they probably won't. There is no question of forcing . . . you know better than that. As far as what psychiatrists are and are not supposed to do, I suggest you forget everything you've heard and read on the subject. Each case is different, and every therapist decides how he is going to proceed on the basis of the individual. I could sit here and listen to you for six months, or a year, and take your money, but I don't happen to operate that way. Any other questions?"
Schmerz glanced at his watch. The session was almost over. Dismissal was in the air. Felicity, now that she was off the hook, felt strangely defeated, and frustrated. There was something terribly inconclusive about the way the argument had ended. (Yes, she thought of it as an argument, though
Schmerz would probably have at least a dozen well-chosen sentences to say about that.)
Reluctantly, she rose to go. Schmerz remained seated. She hated the way he made her feel-like a dumb and awkward school girl.
"Well, goodbye," she said, wanting somehow to conclude on a more positive note. "I'll see you day after tomorrow."
Schmerz nodded, not looking at her, ignoring her attempts to make him soften a little toward her. She walked across the room, struggling with herself. At the door, she turned.
"When they told him I wasn't in, he left a number to call," she said. Her voice sounded strange and hollow to herself. "Maybe I'll ring him up tonight-find out if he's still interested in seeing me."
Schmerz was careful not to betray any sense of triumph. But then again, maybe he didn't feel any. He probably doesn't give a shit, thought Felicity. After all, why should he? She was just a patient, and when it came right down to it, it was her problem.
"That is up to you, of course," said Schmerz evenly. "I'll see you Friday at three o'clock. Please do try to be on time. And would you ask the receptionist to come in for a moment before she sends in the next patient?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
"I like your place," said Felicity, and she meant it. They were sitting on oversized cushions on the worn Oriental rug, smoking some good Vietnamese grass and drinking May wine. It was a large studio-type room with high ceilings and a skylight; there were a lot of tapes and sound equipment in one corner, a utility kitchen in the other, a platform bed with ladder, some built-in storage units and that was all, except for the rug and cushions and a low round table in the center of the room. A number of large abstract paintings hung on the wall; she asked who had done them, and Bruce admitted they were his. He seemed a little embarrassed by them. They weren't any good, he said, and he wasn't painting any more-he just kept them around as a reminder, he was going to get rid of them very soon. "Oh don't do that," protested Felicity, unable to imagine anyone being so cavalier about their creative efforts.
"I mean," she said, as Bruce looked at her quizzically, "they sort of dress up the place. It would look kind of bare without them."
"Yes," Bruce agreed. "They go with the pad. But I'm going to get rid of that too soon."
"Why?" asked Felicity. "It's so groovy . . . spacious and cozy at the same time. I mean it sort of suits you."
"Yes, but I'm moving up in the world," said Bruce. "I'm going to be rich and famous, and I'll have to live accordingly." He gave her a rueful smile. "You're meeting me at the threshold of making it . . . before success spoils me."
Felicity took a drag on the cigarette. "But why?" she asked again, feeling like a kid with her endless questions. "Why does success have to spoil you? If you're happy with the way you live now and you're hip to where that rich-and-famous scene is at."
Bruce shook his head. "Can't be helped," he said. "Part of my Karma, or something.
I've been poor and hungry all my life-you can't really understand that because you've always been rich. Even though I know that success scene is all a crock of shit, and that this is the best pad I've ever had, and maybe ever will have, still I've got to do that thing, go the whole Hollywood route, get that poverty out of my system once and for all. I'm twenty-five now; I figure I've got maybe five years at most. By the time my star has waned, I ought to be ready for the simple life again."
The silence between them stretched out, without becoming uncomfortable. Felicity was amazed that she could feel this relaxed in the apartment of a man she barely knew. The whole evening so far had been one big surprise. He'd picked her up, and they had gone somewhere or other to eat and listen to music. Bruce had been stiff and awkward. They'd talked about dumb things, and Felicity had wanted the whole thing to be over. Then suddenly, he'd gotten up from the table and steered her out of there.
"Look," he'd said, "you're not really interested in eating here, the food stinks and so does the music. You're interested in finding out whether or not you want to bother getting to know me, and I'm interested in the same thing. The best place to do that is your pad or mine."
Right out front, just like that. Felicity had liked it . . . she'd liked it very much. Since she was staying at a hotel, they went to his place. And things had been going well ever since. He'd offered to cook, but it turned out neither of them were really hungry.
Bruce had stretched out, he was lying on the cushion with his arms behind his head and his eyes were closed; they were listening to his latest recording, not yet released. It was good-damned good. It would be a big hit, Felicity felt. Yes, there was no doubt about it, Bruce Jones was on his way to the big time. The thought made her sad. She studied him as he lay there, finding him beautiful. She wondered if Schmerz would agree with her taste-or Clara, for that matter. Bruce's wiry body might be considered too thin, and he was not very tall, but she like her men slight of build. His face was interesting rather than handsome, with sharp bones and groovy angles, and he had these very intense, very blue Gemini eyes. His upper lip protruded a little in a way she found sexy, but what really turned her on was his hair. It was very dark blond, or very light brown in color, and it seemed to have a life of its own, growing out of his head in a thick mane of tufts and swirls, like a crown. His off-beat looks might not appeal to everybody, but he was definitely her type. She liked the way he talked too-softly, with a trace of a southern accent.
The tape came to an end and Bruce opened his eyes. He smiled at her-his smile was sweet, almost boyish. "A penny," he said, inviting conversation.
"I was wondering," she said, "why did you pick up on me at that party? I was really in a foul mood that night and I wasn't nice to you at all."
"You looked rich," said Bruce, his eyes teasing her. "I'm mad for rich girls."
"No, seriously," said Felicity.
"Okay, seriously," said Bruce. "That is part of the attraction, you know. You have that born-with-a-silver-spoon look about you, and for a pore-white-trash type like myself, that has a certain mystique. Now maybe I shouldn't tell you this, and it's going to get you up tight. But there's no reason for you to mind, we all have our image of the ideal man or woman."
Felicity found she didn't mind. "What was the other part?" She felt it was very important to know. "I mean I was so out-of-it. And you kept talking to Clara all the time -I was sure you were going to take her home."
Bruce shook his head. "Clara went home with the lead guitarist from 'The Morning After.' They're the top group this year. Didn't she tell you? I thought you two were real tight."
"We used to be," said Felicity. "But lately, we just don't seem to groove with each other any more-outgrew each other, I guess."
Bruce nodded. "I'm not surprised," he said.
Felicity looked up. "Why do you say that?"
"Well, look," said Bruce. "I don't want to put down Clara . . . she's great-looking and sexy and she's pretty cool. I mean, most of the time I talked to her, I was pumping her about you, and if she was pissed about that, she never let on. But basically, Clara belongs to the genus Groupie. I might dig fucking her once or twice, but that's all."
Felicity took a deep breath. "And you mean I didn't come off like a groupie?" she asked, hoping he wouldn't think she was being coy. She really didn't know any more, she'd lost confidence and couldn't tell how she appeared to others.
Bruce grinned. "No way," he said. "Besides, I have a confession to make. I've seen you before. At concerts, here and there. I always noticed you-you're pretty hard not to notice-and I expected to see you at the parties or on the scene, but I never did. And then you showed up at that boring bash, but it was just like before. There you were, all dressed up to kill, but there seemed to be no way to get next to you. You had that 'don't touch me' thing about you. And it wasn't a put-on either. I looked at you and I dug there was this terrible sadness in your eyes."
