I felt my face getting red. "You make it very difficult for me to keep my mind on this interview," I said. "I'm going to say something now and you might not like it. So far, all the members of these swap clubs have been quite willing, in fact, damn ready to personally show me their charms and make them available to me. I'm not complaining, you understand. I just want to know where I stand."
"With me?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes," I said. "It seems to me that all of you women are sex crazy. Just about every time I start talking to one of you-well, the first thing I know we are coupled like long-lost lovers. I don't want you to get me wrong. I enjoy it, but it's almost like living in a dream world. Hell, it's almost too easy. Here I am getting to first base with all these women and without any effort on my part. I find it all a little confusing. Even when I know it's happening to me, I still find it a little hard to believe."
"It's easy to explain, Jimmy," she said seriously.
"I've heard several reasons," I said, "but I'm afraid none of them made much sense to me. Maybe your explanation will help."
"The fact that you are investigating the clubs tends to make you one of us. Can't you see that? When you see us, and talk to us, and interview us, we are taking you into our confidence. I can't speak for all, but I can speak for myself....
CHAPTER ONE
It started as a joke. I met the girl in a little bar off Seventy-second Street, and after a few drinks and a lot of laughs we ajourned to her apartment. I don't mean what took place in her apartment was a joke.
Her name was Marie and she had to go to work Monday morning. I liked her and wasn't in any hurry, so I agreed to hang around the apartment for the day. She gave me a big smile, blew me a kiss and closed the door behind her. I turned over and went back to sleep.
At noon I got up, still drugged with sleep and feeling slightly hungover. I showered and dressed in my new civilian clothes. They felt strange on my body after wearing a sailor's uniform . for over three years.
Suddenly I longed for my familiar uniform and wished I hadn't discarded it in the small men's shop. Maybe the man had been right, I thought. Maybe I should have kept the uniform for a souvenir, if nothing else. No use crying about it now, I decided-just as there was no use regretting the Medical Discharge in my pocket.
What had the doctor said?
"Don't feel too badly, fellow. It is an Honorable Discharge. With the plate in your head you know we can't send you back to duty. Go home and forget the Navy."
Forget the Navy?
I could no more forget the Navy than I could forget that I had two arms and two legs and a hole in the head. If there had ever been a twenty-year man, I was that man. James Rutledge Butler, ex-radioman, U.S.N. Was it my fault that a hatch had fallen on my head? Was it my fault that I had a discharge after four months in the hospital?
I looked about the small apartment. There were only two rooms and a bath. I needed a drink, but I didn't want to take one. There was a pot of coffee in the small kitchen. I placed it on the stove and smoked while it got hot. I drank three cups of it and began to feel better.
Sitting at the table, sipping coffee and smoking, I decided I would keep my promise to Marie. I had left too many girls without a word the past three years.
I must remember I was no longer a sailor and must begin to act and think like a civilian. I didn't have to rush back to the ship. My liberty wasn't up. I didn't have an excuse for leaving without saying good-bye. I had a whole lifetime of liberty and leave ahead of me. Twenty-two years old and a washed-up wreck. I laughed to myself. I didn't feel like a wreck. I bet Marie would agree that I wasn't a washed-up wreck. I wondered if the pension would compensate for the headaches. I doubted it.
The three capsules a day were supposed to knock the headaches, but I had found that at times the most they did was make them bearable. I supposed I would just have to learn to live with them. Already I was feeling that the headaches were a part of me, and when they went away for varying periods of time it was almost like parting from a visible object. I could always say good-bye when they went away, but I never learned to say hello when they returned.
I popped a capsule into my mouth, washed it down with a glass of water, and stretched out on the bed. I let my feet hang off the end so my shoes wouldn't get the sheets dirty.
In a few minutes I felt better, and I tried to make plans. I dozed off. The only plan I made was that soon I'd have to go home and see my parents.
Marie was taking off my shoes. My feet had gone to sleep while they were hanging off the bed. I had no feeling in them. Only by looking could I tell she was tickling them.
"They're asleep," I said, grinning. "Numb, gone, out of this world."
"Let's go with them," she said, laughing. "Okay?"
"I didn't know we had returned," I said. "That was quite a trip we took over the week end. Tough at work today?"
"I felt fine," she said. She was rubbing my feet and the blood was starting to circulate again. First there was a tingling sensation and then pain. I managed to roll over and stand on my feet. I walked about and soon they were all right.
"How's your head?" Marie asked.
"I talk too much," I said. "It's okay. I'm hungry, though."
She smiled and told me she could prepare something in a jiffy. She soon had pork chops and fried potatoes on the stove.
I watched her bustle about the small kitchen.
I liked her. She was dark like me. Black hair and blue eyes. I have black hair, but my eyes are more of a green. I'm five-ten and weigh one hundred and seventy pounds. She was about five-three, and her one hundred and ten pounds looked fine. Her legs were nice, and her large breasts didn't disappoint me in the least. She was a happy sort of person, about twenty, and always smiling.
We ate and had a second cup of coffee, and she took the cigarette I offered.
"Well, Jimmy," she said, "have you changed your mind?"
"About what?" I asked.
"I asked you to stay for awhile," she said. "You said you couldn't. What's so important in New Orleans?"
"That's my home," I said. "My parents live there. Actually they live across the lake in Slidell, about thirty-five miles from the center of New Orleans. They operate a dry cleaning business in the city, but they commute."
"You're going to work for them?" she asked.
"I suppose," I said. "Eventually, anyway. I'm in no hurry-to go to work, that is."
"Please stay with me, Jimmy," she said. "Please! For a few days."
"If I stay a week, will you let me go with no arguments?" I asked. "No tears?"
She got up and came around the table and put her arms about my neck. She smelled warm and fresh. She kissed me on the cheek and then on my mouth.
Then, looking into my eyes, she said:
"No tears, Jimmy. I promise."
I pulled her into my lap and I began to wonder if I could leave without tears.
I stayed there until a week from that day. When she went to work the next Monday I left, taking some names and addresses with me. Not hers, but some I had copied from some papers-letters actually-that she'd brought from the office where she worked.
That's what I meant when I said it started as a joke. Later it got a little more serious, but originally the whole thing started as a joke-a lark.
CHAPTER TWO
Marie worked in the office of a national magazine. I understood that she did general office work-typing, filing, and the like.
I wouldn't have paid much attention to her job if she hadn't brought a copy of the magazine home one afternoon. The magazine was running a series of articles, based on letters from members of swap clubs throughout the country. These clubs were formed by married couples, and the magazine invited readers with first-hand knowledge to write in telling about their experiences.
I found the subject very interesting. I found the letters to be fascinating.
When Marie saw my interest she began to bring home back issues of the magazine. I was rather surprised at the revealing information on the sex habits of what appeared to be quite a large segment of the population. I noticed that the majority of the letters published in the survey were written by women.
"This seems to be a very widespread custom," I said. "Do you really think that such a thing exists on such a large scale? After all, it doesn't speak very highly of the public-all this changing marriage partners. It seems like there might be a bunch of people pulling a joke on the editor. I find it hard to believe."
"I've read many letters from the readers," she said. "Letters that we couldn't possibly publish. Some are really raw, some are downright indecent. Only the mildest letters are printed."
"What are your feelings on the subject?" I asked. "I've been in the Navy and have seen and done a lot of things, but this swapping business beats the hell out of me."
"Considering everything," she said, laughing, "I'm afraid I'm in no position to judge."
"You know what I mean," I said. "If you were married, do you think you could change off like these people say they do? It sounds more like animals. I always thought marriage was something sacred, or at least a personal thing between a man and a woman. A private affair, not something to be treated so lightly. These people write in and tell how they got started swapping husbands and wives, and how they enjoy it: and some even say they don't really like to do it, but continue so they can hold on to a mate."
"If you want my personal opinion," she said seriously, "I'll give it to you willingly. I don't believe these people are really in love with each other. The married couples, I mean. I think they're just bored with each other, or oversexed, or simply thrill-seekers. I look upon marriage the same as you seem to. It should be a personal thing between a man and woman. I don't understand all this swapping either."
"I think you've been getting letters from a bunch of crack-pops," I said. "It all sounds stupid to me."
"What about girls like me?" she asked.
"I never gave it much thought," I said. "You must know I've been with a lot of girls and women in a lot of countries. I know the different parts of the world have different customs and even different morals. I'm just trying to get it through my head that married people in this country do such things. In such great numbers at that. According to what I've read there must be thousands and thousands of couples mixed up with these swap clubs. In my mind I've used the correct term when I said 'mixed up.' 'Nuts' might be a better expression."
"I'll bring some of the original letters," she said. "You'll find them interesting. Most are from women, strange as that may sound."
"That doesn't sound strange to me," I said. "Of course, a sailor doesn't live an ordinary life. But most men, I believe, even if they did such a thing, wouldn't be apt to admit it."
"You didn't answer my question," she said.
"What question?" I asked.
"You know," she said. "How do you feel about girls like me?"
"I enjoy your company," I answered honestly.
"Would you marry a girl like me?" she asked.
"If I were in love," I said. "Whatever that is. I would only ask that once we did get married, you wouldn't step out on me. I certainly wouldn't want to be trading my wife around. Hell, why get married in the first place? Marriage to me isn't just sex. I wouldn't get married just to have a bed-partner. If that's all a man wants, he'd better stay single."
"You have a point there," she said. "Still you've avoided my question. Rather, you're evading it. I'd like to know how you feel about girls having sexual relations before marriage." She noticed my questioning look and laughed. "I'm not hinting," she said. "I know you don't love me, and I don't love you. I could, I think, but that's beside the point. How do you feel about girls like me? Really. We meet, have a few drinks, and I bring you to my apartment. How is that for morals?"
"I like you," I said. "I enjoy being with you.
You're what we called in the Navy, 'good people'. You're clean and healthy and work and earn your own way. You're certainly not hurting anyone. Unless it's yourself. And simply because I'm a male, I can't condemn you or any female for doing the same thing I do. However, there's still that feeling that we're doing wrong. Still, I don't blame you. I'll bet you one thing, though."
"What's that?" she asked.
"I'll bet you'll really be hard to get when you meet the man you intend to marry."
"You don't have much confidence in women do you?" she asked.
I grinned. "Not much, I guess," I said. "However, I'll admit that I've been associating with some-well, I don't think you'd call the girls a sailor meets 'typical'. In a sea port, anyway. I wasn't in uniform when we met," I quickly added.
"You don't have to make excuses for me," she said. "You're right, of course, Jimmy. I guess I'd play hard to get if I intended to try and marry a man."
"Do you think that's fair?" I asked. "I mean, do you think you'd be doing right by the prospective husband?"
"What can a girl do?" she asked. "I was engaged to a boy one time. Madly in love and all that. I was seventeen. I fought him off for over six months. One night, after promises of marriage-right away, mind you-I gave in. That's the last time I saw him. Suddenly, after what we'd done, I wasn't good enough for him. What do you think about that?"
"He was a rat," I said. "I say that without a moment's hesitation. He should have the stuffing kicked out of him. I'd like to have the pleasure of doing it, too. I've never told a girl I loved her or promised to marry her just to get her in bed. That's just about as low as a fellow can get."
"That's one of the reasons you're here now," she said. "You didn't hand me a line about love and all that crap."
"I was drunk," I said. "Happy drunk. What kind of a line did I use?"
"You didn't use a line," she said. "I liked you and so I brought you home with me. I'm human, that's all. I get lonely and sometimes-well, we're here together and that's that. I don't think I could go for that swap club business, though. Most of the women that write in say they do it to hold their husbands. If I had one like that-that suggested or hinted such a thing-I'd throw the bum out!"
"Good girl," I said.
"Will you do me one favor?" she asked. "If I can," I said.
"When you leave, will you just go while I'm at work? Just let me come home and find you gone. I remember the promise about no tears, and in case I slip up and shed one or two I want to be alone. Okay?"
"Okay," I said.
That's the way it was, too.
I stayed around that week and we went to movies and visited a few bars. We did very little drinking, and I enjoyed it there in the apartment.
During the day I spent most of my time reading the letters from the swap club members all over the country. Most were simply signed by initials only and included the age, sex and state where the writer lived. A few had the complete name and address at the end. These interested me greatly. I wondered how they could be so bold as to identify themselves completely. I decided that probably it was just by accident, a matter of habit, that caused these few to include a complete address.
It was like peeking into the private lives of all those many men and women. The published letters were interesting enough; but the unpublished ones, the ones too hot to handle, were fascinating. Some were case histories, right down to the last detail. There were vivid descriptions of sexual experiences in groups as well as couples. It was like following the writer into the bedroom and actually witnessing what went on.
It was on Thursday of that week that I saw the full name of a woman at the end of a letter. Instantly my eyes caught the name of the city and state-New Orleans, Louisiana. I read that letter again.
I guess it was then that my rather half-baked idea began to form. I thought how interesting it would be to interview the woman in person. Her age, I noted, was twenty-five, and from what she'd written I arrived at the conclusion that she was an attractive woman.
I quit reading and sat there for a few minutes. I got up and made a cup of instant coffee and sat at the kitchen table and smoked and thought. There was a dull ache in my head, so I took one of my capsules. The navy doctors had given me a prescription which could be refilled at any drug store. I was thankful for this, otherwise I'd have had to visit civilian doctors from time to time.
My head soon felt better and I went back in the other room and continued reading.
By the time Marie returned from work that day I'd found seven letters with the full name and address of the writer. The nearest one to New Orleans that I found was from Baton Rouge. I copied that name and address along with the one from New Orleans and placed the slip of paper in my billfold.
Marie brought another batch of letters that day and we sat around that night reading them. She didn't seem to notice that I spent most of my time searching for those with the full name and address signed at the bottom. I spotted two more from New Orleans that night, and each time I did, I went to the bathroom and jotted them down on my slip of paper. I didn't want Marie to know what I was doing.
She was taking a chance with her job by taking them out of the office. I didn't want to cause her any trouble, but I just couldn't seem to keep myself from wanting to get the New Orleans names and addresses. There was a certain feeling of guilt on my part, but I brushed it aside.
Each day Marie would return the stack of letters she'd brought home the day before. Friday she informed me that she wouldn't be bringing any more home. During office hours, after she'd placed some more letters in her handbag, and returned to the files those from the day before, she heard the rumor that the letters were to be destroyed.
"Does anyone suspect that you've been borrowing the letters?" I asked. "I hope you don't get into any trouble."
"I don't think anybody noticed," she said. "Now if I can just get these back in place in the morning nobody will be the wiser."
"Why don't we destroy these?" I asked. "There are only thirty or forty. Do you think they'd be missed?"
"Maybe not," she said, "but I'd feel better if they were back in place. I work only half a day tomorrow. I'll take them with me, and if I can return them I will. If not, I'll bring them back here and destroy them."
"Since we have them we might as well read them," I said.
There were three more from New Orleans and vicinity. I managed to get them copied on my slip of paper without Marie knowing about it. At the time, I didn't admit it to myself, but I knew that I was doing wrong. I had no business taking the names and addresses. Now, the main thing that bothers me, is the fact that I deceived Marie.
That made twelve names and addresses in or around New Orleans and one from Baton Rouge. I decided they'd keep me busy for awhile.
I had some kind of an idea of making a little survey on my own. I wanted to know if there were really people living as described in the letters. It occurred to me that the letters might have been written by different members of the same swap club, but even if they all belonged to the same club I should get a few kicks out of the deal.
I could hardly wait to get home to get my little project started.
CHAPTER THREE
Marie managed to get the letters back in the files without being detected. She came home at noon on Saturday and we had a good time that week end.
I really liked Marie and was a little sorry to leave her. In the past three years, however, I had left many lovely girls, and I found it not too difficult. I do not know whether she shed tears when she came home Monday afternoon and found me gone. It is possible, I believe, that she did. I do know I will always-have fond memories of her and the time I spent with her.
Most of my money was in traveler's checks. I was always a fair poker player and I had won and sometimes lost many dollars in the Navy. While in the hospital I had a streak of good luck, and with my back pay, I now had over two thousand dollars. In fact, I had exactly two thousand in traveler's checks; and after buying a bus ticket to New Orleans, I still had about three hundred dollars in cash.
I had thought about flying home, but I wasn't in that much of a hurry. Pd already written my folks and told them about my discharge and that I'd be along in a couple of weeks.
I'd always made it a practice to write my parents at least every two weeks. Whenever possible, of course. Sometimes, when my ship was at sea, it was not possible to write that often. My folks understood, though, and we always got along fine.
My dad had been in the Navy during the second world war and it was his talk that had influenced my decision to enlist instead of waiting to be drafted. I had never regretted that decision. My regrets now were that I couldn't-go back to the heavy cruiser and my shipmates, my friends.
I had worked about a year in my folks' cleaning business right after getting out of high school. There was a job waiting for me with them, but I knew there'd be no pressure about starting right to work. I am the only child, and someday the business will be mine anyway. Besides, I now had my disability pension check, which would start coming every month. That would be enough to make me independent, if I watched my dollars.
The bus trip was my choice because I like the friendly atmosphere on a bus. The people seem to be more friendly than on a train, and a plane trip always seemed to be over too swiftly. I like the sense of traveling, the feeling you have, roaring along the highway. Especially at night. Sometimes you are fortunate enough to get an attractive, interesting person as a seat-mate. Female preferred, but I'll talk to anybody.
I had another reason for taking the bus. I had definitely made up my mind to do a little investigating on the swap club situation.
At the time I didn't realize that the subject would become almost an obsession with me. In the back of my mind I thought about gathering material along this line for an article or maybe even a book. At any rate, I meant to do a little research on my own. It wasn't long before what had started out as a lark developed into something that was important to me. Curiosity it might be called-or just plain prying.
The other reason I took the bus is that I knew I'd get a chance to talk to many persons. There's something about traveling on a bus, or the fact that you are traveling and meeting strangers, that causes people to tell their innermost secrets. I can't explain the reason for this. At least, not the exact reason. It has something to do with talking to people you'll never see again, the fact that you are traveling.
When traveling, you come closest to living in the immediate present than at any other time. You are soon able to forget the past, or put it out of your mind. The future is when the trip is over. And when the trip is to last two or more days, that future seems quite far away. When traveling, too, you are in a way suspended in time. Anyway, that's the feeling I have.
The first person to sit beside me was an elderly gentleman about seventy-five. He was willing to talk all right, but he was deaf and his hearing aid didn't seem to be functioning properly. After a series of stops and starts in conversation I finally gave up on him. He either talked too loud or not loud enough and it ended by me nodding and smiling and shaking my head and hoping he'd soon get off. Besides, I wondered, how could I start a conversation with him about swap clubs? Finally, after about fifty miles, he got off, still smiling and talking. I waved good-bye to him.
I had a few copies of the magazine containing the articles with me, and I held them in my lap. I was waiting for an opportunity to bring up the subject with one of the passengers.
The next person to take a seat beside me was a young fellow about twenty-five. He looked like he might be a good prospect, so I didn't waste any time in striking up a conversation. It turned out that he had a wife and three kids. He was out of work and was going to the next town to see if he could borrow some money from an uncle. He told me his troubles for about an hour, and I couldn't get a word in between his gripes. I was glad when we came to his town.
When nobody got on to take his place I used the lever to make the seat recline and took a little nap.
The bus pulled into a little village station about an hour later, and I woke up. The driver announced that there'd be a fifteen-minute rest stop. I got off to stretch my legs.
I had a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the station cafe and sat at the counter next to a lady who was about forty yars old. She had a nice figure and was neatly dressed, and I liked her smile. We started chatting and she told me that she'd noticed me on the bus. She asked if I was traveling alone. I told her I was, and the outcome was that we decided to sit together.
"I've been sitting beside some terrible bores," she said. "The last one pretended to be almost asleep and used that as an excuse to-well, I think you understand."
I grinned. "I think so," I said. "If I do fall asleep I'll try to keep on my side of the seat."
"How far are you going?" she asked.
"The end of the line," I said. "New Orleans."
The questions that followed did not surprise me. Like many people, when they find that I'm from that city, she wanted to know about the French Quarter and Mardi Gras.
We left the counter and boarded the bus. We went back to my seat and I let her sit by the window.
I had left the magazines on the seat, and she picked them up and handed them to me. I placed them in my lap. I told her a little about New Orleans. She said she'd watched Mardi Gras on television. I told her she'd probably witnessed more than the participants on that wild and happy Carnival Day.
I asked her if she cared to look over the magazines. She took one and I smoked, waiting for her to come to the article about the sex clubs. I didn't even know if she'd comment on the survey; nor did I know just how I could bring up the subject. I didn't want to appear anxious to discuss the clubs, but I did want to try my first interview.
Glancing over, I saw that she was reading the 'letters'. I tried to relax, wondering what her reaction would be. She placed the magazine on her lap finally, and silently, without looking at me, took another magazine and quickly turned the pages until she came to another of the series.
She read for over an hour while I waited impatiently. When she handed the magazines back to me she still didn't say anything.
I offered her a cigarette. She took it and we smoked in silence. We came to another little town, where we got out and had coffee in the lunch room. We talked and she was friendly enough, but it was just small talk. Back on the bus she resumed the questions about New Orleans and said she'd like to visit there sometime. I told her I thought she'd like it, would enjoy herself.
The way the conversation was going, I decided my little plan had failed. She hadn't taken the bait. Therefore, her next words surprised me a little.
"Have you read the magazines?" she asked. "About the clubs, I mean."
"Yes, I have," I said. "As a matter-of-fact, I'm very interested in the subject. I have a friend working in the office of the publisher. I have been thinking about making a survey of my own-a kind of one-man investigation, you might say."
"You doubt the truth of the contributors?" I she asked.
"I wouldn't say that exactly. It's just that I find it hard to believe that the custom is as widespread as indicated in the articles."
"Why?" she asked.
I grinned and said: "It's just something new to me, I guess. It I seems to me that the clubs are contrary to law, accepted social customs, and what I was brought up to believe was the normal relationship between a man and a woman, a husband and wife."
"All you say is undoubtedly true," she said, "but it's really nothing new. To my personal knowledge such clubs have been in existence for over twenty years." She looked at me and smiled. "You aren't married, are you?" she asked.
"No," I said, "and if marriage means swapping my wife, I don't care to try it."
"All marriages aren't like that," she said, laughing. "Let me ask you a question. May I?"
"Sure," I said.
"Maybe I should have said a series of questions," she said. "Let me put it this wav: What do you think about the high divorce rate in this country today? What do you think of women and men changing partners through the courts? Do you think it's any better to break up marriages, homes, the family, and then start the same thing over again with another man or woman? How about the people that get two, three, four, and even more divorces? What do you think about that?"
"I don't think it's right," I said. "I don't know what can be done about it, though. If they no longer love one another, I don't see how they can continue to live together. Hating and fighting and all that would certainly be a miserable life."
"You use the word 'love'." she said, "let's look at that a little closer. There is very little love, as love, in the average marriage. Not romantic love, anyway. When the honeymoon is over the so-called love goes out the window in most cases. The man and woman, or boy and girl, usually take a good look at each other then. Sometimes they don't like what they see. Nine times out of ten, or ninety-nine times out out of a hundred, what they see isn't what they expected or dreamed about. They begin to see each other as they really are. All the frills are removed, little annoying habits crop up, and sometimes the great love .turns to hate. That's when they run to the divorce courts and beg for a way out."
"Then you don't believe in marriage?" I asked.
"On the contrary," she said. "I think it's a wonderful thing. It's the only way I want to live. However, a good marriage is based on companionship, a-feeling of belonging to someone, not being ,alone. I have been married for nearly twenty-one years. I know all my husband's weaknesses and he knows mine. We understand each other and are very happy together."
"What do you think could be done about all this?" I asked. "About the high divorce rate, I mean."
"There should be more understanding about marriage," she said. "Much more understanding on the woman's part. All girls, before getting married, should realize that a boy or a man is just a male animal, really. Sexually, I mean. Most of these young kids think of only one thing when getting married. Getting in bed together seems to be the only goal. Am I speaking too frankly?" she asked.
"Oh, no," I said. "I'm interested in what you have to say. I expect to get married someday and all information is appreciated. As far as speaking frankly-well, I've been a sailor for over three years and I guess you know what that means."
"I don't imagine I could tell you anything new about girls," she said, laughing.
"Maybe not certain types," I said, "but I guess I have a lot to learn about the home-town type. And maybe a lot more to unlearn about the ones I've been associating with."
"I think you'll find most girls much the same no matter where you go," she said. "Maybe not on the surface, but a girl is a girl is a girl."
I laughed. "I remember that poem," I said. "Every time I see a rose I think of it. Go on, please. Don't let me stop you."
"Where was I?" she asked. "Oh, yes. Well, after the young couple come out of their dream world and face reality and the somewhat sad facts of life, most start looking for a way out. This usually leads to divorce-or one or both stepping out. This cheating brings on lies and deceit and eventual breakdown of the marriage."
"Then you think most marriages are doomed before they really get started?"
"Not most, maybe, but many," she said. "A great many, according to statistics."
"What is the solution?" I asked. "If there is one. I mean, what is your opinion? How can this be prevented?"
