Jean lay back on the sofa, her head slightly raised. George began to caress her breasts. "You have very lovely breas ... tits," he said.
"So have you." They laughed again.
"Seriously," he said.
"But seriously, folks," she said in a manner that suggested every second-rate comic George had ever seen. She put her hands forward and began running her hands over his nipples.
"Oh, that really turns me on," he moaned.
"Good." Her fingernails, which she kept reasonably short, began rubbing up and down over his nipples. "I love a man's nipples when they get hard," she said, moving her face forward to his nipples she licked at his right one for long moments.
CHAPTER ONE
George came out of the bathroom and looked admiringly at his wife Miranda. She was so pretty. So tall and slender with beautifully shaped, smallish breasts. He loved her blonde hair most of all. It was very long. Past shoulder length. She washed it almost every day and let it hang down naturally. She brushed it often to make it silky, loose and sexy.
Miranda was standing alongside their bed doing some yoga exercises. As he approached the bed, she bent over to touch her ankles. Her back was to him. As she bent, he had a splendid opportunity to observe her nicely shaped, well-proportioned ass cheeks. They were rounded, but not so rounded that they were overly pronounced. That would have turned him off. There was a line of blonde hair-fuzz really-that ran down the cleft.
George sat down on the bed and watched as her bending became more strenuous. He had a strong urge to lie across the bed and with his head at the edge of it, put his hands out and caress her ass. He suppressed the urge, knowing how seriously she took her yoga. She would get pissed off if he interrupted her exercises. He merely sat there and watched. He had a damp towel around him, having just taken his evening shower. He found himself becoming increasingly more aroused from observing Miranda.
His cock was rising and beginning to nudge against the damp towel. He reached to his waist and loosening the towel, let it fall from him. He lifted his ass and removed the towel, throwing it on the floor.
George lay back against the headboard, adjusting two pillows behind him. Obviously aware that he was there, Miranda paid him no mind. She continued with her yoga. He continued to observe her pert ass as it continued its ministrations. His cock continued to harden until it was completely erect and lay cradled in his dark pubic hair against his stomach. Ah, he thought, how perfect. He always felt best when he was aroused and horny. What could be better than having a hard on and a gorgeous woman with whom to have sex? He reached down and stroked his cock affectionately. He was not circumsized and took great delight in carefully rolling the skin back down over the head a few times. Just enough to add to his turn on. But not enough that he would get carried away and jerk off.
Miranda didn't really approve of jerking off. She loved sex. With George certainly. She said so. And they certainly had good times in bed. But she said she had never masturbated before being married to him. She had slept with numerous guys before George. But always "seriously." By seriously she meant that she was hung up on the guy and had known him for awhile. And that it might all lead somewhere eventually. She was vigorously opposed to promiscuity. George was aware of all of this and did not take it too seriously. That, to coin a phrase, was her trip. It did not interfere with their sex and that was all he was concerned about. So she didn't approve of jerking off. He liked to. In spite of an excellent sex life together. He still liked to. And did. Initially-just after their marriage-he had felt guilt about continuing to jerk off. But after three years, he no longer did. Feel guilty, that is.
He liked sex. He needed sex. Lots of it. Much as he loved Miranda, he was not about to give it up for her. His feeling was as long as it did not interfere with their sex life, it had nothing whatsoever to do with her. He continued watching her gorgeous ass go through its gyrations as his hand continued fondling his dick.
She stood up and turned around. "Honestly, George!" she said, turning and heading for the bathroom.
He suddenly felt like a little boy being caught doing something bad. He did not care for the feeling. He found himself feeling very annoyed with her. His erection began to decrease. On impulse he reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out his blue pajamas. He put them on and slipped in under the brown and white striped sheets. Turning out the light switch on his side of the bed, he turned on his side. He was feeling very petulant and he knew it, but he didn't care.
A few minutes later, he heard her come out of the bathroom. She climbed into bed.
"Sleeping? Already?" she said in a little girl voice.
Fuck her! he thought. If she's into getting fucked tonight, she'll have to make all the first moves. He said nothing.
"And I thought tonight was mufki-fufki time...." she said, still in her incredulous Alice-in-Wonderland voice.
George felt himself coming around.
Miranda lay down alongside him. He was on his right side. Now she was too. Her body touched his full length. He could feel her breasts warm against his back, right through the pajamas. Her belly touched his lower back. Her pussy was up right close to the crack in his ass. Her legs touched the entire length of his. The warmth of her thighs against the back of his was particularly pronounced. She was nude and still felt somewhat moist from her hot shower.
Miranda put her mouth to his right ear and breathed hotly inside. Her arms came round him, one forcing its way under his right shoulder and the other resting just under his left arm.
"Doesn't Daddy want to take me tonight?" she whispered in his ear. "Baby's all hot and bothered...."
George turned over and immediately put his mouth on hers. He began by kissing her on her mouth. She was beginning to breathe a little more heavily now. George's cock was becoming hard again. Using one hand, he pushed the sheet back so that they were now both uncovered.
"I have nothing on...." she murmured.
Pulling his mouth away from her, George rose up and peeled off his pajamas top. His bottoms followed.
Miranda reached over to switch off the lamp on her side of the bed. "Oh, don't," he said.
"But George," a slight note of dismay in her voice, "it's so bright in here." She switched off the light.
Naked, George rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom. He reached in, snapped on the light, and leaving the door ajar, returned to the bed. The bathroom was about six feet from the bed. It provided some light but was still quite dim, George felt.
"It's still too bright," she said.
George was beginning to lose his patience. Is she being a pain in the ass tonight, he wondered, or am I? He paused a few moments to collect himself. There was no point in losing his temper and turning this into a scene.
He smiled, said nothing, and got back into bed.
His erection was gone. And while he loved, really loved, getting his dick inside the juiciness of her cunt, he was beginning to wish he had continued pretending to be asleep. Then later, he could have risen and gone to the John and quietly jerked off.
Instead, he reached for her.
"George...." she said.
"Miranda," he said, as his right hand began caressing her left breast, "you can always close your eyes...."
She said nothing. She lay still. His hand continued moving gently over her breast, the palm mildly grazing her nipple. She was relaxing. Miranda lay back and closed her eyes. George moved up slightly and placed his other hand on her other breast. The two hands moved, gently, slowly.
George's cock began to harden.
"Baby," he said, "Daddy loves your breasts...."
She opened her eyes, smiled, looked lovingly into his. Raising her arms, she placed her hands around his neck and pulled him down toward her. Their mouths touched. George inserted his tongue inside her lips. She flinched slightly. It had always pissed George off that she was not as much into moist, wet kissing as he was. He had thought that eventually, if he were patient, she would come around. But in three years, she never had. Once again George told himself that it was perfectly alright for her not to like a lot of kissing. It was her prerogative certainly. But he had a notion of a perfect relationship. He had had it since he was a young boy. It partly came from seeing so many movies and partly, perhaps, from his coming from a broken home. But he really loved the idea of being involved totally with a woman. Absolutely. Totally! The two of them would see eye to eye on just about everything. Everything. George's realization that his and Miranda's relationship was far from perfect came the first time they had gone to bed and he became aware that kissing was not her number.
There were many, many ways in which they were not compatible, but George had learned to accept them. He had learned, to a large extent, not to expect complete unity on everything they did or said. But deep down, there was still that feeling on his part that it must be possible for a man and a woman to be everything to each other. That it must be possible to have a woman who loved kissing as much as he did. To have a woman with whom he did not have to play games to turn her on. To have a woman with whom he could be completely and totally open. But, as he often reminded himself (well, more accurately, as Miranda often reminded him) he was almost thirty." Thirty. Grown up. Mature. A big boy now. And when you grew up, you accepted the fact that certain things were never going to be yours. You accepted the fact that there was no such thing as perfection on this planet. And there was certainly no such thing as the perfect relationship. You made compromises. She made compromises. Everything was all right. So it wasn't perfect....
"Oh, George...." she said, pushing his mouth away from hers.
Angrily, George pulled himself away. He rose, walked to the bathroom, snapped off the light, and then returned to the bed. Flinging his pajamas from the bottom of the bed to the floor, he climbed onto the bed and turned on his side. Away from her.
"What's wrong?" she said in a quiet voice.
"Nothing!" he muttered, slamming his fist into the pillow to make a suitable hollow for his head.
She placed her hand on his shoulder. It felt hot. Almost obscene. Hot and obscene because he did not want her to be touching him.
"I'm sorry I don't like a lot of kissing ... you know that ... why are you letting it bug you so much tonight?"
George really did not feel like discussing it. One of the things about women-certainly the women he had been involved with-was their insistence on straightening out problems late at night. Why the fuck couldn't she just wait until the morning or tomorrow night? Or better yet-over dinner. Jesus Christ! They had both been in analysis and group therapy, it was not as though this was going to just keep building. With their mentalities, it was quite clear that they would work this out at some point. Did it have to be now?
"Miranda, let's go to sleep."
"There are times, you know, when I want sex, too," she said angrily.. "Why do we have to play by your rules all the time?"
George sat up in bed. "F'chrissakes, Miranda! That's bullshit and you know it!" He reached over and turned on the lampswitch. "These are your rules! You get uptight because you don't like to see me handling my dick," She looked away from him. George felt like striking her. "You complain if there's too much light. You don't want my mouth on yours...."
She reached over and turned on the lamp at her side of the bed. "I don't see why we can't just have sex...."
Throwing the covers off both their naked bodies, George moved down the bed on his knees. With his bare ass sticking up in the air-he really loved the cool air caressing his ass-and resting firmly on his knees, he grabbed each of her feet with his hands and pulled her legs apart rather roughly. Miranda cooperated by raising her knees and keeping her thighs widely separated.
George crawled forward and brought his mouth down to her navel. He began roughly licking the soft, pink skin. Usually he was very conscious to keep his face from her stomach. He knew how sensitive she was there. And it always jarred his sexual mood to have her yelp suddenly, as she was won't to do. This time, however, she made no noises. He became aware of movement. As the light diminished on her side of the bed, he realized that she had just switched off her lamp. He felt greater anger rising in him as he thought for a moment that she was about to turn out his light as well. He held his breath momentarily.
She didn't.
Relaxing somewhat, George slid his arms up under her thighs and held them tightly. His tongue slid up and down the space between her pubic hair and her belly button. She began squirming. Too much moisture, he thought. But he did not stop. Fuck her! he thought. He looked up at her.
She was lying with her head on the pillow and her eyes closed. If she was relaxing, then he could. His mind at ease, he began to concentrate on properly eating her. It was something she liked and something that really turned him on. His tongue found her clit. He licked at it very gently. Miranda began to squirm slightly. Her breathing became heavier. George became more turned on. His cock hardened. He liked the feel of it and his balls swinging in the air between his thighs. Often at moments like this, he wished there were another female behind him, licking his asshole, playing with his cock and balls. Perhaps even putting her fingers inside his asshole and finger-fucking him. He began moving his pelvic area, fantasizing he was doing so in rhythm to the finger-fucking the red-headed chick behind him was administering.
He had his eyes closed, and his lips were gently grasping and releasing Miranda's now-erect clit. He found himself paying more attention to the fantasy of having his asshole finger-fucked than of the reality of eating Miranda. With great difficulty, he turned off the fantasy. He did not find it a fair thing to do: to go off on his own trip when he was supposedly making love to his wife.
George moved his hands from under her thighs. Using both of them, he pulled apart the lips of her cunt with his index fingers and thumbs. He loved the smell and taste of her pussy, especially when it was good and wet. As it was now. His tongue moved down from her clit and inside her opening. His fingers pulled the lips further apart and then his right index finger moved inside.
"Mmmmm...." Miranda moaned. "Baby loves it. Baby loves it...." Her ass began moving very gently up and down on the striped sheet. "Oh, put it in, put it in!"
George found himself becoming annoyed again. They had barely begun. Had barely gotten into this. And she wanted to be fucked. Whenever she wanted to be fucked so quickly, George instantly knew that it was because she did not want to get any further into the sex. He had brought the matter up on numerous occasions. She almost never wanted to discuss it Becoming either petulant. Or turning it into a joke. Whatever. But they never dealt with it.
At the moment, however, George, realized he did not care particularly. So what? He would fuck. They'd come. They'd go to sleep.
Moving himself up, he guided his cock-holding it in his right hand-up to her cunt. As the tip of it grazed her, George reached down and placed each of his hands under each of her calves and raised her legs. He held her legs up in the air and rested her feet on his shoulders. Her cunt was wide open and exposed. His cock slid in. It hurt him slightly. She was not entirely moist. Miranda moaned.
"Slowly, slowly...." she said, her eyes closed.
George looked down at her. He generally kept his eyes opened. She rarely did. He always wanted the fucking to be a joyous, mutual experience. He always wanted to see her at the moment of orgasm.
Miranda, however, was off inside herself somewhere. He never brought the subject up. But it never failed to pain him that they did not share their orgasms totally. He closed his eyes. He did not want to see her closed eyes down beneath him.
Very slowly, very gently, he eased his cock inside her. They were both breathing heavily.
"How's that baby?" he asked in a soft voice.
"Mmmm...." she muttered.
George had always wanted a kind of dialogue during sex. He wanted to tell her what he was feeling and how to move this way or that way to improve the sex. He wanted her to give him instructions if necessary. He wanted them to be free enough, loose enough to be able to make everything as perfect as possible.
I'm just in a mood tonight, George thought. Otherwise all of the little disturbances of the past three years would not seem so particularly pronounced to him.
His cock was about half way inside her. The tip of it ached a little. She was not completely wet inside. She often wasn't. He could stand a little discomfort. He pushed in a little further. Then he pulled out a bit. He was trying to establish a fucking rhythm. But Miranda was more or less lying still. As he often found himself doing, George ignored her. He plunged his cock full length inside her.
"Uhhhhhh...." she groaned. At least it's a reaction, he thought. He pulled his cock out almost completely. This always made him nervous. There was always that fear that it would slip out. And on some level-to George-slipping out meant losing his erection. But it did not slip out, the very tip of his dick remained for seconds at the very opening of her cunt. He pushed in again. Very slowly. His entire cock went in. He lowered himself. He wanted very much to kiss her. He wanted his mouth on hers. But he was not willing to take the risk. Too often, she had not responded. He lay on top of her. His chest against her breasts. Their bellies, warm and sweaty, touching, occasionally making a plopping sound.
George's head was buried in the space between her left shoulder and her neck. His tongue darted out and licked at her ear. She made an effort to move from him. George began plunging his cock frantically inside her. Every third thrust or so, he would pull almost all the way out. He felt his orgasm rising. He felt perspiration dripping down the cleft of his ass. He began to feel slightly frightened. He sometimes did as his orgasm was about to come on. It was why he needed her to be there for him. Why he needed her mouth and her opened eyes looking into his.
His ass began moving frenetically, almost uncontrollably. He thought of hands and fingers on his ass, in his asshole, pushing him, aiding him. He had a sudden, frightening image of a cock in his own asshole helping to push his ass forward and helping to plunge his own cock more deeply into Miranda's cunt.
Miranda began to moan. Was she coming? He hoped she was. He wanted her to come. If she would come, then he could. He would not have to hold out any longer. She was coming. Her throat was making slightly strangled sounds and her hands were working on his shoulders and back in such a way that it seemed almost as though she were trying to push him off.
George became aware of his breath. He tried to keep his exhalations longer than his intakes of breath. And then he started to come. He felt tremors and slight chills in his upper back and thighs. His ass moved violently. He could feel the fluid escaping from his cock. It seemed to be oozing out. Just oozing out. He loved the sensation! Just as he felt himself becoming lost in it, he became aware of the slightly painful, almost itchy sensation at the tip of his cock which he sometimes felt when Miranda was not moist enough.
He slumped down on her. His ass stopped moving. He tried to remember not to press down too heavily; she was thinner than he and he did not want her to ask him to move off her.
"George," she said huskily.
George rolled off and lay on his back. He was still breathing heavily. Miranda reached over and put her hand in his. Reluctantly, he let her.
As he drove down Hollywood Boulevard the next morning, George was still feeling disgruntled. Miranda seemed to be in a perfectly good mood. He had made an-effort to be cheerful. He was not entirely sure of why he was in this mood so there was little to discuss. Basically, he knew what was disturbing him was what he had been disturbed by on and off in the past. Some days he dealt with it quite well. Other days, or more correctly, other nights-like last-it got to him. It was his feeling that when it got to him it was more likely his mood. More likely that something else was bugging him or else he would be able to handle it as well as he had in the past. So if he kept his cool with Miranda, his mood would pass and their sexual problems would work out all right.