Felicity was taken aback. She'd wanted to know, but now she wasn't sure what to do with the information. It was pretty heavy.
"My mother always told me to be gay and smile a lot. The boys don't like you when you're sad, I've always been told."
Bruce leaned back again. "Well, I don't know about other boys-I only know what I like." He turned on his side and looked at her with those disconcerting eyes. "It wasn't just the sadness, anyway. There was this mystery about you. I couldn't figure you out. I wanted to find out where your head was at. I'd still like to find out. What were you doing, all dolled up, sitting in the front row, at all those concerts? I mean you're not just a music lover . . . there's more to it than that, isn't there?"
Felicity didn't answer right away. She sat very quietly, so as not to betray the fierce inner excitement. She felt giddy and lightheaded with it; for the first time in her life, she experienced the craving for confession -an urge so powerful it came on like sexual desire, only more compelling. She longed to tell him everything, to relate her fantasies in minute detail; she wanted to be exposed, to let him see her naked mind, no one else had ever wanted to see it before.
"Do you really want to know?" She whispered it, her heart hammering with fear.
"I'm dying to know-honest. Wait, let me turn off the tape and roll us another joint." Bruce leapt up eagerly, no doubt picking up on her inner excitement. But when he returned and settled himself down, looking at her expectantly, she grew nervous; she had an attack of stage fright and knew she had to stall for time.
"May I ask you a personal question?" She lit the joint and took a deep drag into her lungs.
"Shoot," said Bruce. "My life's an open book."
"Are you by any chance on speed?"
Felicity wanted to know. "It's your eyes-they're so intense."
"I'm not on speed," said Bruce. "My eyes have always been that way. I smoke pot moderately, drink even more moderately. I'm an earnest, career-minded young man, who will let nothing interfere with his ambitions. Oh, I used to fool with all that stuff when I was younger, but I gave it all up."
"Really?" Felicity was intrigued. "How did you do it?"
"It was very simple, really," said Bruce. "Actually, you might say the drugs gave me up. They just didn't do anything for me any more. It was all a terrible bore. I went on a fast, ate brown rice and drank tea for a week, cleaned out my system."
Felicity was impressed. "And you don't get any cravings, or anything like that?"
Bruce shook his head. "Nothing like that. You can't really kick anything till your head is ready, and then it happens by itself."
Felicity sighed. "That is the most hopeful piece of information I've heard all year," she admitted. "I think my head is almost ready. I know I'm never going to take acid again."
"Why not? Tell me about it." Bruce was prodding her, trying to get her back to the subject of the concerts. "I still want to hear about whatever it was you started to tell me a while back."
Felicity no longer felt nervous. The excitement was still there, but it felt good; it warmed her and she had the exhilarating feeling of adventure. She was about to take the plunge, to embark upon a bold and dangerous course. She'd never felt better in all her life.
"Okay," she said. "Here's how it all started. I was living in London at the time, and I had a crush on Paul McCartney. . . . "
"Wow," said Bruce, when she had finished her account, and then again, "wow!" He'd been listening intently, hanging on every word. Now he jumped up, went to the kitchenette, returned presently with more wine and some cheese and crackers. They munched and drank in silence for a time. Felicity felt drained-empty but relieved. She waited for Bruce to say more, and when he didn't, she began to feel uncomfortable.
"Are you shocked?" she asked conversationally, between bites of cracker.
Bruce looked up in surprise. "Shocked? Hell, no. I've been thinking. I never realized chicks got into fantasies that way. I mean, not the way I get into fantasies-or used to."
"What kind of fantasies did you have? Tell me about them." Felicity wasn't really in the mood to hear about Bruce's sexual imaginings right then, but she felt it was only fair to ask.
Bruce shook his head. "Some other time," he said. "I've mostly given them up, along with all the rest. I mean they don't hang me up any more. But you're really hooked on them aren't you ? "
Felicity shrugged. "I've been trying to kick," she admitted. "I don't really groove on them any more. I feel I'm missing a lot. Anyway, I've been seeing a shrink."
"Oh yea? What does he say about it?"
Felicity grinned. "He thinks I ought to meet a nice young rock musician and settle down."
"Is that so?" Bruce gave her one of his X-ray looks. "Is that why you decided to go out with me?"
Felicity nodded. "I cannot tell a lie. Not to you, anyway. I did think you were groovy-looking, right from the first, and I told the shrink about you."
"Well, thanks," said Bruce. "I always thought I was kind of weird-looking, but that I had a super magnetic personality and that's why girls liked me."
"You have your own style of beauty," said Felicity. "Anyway, I like it."
"Good," said Bruce. "Next question. Do you find me sexy?"
She didn't quite know how to answer that. "Yes . . . I suppose so. I . . . haven't really given it much thought."
"No, I don't suppose you have. I'm real, for one thing. We'll have to work that out first, won't we?"
Felicity suddenly felt very depressed. She might have known he'd have to react negatively to all that undiluted truth. Why did she do it-what was that urge that came over her ? She hadn't even told Schmerz; not in detail, like that. She'd wanted to, but hadn't been able. And here she hadn't been able to keep herself from telling all. It didn't make sense.
"Baby, I'm not putting you down," said Bruce, reading her thoughts. "I'm really glad you told me. I want to make it with you, you know . . . like, really make it, and I don't think we could have if you hadn't told me."
She was still feeling down. "I'm not sure we can make it even now. I dig you, but if we tried to ball now I'd just be going through the motions. I guess I'm pretty fucked up."
Bruce nodded. "I have an idea," he said. "Fuck your shrink, he don't know what's happening. I do. I really think I know a way to unhang you."
He jumped up again, his body lithe and quick, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Yes . . . I think it's going to work."
"What is it? Could you let me in on it, do you think?"
Bruce bent down and kissed her, lightly, on the mouth. "It's called acting out," he said. "Hang in there, baby, I'll be right back."
"Where are you going?" she called after him, as he disappeared into the bathroom, which had a small dressing room attached to it. She didn't want him to leave her just then. The kiss, as casual as it was, had done something to her. She felt all warm and stirred up; the sexual vibes between them had definitely been established and she wanted him close to her, wanted to confirm that physical contact thing that had started to happen and had felt so good.
"I'm going to change," called Bruce from the bathroom. "I'll only be a minute."
Felicity lit another joint, feeling unaccountably nervous. What the hell did he want to change for, at this crucial point?
Then he was standing in front of her, and she let out a gasp. She wanted to laugh, but it really wasn't all that funny. Bruce was wearing tight black leather pants that hugged his slim legs and small ass like a second skin. His bare chest gleamed whitely above the dark pants, the prominent pectorals shining in the reflected light. He stood right in front of her, legs slightly apart, his crotch on a level with her face. There was a strangely intent expression on his face; it made her feel all funny inside, and when she looked down again at his crotch, she realized that he had an erection.
"Wow!" It was her turn to say it. She tried to think of something witty, to break the spell, but she couldn't. She didn't really want to-the whole thing was beginning to turn her on. He looked incredibly sexy in his leather pants-very different from Morrison, but if anything, more erotic, and the vibes emanating from his slender body were so strong they almost made her dizzy.
"Lick it," he whispered, in a voice charged with sex. "Lick my black leather pants."
Felicity tentatively stuck out her tongue, bending forward till it reached the leather. It tasted funny.
"No," he said. "Not like that. Get on your knees and do it." The tone of command in his voice was something totally new.