"The only thing I can do is tell you how my husband and I made our marriage last," she said. "He was a very passionate young man, actually oversexed, I suppose. I was no shrinking violet in that department myself, you understand. However, I was an innocent, inexperienced girl of eighteen. I found in a few weeks that he had not one but two girl friends on the side. Naturally, I cried and raved and threatened. My first thought was to leave him. I didn't, though, and we've had a happy life together. We got things straightened out, and I've always been thankful for that fact."
"How did you work it?" I asked. "Did he stop seeing the girl friends?"
"He stopped seeing them all right," she said, laughing. "He didn't have time. You ask how I worked it out, but I think you know."
"Maybe I could guess," I said, "but I might be wrong. I would rather you tell me."
"We joined a swap club," she said.
I grinned and said:
"Then you are certainly qualified to speak on the subject. Would you mind answering a few questions ?"
"Not at all," she said.
"First, before I forget it, you mentioned that a good marriage is based on companionship and a feeling of belonging to someone. Well, it seems to me that you are contradicting yourself. I can't see that you would feel that you belonged to someone if you shared that person with others."
"Maybe I can explain. You still might not understand, but I can tell how we feel about it. You see, my husband and I worked together, planned and saved together, have a home together. We have shared our lives mentally and physically. All the rest was only physical. Actually, it means nothing, this sex business. When it's over it's forgotten. After all, it's nothing but a fleeting moment, meaning nothing once it's over. Do you follow me?"
"I'm trying to," I said, "but I'll admit I'm finding it difficult. It doesn't seem natural or normal to me."
"You say you've been in the Navy," she said. "I know you've been with many women. Do you remember them? Do you honestly remember any one of them for any length of time? Think, and be honest. Did they actually mean much to you, or did you just use them for a purpose?"
"You make a good point there," I said. "I think I know what you mean, but the fact remains that I wouldn't want to live like that. Not with a wife."
"In other words, you have been living like that-only without a wife."
"I don't think you could say that," I said. "As I understand it these couples exchange partners with the complete knowledge of all directly Iconcerned. Is that right?"
"Yes," she said.
"I wouldn't even want to do that with a girl friend or any woman that I knew. Basically, I don't think it's right. To tell you the truth, I think it's more like animals than humans. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, but that's the way I feel. I don't claim to be a goody-goody or anything like that either."
"You haven't hurt my feelings," she said. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying all married people should live as I do-as I have. I've just been telling you my feelings on the subject-the way my husband and I live. I have no wish to influence you or anyone else. I'm just saying that in my opinion swap clubs are a good thing for some types of people. As for animals-I don't feel like an animal. There is one thing I will say: I have a little variety, and it certainly adds spice to my life."
I laughed. "There's no doubt about that, I guess," I said. "I hope you aren't angry."
"I'm not angry," she said.
"Then you don't mind more questions?" I asked.
"Not in the least," she said. "However, you'd better make it fast."
She noticed my questioning look and smiled.
"I'm really not angry," she said. "It's just that I have to get off soon. The next stop, in fact. About five minutes."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "I've enjoyed our conversation and I wish we could talk more. There are a lot of questions Pd like to ask. There is one thing that I must ask, and I hope you don't take me wrong. Don't misunderstand. I hope you don't think Pm hinting or something...."
She laughed and said:
"I think I can anticipate your question."
"Will you answer it?" I asked. "Now that I know you'll be leaving in a few minutes, I don't mind asking it."
"I'm going to be honest with you," she said, "as I have been all along. The members do not go outside the club. Does that answer your question?"
"It certainly does," I said. "I do want you to know that I wasn't making any passes. Didn't intend to make any."
"I know that," she said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have talked like this. I think you are a very nice person and I, too, have enjoyed our conversation. I consider myself a respectable woman. Even in my younger days I never went outside the club. Please don't let anything I have said affect your life,-change your ideas on marriage in general. I can't say that what has worked for me, for my husband and me, would work for others. Just let your conscience be your guide. I really do think you are a nice person."
"Thank you," I said. "I didn't mean to imply that you weren't attractive, that I wouldn't-well, you know."
She smiled and reached over and squeezed my hand. "I understand," she said. "Thank you for the compliment."
The bus stopped. We said good-bye and she got off. I never did ask her name and didn't tell her mine. I liked her and wished we could have talked more. I still found the subject interesting and decided my first interview hadn't turned out so badly. She hadn't changed any of my ideas, my feelings, but she hadn't tried to change them. I guess it was a draw, a tie. I hadn't changed her ideas either. Then, again, I hadn't tried to change them.
I managed to bring up the subject with quite a few persons, both male and female. I used the magazines in most cases.
With some of the men I simply came out and asked their opinion without preliminary spadework. It was surprising to find so many people having at least heard of the clubs. I never did talk to a man during the entire trip that admitted belonging to one. Most of the men thought the whole thing was a good idea if there was some way they could leave their own wife out. I'll admit that this idea had a certain appeal to me, and I have a hunch that most men would agree.
One beautiful woman, about thirty, talked in a vague way about knowing somebody belonging to a club. She seemed to know a great deal about them, but we didn't talk very much. She was interested in the present and she was in the seat beside me during the night. Sometimes there are a lot of interesting things going on, actions taking place, on a cross-country bus during the night. This woman made the night very enjoyable.
I didn't learn her name either.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning a young woman boarded the bus and our conversation started right away. She was about twenty-five, with long black hair and a trim little figure. She asked if I minded letting her sit by the window. I got up to let her have the window seat.
As she brushed past she kind of leaned against me. Her body felt nice, and she took a little longer to get by and sit down than was necessary. She immediately took out a cigarette and asked for a light. I took out a cigarette and got them both going. She thanked me.
She asked where I was going. I told her, and she said she was going to Mobile. I asked if she lived there. She said she did and added that she'd be glad to get home. She said her mother lived in the country and she'd been vacationing with her for two weeks, resting up.
I asked if she worked and she said she didn't, that she'd needed a rest from something else. When I didn't say anything to this, she smiled and wanted to know where I'd been.
I explained that I was just out of the Navy, and she remarked that she'd gone with a few sailors.
"They're a lot of fun," she said. "If I were a man I think I'd like to be a sailor. All that travel and seeing things and doing things."
"There's a little more to it than that," I said, laughing, "but it's a good life, all right."
"A girl in every port?" she asked, smiling.
"Most of them."
"Don't you think you'll miss them?" she asked. She looked at me steadily and I was almost sure she was on the make.
I really didn't care to get involved. It wasn't that she wasn't desirable, but I was getting close to home and was getting anxious to see my folks. I was getting that feeling sailors call 'channel fever'-a term used when the ship is a couple of days out of port, after a long trip, and the men find it hard to wait to get ashore.
"I'll miss everything about the Navy," I said. "I do right now. But I'll get over it. I don't think I'll have any trouble finding girls."
"I'm sure you won't," she said.
Her eyes were boldly looking me over and I didn't try very hard to hide my admiration for her body. She was a neat little dish, and her face wasn't bad either.
"Are you married?" I asked.
"What difference does that make?" she asked.
I felt that she was teasing, but I wasn't absolutely sure. "It doesn't make any difference," I said. "Not really. I just wondered."
"Yes, I'm married," she said, "but that's all right. My husband and I understand each other. Do you get what I mean?" she asked.
"I don't think you have to spell it out," I said.
She laughed. "What's your name?"
"Jimmy," I said. "Jimmy Butler."
"My name is Stella," she said. She leaned back in the seat and squirmed around and got settled. "Now," she said, "let's relax and talk. I love to ride a bus. What shall we talk about, Jimmy?"
"You," I said.
"My favorite subject," she said. "What do you want to know?"
"You mentioned that you didn't work," I said. "Still you've been on a vacation, resting up. I'm curious about that."
"You might say I'm too popular," she said.
She turned her head and looked at me, her face close to mine. Her lips were red and inviting. If it hadn't been daylight I know I would have kissed her. As it was I could hardly resist. She gazed deep into my eyes, and I got the message.
"I had to get away from the world of men for awhile," she said. "Now I'm ready for it again."
I laughed and turned my head. "It might be the time, but not the place," I said. "Or is it the other way around?"
"You name the place," she said. "I have the time."
"Are you serious?" I asked. My first thought was that she was a hustler.
"I'm serious," she said. "Would you like to stay in Mobile for awhile? For a few days anyway?"
"You tempt me," I said, "but my parents are expecting me. How about leaving with me? What's the catch? If you need a little money...."
She laughed and sat up straight. She looked at me and said:
"There's been a misunderstanding, Jimmy. My husband is wealthy. Well, maybe not rich, but we have enough. I'm not trying to get your money. What I'm going to say might surprise you, Jimmy. The truth of the matter is, I belong to a kind of club. Have you heard about-"
"Just a minute," I interrupted: I stood up and got the magazines down from the luggage rack. I sat and took one of the magazines and quickly turned to the right page.
"Is this what you're getting at?" I asked.
She took the magazine, read for a few minutes, then looked up at me and smiled. "What a coincidence," she said, laughing. "You should've told me about this before. Maybe it would've saved a little confusion. You must have thought I was a hustling gal."
I told her about my interest in the subject and the other women I had talked with. I also told her that the other woman had said she never went outside the club.
"I can't see that it makes all that much difference," she said. "After all, the object is to have fun."
"That's one way of looking at it," I said. "Then you and your husband are members of a club?"
"For over three years," she said. "We have about twenty couples now. We do have rules, of course." She laughed. "I think rules are made to be broken, don't you?"
"I've broken a few," I said. "You might look at it this way, too. The fact that you belong to such a club is breaking the rules of marriage."
"I can't argue with you there," she said. "I won't even try. However, most married couples two-time a little. We just do it openly."
"You might have something there," I said. "I don't think all of them do, though. How did you get started? I mean, how did you happen to join the club?"
"It wasn't like the woman in that article," she said. "The letter where the woman said she did it to keep her husband. In the first place, I think shes lying about that. To herself, anyway. She's just making excuses. I never have made excuses. I don't think it's necessary. I'm the way I am, and that's that. My husband knew how I was when he married me. I also knew how he was. I married for security mostly. Why he married meyou'd have to ask him."
"It's doubtful that I'll ever have a chance," I said.
"If you stay in Mobile a few days you can meet him," she said.
"I don't think I want to meet him," I said. "I'm still trying to get used to this whole deal."
She laughed. "You'd like him," she said. "He'd like you, too."
I didn't have an answer for that. I decided that if I was going to really investigate the swap clubs I should interview at least one of the husbands. But I didn't think I was ready for that yet.
"How did you make your contact?" I asked. "How did you find out about the club?"
"It was easy enough," she said. "My husband's in the insurance business. There was always a certain amount of entertaining connected with his larger accounts. From the time we first married, we both ignored the flirtations and indiscreet actions at these parties. I won't go into that. Anyway, we bought a home in the suburbs and one of my neighbors started dropping by. We became very friendly, and it wasn't long before her husband began coming over with her. PU be honest and say that I liked his looks. I could sense that he was interested in me, and it didn't take long to find out that his wife didn't care.
"One thing brought on another, and the woman-my friend by this time-dropped a few hints. When I showed interest she told me about the club. At that time there were sixteen couples. I talked to my husband about it and found out that he had an eye on the woman. She's a beautiful woman, and I certainly didn't blame him. To make it short, arrangements were made for us to be introduced to the club members. We had to appear before them and be considered and voted on."
"Voted on?"
"That's right. All members have to approve of any prospective members. Each member has the right to turn down any applicant for any reason or no reason."
"Kind of veto powers," I said.
"Correct. We passed the inspection all right."
"I wouldn't doubt that for a second," I said. "How did this 'inspection' take place? Did you have to parade around like models or something?"
"You mean in the nude? No, nothing like that. Our neighbors had a party and invited all the club members. We were there, of course, my husband and I. It was much like any other party. Drinks and sandwiches were served, and my friend introduced us around. When the party was over we went home and waited for the verdict."
"I know what the verdict was," I said, "but how did you receive the news?"
"The next day the club members called my friend, and when she found that all were favorable she came right over and told me."
"Is that all there was to it' " I asked.
"Not quite. We had to read and sign a list of rules and regulations. I can't remember all of them right now, but they looked like they'd been drawn up by a lawyer. They were very formal looking." She laughed. "As a matter-of-fact, one of the members is a lawyer. I hadn't thought about it before, but I imagine he drew up the rules. Anyway, we were supposed to be available to all club members at any reasonable time."
She noticed my look and laughingly added, "The opposite sex, of course. The men were to go to the home of the women at all times. The club was never to be discussed with outsiders, with the exception, of course, of trying to obtain new members. There are more rules, but these are the main ones.
"Oh, yes, illness is the only excuse allowed to interfere with the men's rights. You can see, I believe, that all the rules favor the men. That's the reason I had to get away for awhile. I needed a little rest. The men seem to like me and there's quite a lot of traffic at my home."
"I can understand that," I said. "There are a few questions that I'd like to ask, though. Unless you have more to say."
"Ask the questions," she said. "I think that's about all there is to it, but I might have left something out."
"There is one important thing, in my opinion, that you have left out," I said. "It seems to me it could be the catch in the whole thing. In fact, it could very well be the reason for not having such clubs. The important reason, at least."
"What is that?" she asked.
"How about the children?" I asked. "The one's already living in the homes and those that might be born. How the devil would you pinpoint the father?"
"That's covered in the rules, too," she said. "Maybe I should have mentioned that, but the question has never come up in our club. However, the rule is very simple. The husband of the wife must accept the child as his own."
"Just like that," I said.
"You must understand, Jimmy, that we're all young couples and most of the women don't want children. Personally, if I decided to have a child, I'd withdraw from the club."
"There's always the possibility of a slip-up, don't you think?"
"Certainly there is," she said, "but I'm willing to accept the responsibilities. My husband would go along with me. He also signed to join the club."
"Legally, I don't think that'd mean a thing," I said. "However we'll let that go. How about older children?"
"I've just told you. We're all young and have no children. "What is this, anyway? An inquisition?"
"I'm sorry," I said. "Maybe I'd better explain. I met a girl in New York with a little inside information on these swap clubs. It surprised me to find them so widespread. I decided to do a little investigating on my own. A survey, you might call it. I might even write up the subject and try and make a book out of it."
She smiled. "What qualifications do you have to write a book?" she asked. "Have you been to college?"
"What difference does that make?" I asked. "No, I haven't been to college."
"What makes you think you could write a book then?"
"Look," I said, "I'm not talking about being a writer. I'm just gathering facts. Maybe I could make a report some way. I might even be able to get somebody who is a writer to help me write it for me from facts that I gather."
"You should let a reporter do that," she said. "Someone with the necessary qualifications. You don't have the right to pry into people's private lives and write about them."
"I'll be damned," I said. "In other words, if I did have a college education and did have a degree and was a reporter, it'd be all right for me to go around prying?"
"I didn't say that," she said. "At least I didn't mean it that way."
"Maybe you didn't mean it, but that's the way I took it. As for your charge of prying, in this case you volunteered most of the information, and it seemed to me that you rather enjoyed giving it. Naturally, I wouldn't use correct names or anything like that. So far it's been just a halfformed idea anyway. For another thing, that crack about not going to college. That has nothing to do with it. I know a lot of people that never saw the inside of a college and they're doing all right. My father, for instance. He has a damn good business, which he started with nothing except an idea and some determination."
"And a lot of hard work?" she asked, smiling. "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. It's just that so many people talk about writing a book and ... well, writing isn't so easy. I know. I used to try and write poems. They were simply awful."
"Maybe you gave up too soon," I said. "Too easily. Did you go to college?"
"One year," she said. "I flunked out. They said they weren't ready for me and my ways. Let's get off the subject of college, shall we? I'm sorry I made you angry, and I really do wish you luck on your project."
"Until this very moment," I said, "it really wasn't a project. It was just an idea. Now I think I will give it a try. It shouldn't take a college education to go around asking questions."
"Not with anything concerning sex, anyway," she said. "After all, that's one thing that doesn't require a formal education."
"There certainly isn't anything very formal about sex," I said. "Then we're still friends, Stella?"
"We're friends, Jimmy," she said, smiling. "And if you'll just stay in Mobile for awhile I'll gladly show you how friendly I really can be. I have an added incentive now, you know."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"You might just accidentally become famous," she said. "If you did I'd be able to say I knew him when."
"Sure," I said, laughing. "I might turn out to be the poor man's Kinsey."
"Don't you think you should be taking notes ?" she asked.
"I have a good memory," I said. "But I suppose I will have to keep some sort of records. Maybe now would be a good time to ask you to sum up your feelings in just a few words. I think that would be interesting, don't you? I mean, just what would you have to say about these swap clubs? You've been in one for some time and have apparently enjoyed yourself. Is there anything you'd like to say?"
"Sure," she said, laughing. "I can sum up my feelings on the subject in just two words-IT'S FUN!"
"That's short and to the point," I said. "I don't think I'll have any difficulty remembering that."
"How are you going to manage to meet club members?" she asked. "You can't very well go around asking such personal questions. I'm afraid you'd get your face slapped black and blue."
"I'm going to have to figure that little problem out," I said. "I didn't have much trouble with you, did I?" I laughed to let her know I was kidding.
I was glad that she took it as a joke, even if it was the truth.
"I'm an odd-ball," she said, winking at me. "Besides, you'd have to spend most of your time riding around the country on a bus."
"I can think of worse things," I said. "You meet...."
"Such interesting people on a bus," she finished, and we both laughed.
I didn't want to tell her about the names and addresses in my billfold. In the first place it wasn't any of her business, and in the second place I had a little guilty feeling about the names-about the way I'd gotten them.
"I have a little story you might like," I said. "When you mentioned getting my face slapped, I was reminded of it. It happened in a barroom, where this guy was going up to each woman in the place and whispering in her ear. Every time the woman would slap his face. It didn't seem to bother him, for he'd go right on to the next woman. Finally, a male customer in the place became so curious that he went over to the guy and asked what he was whispering to the women. The fellow told him he was asking the women to go to bed with him. The customer asked him if he didn't get his face slapped a lot doing that. The guy said yes, but that it was surprising how many of the women didn't slap his face.
"Maybe I didn't tell it just right, but I'm now in just about the same position as that fellow. I might get my face slapped a lot, but I might get some results."
"That's a cute little story," she said, "but I think I have a better idea."
"Tell it," I said. "All suggestions are welcome!"
"You might interview some of the members of my club," she said. "Some might not want to talk about it, but I have a couple of very good friends who'd discuss it with you. At least I think they would. I could ask them."
"You don't give up, do you?" I asked, laughing. "There's one thing Pm nervous about. Just thinking about stopping over in Mobile makes me a little nervous. Actually, there are two things."
"Name them," she said.
"One-I might be a disappointment to you; and two-I'm leery about meeting your husband."
"I don't think I'd be disappointed in you," she said seriously. "As for my husband, you don't have to meet him. I can make arrangements easily enough to prevent that. You really have no argument left, Jimmy. Have you?"
I grinned. "You win," I said. "Or maybe lose. I'm no prize package."
She slipped her hand into mine, and it was warm and smooth. Even now I think I'd have been foolish to pass up such an opportunity.
She pressed her body close to mine, which isn't very difficult to do on a bus seat. I became more and more excited and I could hardly wait to get to Mobile. I don't remember much of our conversation the rest of the way there.
From the Mobile station we took a cab, and I was glad I had checked my suitcase on through to New Orleans. It was early afternoon, and that cab driver couldn't drive fast enough for either one of us. The house was a two-story structure located in a very nice residential section. I noticed that all the lawns in the neighborhood were neat, and the street was shady and quiet.
I paid the cabbie and took Stella's small suitcase. We almost ran to the door. She fumbled in her purse for a key, finally got the door open, and almost pulled me inside. Then the door was closed and she was in my arms. We kissed and strained our bodies together.
It happened then.
The carpet was thick and soft.
Later she made a phone call and we went upstairs and showered, then came back down to the kitchen and had a snack of sandwiches and milk. She told me she'd called her husband and that he wouldn't be home for the night.
What a night!
The next morning she looked just as good to me-which is a very good thing. In my Navy days, when drinking, I have opened my eyes on some horrible sights. Many times I've had to close them until I could get enough courage to open them again and kind of creep out of bed and back to the ship. I wasn't in any hurry to go any place that morning, though. Besides, I doubt if I could have escaped from Stella even if I'd tried. Not that I did try.
"When will your husband return?" I asked over hot coffee and toast. I had decided that I didn't want to stick around and meet her husband. And after the hectic night I wasn't too interested in having interviews with her friends. I was afraid that if they were like her I wouldn't get out of Mobile alive.
"Around five or six," she said. "If he doesn't call and tell me he's going to spend the night with one of the members. That's where he spent last night. If I get a call today, I can stall, Jimmy. I think you are a prize package, and I certainly wasn't disappointed. You're too modest, honey. Really."
"Thanks," I said. "This certainly isn't like the Navy. Who knows? I might like this civilian life."
"Would you like to talk to my neighbor?" she asked. "You remember, the one I told you got me into the club."
"I really should be on my way home today," I said. "My parents will be expecting me, Stella. I hope you don't get angry. Pd like to stay longer, but...."
"That's all right, Jimmy," she interrupted. "You don't have to make excuses. I know you're anxious to see your folks. Are you really serious about this report-this book? Or are you just out for a little fun?"
I grinned. "I'll admit that it started out that way," I said. "As a kind of lark, I mean, but I'm serious enough. It's become a challenge, really. How could I handle it with your friend ? I realize now that there are a great many things I haven't thought out. I must have some kind of plan. Have you any ideas?"
"You should have some goood reason for the interviews," she said. "How about simply saying that you are a writer compiling information on the swap clubs? You must have a good imagination or you wouldn't have progressed this far. Why don't you let me introduce you, and you take it from there?"
"I think I could shoot a line of malarky," I said, "but why not just ask her questions?"
"It might work that way in this case, but what about the rest of your interviews? I think you should get a story and stick to it. This will give you some practice. You have me interested now, Jimmy. I feel that I have a stake in this. Will you let me know how everything turns out? With your book, I mean. See, I'm already accepting it as an accomplished fact."
"You will know," I said. "If you see a book come out, you'll know my crazy idea worked. If you don't see one you can assume that it didn't that maybe I got shot or something sticking my nose in where it didn't belong."
"Don't talk like that," she said. "You're doing research. They do research on just about everything these days. Why, just the other day II saw where a man was granted, by some government agency, eighteen thousand dollars to see if some kind of species of fish could think. Don't worry, if you handle this right you'll have a best seller on your hands. In fact, I'm tempted to steal your idea and give it a try myself." She laughed. "No kidding, you had better not waste too much time. Some well-known author will think of this subject some day, and you'll be left out in the cold."
"That fish business gets me," I said. "Sometimes I think the world is crazy, and not me after all. Bring on your friend, Stella, I'm getting some ideas."
CHAPTER FIVE
Stella left to get her friend, and I paced the floor in the living room. I was very nervous and caught myself chain-smoking. My mouth was dry, so I went into the kitchen and got myself a beer out of the refrigerator. I drink it and returned to the living room.
The beer calmed me somewhat and I sat down on a low couch and tried to relax. I had carried a little zipper bag on the bus with me with a change of underwear and socks. I was wearing a gray suit and had used my electric razor, so I felt that I looked all right.
The door opened and Stella entered with a tall blonde woman. She had a wonderful shape, but her face was really beautiful. Her blue eyes were warm and friendly, and I liked her at once. I stood up and Stella introduced her friend as Marge.
Marge put out her hand and smiled. I took her hand for a moment and nodded.
"I'll leave you two for awhile," Stella said. "You're on your own, Jimmy."
Stella smiled and winked and went out the front door. I looked about, motioned to an easy chair near the couch and asked Marge to sit down.
She was wearing a thin street dress that fit her body like a glove. A very tight glove. I hoped I'd be able to keep my mind on the purpose of our talk. She sat down gracefully and crossed her lovely bare legs. I sat on the couch. It was with difficulty that I kept my eyes on her face.
I was silent for a moment or two, waiting for her to speak.
When she didn't, I asked:
"Did Stella explain about me? About the subject I wish to discuss?"
I wished that Stella had briefed me. Had told me what she'd told this beautiful blonde. It was too late now, I decided. I was on my own. It did enter my mind to get up from the couch and go out the door after Stella. But I just sat there smiling, feeling stupid, waiting for her to speak.
When she did speak her voice was low and soft.
"I understand that you spent the night here," she said, smiling. "Stella did tell me that. I also understand you are some kind of a reporter or writer, making a survey concerning our club. I agreed to answer questions, providing my name will not be used."
"I assure you that it will not be," I said. "This is simply a kind of survey, based on numbers and not names. Something like a poll, you might say. I met Stella on the bus and we got to talking. I mentioned my current assignment. You see, I have a grant from the Pierce-Motley Foundation to do research on the custom of wife-swapping. Stella was kind enough to give me a little information. One thing led to another ... and here I am."
"That's interesting," she said. "Just how did the clubs attract your attention?"
"A magazine is currently running a series of articles...."
I stopped and put my hand to my head. I had forgotten all about the magazines. They were back on the bus."
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Do you have a headache?"
"As a matter-of-fact, I do," I said. "Will you excuse me?"
"Of course."
I got up and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. I took one of the capsules and went back into the living room.