It was a gorgeous day. He loved Los Angeles. Didn't mind the traffic. Didn't mind having to drive everywhere. None of it disturbed him at all. Just so long as the sun shone. And it did-almost every day. And there were the palm trees. He smiled broadly. He loved palm trees. For George they were something incredibly luxurious. Glamorous even. Sunshine and palm trees every day. Having grown up and spent most of his life in the East, he feltas though living in L.A. was a kind of reward for having done some incredible good deed years earlier. Generally, when the alarm woke him in the morning, he would see the sunlight coming through the curtains and feel no dread at having to get up. The gloom and murkiness of New York weather was enough to start each day off badly for him. Now each day was-what was that song lyric?-sunshine, lollipops and roses.
He stopped for a red light. Casting his eyes to the right, he saw a young guy trying to hitch a ride. He was dressed in late-sixties garb. One of the last of the flower children. The obligatory earring in his right ear. Long blond hair and beard. Colorful patched jeans and short-sleeved suede jacket. Lots of beads around the neck. Rings on every finger. On his shoulder was a pet monkey.
George laughed. Another reason why he loved L.A. Where else but here would people go out hitchhiking with a pet monkey? He was almost tempted to pick the guy up. Something he never would have done in New York. But he thought he might get hung up and delayed. He'd rather get to the office on time this morning. And he was almost late already. The fellow was looking directly at George. He smiled. What the hell? George gestured and the guy hurried over to the car. The monkey leaped onto his head and held on to his hair.
Slamming the door of the red Dodge Dart, the hitchhiker climbed into the front seat.
"How ya doing?" he smiled warmly at George.
"Not bad. How's it going?"
"Everything's cool," he said settling in. The monkey scrambled off the top of his head and jumped in the back seat.
"You have much trouble getting picked up with him on your shoulder?" George asked.
"Well," the man said, in a very serious tone of voice, "it's better than having him on my back."
It took George a few seconds to get the joke. He laughed. "Where are you heading?"
"Any place you drop me is just fine." His voice sounded Midwestern. Up close, George could see that he was not quite that young. He was at least George's age.
George was tempted to ask him if that was how he managed. Just being dropped, wherever people dropped him. George had always been intrigued-for a time even a bit jealous perhaps with such a casual, directionless kind of life style. When encountering guys like this one, he had in the past asked lots of questions about how they lived. But he always felt square and foolish doing so. And what difference did it make really? One of the things he liked about the Southern California way of life was that nobody seemed terribly interested in why you did what you did. They seemed only to react to your actions. On that they based their behaviour toward you.
In New York, everyone seemed so concerned about motivations. Where you came from? What you did? Why you did it? Here, nobody seemed to give a shit. George found this both a little disturbing and also very liberating. So he resisted the impulse to ask what the guy did. Better to stay right here in the moment and deal with that.
"Is it a hassle having a monkey?" he asked instead.
"Nothing to it."
George looked through the rear view mirror and observed that the monkey was sitting quietly on the back seat. Like a docile child. "He seems very well behaved." A beautiful, tall, blonde chick in a very short skirt which showed off a pair of really lovely slim legs was standing off the curb with her thumb in the air. Damn it, thought George, why didn't I wait and pick up her?
"Man, ain't you gonna stop for her?" George's passenger asked.
"Wish I could," said George, regretfully driving past her. "But I'm already late." The guy nodded.
"What's your name?" George asked suddenly.
"Dink," the guy said, a sort of knowing look in his eyes. "What's your sign?"
"Libra." George answered.
"You wanna go down on me?" Dink asked.
George was startled. "Uh ... why do you think that?" he said haltingly.
"Isn't that your scene?" the guy said, beginning to caress his crotch.
George was tempted to tell him to take his monkey and get the fuck out. But he controlled himself. We're almost at my building, he told himself. In a matter of minutes the guy will be gone. Why make a scene? So he said nothing. As they turned into the extensive parking lot of the Circle Pictures building, the guy was still caressing his bulging crotch.
"This is your last chance," he said pleasantly.
"We're here," said George. "You can get out."
The monkey jumped on his shoulder, and Dink opened the car door. As he put his feet down, he smiled at George. "Ah, man, don't be uptight. I dig chicks too. I also dig sucking cock. Nothing to it."
George regarded him quietly. He was standing in front of the open door of his car, on the driver's side. Dink and he looked at each other across the car's red top.
"Goodbye," said George, slamming the door and then locking it.
"Take it easy, Libra. Be seeing ya."
Dink and his monkey took off. George walked into the office building.
Miranda sat in the kitchen of their four-room bungalow in the Hollywood Hills. The table was dark wood-Spanish, naturally. She was drinking her second cup of tea and staring at the smooth finish and the patterns the sun coming through the window was making on it. So pretty. Everything here was so pretty.
She loved their house. Well, it wasn't really theirs. It would be a matter of years before it was paid off. She and George had come from the East and while she had not liked L.A. very much, initially, she had grown to love it. Especially when they found this house. True, the house was in essence-by New York standards-a two-bedroom apartment. The rooms were not large. But there were large windows all around. Incredible amounts of sunlight streamed in almost every day. The living room had glass doors which could be left open almost year round. That really added to the sense of space. There were trees all around. And of course, there was the swimming pool. Not the largest one might have. But a swimming pool! What Miranda loved most about it was swimming under water and then coming to the surface quickly. As you did so, you would look up and around you. All you could see was the blue, blue sky. And in the distance-mountains. If you looked real hard you could see the Griffith Planetarium. (One of these days, she and George would have to investigate it.) They were sufficiently high in the hills to be above the smog line. It was weird to stand at the edge of the area surrounding the pool-fenced off, of course-and look down. You could see the smog below you!
Miranda looked at her watch. Almost nine. She would be late for her first visitor. Her associates at the Welfare Board always laughed when she referred to her various cases as visitors. Somehow cases seemed even more ridiculous to her. Miranda put down her cup and walked to the bathroom. She looked at herself in the full-length mirror. Yoga is doing wonders for me, she thought. Her stomach had never looked so firm. Even in her dark brown slacks, she could see how terrific her behind looked.
She must get George to get back to his yoga exercises. Might take his mind off sex somewhat. George had always had more interest in sex than she-wasn't that true of all men, though?-but since being out here, he had practically become a sex fiend. It seemed like he always had his hand on his crotch. Or that he was constantly touching her. Constantly wanting to have sex. She liked sex. She liked it a lot. But she didn't think that it should totally govern one's life. When they lived on the Upper West Side in New York, they had a large bright airy bedroom. Every Sunday morning, they would have breakfast in bed, read the New York Times, make love and lie around for most of the morning and early afternoon. Often they would make love a second time. It was really nice.
They also made love during the week. A couple of times, usually. It was nice. It fit into her schedule and George's schedule without any hassles. But since they moved out here, it seemed like he was ready to go at it every day! That was fine perhaps if you were terribly young and perhaps newly married. But she and George had been married over three years. And they were both almost thirty. Well, George was thirty already. All the more reason to behave sensibly about things like sex.
She checked her face briefly in the mirror. Snapping on the light, she peered very closely at a small red mark near the tip of her nose. Aside from that little blemish, her face, her complexion, her body, everything about her looked just splendid. She picked up a comb and ran it briefly through her long blonde hair. She smiled to herself. Perhaps George was so horny out here because she was looking so good. She turned off the light and left the bathroom.
He was also getting so ... she wasn't sure what the word was ... demanding. She picked up her purse and headed for the front door. The sun was shining brilliantly. The trees surrounding the house were an incredible shade of green. New York was never like this, she thought. Everything here always seemed to be in bloom. That must have something to do with George's sexual appetite. He was absolutely crazy about Los Angeles. It was he who had persuaded her they should move here. Perhaps he was blooming again. In his second adolescence. In a way that was kind of sweet. Sweet to be married to a man who had the sexual appetite of a teen ager.
Miranda opened the gate, walked through it, and around to the right where the two-car garage was. She got into the blue Plymouth Valiant. Much as she loved driving to work, much as she did not miss the New York subway system, she did find the twisting, turning, circuitous ups and downs of the road through the Hills a shade unnerving. She took a deep breath. Relaxed. The car made the first left. Then a right. Another right. Another right. A left. Miranda began to smile. What a ridiculous way to start the day. Every day. It was like detouring through the fun house or taking a roller coaster ride.
One of the advantages of going to work a little later than the other denizens of the Hills was the absence of cars. At 8:30 or so, it was utterly insane. She would be a nervous wreck if she had to deal with so many cars all racing through the curves at breakneck speed.
To her left she saw one of their neighbors, Doug White, standing alongside his white Porsche. He gestured for her to stop. She did.
"Something wrong, Doug?" she asked, hoping there wasn't.
"Yeah, Miranda," he gave her a dazzling smile. He was an actor with impeccably capped teeth. And he knew how to use them. He had a reputation for having done more toothpaste commercials than any other young actor in Hollywood. "This damned thing has conked out." He gave her his little boy lost look. "And what the fuck do I know about fixing cars?"
Miranda flinched. She wasn't a prude, but she could do without four-letter words. "Do you want a lift?"
"Do I?" He turned, locked the door of his car and walked round and climbed into hers.
"Don't you believe in seat belts?" she asked him.
He looked over at her. She was securely belted in place. "No," he laughed, "but I'm not surprised you do."
"What does that mean?" she said quietly, suppressing an irrational feeling of rage that had just come over her. She darted a glance over at him. He was just smiling.
"Nothing, Miranda. Nothing. How's George?"
"Fine."
"When are we getting together?"
"We had dinner the other night."
"I don't mean for dinner...."
Miranda decided to say nothing. She had heard that Doug and Vicki, a young and very beautiful actress with whom he lived, were into "swinging." And it seemed to her that Doug was always alluding to it. But she thought the whole notion rather repellent.
"How is Vicki?" she asked in as casual a voice as she could muster.
"Great. She got a small part in the new Mark Robson film at Universal. That's why I'm stranded. She left the house this morning at six. Where you going, by the way?"
"To work. Where else at this hour?"
"I'm hip. But where is your office?"
"Near Beverly Boulevard."
"Dynamite. That's where I want to be. Right near there." He turned slightly, so that he was more or less leaning on his left side. He was facing her and had inched more closely to her. Reaching his right hand forward, he touched her hair. "It's just beautiful," he said. "I love its luster."
"Honestly, Doug," she laughed. "Is all your dialogue out of commercials?"
"You better believe it. Don't knock it. It's very expensive verbiage. Noel Coward should have made as much bread with his lines."
As Miranda drove down Santa Monica, she could not help but notice all the porn theatres. She saw them every morning and every morning she found herself distressed by the incredible number of them. Even more disturbing was the fact that they-most of them-were already opened for business at this hour and people were going in. Men mostly. Who else?
"Love that title!" Doug said, pointing to a marquee on his right. The title was "Swinging on a Star."
Miranda said nothing.
He put his hand back to her hair. "What is your opinion of swinging, Mrs. Saxon? Speak right into the microphone. Don't be shy."
"Sex seems to be all that you have on your mind. Ever. And I'm beginning to think that's true of all the men in Los Angeles."
"Aha!" he laughed. "But neither I nor most of the men in L.A. are from here. So what does that prove?"
Miranda moved her head. He was not taking the hint. His hand was still touching her hair. Finally, she moved one hand from the wheel and used it to take his hand off her hair.
"I don't think you like blond men," he said, feigning a note of petulance. "Opposites usually attract me too. But you're a doll. And I don't hold your blonde hair against you. Consider the rest of me. I'm tall-six feet one. Fashionably long blond hair and sideburns. Fair complexion. (Thanks to my Scandinavian and British ancestors.) My clothing and taste in clothes are impeccable."
Miranda was glad they were approaching the Welfare Office.
"And to get down to the nitty-gritty, I've got a big cock. And I know how to use it."
"Cut it out!"
"But Miranda, nobody loves a eunuch...."
"I don't appreciate this kind of talk," she said sternly. "And you know it. So don't ever talk this way to me again!"
Almost in perfect timing with her last word, she stopped the car in front of the Welfare building.
"Your sense of drama is tremendous," he said unfastening his seat belt. "And your timing...." he put his fingers to his lips and made a puckering sound.
Miranda pulled the key out of the ignition. As she was removing her seat belt, he grabbed her right hand and held it in his. "I can't believe you're as uptight as you let on."
"Doug. I love George. I take George very seriously. I take life very seriously. And by life, I mean sex, too. If you want to fool around, go ahead. But leave me out. And don't try to include George in your little schemes either." She began to open the car door with her free hand. It was stuck. "And let go of me," she said angrily, pulling her hand out of his.
He let go of her.
They both got out of the car.
George's only appointment that morning was with a young filmmaker. At ten o'clock, he realized John Vincence was late. He buzzed his secretary, Jean
"Do you know what happened to Vincence? Did he call?"
"No," she said. "Perhaps he's hung up in traffic."
"Would you bring me in another cup of coffee when you have a minute, Jean?"
"Okay."
George, tie-less in an open-necked red and white sport shirt, leaned back in his chair. In New York, he had an office on the 27th floor of a new building in midtown. It had a view of Central Park and was really quite spectacular. When he had managed to be transferred out here, he had been a little disappointed at first to be on the ground floor. But now he loved it. It was a large square office painted a cream color. All the furniture was light wood, very thirties looking. The windows-all four of them-went down to the floor. Each had a cream-colored fabric curtain. The curtains were always parted. And that was the best part. The windows looked out on a path leading to the studio's single still-operating sound stage. On either side of the path were lots of trees, grass, and flowers.
George liked nothing better than to sit with his feet up on the desk and look out of the windows. It was like a dream come true. Not only did he love his job, but he loved the office in which he did it. Ever since he'd come to L.A, he had begun to feel his life was opening up. That he was opening up. That all the stuff they talked about in analysis was beginning to become a reality. Maybe that was why the things about his relationship with Miranda which he had begun to accept in New York, had now begun to seem unacceptable. With the sun shining all the time, somehow it seemed more possible, more likely that everything should be perfect. But he didn't want to think about that right now. His mood was still a little down. He would prefer to deal seriously with his problems with Miranda when he was in a better mood.
He picked up a script. He had read it several months ago. And it was lousy. The writer had made revisions and resubmitted it. George had no desire to reread it. His job at Circle was to appraise the commercial possibilities of screenplays and filmic projects. Young hopefuls would contact him and he would analyze their material. So far, since he had been here, he had found two scripts which the company had bought. The executives above him seemed pleased with the job he was doing, but George felt he should really come up with something truly dynamite. This script certainly wasn't going to be it.
He wished John Vincence would show up.
George liked meeting people. George liked being with people. Talking to a young filmmaker was more fun than sitting here reading a revised World War II espionage screenplay. As he adjusted his feet up on the desk and leaned further back in his chair, George turned to page one of the script. Almost unconsciously, his hand moved down to his crotch and he held his cock and balls in his left hand. He did not wear underwear so he was able to feel himself quite well through the fabric of dark slacks. His cock began to harden in no time at all.
There was a knock at the door. He placed the script over his groin. Jean walked in, carrying a mug of black coffee. She smiled as she placed it on the desk.
"How's that script?" she asked. "He's such a nice guy."
"I know. I wish he were a better writer." Jean was a terrific woman. And a terrific secretary. He wished she weren't so chatty, though. His hard-on was making it difficult for him to move his legs without her seeing it.
"It's better than the first draft," she said.
"I didn't know you had read them both."
She nodded, smiling.
"Good. Why don't you do a report for me on this. So I won't have to read it."
Her eyes widened. "Oh, thanks. I'd love to." She reached down and pulled the script up from his lap. George almost groaned. She put the script against her breasts and held it there with her two arms pressing against it. As she stood there-was it his imagination?-she seemed to be looking down at his still-bulging crotch. "I love doing this!"
"Good," he said nervously. "Why not get right on it." He brought his feet down from the desk.
She turned and walked toward the door.
George's hand went right back to his crotch. She was wearing a tight skirt, one almost above her knees. Jean had nice-perhaps a shade too thin-legs. But her well-shaped ass compensated for them. He watched as each cheek moved as she walked. The door closed behind her.
He had never made it with any of his secretaries. It was a bad idea and he had never had much sympathy for friends of his who had and then wound up in trouble because of it. But here in L.A, things were different. Jean seemed very hip. Very bright. Very open. Perhaps he could sleep with her casually. And she could accept it as nothing more than that. Wouldn't it be terrific? Miranda entered his mind. He found himself unreasonably angry at the thought of her.
George got up and locked the door of his office. He buzzed Jean and told her he did not wish to be disturbed except for John Vincence. He sat back in his chair, still stroking his cock and balls through his slacks. What the hell? he thought. He looked behind him. It was not likely that anyone passing by outside would be able to see him. He stood up and unzipped his slacks. He let them drop down around his ankles. He sat down again, with his legs wide apart. With his right hand on his erect dick and his other holding his balls, he leaned back in the chair. Gently, he began pulling the skin up and down over the head of his cock.