She obeyed. On her knees in front of him, she grasped one of his slender, hard-muscled legs with both hands and began to lick. The leather tasted not at all the way she had imagined; it was cold and icky-it tasted plastic. The whole scene seemed unreal; she tried to get into it, but kept being distracted. She kept thinking about the way he had looked-the way his face didn't get puffy and swollen when he was excited, but became tighter, more intense. She wanted to see his face . . . she longed to stroke his bare chest.
And while she was thinking about these things, she found herself licking close to his crotch, near the spot where his erection was being strangled by the leather. She fastened her mouth over the small lump on the left side of the zipper, and heard the sharp intake of his breath. Now they were getting somewhere. She placed both her hands on each cheek of his ass and drew him closer, sucking and licking, trying to get a grip with her mouth on the slippery lump. It was a little like trying to eat a popsicle with the paper still on it-maddening, but you knew the goody was there underneath, and if you only worked at it long enough, you'd get to it. Felicity worked diligently, in fact, she was beginning to get quite excited, at least in her mind. It was really a challenge, and she slobbered and nibbled at the bulge till it was totally wet, not knowing exactly what she was driving toward, but hoping that Bruce was digging it-as long as he really dug it, she could keep it up, and even try to enjoy it. Bruce seemed to groove at the beginning. He thrust and ground his hips toward her mouth, his breath came ragged, his hands were tangled in her hair, and the flow of sexual electricity was strong between them. But as she went on and on, becoming more frantic in her efforts to please, to turn this weird scene into a genuine sexual experience for both of them, Bruce's response became weaker . . . he moved less, his hands fell from her hair. The lump in his pants grew smaller and smaller, then disappeared altogether. Felicity kept up her mouthing for another minute or so, then gave it up. Her knees hurt and the muscles of her mouth were sore.
She fell away from him and lay back on the cushion. "I'm sorry, luv," she said, as lightly as she could, "it's just no good. It was a brave try, but it didn't work. Guess it's back to the old drawing board."
Bruce was down on the floor besides her, stroking her hair tenderly, smiling at her with that strange light still dancing in his eyes.
"What do you mean it didn't work? It worked just fine. Exactly the way it was supposed to."
Felicity shook her head. "It's no use lying about it. Don't try to be kind, I know it must have been disappointing for you."
Bruce lifted her chin with his hand, forcing her to look him in the eye. "You don't understand at all, do you? It wasn't supposed to be satisfying, the way you think.
Those fucking pants are tight and uncomfortable-nobody could keep a hard-on alive in them for very long."
She looked into those illuminated eyes of his, warmed by the gayety she saw in them, but wondering at the same time if he weren't really some kind of way-out nutit would be just like her to go for a cat even crazier than herself.
"I guess I don't quite understand," she admitted.
"Well, look, the whole idea is to get the fantasy out of the cellar and into the light of day, so to speak. Once you acknowledge those hidden cravings, bring them out in the open and try to act them out, they lose their power over you. They're no longer secret and forbidden, you see, and no longer so exciting.
"I'll make a confession to you now," Bruce continued. "When the idea for the leather pants first came to me, I got all hot and bothered-the idea of a beautiful chick licking me like that was really exciting, and the idea of it sustained my desire for a while. But of course, the reality of it was not the same at all-I kept my hard-on going as long as I did only because I kept thinking about how groovy it would be to have you naked in bed with me. I mean that leather-licking thing isn't really where it's at-I don't think you dug it that much either."
Felicity sighed, feeling very relaxed suddenly, very comfortable-almost as if they'd had real, mutually satisfying sex. A certain intimacy had been established between them-she felt closer to him now than she'd ever felt to another human being.
"To tell you the truth, I was only digging on the leather a little bit because I thought you were enjoying it. Actually, it didn't turn me on at all."
"There, you see," said Bruce triumphantly. "The experiment was a success, just as I said."
"You mean," said Felicity raising her eyebrows, "that I'm cured?"
"Well now, I wouldn't go so far as to say that. It'll probably take quite a few sessions of acting out to get all that out of your system . . . and out of mine."
They were lying next to each other. Wincing with pain, Bruce opened the tight black trousers and eased them down his legs. "There, that feels better," he said, kicking the trousers from him, and sighed with relief. He looked good naked, better than he did with his clothes on. His face and his body matched, which didn't always happen . . . the same fine-boned intensity and expressiveness marked them both, and a miniature of the thick bush growing on his head framed his cock and balls. The cock looked just right too, not too large, but not small either, and well-shaped, like the rest of him. As he stretched out with his arms behind his head, one leg bent at the knee, he looked like a man who is most comfortable when naked, knowing perhaps that he looked beautiful that way. Felicity looked at him with pleasure, quite boldly.
Bruce turned on his side and grinned at her. "Don't you feel a little overdressed?" he hinted, reaching out and delicately touching her left nipple. "Right," she said, and in a moment, had stripped off her own pants and shirt. She lay down and basked in the open admiration in his eyes. "Fantastic," he murmured. He lay on his elbow, supporting his head on one hand, and with the other hand, he gently, absently, stroked her fine white belly and thighs. His caress had no sexual urgency to it-it was sensual in a more profound way, a kind of erotic getting-to-know-you. "Your skin is so smooth," he said softly. "Feely. May I call you Feely, sometimes? Or is a nickname too personal? I don't want to be presumptuous."
Felicity laughed, delighted at the kind of sensitivity that would appreciate the odd fact that a nickname was really much more intimate than a fuck.
"I don't mind," she said, just as softly, shivering a little with the delicate pleasure of his hot hand on her cool skin. "My kid brother calls me Filly," she admitted.
It was Bruce's turn to laugh. "I hope you won't think of me as your brother," he said.
"Actually, my brother's quite sexy," Felicity drawled, and cautioned herself to be careful. There was something about this man Bruce that made her want to tell all. For a girl who had always been full of secrets, this sudden urge to spill the beans was most strange and alarming.
"I still don't want to be your brother," said Bruce, and putting his hand on the small of her back, drew her near to him.
They lay on their sides, their arms around each other, touching in as many places as they could, exploring each other's bodies, learning by touch. Their mouths met in a lingering kiss, their firm slender legs intertwined . . . eyes closed, their hands discovered the little secrets of their bodies. He found the tiny raised mole beneath her left breast; she learned that his small firm ass was covered with a fine fuzz of hair. With unspoken understanding, they avoided the genital areas. There was a warmth and a sweetness to their touching, almost as if they were truly lovers, in the aftermath of desire, caressing for the pure joy they took in one another's bodies.
"I don't know," said Felicity, feeling very languorous. "I know it's too good to be true, but I kind of feel as if I'm finished with that fantasy scene forever."
Bruce shook his head. "I don't believe it -not quite yet."
He sat up suddenly, in that lightning bolt way he had of moving. "I have another idea. Do you still have those snakeskin pants you were telling me about?"
"Yes," said Felicity, feeling a twinge of alarm again. What was he up to now? You never knew what was happening with that guy from one minute to the next. "Why do you ask?"
"Do you have them at the hotel? Could we go there now?"
Felicity was beginning to understand.
She wasn't sure she liked it. "Sure," she said, "but I don't know if it's such a good idea."