I explained a little about my injury and also about leaving the magazines on the bus. As I talked, she seemed to relax. I know I did. I was playing it strictly by ear. I had never heard of a Pierce-Motley Foundation. The name had just come out of my mouth, without thought on my part. I hoped there wasn't such an outfit.
"Anyway," I continued, "the Foundation became interested and assigned me to this district. The southern district, I mean, mainly because my home is in New Orleans. I was given a free hand in my investigations. By that, I mean that just how I proceed in obtaining the information is left up to me. All the information will be turned into the Foundation, of course. I do believe there are three or four more researchers working other sections of the country."
"What will happen to all this information?" she asked. "Will the Foundation make it available to the public? Print it or publish it?"
"I couldn't give an answer one way or the other on that," I said. "That part was never revealed to me. I just have a job, you know-or rather, a grant, and I have eighteen months to finish my study. At the end of that time I must turn in my reports, my observations and notes. What will happen to them, I don't know. However, I am considering writing a book on the subject, a kind of human interest story about swap clubs. I would have to get permission from the Foundation, I suppose. Now, are there any more questions?"
"Just one," she said. "Stella mentioned that you'd been in the Navy. Then you told about your injury in the Navy. Since you have just been discharged, and from a hospital at that, I was wondering how you received the grant from the Foundation."
"I don't think you asked a question," I said, laughing. "It was more like a statement. It's very simple, really. In fact, it was a snap. My ship was still in port when I was discharged. Rather it was back from a cruise. My commanding officer's brother is on the board of directors of the Foundation. I just went aboard ship and explained to my CO. about my discharge and that resulted in him giving me a letter of introduction to his brother. Does that take care of all the questions in your mind?"
"Your story sounds very logical and convincing," she said, smiling. "You do have some kind of identification, I suppose?"
I looked at her, feeling that she had me backed into a corner. In fact, she had me stumped. I could have kicked myself for not anticipating such a question.
"I have my discharge," I said. "I can prove my identity."
"Okay, Jimmy," she said, "I think you've passed the test. Except for that one little detail."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "What test?" She laughed. "Stella told me all she knew about you," she said. "About your plans for writing the book. We rigged this little interview. We wanted to see if you were on your toes-if you really could put your act over."
"You make me feel foolish," I said. "Did I really sound sincere enough?"
"I think you did," she said. "Yes, you did. If Stella hadn't told me I don't believe I would've known that you didn't represent some kind of a foundation. Really. I do have one suggestion-or rather, two. For one, I think you should have a pencil and paper or notebook of some kind. That would make it a little more authentic looking."
"I'll take care of that," I said. "What's the other suggestion?"
"You might have some cards printed. You know, stating that you are a representative of this bogus Foundation."'
"That's an excellent idea," I said, smiling. "Thanks. Well, should we get along with the interview?"
"Any time," she said. "How do you want to work it? Questions and answers?"
"I think that would be the best way," I said. "Maybe we should do it right. As you suggested, I mean."
I got up and walked over to a desk in the corner of the room and found a small pad and a ball-point pen. I returned to the couch and sat down. I placed the pad on my knee and looked at her and smiled.
"Maybe I'll get used to this," I said, "but right now I feel kind of silly. Fortunately, I took shorthand in high school and you may talk as fast as you wish."
"I'm ready," she said. "There's just one more thing, however."
"What's that?" I asked.
"I think you should assure the people that you will not use their correct names and addresses that they will not be printed, that is."
"I promise that all names will be changed," I said. "I promise you and I will promise all others. Okay?"
"Okay," she said.
"First, how long have you belonged to the swap club?"
"About five years," she said.
"How did you happen to join? Was it your suggestion, or did your husband bring it up?"
"It was my husband's idea originally," she said. "At least, he met a couple and they told him about the club. We joined because I agreed, though. In other words, my husband left it up to me."
"Would you give me the reason?" I asked. "The reason you agreed? I had better get that down in your own words, too."
"You may think you already know," she said, smiling. "But it wasn't because of my wishes or desires. Not sexual desires, anyway."
"I can think of no other reason," I said. "Unless you did it simply to please your husband."
"That is one reason, of course," she said. "I did want to please my husband. I still do. However, I think I benefit from the arrangement just as much as he does. More, maybe."
"I'm afraid you lost me," I said.
She laughed and again I thought how beautiful she was. I was certain in my mind that I wouldn't want to swap such a wife. I felt that her husband was a nut for doing such a thing. I then thought that I had better keep my personal thoughts and feelings out of the interviews. I must keep aloof and impersonal about the whole thing.
"You might say that it was because of a lack of sexual desire on my part," she said.
"It seems that we're going around in circles," I said. "If you have changed your mind about this interview, it's all right with me. We can cancel the whole thing if you like." I laughed, and added, "I'll just report to Mister Pierce and Mister Motley that the Foundation's representative failed."
"I think you're going to have to get a little more interested in this project," she said. "You shouldn't be so backward about asking questions. You must be more aggressive and businesslike. You mustn't be so bashful. Ask your questions matter-of-factly, as if you were investigating an American phenomenon in a scientific way. After all, if a person consents to an interview, agrees to tell about personal experiences and secrets, there's no reason for you to hesitate. Do you understand what I mean, Jimmy?"
"I think so," I said. "Okay, here goes. Are you telling me that you joined the sexual club because of a lack of desire on your part?"
"Yes," she said.
"Explain, please," I said.
"Now you're doing better," she said, smiling. "This will take a little time. I'll have to get a little of my background in to explain with any degree of clarity. I do think it's an interesting case even if I am speaking of myself. You might not believe it, but I've been scared of men most of my life. Terrified might be a better word for it. I've learned to handle myself all right, to hide my feelings most of the time. But right now if you were to approach me without warning, without giving me time to think about it, to prepare myself, I'd probably scream."
"I hope you aren't scared of me," I said. "I've never touched a girl or woman against her will in my life."
"I'm sure you haven't, Jimmy," she said. "I was trying to make a point. I'm not scared of you, now that I know you and have talked to you. I meant that if we'd just met or I didn't know you and you touched me, unexpectedly, I would or might scream."
"You certainly weren't kidding," I said. "It does sound like an interesting case."
"My father died when I was about three years old," she went on. "My mother married a succession of men after that. Five or six, I think. I don't know what happened between them and my mother. Except one. I was twelve then, almost thirteen. They'd been married about six months when it happened. By that time my body had filled out and I was almost mature. I noticed his eyes on me all the time, but I didn't mention it to my mother. I've always wished that I had, but I didn't-and nothing can be done about that now.
"He drank a lot and I think my mother really loved him, or thought she did. I guess that's the reason I didn't tell her about the way he looked at me. I was always terrified of him, even when he wasn't drinking. His eyes seemed to look right through my clothes, and I'd feel naked no matter what I had on. Am I going too fast for you, Jimmy?"
"No," I said. "Go on."
"One afternoon my mother went shopping. It was a hot day. My so-called stepfather wasn't due home for three or four hours. I tell all this to explain what happened-how it was possible for it to happen. I never blamed my mother. She couldn't help it."
"Did he rape you?" I asked.
"No," she said. "It wasn't that. Sometimes I think it would've been better if he had. No, he didn't rape me. Didn't even touch me. As I said, it was hot and sticky weather and I decided to take a cool shower. I went upstairs to my room and undressed and, as I often did, when I was alone or just my mother was in the house, I wrapped a towel around myself and went down the hall to the bathroom. I showered and came out of the bathroom. I saw him standing at the head of the stairs.
"I could tell he was drunk or drinking, so I hurried to my room. I never looked back, going down the hall, but the closer I got to my bedroom the faster I walked. I was almost running. As I opened the door I felt the towel being pulled from my body. I rushed on into the room, knowing he was right there behind me. I didn't look, but I could hear him breathing. There was no use trying to close the door. I ran around the bed and over into a corner.
"I turned around and he was standing just inside the door looking at me. I was naked and I tried to cover myself with my hands and arms. I guess I was too scared to think about grabbing the sheet off the bed and covering myself. He didn't say a word. He just looked. I couldn't open my mouth. I think if he had said something I would've screamed or told him to get out or something, but his eyes were crazy looking and I couldn't move.
"I don't know how long we stood there just looking at each other. As I watched, he took off his coat and then his shirt. He had a silly grin on his face, and he opened the fly on his pants. Then he took off his pants and his shoes and stood there in his undershorts. The next thing I knew, he was naked, exposing himself to me, and my mother was in the doorway.
He saw me looking at my mother and he turned. She slapped his face, hard. He took hold of her shoulder and shoved her against the bed. She fell to the floor and he started toward me. My mother got up and threw herself upon him and they wrestled around and both fell to the floor.
He started ripping her clothes off, and finally he took her. I stood in the corner, petrified, and watched."
Marge stopped talking. I could see in her eyes, tell by her expression, that she had just relived that experience.
"That was a hell of a thing for a young girl to watch," I said. "What happened after that?"
"It went on and on," she said, "and I managed to make myself move. I went to the closet and got my clothes. I dressed without looking at them there on the floor, but I heard the sounds. I can still hear them. I had to walk around them to get to the door, and they didn't pay any attention. I went to a girl friend's house down the street and stayed until after dark. My girl friend's mother questioned me, but I didn't answer her. She finally called my mother, who came and got me and took me to her sister's house. I lived with my aunt until I got married."
"What did your mother say?" I asked.
"She just said she was sorry," Marge said. "I was wrong, I suppose, but I didn't speak to her for a long time. I couldn't forget my mother there on the floor with that man on her-knowing that she was liking it. She did visit me and we finally talked, of course, but we never mentioned that afternoon and what happened."
"What about the husband?" I asked.
"She lived with him about a year after that, but I didn't see him. She divorced him and has had two husbands since then. They, the last one and her, live here in the city. I visit them sometimes. He's a nice fellow. Mother's getting older now and seems to be settling down. As far as I know she doesn't know about the clubs, but I can't see that what I'm doing is any worse than going through husbands like she did."
Stella came in before I could say anything to this.
She said she'd been down to her husband's office and that he'd be home about six if she didn't call him. She said for us to go on with our talk and she'd fix a bite of lunch. She went out of the room humming a tune.
Marge looked at me and smiled. "I wish I could be like Stella," she said. "She seems so happy."
I didn't know what to say. I was thinking about the twelve-year-old girl watching her mother and a man naked on the bedroom floor.
"There's no doubt about Stella being a happy sort of person," I finally answered. "She certainly seems to enjoy every minute of living. Are you so unhappy? It seems to me you have everything that she has." I felt like adding, "And maybe more", but I didn't.
"Outwardly, I suppose," she admitted. "No, I'm not so unhappy. I've talked to many people about my problem. Men and women. Even doctors. All seem to think that it all dates back to that scene in the bedroom. I don't know. Sometimes I think I'm just naturally-or unnaturally-undersexed. Glands or something, you know. I've read many doctors' books, magazines on sexology, and I have never had the sensations that supposedly normal women have. You can pick up almost any book describing the sex act, as far as that goes, but it has never been anything like that for me. Physically, I'm all right. I mean, everything is normal. It's just that I've never reached what they call a 'climax'. Each time I keep watching for something to happen, and it never does."
"You have no pleasure at all?" I asked.
"I wouldn't say that exactly." She smiled. "I get a certain amount of pleasure making my husband happy-giving him pleasure. It's really hard to explain. Mainly because I don't know exactly what people are talking about, or writing about, when they describe the wonderful joy of sexual relations. To me, it's just a bunch of words grouped together, phrases. I am, as one man so aptly put it, 'a cold fish'. However, I'm willing and do try to enjoy the act. But just how do you try to enjoy a thing like that? Do you follow me?"
"I'm trying," I said.
"The more I read and the more I observed, the more I felt sorry for my husband. I decided that I was causing him to miss out on something that I really knew nothing about. I felt that it was a shame, and that's the reason we're in the club. To me, it makes sense-whether or not it does to anyone else or not."
"How about the other men?" I asked. "The members."
"I do my best," she said. "I go through all the actions, the movements, but with most of them it's just tolerance on my part. Some I like-as persons, you understand-and I try to respond, but you can't fool men very long." She laughed. "At least I'm not pestered all the time like Stella. Deep down, I guess, I'm a little jealous of her-and all women."
"Your husband understands everything then?" I asked. "Your feelings, or lack of feelings?"
"Right from the start," she said. "He knew that I was a virgin when we married. He has always been very gentle and kind and we have tried everything. Everything. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I said. "What about the time between going to live with your aunt and getting married? Didn't you have boy friends, dates, go to parties and dances and things like that?"
"Oh, yes, I went to parties and dances, and had a few dates. I'm afraid the boys were always disappointed in me. Sometimes I'd let a boy kiss me good night, but I never let one touch me or neck or anything like that. My aunt was a spinster, just the opposite from my mother. I have some times thought that my mother got all the sex and left my poor aunt and me out in the cold. I was always being warned about what boys would do and try, and I don't think that helped me any. If a boy made a sudden move around me I'd jump or pull away like a scared rabbit. My husband is a little older, ten years, and he lived next door to my aunt. He used to kid me and say he was going to marry me when I grew up. I felt more comfortable around him than anybody else, and I jumped at the chance. I love him and I think he loves me."
"I want to thank you for your time," I said. "I appreciate the fact that you helped me get my story straight, too. About the Foundation and all. I want you to know that I'm sorry the way your-well, the way your life turned out. Maybe someday it'll work out okay. I'd better get going now. I'll tell Stella good-bye and-"
"You'll do what?" Stella interrupted. She was in the doorway. She had an apron on and was smiling. "You're not going any place until you eat," she said. "Come on, you kids, it's on the table."
We had a nice lunch and sat around the table drinking a second cup of coffee and smoking. I had the pad of notes in my pocket. The pen I'd taken from the desk I offered to Stella, but she insisted that I keep it for good luck. I thanked her and stated that I'd better be going.
Marge said she had better be getting back home and I thanked her again for the interview. She wished me luck and we shook hands.
CHAPTER SIX
As soon as Marge had gone, Stella asked me what I thought of her.
"I think she's a very nice person," I said. "I like her very much."
"I suppose she told you everything? Her problem?"
"Yes," I said, "and I feel sorry for her."
"Would you like to visit her for awhile?" she asked.
"What do you mean by that?" I asked.
"Just what I said, Jimmy," she said, laughing. "Don't act so surprised, my friend. I could tell she liked you. Who knows? You might just be the one to help her."
"I doubt that," I said. "There's another thing you must consider, too. If I did go over to her house-and I did help her with her problem, do you think I'd ever get home? Then I would have a problem."
She laughed. "I guess you would at that," she said. "I do know that she's expecting you."
"I'm sorry about that," I said. "I can't go around settling all the women's problems. After all, my intentions are to write about ;their experiences, not share the experiences with them."
"Have it your own way," she said. "By the way, while I was out I called another one of the members. She's willing to talk to you."
"I told you I had to be going," I said. "I swear, Stella, you're a stubborn cuss."
"I think it's important for you to meet this one," she said. "She has a sister living in New Orleans who's also a club member. She'd be a good contact for you down there."
I thought of the names in my pocket. I decided that if it was possible not to use them Pd feel better, about the whole deal.
"Would she give me the name and address of the sister?" I asked. "And maybe a letter of introduction?"
"She might if you talked to her," she said. "You'll never know without asking."
"It'd certainly simplify things," I said. "With the name and address of a club member in New Orleans-you are right, of course. Where does she live and how do I get there?"
"I'm not going to make it that easy for you," she said. "You will have to promise me one thing first."
"Now what?" I asked."
"Let me call my husband and tell him to make an appointment with one of the members for tonight."
"For two cents I'd settle down right here in Mobile," I said. "Okay, Stella, and I'll admit I feel flattered, but I'll also admit that I don't know why you picked me."
"I told you I liked sailors," she said. "They pick up such interesting ways in the foreign countries."
"You have some interesting ways yourself," I said, laughing. "Should we go see your friend now?"
"We have plenty of time for that," she said. "Right now I have something else on my mind."
She decided later that she'd call the woman and have her come over.
This she did, but I didn't hear the telephone conversation. At the time I was in the kitchen having a much-needed beer.
The woman was dark-haired, about five-five, and just a little on the plump side. She was wearing white shorts and a white halter. She had a good tan, and her breasts were straining to escape the brief halter. The shorts were very short and tight.
Stella introduced her as Ann and told us she was going upstairs for a nap. I couldn't blame her; I was kind of tired and sleepy myself. When we were alone, Ann smiled and asked me to sit beside her on the couch. I told her I thought I could talk better sitting by myself. She laughed and seemed to understand right away what I meant. I had the feeling that if we were on the couch together there'd be very little talking.
Stella had told me that she'd informed Ann that I was working for the Foundation. Right away I went into the practiced routine, explaining about the research I was doing, but I think my little speech fell on deaf ears.
Ann kept twisting around, adjusting her halter, crossing and recrossing her lovely legs. Apparently, she wasn't too interested in explanations.
"So you can see," I said, "our conversation will be strictly confidential. Anything you say might be repeated some day, in writing, but your name won't be used."
"You can use my name, honey," she said. "I'm not ashamed of anything. Do you think there's anything wrong with sex?"
"No," I said.
"Can you count the women you've been with?" she asked.
"No," I said. "I can't say that I can. Why?"
"I've made a study of men," she said. "I've studied countless men-in and out of bed. It's a hobby with me. I've never found a man I didn't like, either. I just like some more than others."
I grinned. "That's plain enough," I said. "And I'll bet you have never met a man that didn't like you. Shall we get on with the interview now?"
"Let me answer your question first," she said.
"As a matter-of-fact, I don't believe I have met a man that didn't like me. Do you?"
I hadn't asked a question, but I let it go. "Sure," I said, "I think you're very nice."
She acted like she was pouting and said:
"Just nice? Is that all you can say?"
"I could probably think of a lot of things to say," I said, "but I thought I was to interview you concerning the swap clubs."
"Okay," she said pleasantly, "on with the questions."
I had my pad and pen ready. "How old are you?" I asked. "About twenty-five?"
"Thank you for the compliment," she said. "I'm nearly thirty."
"Any children?"
"No," she said. "I never cared to have one of the little brats. Let's face it. I'm a very selfish person. They would be in my way."
"How long have you been married?"
' 'A little over two years this last time. I was married to three men before and lived with four or five."
"How long have you belonged to the swap club?"
"Since coming here? About eighteen months. I belonged to one on the West Coast before that."
"Did you suggest joining the club or did your husband?"
"I was the one responsible, if that's what you mean. All my husbands, and the other men, knew what they were getting into before I started living with them. No one man could ever take care of me."
"Do you think this is natural? I mean, is there anything you would like to add to that?"
"For me it's natural," she said. "I'll put it this way. When I'm hungry I eat. When I'm thirsty I drink. When I'm hot I take a cool shower." She laughed. "You thought I was going to say something else, didn't you?"
"I don't think it would have surprised me," I said, "but I'm sure I know what you mean."
"That's the way I am," she said. "I have to have my loving."
"I want to ask this," I said, "just for the record. What does the word 'love' mean to you? I interviewed one woman and she said that there was a mental love and a physical love. I think that's the way she put it. Anyway, I'm interested in your definition of the word."
"I suppose I used the wrong word," she said. "I assume that you mean 'romance' and 'thumping heart' and all that jazz. Well, just about all men appeal to me, and if that's love then I'm all for it. As for trying to define the word, I'll leave that to the poets and people that stay married to each other for years and years. I'd hate to think that I would have to have the same routine with the same man until death do us part. I'd die of boredom and the man would probably die from something else. Does that answer your question?"
"I don't know," I said, "but we'll let it go. Let's just say that you love them all and get on to something else. Okay?"
"Am I going to get a chance to ask you some questions?" she asked.
"I hadn't thought about that," I said. "I guess it would only be fair. What did you want to ask? I thought I had explained about the work I'm doing, the survey and all."
"I don't mean about your survey," she said. "I'd like to reverse our roles. Let me ask the questions and you give the answers. After I'm through we can go back to my answers."
"I think we should continue the way we are," I said.
"Are you afraid?" she asked. "Are you afraid to find out how you really are? You expect me to answer your personal questions-and I am willing-but I think you should do me the same favor. I told you that my hobby is studying men."
"I know you told me that," I said, "but I can't see that it has anything to do with me."
"You're a man, aren't you, honey?"
"I didn't mean it that way," I said. "Sure, Pm a man. Do you want to call this whole thing off? Hell, I thought you volunteered."
"I did," she said. "I think you're afraid to answer my questions. You're afraid to face the facts."
"I don't belong to a swap club," I said. "I'm investigating them."
"I'm investigating men," she said. "You really are afraid." She was looking at me with a half-smile on her lips.
I could see her point all right. Maybe, I thought, I was afraid to bring some things out into the open. I hesitated for a moment longer and then said, "Okay, maybe I am a little afraid."
"You won't be agreeing to swap a wife," she said. "I'm only asking you to swap questions and answers."
"Go ahead," I said. "Fire away."
"That's better," she said. "I don't think I'm being unreasonable. Do you?"
"No," I said, smiling. "I'm ready."
"How old are you, Jimmy?" she asked.
"Twenty-two."
"You have never been married?" she asked. "No."
"At what age did you first have intercourse?"
"You're right in there with the questions," I said. "Maybe I can pick up some pointers from you. It might be a good idea, this reversing our roles."
"You didn't answer my question," she said. "About fifteen," I said.
"What age?" she insisted. "The exact age?"
"Almost three months before I was fifteen."
"I thought you could narrow it down," she said.
"What do you remember about it? I mean, what's the most important thing you can remember about the act?"
"It's a memory of a lot of fumbling around and a sudden fleeting moment that was over almost before it began."
"How old was the girl?" she asked.
"About the same age. Maybe a few months older."
"Was there a second time? With the same girl, I mean."
"No," I said. "Why not?"
"I never saw her again. I didn't even know her name. A bunch of us boys met some girls on the beach one night and she picked me. Thinking about it, I guess one of the most outstanding things I remember is the sand. I got sand on me in all places possible and some not so possible."
She laughed. "Sand can ruin the best of romances," she said. "When did it happen again?"
"Right after my sixteenth birthday," I said. "That was different. She was a long-legged, big-breasted woman about thirty. She lived a couple blocks from my dad's cleaning shop. We were living in the city then and my dad used to let me deliver cleaning and laundry in the neighborhood for my spending money. This was on a Saturday and the shop closed at noon. I took the package of laundry, and it was understood that I was going to a movie or someplace after making the delivery. I remember now. It was a movie-not that it makes any difference. Anyway, I didn't see a movie that afternoon."
"Go on, Jimmy," Ann said. "What happened?"
"It had been cloudy all day, and just before I got to the woman's house it started raining. I tried to protect the laundry package from the rain with my body. I had it clutched to my chest, bent way over, and I cut across the lawn. Just as I started to step up on the steps leading to the front porch my feet slipped out from under me. The package went one way and I went the other. The grass was wet by that time, and when I regained my feet I was really soaking wet. As I fell I landed on my hand and sprained my wrist. It wasn't serious, but it didn't feel very good.
"I went to the door and knocked. The woman opened the door and I handed her the package. I told her that I hoped the rain hadn't ruined the laundry. She smiled and said she didn't think a little rain had done any harm. She went to get the money and when she came back she noticed how wet I was. I laughed and told her about falling down.
"To make it short, she insisted that I come in and get dry. I didn't resist much, and I was enjoying looking at her. She was very attractive and wore a bathrobe and was careless. I got a glimpse of bare skin. She saw me rubbing my wrist and when I told her that it seemed to be sprained she examined it carefully. She was up close. I couldn't keep from looking down the neck of her bathrobe. She told me to come along and she'd put something on my wrist. I followed her through two rooms to the bathroom, and-well, you know what happened."
Ann smiled. "I think I can tell you what happened," she said. "Correct me if I'm wrong. She rubbed something on your wrist and the way she stood you could look down inside her bathrobe. She probably let it fall open. You began to get excited, but you didn't do anything, mainly because you were afraid, or at least unsure of yourself. She told you to take your clothes off and she would dry them. She told you that you might take a cold, that what you needed was a hot bath. You didn't resist very much. You took a bath and when you'd finished and were out of the tub, she opened the door. She told you she was sorry, but she'd forgotten to give you a towel. She had some kind of excuse anyway. She didn't leave, though, and stood there looking at you. Isn't that about what happened?"
I grinned. "You got it about right," I said. "Then what?"
"I don't know for sure," she said. "I don't know which one made the first move, but suddenly you found yourself on the floor with her. Later you probably went to bed."
"She made the first move," I said, "and we did go to the bedroom later. You described it better than I could have done."
"I should be able to," she said, laughing. "I have seduced a number of delivery boys in my time."
"I visited that woman off and on for over two years. That explains what I am going to say now. I never touched a girl after that until I went in the Navy. Sure, I necked and petted, but I never went all the way. Looking back, I guess some of the girls thought I was nuts. Anyway, I had a lot of fun with the older women. I never got mixed up in the gang-ups and things like that. Are you through with the questions ?"
"Not yet," she said. "I'm interested in your experiences in the Navy. Will you be honest with me?"
"Sure," I said. "Why not? If I give you an answer, it'll be the truth."