Jean was standing by his desk in his fantasy. She had just taken the script from his crotch. Her eyes seemed transfixed by the bulge there.
"What's wrong, Jean?" he asked. "Have you never seen a man's hard-on through his slacks?"
She gulped. "Uh, yes ... Uh, no...."
"Do you like cock, Jean?"
She nodded eagerly. She was about twenty-four, fairly tall, red-headed, with big, bright intelligent blue eyes. She also had a lovely large mouth. "Yes," she said. "When I can get it."
George began to unzip his fly. "Come and get this one."
She smiled eagerly. "I'd better lock the door." She did so. As she returned to his desk, George's large erection was standing up amidst the forest of pubic hair and his shining, opened zipper.
In spite of his absorption with masturbation and fantasizing about sex with Jean, George was-on another level-saying to himself, why can't it be like this? What's to prevent people from having open, casual sex? Why can't Jean and I talk to each other this way?
Jean leaned over the desk and put her mouth to George's cock. The skin was down over the ridge, so the head of it was particularly sensitive. She seemed to be aware of it, so she moved her mouth from it. Instead, her tongue came forward and began licking all around the head.
"You really know about cocks, don't you?" he asked.
She looked up at him. Her arms were resting on the desk and she was bent over. He would have to get her to move so he could see her ass. "Yes, I used to suck my dad's."
"Your dad's?"
"It was a very enlightened household I grew up in...."
Back in his office sitting in his chair with his pants around his ankles, George began jerking himself more brusquely. "Let's take our clothes off?" he said.
"Might not be too safe," she smiled. "Maybe just some of them."
George nodded.
Jean unzipped her skirt and it dropped to the floor. She pulled down her pink panties and dropped them on her skirt. George, meanwhile, was getting his legs off the desk. He stood up and dropped his trousers. But just as in reality he let them remain around his ankles. When jerking off, he preferred to have some aspect of his fantasy merge with the reality. This kind of verisimilitude made the fantasy more intense.
George stood there with his erection dangling in front of him.
"Sit on the edge of the desk, Jean."
She did so.
George got on his knees and spread her legs apart. Even her pubic hair was auburn. She sat there with her legs apart. He loved the fact that her legs-he hated pantyhose-and her lower torso were all naked. From the angle he was at, the most he could see was her bare flesh and the maroon sandals she had on her feet. Putting his hands on her thighs, George moved his head forward. He did not like the feel of the carpet on his knees. It was rough.
Still brusquely pulling the skin on the head of his dick back and forth while seated in his chair, George fell to his knees. He wanted to see if the carpet really was uncomfortable on his knees. It was. He remained there, still pulling on his cock. He closed his eyes and imagined he was licking Jean's pussy. She tasted much different than Miranda. The touch was less acidic somehow. A momentary twinge passed over George as he realized that even in fantasy he was putting his wife down. But he let it pass. His tongue snaked forward and began circling her clit. After a few swipes, he began sucking it. It was very small, but still larger than Miranda's. He caught it between his lips and tried sucking it into his mouth.
Jean began moaning. Her hands came forward and caught at his hair. George's tongue moved down a bit and first caught her left lip with his lips and than the right. His mouth moved back and forth several times. He reached his hands upward, leaving her thighs. Through the semi-coarse fabric of her red, floral-patterned blouse, he began playing with her nipples. She put both her hands on his and gently guided him. Her mouth came forward and she began kissing his hands. Her mouth kissing first one and then the other.
"Oh, give me your tongue...." she murmured.
George inserted his tongue more deeply inside her cunt.
She made movements to pull him up toward her. He did so. Standing in front of her, his rock-hard erection pointing almost directly at the opening of her pussy, George moved forward. With both hands, she pulled him to her and their mouths met. Hers was moist and hot. Her tongue moved inside his and examined the space above his upper teeth. Then her tongue began licking hotly at the space between the upper and lower lip way over on the left side of his mouth.
George's tongue came forward and both their tongues caressed, touched each other. Jean's arms were tightly around George's back. She reached under his shirt and he could feel her warm hands pressing against his upper back. Without thinking, without planning it, George's cock was suddenly pushing its way forward inside Jean. It slid in so easily, so naturally ... Jean began moving her ass very slowly back and forth on the desk in time to George's pelvic movements....
George couldn't hold it anymore. Still on his knees with his eyes closed, his right hand jerked more briskly over the head of his prick. He was about to come. He forced himself to slow his movements slightly. He opened his eyes. Looking down, he watched as his right hand slid lovingly, tightly up and down the shaft of his cock. It started to spurt. He found himself groaning slightly. The noise seemed to escape his mouth without his will. In seconds, he had spent his load. There was some come on his fingers, but most of it had landed on the carpet. Reaching behind him, he managed to get the handkerchief from his back pocket. First he dried his fingers and then rubbed the rest of the semen into the carpet.
He stood up, straightened his pants, and before zipping up dried the last remaining drops at the tip of his dick with his handkerchief. George sat back down in his chair. He closed his eyes. Wow! He felt pretty good. He really liked jerking off in the office. He had done so even in his New York office.
Would Jean be that good? he wondered. He had never been unfaithful to Miranda, not once since their marriage. But he was beginning to feel that it might happen soon. George walked over to the door and quietly unlocked it. Just as he got to the desk, Jean buzzed him. Perfect timing, Saxon, he thought to himself.
John Vincence was led into his office by Jean in a matter of minutes. Vincence was about George's age. Tall, dark, bearded and mustached. Dressed casually. He had a nice smile and an open manner. A firm handclasp as well. George liked him. Instantly, he found himself hoping, as he always did, that Vincence might have something he liked. It was tiresome to spend time with good guys. You liked them. You sympathized with them. But you had to tell them you couldn't possibly do a thing with their project.
John Vincence sat down. George did too. He asked him about his background.
"Porn," said Vincence, smiling warmly. "I've directed about fifteen porn films. Features mainly. Including "The Bi's" which recouped its investment in five weeks at just three theatres...."
George remembered reading that in Variety.
"Well, you know Circle doesn't make porn films," George said quickly.
"I know. I know. What's your first name?"
"George."
"I know, George. But this is different. It won't really be a hard-core porn film. But it could be. And besides, Circle has released numerous X-rated films...."
"Yes, but those are sex films. And we both know that's a far cry from a hard-core porn film...."
"It's not going to be too long before one of the major film companies spends money to do a real porn film. You know, good-sized budget. Professional photography and sound. Good production values. Coherent story line."
George sat there looking dubious. He liked the guy's enthusiasm. But there was no way he was going to be able to persuade his bosses of this.
"Listen, John...."
"Read the script, George. That's all I ask."
The guy was a con man. His manner was very shrewdly designed to disarm you. George was smart enough to realize it. And impressed enough with the effect of it to agree.
He smiled. "Okay, John. I will."
"You like porn?" he asked, eagerly leaning forward in his chair. His hand moved up to his beard and he held his jaw.
George nodded.
"Ever seen much of it?"
"Yes." What the hell? he thought, why be coy? "I've seen a lot of it. Less so since I moved out here. But I went regularly when I lived in New York."
"Great! So you dig it! So do I! I don't make fuck films just because I can't get any other kind of film work. I like them. I love them. I want them to be better. There's no reason why they have to be so shitty. You know that as well as I."
Having had a lunch date cancelled for that day, on impulse George asked John if he were free. He was. Over lunch at a health food restaurant on La Cienega Boulevard, the two men discussed John's project further.
"But an updated version of Madame Bovary with hard-core sex scenes doesn't strike me as commercial," George said, as a very cute, young waitress with long black hair brought them both glasses of papapa juice.
John did not convince George of its being a surefire project. Once again though, John's enthusiasm, his energetic "vibes" intrigued George so that he agreed to withhold any further comments until he had read John's script.
"You say you dig porn," John said, attacking a messy kidney bean casserole. George watched as he managed somehow to get none of it on his beard. "What's your sex life like?"
"Married. Three years."
"You fuck a lot?"
George was amused and a shade embarrassed. He nodded affirmatively.
"But always your wife. You look like you don't make it with anyone else. I can tell you got a big fantasy life going. Lots of jerking off."
George laughed, rather nervously.
"That's almost right on," he said, bringing some millet omelette to his mouth.
"I like you George. I like you a lot. I think you're a decent guy. It's unhip to say it but I dig you. The time is ripe for you to open you."
George felt a sense of excitement. His intuition was beginning to prod him. He was beginning to get a strong feeling that he and John Vincence might be very useful to each other.
"I've been using that phrase recently. Since I got to L. A. last year, I started to feel that I am opening up," he said, looking at John, who smiled back.
"Great. I'll help you. My old lady and I dig sex. Lots of it. Threesomes. Foursomes. Group scenes. You name it. What's your wife's name?"
"Miranda."
"That's beautiful. I bet she's blonde." George smiled.
"Why don't you and Miranda and Diana and I get it on tonight?" His concentration returned to his casserole.
George said nothing. Miranda would have a fit! He continued eating.
When the waitress came to clear their table, John asked her her name.
"Jessie," she said, not too gingerly stacking them on her tray.
"You are beautiful, Jessie. Extraordinarily beautiful. Would you like to ball in front of the cameras?"
"Man, are you putting me on?" she said, a trace of hostility creeping into her voice. She stood there looking at him, the tray pressed against her thighs.
"Don't get uptight. I make good films. They're about sex. Not just dumb ass balling." John leaned back in his chair. Jessie regarded him for a moment and then laughed.
"Sorry," she said in a warmer tone of voice. "I'm really not into it."
After lunch, George called Jean and told her he was going back to John Vincence's screening room to see one of his films. George was very turned on at the prospect of seeing "The Bi's."
"You know what freaked everybody out about this film? It's really a bisexual film. Not just the chicks make it together. But the guys, too. Everybody makes it with everybody else."
George sat down as John went into the projection booth to start the film. As the credits came on, he came back into the darkened room and sat next to George.
"This group of people in this film are all friends. Loving friends. They all dig each. They all dig making it with each other. We spent a lot of time together. I wanted everybody completely relaxed. So that when we came to shoot the sex scenes everybody would be natural. I wanted everybody to do their thing as though their were no cameras recording them."
The film was quite amazing. George had never seen a porn film even remotely like it. It was almost choreographed. Beautifully filmed in subdued color, which became intensely hued during certain sequences, the film had a score by Pink Floyd and featured seven beautiful, young people-three women and four men. George was taken aback somewhat when he realized that John was one of the characters.
"Are you usually in your films?"
"The good ones."
Both pairs of eyes remained glued to the screen.
The film was virtually plotless but because of the naturalness and spontaneity of the "actors," it never deteriorated into a series of fucking and sucking sequences the way most porn films did. The most striking episode-one which even embarrassed George slightly, sitting as he was next to one of the participants-featured John lying nude on a dimly lit waterbed. One by one the other six performers appear.
George felt his cock hardening as John's did on screen. In the action, John casually plays with himself until he has an erection. A lovely blonde girl appears and begins licking his toes. A tall redheaded guy comes in and begins licking at John's left nipple. A slightly plump brunette enters and attacks John's other nipple with great vigor. Occasionally, she and the fellow working on John's other nipple, kiss. Several times, they move their mouths upward and all three kiss lengthily.
A muscular guy with long blonde hair, a surfer type, is seen working on John's toes, adjacent to the female blonde on his other foot. As a very striking, statuesque redhead came on screen, John grabbed George's knee, "That's Diana! Oh man, watch how she sucks on my joint. She's too much!" Indeed she was, George decided. Lovingly, painstakingly, she inserted his cock inside her mouth. She deep throated him, smiling up at him. Her two hands played with his balls. The girl on John's toes reached a hand forward and began caressing Diana's naked ass. Gently, she inserted her thumb inside Diana's cunt while her index finger maneuvered its way into her asshole. She finger-fucked Diana in both orifices.
"Here comes Gene!" John said with delight, still pressing George's knee. George wished he would move his hand. Through the corner of his eye, he could see that John had his cock out and was pumping it with his left hand. His eyes did not leave the screen at all. George felt unnerved. Suddenly he had a feeling that this camaraderie number on John's part was simply to seduce him. That was one of the classic ways. Show somebody porn films, get him hot and bothered, and then you put the make on him. This could be a sophisticated version of that number.
George looked back to the screen.
Gene was quite young, twenty perhaps. He was dark, looking a bit like John, in fact. And like John, he had a very good sized cock. He kneeled over John with one knee on either side. John's head moved up and his tongue began licking Gene's ass cheeks. Using both hands, he spread the cheeks and began licking up and down on either side of Gene's asshole.
"Wow!" exclaimed John, moving his hand from George's knee. "Dig that tongue action!"
George was both aroused by the sex play on screen and extremely rattled by the seemingly unself-conscious sex number John-seated mere inches from George-was doing. He now had both of his hands working away on his cock.
The camera angle cut to John taking-Gene's balls in his mouth. He held them there, his nose practically inside Gene's asshole. Eventually he got most of Gene's cock in his mouth and sucked on it most skillfully, thought George.
"Man! Don't be shy," said John, nudging him with his right arm. "You're among friends, you can jerk off!"
Timidly at first, George began to unzip his fly. I'm being dumb, he told himself. I've jerked off with male friends before. It was true it had been almost twenty years since he and some school pals used to look at dirty pictures and then jerk off. But there was precedent. And besides, why not take his cue from John? John seemed completely un-uptight about the whole thing. Besides, George realized, he could use some relief. His mouth was dry. His cock was stiff and uncomfortable trapped inside his slacks.
Grasping his cock firmly in his right hand, George began to jerk off for the second time that day. On screen, the camera work was almost dizzying as it captured a montage of sweating bodies, smiling faces, cocks going inside assholes and cunts and mouths. The music kept building. Finally, the screen became awash with whiteness. It gave the impression of gallons of white paint dripping down the screen. The whiteness became brighter and whiter. Luminescent almost.
George started to come.
John turned toward him. He got on his knees. While still jerking on his own cock, he put his mouth on George's. George-for a moment-tuned out the fact that another male was sucking on his cock. It felt so good. That was all he knew. But just as he started to come, he saw John's black hair bobbing at his crotch. He felt panic. What was he doing? Jesus Christ! He was tempted to push John's head away, but he thought it would hurt his feelings. That's ridiculous, he thought. Fuck his feelings!
The sensation of coming was so tremendous, though, he was able to tune back into it. He closed his eyes. Long seconds passed and his cock stopped shooting its fluid down John's throat. George heard John moaning. He must be coming, too.
Miranda was sitting at her desk, sipping some camomile tea. Some days at the office were very depressing. All of her visitors so far had been Chicanos. They could hardly speak English and they were in dire need. There was almost nothing she could do for them. She had a lump in her throat, and she wished she had given up welfare work when she came out here. On the top of her battered old mahogany desk, she saw a procession of ants. Damn them! When she first arrived in L.A, she was so delighted to see the last of New York cockroaches she didn't mind the ants one bit. At the moment, she almost wished for a roach. She was better trained to deal with them than ants. She took a piece of stationery and slid the small procession of them onto it. The window-with a broken pane-was behind her. She threw the paper through the hole.
Finishing her tea, she picked up a file. She stepped outside the cubicle she called her office. Into the waiting room, she said in a loud voice: "Mr. Forster."
Miranda stood there, the file in her right hand, looking over a mass of faces. All these poor people sitting in rickety old wooden chairs waiting to have their names called. She tried looking above the faces. She was feeling depressed enough without seeing more unhappy, lost faces. Then rising from a seat in the back row, she saw a tall, rather attractive, and seemingly young-looking man. He stepped over numerous people and then started down the aisle toward her.
"Mr. Forster?"
He stood in front of her, about seven inches taller than she. "That's me, all right," he grinned. "Follow me," she said. He did so.
He sat facing her in her cubicle. He had dark hair and a bushy mustache. He also looked as though he had not shaved in several days. His hair was longish and unkempt. The dungarees and work shirt he wore looked filthy and were extremely wrinkled.
"Your name is Cristopher Forster?" she asked, afraid to breathe too deeply for fear she'd inhale the odor of stale perspiration or just unwashed body.
"Cris," he said, in a deep baritone voice. Miranda wondered if he drank a lot and smoked too much. His voice was really deep. "What do you do when you work?" She began making notations in his file.
"Rock musician." He began lighting a Pall Mall.
"Smoking is not permitted here."
He inhaled on his cigarette. Miranda let it pass. At least he spoke English and he didn't look as though he needed her sympathy. She was already feeling ridiculously grateful to him.
"When did you work last?"
""Bout a year and a half ago," he said, scratching at his genital area.
Miranda looked away from him. Peripherally, she could still see his hand scratching away. Honestly!
Pretending to be writing away in his file, she did not look up. "How did you manage all this time without work?"
"Nothing to it."