"I'll get my trusty razor," said Bruce, all enthusiastic again, "and we'll cut a nice little hole into that snake skin. And if the hole isn't big enough, I'll widen it with my iron prick. I'll rape you with my staunch and sturdy prick, sticking out of my black leather pants. We'll do it in your hotel. I'll bet they have a big mirror. I'll bend those long legs of yours back over your head and fuck you till you scream for mercy."
"Stop it!" Felicity put her hands over her ears. "Cut that out. Don't you understand, I don't want to get into those scenes any more."
"Yes, baby," said Bruce, in his sexed-up voice. "But you're all excited about it, aren't you? Don't deny it, I can tell-I can feel your excitement. And as long as the idea excites you, and it sure as hell excites me, we're going to have to do it, even though we know it won't be like the fantasy at all-it'll be something different, but that's good too."
He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her, lingeringly. "Whatever we do together, it will be all right. Believe it. Do you believe that we have a good thing going with each other potentially?"
Felicity nodded. "Then trust me," he said. "Trust yourself. Let yourself go."
Felicity disentangled herself from his embrace and sat up. "Okay," she said. "If we're going to do it, let's go right now . . . before I think about it some more and change my mind."
"Just let me get a shirt," said Bruce. He was almost leaping up and down with joy. "I got this black nylon see-through that's very vulgar. Got it back in my Elvis Presley period. You'll love it."
Felicity laughed. "You're like a little boy," she said, "who's just been promised a chocolate sundae."
"Strawberry," said Bruce. "Strawberry and cherry. Yum yum!"
When he was ready to leave, he swept her up in his arms and danced her around the room a few times.
"Oh boy," he said. "I never dreamed I'd meet a chick like you-didn't think anyone like you existed, outside my fantasies. I knew you were far out the minute I laid eyes on you. You were zapping me with those vibes clear across the room, and you weren't even aware of it; nothing could have been further from your mind. You had to be a super chick."
Felicity took him by the hand and steered him toward the door. "You'd better get super chick out of here before she turns into a pumpkin."
Bruce put his hand on her blue-jeaned ass and gave her a playful pinch. "I'll bet you'd be tasty just the same," he said, and Felicity actually thought she could feel her cunt smiling.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Schmerz tapped impatiently with his fat forefinger on the polished surface of his mahogany desk.
"All right, you've proven your point," he said. "Your initial instincts about this man were right. He is only reinforcing your sickness. It would be unwise to see him again."
"But that's not my point at all," protested Felicity. "You don't understand. I really like him. He is the first man I've ever been honest with. The only one who's ever indicated he cares about me as a person."
"I can understand your attraction toward him," said Schmerz. "You apparently share the same pathology."
"But he's trying to get over his hang-ups, just as I am." Felicity had the feeling that she wasn't getting through to Schmerz at all. She could almost see her words changing shape and meaning in mid-air . . . they didn't fit into any of the compartments in Schmerz' head, and she knew they sounded completely different to him, childish and defensive. "I mean, I really believe that business of working out our fantasies helps -it's like a purge, sort of."
"Nonsense!" declared Schmerz, in his most authoritarian voice. "I'm sure you'd like to believe that, but it has absolutely no basis in fact. Think of it logically. You don't cure an addict by giving him more of his drug-not even in diluted or altered form. I don't believe in the methadone treatment, incidentally. The addict simply gets hooked on the methadone."
"But it is not at all the same thing," said Felicity, feeling frustrated and helpless. "I can't explain it too well, but it was . . . well, different. I mean there was another person involved, don't you see, and that changed the whole thing. We really related to each other . . . I felt very close to him afterward."
But there was no convincing Schmerz. "Have you ever heard of folie a deux? You have? Well, you know those people relate to each other. They may even love each other, after their fashion. Is that what you want?"
Felicity laughed, feebly. "So you think
I'm crazy after all! And now I've found myself another nut to have an affair with."
"I exaggerated on purpose," said Schmerz, in a tone of exaggerated patience. "I do not think either you or your young man are insane-I wish you would stop harping back on that point. You know perfectly well what I meant."
Felicity sighed. "All I know is I really feel good about Bruce. Like, I'm not all alone out there any more. I don't have to act all the time-I feel I can do or say anything I want and it would be cool. I thought you'd be pleased. I mean it is a kind of breakthrough for me . . . surely you can see that."
Schmerz did not reply-of course, it wasn't really a question. He put the tips of his finger together-strange, she was always aware of his hands-swiveled around in his chair and looked out the window. A minute went by, perhaps two. He wasn't just thinking ; it was calculated, she felt, meant to disconcert her. He was fucking with her head! Okay, she decided, two can play at this game. She said nothing, knowing he was waiting for her to say more, something else that would wind up sounding dumb and defensive. Fuck him! The next move was his.
"Tell me . . . " Schmerz continued to look out the window as he spoke. "Did you find these . . . er . . . these sexual experiences you described satisfying?"
"Yes, in a way. What I mean is, we felt good about it afterwards. Isn't that what counts?"
Schmerz wheeled around to face her.
"My dear girl, don't be dense. Did you or did you not experience orgasm?"
There it was! The eternal question. Did you or did you not, and how many times, and what kind? How many men had asked her that question: "Baby, did you come?" And it didn't have anything to do with it-Schmerz was just as stupid about this as all the rest of them.
"You sound like a district attorney," Felicity told him. "Did you or didn't you? No I didn't, and I felt marvelous, and last week I masturbated with a banana, and I had a super-fantastic orgasm and I felt like absolute shit. And Daddy John used to make me come so hard I'd screech and carry on like a maniac, and all the time I was so sad I wanted to cry."
"When you have orgasms," said Schmerz, ignoring her outburst, "are they vaginal or clitoral?"
"Oh, God," groaned Felicity. "I knew that was coming next. "When I have orgasms-and I have them a lot, by the way, in case you were going to ask me that next -I have all kinds, gentle and violent, easy and hard, and all different degrees of intensity. But I've never been able to localize them to any given area. I'm not a scientist you see . . . when I come I just do it, I don't put it under a microscope and analyze it."
"It seems to me the lady dost protest too much," quipped Schmerz, giving her a thin smile. "From what you have told me and from your excessively emotional reaction, it is obvious that there is a great deal of guilt and conflict attached to the idea of orgasm. Otherwise my simple, straightforward questions would not have upset you so. Since you were a child you've been told that masturbating is dirty and evil-of course you're going to feel bad about it. As for your having all these wonderful orgasms all the time, I'm inclined to doubt it. But never mind about that now. Let's talk about
"Never mind that never mind," Felicity interrupted. She was feeling strong and rebellious-sure of herself, for once, and of the fact that Schmerz was a fool. "Let's talk about orgasms-everybody's in general and mine in particular. Let's engage in the great vaginal-clitoral controversy. Tell me, Doctor Schmerz, have you ever been a woman?"
"Really, now, if you persist in being flippant."
"I'm not being flippant. I am perfectly serious-it's my sex life, after all, that's at stake, right? What I am asking is if you have any first-hand empirical knowledge of what it feels like for a woman to have an orgasm ? "
"Of course not. But that doesn't mean
"Then how can you be so sure that I don't know more about my own orgasms and what I feel than you do? How can you be so inclined to doubt and make all these assumptions about something you really know nothing about?"
"I make these assumptions on the basis of what you tell me," said Schmerz coldly.
"And on the basis of past experience, the testimony of other patients. I really think we ought to drop the subject for the time being. There's nothing to be gained by all this-you're really being quite irrational about it, you know. We can take up the topic again some other time."