"In my opinion, your early sex life is beyond reproach," she said. "You left the young girls alone and didn't do as much as most boys do. However, I think if you will tell me about your sex life in the Navy-your shore leaves-I'm sure I can prove a point."
"What point is that?" I asked.
"I can tell by your actions, your speech, even the way you ask the questions, that you do not approve of swap clubs. Isn't that right?"
"I don't actually disapprove," I said. "Not for other people, that is. They do have a right to do as they wish. I do feel, personally, that if I had a wife I wouldn't live that way. I want to say right now that if I did have a wife that wanted to do such a thing I'd leave her as soon as I found out. I still don't see what point you're trying to prove."
"After your statement about a wife, or a possible wife, I suppose it'd be hard to prove my point," she said. "My point had to do with morals. However, the fact remains that you 'have been with many women. You don't deny that?"
"No," I said. "I can't deny that."
"How many?" she asked. "Fifty? A hundred?"
"At least that many," I said. "Maybe more."
"Probably 'more' would be more like it. Wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes," I said. "I'd agree with that. I used to drink quite a lot and I remember going with three or four or even five in one night. I'm not making excuses, though. I wasn't always drinking. In most of the foreign countries I would be drinking, though."
"Prostitutes?"
"That's right," I said. "In a foreign country you have to put the money on the line. Ask any sailor. Of course, I always went to whore houses, so I never had a chance to meet any women besides out-and-out whores. There is something that a person who's never been out of this country might not understand. In some countries the houses are very attractive, the girls are young and healthy, and it's nothing like most of the houses in this country. The houses I have visited anyway. Some whore houses are more like a club or dance hall. The girls are there, available, and you can dance or just talk and drink if you like. If you want to go to bed with them, you do. As I said, though, you pay first. Of course, if they like you they might let you take another trip without cost. I haven't been in very many houses in this country, but the prostitutes are much different. It's strictly an on-and-off proposition and far too commercial for me."
Ann was looking at me steadily, and when I finished she said, "I have proved one point to my satisfaction after all. You do not have any more morals than I do. You do not have any more morals than any of the members of the swap clubs."
"You forget that I'm not married," I said. "That makes a difference."
"Would it make any difference if I wasn't married?" she asked. "Would you think I was respectful and a moral person?"
I hesitated. I didn't want to tell her how I felt. "I am a man," I said. "It may not be right, but our social customs allow men a certain amount of freedom before they are married. Having intercourse before marriage is expected of them."
"Do you think that's fair?" she asked.
"It's not a matter of fairness," I said. "It's just how things happen to "be. I don't think we should debate this subject. I don't think we could settle anything."
"Let me ask one more question," she said. "Then we'll get back to the interview."
"All right," I said.
"Do you think I'm a whore?" she asked.
"That's an unfair question," I said. "I don't know enough about you. In my mind, as I understand and use the word, a 'whore' is a woman that takes pay for intercourse. She sells her body, or rents it, for a stated amount of money. As far as I know, you don't do that. You and your husband simply agreed to swap around with other members of the club."
"That is drawing a very narrow line," she said. "If I offered myself to you right now would I be a whore?"
"Not if you didn't want pay," I said.
"If I asked for fifty cents or fifty dollars, or more or less, I'd be a whore, though? Is that your belief? "
"I've gone this far," I said, "so I might as well continue. If you asked me for money and I paid, that would make you a whore. Yes."
She laughed. "I have never taken money," she said. "I guess you'd call me a free-whore."
"I didn't mean to make you angry," I said. "That was the last thing I wanted to do. I didn't mean to insult you or anything like that. I can also see your point about me. Just because I'm not married doesn't give me the right, morally, to go around having different women."
"I'm not angry," she said. "I just wanted you to take a good look at yourself."
"I have," I said.
"Does it change your ideas about anything?" she asked.
I laughed. "I don't think so," I said. "I guess I'm like most men, out for a good time. I do reserve the right to feel about my wife in the old-fashioned way. At least, in the way I was raised. Now can we get on? The first thing you know we'll be off on another tangent, and I don't mind saying that looking at you makes it difficult to take notes."
"I don't charge, Jimmy," she said teasingly.
"The next question," I said quickly. "Do you and your husband ever have trouble over the swap club? By that I mean, it seems to me that it would seriously interfere with your personal lives-your social affairs and things of that nature. Do you understand what I'm getting at?"
"I understand," she said. "We have adjusted our lives to the club. All our social activities are tied in with the club members. We have group parties, outings, and the like. It's just like any other married couple having friends, except for the fact that we do exchange wives and husbands."
"What if a member dislikes another member?" I asked. "I think this would only apply if a woman disliked one or more of the men. Does she still have to entertain him or them?"
"In theory, yes. However, I'm sure you see that to a certain extent this is up to the woman. There are many little ways that a woman can discourage a man. Should I name a few?"
I grinned. "I don't think that's necessary," I said. "There's another thing I want to ask before I forget. I don't mean this to be a leading question, though. Do most of the members go outside the club? You know that I have talked to Stella, and I know that she breaks that rule."
"We will put it like this," she said. "I assume that most of the members follow the rules. However, I do know that some do not. As for it being a leading question, I can only say this, Jimmy-I am like Stella and rather enjoy breaking rules. Do you think I could say it any plainer?"
"I don't believe you could," I said, laughing. "My first impulse is to ask 'Now or later?'-but I think we had better continue. At what age did you first have intercourse?"
"I think I was about five years old," she said, laughing. "No kidding. My mother caught me with a little boy under the back porch when I was that age. Of course, I don't remember anything about it. We were undoubtedly just looking at each other, but my mother blistered my little fanny. I do remember the spanking and the scolding."
"And the next time?" I asked.
"I was fifteen and I thought it was the most wonderful experience I'd ever had. I simply went overboard about the whole subject of sex, and it's been that way since."
"Did you cause it to happen or did the boy?"
"It was a mutual agreement," she said. "I suppose I was really the instigator, though."
"Did you have a feeling of regret?" I asked. "Did you feel guilty?"
"Not at all," she said. "It seemed to me that anything so wonderful couldn't be wrong. It seemed so natural. I felt so contented and peaceful after the act. No, I may be an oddity, but I never did have the guilty feelings that some girls seem to have. Is that so strange?"
"I don't know," I said. "It's a mental attitude, partly, this sex business. I have noticed some kind of a change in my attitude since getting out of the Navy. I used to not think anything about it, worry about it, but lately I've been having some misgivings. It dates, I believe, from the time I decided to write a book. Before that I tried to make any and all women that I could. Now I find myself hesitating. I'll admit that I got interested in this swapping business for what I could get out of it. Physical pleasure and all that. Then, when I started the actual investigating, I tried to put my desires aside. Could you explain that?"
"Why try to explain anything?" she asked. "You're still the same person-the same skirt-chasing sailor. Now that you are a civilian it seems to me that you'd take advantage of every opportunity, just as before. There is one thing you apparently haven't thought of, Jimmy. If you really mean that you wouldn't have a wife in a club, you'd better take all the advantages you can, for once you're married you'll probably look back with longing on these days. Unless, of course, you intend to step out on your wife."
"I intend nothing of the kind," I said. "When I get married, that's it. I'll be a one-woman man, and she'd better be a one-man woman. Did I say that right? Anyway, you know what I mean.
It just seems strange to me, that's all. All the hesitating on my part, I mean. You are certainly lovely and desirable and your hints have been broad enough, if I may speak so frankly, yet here I sit with this pad and pen. Have I gone nuts?"
"I think I know your trouble, Jimmy," she said, laughing. "You're afraid. Not of me. Not of any of the women. You're afraid of embarrassment. Let me explain what I think has happened, and see if you agree. You say that your prospective book is very important to you, has become really important to you. You're taking notes and intend to include all the information in your book. Can't you see what has happened? Is happening?"
"Yes," I said. "I follow you. If I intend to write the book I must use all available information. In using that information, writing it up, I must include myself. That's what's causing the hesitation. I was thinking about telling my experiences-making a personal thing out of it."
"Why don't you think it on out?" she asked. "Is there any reason you should include what actually happens to you? In detail?"
"I suppose not," I said. "I'm certainly not a member of a swap club, and that's what I'm writing about-at least, going to write about. A reporter doesn't have to take part in the things that he's reporting. He's simply an observer. I can edit my active participation, if there is any, and nobody will be the wiser."
"Now that we have that settled," she said, smiling seductively, "why don't you come over here and sit on this nice soft couch?"
"Now?" I asked. "How about the interview?"
"The interview is over," she said. "The talking part, anyway. Now please come over here before I come over there."
"Okay," I said.
"And, Jimmy, toss that pad and pen aside," she said. "You won't need it."
I didn't take any notes on what followed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Stella came back downstairs in about an hour. Whether or not she'd been sleeping I do not know. Ann and I were sitting on the couch when Stella entered the room.
The two women exchanged glances, and I knew immediately that Stella knew what had gone on in that room. She smiled and asked if the interview was over.
"I have an appointment for six o'clock," Ann said, standing. "I really must rush." She looked at me. "Jimmy, if you want to ask any more questions you'll have to stay in Mobile. I do have one member in mind that I'd like for you to meet."
"Are you thinking of the same one that I am?" Stella asked. "Madeline?"
"Yes," Ann-said, laughing. "Don't you think Jimmy would enjoy meeting her?"
I stood up and said, "I'm sure I would, but I'm leaving tomorrow."
"His parents are expecting him," Stella explained. "Did you ask for the address, Jimmy?"
"I'd forgotten all about it," I said. "Ann, would you give me your sister's address in New Orleans? I understand she belongs to a club down there, and if you don't mind I'd like a note of introduction."
"Give me your pad," Ann said. "I'll just jot her address down for you. Her name is Joyce, and there's no need for me to write an introduction now. I'll write a letter and explain about you and your project. She'll be very cooperative, I'm sure."
Ann wrote the address on the pad and I put it back in my pocket. She kissed me good-bye and wished me luck.
Stella and I walked with her to the door. We stood in the doorway and watched her go to her car. We waved as she drove away, and Stella closed the door and looked at me with a big smile on her face.
"Are you tired, Jimmy?" she asked. "You don't have to answer that! I do know you are hungry. Come to the kitchen with me and I'll fix a snack."
I drank two beers while she prepared what she called a snack. The snack consisted of T-bone steaks, French fries, a salad, and coffee.
I was hungry and the heavy meal made me sleepy. I went to the living room and stretched out on the couch while Stella cleaned the kitchen. I closed my eyes and soon I was asleep.
At eight o'clock Stella woke me up and called me a sleepyhead. I tried to say something, but my head was about to kill me. I took out a capsule and Stella went and got me a glass of water. She sat beside me on the couch and watched me anxiously. Soon I was able to laugh.
"I'm not dying," I said. "I'll be fine-in a couple of minutes."
"Would you like to go to bed and sleep and rest, Jimmy?" she asked. "It'll be all right. Really."
"Are you kidding?" I asked. "It's too early. I'm okay. You don't have to treat me like an invalid."
"I have an idea," she said. "I could call Madeline, the member we mentioned, and she might come over."
"Anything you say," I said. "By the way, I just thought of something. I notice you haven't had any phone calls. Isn't that strange? Because you've been away, it seems to me that the phone would, "be jumping all over the place."
"Nobody knows I'm back," she said, laughing. "None of the men, anyway-except my husband."
I grinned. "I just wondered," I said. "Don't get me wrong. I don't want the phone to ring."
"Did you like Ann?" she asked.
"Very much," I said. "I appreciate her giving me her sister's address."
"You know what I mean," Stella said, teasingly.
"I don't like to talk out of turn," I said. "I will say that I enjoyed talking to her and being with her. May I just let it go at that?"
"Certainly, Jimmy," she said, seriously. "I'm willing to drop it, but I do think you are far too sensitive. After all, you asked for this. You wanted to investigate the clubs. To do so you must accept the members as they are."
"I think I have been accepting them," I said, laughing. "If you want me to say it, I will. I think she's hot stuff. I must say, I've just about reached the conclusion that I'll have to limit the number I interview. I say that in a joking way, but it could turn out to be the truth."
"You have the right and privilege to say no," she said, smiling. "I imagine, however, there are many men who'd like to be in your place."
"There's little doubt about that," I said. "I might get used to the whole idea, but it'll probably take a little time."
"What you must recognize is the fact that you aren't dealing with ordinary people, Jimmy, The reason they belong to the clubs in the first place is to promote what you are apparently trying to avoid. There might be some women in the clubs who won't go outside the club, but to me this is stupid reasoning. Let me ask one question. If women must have sexual relations with men that they don't particularly like, what is more logical than doing the same thing with men they do like?"
"That seems to be sound reasoning," I said. "Then you believe most of the members feel that way? Women, I mean."
"Absolutely," she said. "They may deny it, but their basic reason for joining such clubs is to experience new thrills with new men. That is the reason they are always seeking new members, new couples. Let me ask you something. Don't you like to try a new woman just out of curiosity? Even if after the first time you lose interest in a certain woman, isn't there always that feeling, that desire, to try it with someone new and different?"
"I'll have to agree with you there," I said. "I have always known that feeling existed in most men. Still, I thought that most women have to really like or love a man to submit to him."
"That's a lot of bull," she said. "You've been reading too many books written by so-called authorities. You'll notice that they are almost all men writers. They have in mind their mothers and wives and daughters-the way they want them to be. In other words, that is a lot of propaganda. That's a word that is tossed around a lot these days. Personally, I have never known a woman who didn't see a man from time to time that she'd like to sleep with. Once you get it through your head that women are like men in that respect, you'll be better off. We're human, too, and there's a little of the beast in all of us-men and women."
She was far from having me convinced about women-what I thought of as decent women-but I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut about that.
"What about this Madeline?" I asked. "The way you and Ann talked and looked at each other, I got the idea there might be something wrong with her or something."
"She's the only true nymphomaniac I've ever seen," Stella said. "I mean she's out-and-out sex crazy. I hate to use the word 'crazy' and tack 'maniac' onto 'nympho-', but she'd be the first to admit it. She lives for nothing except physical pleasure. Or maybe I should say 'sensual pleasure and bodily enjoyment and gratification'. But I think you get the idea."
"I think I do," I said. "Se sounds just a little dangerous."
"You mean to be around all the time?" she asked, laughing. "You can well imagine why her husband willingly belongs to the club. Do you remember the fellow in history-what's his name?-Julius Caesar. That's the one. I read one time that he was husband to all women and wife to all men. Something like that. Anyway, just turn that around and you have Madeline."
"Do you go in for that?" I asked.
"I like men only," she said, laughing. "Do you want to give her a call? She might be free."
"I don't think I'd be comfortable around her," I said. "Not after what you told me. Do the women members of the club have anything to do with her? I mean-"
"I know what you mean," she interrupted. "She isn't what you think. She's very feminine and lovely looking, really."
"We must be talking about two different things," I said. "I thought you said, or at least you implied, that she was a Lesbian. Most women I have seen like that are very mannish in appearance and the way they talk and act. We called them 'dykes' in the Navy. The ones I ran into were actually man haters. I know, because I've had a few arguments with them. Several times in bars or night clubs or dance halls, I've tried to meet or pick up a girl without knowing she was escorted by a queer woman."
"I should have qualified my statement," Stella said. "Madeline is more the type that would be escorted by a Lesbian. Actually, I think she's just so damn sexy that she trys, or has tried, just about everything along that line. I should have kept my big mouth shut. All I really know is that a few of the women have made hints about it. Now I'm sorry I mentioned it."
"Usually, so-called hints or suspicions are based on facts," I said. "Don't you think she might have had something to do along those lines with one or more of the women members?"
"I can't very well retract what I have said," Stella replied. "I wish I could. Let's just let it go, Jimmy. Maybe she did. Maybe some of the women in the club do such things. I can speak only for myself. I can only repeat that I like men. Satisfied?"
I grinned. "Satisfied," I said. "It's okay with me if you give her a call. I think I'd like to meet her."
"You won't mention what I said?"
"No," I said. "I won't even interview her if you don't want me to. We can all just sit around and hold hands or something."
"I think you should interview Madeline," she said. "I also wish you could stay around longer. I won't ask you any more, but I do want you to know you are welcome any time. New Orleans isn't so far. There's nothing to keep you from visiting your folks and then coming back, you know."
"Thanks," I said. "I'll remember that, and if I get chased out of New Orleans by some angry club member I'll know where to head."
"Just remember your story about the Foundation," she said. "I think it'll carry you through. Besides, you have Ann's sister to get you started."
"tf it doesn't work out at home I'll be seeing you," I said. "You can count on that."
"I wish I could," she said.
She got over closer to me on the couch and kissed me. She had roving hands and as usual I was quick to respond. I laughingly pulled away.
"Are you going to call Madeline?" I asked.
"Right now? This minute?"
"Work before pleasure," I said.
She laughed and went to the phone and dialed. I went into the kitchen and got a beer and sat at the kitchen table.
Presently Stella came in and said that Madeline would be right over. I asked her what she'd told Madeline and she said she'd just mentioned the fact that I represented the Foundation.
"It will give you practice to play it straight," she said. "Do you want me to stay downstairs?"
"Certainly," I said. "I don't want to be left alone with a nympho."
"You don't have anything to worry about," she said, laughing. "Let's have a few drinks and make a party of it. Shall we?"
"Okay," I said.
She went into the kitchen and returned with bottles and glasses and ice cubes. I mixed two highballs and made sure mine was quite weak. It was good, though. Stella turned on a HiFi, and we sipped the drinks and listened to the music. She had a varied selection of records. Pop songs, semi-classical, and a few rock-and-roll. Soon I felt the welcome warmth in my stomach and began to make my drinks a little stronger.
We danced. Stella pressed her body close and I kissed her. We stood swaying in the middle of the room when the doorbell rang.
The door opened almost immediately and I pulled away from Stella.
A blonde girl came in and stood just inside the door. She looked to be about my age and was dressed in black slacks and a black form-fitting sweater. She closed the door and walked toward us, smiling broadly. Her teeth were white and her sweater-covered breasts were pert and proud. Her walk was graceful. Few girls or women look good in slacks. She did.
"We're a few drinks ahead of you, Madeline," Stella said. "This is Jimmy."
Madeline came close. I told her "Hello", and she made a big show of looking me over. She walked around me two times without saying a word. The drinks had relaxed me and I just grinned.
"Hello, Jimmy," she said. She had stopped right in front of me, her face close to mine. I could tell she'd been drinking, and I didn't think Stella and I were ahead of her on that score. She looked into my eyes, and strangely enough I wasn't embarrassed. I knew that she was just having a little fun and I didn't mind. Her eyes were deep blue and warm, and her face was smooth and tan and, not a blemish. I could hear Stella over at the small table near the couch mixing some drinks. I controlled an impulse to grab the mounds almost touching my chest.
"I said hello once," I said, "but I'll say it again. Hello."
She smiled and walked over and took a drink from Stella. I walked over to them, accepted a glass from Stella, and we drank.
Madeline took my hand and pulled me toward the couch, and I found myself sitting between the two lovely females. Stella told me to explain about the Foundation and I did.
Sitting between the girls made it hard for me to look at either one without constantly having to turn my head from side to side. Finally I got up and sat in a chair directly facing the couch.
When I had finished talking I mixed three drinks and we drank in silence. I looked at the two girls and waited.
"Very interesting," Madeline said, finally. She placed her glass on the table and glanced at Stella. "Is this on the level?" she asked.
"Absolutely," Stella said seriously. "This is a scientific investigation, and I'm trying to help."
"Anything for science," Madeline said, settling back on the couch. "There's just one thing, though."
"What's that?" I asked.
"You've already talked to women club members and seem to know so much about the clubs that it seems to me such a report would be quite repetitious."
"There is that danger, of course," I said, "but so far I haven't found it that way. Naturally, there are certain familiar facts in all cases, but I feel that each and every woman has a different reaction or outlook or idea on the subject. You, for instance. I have no idea what you will tell me. You might have a different slant altogether."
"There is that possibility," she said, smiling. "I have my own ideas on many things. And like most women, I like to express my opinions."
"I think all people do," I said. "It might be just a little distasteful for some to speak frankly about sex, as sex, but these clubs are based on sex. In other words, I'm trying to go about the whole thing as if I were investigating the rackets, payola, quiz shows-things like that."
"I find nothing distasteful about sex," Madeline said. "Or about carrying on a conversation about it. I will make it clear right now that I feel there would be nothing without sex. Without it there would be no reason for living, no desire for living, no life period."
"That is all you live for?" I asked.
"Practically speaking," she said. "There is one thing I don't like about what you said. About comparing it with the rackets, payola, and things of that nature. I fail to see the connection. I do not consider what I do as being wrong. It's the most natural thing in the world."
"I didn't really mean it that way," I said. "I should have said that it was like investigating trees or bees or earthquakes, or the effects of electrical storms-old Mother Nature, you might say."
"Old Mother Nature endows some people with a thirst for knowledge," she said, smiling. "She endowed me with a thirst for pleasure."
"Right now I'm endowed with a thirst for a highball," Stella said. "Let's all have another drink and then, Jimmy, you can get your pad and pen and go to work."
Madeline and I laughed and I prepared the drinks, deciding as I did that I would have to go easy on the drinking. Looking at Madeline and wondering about her, and looking at Stella and knowing about her, it was just a little hard for me to keep my mind on the book, the phony Foundation, and the purpose of the meeting.
There was no use worrying about that interview. It never materialized.
One drink brought on another and soon we were all tipsy and I took turns dancing with the girls. I remember the girls dancing with each other and I remember Madeline bringing up the subject of nudism. From that point on the meeting, or party, degenerated into a drunken orgy. I take no pride in my part of this dissipation, and there are many things that I would prefer not to remember.
At some point during the evening and night I remember Madeline promising to write to me about her experiences in the swap clubs. I must admit that the book didn't seem important to me at the time. Take two beautiful women, give them drinks along with twisted morals, and remove their clothes. Take one man and give him drinks and remove his clothes. Place these three persons together with music and the subject of sex, and almost anything is liable to happen ... and usually does. It did.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was a very sad arrival for me at home. My grandfather Rutledge had just died. He lived in Mississippi. ' He was a wonderful man and quite wealthy. It was the saddest day of my life when I found that I had missed his funeral.
I kept thinking that if only I had gone directly home after my discharge I would have seen him one more time. As it was, my parents had no way of locating me, and I was two days late for the funeral.
I did go to Mississippi and visit his grave and for awhile I was bitter. I found no comfort in finding that he had left almost everything he had to me. Money, to me, was always just something to spend and I didn't want the responsibility of handling my inheritance.
I won't say that I actually moped around my parents' home in Slidell. I wasn't really silent, dull, or disspirited. I just wanted to be alone for a time.
I stayed home each day, went for walks, and read and slept. My father and mother were understanding. Each day they would go to the cleaning plant in New Orleans, and no pressure was put on me to go to work or anything like that.
It was spring, and I thought that was a terrible time of the year to die. Death should come in the winter months, with the sky overcast and the fields bleak and lonely looking. Spring is for birth, not death. I took long walks and thought of my grandfather. I noticed the new buds on the trees and the freshness in the air. Tears would come to my eyes, and sometimes I would be out in the woods and cry without shame.
One afternoon I wandered into the den and saw my mail on Dad's desk. There were a few letters from several of my ex-shipmates; a short note from Stella wishing me luck; an official-looking document giving me notice that my pension payments were still being processed. There was also a letter from Madeline. I checked all my mail and read Madeline's letter last. It read:
"Dear Jimmy:
How are you, honey? I do feel you will be surprised to hear from me. I only hope it is a pleasant surprise. You may not remember the promise I made-about writing-during that wonderful night, considering the wild and exciting time we had. I have talked to Stella and she more or less explained what kind of information you need for your report.
Isn't Stella a lovely creature? I think the human body, both male and female, is the most perfect thing that was ever created. Most of all I feel this way about my body. Is there a name for it? A person worshiping one's self, one's body?
Never mind. Some things need no name.
Since I can remember I have loved my body. This may sound strange, but I have always considered myself two persons, really. My body, the most important, and my senses. You might say from my neck down is one person and above is another.
. Am I crazy? I think not. Do you understand? I want to die young. I must die young! I couldn't stand for my breasts to sag and my belly to grow round and fat and my lovely body to grow old and useless and ugly. I like for people to see my body.
In my home I have a room filled with mirrors. Sometimes for hours I walk around in this room without any clothes and I never grow tired of looking at the many reflections.
It was the same way at a nudist camp. I never failed to find delight in parading my body before the other naked men and women, and at the same time I found great joy in observing them. I remember, Jimmy, that you had a great deal of modesty. You may not understand. As far as that goes, I do not truly understand. All I know is how I feel, the pleasure I get out of such actions, this is aside fromjthe act of sex.
I was nearly fifteen before anything actually happened. I mean, before I learned the pleasure of coupling with a boy or a man or a woman. You are shocked? Without seeing you I know that you find this repulsive. Only as a form of worship, worship from other women, have I indulged in the somewhat off-beat habits of what some call the 'half-world'. Only as a recipient and what more tribute can be paid to my body than that?
Men? Boys first. Many boys. Even now I like young boys. So tender and bashful and afraid and admiring. Their bodies so slim and warm and perfect, their actions so hesitant and retiring at first and then all that youthful vigor and explosive energy.