She asked him a lot more questions. His answers were punctuated with vigorous scratchings at his crotch. Finally she glared at him.
"This bugging you?" he asked, pointing at his crotch. "Sorry. Think I must've caught the crabs. This chick who's been staying with me hustles for extra bread." He grinned. "I'm always catching something from her."
"Is she supporting you?" Miranda asked, trying not to sound shocked.
"She pays for the gas and buys the food."
"The gas?"
"Gasoline. I live in my van. And she's been staying with me."
"Well how do you manage? Where do you bathe and...."
"Nothing to it. The good Lord provides ... Is He onna provide welfare for me?" Miranda closed the file folder. "I don't know, Mr. Forster...."
"Cris."
"I don't know, Cris. Yours is quite an unusual case." She stood up. "Come back next Tuesday."
"Dee-lighted!"
Giving her a very sweet ear-to-ear grin and a wave with his left hand, he was gone. Miranda sat down again.
There were more ants on her desk. Ants, crabs, and sunshine.
I'll call George, she thought. Perhaps his mood has lifted and he can cheer me up. Jean told her he was out to lunch. She decided she would go out to lunch, too. Generally, she had something sent in because of the heavy workload. But this was one day when it would be advantageous to go out and clear her head.
As she started down Beverly Boulevard, she saw Cris Forster bent over the front of his van. His head was immersed under the hood. She could see his two arms moving. He obviously was fiddling with some parts. She could not make up her mind whether to just walk past him and hope that he might not see her. Or whether she should ask if he needed any help.
"Does Welfare give cash allowances for broken down vans?" he asked her as she was about to walk past him.
"Oh, hi...." she said foolishly. "What's wrong?" walking up closer to him. His hands were filthy and greasy.
"You know, you got real pretty hair."
She smiled. "Uh, thank you....Is there anything I can do?" She peered down under the hood.
"Know anything about cars?"
"No."
"Thanks, anyway." He started to close the hood. Miranda moved back. "Wanna lift?"
"It's fixed?"
"It'll drive. Where ya going?"
"Have lunch."
"How ya like to buy me a sandwich?"
To her own surprise, Miranda nodded. But his hands! "Do you want to go back inside the office and wash up?" He looked down at his hands.
As they left the office, Miranda relaxed a bit. His hands were clean and he did not smell as bad as she had thought earlier. There was a hint of perspiration odor, but it was fresh and she did not find it offensive. She found his dirty, wrinkled clothes disturbing. But she could deal with that.
Miranda and Cris found a sidewalk restaurant about two blocks from her office. She had never eaten here before. The tables all had umbrellas to keep the hot noon sun away. It was very pleasant. Although, Miranda could not help thinking what any of her friends-or George-might think were they to see her sipping a glass of white wine and eating a tuna sandwich with an unemployed rock musician?
"You got an old man?" he asked, swigging a Budweiser.
"I'm married, if that's what you mean?"
"What for?"
"I'm old-fashioned. I believe in a husband ... A home. Security...." He smiled. "Bullshit."
"I think you're being very rude," she said, taking a bit of her tunafish sandwich. The rye toast was cold. What am I doing here? she thought. I'm taking a total stranger to lunch. One of my "visitors." Dammit! One of my cases. And here he's insulting me. I should have stayed with the ants.
"Don't get uptight, Saxon."
"My name is Miranda. Why do you think it's all bull...?" She could not quite get herself to say that word.
He gestured to the waiter for another Budweiser, and lit up another cigarette. "I shouldn't have come on so strong. But it pisses me off when a dynamite-looking woman like you says such dumb things."
"You're being rude again. Why call the things I believe dumb?"
"You don't really believe all that about a husband and a home?"
"I do!" she said, sitting straight up in her chair, and looking him directly in the eye.
"Different strokes...."
Neither said anything further for a few minutes. Both concentrated on eating, drinking and looking at the passersby. Finally, Miranda said, "What do you believe in?"
"Right now. The here and now. The present moment."
Miranda sighed. "Yes. I know. In the late '60s everybody took drugs. And now everybody tries to stay in the present. 'Be here now.' Forget family, responsibilities, the future. 'Groove on the present.'" She brought her napkin to her lips. "I think that's all very boring. There's more to life than momentary pleasures."
"Dig it!" His eyes lit up. "Do you realize how totally arbitrary everything is? Do you know that both your home and your husband-and your job-could be taken from you today? What recourse do you have? None. There is no security. There's nothing. Just what importance you attach to people and things. And tomorrow you may attach as much importance to ... to drinking a case of Budweiser a day, as you do to your husband. It's all in your head. And if you choose to. You can change your head. You act as though the 'old-fashioned' things you dig are constants. They ain't. They're only constants because of the energy, the head energy you lay on them." He suddenly looked around, as though aware that his voice had become loud. "End of rap."
"Arbitrary?" Miranda said.
"You know Lady Saxon, I would dig to fuck you. I would dig fucking the shit out of you. I would dig fucking you until you cried aunt!" Miranda looked horrified. She looked around her. No one at the other tables was paying them any mind. "But I'm not going to. Because sex is only a groove if two people are willing to invest all their energy, all their vibes into it. And you ain't. Your energy goes toward maintaining a belief in home and hubby. You're probably lousy in bed because you're so busy trying to see that things between you are as they should be, instead of as they really are."
Miranda was about to call for the check. It seemed too dramatic a gesture, though. Like something out of a bad movie. The heroine is abused, reviled. She does not respond, instead, she calls out "Waiter!" Nevertheless, in spite of being completely in control, Miranda was very angry.
"If you didn't have the crabs I would sleep with you this afternoon," she said in an even voice.
He grinned at her at first. Then he broke into gales of laughter. He pushed back his chair and actually slapped his thigh in delight. In spite of herself, Miranda began laughing, too.
"George!" Miranda said in a highly annoyed tone of voice. She had been lying over him in a 69 position. His head was at the foot of the bed, his toes touching the pillows. Miranda's ass was over his face, and until she called his name and moved forward, his tongue and lips had been playing with her pussy.
"What's wrong?" There was no mistaking the impatient tone in his voice. He had paused a moment before replying to her because he did not want her to know that she had pissed him off.
Miranda let go of his no-longer erect cock with his hands, and rolled off his body. She lay back, her head on the pillow. "I don't like your barking orders at me."
He sat up. Startled. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"There I was," the tone of her voice began to change from stern to that of lost little girl. (George's anger was building. She's doing a number on me, he said to himself. She is fucking doing a number on me!) "Holding it, licking it ... trying to get more into it...." her voice faltered, but George felt no sympathy, "and you start saying obscene things to me ... giving me orders...."
George jumped up from the bed. He felt like slapping her. He really would have loved just to smack her across the mouth. He was afraid he would if he stayed in too close proximity with her. Naked, he walked across the room. He threw himself into a somewhat battered rattan chair. Ignoring the straw ends that were chafing his ass, he sat and glared at her. Often he would look at her naked body lying on the bed, and feel touched by her vulnerability. Now, he looked over at her lying atop the colorful Indian chudder and he felt nothing of the sort. Irritation perhaps with that pink, suntanned, beautifully cared for, and seemingly sexless body.
"What are these...." the anger in his throat made the words come out sounded almost strangled. He caught himself, "orders you're talking about?"
"George, don't be dense." She was practically pouting.
"Miranda! Knock it off. We're not doing Daddy and Baby now. You want to talk. Talk! Or else let's go back to screwing." He caught himself. "Fuck that!" He said loudly. Miranda looked frightened. "We weren't screwing. We were eating each other. You were sucking my cock! And I was eating your cunt!" Automatically, almost as punctuation, he crossed his bare legs.
"There's no point in talking to you," she said huffily. "You're obviously in a mood!"
"In a mood to talk straight. Jesus Christ! Miranda, after three years of marriage, three years of sex...."
"It's more than three years...."
"All right, after more than three years of having sex together, why can't we speak frankly about it?"
"Because," she said, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, and facing him in a sitting position, "I don't like it. And you know I don't like it. Why do you have to reduce lovemaking to four-letter words?"
"They turn me on. That's why!"
Neither said anything for a few moments. George wished he had not given up smoking cigarettes. He looked over at her. She looked very forlorn, staring down at the carpet beneath the bed.
"Miranda, I'm sorry if you thought I was barking orders at you." She did not look up. "I thought the tone of my voice was more like a sexy whisper." She looked up, a slight smile beginning at the opposite ends of her lips. "But I did want you to know that your teeth were hurting me."
"You never said so before."
She had a point, he thought. Asshole that I am, I should have told her from the first day she went down on me. Her teeth always got in the way. One of the reasons he did not care for being sucked off was because it was not very pleasant. Her teeth almost always grazed the loose foreskin of his cock. His method had always been to move her head gently away. He hoped that she would think it meant he was so turned on that he had to stop her or come. He realized how stupidly he had been behaving. He had been polite. With a twinge of-was it guilt?-he also realized that it was John Vincence going down on him in the projection booth several weeks ago that made him see that it was possible to be sucked and not be aware of teeth.
"You're right, I should have said something sooner."
She looked aghast. "You mean it did hurt you in the past. And you let me do it?"
"F'chrissakes, Miranda! This is why I never said anything before. I knew it would be a big fucking deal. Why are you so upset? I'm the asshole, I'm the one who's been short changed in the sucking department because of being so fucking polite. And you sit there looking hurt. You always take everything so personally!"
He felt suddenly uncomfortable being naked in front of her. He got up from the chair and picked up an ornate purple caftan, which he had bought recently on the Strip. Miranda regarded him with some distaste as he slipped it over his head. She had never liked him to dress flamboyantly. She hated it when he displayed any interest in things she thought were faggy. They had not spoken for two days once because he had bought an expensive and very handsome leather shoulder strap bag. Even now that almost every guy carried a shoulder strap bag of some sort Miranda still looked down on them. She still thought of them as effeminate.
"I'm going to make some tea," he said quietly. "Want some?"
She shook her head.
Barefoot, he padded off to the kitchen. George stalled in the brightly lit room for some time. He was tired of arguing. He was tired of fighting over sex. It seemed they were doing that more and more. He loved Miranda but he didn't want hassles. They used to have fun together. That was what he wanted again. But he wanted a somewhat different kind of fun than they used to have in New York. In New York they had been very social. They saw lots of people. Partly because of his job, they went to cover almost all of the new plays, on and off-Broadway. He was invited to advance screenings of all the major films. Miranda had lots of friends in city jobs and the government. So they were at a lot of official functions, as well.
But both of them loved it here and after the first few months, became so adjusted to the quieter L.A. life style, that they hardly missed the New York trip. It was terrific to lie in the sun after a swim in the pool. He looked out of the kitchen window and smiled as he saw the bright afternoon sun doing its number on the ripply blue water. Just terrific to be able to read all the scripts and novels that his job required while lying out of doors in his bathing suit. But for Miranda, he would be into lying around in the nude. And that was the kind of fun he missed.
This was a sexually liberated age. L. A. was proof of that. The existence of a wild, way-out guy like John Vincence was further proof. George really was very turned on by John. He could hardly wait to see him again and to meet Diana. He started feeling a delicious nervous sensation in the pit of his stomach as he thought of the possibilities for unusual sexuai experience they might introduce him to. That's what life should be about. What John's life was like. John worked very hard at making his films and getting financing for them. In between that, he spent a lot of time in bed. With Diana. With other women. With guys. With lots of people. John loved food, good dope, sunshine.
At one time, George would have looked down on this kind of life style. But now it made sense to him. What else was there? You worked at what you liked and then did what you liked for pleasure in between working.
"I'll have some tea, if there's enough," he heard Miranda say.
"Sure." He got another cup.
In silence, they carried their cups into the living room. They sat on a bright red foam-rubber sofa surrounded by numerous green plants of various sizes. Looking directly in front of them, were the large glass doors-both open-facing the pool. Beyond the pool was the sky and some distant mountains. Sitting here, George felt better already.
Miranda had slipped into a blue, rayon nightgown. It was empire style, kind of old-fashioned, and her favorite item of apparel. Miranda's breasts were not excessive, but the cut of the nightgown made them look larger. The empire style also made her belly look fuller, like she was pregnant. Without saying a word, George leaned forward and put his head against her belly. She put her hands in his hair after a few moments.
Later.
George had thrown off his caftan, but Miranda lay on her back on the sofa with her nightgown pushed way up over her breasts. George's naked body was on hers and he was licking at her nipples. Carefully, meticulously, he would first lick at one and then move his head to the other occasionally grasping the nipples between his lips. Miranda sighed and ran her fingers through his dark black hair.
Moving down her body, George placed one hand on either of her ass cheeks and lifted her somewhat. His dick was already hard. Lifting himself upward, his ass up in the air, he got his cock to nuzzle the tip of her cunt. He was trying to tickle her clit with his cock. But he couldn't tell if he was succeeding.
Miranda gasped.
He had succeeded. He did it a few times more. Her excited reactions turned him on further. He thrust his cock gently-about a half inch-inside her. With some disappointment, he realized that slight itch at the head of his cock was back. He wished there were some KY handy to lubricate her.
But he didn't want to stop. He thrust a bit more. Finally, about half his cock was inside. She put her hands on George's neck and he came down closer to her, right to her mouth. Keeping his mouth only a shade opened, he began to plant dry kisses on her lips. She wriggled her head somewhat.
"You tickle," she said, with no trace of amusement in her voice.
George, without thinking, by some angry reflex, forced the rest of his cock inside her. The tip of his dick felt aflame. It was painful to plunge in like this. Miranda moaned. By sheer effort of will, George continued fucking her, even though it hurt.
"Hurry, George, hurry...." she gasped.
He knew she was speeding him on simply to get the thing over with. Not out of any great sexual excitation. He was tempted to tell her to stop barking orders at him. She never made any conversation during sex except to bark orders, he thought. But he let it pass.
George quickened the movements of his ass. Bucking. Thrusting. In and out. He started to come finally. She started to moan and move under him. He did not believe for one minute that she was having an orgasm. In spite of the come shooting from him, George was not feeling ecstatic. He felt only the pain at the tip of his cock and a lump beginning to form in his throat.
He realized, with sadness, that this was probably the first time that he was fully in touch with the fact of Miranda's faking an orgasm.
As Jean and George walked into the living room, he asked her if she wanted a drink.
"No, Mr. Saxon...." she laughed. "George." She went right up to the glass doors. "Gee, this is really fantastic!"
He smiled, nervously. "You like grass?"
She turned around, flashing a dazzling smile, and nodding her head up and down.
As they sat on the sofa passing a joint back and forth, she asked him: "Why are you married?"
He looked puzzled. "L.A. is the only place I've ever been where people ask that question."
She laughed. "I just don't understand why people do it." She handed him the joint, after first inhaling deeply. "Take you and me. We dug each other right away. I felt it was just a matter of time before we'd make it together."
Her warm manner, her frankness, and the glow the grass was giving him caused George to smile so broadly he began to feel self-conscious. Like a grinning idiot. But he didn't care. He felt really good for the first time today. "I can't tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that." George realized he was feeling so good his cock was beginning to harden. Not a wild erotic hot turn on. Just a nice gentle, slowly building erection. All of him seemed to be expanding in pleasure. And the hardening of his cock was part of the gentle kvelling that enveloped him.
"But because you're married, there's a certain amount of sneaking around, and lying ... you know. It would be so much better if everything could be out in front. We like each other. So what. That has nothing to do with your wife or anybody I might be seeing. We should all learn to be loose and do what makes us feel good." She looked down at her watch. "But we also have to be practical. We don't have that much time."
"You're amazing," he laughed. George put the roach down in an ashtray and looked warmly over at Jean. She was wearing a beige sweater which accentuated the warm, soft feminine quality she had. He felt he could easily-stoned as he was-get lost in her softness.
He inched over on the sofa, putting his arms around her waist. He brought his mouth to hers. Her mouth was soft, moist. Her lips were not at all dry the way Miranda's often were. They were so moist, so unlike what he was used to, he could not decide whether he liked it or not. Jean's tongue began playing with his.
"I like your tongue," she whispered.
"I like yours...."
They continued exploring each other's mouths, lips, tongues. "Let's lie down," George murmured.
She lay back on the sofa, first removing her sandals. George lay down on top of her.
"Oooh," she laughed. "Your belt buckle."
He stood up. As he was about to pull the belt through the loops of his slacks, he decided to remove his clothing all together. Jean lay there looking up at him, an amused look on her face.
Pants off, he pulled his turtleneck over his head, and stood in front of her nude but for his socks. She pointed to them. He sat down on the glass coffee table and pulled them off.
"Would you," he said in a mock-British accent, "care to divest yourself of those cumbersome items that adorn your person?"
They both giggled. George moved to the sofa and helped her pull off her blouse and unzip her skirt. As she lifted her ass to remove her panties, George said, "I'm so glad you don't wear pantyhose."