"I don't want to take up the topic some other time." Felicity knew she had Schmerz on the defensive, and she was beginning to enjoy the game. "And I can't agree with you that I'm being irrational. On the contrary, I am being most logical and scientific. I've been asked those same orgasm questions dozens of times-always by men, of course, and I'd really like to get to the bottom of it, if you will excuse the expression. My flippancy, as you call it, is just my style; I am very serious about all this I assure you, and not at all upset or emotional, as you keep insisting. I would like to discuss the matter calmly and sensibly. Please-I really think it's important to clarify some things."
Schmerz sighed. "Very well, if you insist, and as long as you cease these childish personal attacks upon me."
"I promise." Felicity raised her hand. "No more personal attacks, as you call them.
"I really didn't mean it the way it sounded," she said in a conciliatory tone, deciding it was time for a few concessions. "It's just that most men don't realize that for a woman orgasm is as much, if not more, a psychic thing as a physical one. I mean, your body may consent, but if your mind doesn't it will not be satisfying. Does that make any sense?"
"Of course," said Schmerz, and again she had the impression he wasn't really listening-was only hearing what he wanted, or could use, and waiting for an opening to say his piece. "That's where your guilt and shame come in."
"No," said Felicity, amazed at how sure she felt of her ground. "Please let me finish. Guilt and shame have nothing to do with what I'm talking about-at least not in the usual Judeo-Christian or Victorian sense. Masturbating or making love to someone you despise makes you sad and lonely, no matter how gratifying the act is physically. I've only realized this recently. I used to think I was really with it, sexually, just because I wasn't physically inhibited and was able to have orgasms fairly easily. There was always something missing-some part of me was always absent-but I thought that's just the way it is. I was emotionally inhibited, but I didn't know that."
Felicity took a deep breath. She felt very excited . . . it seemed she was getting close to some essential truth, and she no longer cared if she got through to Schmerz or not. She only hoped he wouldn't interrupt her, that he would let her think it through and try to express it as best as she was able.
"I mean," she hurried on, "you can get off physically and you can get off psychically, and the two aren't necessarily connected. They should be, but they're not . . . at least they haven't been for me. In my fantasies, I got off physically, and with Daddy John and some others, I got off physically, and though neither is completely satisfying, the psychic orgasm, if I can put it that way, is more gratifying than the physical one. The closest I ever came to getting the two together was with Tommy, but there were other things wrong there, and I couldn't really let it happen. But it gave me a clue to what it could be like. And now with Bruce, I really feel there's a good chance of making that connection really happen. I got off psychically with him, and that's the most important part. The physical thing is easy . . . I'm sure we can get that together with a little time."
She felt exhausted . . . and triumphant. She wasn't sure she had managed to say it right, but she knew that she had clarified it in her own mind. She felt very good about it -she even felt kindly toward Schmerz, about whom she had almost forgotten.
But he was still there, and as soon as his unctuous voice penetrated the quiet of the room, all the tension and resentment came right back. "I'm sure you feel you've had an important insight," he said, playing with a paper knife on his desk. He was always doing something with his hands-it reminded her of someone. "But all you're really saying is that sex is more satisfying if you're in love. I can hardly deny that this is true, at least ideally. But on the other hand, many people can only enjoy sex with casual partners, people toward whom they feel no responsibility. It is part of the idea that sex is dirty and evil, therefore not something you do with those you love and respect." Schmerz paused a moment, then lowered the boom.
"This is only a suggestion, of course. But isn't it possible that your difficulties stem from just this kind of unconscious attitude toward sex? It is, after all, the prevalent attitude in our society, despite the so-called sexual revolution."
Felicity said nothing. She realized, quite suddenly, that it was useless. Schmerz couldn't help it-he would never be able to understand things that didn't fit in with his training and experience. She could even see how, from his point of view, she presented a classical Freudian picture: absence of father image, domineering mother, rigid upbringing, equals rebellious neurotic at war with herself. Okay, but so what? It was like saying she hated California because she came from England where it rained a lot. Lots of English people loved California, just because it didn't rain. Even if the Freudian interpretation was true, on one level, it didn't explain much, and she couldn't see how it would help to change anything. Was she now supposed to spend the next three years of her life talking about her childhood? Later for that! There was another dimension to her problem . . . not to mention her life. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she was getting closer all the time. At any rate, she would have to work it out for herself.
Meanwhile, what to do about Schmerz? He was talking . . . had been talking for some time, she realized. She tried to pay attention to what he was saying, but her mind kept wandering. A strange mood came over her. She kept watching his hands, which were never still, found herself wondering if he washed them a lot. They looked very clean, and the nails were manicured. Now she knew whom the hands reminded her of-Daddy John. The same thick blunt fingers, the same fine dark hairs on the knuckles and back. A thought flashed in her mind: those thick phallic fingers working in and out of her cunt. She tried to push the thought away but it persisted. Once the fantasy got hold of her, it wouldn't let her go; she had this very clear picture of herself lying on the couch, naked, and Schmerz sitting by her side, fully dressed, finger-fucking her. It was most disconcerting. There was the familiar warm sensation in her groin and her nipples tingled. Oh God, she thought, that's what comes of all that talk about sex. Her cunt ached . . . it was getting all wet and mushy; she could feel her swollen clit rubbing up against the panties. This was a fine kettle of fish. Schmerz droned on, and she watched him out of the corner of her eye. For a moment she considered telling him about her . . . what should she call it . . . state? Condition? But she knew it would only lead to another endless argument. Yes, that's how she thought about their sessions, somehow-as a battle of wills, the kind that goes on between married people, a ceaseless running argument that nobody will ever win because they are simply not operating on the same frequency. The kind of stalemate that went on between her mother and Daddy John.
In the meantime, her "condition" grew worse. This was not the sweet, over-all erotic feeling she'd had with Bruce; it was a localized sexual hunger, genital and urgent. Felicity wondered at herself. The need came on so strong, it was like a madness; she wanted an orgasm, wanted it bad. She wanted Schmerz' fingers inside her cunt. And if that wasn't possible, she'd excuse herself and go to the bathroom to masturbate. Or better yet, she'd masturbate right in front of him! After all, why not? It was perfectly natural-one wasn't supposed to feel any guilt or shame about it, right? A simple human need, simply fulfilled.
She was feeling deliciously perverse, the old kinky Felicity again. She was the gal who'd fucked her father and her brotherwhy not her shrink? The idea of seducing Schmerz came to her as a kind of inspiration. Even if she did not succeed, even if he kicked her out or called for help, the sight of Schmerz unnerved would well be worth the effort. Felicity smiled to herself, and her cunt twitched merrily in anticipation.
Schmerz had finally stopped talking. He was looking at her expectantly. Felicity yawned, not covering her mouth, and stretched her arms above her head, drawing attention to the erected nipples which were clearly outlined under her thin jersey dress. "I feel awfully tired, suddenly," she said. "Do you mind if I lie down on the couch?"
"Of course," he said. "I told you, you could at the beginning." But she had already gotten up and was moving slowly, voluptuously, toward the leather sofa. Her dress was a simple wrap-around, and as she walked, she undid the string that held it together. "It's frightfully hot in here, and besides, this material wrinkles terribly," she said, in her most fashionable English accent, letting the dress fall from her shoulders. And she stood there, clad only in a pair of sheer lavender panties.
The look of Schmerz' face would have been laughable, had it not been so pathetic. His eyes popped, and his mouth kept opening and closing, like a fish.