The first was a neighbor boy and it happened at the creek in the early summer. I took him by the swimming hole in and on' the grass, and I remember looking at the sky. It was so wonderful to be there on my back. I wouldn't let him go.
My dear Jimmy, do you understand? I had no shame then and I have none now. Many boys after that, while I was growing up, and I liked them all and loved most of them. Now I must admit that I do not like old men. I do not mind them looking at my body, but I can not stand their touch. I try to avoid them and I do not tease them for I feel sorry for them. Great sorrow. As I do for any old person, man or woman.
Our social customs being as they are, my parents were forced to move around a great deal. On account of me and my actions, of course. I caused them great worry, I know, and for this I am sorry.
When I was seventeen I left home. This was in Texas, and I made my way to California. In Hollywood there was a lot of freedom and many men. There a girl like me had it made. I had no wish or desire to enter pictures; nor did I have the talent. At a party I met my husband, a businessman, young and wealthy and understanding. Our life together was and still is on my terms. He has never balked on granting me full freedom. It was my suggestion that we join the club. The one I belong to now and the one in California. The one on the Coast I liked more than the one here. Much, much more.
There were always from forty to fifty couples in the club out there. We had a big party or get-together at least once a week. At these parties there was indiscriminate pairing and no set rules. There was usually a great deal of drinking, although in those days I didn't drink much.
Naturally, all couples seldom showed up at all parties, but there were always new members, and needless to say I was in heaven! I have talked to many women-and men-and most have expressed themselves as having fear and being terribly bashful the first time they appeared before a large group of people in the nude. This never bothered me. On the contrary, strolling around naked and being on exhibit was one of my great thrills. I may be simply an exhibitionist, as I have been told, but I am inclined to doubt it. I enjoy just as much, or more, the final act.
You may think that I am conceited, and you are probably right, but I was quite the sensation at my debut. Of course, I had belonged to a nudist colony before, but the sex is played down somewhat in most camps. Men, women, and children-family groups, old and young-attend these camps; and most claim that they are sun-worshipers, sun-bathers, with no other motives. Perhaps some are sincere, but I'm afraid most just enjoy gazing upon naked bodies and think they need an excuse.
To be honest with themselves, to admit their basic purpose, would seem to them degrading and so they call it sun-bathing in the raw, or getting back to nature, and jerky things like that. Believe me, the young and healthy ones that I picked left their high principles behind when I took them into the bushes. Still, I enjoyed the nudist camps and I will have to admit that most really believeor are kidding themselves-that they are doing nothing wrong.
Let me tell you about my first swap-club meeting-my initiation. My husband and I arrived at this large estate on a Saturday afternoon. The word had gone out that there was to be an important meeting and the purpose of the meeting was to initiate the new members. There were three new couples, besides my husband and I, and I guess I was the only calm person in the bunch. I know my husband was a little nervous, and one of the women was about to have hysterics. I managed to quiet the woman down-she was a darling little thing-and by the time the ceremonies began shortly after three we were ready.
There was a regular little stage, about two feet high, in front of seats out on the lawn. You see, Jimmy, most of the parties were later in the day and lasted well into the night. Only when there were new members being introduced for the first time was the stage and all made so early in the day.
Anyway, we were asked to undress and mount the stage and walk about and show our bodies to the audience. You can well imagine that I found this a delightful experience, and the men out front could tell I was ready and willing. At one time or another, later, most found that I was able.
The members of the audience were fully clothed. After a few minutes on the stage, we were told to pick any member from the crowd in front. This was the logical thing to do, of course-otherwise, there may have been a stampede toward the stage. You know, if the people out front had picked us. One of the men pointed at a woman in the audience and she came up and undressed. The owner of the estate was doing the directing and he told them to go and do what comes natural. Everybody laughed.
My turn was next. I'd had my eye on one of the husbands on the stage with me. At this point I thought about pointing to my own husband just as a joke, but I thought it wouldn't be fair even if it worked.
You may well know that under those circumstances most men would find it very difficult, if not impossible, to show their full manhood before such a crowd. But the man that I was eyeing had no such trouble. And again, to be honest, I was getting anxious to get down to the basic purpose of the whole thing. I pointed at the man standing there in all his glory and there was a great roar of laughter from the audience. How was I to know that I couldn't choose him?
Anyway, I pointed at a handsome man in the front row and I rushed him away from the stage before he got completely undressed.
After that first time we only went to the sex parties from time to time, but we were free to visit all members at any convenient time. We used the appointment system. We were given a list of names and addresses and telephone numbers of the club members. The list was typewritten and our names were added to the list. Oh, yes, the man on the stage was not a disappointment, and my husband really liked his wife.
When we moved here, to Mobile, because of my husband's business interests, the first few weeks I thought I would go crazy. We were strangers and my husband had a great deal of business problems and worked long hours. This left me on my own most of the time and I didn't have any connections.
I picked up men in bars, but if you know anything about Mobile you know this is dangerous. Danger from the law, I mean. I used to sit and wait for salesmen or some man to ring the doorbell. I would wear only a bathrobe and when I opened the door I would carefully expose myself a little and let them in. No telling the amount of junk I bought at the door. Trinkets to vacuum cleaners. It was always a mystery to me just how backward most men are.
There I would be, almost breathing down a man's neck, and he'd be trying to sell me some damn thing or another. I wouldn't be paying a bit of attention. I managed to get the message across to most of them, and I started to worry about my reputation in the neighborhood.
I would order things I didn't need just to have a delivery man come. I remember a young boy that worked at a nearby drugstore. I ordered more aspirins and things from that store. He was a beautiful boy, and I'm afraid he was really far too young, but I couldn't seem to help myself.
My husband finally got his business going smoothly and we bought our present home and located the club we now belong to. You have undoubtedly heard of this club from Stella and I will not go into that.
I do hope I have added to your knowledge of the swap clubs and that this letter will be a help in your report. I wish you nothing but the best, Jimmy, and if you ever come to Mobile, be sure and look me up.
I must run along now-as I have an appointment. It was nice knowing you, dear friend. And now I will say:
Sexually yours, Madeline."
CHAPTER NINE
While I was reading Madeline's letter, it came to me that in certain cases the swap clubs were filling a great need. I decided that it was much better for women like Madeline to belong to the sex clubs instead of corrupting the morals of boys and young men. Even oversexed men would probably do far less harm by belonging to the clubs. At least it might keep them from chasing skirts all over the place.
My grief at the loss of my grandfather had just about pushed the book out of my mind. Now, with Madeline's letter in my hands, I began to get interested once again. I wondered if I was capable of getting the information into readable form.
I got my notes and sat at the desk and started transcribing the information into longhand. It was slow going, so I decided I should use a typewriter. If the notes were to become a book manuscript they would certainly have to be typed.
Dad had many books in his den. He'd always been interested in history. Most of his books were along that line. But he also had a good selection of novels. I dared not pick up one of those, for if I were to touch a novel and get started reading I'd be unable to do anything else before finishing it.
Reading, to me, is like a drug, and I must discipline myself. Realizing this, I decided I'd have to find some other place to write. I knew I couldn't stay in the den, with all those books, and resist the temptation to read.
There was another thing that I had been thinking about. If I was going to investigate the swap clubs in New Orleans it would be better to live away from home. I was free to come and go as I pleased, but I knew my parents-especially my mother-would worry about me if she didn't know my approximate whereabouts most of the time.
I explained to my parents that night. I was tempted to tell my father the truth, but I decided to wait. I thought it would be fun to surprise them with a completed manuscript.
All I told them was that I wanted a few weeks to look up some of my old friends in New Orleans, to go to a few parties, and have a little fun before settling down. They didn't act very surprised when I told them I intended to get a room or an apartment in the city. My mother told me to be careful, and dad just winked.
"You're a civilian now, Jim," Dad said. "Just remember that. These girls play for keeps."
Mom said:
"He should be thinking about getting married."
"Let's keep away from that subject," I said, grinning. "I want to enjoy single life for a long time yet." I almost added that the more I saw of some marriages the less I cared about trying it myself. I wasn't foolish enough to think that the majority of the women were like those in the swap clubs, but my recent experiences had started to slant my ideas in that direction.
The next morning I went into New Orleans with my parents. Dad told me I could drive one of his panel delivery trucks until I decided what kind of a car I wanted to buy. I had mentioned that I couldn't make up my mind whether I wanted a small compact or a larger one.
My parent's dry cleaning and laundry business is quite an enterprise. They have six truck routes and ten or twelve branches-pickup shops or stations-located throughout the city. Plus the main plant, of course.
They had just purchased two new panel trucks, but I took one of the older ones. It had just been in the garage for an overhaul and new paint job. Signs hadn't been lettered on it yet, so for my purpose that was better. Besides, I didn't want to knock one of the route men out of a new truck.
At any rate, I had transportation and I proceeded to look around for an apartment. I found a small suitable one without much trouble. It was three rooms and furnished and located in the mid-city section. I left my suitcase and went downtown and bought a complete wardrobe. Then I shopped around and bought a new portable typewriter. As a radioman in the Navy, I had typed and now I was thankful for that ability.
I bought a stack of paper, had a quick lunch, and returned to the apartment. I rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter and sat there most of the afternoon staring at the blank sheet of paper.
It was like that for over a week. Each day I would put many hours in front of that typewriter, but I never wrote a word. I would sort through my notes and try and figure out how to start.
I went home with my folks three nights and rode back with them the next morning. I told them that I was having a great time meeting old friends and getting back into the routine of civilian life. Every day I would drop by and see them at the plant and talk to them and the workers.
Actually, I guess, I was stalling on the whole deal. I not only didn't know how to go about writing my book, I was making excuses to myself for not calling on Ann's sister, Joyce.
Finally, I decided that I should do some more research before attempting to start the book. I had decided not to use the names in my billfold for awhile. From time to time I would take them out and look at them and put them back. I drove by a couple of the addresses several times, but I never stopped.
During this time I made several telephone calls and managed to locate some of my pre-Navy friends. I visited a few and enjoyed talking to them, but somewhere along the way we had lost contact. I tried to get interested in the local happenings, but I kept comparing their way of life and my life in the Navy. I finally said the hell with it.
New Orleans, as a city, had also changed a lot in the three years. New overpasses and underpasses, slum clearance, freeways, new public and private buildings, the new Mississippi River Bridge-all these and more made my home town seem strange to me. The many improvements were okay, but it didn't really seem like home any more. I walked around on the streets and went into a bar now and then for a beer. I knew that I'd be better off going to work even if I was free from money problems.
My first pension check had arrived at my parents' home in Slidell. There was going to be an enormous amount of money from my grandfather's estate. I still had most of my two thousand dollars. The capsules were keeping my headaches under control. Still, except for the blessed capsules, I would have traded the whole damn works to be back in the Navy. Sometimes I wanted to be back aboard ship, or going ashore with some of my buddies. At times I didn't think I could stand it.
The result of all this negative thinking caused me to start drinking rather heavily. My parents became worried, and one morning Dad came up to my apartment and we had a talk. He told me that he'd had one hell of a time adjusting to civilian life, too, but that he'd managed it and he knew I could.
He talked to me in a joking way, and finally asked if I would like to go to work. Anything I wanted to do around the plant would be all right with him. As he talked I got a good look at myself, at what I might become, and told him about my plans-without mentioning the subject-for the book.
He didn't laugh and I was thankful for that.
"It's silly, I guess," I said, "but it's kind of a challenge, Dad. I made a few statements, and I'll probably never see the person again that heard them. Still, I made them to myself, too. Do you understand?"
"Sure, Jim," he said. "I understand. Do you want to tell me about it?"
"I'd rather wait," I said. "You know, it might not turn out and-well, I'll take it easy on the drinking. One of these days I'll be down and get to work with you. Okay?"
"Any time, son," he said. "There's no hurry. I just don't think a person should be idle. Why don't you work regular hours on your book and make a job out of that? I'd be the last one to tell a person how to write, or how to live for that matter. It's just that, as a father, I thought I should talk to you. You notice I said 'talk', not 'preach'."
I laughed. "You never did preach to me, Dad," I said. "I'll be all right. I think I'll run over to Baton Rouge for a few days and look up a certain party. You tell Mom not to worry."
"Female?" he asked, smiling. "The party, I mean."
"Could be," I said. "Although you can tell Mom I'm still not ready to settle down."
"I believe she's looking around for you a wife, Jim," he said, laughing. "Not that she'd even admit it to herself, you understand, but the thought is there."
"How about you?" I asked.
"Don't tell your mother I said this," he said, grinning, "but I would wait a few years. You are young and have plenty of time."
"I know that," I said, laughing. "Now all we have to do is convince Mom of that fact. No kidding, does she really talk much about me getting married? I don't even have a girl."
"She drops a hint now and then," he said. "Mothers usually feel better when they get their children married and settled down."
"I doubt that I would know what to say to a nice girl," I said. "You know what I mean."
"You're going to have to forget the Navy and the port girls," he said. "It's been quite some time, but I'm still able to remember my sailing days, including the girls. Deep down, you'll probably miss that life from now on-as I have to a certain extent. You'll make it, though."
"Sure," I said. I wondered what he'd say if I told him about the women I'd been meeting in civilian life.
I promised again to take it easy with the drinking.
When he left I packed a few clothes in my suitcase and drove the truck to Baton Rouge. In a couple of hours I came to the outskirts of the capital city and got a room in a motel. I ate and went to bed early.
The next morning I shaved and dressed and left the room. Leaving the truck parked at the motel, I ate breakfast in a nearby restaurant and walked around until I found a small print shop.
It was no trouble getting the printer to run off one hundred business cards identifying me as representing the Southern District Division of the Pierce-Motley Foundation.
I thought the cards looked very formal and businesslike, though I had purposely left off my address or telephone number. It would be easy, I decided, to write such information on the card later, if necessary-or desirable. The printer may have been curious about the job, but he was glad to get it and allowed me to wait around until he was through.
The night before I had carefully studied the name and address of the swap-club member. I knew it as well as I knew my own. At times wished that I had made a copy of the letters from the members I meant to contact. It was too late to think about that now.
I was surprised to find that I was less nervous than I had been. Something about having the cards in my pocket gave me confidence as I walked back to the motel and got the truck. At a gas station, while getting gas, I questioned the attendant and found where the street was located. I parked a block from the house and smoked a cigarette.
It was a nice neighborhood-an ordinary residential section with clean streets and neat lawns and shrubbery. I had passed by the house, which was a small red brick, one-story structure. A carport was at one side and I noticed there was no car. I was hoping the woman would be home. If she wasn't alone I could pretend to be a salesman.
I walked toward the house without any real plans. I thought I'd just let things happen and see how it turned out. Usually, I had found, when I started talking I had little trouble turning the conversation in any direction I wished. Anyway, I could always retreat if it became necessary.
There was a doorbell. I pushed the button, stepped back, and took off my hat. The door opened in a couple of minutes and a tall colored woman in a gray and white street dress stood there. "Yes?" she said.
"Does Mrs. Gibbons live here?" I asked. "Mrs. Athela Gibbons?"
"Yes, she does."
"I'm from the Pierce-Motley Foundation," I said, handing her a card. "I'd like to speak to her please."
"You may come in, Mister Butler," she said, glancing at the card and stepping aside.
I entered and she closed the door. I found myself in a very cozy living room, tidy and clean, with beautiful furniture. She motioned to a chair and I sat down, expecting her to leave the room, to get the lady of the house.
She sat down in a large chair across from me and asked:
"What is it you wish, Mister Butler?"
"I'd rather tell Mrs. Gibbons," I said.
"I am Athela Gibbons," she said.
I sat there looking at her and thought about kicking myself. I should have investigated before barging in like that.
She was smiling and I knew that she knew just how surprised I really was.
Her skin was a dark chocolate color, and I hadn't noticed before, but she was an attractive woman. Her features were more like a white person or an Indian. She looked to be about thirty. I started to stand and excuse myself, but then thought, what difference does it make? She was a woman and had admitted being a member of a swap club, so I might as well try to get an interview.
"I'm sorry," I said finally. "I just assumed you were the maid and-well, that's about all I can say."
"That's all right," she said, smiling. "I'm used to it. I'm always being taken for a domestic servant. It's the neighborhood. We are the only colored in the block. To tell you the truth, most of the salesmen and people like that have the same look when I open the door-the look you had when I told you I was Mrs. Gibbons."
"It was just a look of surprise," I said. "At least I hope it was."
"Are you a native of the South?" she asked.
"Yes," I said. "New Orleans, as a matter-of-fact. Why?"
"Your speech," she said. "You don't talk like a Southerner."
"I'm a Southerner," I said, laughing. "I have been away for some time, but I was born and raised here."
"I didn't mean so much the way you talk," she said. "It's more the way you speak." She noticed my puzzled look and added, "What I mean is, your manner of speaking. You are polite and courteous, not like a lot of the white men around here."
"These are trying times for both white and colored," I said. "Not only here in the South, but all over the country. I'm afraid some of us, both races, go to extremes sometimes. I try to talk to everyone as a fellow human being. If you have objections to talking to a white man I will leave, but I'm sure the majority of the white men down here feel much as I do."
"And just how is that?" she asked. "How do they feel? How do you feel? I have been here for almost six months and all the white people I talk to seem to talk down to me-to treat me like a child or something. They either go out of their way to show their contempt, or else they act overly friendly."
"I didn't come here to discuss the relationship between the two races," I said, "but I'm willing to tell you how I feel."
"Before you tell me how you feel," she said, "perhaps, you'd better state your business for being here in the first place."
I stood up. "I'm sorry," I said, "but I'm afraid we got started wrong for me to go into details about the purpose of my visit. I don't think we will gain anything by discussing the race situation. You probably have your very definite opinions and I have mine. The subject is like religion or politics. We could talk about it all day and never get any place."
"Please sit down, Mister Butler," she said. "I really am curious about your visit and I suppose I must apologize for my attitude. You are right, of course. These are trying times for all people. It's almost noon. Would you have a cup of coffee or a sandwich?"
"No, thank you," I said. "I'm not hungry and I had better be getting along."
"Is it that you feel you are too good, Mister Butler?" she asked. "Is that it?"
"Mrs. Gibbons," I said, "I don't feel that I am superior to anyone. Because of my white skin, anyway. Certainly I'll have some coffee with you." I sat back down and crossed my legs. "I'm really not hungry, but I can always use a cup of coffee."
She stood up and looked at me steadily for a moment, then turned and left the room.
I got a cigarette going and decided that I would drink the coffee and leave as soon as possible. I didn't want any trouble, and I was beginning to feel that I was liable to find myself in an awkward if not dangerous situation.
Still, and I don't know why, I had the feeling that I was going to be here awhile.
CHAPTER TEN
Mrs. Gibbons returned in a few minutes and placed a tray on the coffee table in the center of the room. There was a small pot of coffee, two cups, sugar and cream.
I went over and prepared my coffee and took it back to my chair and sat down. I sipped the hot coffee and watched as she did the same. We sat drinking the coffee in silence. I was trying to figure a way to get out of there as gracefully as possible.
"Are you a salesman, Mister Butler?" she asked finally.
She had been observing me calmly, and I could detect nothing from her expression. There was no indication of unfriendliness, but at the same time there was an air of aloofness about her that made me uneasy. I had never had any real personal contact with members of her race before. At least, not in the U.S.A. In Brazil and some of the other Central and South American countries there had been the usual sailor contacts with the residents, mostly female, and while drinking.
"No," I said, smiling, "I have nothing to sell. Except maybe myself. I'm an investigator, doing research. For the Foundation, I mean."
"Exactly what kind of investigating do you do?" she asked. "This 'Foundation'-I have never heard of the Pierce-Motley Foundation. Does it have anything to do with the current problems here in the South? Integration, segregation, desegregation?"
"You have the wrong idea," I said, seriously. "Completely and absolutely the wrong idea. It's nothing like that at all. I now hesitate to bring up any subject. You seem determined to make a race issue out of everything I say. May I ask where you lived before? Before you moved here?"
"Los Angeles," she said. "My husband was transferred here. He's in insurance."
"Had he been here before?" I asked. "In the South, I mean."
"Oh, yes, he was born here."
"Didn't he tell you about the customs here?" I asked.
"He told me about the Jim Crow laws and all that," she said. "The fact is, he was glad the company sent him here. He says he feels more at home, more comfortable."
"His feelings must prove something," I said. "The so-called Jim Crow laws are on the way out now, you know. As for his feelings about being more comfortable here-I think I can understand. I've noticed that in the North the colored person has trouble finding a place to live, a place to eat, a place to do anything. Here in the South you people have your own restaurants, hotels, everything."
"Then you do believe in segregation?" she asked.
Her face was still calm and I couldn't read the expression in her eyes. I did get the impression, however, that she wasn't trying to bait me-was simply asking questions.
"Let's put it this way," I said. "I believe in the rights of all men. When anything is forced on any person there is bound to be resentment. In this case, the white man resents the fact that he is being forced to do things contrary to his beliefs, his customs, his way of life. I hate to use that term, 'way of life', because it has been slurred and twisted around to mean stubborness, bitterness, and everything else to the detriment of the Southern white man."
"What about the Negro?" she asked. "How about the rights of the colored person?"
"I believe you do have rights. You have the right to have a business, to work, to live as you wish. Look at it this way. What if I wanted to go into one of your bars, or restaurants, or hotels? I wouldn't be allowed to stay. What about my rights in that case?"
She frowned. "That has nothing to do with what I'm talking about." she said. "I mean that as an American citizen I should have the right to go any place I choose, at any time I choose."
"Then you deny that I have the same rights? You see, Mrs. Gibbons, this is a subject that we could never get together on. I suppose if I were in your place I might feel the same way. Let me give you a comparative situation.
"I was in the Navy. An enlisted man. In all branches of the services segregation is carried on to the fullest. Not racially. Between the officers and men. Aboard ship we had what is called 'officer's country', where officers live and eat. An enlisted man can not go there unless he is on business. It's a rule-a law, you might say. It's just the way things are and must be, I suppose."
"Yes, but you knew how things were going to be when you entered the service."
"I grinned. "I could very well say that you knew how things are, or were, in the South. My basic reason for being against forced integration is that it is being forced. Any time a thing is forced on a person there is going to be resistance. In this case you have a few men changing a practice of over a hundred years-by force. They are forcing a majority of the people to take something they aren't ready for. Personally, I don't think they'll ever be ready for it."
"Do you dislike the Negro so much?" she asked. "Do you want to keep him down on a lower level? Is that your purpose?"
"Mrs. Gibbons," I said, "I'm sorry, but I think we are wasting time. We can never settle this thing. Let me just say this. I believe the colored race should be given just as much chance as the white. I don't hate them. I don't believe I hate anyone, unless it's the ones trying to destroy our country. I have no wish to take anything away from your race-your right to live your own lives. I also think you should recognize the fact that the white people have rights, too.
"Try putting yourself in my place. Mentally, I mean. I've tried putting myself in the colored man's place, tried to figure out what I would do and how I would feel. I'll admit that in a lot of ways I would be bitter, even angry. However, I still don't think that taking away the rights of one person and giving it to another helps anyone. You certainly haven't gained anything by such action. Apparently, there are white men that do feel that way. I'm only glad that in this country, you and I, black and white, are still able to say what we think without fear of punishment. There is a question in my mind as to how long this will last. I don't mind telling you that.
"You don't seem to realize that by taking away the white man's rights you people are leaving everything wide open for somebody someday to take away all your rights. If a few men can change all ideas, all decisions that have been made and lived by for years and years and years, what makes you think they couldn't start tomorrow changing other things that might harm both races, the whole country? I don't think any laws are right that take away from the majority and give to the minority. Honest to God, Mrs. Gibbons, it's getting so that a white Southern person is something to be scorned, to be laughed at, to be ridiculed. I have always been on the side of the underdog. A few years ago I felt sorry for the Negroes, but now that has changed. In the eyes of the world we may be wrong, but right or wrong, I must stand by my people. Please don't take this as something personal. What I have said is speaking in general, my observations of the situation as a whole."
"I am part white," she said. "My grandfather was a white man."
"Did you know him?" I asked.
"No, and if I could see him now I would spit in his face." I saw the sudden hate in her face and it was ugly and frightening.
"Why?" I asked. I thought I knew, but I wanted her to speak. I thought it might relieve some of the tension that was suddenly in the room.
"He took my grandmother, a black woman, and then he left her with a little brown bastard. That baby grew up and became my father. What does that make me?"
"I suppose that would make you one quarter white," I said. "Assuming that all other parents, your people, were colored." I held up my hand as she was about to speak. "I'm sure I know what you are getting at," I said. "If your father and mother were married there is no question of your being legitimate."
"They were married," she said. "It's that white grandfather that I hate."
"Is it because he was white? What if he had been colored? Things go on like that between members of the same race. I think you are taking out your hatred of your grandfather on all white people. There is one thing that you seem to overlook. Your grandmother was colored and if she wasn't raped-well, it takes two, you know."
She looked at me silently for a moment and finally a half smile came upon her face. "I have always known that," she said, "but maybe I didn't want to think about it. No, she wasn't raped. She was willing, I suppose. For all I know she could have been the instigator. If you don't mind we'll get off the subject. Now, will you tell me the reason for your call? Your purpose in coming here?"