"I hate them."
He was about to tell her about his jerk off fantasy about her, but decided it might sound like a line. He was also afraid of leading her on. Might sound serious to her. And they were just having fun.
Jean lay back on the sofa, her head slightly raised. George began to caress her breasts. "You have very lovely breas ... tits," he said.
"So have you." They laughed again.
"Seriously," he said.
"But seriously, folks," she said in a manner that suggested every second-rate comic George had ever seen. She put her hands forward and began running her hands over his nipples.
"Oh, that really turns me on," he moaned.
"Good." Her fingernails, which she kept reasonably short, began rubbing up and down over his nipples. "I love a man's nipples when they get hard," she said, moving her face forward to his nipples she licked at his right one for long moments.
George felt as though he had died and gone to heaven. He often played with his nipples while masturbating and he had hinted-indirectly-to Miranda that he loved having them played with. But this was the first time anyone had ever really done a number on them. His cock had become rock hard almost from the moment she first started touching them.
Jean looked up at him. One hand moved down to his cock, which she began rubbing gently. George sat at the edge of the sofa, one cheek on and one cheek off. He felt as though he should stop her from doing him and do the man's number, i.e, attend to turning her on.
"You better stop," he groaned, putting his hands on her shoulders. , "Why? You 'bout to come?"
He shook his head. "But I should be giving you pleasure...."
She gave his cock an extra yank. "You are!"
An incredible warmth in his stomach caused George to smile broadly and then laugh out loud. "Oh, Jean ... Jean ... you're wonderful."
"You're not so bad yourself," she said, sounding like a cross between Mae West and W.C. Fields.
George had seldom felt so relaxed in a sexual situation. Here he was now, just lying on the sofa on his back. A lovely blue-eyed red-head was on her knees below him. Her mouth gently sucking on his cock, her fingers gently massaging his nipples. He had to do nothing. Nothing. Except not feel self-conscious at being passive. It was much on his mind. Jean's attitude helped considerably. But he had this sense that something was wrong in his just lying there and having a woman do all the work.
"Sit on my cock, would you?"
She looked up from his cock. Still holding about half of it in her mouth, she nevertheless nodded. "You know," he whispered, "women are usually lousy cocksuckers ... but you're terrific."
She sat up slightly, removing his cock from her mouth. She held its extremely moist head in her hand, and began jerking it up and down. "My old man taught me how to do this. I'm pretty good at it," she said rather proudly.
"Because you like it."
"I really dig it."
A shade self-consciously, he said, "Do you like having your cunt eaten?" She nodded vigorously.
It really wasn't so hard to use frank language during sex, he thought. Especially if you're stoned and the woman is not uptight.
She turned her body so that her ample-but sexy-ass faced him. She put her mouth back on his cock and moved her legs so that her knees were resting one on each side of his head. George put his hands on her cheeks. He began to stroke them very gently. Her skin was so soft. So unmarked. No pimples. The way women always seemed to have in porn films. He raised his head upward and began licking at the moist opening of her cunt. She was incredibly wet there. For a long moment, he wasn't sure if he liked it or not. But he plunged in anyway. His hands moved from her ass to her thighs. From her thighs he began slowly inching his fingers to her cunt. He spread the lips and got both his thumbs inside her. The phrase "sopping snatch"-from various porn novels he had read-crossed his mind.
Jean began moaning as his thumbs moved further inside her. Her ass started moving forward and backward slightly, as her mouth seemed to work more dynamically on the head of his cock. Finally, she put her head all the way down and got most of his cock into her mouth. John Vincence popped into his head. She sucked cock almost as well as he did. And John Vincence was some kind of sex magician.
Thumbs in her cunt, his neck and head straining upward, George was able to lick at her clit. It was a very sensitive area for her, for she seemed almost to be trying to move his tongue away. He slowed down. He would swipe with his tongue at her clit and paused a few seconds and then lunge his tongue forward to it again. That seemed to turn her on. A lot. After a few more licks at her clit her ass began moving almost involuntarily. His cock slipped from her mouth. Her breathing became irregular and her moans grew.
His thumbs kept working, his tongue kept moving and she came. Her ass bucked feverishly above him. "Don't...." she gasped. Her head sank into the space below his crotch. He could feel her heavy breathing on his balls and the space leading to his asshole. Her pussy was right at his nose, practically smothering him. After a few moments, her weight seemed intense. But he did not want to disturb her yet. He liked her. He wanted her to bask in what sex manuals called "the afterglow."
After George had fucked Jean in doggy fashion-a manner which Miranda-always found distasteful ("degrading" was another word she had for it), he went to the bathroom for a towel. As he walked naked back into the living room, he heard the front door open.
"George!" Miranda said in a startled voice, looking askance at his nudity. "Are you home sick?"
He shook his head.
Jean popped her head up over the sofa's edge. "Hello, Mrs. Saxon," she said, rather cheerfully. Then looking at George, "you see what I mean about marriage and all?"
CHAPTER TWO
"Sounds like a good thing to me." John Vincence was sitting in George's office, facing him across the desk.
George simply nodded. There was silence for a few moments. "Three years is a long time...."
"Look, G, I don't want to sound unfeeling," he leaned forward in his chair, "but you weren't happy. And if she divorces you over something so minor...."
"Not to her it wasn't," George said looking at the violently purple hue of John's silk shirt...." if she divorces you over something so minor, which by your own admission-your honor, ladies and gentlemen of the jury-was his only indiscretion." John stood up and raising his head, appeared to be addressing a crowded gallery. "Can you dig that? Ladies and gentlemen? This righteous dude-tall, personable, well-hung, attractive to men, women, secretaries, fire hydrants, Peruvian yaks, no one fails to succumb to his charms-in spite of all that-he kept his dick to himself. TO HIMSELF. For three long, lonely years. In the darkened back rows of sleazy movie theatres, he pulled it out and beat on his meat, hoping, hoping...." John pretended to wipe a tear from his eye with the cuff of his sleeve "for some relief. Did his wife give him relief?" He pointed to George. "Did his wife give him any relief?" George sat there smiling. "Answer, dummy! Did his wife give him any relief?"
"No."
"Relief no, grief yes. Once in three years' time, he takes his throbbing staff, his rock hard rod, his pole of manhood, his inflamed sword and jabs a lovely, young female. Not only does the schmuck get caught. She divorces him. Which, ladies and gentlemen, is a far, far better thing she has done than she has ever done before. I rest my case." He sat down. "And my ass."
George began clapping his hands together. John stood up and bowed.
"When do I finally meet Diana?" George asked.
"Tonight."
"Great! She's back?"
"Got in last night. Ask her to show you the plaque. It's this big phallus, known to its intimates as a 'Rod.' Get it? Oscar, Emmy, Tony, and now Rod. Engraved on Rod is the statement Best Performance by A Female in An Erotic Film."
George laughed. "Is she happy?"
"Thrilled! It's the first year the Manhattan Pornophiles gave awards. She's the first woman to ever win. Schmucks of course totally ignored my performance in the same film." He wrinkled up his face and rubbed his hands together, "not to mention my flawless direction. Assholes. They're uptight phonies. They're more interested in getting into Diana's snatch than into my asshole. From what she said, most of the awards to the men were afterthoughts. She had fun, but she said she was not about to make it with any of them. Most of them were fat and middle-aged and uptight. But enough of this! Has your sex life improved since Miranda split?"
Once again, John leaned forward his jaw resting on his hand, his hand resting on the edge of George's desk.
"I've mainly been making with Jean."
"She's very nice. Is she good sex?"
"Excellent. Loves to suck. And she's very into my lying back and working at turning me on. And that," George said, a big smile forming on his face, "is something new, really new for me."
"Dynamite!"
George sat up straight in his chair. "I don't believe our conversations." He stood up. "I don't believe my dialogue." He faced John. "Do you know I always wondered why people didn't discuss sex openly like this. What else is more interesting? I realize maybe if I hadn't been so uptight, I could have initiated the kind of conversation. I love it. I really love it!"
"Jean's got a great ass," John sat thoughtfully. "Is she into having her asshole fucked?"
"See what I mean," said George sitting down again. "It's wonderful to be so open about important things."
"Is she?"
"What?"
"Ladies and gentlemen, we must be charitable. Kind even. Here is a man so freaked at being able to discuss sex openly that...."
"Oh, Jean. Yeah, I like her ass too. But I've never fucked her there." Be specific, he thought. "In the asshole, that is."
John laughed. "Man, you're too fucking much! You want to bring her tonight."
"No, I don't think so. Sometime it would be nice but not tonight...." He shook his head, still weighing the idea in his mind. One of the advantages of not having a wife. One of the advantages of living alone again. One of the advantages of not having to consult with another person. George was free. For almost the first time in his life. Totally free. He had no close ties out here. No family. No real friends. And now that Miranda was gone, no wife. He could decide on the spur of the moment to do whatever he felt like doing. And do it. He was free. It was a wonderful feeling. An exciting feeling. A liberating feeling.
It was also somewhat frightening.
Suddenly, at the age of 30, he felt the freedom to make his own choices. He could choose to do or not do anything he felt like. And it would make no difference to anyone. Except to him. If he and Miranda had remained together, he suspected than he would have made the choice to be a more casual friend of John's. But now he was free and he was choosing to actively court John's friendship. John meant to him entry to the kind of sexuality he had always dreamed of. Moving to L.A. had been a dream come true. And now that he was opening up, now that whatever kind of sexual life style he chose could be his ... it was ... George did not know the appropriate cliche ... heaven on earth? So real that it was more than reality. The reality was so intense, so much better than his fantasies, that it was almost dream-like.
"Jesus Christ!" he said aloud.
"Hot dog!" said John leaping up and dancing a little step. "Are we gonna talk dirty some more? Pant, pant," he said with his tongue slobbering down over his lower lip.
"Fuck you!" George laughed.
John turned around, bent over, and exposed his blue-jeaned covered buttocks. "Got any KY in your desk?"
George laughed, a little uncomfortably. He knew that if he were really into John he would probably let him fuck him.
He felt a nervous feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. Was this what he was choosing? Was the absence of Miranda from his life going to open up to him an endless series of similar situations of this sort? Would his newly found freedom keep him constantly on his toes making decisions as to how far he wanted to go sexually?
John was still bent over. George forced himself to look more closely at John's ass than he ordinarily would have. He had never really been turned on by men's asses. John's was lean, tending toward flatness. But bent over, with the tight jeans accentuating the shape of the cheeks, it was a sexy ass. John reached around and with his right hand, using his index finger, drew a line up and down the cleft separating his two buttocks.
It reminded George of a stripper he had once seen in New Jersey. He remembered going home and jerking off several times over the memory of the way in which she fingered her ass.
"No sale," he said laughing nervously.
John stood up. "Buddy," he faced George, "you're still very uptight. Let's go to lunch."
As George and John sat eating lunch at a sidewalk place on La Cienega, the conversation was mainly about John's proposed porn version of "Madame Bovary." John was so busy commenting on every attractive couple who walked by that he did not display his usual enthusiasm for the project.
"The women's lib angle is something I'm stressing," George said, sipping some camomile tea, and finding Miranda crossing his mind. "From a commercial point of view, if you can be assured of interest on the part of women...."
John, using his spoon, pointed to a young hippie-looking couple approaching them. "Oh, that face! Are you digging that angel face of hers?"
George looked up. The chick was tall and blonde and very innocent looking. She reminded him a bit of how Miranda had looked to him the first time they met. He felt a slight twinge of-he didn't know what.
"And the dude. Dig him!"
He was also tall, also blond, also innocent looking. Perhaps they're brother and sister, thought George. It was certainly possible from the way they were walking. Friendly, warm, attentive to each other but not giving off a sense of sexual involvement. George mentioned this to John. Just as they were about to walk past the table, John leaned over the wrought iron fence that separated the customers from the pedestrians. "Are you related?"
They smiled. "Us?" they said, almost in unison. John nodded.
"Brother and sister," the guy said, as they stopped in front of the table. , John stood up. "You're both bee-youtifullll!" he said loudly, throwing his head back, and gesturing wildly. "Just beautifullll...."
"Thank you," she said, sweetly, looking over at George quizzically. George gave her a yes-he's-a-nut-but-he's-sincere-so-don't-take-offense look.
"How'd ya like to be in p-pic-tures?" John said, popping his lips on the p in pictures.
The guy turned his sharp, cold blue-blue eyes toward John. "What kind of pictures?" He was dressed in patched dungarees and very scuffed sandals. He moved a few inches closer to John and put both of his hands in his pockets.
George began to feel very uncomfortable.
"Lovely pictures of lovely people making love," John replied in an uncharacteristically effete voice.
"Let's go, Jennifer," said the brother backing away from John and turning slowly.
"Your friend is crazy," she said sweetly to George as she turned and followed her brother.
John looked after them. "His ass is terrific. But hers is fabulous." He sat down. "Are you into incest?"
"I've never tried it."
"The idea turn you on?"
"?A little...."
"Oh, man what a great film I could make. Imagine a gorgeous couple like that fucking and sucking on screen. Incest is going to be very big. Very, very big."
George laughed. "I think that chick was right."
"Sure she was. I am crazy. There's no point in being alive, unless you're crazy. That's one of your troubles, G. You ain't crazy. Stick with me, I'll make you crazy."
John looked once more in the direction of the young brother and sister, and sighed loudly.
"John...." George began tentatively.
"The answer is yeah."
"What was I going to say?"
"You could have fucked me in the ass back in your office if you were into it. You were going to pussyfoot about asking that."
George nodded, without looking at John.
"Man, I love sex. I love all kinds of sex. I love new experiences. With people I dig. But I don't push. If you don't want to make it with me, that's cool. I'm not taking it personally. Relax."
George wondered if this would even have come up if he and Miranda were still living together. His stomach felt very tense. He was glad they were finished with lunch. He remembered all the work he had to do this afternoon, and was pleased. He wanted to be very busy, he did not want to think about all the things that John put into his head. For a moment, as he toyed with his Carrot Cake on his plate, he toyed with canceling his appointment with John and Diana this evening. All this was, in John's word, heavy. Very heavy. He wasn't sure at the moment whether he liked his freedom. There was something consoling about the tightness of his former relationship with Miranda. They had done practically everything together. They almost never spent an evening apart. It was tiresome, sometimes. But soothing to know someone was waiting for you. Soothing to have someone to assume would accompany you when you were invited somewhere. Someone who kept you out of trouble.
George had a terrible sense that knowing John was going to get him into trouble. He was beginning to equate freedom with trouble. Shit, he thought with irritation, that's a cop out.
"What time tonight?" he asked John, gesturing for the waitress?
Miranda had not gone to work today. When she had awakened feeling depressed and lonely, the thought of all those poor people coming to her with their problems was more than she could bear. She had called in sick. She was standing in the bathroom looking in the mirror. I do look sick, she thought. Tears came to her eyes. I am sick, damm it.
It had been almost a month since George had moved out. She had filed for a divorce, charging adultery, almost immediately. There had been some dickering about who would remain on in the house. She felt it was her right to stay on. After all, George had been the one to stray. He eventually agreed, behaving, she felt, with a total lack of grace. The whole thing had been unpleasant. In retrospect, she felt that it needn't have been. But he had hurt her very badly. They had such a nice life. Such a comfortable secure life. Both were doing very well at their jobs. In just a matter of months, they would have been able to buy this house. Everything was going along swimmingly well.
That bastard! That rotten bastard! Miranda began shaking. Her body felt a strange combination of pain and violent anger. Her fists were clenched and yet the tears streamed down her face. All in one day. It had happened so abruptly. She had forgotten a case file at home, something she never did. She had an excellent memory for details. She had driven home. And there he was. With his secretary. The whole thing was so cheap. Sleazy, Sordid.
She found herself wishing she had not found him out. She might even have gotten over her hurt at his infidelity. But she would never be able to rest easy again. She would always been wondering. She knew herself well enough to know that if he were five minutes late for dinner, she would-for the rest of her life with him-wonder if he were fooling around.
Miranda pulled some tissues from the Kleenex dispenser. And now, thanks to that bastard, her whole life was ruined. Suddenly, she was totally alone out here. She had no friends, really. They knew some people jointly. But, aside from friends at the office, and that awful Doug and Vicki who lived nearby....
She found herself remembering what Cris, the rock musician who had been to see her about welfare, had told her. She had been angry with him. So angry at his daring her that she had actually taken the risk of suggesting she might sleep with him. She almost wished she had, maybe George's infidelity would have been easier to bear. This is ridiculous, she thought, blowing her nose. I'm only thinking this way because I'm so ... hurt. She began to cry again.
Cris had been right, though. Everything was arbitrary. Completely arbitrary. There was nothing to hang onto. There was no security. He had said one day your husband might be gone. Your security might be gone. And it was true. Simply by walking in on him that afternoon, a purely arbitrary act on her part, her entire life was unalterably changed.