"P . . . put your dress back on," he said, struggling for control of his voice. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but . . . "
Felicity took three strides while he was talking, and now stood right in front of his desk.
"But why?" she demanded. "Why are you so shocked ? I'm not ashamed of my body, I happen to know it's beautiful. What's the matter, haven't you ever seen a woman without clothes on before? It's just a naked body, doctor, much less personal and private than a naked human soul. Is this how you mean to cure me of inhibitions and guilt and shame?"
"There is a time," gasped Schmerz, "and a place for everything. I . . . "
But Felicity was too quick for him. Some demon possessed her; she felt a heady sense of freedom and power.
"The time and the place is now," she whispered huskily, bombarding him with powerful sexual vibes that emanated directly from her cunt. "Because I feel it now and here." She leaned over the desk toward him. "Dr. Schmerz, I haven't heard a word you said for the last ten minutes. I've thinking of your hands inside my cunt-they're just like Daddy John's, you know. I tried to stop thinking about sex, but I couldn't. I'm just not accustomed to having to control my natural urges-I see no real reason for it, you see. It doesn't matter if it's my father or my brother or my psychoanalyst, sex is sex, it's something you do, like having a drink of water when you're thirsty."
Schmerz had leapt up from his chair. In his haste, he had knocked the heavy marble ashtray off his desk. It crashed to the floor and shattered into many pieces. He stared at it with an expression of acute bereavement.
Felicity took quick advantage of his momentary confusion. The spirit of mischief was upon her; she felt positively giddy with it. In a second she had stripped off her panties, swung her legs over the desk and now stood, invitingly naked, in front of Schmerz. He backed up against the window-there was no place else for him to go.
"Look at me," breathed Felicity, "don't be afraid, I won't bite. Look, isn't that the prettiest pussy you've ever seen? It's a shame when a girl can't show off her best feature."
Dr. Schmerz' eyes had unfocussed completely in his determined effort not to look at what was being offered so temptingly. "Put your clothes on and leave my office at once," he said, with as much authority as he was able to muster. "Otherwise I shall be forced to take action which both of us should prefer to avoid."
But Felicity was too far gone to heed the warning. "But why, Dr. Schmerz?" she whispered, in her little-girl voice with a hint of a lisp in it. She moved even closer, trapping him completely. "I just don't understand. Look, a little while ago I thought of excusing myself and going to the bathroom to masturbate. You know you wouldn't have stopped me-I could even have come back and told you what I did. And this is so much simpler . . . so much nicer, really. Tell me the truth, do you feel absolutely nothing, not even a twinge of desire? I know I can make it good for you too." And with that she reached out and touched his crotch. She felt something hard. Dr. Schmerz had an erection !
Things happened very quickly after that. Schmerz lunged at her and they wrestled briefly; he managed to shove her roughly aside and in an instant had reached the phone on the other side of the desk.
"Hello, Susan? Please get me Bellevue hospital, psychiatric division. It's an emergency. No, that won't be necessary, please stay where you are. Yes, just as soon as you get them."
Felicity rubbed her elbow, where she had hit it against the desk in their struggle. She walked, with as much dignity as she could summon, to pick up her clothes and began to get dressed. "All right," she said wearily, feeling angry and depressed, all triumph gone. "You've made your point, you can call off the dogs now." She did not look at him as she finished fastening the dress and gathered up her handbag. "Physician, cure thyself," she muttered, doing her best to disguise the fact that she was scared-strange, how easily a human being can be brought down by the utterance of one dread word: Bellevue! She tried to control her trembling. Was he going to let her leave, she wondered. She suppressed an urge to start talking very fast, make a joke of it-tell him it was all a childish prank, meant to test him. Please doctor, I'll be a good girl, I promise, please don't send me to Bellevue!
Dr. Schmerz had straightened his clothing, which had become disarrayed during the tussle. He did not look at her as he tapped nervously on his desk.
The intercom buzzed. Schmerz picked up the phone.
Felicity was on her feet in an instant. "Thanks for everything, doctor," she said quickly, breathlessly. "Please add the ashtray to my bill."
She was out the door, past the startled receptionist, into the elevator which just happened to arrive as she pushed the button. She never stopped until she was a block away from the building; only then did she dare to turn around. No one was following her, of course. Schmerz had merely tried to frighten her . . . and succeeded. Score one point for the doctor.
CHAPTER NINE
Bruce was rolling around on the floor, doubled up with laughter. "You did that? You really did it? That's fantastic! Out of sight!"
He sat up abruptly, searching her eyes in that disconcerting way of his. "I wondered why you dropped your shrink so suddenly. How come you never told me about this before?"
Felicity made a face. "I wasn't particularly proud of that caper, that's why. It was really a dumb and childish thing to do.
"I don't know," said Bruce. "I think it's pretty funny. But then I don't have much sympathy for shrinks. I went to one for a while . . . he didn't have his thing together either. Kept harping on my repressed homosexuality. I should have taken out my cock and asked him to suck it."
Felicity shrugged. "Maybe we expect too much of them. After all, they don't pretend they're not human and fallible. Schmerz is all right, in his way. Actually, he was not so far off on my emotional problems. And remember, I probably wouldn't have called you back if it hadn't been for him."
"Well, we must be thankful for that," said Bruce. "Shall we invite him to the wedding?"
"Very funny," said Felicity, feeling suddenly uncomfortable with the trend of the conversation. "It was unfair of me to put that heavy scene on Schmerz," she continued. "There was really no other way for him to cope with it. He's not a bad egg-he just has some old-fashioned hang-ups about sex."
"Unlike you and me," said Bruce, "who have some new-fashioned hang-ups about sex."
"Right," said Felicity, stretching out on the rug and putting her arms behind her head. She looked at Bruce seductively from under lowered lids. "Speaking of sex," she said huskily, "are we almost finished with the acting-out phase, Dr. Jones?"
"Almost," said Bruce. "Just one more session. And tonight's the night."
Felicity sat up, trying not to show her nervousness. "Oh yeah? What's on the agenda? Something extra special, I bet."
"It's a surprise," said Bruce, not looking at her.
"Oh come on, just a little hint," begged Felicity. She was sick to death of the game they were playing but she didn't know how to end it. "I like to prepare myself a little, you know."
Bruce shook his head, unsmiling. He seemed quite serious. "Not this time," he said. "It has to be a surprise. That's part of the therapy."
Felicity said nothing. She felt very lonely, very detached. She was also beginning to feel very angry at Bruce. In the weeks since they'd met, it had been like that . . . they'd seem to be getting really close to each other, she'd start to feel really free and comfortable with him, and then . . . this invisible barrier would spring up between them; they'd get into their fantasy sex games and it would all seem unreal, just another big shuck. Maybe it was up to her to break through. She wanted to, but she didn't know how-wasn't even sure there was anything to break through to, on the other side of the barrier. Maybe the game was all he wanted, despite what he said. Maybe she would just not see him any more-at least for a while.
Then Bruce did one of his remarkable mind-reading stunts. He reached over and took her hand. "Don't withdraw, baby," he said. "Have faith. I'm not fucking with your head, honest. Or at least no more than I'm fucking with my own." He gave her hand a hard squeeze. God damn him, thought Felicity, he's really putting me through some changes, don't know if I'm coming or going. And the worst of it is, I love every minute of it.
The doorbell rang and she jumped. She held tight to his hand, looking at him questioningly: must you answer it? Very gently, Bruce disengaged his hand, nodding at her unasked question. She sighed and let him go, wondering what was coming off next.