I laughed. "I've done a lot of talking," I said. "Now I think I should give you a chance to talk about your views on the subject."
"All I can say is that I'm colored and I think I should take all the rights I can get. The white man kept the black man in slavery for thousands of years. Since the Civil War we have come a long way and we intend to go much, much further. You white people might as well get used to that idea and learn to live with it. We're on our way now with the help of the government, and there is no stopping us. Now, I ask you again, what is your business here?"
"Before I state that business," I said, trying to speak calmly, "I want to tell you this: Only with the help of the white man, the Southern white man, did your race get 'on your way' as you call it. Also, your white grandfather is directly responsible for you being here and I want you to know why I'm here. I meant to leave, not to tell you, but now I wouldn't miss it for anything. Mrs. Gibbons, I know about your letter describing your experiences in the swap club."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I sat back and looked at her and waited for her reaction. I had really meant to leave. Something about the tone of her voice, her attitude, had made me angry. But now that it was out about the swap club I couldn't back down. I had to see the thing through and hope for the best.
I had visions of headlines telling about the white man brow-beating the poor, defenseless colored woman. It entered my mind that everything was going in reverse. Now, in the South, it was the white man who had to watch his step. She gazed at me steadily and I could feel my face getting red. I wished that I'd never seen her.
"How did you find out about the letter?" she asked calmly. "How did you find me?"
"You must have forgotten and signed your name and address," I said. "I saw the letter."
"What do you want?" she asked. "I don't have much money. That letter was written telling about my first marriage. My present husband knows nothing about it, Mister Butler. He mustn't know!"
"I don't want anything," I said. "Mrs. Gibbons, I'm going to be honest with you. Will you listen for a few minutes and try and understand ? I've talked to quite a few women about these clubs. White women. Believe me, if I had known you were colored I'd never have come. I mean no harm and never did. Are you willing to listen and judge my words, not as a white man but as a man?"
"Yes," she said. "I'm listening."
I told her the complete details, much as I had first told Stella. I only left out the fact that I had more addresses in my pocket.-I told her about my plans for the book and that I wouldn't use correct names.
She listened intently, smiling at times. When I had finished she pointed to my card on the coffee table.
"Then there's no such Foundation?" she asked. "That card is a fake?"
"That's right," I said. "I had them printed this morning."
"You want me to tell you about my experiences, give you an interview?"
"If you don't mind," I said. "I'd like to take notes and ask questions and get general information for my book. On the other hand, if you don't feel like talking about it-well, that's all right, too. If I read your letter I don't remember it. There is one thing I will add, for your peace of mind, the letter and your name and address have been destroyed by this time. You have nothing to worry about."
"I'm willing to talk," she said. "I'll get some more coffee." She stood, picked up the tray, and walked across the room. At the door leading to the back of the house she stopped and looked back. "I have some cookies," she said. "Would you like some with your coffee?"
"That would be fine," I said.
She returned shortly and we drank the coffee and ate some cookies. I had replaced my paper pad with a small notebook and now I prepared to take notes. She asked me where she should start and I told her to start any place. I didn't want to ask direct questions, as I thought it might lead the talk back to the subject I preferred not to discuss.
She didn't say anything for two or three minutes.
I asked if the fact that I was going to take notes made her nervous and she said, no, that she was just hoping her husband wouldn't come home unexpectedly. Again I told her that I would leave if she wished. I certainly had no desire to see her husband and was still wishing I had never rung the doorbell.
"He shouldn't be home for three or four hours," she said, "but he does drop by sometimes during the afternoon. In case he does come today you could maybe act like a salesman."
"I would make a good 'brush man'," I said, laughing, "except that I don't have a sample case. I know, I could be a magazine or book salesman taking orders."
"I don't think he will come," she said. "I just wanted you to be prepared."
"I'll handle it okay," I said. I was glad to find that she wasn't like the other women I had interviewed. Obviously she wasn't on the make. I decided the talk about her husband coming home was mostly a warning to me-for me to keep my distance. She needn't have worried. All I wanted to do was get a few notes and get the hell out of there.
"I've been married to my present husband about three years," she said. "Happily married, I might add. I was married to my first husband for almost the same length of time. We were in show business. The first one, I mean. Night clubs and the like, mostly around Los Angeles. He was a piano player and I was a singer. During most of that time we worked together. Sometimes just the two of us, at other times with a group.
"We made good money, but we spent it. He was originally from the cotton fields in Alabama. I was born and raised in Los Angeles-the slums. My mother was a large black woman and my father was a tall and slender man, dark brown, and as you can see I take after him. My mother ran a crummy little rooming house and he was a porter on the railroad.
"He was away from home most of the time and I never really knew him very well. My mother was a friendly, happy sort of woman and she liked men. The year I was twelve my father just didn't come home from one of his trips and we never heard from him again. My mother went right on with the rooming house and her men. And as soon as I was old enough she sold me to a man one night for fifty dollars. I was fourteen."
"Sold you!"
"'Rented' would be the correct term," she said. "It was just for the one night. I remember she gave me five dollars and I bought a new pair of shoes. Red high heels."
"That's terrible," I said.
"You mean about the man? It wasn't so bad. He was gentle with me and I remember I liked him. He was real dark and big and strong and he didn't hurt me. That first time I got-or rather my mother got-a good price, but after that five or ten dollars was about the limit.. She'd give me a dollar or so for spending money at school.' She bought my clothes, of course."
"You mean your mother was running a whore house?" Tasked.
"Is that so strange?"
"I didn't mean to interrupt," I said. "It's just that I hadn't thought about such things going on in this country. In foreign countries I came across a lot of the-family enterprises, you might say."
"At the time I never thought much about it," she said. "I rather enjoyed it. I quit school in the tenth grade and started taking the money my mother gave me and hanging around bars and night clubs.
"I met a guy one night and went home with him and never did see my mother again. He was a junky and one morning I woke up and he was dead beside me there in the bed. This was after about three weeks with him. I dressed and got my things and took off.
"I worked the bars and the streets for about six months and finally got sent up for six months for prostitution. In the jail I met a girl. She had a nice voice and got me interested in singing. I had always liked to sing and she gave me the encouragement to give it a try when I got out.
"I went back to the bars and night clubs, but I kept out of trouble. I mean, I didn't do any actual soliciting. I worked as a waitress at first and bought some clothes and got a nice room. Sure, I had men up to my room, and most paid. But I was living on a better scale-if you know what I mean."
"I think I do," I said.
"You must understand that at this time, and before, I only went around colored places and was with colored people. No whites. No white men. Anyway, all the time after getting out of jail I would practice singing. I would sing along with the juke box music and-you never have been in a colored place, bar or night club, Mister Butler?"
"No," I said. "Not in this country. In Brazil and some of the Carribean Islands I have, though."
"They were very informal there weren't they?" she asked. "The people in the night clubs, I mean."
"Yes," I said. "That's for sure. I've always thought that the Negroes get a lot more fun out of life than the whites. More relaxed and happy or something."
"Sometimes people laugh when they feel like crying," she said. "What I was getting at is that the people would listen to me sing and seem to enjoy it. In this one little bar there was this piano player. Well, to make it short, we got together and started working as a team. He was a tall brown good looking fellow named Ray, and I was in love with him right from the start. It was the first time I was ever in love. When Ray asked me to marry him I was very happy. I told him about my background and he laughed it off and said we'd make a good team. We did, too, in all ways.
"We started getting a few musicians together and started booking around the colored joints. We didn't have an agent. After about four months, Ray met this white man and he started getting us jobs in white places. Sometimes the whole band and sometimes just the two of us. We got to be fairly well-known and started getting jobs at private parties. During this time I had been true to Ray. There were other men and if he went with other women I didn't know about it. To tell the truth I was happy and wanted to settle down leave other men alone and forget the past."
"I can understand that," I said. "You were in love-for the first time, you say-and I think your feelings would be natural. But so far you haven't mentioned the swap clubs and that is my primary interest." Actually I was just as interested in her story, her background, but I was thinking about the husband that might return unexpectedly. I still didn't feel too comfortable and I was anxious to get away.
"I was just coming to that," she said. "From this point on, most of the information was included in the letter I wrote to the magazine."
"Before you continue," I said, "There is one thing I'd like to say and there's also a question I'd like to ask. If you don't mind."
"All right," she said. "Would you like some more coffee?"
"No thank you," I said. "I don't have any of the letters that were sent into the magazine, not even a copy. Also, I don't suppose I read more than a fraction of the ones that were mailed in. Still, I can't understand why I wouldn't remember your letter."
"Because I'm colored, you mean?"
"Yes," I said, "and what I had to say turned out to be a question, but it goes along with the other questions I wanted to ask. How did you happen to write the letter in the first place?" I decided that would be a good question to ask all the members of swap clubs.
"I didn't mention the fact that I wasn't white," she said. "I can't tell you the reason for that, as I don't know myself for sure. I just felt that it would be easier to get it printed if I left out the fact that I was colored. As for the reason for the letter-I suppose I just wanted to get my two cents worth in."
"May I ask the reason you wanted it published?"
"That's hard to explain, too. I had been reading the series in the magazine and I got to thinking about my life as a member of a swap club. So, I just started writing and at first I didn't have any intention of mailing it. Then I got to thinking I would like to see it in print and sent it off. Unconsciously, I guess, I signed my name and address. Believe me, I didn't mean to do that."
"Don't worry, Mrs. Gibbons," I said. "You have my word that your name will remain a secret."
"Your word as a Southern gentleman?" she asked.
There was a smile on her face and I grinned.
"Do we have to go through that again?" I asked. "Yes, my word as a Southern gentleman."
"I didn't mean that as a derogatory remark," Mister Butler," she said. "I was joking."
"I'll accept it as a joke," I said, smiling. "Peaceful coexistence, huh?"
She smiled. "I think that's the most wonderful thing about this country," she said. "We all have a sense of humor, no matter the color of our skin."
"That's true," I said. "If Mister K. and company could see us sitting here talking in a friendly way he might change his mind about burying us."
"Shall I continue?" she asked. The tension seemed to have left her and I was more relaxed.
"You had reached the point where you were happy with your husband and wanted to forget the past," I said.
"Yes, and what I'm going to tell you now is in the past, Mister Butler.
"Ray and I soon drifted away from the members of the band. We started appearing at the better clubs and I would sing, blues mostly, and he would accompany me. Our agent got us a lot of jobs at private house parties. One night we were at a private party. Without telling me Ray had made arrangements that shocked me. You may understand my feelings when you consider I never had personal relations with white people before."
"You mean that you were invited to join a swap club made up of white couples?"
"You're a little ahead of me," she said, "but that's the way it was. Ray had known, had been approached, by these white people and hadn't mentioned it to me. We did one number in the apartment of the party's host and I noticed that the people were more attentive than usually is the case at such affairs. There were five white couples there besides the host and his wife. All under thirty, I would say, except a couple of the men-and they were in their late thirties.
"There was the usual drinking, but not to excess. The host made a little speech, the gist of which was that he was nominating his colored friends to become members of the club. I can't remember the words. I was looking at Ray, with disbelief, and he was whispering that everything would be all right. I do remember feeling ill and sitting down on the piano bench. Ray put his arm around me and somebody handed me a drink."
"Then what happened?" I asked.
She had paused and got a cigarette going and I did the same. I told myself that I was just a reporter, a man taking notes. It really wasn't any of my business.
"I won't say that I wasn't hurt," she said, "because of the fact that my husband was willing to share me, I mean; but you must remember my previous life. Looking back, I think the fact that the other couples were white-well, it would be much as if you were in a room full of Negro couples and your wife made such an agreement. You may not agree to that comparison, but at least it will give you an idea of how I felt. I remember all the couples toasting us and voting
'Yes', and I took a second strong drink. I think my love for my husband left right then.
"Have you heard enough, Mister Butler?"
"I'm trying to keep my personal feelings out of all this," I said. "You may continue if you wish, Mrs. Gibbons. All I want is the truth-and they say the truth never hurt anyone. Sometimes I do wonder who 'they' are, and I doubt that 'they' always know what 'they' are talking about."
"I think you are a little young and far too sensitive," she said, "to be doing research such as this. Do four-letter words make you blush?"
"Sometimes," I said.
"I'll try and keep it as clean as possible," she said, laughing. "I was raised in a whore house, you know. I don't think my language is so bad, considering that fact, do you?"
"I've been thinking about that," I said. "I think you speak very well, and I'll admit that it surprises me. I find it hard to believe that you only went to the tenth grade."
"Since I've been with my present husband I've done a lot of reading and finished high school by mail. But I have a lot to learn yet."
"I think we can all say that," I said, laughing. "This afternoon I am certainly learning a great deal. What happened next? At the party?"
"I found out later that Ray had been with white women, but as you know it was my first experience being on such intimate terms with any white people. Men or women. They all gathered around us and one woman asked how about getting on with the initiation. Everybody laughed and applauded and the host told them to move back and give us room. The next thing I knew I was standing with Ray in the center of the room and the white people were around us in a circle.
"The host explained that we were to undress in front of everybody and give the members a chance to look us over. I started to protest and Ray squeezed my hand until it hurt. A small blonde woman said that she'd break the ice for us. She came out into the circle and joined us. She slowly stripped off all of her clothes and I got scared. Ray was staring at her pale white body and all I could think of was getting out of there. I half expected the white men to turn on him and tear him apart.
"As I stood numb, the blonde woman walked over to Ray and started unbuttoning his coat. He was grinning and he helped her. Soon he was naked. The onlookers were laughing and making remarks and the other women came over and touched his skin and fondled him. The little blonde took him by the arm and they ran out of the room. Then the people were looking at me and in a daze I removed my clothes. I stood there and looked at them and they looked at me. The host came over and took me by the arm. I let him lead me into another room. I could hear the other couples laughing and talking and picking their bed partners. It went on like that most of the night, changing around. When I got used to the idea, I liked it all right. I will say that I never learned to like the white men, to enjoy the white man's company, as much as I did the men of my race. With a few exceptions, of course. DO you know what I mean?"
"I'm familiar with the characteristics of the male Negro," I said.
"There is one thing that might prove of interest," she said.
"What's that?" I asked.
"I never ceased to marvel at the desire of the white people to examine our bodies," she said. "Even the women wanted to look at me and touch me."
"Sex seems to have many off-beat variations," I said. "Perversions, I should say."
"I can tell by your expression, your expressions all along, that you hate the idea of Ray being with the white women. Would you tell me why?"
"I just don't like it," I said. "It isn't right. I don't understand the white people allowing it."
"You see nothing wrong with the white men taking the colored women?" she asked.
"Certainly it's wrong," I said. "You can call it what you like. Narrow-mindedness, pride, prejudice, anything you like-mixing of the races is morally wrong. You, yourself, are proof of that. You hate your grandfather because he was white. At times you can't even hide the fact that you hate me. Tell me, why did you consent to go with the white men?"
"One reason is because by having them with me, a part of me almost, there was no doubt about the fact that I was as good as they were. Better, really, for I had a certain amount of control over them. I made them do things, and I had them in my power. I felt strength as I sapped their strength and made them wallow in their own stinking white filth. Another thing, I gloried in the fact, the knowledge, that Ray was defiling their women and I think he had that secret feeling, that great pleasure, along with the enjoyment of using all those white female bodies. You should hear the things he could tell about the white bitches."
"I think this has turned into a personal grudge, a hate for the white people," I said. "I think we had better call a halt. You are letting your emotions run away with you. There is one thing I want to tell you, my friend. Your trouble is a feeling of inferiority. An inborn feeling. Nothing that the white man has done, or said, causes that feeling."
She stood up. "I am not inferior," she said. "I didn't say you were," I said, also standing. "Your actions say it for you. Any time a person goes around saying he is as good as anybody, repeating it over and over, that shows there is doubt in his mind. There are white people like that, too. And every other color, I imagine. I never go around telling people I am as good as they are. There is no need. I know I am and naturally assume that they know I am. There is no doubt about it. It's just a fact and that's it. I'm ,as good as the best and better than the rest. Statement of fact. Say that to yourself, and believe it, and you won't have to go around making noises and showing your hate."
"The people, the white people, in the club accepted me," she said. "They accepted Ray. We spent many hours and many nights with them. In their homes, in their beds."
"They used you," I said. "You were sex partners, a piece of ass, something different for the thrill-happy degenerate bastards.
"I must be going," I said shortly. "I've lost my temper. I didn't mean to do that, ever. I was going to keep myself apart from my research, my book. You have ruined that. The only thing I could do, I suppose, is leave this interview out. That wouldn't be honest, though, would it? The next best thing is to forget the damn book. I'm going to keep these notes. Your name will not be used, as I promised, no matter what I decide. Your husband will never know."
"Please sit down, Mister Butler," she said calmly. "I'm sorry I let myself go like that. Really. Let me try and explain. Please?"
"Do you want to know the truth?" I asked. "Right now I'm ashamed that I ever talked to you. I should have known we could never keep personalities, the race question, out of this. I should have called a halt when you said you belonged to a white swap club. It's just the way I am, the way I feel about colored men and white women. Maybe it's because I'm a Southerner. I don't think so, though. It's because I'm a white man."
"Could I ask a question?" she asked. She motioned for me to sit down and sat down herself.
I looked at her for a moment and then sat back down. I continued to look at her and didn't say a word. It was my wish to get out of there without causing a serious incident. I knew that, in a way, she had me in her power. I was in her home, a trespasser, and my reason for being there wouldn't have any legal footing whatsoever if she were of a mind to call the police.
"You may not wish to answer this question," she said finally, "but I'm going to ask it. Did you ever go to bed, have intercourse, with a colored woman ?"
"I plead the Fifth Amendment," I said, laughing. "I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me."
"Then the answer is yes?"
"I didn't say that."
"It means the same," she said.
"Not by law," I said.
"Maybe not by law, but by implication," she said.
"I might give you an argument about that statement," I said, "but I'll let it go. The truth of the matter is, I have been with a few colored women. In foreign countries and they were part white-mostly white."
"High yellows?"
"That's the term used sometimes," I said. "Some are beautiful aren't they, Mister Butler?"
"Yes," I said. "There's certainly no doubt about that."
"You have never been with a woman as black-as black as me, Mister Butler?"
"No."
"Have you ever had the desire to be with a black woman? To see a naked black body?"
"No."
"Would you like to give it a go with me, Mister Butler?" she asked.
"No," I said, but I couldn't keep the sudden feeling of excitement from going through me.
I looked at her and she was smiling and had her hands at the top of her dress. She stood and slowly began to unbutton her dress. I stood and put the notebook in my pocket and took my card from the coffee table.
I walked toward the door and as I placed my hand on the door knob I heard her say:
"Look, Mister Butler."
I turned my head and looked at her for one long moment. Her black body was beautifully shaped. I turned my head away and opened the door.
As I went out and closed the door behind me, without looking back, I heard her say, "You tell my husband anything about me and I'll kill you, you white nigger!"
CHAPTER TWELVE
The first few miles driving back to New Orleans I was nervous and upset. The interview had gone all wrong. Everything about it seemed to have backfired. I hadn't even found out the final outcome-the break between the woman and her first husband. I decided I had really muffed that one.
I could picture the black body back in that room. Then there were pictures flashing through my mind of the guy called Ray and all those white women. There was hate and at the same time there was shame. It was hard for me to admit that there had been desire or lust on my part. I pushed the whole incident deep back in my mind and by the time I reached my apartment I was once again in good spirits.
I spent the next several days at the new public library. I wanted to see if I could find anything on the subject of mate-swapping. I could find very little information on the subject. The details I did find dealt with the custom of exchanging wives, historically, but I found nothing about the practice in modern times-in modern civilization, at any rate.
There was skimpy information concerning the Eskimos and brief mention of primitive man and his sexual habits, but nothing to compare with the swap clubs. I read about polygamy, polygyny, polyandry, concubinage, harems, sexual community.
The latter, 'sexual community', seemed to come closest to the modern swap clubs. Sexual promiscuity in the form of what may be designated as 'group marriage'. I found this classification had been used to cover various forms of the group type marriage, which may vary from absolute promiscuity, without incestuous restrictions of any kind, to others that have quite definite regulations.
I started sitting in front of my typewriter three or four hours each day, typing from my notes. I tried to keep each interview separated. I really had no idea of how to go about writing a book. I had never given it too much thought. Reading had always been a hobby of mine, and like most people, I'd always thought that an author had an easy life. I decided that it might be easy, once you learned, but that is true of all things. Learning how to be a radioman while I was in the Navy was-fairly hard, but once I had learned, it was easy-easy in the sense of knowing how, not in the actual doing.
Always in the back of my mind was something that I tried not to think about. If I did manage to finish the book, who would buy it ? That question would have to be faced sometime in the future, I knew, and also the question as to who would want to read it.
I decided that the best thing for me to do was to get all the 'notes' I could accumulate, telling about my experiences, and then try to locate a writer, an established author, and try to get him to put them in salable form. After this half-formed plan I found it easier and more enjoyable transcribing the notes.
It was at that time that I started concentrating on the notes and fun that I might have in getting the information and left the actual book for later.
After the experience in Baton Rouge I wasn't very anxious to use the names in my billfold. It was for this reason I decided to contact Joyce, the sister of the woman in Mobile. I looked up her telephone number and called one weekday morning about ten o'clock.
She answered the phone. When I told my name she told me she'd been thinking about me. She said that Ann had written and explained about me and that she was looking forward to meeting me. I asked her when would be a good time, and she wanted to know if I was free that afternoon.
I told her I was and she said she'd be waiting. I couldn't keep from asking if she'd be alone. She laughed and assured me that she would be and offered to meet me at my home if I wished. That was the last thing I wanted, so I told her I'd see her sometime that afternoon. She had a low, pleasant voice, and I liked her laugh.
Joyce lived in an apartment building on St. Charles Avenue.
I finally found a parking space for the truck and walked to the front entrance. There was a fairly large lobby with the usual potted plants. There was nobody in sight and I saw two self service elevators in one corner.
One of the elevators was on the main floor. I stepped inside and pushed the button to the fifth floor. I found number 505 without any trouble and, hat in hand, knocked on the door.
The door opened almost immediately and a young blonde girl stood there. She looked like a teen-ager and for a moment I thought I had knocked on the wrong door. She wore white shorts and halter and was barefooted.
"Jimmy?" she asked cheerfully.
"That's right," I said. "Joyce?"
"Come in," she said. She glanced down at her feet and laughed. "I'm very informal," she said. "Besides, shoes hurt my feet."
I laughed and went in and she told me to have a seat. She closed the door and I sat down in a large easy chair near the door. The room was large and beautifully furnished. Everything looked tidy. Three doors led from the room and all were closed. I saw this as I sat down and also saw that the girl's skin looked smooth and tan, as if she spent a great deal of time on the beach.
She sat down in an easy chair not far from me. I held my hat on my lap and looked at her and decided that she was beautiful. Not only did she have a lovely shape-her face was almost perfect. Her eyes were blue and friendly. There was an overall warmth about her that made me like her right away.
"I didn't think you'd ever call," she said. "Since I received the letter from Ann, describing you and telling about your book, I have-well, I had begun to think you weren't coming."
"She told you everything?" I asked. "About the Foundation?"
"You can skip all that," she said, laughing. "Ann told me that Stella had explained to her about meeting you on the bus and all."
"Then you know that I'm a phony?" I said, laughing.
"I know about the phony Foundation," she said, "but according to Ann you couldn't be classed as a phony."
"Just what did she say?" I asked.
She smiled and took a cigarette from a pack on a table near her chair. I got up to give her a light and my hat fell to the floor. By the time I retrieved it she had the cigarette going. I sat back down and placed my hat on the floor beside the chair.
"Ann told me enough," she said, slowly blowing out smoke. "She went into details, in fact. Would you care to read the letter?"
"I can remember the details," I said, laughing. "Then you have no objections to the interview?"
"No," she said. "I have no objections. Would you like a drink?"
"No thanks," I said. "One just calls for another with me and I hate to get started. You have one, though, and I won't take up too much of your time."
"I seldom drink," she said. "And as for my time-I have plenty. I'm not expecting anyone this afternoon, and if the phone rings I don't have to answer."
"Where shall we start?" I asked, lighting a cigarette. "Would you like for me to ask questions or would you just like to talk and let me take notes?"
"Why not just have a conversation and let you take notes ? Will you let me read the book when you have it finished? I think being a character in a book will be fun."
"I don't know if you will call it fun when I get through putting all my notes together," I said, laughing. "I'm strictly an amateur at this writing business. If it's never published nobody will ever read it."
"You will just have to get it published then," she said. "Or I will die of curiosity. You will make personal comments about the characters-in the book, I mean. I don't think I would like it if I were to turn out to be the villain."
"You don't have to worry," I said. "You will undoubtedly be the heroine. You certainly look the part."
"Ann gave me the impression you were a little on the bashful side," she said, smiling.
"I am," I said. "Or I was. The experiences I have been having lately would make the meekest of persons just a little bold. I never dreamed there were so many people mixed up in these swap clubs. Don't you think it's a strange way of life, Joyce?"
"Yes," she said. "I suppose most people would call it strange and wicked and evil and immoral. And you might as well throw in all the dirty words you can think up. After all's said and done, though, it's just a matter of opinion. How do you feel about it, Jimmy?"