She left the bathroom and walked into the living room. It was a mess. After George took his things and left, she had decided to redecorate. Her heart was not in it. Changing the cover on the sofa from red to blue. What difference did it make? Moving the plants nearer to the glass door. Buying a wicker coffee table. She could care less. She flopped into the sofa. The doorbell rang.
She found herself getting angry. Often, people working for the city, would be checked on if they took too many sick days. If they were daring to do that to her, she would quit. On the spot.
She went to the door. Almost trembling with rage, she pulled it open with great force.
"How ya doing?" It was Cris Forster.
"What are you doing here?"
He grinned. "Dee-lightful greeting." He turned. "I'll come back when I can stay a little longer," he said, turning and walking back toward the gate.
"Don't go. I'm sorry."
He turned around and walked into the house. "Are you sick?"
She shook her head. "Come into the living room."
He followed her. "You've shaved your beard and mustache." She did not say it but his clothes-jeans and workshirt-looked clean and un-wrinkled. She found her mood lifting almost magically. "I'm glad to see you," she said quietly, surprised that she had actually said it.
"Likewise. You got a great place," he said walking over and looking at the swimming pool. "Can I take a swim?"
"Sure," she said somewhat uncertainly, "if you like. Want something to drink?"
"Something cold. Mighty hot out there."
She went into the kitchen. When she returned, carrying two glasses of ginger ale, he was standing near the large glass doors in a patch of bright, bright sunlight, ripping off his clothes. Stark naked, he ran toward the pool and jumped in. Water splashed everywhere, particularly on her terry cloth robe which she had left on a chair outside to dry.
Cris swam back and forth several times, looking up just once to exclaim, "This is great!"
She moved her now wet robe from the chair and sat down, watching his strong back and arms weave through the water gracefully. Miranda felt a little nervous. Here was a stranger. Male. One of her cases. Whom she had only met twice before. Swimming nude in her pool. How could she explain it if someone should come by?
Cris got out of the pool. Dripping wet and shaking his head, he stood in front of her. She felt very embarrassed. Almost automatically, she found herself looking quickly at his penis and testicles. They were at her eye level. She looked up. His body was suntanned and almost completely hairless, but for his genitals and calves. He lay down on the tile adjacent to her chair.
"I'll get you a towel," she said nervously, rising.
"No need to." He closed his eyes and put his hands over them. "The sun will dry me off."
"Uh...." Tense as she was, she decided to say nothing further about his nudity. He would probably ridicule her as a prude. She wasn't, she knew. But she was not in the mood to have him make fun of her. She felt her mood darkening again. Why did he have to behave this way? Why couldn't he be civilized? One of his hands reached down and he scratched himself lightly under one of his testicles.
She stood up. "I'll be right back," she said. In the living room, she picked up the tray with the two glasses of ginger ale and brought them outside. "Here's your drink," she said. He sat up and took the glass from her.
Miranda sat down again, looking at the distant mountains. She caught a glimpse of the Griffith Planetarium. She and George would never get there now.
"You live here by yourself?"
"I do now."
"Y'old man split?"
"I'm divorcing him," she said, taking a deep breath.
"He beat you?"
"Worse. He played around."
Cris laughed, putting his glass down.
She found his laughter inappropriate but thought it best not to say so. She was glad to see him, even if he was making things awkward for her. And she didn't want to say anything that he would pick on.
"Tell me about it." She looked at him. "If you have a mind to," he said.
In a few quick sentences, she blurted it out, not breathing, fearful she would burst into tears. "And the worse part," she did start crying, "is I'm lonely. And frightened....You were right, my whole life is based on nothing ... nothing! Everything is arbitrary. Nobody has any control...." She dissolved into tears. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she said. "I feel like a fool...."
"It's cool," he said gently. "I do it sometimes, too." He moved closer and put his hands on her right arm. It was a warm, moist feeling to have him touching her. "Wanna tissue?" She shook her head, reaching inside the pocket of her sundress. She got out of the chair.
"I have to go inside," she said, "I thought I had a tissue ... but...." She hurried inside. When she came out of the bathroom-her eyes dry-he was standing near the sofa, still nude. "I think you should put your clothes on," she said, not looking at him.
He laughed. "Got a better idea." She looked up. She knew what he was going to say.
"Take yours off...."
She was standing a few feet from the sofa. As he walked toward her, the sun went behind a cloud for a moment. Miranda stood there trembling. I must be crazy, she thought. I don't even know him But she wanted him.
Cris stood in front of her. As he put his two hands to her face, the sun-as brilliant as earlier-illuminated the room. With one hand on each of her cheeks, he drew her mouth to his. Using his two lips, he grasped her upper lip and gently tugged at it.
Miranda put both of her arms around his bare back and held him tightly. He opened his mouth and his tongue sought hers. His mouth is different from George's, she thought.
Cris moved his hands from her face and reaching behind began lifting the yellow sundress up over her buttocks. Very gently, he stepped back a bit to allow it to pass up over her belly and her breasts. She moved slightly and he pulled it over her head, as she raised her arms. He flung it on the sofa. She looked down as he fell to his knees. His penis was already becoming erect, she noticed.
On his knees in front of her, his hands began running up and down her thighs. They hooked over her pantyhose and he pulled them all the way down. She stepped out of it. He left them just below her feet. Miranda stepped on them. For a fleeting second, she felt concern she'd get a tear in them. They had only been worn once. But as Cris reached behind and grasped each of her ass cheeks in each of his hands, the pantyhose fled from her mind.
He gripped her ass tightly in his strong, meaty hands. Bringing his face close to her crotch, he began licking at her pubic hair. Miranda parted her legs slightly and almost fell over.
"Want to sit?" he said in a deep voice.
"Mmm." She began moving toward the sofa.
Cris got up from his knees. As she sat down, he walked the few feet to the sofa and fell to his knees again. With her eyes closed and her thighs slightly apart, Miranda felt Cris' fingers begin to prod her vagina. Then, with his fingers pressed against her belly, she could feel the flat of his palm rubbing up and down over her clit.
He put his head forward and licked at her left nipple, while his right hand moved up and began to caress her other nipple. When both nipples were erect, he moved closer to her. His erect cock was right at the entrance to her pussy, he pushed in. With the very tip of it inside her, he paused. His mouth was still working on her erect nipple.
Miranda put her arms up around his neck and tried pulling him closer to her. She wanted him inside her. She wanted him as close to her as possible. She needed to feel his stomach against hers. His chest against her breast. His shoulder touching hers. He held himself back. Miranda felt herself tugging at his neck. He resisted. His penis remained hard but only the tip of it was inside her.
"Please, please...." she found herself saying.
Cris lifted his head from her breasts. He placed both hands on the soft flesh just above her waist. He held her there firmly. Still on his knees, he inched in closer to her, while simultaneously pulling her toward him. Miranda felt uncomfortable. Her back no longer had the support of the sofa's soft cushions. And while her behind was resting on the sofa, he was holding her in such a way that she felt almost suspended in the air.
Still holding her tightly just above her waist, he began to ease his penis more deeply inside her.
"Part your legs a bit more," she heard him say.. She opened her eyes. He was looking at her. He grinned. "How ya doing, babe?"
Miranda closed her eyes in embarrassment.
She spread her legs further and could feel his firm, hard penis slide very slowly, more deeply inside her. Miranda tried relaxing. She tried taking her mind off what was happening. But she couldn't. She felt frightened. She both wanted him to make love to her and to stop instantly. She almost felt like crying. She wanted George. With George, she never felt out of control. With George, she could still be herself and had the assurance of knowing that he could not and would not push her too far. She could always stop him.
This man was different. For a weird moment, she forgot his name. She opened her eyes. The name still escaped her. His penis kept pushing inward. His hands on her felt harder and hotter. She looked at his face. It was young. Square jawed. Blue eyes. Full faced. Clean shaven. That's what was confusing her. He used to have a beard and mustache. Cris. His name was Cris. Cris was different from George.
His head was drooped forward slightly. He was watching his penis go in and out of her. She looked down. She watched the movement for a long second. She closed her eyes. He'll come soon, she thought. He's breathing heavily. He's very aroused. Miranda began moving her pelvis. She felt if she got more into the act, perhaps he would become even more aroused and would climax more quickly.
Exaggerating her breathing and throwing her head back, she worked at pretending that she was about to have an orgasm. Her pelvis moved more rapidly.
The grip of his hands on her loosened. "You wanna do this or not?" he said, his penis still inside her.
She looked at him. Perspiration-or was he still wet from the pool?-poured down his face and shoulders. Even down his chest. "Why did you stop?" she tried to sound as though she were gasping for breath.
He withdrew his penis from her. Cris sat back on his haunches. His legs were apart and his erection was standing up, pointing to his belly button. Miranda found its moistness-her moistness, she realized-disturbing. She looked away from it.
"When I fuck," he ran his right hand across his mouth, his index finger remaining for a moment on his lower lip, "the other person has got to be with me. And lady, you were someplace else." He stood up. "No wonder, your hubby strayed."
Miranda put her thighs together and almost automatically reached for her sundress. Tears came to her eyes. "What a cruel, mean thing to say...."
He stood there, looking down at her, his erection still prominent. "Need a swim to cool off." He ran toward the pool.
When he came back, still dripping wet, he put his jeans and workshirt on. He sat in a blue director's chair facing her, as he put his sandals on.
"I can't have meaningless sex...." she said.
"It's only meaningless if you label it that way."
"We don't know each other. We don't love each other," she said indignantly. "It's not meaningless because I say so. It has no meaning because it just doesn't. How could it?"
Cris sat back in the chair, his right leg resting on his left. His lower lip moved up and covered part of his upper lip. He made a popping sound as his lips separated. "Lady, we both know that life is without meaning. The only way you can live is with constant awareness of that fact. It's the only way you can accept life fully." He regarded her gravely. You want to lay values on meaningless things, go ahead. That's your trip. You want to concentrate on how things should be instead of what is actually happening, that's cool. But I ain't gonna fuck you no more. No how." He uncrossed his legs. "And nobody else is gonna want to. Where's the John? I thought you'd get uptight if I peed in your pool."
Without looking at him as he rose from his chair, she pointed to her left. He went out of the room.
"Do you want some eggs?" she said, when he came back. "I haven't had any lunch yet."
"Dee-lighted!" He said snapping his fingers. "Where's your stereo? Need some music."
Miranda looked dour. "It was George's. He took it with him." She went into the kitchen. As she beat four eggs violently in an old-fashioned green bowl, she felt depression coming over her again. Here she was about to have lunch with someone who had abused her sexually. And then lectured her on what was wrong with her life. Was she so desperate for company? It suddenly occurred to her that she did not know his motive in coming here. What did he want? Did he get kicks from putting her down? She regarded her last phrase with faint distaste. She was even beginning to pick up his slang.
Cris came into the kitchen. "Need some help!" She shook her head.
"Your hair is beautiful," he said touching the top of her head briefly. Miranda nodded.
George was living in what he thought of as a glorified motel right off the Sunset Strip. Various performers working for Circle Pictures stayed here. Stars of the first rank stayed at glamorous places like the Beverly-Wilshire. But the Sunset Cavalier catered to the second and even the third rank-performers who didn't live in California but flew out for a few weeks work in a TV series or lived here for a few months while making a film.
George's "suite"-as the management called it-George preferred room-was acceptable. It was pretty large actually, about half as much as the space he and Miranda had in the Hollywood Hills house. There was a separate kitchen, fully equipped, containing even flatware and glasses. The terrace-he was on the second floor-was small but large enough for several deck chairs. It overlooked the pool. The bulk of the space was devoted to the living room area.
Two sofas which became beds. Coffee table, several non-descript easy chairs. A color television. Over to the right near the terrace was a dining table and several chairs. The only things in the room which were George's were his stereo system, some of his record collection, and some books.
As he walked into the room, he stripped off his shirt and walked bare-chested out onto the terrace. The sun was still shining and a few people were in the pool. An attractive blonde was sipping what appeared to be a coke at one of the tables which surrounded the pool. George tried to get a better look by moving his chair. But when a tall, muscular man walked over to her table, George decided to forget it.
Back in the room, he turned on the phonograph. Some Aretha Franklin. Ever since he had come to L.A, he had gotten very turned on black musicians. Particularly black singers. He really loved Aretha. He really loved his stereo system. He had actually toyed-very briefly-with the idea of leaving it at the house. After all Miranda would not have any music, and carting it around would be a hassle. But the realization that he would have to listen to AM radio-all that the Sunset Chevalier supplied-helped him to make up his mind.
He loved music. Loved it He almost never walked into a room without putting music on. When he was growing up, whatever money he had left over after going to see movies, went to buy records. He was still an avid collector of records. Breaking up with Miranda was hard enough. Living alone might be difficult. But to endure his new way of life without music...."I couldn't do it," he found himself saying aloud.
He laughed. He had very rarely lived alone. He had several sisters, plus aunts and uncles, and a grandmother and grandfather living right nearby while he was growing up. At school, he had roommates. Even before he married Miranda, he had always shared apartments. Then Miranda for the last three years. This was actually the first time he was living by himself. It was freaky in a lot of ways. Over the past month, he found himself saying things aloud. At first, he thought that was a weird thing to be doing. But it seemed to him-and John had corroborated it when he brought up the subject-perfectly acceptable behavior for someone by himself. "By himself. By myself," George said it aloud. He had closed the terrace door when he came back into the room. He did not hear splashing and voices coming up from the pool. There were no noises from the hallway. The first side of Eretha's new album had concluded. There was utter silence in the room but for George's "by myself."
His first impulse was to turn the record over. But he felt he mustn't. Not for another moment, at least. Perhaps this was why he always played music. Why he always lived with other people. So as not to hear this silence. The silence seemed so overwhelming to George it was almost a tangible thing. It seemed to have as much dimension as the size of the room. More even.
George found himself trembling slightly. He had never taken hallucinogenic drugs. But it must be something like this, he thought. He walked over to the terrace door. The carpet was so thick that even his footsteps did not break the silence. At the door, he looked out on the few people still at the pool. He could see them. He could not hear them.
He felt an overwhelming urge to cry. He thought of Miranda. He did find some tears trickling down his face. She must be experiencing this, too. He could not bear the thought of her feeling so alone. This cut off. He had a sudden urge to call her.
He left the glass doors and walked to the phone. As he approached it, it started to ring. George jumped. He literally sprang several inches off his feet and into the air, so startled was he by the incredibly loud sound its ringing made.
He picked up the receiver. The pimply feeling persisted at the back of his neck.
"Hello?"
"May I speak with Monica?" An elderly female voice inquired.
"You have the wrong number...."
"Oh!" she said with some annoyance and instantly hung up.
Freedom is heavy, thought George, remembering his discussion with John. He was free. He was alone. And there was the silence. The long, loud silence.
"I've had enough of it," he said aloud and turned over Aretha. The song was one of his favorites, Leon Russell's "A Song For You." What a mood I must be in, he thought, as the opening strains brought tears to his eyes..
He hurried to the bathroom to shower.
It was night by the time George got into his Dart and drove to John's. The traffic on Sunset Boulevard was quite thin. He had the car radio turned on very loud to a rock station. As he drove along he was able to catch long glimpses of the huge billboards advertising the new rock albums. He loved it. There was nothing like this in New York.
John lived in the Hollywood Hills, too. Fortunately it was approached differently than the house where Miranda now lived alone. He had no desire to run into her. He laughed. The only way one ran into friends, ex-wives-all, everyone drove-was literally to run into them. He still had a strong feeling that perhaps he should call her. He did not like the idea of her being alone and freaked at the sense of aloneness. He decided he would consciously choose not to think about her. Whether he thought about her and started to feel guilty about not calling her. Or whether he didn't think about her and didn't call her. What's the difference? It's all in my head. He realized, too, the notion that she might be feeling a painful sense of aloneness was all in his head, too. He was the one who was experiencing living alone for the first time. Not Miranda. Until she married him, she had often been by herself.
He pulled up in front of John's driveway.
"That you, G.?" he heard John say as he got out of his car.
They walked into the house together. John was dressed in shorts and barefoot. George realized they had similar builds. John put his arm tightly, briefly, around George's shoulder. "Glad you finally got here."
George was nervous but warmed by John's greeting.
The room they walked in on reminded George of a loft on the lower East Side in New York that a painter acquaintance of his had lived in. It was large, had windows all around, and "things" everywhere. Cameras. Projectors. Books. A stereo. Several television sets. Mats and pillows to sit on. Various low tables filled with more "things." Several large erotic sculptures. Even more erotic paintings and drawings on the walls. Many large candles were burning in various parts of the room. A heavy fragrance of incense hit George's nostrils.