She heard the voice first, and her heart did a fast slide right into her shoes. She barely had time to compose herself, to pretend that this wasn't one of the worst shocks she had ever experienced. She realized right away that Clara was shocked too, and it took the edge off a little.
"So this was the surprise you had waiting for me," said Clara to Bruce, acid in her voice. "I was wondering why you were suddenly so keen to have me over." She sounded very bitter and Felicity felt sorry for her. "Since I was a kid," Clara continued, "I've been a sucker for surprises. Never could resist them, even though they usually turned out to be duds. Well, maybe one of these days I'll grow up."
Felicity felt a cold hard knot of anger forming inside her. That mother-fucker, Bruce! Well, he was in for it now . . . he didn't know it, but he was going to get a number done of him tonight.
"Sit down, Clara," said Felicity, pulling the girl down beside her on the carpet. "Have a glass of wine. Try some of this grass, it's dynamite."
Clara sat down. She looked tired, and somewhat stretched. Her scene with the lead guitarist from "The Morning After" had just fallen apart, Felicity knew, but Clara had worn herself out trying to keep up with the group. That was no easy task-those guys took so much Speed it was a wonder they had any mileage left. They never ate and never slept; at the rate they were going, they'd burn themselves out within the year. Clara looked like she'd been through a lot of shit.
"What's this all about?" Clara asked quietly, accepting the pipe from Felicity, taking a couple of deep drags and passing it to Bruce.
"Well, I'll tell you," said Felicity. "You see, Bruce is conducting an experiment. He's using you, and he's using me too. It's part of a theory he has for curing me of certain hang-ups, but what it really amounts to is he likes to play games with people and mess around with their heads."
"Now wait a minute, that's not quite fair," Bruce said quietly. "You went along with the whole thing . . . it was as much your idea as mine."
"Why don't you go fuck yourself," Felicity said sweetly, then returned her attention to Clara. "I had no idea he had asked you here tonight, I swear it," she assured the frowning girl. "He promised me a 'surprise' too."
"Look," said Clara, "I still haven't got a clue as to what it's all about. But I really don't want to get involved in a lover's quarrel. I got enough problems of my own. So if you'll excuse me, I'll just get my coat." She started to get up.
"Not yet," said Felicity. "Please don't go yet, Clara. Bruce here owes you an explanation, and I'm going to see to it that you get it." Her eyes flashed daggers at the slender man who sat cross-legged on the floor, avoiding her eyes. "If not from him," she said, "then from me."
Clara sighed and sat down again. She looked from Felicity to Bruce and back again. "Well, actually, I am a little curious," she admitted. "But I'd just as soon wait for another time to find out. I mean," she added with a little smile, "you two look like you're ready to have at each other any moment."
"Not at all," said Felicity. "Bruce here is the very soul of cool, and you know I hardly ever lose my temper."
Without any warning, Felicity threw her arms around Clara and kissed her full on the mouth. "How are you, baby," she said. "How've you been? I've missed you, did you know that?"
"It's news to me," said Clara, disentangling herself from Felicity's embrace. "You've been keeping it a secret."
"I know," said Felicity. "I haven't been very groovy lately . . . been going through a lot of head changes, and . . . "
"Look, why don't you just tell me what this is all about." Clara wasn't buying any of the glob. "And then I can get out of here."
Felicity sighed. "Bruce thought we'd all make it together-you know, like a little orgy." She pronounced it "orguie" with hard "g."
"Now wait a minute!" Bruce was getting angry now. "You'd better tell her the rest-your part in it-I'm not going to let you lay it all on me!"
"Okay," Felicity said, not looking at Bruce and addressing herself exclusively to Clara. "You see, I had this fantasy once . . . you and me and Jimi Hendrix making it together. I had a lot of other fantasies too, and I told Bruce about them and he got this idea we ought to try to act them out, in order to cure me, you know. Fact is, I haven't wanted any part of that crap for quite a while now, but he's really into it, and it's all supposed to be my trip."
"You cunt!" Bruce had gotten up and stood glowering down at her. "You phony, double-crossing cunt! You want to make up with Clara and tell a bunch of lies, don't do it while I'm around. I don't give a shit . . . you two can ball or do whatever you like. Be my guests. I'm leaving!"
He started for the door. Felicity had leapt up too and now stood confronting him, eye to eye, her face tight, her entire body tensed with fury. "I know you don't give a shit! That's the first time you've told the truth since I've met you. Don't tell me I'm lying. I was reluctant to go along with the game from the beginning, and you know it. The shrink was right about you-I should have listened when he tried to tell me you were only going to get me more fucked up."
"Well, it's not too late, you know," said Bruce icily. "Nobody's twisting your arm to stick around."
Clara had quietly gotten up and picked up her purse. Neither of the others noticed. She put a hand gently, reassuringly, on Felicity's shoulder before slipping out the door. Felicity was barely aware of it. Hot tears burned behind her eyes, choking her. She couldn't speak. She wanted to leave, just turn around and follow Clara out the door, but she couldn't move. She just stood there, clenching and unclenching her fists, her mind a whirlpool of rage and pain.
"Just like that!" Her voice was a hoarse whisper, barely audible. "Now that the game is over, now that it's nitty-gritty time, you're just going to back out of the whole scene." She tried to say more, she tried to think of nasty, cutting things, but she knew she couldn't utter another word without breaking down completely.
"Fuck you," said Bruce. "If you didn't want to play the game, all you had to do was say so. It was something both of us were doing, together, and now I'm the villain, I'm the super shit who's to blame for everything."
The tears were flowing freely down her cheeks. She could no longer hold them back. She gave up trying. It didn't matter any more-nothing mattered. "I couldn't tell you, don't you see?" she sobbed brokenly. "There was no way."
Bruce took hold of her by the shoulders and shook her, gentle-roughly. "Why? Why couldn't you tell me?"
"I . . . I don't know." The tears continued streaming; she hadn't cried in years -it was as if the floodgates had opened. "I guess I was afraid. I figured it would work itself out, we'd get into something else eventually. And then tonight-well, it was like the last straw. Why'd you have to humiliate me so. Why'd you have to drag poor Clara into it and humiliate her too."
Bruce let go of her and sighed. He ran his hands through his thick hair and blinked his eyes. He no longer seemed so angry, or so sure of himself. He sat down on the floor and lit a cigarette. She continued to stand, hugging herself as if she were cold.
"Baby," said Bruce, "Listen. I didn't know what else to do. I also figured things would work themselves out, but of course they couldn't, as long as neither of us would crack. The scene hasn't been that groovy for me either. Maybe I did that thing tonight deliberately . . . to force the issue, bring things to a head. I didn't really think you and Clara would go for the deal, but I wasn't sure; guess I was testing you."
Felicity shifted from foot to foot, still hugging herself. She was actually shivering, though she wasn't cold. After a while, she said: "And now that you've tested me and brought things to a head-now what?"
"I don't know," said Bruce quietly. "I guess it's up to you."
"Up to me?" Felicity said, in a tone of incredulity and outrage. "UP TO ME?" she suddenly shouted, "Why you arrogant mother-fucker, what do you want from me? Do you want me to get down on my knees and suck your cock and beg you to love me a little."