I took my notebook from my pocket and scribbled a few notes and looked at her for a moment before answering. I didn't know for sure what Ann had told her about me and my feelings, but I decided I'd better choose my words carefully.
"I can see that you approve," I said. "Not only because of your words, but because you are actually living that way. As for me, I must reserve my judgement. To tell you the truth, at first it was repulsive to me-not so much because other people belonged to the clubs, but because I couldn't picture myself living that way. As I have never been married I don't feel that I'm qualified to have an opinion, really. I might join one some day. Who knows?"
These last words were not my true feelings, of course, as I was still definitely against such a thing in my life. I was watching her closely, trying to get her reaction. I certainly didn't want to antagonize her. I wanted to get to know her and I wanted her to like me. I wanted her friendship.
Yes, and I wanted her. Sitting there, looking at her, I felt a sudden rush of desire so intense that it surprised me. I think she read it in my eyes. We both dropped our eyes and she asked, "Should I just start talking now, and let you ask questions later?"
"That would be fine," I said.
"Well, in the first place, I think a woman should have just as much freedom as a man. In her love life, I mean. I was raised feeling that way. Or I should say, the way I was raised causes me to feel that way. You see, my mother died when I was about ten and I went to live with my sister. My father died when I was a baby. You were with Ann and know how she is, a kind of screwball maybe, but she was always good to me. Did she say anything about me?"
"She just gave me your address," I said. "I can't remember her saying anything."
"According to her letter you didn't have time to do much talking," she said, laughing. "Anyway, I lived with her until I got married. I don't know if she told you or not, but she's close to thirty-four. Sometimes she takes a few years off. I'm nearly twenty-one and have been married, but always there was a man. I was brought up knowing all the facts of life, Jimmy. Some people would condemn Ann for the way she broke me in to sex. As soon as I was old enough I started sharing the bed with my sister and her men. Do you understand?"
"I think so," I said. "Did you approve? Hell, forget that question. I mean, do you resent that fact now?"
"No," she said. "Should I?"
"No comment," I said. "Let me get this straight. About your sister and her men, her husbands. You mean that you started sleeping with your sister and the men-and they, the men...."
"That's right," she interrupted. "I had a good teacher, don't you think? Ann said that I would find you a little bashful, but very capable once you got aroused."
I felt my face getting red. "You make it very difficult for me to keep my mind on this interview," I said. "I'm going to say something now and you might not like it. So far, all the members of these swap clubs have been quite willing, in fact, damn ready to personally show me their charms and make them available to me. I'm not complaining, you understand. I just want to know where I stand."
"With me?" she asked, smiling.
"Yes," I said. "It seems to me that all of you women are sex crazy. Just about every time I start talking to one of you-well, the first thing I know we are coupled like long-lost lovers. I don't want you to get me wrong. I enjoy it, but it's almost like living in a dream world. Hell, it's almost too easy. Here I am getting to first base with all these women and without any effort on my part. I find it all a little confusing. Even when I know it's happening to me, I still find it a little hard to believe."
"It's easy to explain, Jimmy," she said seriously.
"I've heard several reasons," I said, "but I'm afraid none of them made much sense to me. Maybe your explanation will help."
"The fact that you are investigating the clubs tends to make you one of us. Can't you see that? When you see us, and talk to us, and interview us, we are taking you into our confidence. I can't speak for all, but I can speak for myself. Personally, I don't go chasing men, not just any man.
Pm a married woman, and no matter what my background, I am happily married. There are many things about marriage that have nothing to do with sex."
"I know that," I said. "Anyway, I've heard that expressed before and I believe it. However, when the members are willing to go with me, to be with me, and I'm not a member-can't you see what I mean? Why the clubs? Why not just take any man you see, any man you want?"
"You missed the point," she said. "Maybe I didn't make it plain. Look at it like this. There are ten couples in our club. Counting my husband and I. The only men I have anything to do with are the members, the other women's husbands. Mainly, I suppose, because no other men know about the fact that I belong to a club. I mean, I'm treated just like any other married woman outside the club.
"Now, you come along, and are a nice person-remember I know about you from my sister-and I am attracted to you. I feel that you are attracted to me. What is more natural than for me-for us-to get together? I have intercourse with nine other men besides my husband. Do you think I like, really like, all those men? Certainly not. Some have ways that repulse me, some bore me. Do you understand now, Jimmy?"
"I must confess that it sounds reasonable," I said. "The way you state it anyway. How about your husband? How about the other husbands?"
"You have a point there," she said. "The men naturally want a man to bring in a woman, a wife. As you are not a member some of the men might not want you to go with the wives. That's reasonable, I believe, and should be easy to understand. They gain nothing by your entrance into the circle of wives. However, in my case, my husband knows about you. He read Ann's letter and doesn't mind. In fact, he wants to meet you."
"And why not? Are you ashamed of your project, your book?"
"No," I said. "I don't think so. I might be ashamed of some of my actions, but I have no reason to be ashamed of making the investigation."
"Do you have anything planned for this evening?" she asked. "No," I said.
"I want you to stay and have dinner with us," she said. "Bill will be home about six and we can eat and sit around and chat afterward. Have you interviewed any men yet? Husbands?"
"No, I haven't," I said. "I haven't managed to get up enough nerve for that yet."
"Then you should talk to Bill," she said. "He's a nice guy. Will you stay?"
"I don't know," I said. "Maybe I'm chicken, but I don't think I'm ready for that. Maybe some other time."
"Nonsense," she said, smiling. "Among other things, I'm a very good cook. What will it be? Steaks? Fried chicken?"
I looked at her for a moment. What the hell, I thought, if it took staying for dinner and meeting the husband, this little gal was certainly worth it!
"Steaks," I said, laughing. "The chicken will stay for steaks."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The afternoon passed swiftly-too swiftly for me, I must admit, for I was dreading the fact that I was going to meet her husband. Another reason was because I enjoyed being with Joyce.
Several times I started to make advances, to indicate that I was ready to practice the thoughts that were in both of our minds. I knew she was waiting, responsive in mind and body, but I didn't make a move. She remained in her chair and I remained in mine. I knew the slightest sign on my part would bring us together.
She sat there and talked and answered questions and I only half heard what she was saying. I didn't take any notes and I can't remember many of the questions that I asked.
"You're a funny guy, Jimmy," Joyce said. "Most fellows would be glad to be in your place. Is it disgusting to you-for you to think about how I was raised?"
"I don't think your sister did right by you," I said. "I think she should have waited until you reached the age of consent."
"What is the age of consent?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Eighteen maybe."
She laughed. "You show me an eighteen-year-old virgin and I'll show you a girl who has been kept under lock and key," she said. "Or one who is undersexed."
"Does your husband know about Ann and her men and you?" I asked.
"Bill knows," she said. "It was through Ann that I met him."
"You mean she introduced you?"
Again she laughed. "In the dark of night," she said. "She brought him home and we shared him."
"I think I've heard everything now," I said. "I don't think I care to stay and meet your Bill. He must be nuts."
"You'll like him," she said. "We just have different ways that's all. We believe in living."
"Loving, too, I'd say! Is he natural? I mean, if there anything wrong with him?"
"He's all man if that's what you're getting at. Can't you understand, Jimmy? We just don't put all that much importance in the simple act of getting a piece of tail."
"I can understand everything very well," I said, "except the fact that you are man and wife. Since it isn't any of my business, actually, I'll just drop my objections, or observations, and go along with the setup."
"Are you ready?" she asked teasingly.
"I'd like to have a drink," I said. "A double-hooker."
"Before or afterward?" she asked, smiling.
"Both," I said.
"Go through that door," she said, pointing. "Take a shower, and I'll be in soon. There are towels on the top shelf. Yell if there's anything you need."
I felt fresh and clean after the shower. When she came into the bathroom I was sitting on the edge of the bed with a towel wrapped around my waist. She was carrying a tray with a fifth of Scotch, a bottle of soda, a glass, and ice cubes. She placed the tray on a table near the bed with hardly a glance at me. She told me to help myself, that she was going to take a shower. I laughed and asked if she wanted me to scrub her back.
"It isn't dirty," she said seriously, "but you can watch if you like."
"I'll have that drink," I said, just as seriously. "I noticed you brought only one glass. Don't you want me to fix you one?"
"No thanks," she said. "Bill doesn't like for me to drink when he isn't around."
"Okay," I said. "I wouldn't want you to go against Bill's wishes."
"I'll be right out," she said, apparently not noticing the sarcasm.
As soon as I was alone I made a grab for the bottle and took a big slug. Then I mixed a strong drink and drank that. I got into bed, under the sheet, and enjoyed the warm glow in my stomach.
I was ready and anxious. It reminded me of my Navy days. I wondered what some of my shipmates would think of this setup. I had to admit that most of them wouldn't have been surprised. Such things were almost the ordinary happenings on liberty; and if it wasn't for the fact that I was now in civilian life I wouldn't have thought so much about it.
I remembered the time in Manhattan, when a fellow had taken me home with him for a drink. I also remembered his redheaded wife and what we had done when he'd passed out from drinking. Now I wondered if he'd really been so drunk or if he'd brought me to his wife on purpose. I hadn't asked any questions that time and had dismissed it as a rather fortunate incident in my young life. If this Joyce was as hot as that redhead I had my work cut out for me.
I got up and prepared another drink.
Joyce came into the room naked and lovely, and we went together as if we had known each other always. She was skilled at the art of love and knew all the tricks and methods of prolonging the supreme moment. Sex pleasure was her life, and her need was so great I began to understand that no one man could ever satisfy her. I felt sorry for her husband, not because I was with his wife, but because he was married to her. I would have felt sorrow for any man in his position.
"Now you know why I must belong to a club," she whispered. "Will you visit me often, Jimmy?"
I looked at her there beside me, her lovely tan body still for the moment, and her blue eyes closed. I searched my. mind and found no feeling for her at all. I felt that I could get up and walk out without a backward glance. Or I could take her again, enjoy her body. When there was a need I could take her, use her-any time-but we would never be really close.
A feeling of disgust came over me-disgust for her for going to bed with a stranger, disgust for myself for being so willing to pop into bed with every woman that beckoned."
"Do you think you could work me in between the visits from the other men?" I asked. "And how about your husband? How long has it been since he screwed you?"
She opened her eyes and turned her head and looked at me. I sat up and swung my feet to the floor.
"Don't be nasty," she said. "After that wonderful time, you can talk like that? Didn't you like it?"
I laughed. "Tell me how good it was, baby," I said. "Tell me how good you can swing that old thing while the nine men-ten with your husband-keep begging you for more. And you didn't answer my question. Does your husband give you any or is he too busy with the other wives?"
She looked at me for a moment, a puzzled look in her eyes, and then she laughed. "You're jealous!"
"You're a damn liar," I said, but I wasn't so sure and I left her laughing and went into the bathroom. The warm water, and then the cold, felt good on my body. While I dried with the large towel I tried to analyze my feelings. In the Navy the same thing had usually happened when a leave or liberty was just about over. After hours or days of drinking and women I would suddenly be tired of the whole thing-disgusted-and ready to go back to the ship and back to sea.
Apparently the same thing was happening now, had happened. But now I couldn't go back to sea. I was sorry for my words, but Joyce probably wouldn't understand if I told her. It wasn't even clear in my own mind and all I could think about was getting out of there.
I was tired of being with whores-that word was in my mind without conscious thought. To me she was no better than a whore. Worse, actually, I decided-because a pay-as-you-play woman was more honest. It would have been better to leave two dollars or ten or twenty-the going price-and leave and forget about it. I knew I could never forget the swap club women-Joyce in this case-and I didn't like the idea of sharing a woman I liked.
Would her husband be with her tonight, or one of the other nine? How about yesterday and the day before? And tomorrow? I knew I couldn't meet her husband, didn't want to meet him.
I asked myself if I were jealous and had to admit that I was. I made up my mind to forget the swap clubs and tell my father I was ready to go to work. I wished there was some way I could get out of the apartment without even seeing Joyce. I didn't want to touch her and I knew that if she came to me I would take her. I wondered if I hadn't become sex crazy or just plain crazy.
My clothes were on a low bench and as I reached for them there was a tap on the door. The door opened and Joyce came in. "Ladies should be first," she said, smiling. "Where are your manners, Jimmy?"
"I didn't know there were any ladies around," I said, looking away.
"What did I do, Jimmy?" she asked. "What happened?"
I started dressing and didn't look at her. "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't think I can explain. I won't be able to stay and meet your husband."
"So that's it!" She came close and patted my arm. "Go have a drink, Jimmy. I'll shower and be right out. Bill will understand."
She stepped into the shower and I finished dressing, keeping my eyes averted all the time. I hated myself for being so stupid and childish, and the double shot didn't help much. Good old understanding Bill, I thought. This to Bill-deep and rough.
Joyce came out wearing white shorts and halter, still barefooted. I was sitting on the edge of the bed with a drink in my hand. She was smiling and I knew I had to get out of there.
"You never did answer my question," I said. "About your husband, I mean."
"That is my private business," she said, frowning. "I'm sorry it turned out like this, Jimmy." I saw tears in her eyes. "I thought you liked me and I know I liked-like you."
"You liked what we did," I said. "It could have been any man."
"And I could have been any woman!" The tears were gone and her blue eyes sparkled angrily. "Who the hell do you think you are anyway? Coming here and acting so damn wise! Nobody asked you to come-and you can hotfoot it right out just any old time!"
I grinned. "You're just as pretty when you're angry," I said. "Your sister sent me here. Remember?"
"You asked for my address and then you came here and-" She stopped and started laughing. "And what?" I asked.
"You came here to my apartment and raped me," she said.
I stood up. "You're nuts," I said.
She walked over and stood right in front of me.
"You came in here and told me some damn thing about a Foundation. Then you ripped my clothes off and did things to me-unnatural things. I fought you. You were so strong, crazy-strong, and I might even have a few marks to prove it. I can see it now: Young housewife raped by madman! Sex fiend stalks city! Children and women keep off the streets! 'Forcing back tears a young housewife today told about her terrible experiences when a young man forced entry into her uptown apartment and raped her repeatedly. Authorities refused to disclose some of the more hysterical words of the young housewife, but she is known to be in the hospital now for-' "
"Shut up!" I interrupted, my voice louder than I'd meant for it to be.
She stood there quietly, a smile on her face, and I backed up and sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I like my version better," I said softly. "Housewife seduces young man. 'Today a young man reported to police that he went to call on a young woman in her home-at her invitation-and after disclosing the fact that she belonged to a sex club and admitting that she has been having intercourse with ten men, counting her husband-the lovely young girl proceeded to disrobe and offer her body with threats of yelling rape if she wasn't serviced immediately'."
She looked at me soberly for a moment and then we both laughed and she sat on my lap. She pushed me backward and was on top of me, her face close to mine.
"Let's cut this crap out," she said. She kissed me long and deep, then pulled her mouth away. "I won't let you leave right now," she said seriously. "I can't."
"I can't go right now," I said.
"What is that stupid word you used?" she asked. " 'Serviced'?"
"I think that is a term used on a farm," I said. "With animals. When they...."
"I know what it means, silly," she said, kissing me until my lips hurt. "Just do it!"
So I serviced her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I really was sincere about going to work for my father. I had enough sense to know that nothing good could come from calling on the swap-club wives. I had never had a very good opinion of girls and women in the first place. Associating with the girls in the seaports-the kind that follow the fleet-was one thing, but living among them as a civilian was another matter.
Tt was getting so I would look at people and wonder if they belonged to a swap club. It was very unhealthy for my mind and I knew it. I decided that all I wanted was to find a decent girl-a girl I could respect and love and marry.
As far as love went-the kind you read about and see married couples supposedly living every day-that kind of love was beyond my understanding of course. Never having experienced such love I was looking forward to it happening to me. The fact that I had pictured myself living with Joyce-married to her and not belonging to one of the clubs-scared me. What if I fell in love with one of the club members ?
I remembered the shipmate who had married the girl from the house in Norfolk. What a dirty trick fate had played on him. Even if, as he said, a he made a wonderful wife, the whole business gave me a sick feeling in my stomach.
I had read and heard of other cases like that, and thinking of Joyce I could almost understand. Not once did I think that I loved her, but I did know that under different circumstances I might have. I had been jealous when she talked about the other men.
Before leaving that afternoon-just before her husband was due home-I had tried to explain my feelings. It seemed that she had understood. At least she'd tried to understand when I told her I wouldn't be seeing her again. She'd wished me luck with my life and my book. I'd said to hell with the book, and meant it at the time.
The very next morning I went down and started driving one of the trucks. A couple of the fellows wanted vacations and my folks seemed happy when I agreed to take over a route.
I worked one route for one week and passed by two of the addresses I still had in my billfold. That was on the third day, I believe. That night I destroyed the slip of paper. I also destroyed the fake business cards.
I was through with swap clubs, I told myself, but all the time it was hard for me to keep from calling Joyce. It made it that much more difficult, knowing that she'd welcome a call. I imagine I felt like an alcoholic feels when he's on the wagon.
Dad wanted to know about the book, of course. I told him I had just about given it up. "As a writer, I'd make a good dry cleaning man," I said.
"I don't want you to go into this business if you don't like it," he said. "There's nothing worse than doing something that you dislike. You think it over and I'll find a place for you whenever you are ready."
"I like to work the routes," I said. "I'll give the other fellow a week's break starting Monday. I like the cleaning business all right, but I don't want to bump anybody off a job." I laughed. "You know I'm independently wealthy now, Dad!"
"I've been thinking about that, Jimmy," he said.
"Do you need money, Dad?" I asked. "I'm sorry! You're welcome to all or any part of it. You know that."
He laughed. "I didn't mean it that way, Jimmy," he said. "Your mother and I have been talking and have decided that it's time we put half the business in your name. Something might happen-we're getting older-and we'd like to do it now."
"Heck," I said. "You're not old! You're not even fifty-and Mom's a young forty-five!"
He grinned. "We have something else in mind," he said. "You know I've never had time to take your mother on those trips I've always promised her. I want to take her to the mountains in Colorado-where I worked on that pipe-line when I was eighteen. Then there's that highway along the Columbia river-and I would like to see Alaska."
"Mom wants to go to Honolulu," I said, laughing. "And I want you to see the grass skirts!"
"I want to travel first-class for once," he said. "In my younger days, before I met your mother, I did a great deal of traveling, but never first-class."
"I would like to travel on a luxury liner and watch the poor seamen work," I said.
"I don't want to interfere with your life, son."
"For Pete's sake, Dad," I said. "I don't mean I want to go now. Say, how about me financing you and Mom to a trip around the world? First-class. Hang the expenses!"
"That's nice of you, Jimmy," he said, "but I didn't mean that either. As you know, business is slow during the summer, and I thought your mother and I could travel until September. Right now most of our money is tied up or owed for taxes and we thought we could give you half interest in the whole works for about-well, two or three thousand."
"That's not enough, Dad," I said.
He laughed. "All right-make it five."
"At least twenty," I said. "Or thirty."
He finally accepted a check for fifteen thousand and his lawyer had the papers ready the next day. I went ahead and worked the other man's route the next week. My folks decided to drive west, to follow their noses and see where it led. I knew they'd taken the check only as a token payment for the half interest. My mother explained why they wanted half the business in my name.
"If something happens to both of us," she said, "at the same time, that is-naturally you'd have everything anyway. However, if one were to be left, that one might get married again. It happens, you know-and you could possibly lose your share. We thought it best to be prepared, Jimmy. You have been a good son, and someday I want you to bring a daughter into the family."
"A good daughter?" I asked, laughing. "I wonder if there are any these days. Good girls, I mean."
"Don't worry about that, son," she said. "You'll find the right one, and I hope you are just half as happy as your father and I."
I wondered what she'd say about the swap clubs; but then I knew exactly what she would say. First she'd say she didn't believe it, then grudgingly admit that some people might live like that, but only a very small minority. I was glad I hadn't mentioned the subject of my proposed book to her, and was rather relieved that I had decided to forget it.
With words of caution from both sides they left on a bright and hot Sunday morning. I told them to. be careful and have a good time and they told me to be sure and take my capsules and let them know if anything serious happened-that they would keep me informed as to where they were. I was in Slidell to see them off and promised to check on their house from time to time.
As soon as they were out of sight I headed back to New Orleans. I still hadn't made up my mind what kind of a car I wanted and was still driving a panel truck.
I was so busy the next two weeks I never thought about shopping for a car. Dad had given me instructions, of course, but I depended mostly on Fred Simons, the plant manager. A thousand and one things kept coming up in the front office and I began to get embarrassed calling Fred so much.
The bookkeeper, an elderly lady called Miss Potts, went to the hospital the second day. Gall stones, I found out later, but it meant that I had to get out the pay roll. Somebody had forgotten to order coat hangers and I had to go to a competitor and borrow some.
Fred had trouble with the help on the shirt unit and I had to decide what to do about it. Two of the colored girls got into a fight and I started to fire them. The other girls protested, so to keep from having a walkout I transferred one of the girls to the pressing department. It seemed that the girl had stolen the other girl's boy friend.
"The bitch slept with my man!" is the way I heard it expressed.
Soon, as Dad had predicted, things settled down to a routine and I enjoyed myself on the job. I stayed in the office and wasn't much more than a trouble-shooter, but I was called 'Mr. Butler'. Fred had been with Dad for years and he called me Jim or Jimmy, of course. It wasn't long before I was Jimmy to the checkers in front. Except Bonnie Harlan.
Bonnie worked the counter, checking clothes in and out. She'd been with the firm about six months. She was nineteen and pretty. Very businesslike, she seldom had much to say. I found myself stopping by the counter, asking questions about her work. I admit that I was trying to cultivate a friendship. She was always fresh and clean-dressed neatly and always friendly with the customers, but not overly so. I liked her.
The first time I asked her to lunch she refused, saying that it might not look right. When I understood that she meant that she didn't want to go because I was the boss I liked her more. The next day at twelve sharp I came out of my office and again asked her to lunch. She smiled and said that she couldn't go until one.
The next day I waited until one o'clock to come out of the office and she was just going out the front door.
"Miss Harlan!"
She stopped on the sidewalk and turned. I caught up with her and she looked at me and frowned. Even frowning, she was pretty to me. I noticed how she carried herself, proud and straight, and I knew she wasn't the kind of girl I had been associating with. Actually, of course, I didn't know, but I did feel it-and most of the time you can trust your feelings in a case like that.
"Did you call me?" she asked.
"You know I did," I said, smiling. "How about me taking you to lunch? Where do you eat?"
She smiled and I decided she was beautiful. "I usually grab a sandwich at the corner," she said. "The drugstore. You're welcome to come along if you like."
"Thank you," I said. "I hate to eat alone. Don't you?"
"I rather like it," she said.
"Look," I said, "if you don't want me to go along, just say so. I was trying to be friendly. To tell the truth, I don't know many young girls, and I thought we might go dancing or swimming or something. Just because I happen to be the boss doesn't mean I'm trying to force myself on you." I turned and walked away, calling back, "Enjoy your lunch, Miss Harlan!"
I went back into my office and sent the porter out for sandwiches and coffee. To hell with her! I thought. But I couldn't get her out of. my mind.
It was a strange experience for me. She had a nice figure and her face was beautiful, but I was worried. With most girls and women-nice looking ones, anyway-I usually had ideas immediately. Sex ideas.
There was the knowledge inside me, of course, that basicly she was like all other girls, but there was also a feeling I couldn't understand. It was like in my younger days; in school, when I Was satisfied just to be with a girl and talk and have innocent fun. I felt silly and tried to concentrate on paper work all afternoon. Again I thought-to hell with her!
I was surprised when Bonnie came into the office at four o'clock.
"Could I speak to you, Mister Butler?" she asked.
She stood just inside the door and had her handbag and I knew she was getting off work. I looked at the papers on my desk and started to tell her to see me the next day-that I was busy.
"I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about being so rude at lunch," she said. "I'd like to try and explain."
"That isn't necessary," I said. "If you'd rather eat alone that's all right with me. I won't bother you any more."
"Will you let me explain?" Her voice sounded angry, and I liked even that, and I would have listened from that time on. I smiled and motioned to a chair and I admired the graceful way she sat down.
"Please do if you like," I said, "but it isn't necessary."
"You probably think I'm a snob, but I'm not," she said. "Not really. The last place I worked the boss thought he had special privileges because he was the boss. I quit. I was wondering if you wanted me to quit."
"I don't have to pick on the hired help." I said. "I understand and I won't bother you any more. I admire you for your spunk and I want you to know my intentions were-as the saying goes-honorable. Good night, Miss Harlan."
"I'd be glad to have lunch with you tomorrow," she said.
She stood up and looked at me, smiling. Her dark eyes were sparkling. The smile on her full lips caused my heart to do flip flops-as they say in the love stories. It was all new to me. I would have laughed at my thoughts a few days before. To me, so-called romance had always been silly and slightly stupid and sexless.
"Thank you," I said, and like a bashful schoolboy could think of nothing more to say.
She left and I sat there thinking and dreaming for a long time before I got around to admitting to myself that I had begun comparing her with all the sex-pots I had enjoyed. I may have felt romantic, all right, but she really had a stackedup body.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
It would take all the clinches in the language of love to describe my feelings about Bonnie and the next several weeks. I never considered myself a philosopher, but I did feel I had reasonable capabilities of exercising calm judgement-at least I did until I got entangled in the romantic bit. I will just say that the time passed swiftly and pleasantly, and not once did I try to get into her pants.