"Far out!" he said in delight. "I love it."
"Good, bubula!" John smiled. "It's simple and grungy, but I call it home. Here, smoke this," he handed George a joint. "I want to find Diana."
John left the room and George wandered around the room looking for a book of matches. He examined one of the sculptures. It was taller than he was-and he was six feet tall-and featured a man with an enormous cock. He held his erection with both hands and seemed to be oblivious to the other man and woman in the sculpture who were trying to get close to him.
"You the dude from Circle?"
George turned. A tall, dark young man was addressing him.
"Yeah." He put his hand out. "I'm George Saxon."
"Like in the movie," the guy gave George one of those hip handshakes which always made George feel awkward because no matter which way he turned his hand upward, it never seemed to be right. This time it was. George felt very pleased with himself. It made him like the guy too.
"What movie?" George asked.
"A flick I caught on the tube the other night. "The Saxon Charm."
"Susan Hayward and Robert Montgomery. Was his name George Saxon?"-
"Sure was. Wanna light that joint?"
"I couldn't find a match.".
The guy took the joint from George, stuck it in his mouth, and bending over, lit it with a candle. He inhaled deeply and handed it to Geroge.
"What's your name?" he asked taking a long pull on the joint.
"Gene."
No wonder he had looked somewhat familiar. George realized he was one of the people in John's film. "I saw your movie."
"Which one?" He inhaled almost no smoke. What lungs he's got, thought George.
"The Bi's." George was instantly sorry he said it. Because of his profession he automatically told people in show business that he had just seen them in their latest endeavors. It was easy to tell a young actor you thought his performance was terrific as the young gunfighter in Blurf. What do you tell a porn star? George was embarrassed and also amused by his predicament.
"Did you get into it?" Gene asked, dropping down to one of the mats, and handing the joint to George.
George was almost tempted to refuse. On only two tokes, he felt almost dizzy. "This is ... dynamite shit," he said, hoping to sound hip.
Gene nodded.
George sat down on a yellow mat. "Where are you from?" He hated these dumb questions. But he didn't like the silence. Where were John and Diana?
"Did you like the flick?" Gene had his eyes closed.
"The best I've ever seen!" George said enthusiastically.
"The only one you've ever seen!"
Fuck you! thought George. He was tempted to go off on a defensive tirade about how he had been following porn ever since he first started to jerk off. Instead, he took the joint and inhaled deeply. "I keep up with them," he said.
"It's your job," he said in a superior tone.
Do I need this? thought George. He was always mystified by unprovoked hostility on the part of people he hardly knew. His inclination was generally to try to understand where they were coming from. To find rational reasons for people's behavior. Thanks to the vibes in L.A, that was changing. He was beginning to tune into the fact that the cause of the behavior didn't mean shit. So what if Gene was being hostile because his father had not given him enough attention. Where was that at? He was always making allowances for rude behavior. Often feeling that perhaps he had provoked it somehow. Fuck that. And fuck this kid!
George stood up. Slowly. Mustn't forget, I am very stoneu he told himself. He walked over to one of the windows.
"Don't Bogart the joint!"
George did not realize he was still holding it. He walked back and handed it to Gene. "Why are you so uptight?" he found himself saying.
Without opening his eyes, he took the joint. He inhaled deeply and then turned his startlingly blue eyes on George. He looked very sharply at him. "I don't like people to fuck with my head." He said in a low voice.
George had no response. He did not want to continue looking into those eyes. He looked away. He had a very strong urge to leave. He was very stoned and the thought of driving through the Hills was a distrubing prospect. But if the rest of the evening was going to be like this, he'd rather go home....He'd rather go to a porn film. As he used to. On the rare occasions when Miranda worked late and he did not want to be at home. Alone. He added that because after his experience in the hotel room tonight it seemed clear to him that a great part of his life had been spent avoiding being alone.
Hearing some movement, George turned. Gene was walking out of the room. Fucking creep, thought George. He wondered if he lived here.
Several more minutes passed and George debated whether to wander through the house looking for John, or whether it would be rude of him to turn on some music. He chose the latter. A Santana LP-"Caravanserai-was on the turntable so he played that.
Being very stoned as he was, George sat down again and was really able to get into the music. So into it, he did not hear John come in. "You met Gene?"
George nodded. "What's his trip?"
John laughed, sitting down next to George. "You people from the East speak with forked tongue. What does it matter what his trip is? His trip is whatever you think it is."
"Why was he so ... rude?"
John lay down on his back and wriggled his legs and feet in the air. "Wooonderful! Wooonderful!"
George was getting uptight. "What's so funny?"
"Rude. Rude." He said sitting up again. "That's such a middle class word...." He continued to grin.
"Listen, John-" George said with some annoyance, and then caught himself. It was a middle class word.
"Say what you mean, for Chrissake, G. baby."
"He pissed me off. He was very hostile for no reason."
"Don't take it personally," slapping George on the back, "All he's got is a sexual identity. If people-men or women-don't come on to him immediately, he thinks he's failed. He thinks it's his trip to turn everybody on sexually. Forget it! Obviously he doesn't do a thing for you. That's cool. Diana is hung up upstairs editing a piece of film.. Let's go in the kitchen and I'll start cooking."
As John puttered around the meticulously organized kitchen-"I'm really into food. I am!" he had said gleefully-George found that Gene was still on his mind. Partially because of his years in analysis, he tended to assume that the behavior of people like Gene was completely unconscious. He mentioned this to John, who was chopping up two onions. With tears streaming down his face, John said, gesturing with the paring knife.
"G, you got me talking like I never talk anymore. You got me explaining people's behavior. What do I care? I'm only concerned with their actions and my own reactions to them. Conscious, unconscious is all the same. Whether Gene specifically says to himself 'From now on I will behave as though my sexual identity is all that matters'-which from your point of view is a conscious choice. Or whether he simply acts that way as the result of a whole series of minor choices he has made over the years. Who cares? The point is that's how he comes on. That's how I treat him. As long as I am willing to take the responsibility of having to deal with him when he is a colossal pain in the ass...."
"But why have somebody like that around?" asked George, seating himself on a stool across the work counter facing John.
"I like him. Most of the time. Sexually, he turns me on. And he's a good man with sound equipment."
"Don't you feel you should help him?"
"How? Why?" he said wiping his eyes with a paper towel, and then blowing his nose into it. "I help him in the only way I feel like helping him. I flatter him. Which is no big deal. I think he is a very sexy dude."
George found this rather disturbing. He was always trying to help people. Always felt sorry for them. Empathizing. It seemed so cruel to leave mixed-up people like Gene to their own devices. He was puzzled that John seemed so unfeeling. There was something extraordinary about John. About the joy he took in life. The almost child-like way he got into things. The spontaneous, mad way he confronted waitresses and strangers on the street. The way he jumped into things. It was so different from George's way. He admired him. As was George's pattern-and he was very aware of it (Miranda always pointed it out to him)-he was very impressionable. Very suggestible. Especially when he liked someone. And he liked John a lot. He was prepared, as he had been on an intuitive level right after they met, to tune in completely to John. To try to really get into John's trip. To really try on his attitudes, his vibrations, his perceptions and see if they fit. I'm still very stoned, he said to himself.
Just as John put a large casserole of chopped vegetables in the oven, Diana walked into the kitchen. She was beautiful. Without thinking, George stood up. "You're amazing," he said. "Even more beautiful than in the movie...."
She smiled at him through limpid blue-green eyes. She had very long eyelashes, and as she opened her eyes more widely, her face seemed to light up. Her nose was long and pointed. He thought of Diana, the huntress. She too must have had a long, pointed nose. It was beautiful, completely in proportion to the rest of her face. She was wearing some filmy, diaphanous green fabric. How it stayed up on her body, he had no idea. He could see the points of her breasts through the material. She was almost as tall as George and was barefoot. Her toenails were painted a bright, greenish color.
"You're a Libra?" she asked.
"Uh huh. What are you?" He felt awkward standing there staring at her.
"My sun is in Libra, too," she said, walking over to the refrigerator. "I'll do the salad."
"But I'll do the dressing," John said grandly, sitting down at a stool adjacent to the one George had left.
"John is a Sagittarian."
She said that as though it explained his last statement. George made a mental note to learn more about astrology. As Diana moved gracefully about the kitchen, removing things from the refrigerator, cutting, chopping, throwing things into an enormous wooden bowl, George sat down again and observed the interplay between her and John. They were like two children. They giggled. They made silly puns. Occasionally, they tossed bits of food at each other. Diana often turned to George to explain who a particular person was, so that he never felt left out.
"Gene," she said putting her hands in the bowl and tossing the mixture, "will not be here tonight. He doesn't care for the vibes, he said."
George was about to comment on Gene's reaction to him. He thought a moment, decided it would sound defensive, and let it pass.
"Phyllis and Robert might drop by later. I spoke with them earlier. Partly because they want to see the footage I'm editing but I'm not really into showing it to them. Fuck!"
"What's wrong?" George asked quickly.
"Nothing," she laughed. "A slight cut." She ran water over her right index finger.
"Are they still fucking?" John asked, lighting a joint, which he had just found on the counter.
"Probably," she laughed. "But not each other. Phyllis is seeing Leslie. Leslie's ex-old man is hung up on Bob. It's very complicated."
"Until they get their emotional trips cooled out, I'm going to choose not to fuck any of them. The last time," John handed the joint to George, "all of us made it together, it was disasterous."
Inhaling deeply, George merely nodded. Then he asked, "Why?" He could hardly believe his luck. What a wonderful conversation! This is what he always wanted people to talk about.
"Phyllis and Bob like to get totally wiped out on grass. Acid, mesc, whatever's around. Once they're totally wrecked, they're game for anything." He gestured with the burning joint. "Annnything! First time we all made it together, Bob let me fuck him in the ass. And he had never been fucked."
"He really got into it" said Diana is a very serious tone. "He's been more together ever since."
"But he doesn't see it that way," added John. "For days, weeks even, he went through numbers about it. Tried to make it seem as though it weren't his fault. As though I-and even Diana-was responsible for his fall from grace. Which, as they say in Portugal," he looked directly at George, "is bullshit!"
George's inclination was to make some excuses for Bob, someone he knew not at all. He felt that John and Diana were being somewhat unfair. Unkind even. He said so.
"G, I bet you think I'm responsible-entirely to blame-for sucking your cock at my screening a few weeks ago."
George was extremely embarrassed. He tried not looking over at Diana. Why did John have to bring this up? There was no reason for Diana to know. He did catch her eye. Her look was somewhere between amused and expectant.
"Well...." George knew he was trying to squirm out of this. Neither of the other two said a word. The only sound was of Diana inhaling deeply on the joint. Fuck it! George thought. If they were all going to be friends, he would be out in front on this. No point in starting out with a lie. "Well, John ... you did initiate it...." He cleared his throat.
"I accept full responsibility for that. I accept full responsibility for encouraging you to jerk yourself off. But you could have said no. You could have pushed me away...."
"I like you, John. I didn't want to hurt your feelings."
John looked very annoyed. "You're so fucking well mannered. I didn't want to hurt your feelings. G, you wanted to come. You were hot and horny. And for that moment in time, you made a choice. And the choice was to have another man swallow your come. You are responsible for that choice. That decision was entirely yours. You can't pretend you were forced into it because of good middle class manners. The fact remains that you chose to have your cock sucked." He got up from the stool and opened the door to the oven. "Smell that, goddammit! Another masterpiece."
As they sat around a large round oak table finishing dinner, Diana left to pick up a ringing telephone.
"Diana is into it, ,if you are. I asked her," said John in a gleeful tone of voice.
"I'm still very stoned," George said, knowing full well what John meant. "I don't know what you mean...." The realization instantly dawned on George that John was right about him. He was playing at being naive to postpone having to accept the responsibility of making a choice, with all it entailed.
"Okay!" Raising his knife as though it were a blackboard pointer, John pretended to be underscoring words. "We-Diana-Merson-and-I-John Vincence-want-to-make-it-with-you-tonight." He put down the knife and looked over at him. t George felt a very nervous sensation in the pit of his stomach. Putting both elbows on the table in front of him, he stared at the four crimson candles placed around the table.
"I'm very nervous," he said, watching some wax oil drip down the lowest of the candles and onto the table. John put his hand on George's arm.
"We don't want to force you. There's plenty of time. It can wait." He moved his hand and removed a badly rolled joint from a metal box on the table. "Let's smoke."
They did.
Diana came back. Reaching for the joint, she announced, "Phyllis and Bob are not coming over." After she had inhaled and exhaled, she told them that tomorrow she was driving over to show them the footage. They had some footage they wanted to show her. Since things were sticky between Leslie and Jim because of Phyllis and Bob, she was then going to bring their footage to Leslie and Jim along with her footage. Possibly Leslie and Jim might come back with her tomorrow evening. George could hardly follow what she was saying.
Finally, he said, "I don't understand," in a highly confused tone.
They both laughed.
"I have a lot of Mercury in my chart," said Diana, sitting down again. "I tend to talk a lot and to move around a lot. It's my trip though, and I've chosen to accept it." She laughed. "But you don't have to pay it much attention."
George took another toke on the joint. The nervous feeling was still in his stomach. He looked over at Diana. He would love to be kissing that mouth and licking at the tips of her breasts. His head turned toward John. He didn't like beards much. What if John were to want to kiss him? He felt his sphincter muscle tighten, as he thought, what if he tries to fuck me?
John stood up. "This roach is dead," he said dramatically, throwing the remains of the joint across the room. Reaching down, he unbuttoned his cut-off jeans, and let them drop to the floor.
Stark naked, he walked over to Diana. "Is Gene gone?"
She nodded, reaching forward and cupping his balls in her left hand, idly, while sipping some tea.
George was slightly stunned by the sight. By the extremely casual nature of it all. He found himself getting an erection.
"It's just as well," Diana said. "He's been getting a little possessive about me. And that is to be discouraged." John's cock began to harden. With her other hand, she reached behind him and began to stroke his ass.
George looked away from them. He was very turned on. He thought of Miranda. He thought of what they would be doing tonight if she had not happened to have walked in on him and Jean. Would they be at home watching television tonight? Would they be fucking? Would he be feeling a sense of frustration because she was pushing his tongue away from hers? Would he prefer his old lifestyle?
Diana looked at him. Her eyes looked faraway, incredibly exotic over the candlelight. She smiled at him. Nervously, he smiled at her, his eyes remaining on hers. He carefully avoided lowering his eyes to her left hand and the manner in which it was cupping John's balls. With her right hand, she gestured to George.
He made a choice. He stood up. He walked around the table to her. And John.
When George woke in the morning, the night before was something of a blur to him. He awoke feeling still somewhat stoned and in an unbelievably good mood. The sun poured into the room. Painted entirely in white-floors, ceiling, walls-the room contained an oversized mattress which John had explained last night was built to his specifications. The linens, pillow cases, coverings were all white. There was a tall lamp alongside the bed, also white, although the bulb in it was red.
George was very warm and carefully pushed the sheet down from his body. He was lying on the right side, closest to the undraped window. Diana was in the center and John on the right. George looked over at both of them sleeping and felt a tremendous feeling of warmth and love for both of them. In some odd way, they felt like his family. Is this the kind of incest John had been referring to in their conversation yesterday afternoon?
A phone started ringing. John groaned. Diana looking briefly at John, smiled, rose naked from the bed and went out into the hall. He could not hear what she was saying.
John reached over and touched George's shoulder. "How ya doing?" he smiled, looking through one eye.
"I feel great," said George breaking into a big smile.
John reached over and kissed George very fully on the mouth. George was more aware of the scent and taste of John's mouth than he was of being kissed by another male. George liked the feel of John's beard and returned the kiss, putting his arms around John's neck.
Diana came back into the room. "That was Keith," she said. John did not move his body from George's. "He was expecting you a half hour ago." She sat down on the bed, idly scratched her left breast. With her other hand, she reached out and began stroking John's hairless ass.
John lifted his mouth from George's. "Shit," he rolled over on his back. George looked over and smiled at Diana.
"Good morning," he said, stretching.
"Hi." She bent over John's body and kissed him moistly on the lips. John's hands came up and around Diana's back. He began stroking the small of her back. Diana moaned into George's mouth. He remembered from last night how strong an erogenous zone that part of her body was. His mind leaped ahead. Was he up to having more sex with them, so soon after last night?
Diana pushed John's hands away. "Want me to put some coffee on?"
"No, luv." He leaped out of bed. "I'm better of just dashing." He ran out of the room and into the bathroom. Minutes later he was back, fully dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt. He jumped on the bed and alternately kissed Diana, then George, several times. Finally, all three were kissing each other. George's only way of knowing which tongue was in his mouth was that Diana's mouth was wetter. John's morning breath more pronounced.