Bruce reached over, in one swift motion grabbed hold of her ankles and pulled her down on the floor. She half fell on top of him, as his arms went out to embrace her, hers came out and roughly pushed him away. She pushed a little too hard-he lost his balance and toppled over. He sat up, looking a little dazed, and shook his head, like a wet dog. Felicity was crouched, fists at her side, ready to spring; her breath was coming in ragged gasps. Bruce shook his head again, as if he could not believe all this was really happening, and reached his arms out to her once again. Her right fist shot out, aimed at his jaw; he caught it, just before it landed. He held her wrist so tightly it hurt. She squirmed to get away, and tried to land another punch with her left fist-it glanced off his shoulder, and now he held both her wrists in a viselike grip. She struggled . . . she tried to kick, and his body rolled over on top of hers. They wrestled on the floor like that for some time, wordlessly; Felicity fought like a madwoman-she wanted to hurt him, she wanted to break, smash, wreak everything in sight. She was panting and sobbing at the same time. Then, when it looked like her struggling was letting up, and Bruce relaxed his grip a little, her head shot up suddenly and she sank her teeth deep into his shoulder. Bruce cried out once . . . then he had her pinned to the floor, his knees digging painfully into her thighs, her arms pinioned behind her head.
"Stop it now," he said tightly, close to her ear. "Snap out of it. Stop it before you force me to really hurt you. I don't want to hurt you . . . I never wanted to hurt you . . . forgive me . . . please."
Felicity began to tremble. She felt weak as a kitten, all the fight drained out of her. Bruce was kissing her now, and she was kissing him back, and it was as if they had never kissed before. She made a cunt out of her mouth, a soft, warm, pliant cunt to receive his long, furled, phallic tongue, pulling it in gently, using her tongue for extra suction. Their bodies had melted into each other; he lay on her with his full weight, crushing her chest so she could hardly breathe and she loved it. She wanted him closer still. She felt the warm, live throb of his erection beneath the layers of clothing that separated them, and an electric current of response shot through her pent-up pussy. At the same instant, as if at a signal, they began to tear at each other's clothes. In their haste, fumbling like amateurs with buttons and zippers, reluctant to unglue their bodies for even the brief moments it took to remove trousers and shirts. A great sigh, ahhhh . . . " escaped both of them at the same moment as their lithe bodies, blissfully naked now, fused once again. Their arms tight about each other, his tongue slid into her mouth, his burning cock slid into her open, buttery cunt with scarcely more resistance. When he was all the way into her, and her legs and arms had wrapped around him, fastening him to herself, they both lay motionless for a while. Felicity had felt on the verge of coming the instant Bruce had entered her; the heat and the sweetness in her belly radiated outward to every nerve and fiber of her body. She knew the slightest of movements would send her careening toward a shuddering, melting orgasm the likes of which she had never known. And she did not want it to happen yet. She wanted to stay like that forever, on the edge of ecstasy, holding fast to the bliss of his warm flesh magically joined to hers.
"Oh, baby, baby," whispered Bruce into her ear. "I've wanted it like this for such a long time. Hold still a little longer, I feel I could come any second."
She was too happy to say anything. Her fingers wandered through the thick forest of his hair, then explored the barren plain of his back, down to the soft, fuzzy growth that covered the top of his ass. "Ohhh," he said as she touched him there, and the muscles of his buttocks twitched involuntarily. They began to move together then, very slowly, sweetly, savoring the incredible pleasure . . . slowly, slowly, it built . . . they could feel the powerful spasm, like the great, deep rumbling of an earthquake, begin somewhere in her deepest, inmost self; she forgot herself; she forgot where she was and who . . . she did not rise but fell away into some abyss, where nothing existed but feeling, a hot blood-red abyss of sensation, womb of the cosmos, and when the shattering climax invaded her being, going on and on and the sirens wailed from her throat without her volition, the blood-red walls of the universal womb in which she dwelt were suffused by a bright, white light.
"My woman . . . " whispered Bruce, holding her, stroking her hair, stroking into her slowly and strongly with his sweet cock. "Yes, come. Come and take me too, here I come, coming to meet you." And now he raised himself up, and she felt him thrusting himself into that other magic realm; she guided him on with her hands and legs, kissing his sweating skin, kneading his flesh, and pummeling him with her feet, but gently, lovingly, until she felt the enormous force of that last lunge and heard the drawn-out scream that was like an echo of her own, and she felt the hot flooding that she could not be sure came from his body or hers, for in some way, she herself was still coming, or so it seemed.
They lay spent and sweat-soaked, slowly coming out of limbo. "My God!" Bruce said at last. "That was scary . . . for a moment I didn't know if I was ever coming back. I've never had an orgasm like that in my life!"
"Me neither," Felicity admitted. "I never believed it could actually happen like that. But let's not talk about it."
Bruce turned his head to look at her and smiled. "Afraid it will all disappear . . . that it will seem unreal?"
She sighed, reaching out to softly touch his belly. "Something like that," she said. "It's all so new, and fragile."
"Yeah," he said. "Anyway, it proves you don't need all that imagine stuff, doesn't it?"
"That's right," said Felicity, "all you need is love."
And now that the word had been uttered -for the second time that night by hershe felt nervous. Was it that? How could she be sure?
Perhaps sensing her insecurity, Bruce took her into his arms. "It's going to be all right," he said. "It had to be this way . . . had to be you who broke down the wall . . . it won't always be this way, I promise."
"Say it then," she begged. "Say the words."
Bruce hesitated. "They're so clich�d," he said. "I'm afraid it will sound too corny."
"Say it anyway," she persisted. "Please try . . . I need to hear you say it."
"I love you," said Bruce. "Hey, that doesn't sound all that bad. Hm . . . let me try it again. I love you, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU."
The instant they kissed, they were aroused again. They made love more leisurely, this time . . . they lay in soixante-neuf position and ate each other for a long time. They fucked in different positions, testing out the new feeling, making sure of it. It was to all the times Felicity had balled before as night was to day; as qualitatively different as a real sunrise from that of a technicolor travelogue. And when they came againtogether this time-it was not quite as intense but just as joyfully, sweetly satisfying.
"Wow," she said, as they lay together on his platform bed (they had managed to move the operation off the floor at some point) "I feel as if I've been fucking through a blanket all these years. I had no idea what I was missing."
"Greatest aphrodisiac in the world," said Bruce, the semi-soft beginning of a new erection growing on his thigh.
"What is ? " asked Felicity, gazing at the thickening cock with wonder.
"Love, you dummy!" said Bruce. "L-O-V-E-what I sing about all the time-what everybody dreams about all the time, what they say makes the world go round."
"Is it?" she said softly, reaching out a finger to touch the ruby-red head of his ambitious cock. "I wouldn't know-it's never happened to me before."
After they had made love one more time, and slept a little, Bruce pulled Felicity into the crock of his arm and said, in a casual tone, as if discussing the weather. "You know what? I think we should get married. No seriously," he said in response to her startled movement. "Why the hell not? I mean, the kind of people we are-we have to commit ourselves all the way, or it won't work. I want to. I'm ready and I think you are too."
"Let's talk about it in the morning," said Felicity, her heart hammering with a joy she did not trust. "It might all look different to you in the cold light of day."
"Don't be an ass," said Bruce, simply. "This isn't the first time the idea occurred to me-nor to you either. I really think it might work. We'll get married and . . . "
". . . and live happily ever after ? "Felicity's voice was tender and laughing.
"Well . . . " said Bruce, "I don't know about that. But I bet we live happily for . . . oh, for at least two years."