We went swimming at the beach. She was whistle-bait with a sexy gait. I was proud to see how others watched her walk. I never had a sister, but no sister was ever treated better. I didn't mention the swap clubs because I was afraid I'd shock her.
She liked to dance and she liked the taste of beer, but one was her limit. One beer, that is. She could have danced all night. She liked rock-and-roll and popular songs. She dug some semi-classical, but we both dug jazz. Dixie jazz and that beat only found in the Vieux Carre.
I WAS HAPPY. I was in love.
Very few questions did I ask. I was tired of asking girls questions. Tired of interviews. I thought of the experiences with the swap-club women and was ashamed. I wished I could go to Bonnie with the freshness and sweetness of innocence. Forgotten was the book and my notes, and I knew that sooner or later I would ask her to marry me.
I wanted her, but I wanted it legal and lasting and right. I waited for the right moment to ask her-I felt that I would know the right time. In the meantime I was content to hold hands and go on rides at the beach.
The second Sunday we went on a picnic. I kissed her that night, for the first time, and I left her at the door as usual. I remembered all night the taste of her sweet lips and the fact that she had returned the kiss. The next morning I called her into my office and kissed her again.
"I love you, Bonnie," I said.
It was out before I could think. I wasn't ready to say it yet. I wanted her to really get to know me and love me-and want to marry me. She looked into my eyes and then looked away.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to say it so soon."
She looked at me and there were tears in her eyes and then she was smiling and I knew they were tears of happiness.
"I'm glad you said it, Jimmy," she said, "if you mean it."
I kissed her greedily and she responded. No longer did I treat her like a sister. My hands were on her and she was firm and I pulled away. "I mean it enough to get married," I said. "Can you answer now?"
"You know the answer, Jimmy," she said.
"When?" I asked.
"When we feel-know we are really ready," she said. "I want it to be for always."
"I'm old-fashioned about such things, too," I said, laughing. "I didn't hear you say it yet, Bonnie. That you love me."
"You know I do," she said.
We kissed and I realized I had never told a girl I loved her before. I wondered if she had ever told a boy or man that she loved him-or them-and quickly put such thoughts out of my mind. I didn't want to know.
At lunch that day-at our drugstore counter-we , talked and decided to wait until my parents returned. I wanted to wire them-they were in Alaska-but she asked me to wait. She thought it might make them cut their vacation short. I agreed. I was willing to agree with anything just to keep my new-found happiness.
"You know very little about me, Jimmy," she said. "There are things you should know."
"I know enough about you, honey," I said. "I know all I need to know. I know you are a lovely young girl living alone in an apartment, which I have yet to see, by the way-and that you have parents in Detroit and an older brother in Los Angeles. I know you are about five-three, have acceptable measurements, and your eyes are so dark they're almost black. Your long black hair is shoulder length and-I love the hell out of you! Besides there are things you don't know about me."
She laughed. "You're nuts," she said. "A nutty ex-sailor with some little pink and white capsules you pop into your mouth at least three times a day."
I remembered telling her about my headaches. "Then you know Pm a broken-down wreck," I said.
"I know no such thing," she said. "I only know you're good people."
"Where did you learn that expression?" I asked. "That 'good people' stuff?"
"From my brother," she said. She frowned. "He was in the Navy. Why?"
"I haven't heard it since-a long time ago, it seems. I like the sound. Now that we know all about each other let's get back to the plant. And don't think you're going to get out of work when we get married."
"I'm going to live off some of your great wealth," she said.
"And have children," I said.
She laughed. "Later, perhaps," she said. "First we're going to have fun. When we're older we'll settle down."
"Agreed," I said. "Anything you say."
We went right on working, dating, seeing each other, talking, planning, and plain old having fun. Our kisses continued, too; but we kept ourselves under control. I never went to her apartment; nor did she ask me.
Looking back, it seems to me I was the one to pull away first, but that could be my imagination. We were much like any other young couple engaged to be married.
I bought the rings and she proudly showed the engagement ring around. I kept the wedding band in my apartment.
I took her with me to buy a car. She picked a red convertible.
The swap-club notes remained in my apartment and I would have burned them if I hadn't met Garland Lane. He lived in the next apartment. He stopped me in the hall late one afternoon. I was in a hurry to change clothes and meet Bonnie-we were going to dinner in the Quarter.
Gar, as I soon began to call him, had found out from the landlady about the cleaning plant and was looking for a job. I told him that he was welcome to put in an application at the office and excused myself by saying I was in a hurry. I liked his grin and was glad when he appeared in the hall the next morning and said he'd go to the office with me.
Gar was just under forty, starting to gray at the temples, but seemed much younger. It wasn't that he looked so young-he had the actions of a much younger man. He was very talkative and likable and before we arrived at the plant I had decided to find something for him to do.
He had been a merchant seaman, bartender, truck driver, milkman, salesman, factory worker, pitch man for a carnival, bellboy, had been married three times, and had traveled over most of the world.
"I've had other jobs," he said, laughing, "but that'll give you an idea. Actually, I'm a would-be writer."
Interested immediately, I asked, "Published?"
He laughed. "My best year I made seven hundred dollars," he said. "That's the reason I'm not with my wives. Or one of them!"
"They didn't want you to write?"
"They wanted me to keep a steady job and write in my spare time," he said. "I get along better by myself. I don't blame them, you understand. I'm not very stable and my saying that may mean the job, but I try to be honest. I can't stay on any job very long."
By this time we were in my office and he was sitting in front of the desk. I laughed. "That's not a very good way to apply for a job," I said.
"Actually, I don't know what you could do around here anyway."
"Honesty pays, doesn't it?" he asked. "That's what I get for being honest." He laughed. "I don't blame you. I would only work for a few weeks or months and save my money-writing in my spare time, of course-and then I would quit and go on a good drunk and in a few days I would start writing again until I was broke and then repeat the process. Someday Pll make it."
"And if you don't?"
"Trying is the thing," he said. "More important even than the writing. Sounds foolish, I suppose, but I like to write. Like some people like to go to movies or watch television. Besides, every time I get really discouraged some wonderful editor will accept something and I'm ready to go on until I die." He stood up. "I won't waste any more of your time. I'm just about broke and I can't wait any longer for a check to come back instead of a rejection. Thanks for your time."
"Wait a minute," I said. "What do you write? Short stories, novels, poems?"
He sat back down. "Anything," he said. "Everything. I'm working on my fourth unpublished novel now. Have about thirty thousand words. I'm cutting one novel from seventy-five thousand to fifty. I think I got a little too sexy with it-believe it or not. No poems. Except a greeting card verse when I was younger. No good. Sold a gag to a well-known cartoonist about ten years ago. Thought I was getting someplace, but never could sell another. I've heard about writers with only one book inside them, but I'm the only oddity with one gag! Short stories, mostly I've sold. To minor markets, religious and juvenile magazines. About two cents a word is tops and down to a half a cent. As a matter-of-fact, a few weeks ago I made a sale to a religious magazine. Supposed to be two cents a word and was fifteen hundred words. They sent me a check for twenty-eight dollars. I counted that thing over a dozen times and I always counted fifteen hundred and sixteen words. You know, I wish I had the nerve to write them and say something, but I hope to sell them more."
"Can you keep books?" I asked.
"I never did, but give me a few pointers and I'll give it a try."
I laughed. "The bookkeeper's in the hospital," I said. "I visited her the other day and she won't be back for several weeks. If you want to help me with the books I can help you get a little stake."
"Thanks," he said. "When do you want me to start?"
"Right now if you like."
He stood up. "I can't today," he said. "How about tomorrow?"
"All right," I said. I decided to wait to tell him I wanted him to take a look at my swap-club notes. I wanted to get his opinion. "That will be all right. Tomorrow morning. I suppose you have some writing you want to finish today."
"I have a few dollars left and I want to celebrate," he said. He laughed. "The new job and all. I told you I was honest. Don't worry, I'll be here in the morning as sober as a hung-over judge."
Before I could say anything he waved his hand and was out the door.
I thought about him a great deal that day and decided he was a little nuts. But he was a writer and might be able to help me. I was being honest with myself, too.
I was tempted to knock on Gar's apartment door that night. It was just after twelve and I had left Bonnie at her door and wasn't sleepy.
Despite myself I found myself thinking about Joyce and Stella and all the other women. I began to wonder if Bonnie thought I was a sap-or not a man. Then I forced such thoughts aside and thought instead of how nice it would be to be married.
I decided not to disturb Gar, if he was in his apartment. I finally went to sleep thinking about Bonnie being such a nice, decent girl. When we were married my problems would be over.
Gar met me in the hall the next morning. He looked all right, but I could tell he didn't feel so good. "Drinking just isn't the fun it used to be," he said. "I guess Pm just getting old."
"You didn't have fun?" I asked.
He grinned. "I had fun all right," he said. "Fact is, I almost got into a little trouble. I went to a little neighborhood bar and by dark I was on my way. I told the bartender that if I was still there at midnight to pour me into a cab and send me home. He agreed and I relaxed and there was a couple and we got friendly, buying drinks back and forth, and the gal invited me over to the table. She had roving hands and she wasn't bad looking, but that hanky-panky stuff under the table with her husband there made me nervous. I might have taken her up on her proposition, but her husband was included. Three's one too many and I never could figure out why they wanted the third party anyway. You know what I mean-any of these couples looking for a man to join the fun."
"I never had the nerve to go and find out," I said.
I started to tell him about my writing project, but decided to wait. He might feel that I was giving him a job just to get help with my book, or rather my 'ex-book'. I was curious as to what he would have to say about my efforts.
Gar was worth every dollar I paid him and more. He helped with the bookkeeping, wrote copy for our newspaper and radio advertising and talked me into trying television as an advertising medium. Business picked up in a matter of days and we made profits far above the high costs of television spot announcements.
He also became my official 'claims adjustor' and many disgruntled customers with real and imaginary complaints were soothed by his joking but intelligent manner. He was definitely an asset to the firm. I liked him very much and was surprised that Bonnie did not. She had very little to say about him, actually, but I could feel her dislike. When pressed for reasons, she would say only that he was too fresh.
She refused to say more, and I spoke to Gar about her. I told him that I intended to marry her and if he had been bothering her to leave her alone. He just looked at me and grinned and said that he had kidded her a little, as he did most girls. He offered his congratulations and seemed to ignore Bonnie after that. Rather, they ignored each other.
It was that day I told him about the swap clubs and my notes on the subject and asked if he would like to read them.
"Sure, Jim," he said, laughing, "I'd be glad to read them. However, I doubt that I will be able to help you. I could use some help myself!"
"I just want to see what you think about them," I said. "I've given up the idea, but out of curiosity I'd like for you to look them over before I destroy them. I've done a little sweating over them-the writing, I mean-but I won't mind adverse criticism."
"We'll see about that," he said. "If you are like most people you'll get mad as hell if I tell you your writing stinks."
"You don't have to say it in so many words," I said, laughing. "Just a yes or no will do."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I continued to spend most of my time with Bonnie. At work we were together a great deal and in the evenings and on week ends. It always amazed me, when I thought about it, that I didn't grow tired of being with her so much.
A few times I did wonder how I would feel if we did as many engaged couples do. Passionate kisses and the like were the limit, and it was getting more and more difficult to stop. I felt that I did have a lot to do with the fact that we did stop, but I gave her all the credit for that.
I received a letter from my parents. They were in Honolulu. I sent them word not to be in any hurry to return. The business was going along fine and I didn't want to rush them by telling about my wedding plans. Bonnie and I had set the date, tentatively, within ten days after their arrival home.
It was nearly two weeks after my talk with Gar before I got a chance to take my swap-club notes to his apartment. I came home about nine o'clock on a Saturday night. My emotions, or what have you, had forced me to take Bonnie home early.
Gar had heard me come in. He opened his apartment door and invited me to bring my manuscript over. Suddenly I was embarrassed to think it was going to be read, but I got it just the same.
Gar read for about an hour and I sat there and smoked, trying to read his expression and looking about his apartment. There was a large desk dominating the room. A typewriter and piles and piles of paper cluttered the top of it. I was hoping he would let me read some of his stuff, but was afraid to ask. I didn't imagine a writer would want anyone to read work in unpublished form.
He read about half and looked at me and asked if I cared for some coffee. I said that'd be fine, and he told me to go into the kitchen and make some. I bungled around in the small kitchen for a few minutes and soon brought two cups of coffee. I placed a cup at his elbow. He didn't even look up. I drank coffee and watched him. From time to time he'd take a sip and keep right on reading. I couldn't tell if he liked it or not. I started to feel silly and wished I hadn't bothered him.
Finally he placed the last sheet of paper on the neat stack he had made of my notes and looked up.
"Very interesting," he said. "I like it."
"Thanks," I said.
He laughed. "You had yourself a time," he said. "Why get married?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"That should be obvious," he said. "Interviewing all those girls should be reason enough for not getting married." He held up his hand as I started to speak. "Let me finish, Jim! I meant you were getting all the snatch you could use or needed and it seems strange to me. No reflection on Bonnie, of course, but it looks to me like you're letting something good get away from you. Hell, kid, you're young!"
"I'm in love with Bonnie," I said.
"I've been in love with three women and married them all," he said. "Maybe it's because I'm getting old, but I would like to have the opportunity to talk to the swap-club women. Something tells me you'll regret passing up such a good thing."
"Maybe so," I said. "How about the notes? Will they make a book, Gar"?"
"No," he said.
"Your reasons?" I asked. I tried not to show my disappointment, but I had put a lot of work into those typewritten pages.
"Several reasons, Jim," he said. "You couldn't sell it as non-fiction for one thing. Granting the fact that you got it in shape-which in my opinion you haven't and couldn't-you are not well known enough to get it published."
"It's all true," I said.
"I don't doubt that," he said. "I know a lot of true things, actual experiences, that I couldn't sell-even if they were well written. If you were a known personality-nationally, that is-and in the public eye, a publisher might take a chance on giving it a try. If you had a name they could capitalize on-an actor, a baseball player, or even a rich playboy-they might accept it. But as just plain Jimmy Butler you wouldn't have a chance. Even if you were a doctor it couldn't be presented in this form. Non-fiction, in my opinion, is out."
"I guess so," I said. "Way, way out. How about making a fiction story out of it? You know, a novel or something."
He laughed. "Did you ever write a novel?" he asked.
"You know I haven't," I said: "I'm not a writer."
"That's what I'm getting at," he said. "You aren't a writer. I can read and tell that. I don't or can't call myself a real writer. Sure, I sell, and everything I write is meant to be sold and published. You couldn't call me a professional and that's what a project like this would require. To make a sure thing, I mean. If a good author or even a well-known author took your notes an excellent novel would probably result. However, I wouldn't want to help you with it or take the idea. I have so many ideas now I'll never live long enough to get them on paper. I thought I'd better say that, because I almost knew you were going to suggest it. Right?"
"I'll admit I was going to ask," I said. "What can I do with that pile of paper? I thought people would be interested in reading about the swap clubs, Gar. I know I would be-I'll read anything that's a little spicy."
"Most people will," he said. "I told you I thought it was very interesting. It is. I got a kick out of it and some parts are handled just right. After a few years of steady writing and learning you might even be able to get a novel out of these notes. As it is you just have a bunch of words."
"What the hell is a novel?" I asked. "I didn't think I was stupid. I mean, I've read hundreds of books and some bore me to death. They go on and on and sometimes I think the author skips around and double talks and ends without knowing what happened himself."
"That may be so," Gar said, laughing. "Probably is so, in fact. A novel is just a story that is long-to answer your question."
"What is a story?"
"Now we get into a complicated situation," he said. "I've read many theories. I think a story or novel can be any damn thing an author wants to tag as such, but to sell it you must have a beginning, a middle, and an end. That sounds simple, I know, but there must be a problem and that problem must be solved in a logical way-with a climax. And sprinkled through the whole works there must be characterization, a plot or series of plots, action-and I don't mean just running all over the place-setting, a theme, and Lord knows how many other things. It's a tough racket, friend, and if you have any sense you will spend all that money you have and enjoy life."
"And if I still want to write?" I asked.
"Read all you can about writing. Read the kind of material you want to write. Write and write and write-and maybe go to school-and start writing right away just as you will write after years of practice. Discouraged, Jim?"
"Yes," I said. "What do you read and how much training have you had in writing?"
"I read and like romantic novels," he said, laughing. "I've never had any formal training and I write and sell religious and juvenile stuff."
"You know what I think?" I asked. "You're a double-talking writer and I think I'll throw those damn sheets of paper in the garbage can."
"You will never do that," he said. "I think you're hooked. You will probably go to school and start writing and before long you will sell some little thing and then you will think you have it made and that's when the work starts. And the frustration and heartache and the joy, too, and you will get married and your wife will hate you for ignoring her and spending all your time in front of a typewriter."
"Sounds like fun," I said, laughing.
"If you can take it," he said, "and your wife leaves you alone. And if she doesn't you'll leave her. You will once you start, Jim. You'll do anything to be able to keep writing. Once the bug hits you-that's it!"
"Maybe I'll file the notes away," I said. "Someday I'll get them out and write. In the meantime, I guess I'll enroll in some school and try and learn correct English and grammar...."
"And all that stuff like that there," he finished, laughing. "Don't learn too many big words, because you'll have to forget most of them. And did you know that some of the best writers can hardly spell? I even know a fellow who doesn't know a preposition from a transitive verb and doesn't know when to use 'who' instead of 'that'. And commas are something to throw in when you have to take a breath. Do you know who or whom I'm talking about, Jim?"
"I can guess, Gar," I said. "Tell me, though."
"Your's truly," he said, "and I'm going to tell you what I'd do if I were in your place. I'd forget marriage for a couple of years and get some more interviews and have fun and have a lot of things to write about in my older years. Not to mention the memories!"
"I'll think about it," I said. "Thanks for reading that junk. I don't want you to take this wrong, or get angry, but I'd like to make you an offer."
"What's that?" he asked.
"You know I have some dough," I said. "Tell me what you can live on and I'll stake you for a couple of years. More, if you like. No catches and I won't even ask to read your stuff."
"Thanks, but no thanks," he said, without hesitating. "It wouldn't work. But I do want you to know I appreciate the offer. I would feel I was writing under pressure and I wouldn't even feel like taking off and getting drunk. Just let me work at the plant and go it on my own, and if I can help you in anyway-with writing or anything else-just whistle."
"I didn't mean it that way," I said.
"I know you didn't, Jim."
"As far as I'm concerned you have a job as long as you like," I said. "I'd better get to bed now, Gar. Bonnie and I are going to the beach tomorrow."
"You really love that girl, son?" It was the first time he had called me that, and it made me realize the difference in our ages. He was looking at me, his face sober and his eyes serious.
"I think so," I said. "Yes."
"Good luck, Jim," he said.
"Thanks," I said. "Good night."
In bed, flat on my back and sleepless, I thought of the conversation with Gar, my screwy idea about writing about the swap clubs-and about the women I had met: Stella, Ann, Marge ... but most of all Joyce.
Then I thought about Bonnie and marriage and suddenly I wished I were back in the Navy and on liberty and in a foreign whore house. I knew I wasn't ready to settle down, and I wondered if I was really in love with Bonnie or just kidding myself. Perhaps I was in love with the idea of love. There was one way to find out, I decided-take her to bed and see how I felt afterward.
I was nervous and excited the next afternoon in my apartment. Bonnie sat on the couch and looked at me, smiling. I was sure she knew what was coming. She had seemed eager to see my apartment. I had shown her around and told her she could fix things any way she wanted after we were married. Or we could move or start building a home-anything she wanted to do.
Now I was standing in front of her, trying to return her smile, searching for words to fit my thoughts.
"Sit here beside me, Jimmy," Bonnie said. "I won't bite you. Not very hard anyway."
"I think we should talk, Bonnie," I said. "I can't go on much longer. Like this, I mean. Pm getting so I can't sleep at night and I've never gone with a girl without...."
I stopped talking and went over and sat beside her and pulled her close and kissed her roughly. She returned the kiss just as fiercely and whispered:
"I can't stand it either, honey!"
My hand was under her dress. She was firm and warm, and she helped me. I thought her body was beautiful and I was surprised that it wasn't much different from dozens of other girls'. I had thought that with love sex would somehow be different. I was disappointed and she could tell.
I wondered if I did love her and I knew that it was too late. I had promised to marry her. I couldn't be a heel now and back out.
"I wanted to tell you, Jimmy," she said. "You didn't want to listen."
"That doesn't make any difference," I said. "I don't care about you not being a virgin. In one way I'm relieved."
"Then what's the trouble?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said. "Maybe we should've waited."
"Until we were married?" She laughed and put her arms around me and pulled me close. "Silly, boy," she said. "Why, Jimmy, you are old fashioned!"
We went together again, and she kept telling me she loved me. I decided I did love her and told her so.
Later we talked. I told her about the swap-club deal and my intentions to write someday. She insisted on seeing my notes.
She read them with great interest. I drank beer and watched her face as she read. I listened to her occasional low laugh, and it was like looking at a stranger. Instead of our intimacy drawing us closer-in my case I felt more distant.
I told her I had to run out for a few minutes, that while she finished reading I would get it over with. She waved her hand without looking up and I left the apartment.
I started to knock on Gar's door and changed my mind. I went out on the steps in front and sat down and watched the traffic and smoked three cigarettes. Finally I went back to the apartment.
Bonnie was still only about one third of the way through the notes. I watched her for a few minutes and could stand the suspense no longer. I had to know how she felt about the swap clubs.
"What do you think about the clubs, Bonnie?" I asked. "Not about the members or the interviews or the way the notes are written-but about the swap clubs? Do you approve or disapprove?"
"What do you think about them, Jimmy?"
"I asked you. Be honest."
I looked at her and I knew that a lot depended on her answer. My future, in fact. At the time I didn't know exactly what I wanted her answer to be. I even started to retract the question. She looked at me and I waited.
"I'll answer that after we are married," she said, laughing. "A girl shouldn't tell all of her thoughts before marriage."
"Okay," I said. I walked over and kissed her on the forehead. "While you're reading I think I'll take a walk, Bonnie. I'm about out of beer. All right?"
"Sure, Jimmy," she said, and her eyes went back to the typewritten pages.
I went out in the hall and knocked on Gar's door. He called that it was unlocked and I went in. He sat in front of his typewriter, his hands on the keys. He looked up.
"You said whistle any time," I said.
"What's the trouble, Jimmy?" he asked.
He stood up and I sat down in a chair by the door.
"Bonnie's next door," I said. "She's reading about the swap clubs. I asked her a question and she didn't answer. I'm afraid of what that answer will be. I know you don't like Bonnie, and I guess it's because you think she wants my money. Is that right?"
"Something like that," he said. "It's none of my business, Jimmy."
"I have an idea," I said. "I want you to go along with me on it. You might have a little fun and you may not. You're older and understand some things better. Besides, I'm too involved and maybe I'm not thinking straight, but I have to know a few things. I'm going to sit here for fifteen minutes, and if you're not back in that time I'll meet you at the corner bar when you get around to it."
"Where am I going?" he asked.
"You know," I said. "Will you do it?"
"What should I tell her? About you, I mean. Why you aren't back if I stay more than fifteen minutes ?"
"Tell her any damn thing you like! That I had to go to Slidell or went to take a swim in the Mississippi!"
He looked at me for a moment and didn't say another word. He got his coat and went out the door. I found a beer in the kitchen and sat in the chair and smoked. I found three more beers. It was the longest fifteen minutes in my life.
I waited twenty minutes and went back to my apartment and stood outside the door. I listened and I couldn't hear a sound. I turned and went down the hall and out into the street and walked to the corner bar.
I sat there for over two hours and drank beer and put coins in the juke box and didn't hear a thing. Somebody tried to talk to me and then went away.
I began to hate Bonnie and Gar and myself. I called myself a fool and a dirty bastard for doing Bonnie that way. If I loved her and did that to her-what would I do if I really hated her? Better to find out now than afterward, I decided. The whole world was just one big continuous piece of ass anyway. Life was a joke-and jam it deep!
I cried in my beer.
Gar was beside me and it was dark outside. For a moment I thought he would have other reasons for being so late. I looked at his face and knew ... and I wanted to kill him.
He's my friend, I thought, and I would hate to have an enemy. "I'm my own enemy," I said aloud. "How was it, Gar?"
He looked at me, real close, and his eyes were unfriendly. "You asked for it, kid," he said.
"I took her home. She told me to tell you two things-that she quit her job and that she approved."
"How can I write, Gar?" I asked. "Everything's already been said."
"You have to try and say it in a different way," he said.
His eyes were friendly again and I liked him.
"I want you to meet the girls," I said. "Joyce here in New Orleans and Stella and Madeline and Marge and the rest in Mobile. And will you help me say things in a different way, Gar? I can offer you money and women and time to write ... and someday I'll find somebody to love and she won't swap anything. How about it, Gar?"
"Sounds good," he said. "First I think we should get drunk."
"Yes," I said seriously, "first we'll get drunk. Drinking is the beginning and the middle and the end."