As John rose, he noticed George had an erection. Reaching down, he gave it a few gentle jerks, and then ran from the room. "See ya later."
Diana lay down next to George. He looked at her lovely body lying full-length alongside him. His eyes lingered at her feet. She had lovely, long toes, which the green polish on her toenails drew attention to. He ran his fingers up and down her thighs. Her skin was so soft. Aside from Jean, he had not really touched any women besides Miranda for three years. Diana felt so different from either of them. There was a certain plumpness to Jean, which he liked, but which was not ideal for him. She was only twenty-three; as she got older, one felt, she was going to become heavier. The softness of Miranda's flesh was different than that. George suddenly had the sense-as he continued stroking Diana-that Miranda's skin would become firmer, athletic even.
But Diana's skin was something else. He loved the feel of it, the newness of it, the seeming openness of it. But he had no ready intuition about it. About how it might possibly seem to him as he got to know it better. If he got to know it better.
"How are you?" she said turning on her side and facing him.
He smiled. "Wooonderful!" He said it, as John did, throwing his head back, and opening his mouth wide. "I've never had a nicer evening. You're both terrific."
Diana began stroking his still semi-erect cock. George liked her hand on him. He hoped he would get very hard. He wanted to fuck her. He wanted to come. He had not since last night. Diana rose up on her knees and took him into her mouth. Her hands gently stroked his balls and she licked lightly at the head of his cock. Her mouth was really incredible. She was one of the few women he had ever had sex with who seemed to like sucking. Jean did, too, of course, but Diana's enthusiasm was somehow different.
George relaxed, put his arms behind his head and watched her mouth slide up and down on him. He wanted to come. Either in her mouth or in her cunt, but he wanted very much to come. He wished John were still here. It had been entirely different with the three of them together. He tried taking his mind off that and concentrating just on what was happening. Right here and now.
When George's cock was quite hard, Diana straddled him, resting her legs on each side of his thighs. Looking down at George, she reached under her and slid his cock inside her moist, moist cunt. Never had he felt a cunt as moist as hers.
"You're so wet," he said.
She smiled, and put one hand to his face. He began kissing her hand, and sucked at each of her fingers. Slowly, she began riding him. George was not sure he liked the sensation. Her cunt was so moist, seemed so large, his cock felt lost. He felt no sense of friction. No sense of tension. He began to get tense, convinced he would lose his erection. He continued licking and sucking at her fingers, while she rode him. Her breasts flopped up and down. His hands reached up and caressed them. He flicked the nipples of each with his fingernails.
Diana closed her eyes. Her hand left George's mouth and began playing with his left nipple. Her other hand worked on his right nipple. In spite of the extreme sensitivity of his nipples and the strong turn-on it was, George knew his erection was fading. He could hardly feel his cock, so lost was it in her incredible moisture. Finally, it flopped out.
She opened her eyes and reached down. She caressed it, her fingers played with the head, she pushed the skin back and forth. George was not enjoying her ministrations. He pulled her to him and they kissed. He took her tongue into his mouth and sucked on it. Diana began moaning. She lay on top of him Gently, he pushed her to one side. They both lay on their sides, moistly kissing each other. George wanted to stop. He suddenly had an intense desire to leave. He knew he couldn't. He knew he could not hurt her feelings. She would certainly think that he only wished to be there if John were. Was it true? He realized, yes it would be different if John were still there with them. He did not know her very well. He liked her. She was beautiful. Sexually very free. But he wanted no more of her mouth. No more of her cunt. No more of her moistness.
Feeling very self-conscious about doing so, George nevertheless reached down and grasping his cock began to jerk himself off. He wanted to get it hard. Quickly. His plan was to then fuck her and leave. He felt it was the only choice he could make. Much as he loved to play with himself, he felt it inappropriate somehow to do it in someone else's presence. Particularly a woman. He felt it must make her seem inadequate, somehow. Unable to arouse him to the point of erection, he had to do it himself. It seemed like a rude thing to do.
I'm an asshole, he thought. Rude. John was right. Rude was a middle-class word. Like concern with matters of good taste. Middle-class notions. Here he was kissing a woman he had met the night before. A woman in whose asshole he had placed his tongue. A woman whose cunt he had eaten. And now he was lying here with his cock frantically being worked over by his hand and worrying that it was rude. Jesus!
It was not, as they said in porn novels, rock hard, thought George. But it would do. He slowly pushed Diana to a position on her back. Separating her thighs, he moved up and with his ass in the air, managed to insert his cock inside her. She had spread her thighs very widely apart. Once again, his cock felt lost in her. Resting on his knees, he gently pushed her thighs more closely together, hoping that would make her opening less gaping.
Diana's arms were lying bent alongside her. She had her eyes closed, seemingly lost in pleasure. George found himself becoming irritated. She seemed to be enjoying this. Enjoying it? His discomfort. She was enjoying it! I'm being ridiculous, he told himself, as he continued trying to get his cock placed somehow inside her so that it felt as though he were fucking her. Not mud. It was like fucking mud, for chrissakes, he thought, reminded of a phrase he had read in Screw.
Her body began to convulse slightly. She made moaning sounds. Her pelvis sprang up so rapidly, his cock slipped out. Hastily using his right hand, he got it back inside. The lower part of her body bucked so violently that he slipped out again. She put her arms around his shoulders and gasped for air.
She had apparently come.
George lay atop her, wishing John were still there. His presence somehow would have made all of this explicable. The heat of Diana's body combined with the hot sunlight shining down on his body caused him to begin perspiring. He felt an urgent need to shower. To have some coffee. To leave. To get inside his car and think about last night's events. And this morning's.
Over coffee, George relaxed somewhat. His initial feelings about Diana replaced the hostility that had come over him when they had been in bed alone earlier.
Presenting him with some cheese and home-baked bread, Diana was dismayed when he had at first refused.
"But you need protein early in the day. Caffeine is hardly enough to start off with." He looked down at the plate. "Besides John baked this bread. It's really fine."
"Okay," he said tasting it.
The phone rang numerous times. Several times people appeared at the door. Diana was-albeit slightly verbose-very impressive in the wonderfully logical, pleasant manner with which she handled things.
Finally, she sat down with him at the counter, sipping black coffee. "I'm glad it's Saturday," she said, "otherwise you would have had to race off to the Studio."
"That's very sweet. Thank you. Aren't you having any protein?" he asked.
She laughed. "Of course," she reached over and picked up a piece of cheese from his plate and popped it in her mouth. "I don't usually have breakfast. Certainly not coffee. Until I've done my yoga...."
"Oh, I used to be into it. So is Miranda."
The phone rang again. It was John, looking for Keith, who apparently had left, after waiting almost an hour. "Do you want to speak to him?" she asked, handing the phone to George.
"How ya doing?" he asked.
"Wooonderful!" he exclaimed. "Ah! here he is, gotta go!" John hung up.
Knowing it was idiotic, George nevertheless felt hurt at the abrupt way John had hung up.
He and Diana sat there for about an hour, mainly talking about John. George was feeling self-conscious about spending so much time discussing someone else. He felt as though he should be showing more interest in Diana. She seemed to be some sort of earth mother type. She kept John and all their many friends and acquaintances in touch. She organized. She sorted out differences. She smoothed over problems. She soothed the feelings of the difficult ones like Gene.
George liked her warmth, her kindness, her generosity. He liked the open, direct way she looked at him-but he felt a basic fear that she wanted more from him than he was willing to give. He felt that she was probably willing and eager to go back to bed with him. He loved the notion of her availability. He was impressed with the fact of knowing someone, especially a female, with whom sex was so open. Jean was certainly open sexually. But she lacked the sophistication of Diana. He was taken with all these qualities. But somehow he did not want to get too close to her. He did not want to be too involved with her without John around as a buffer. He felt that she could consume him. The incredible openness and moistness of her cunt seemed like a physical symbol of what she was basically about. It seemed logical that she would be living in a situation like this. He had an absolute sense that she would be too much for one person.
She went to the stove and came back with the Chemex coffee maker. As she poured more of the Italian and American coffee blend into his cup, she asked about Miranda, "What was she like sexually?"
"Uptight." He felt almost pain as he said it. For over three years, he realized he had made excuses for Miranda. Rationalized her behavior. Not just sexually. In almost everything. He had hardly ever said a negative word about her to anyone. Occasionally, he was nasty but that was always directly to her in the course of arguments. He could hardly believe that he had said what he had to Diana about Miranda.
"What's wrong?" she said, sitting down. "You look so pensive."
"I realize it's ... what's the word? Painful," he giggled uncomfortably. "Painful. That's the word all right. To talk about her." He felt annoyance with Diana again. Then with himself. What was he doing sitting here talking to her about Miranda? He wanted to leave. Why didn't he? He was almost always thinking about something else, or being someplace else, no matter where he was or whom he was with. He thought of John. Something about John. Something about his vibes made George question himself more closely about habits of behavior which he had not ever before given a second thought.
All he had to do, he realized, was go back to the hotel. That was it. Go back to the hotel, play music, think about last night, probably jerk off. That was not exactly preferable to sitting here talking to Diana. He had a sudden flash that what he always thought of as a basic part of his makeup was not really so. It was something he could alter. It was not a simple compulsion over which he had no control. He suddenly knew that he could choose not to think about leaving here. He could choose not to have his mind wander to other possibilities. He was here. Here right now. With Diana. Sitting with her. Talking with her. If he felt uncomfortable. Perhaps he could alter his discomfort. Or he could leave. But he was not forced to sit here with his mind concentrating on the hotel and the limited things he might do with the rest of the day.
If he were here. And he was here. Since I am here, he said to himself. And I can choose to really be here. I can choose to tune into the actual reality of being here now. He smiled at Diana.
"It's heavy," he said with a slightly comic sigh.
"What?" she laughed. "Your life? The cup? The weight of your balls? What?"
"Freedom." He picked up the cup, consciously aware that sipping at his coffee would make his words sound less pretentious, more matter-of-fact. "Freedom of choice."
"Oh, that!" she said, gesturing dramatically, in a perfect imitation of John.
CHAPTER THREE
George found himself very freaked over the next day, Sunday. Hehad spentagood part of Saturday with Diana until she had to attend to some "rat-killing." That was an expression she had gotten from John. Texan in origin, it referred to chores. Her "rat-killing" consisted of delivering film footage to Jennifer and/or Robert. George found himself tuning out whenever she started to lengthily explain these trivial matters.
Diana had suggested that he stay at the house and wait for John, if he chose. George liked the idea but felt it best he go back to the hotel and sort out some of what had happened the night before. Back at the Sunset Chevalier, he attended to some
"rat-killing" of his own. He washed some socks and wrote a letter. Images of what had transpired between John, Diana, and himself came flooding through him. He was alternately excited, depressed, aroused, fearful, and several other emotions for which he knew no names. Was he turning homosexual? If so, what did that mean?
Sure, he dug John. A lot. More so than Diana. And he knew he was being defensive about his liking John so much. Did he have to be? John was like an old buddy. They liked each other a lot. So what if they had sex together? It meant nothing, he kept telling himself. Sex was communication after all. There's nothing wrong with making it with a friend. You dig his head. You dig his vibes. Why not his body?
George had a very strong urge for a cigarette. He thought of the taste of it at the back of his throat. He thought of the dryness he would feel there the next day and the day after. And the coughing and the phlegm. He knew what one cigarette would do to him. Nevertheless, a cigarette would be soothing. George was also aware of how addictive his personality was. One cigarette would lead to a pack. A pack would lead to resumption of a habit he hated.
Maybe that's what's bugging me, he thought, pacing back and forth to the phonograph, first turning the volume up. Then down. Am I afraid, he thought, that liking sex with John will become an addiction? Will I then find myself cruising up and down the street? Going to gay bars? "This is ridiculous," he said aloud. He walked out on the terrace. A group of very handsome young men and women was throwing a large ball back and forth to each other in the pool.
George found himself observing the men as closely as he did the women. It was pleasant to look at a strong, muscular back. Just as it was a treat to stare at a blonde chick's bursting-out breasts, he quickly added. More for the sake of an activity than any reason to block out the sounds from the pool, George closed the glass door and went back into the room.
Santana was on the stereo. It reminded him of John and last night. He sat down on the sofa, the very edge of it. I must relax, he told himself. He stood up, turning off the machine, and sat down again. This time deliberately sitting all the way back on the sofa, his back touching the cushions. I must accept the responsibility of sitting here. Here and now. He felt almost like crying. He felt utterly alone. He felt he had no one to turn to. No one to call. No one to help him understand what he was going through. He had only himself.
"Only myself...." he said aloud to the silence. The tears started pouring down his face. "Only myself...." he repeated, conscious that he was slipping into' an old group therapy number: deliberately choosing to go into a feeling. As a way of experiencing it fully. "Only myself...."
Wracked with sobs, George curled up on the sofa in a modified fetal position. If only he had not brought Jean home that afternoon ... if only Miranda had not walked in ... At the realization that his whole life was falling down around him, his crying increased. I'm feeling sorry for myself, he thought. Must stop this. Godammit! Must stop! He clenched his fists.
He sat up. "This is what I want," he said aloud. "THIS IS WHAT I WANT!" He felt shivers at the back of his neck and along his spine. He was standing there with his eyes closed, just as he often had in group, making a positive statement. I'll accept responsibility for my decision, he told himself. I will. He remembered something John had said to him. When you make a choice, the really difficult part was not only accepting the responsibility for the choice. But being cognizant of what responsibility really means. In his case, Geroge had to tune into the fact that having made a choice guaranteed him nothing. Nothing at all. There was nothing to it. Choice was like life itself. There was nothing to it. Nothing but the values you placed on it.
Because he had always wanted to be accepted, he had chosen to think in purely conventional heterosexual terms. It was not something outside himself that caused him to take Jean home that day. He had chosen to do it. If he had not completely realized the risk involved, it was nevertheless something he was responsible for. Something he had to cope with. It was consoling to think back on his days with Miranda, "But let's face it," he said aloud, walking over to the mirror about the stereo tuner, "this is what I want. This."
The tears started again.
I want this, he told himself, I want sexual experimentation. Whatever it leads to, it leads to. I must not be so middle-class, he thought, echoing John. Mustn't be so tied down to what other people think. Or accepted modes of behavior. "This is my trip, gang!" he said aloud, trembling at the realization, that in essence, no one cared. No one.
No one gave a shit whether he sucked cocks or fucked cunts. Or did both. No one. People would think what they like. And no one would care. He had a sudden flash of visiting his home years ago. He had been smoking two packs of cigarettes a day. Somehow, even though he was grown and had lived away from home for several years, he had this notion that his mother should have commented on how excessively he smoked. She didn't. It hurt him. He thought it meant she didn't care.
That's what his life was like now. Miranda used to care. She'd get pissed off if he smoked too much grass. Or stayed up too late. Or if he even hinted that he felt the urge for a cigarette. It was a drag in a lot of ways, but he liked it. It gave him a feeling of security. But, he realized now, it meant nothing. Nothing at all. Once her ego was stung by his behavior, divorce and separation was all she thought of. Her concern for him had only to do with her own trip. If she seemed concerned with his well-being it was only because she wanted him to fit into her healthy, middle-class scheme of life. Her concern terminated once he broke her rules.
No one cares. No one. It did not make any difference to anyone on the planet what George did from now on. It never had. The only difference now was that he was becoming aware of it. There was nothing he could do about it. Simply accept it.
"And cry...." he said, sobbingly.
And so his afternoon and evening went. That was Saturday. On Sunday, still in a state, he finally decided-rather than call John, or another friend-to write in his journal. He had not done so for months. But, since leaving therapy, he had discovered that when upset, the mere act of typing out whatever was happening, helped clear it. Helped rid him of it.
Walking to the closet, George searched around and found his electric portable typewriter. He was wearing only a towel wrapped around him. He sat down at the table, moving the remains of his breakfast: Granola and a cup of black coffee. Sitting there with a view of bodies disporting themselves at the pool, he suddenly felt an urge not to write in his journal. He thought for a moment of the films he might see. Or the drive he could take.
"Shit!" He knew he was doing one of his numbers. He sipped his cold coffee. There is nothing else to do, he told himself. Nothing. This is all there is. Right now. And I will choose to write in my journal. I will choose to concentrate on it. To get totally into it. Because there is nothing else. Nothing. Thinking about all the other possibilities is a crock of shit. I must tune into now. Since there is nothing else but this moment any way, f crissakes, I might as well accept it. "Come off it!" he said aloud, briefly wondering if he were really losing his mind. He opened the typewriter case by unzipping it along its sides. He had some paper in his briefcase which was on the table next to the empty cereal bowl.
Putting paper in the machine, he decided he would type whatever he wanted to. He would not worry about grammar or punctuation. He would just set down the events of Friday night. Writing them down, he felt, would give them more reality. If the events had more reality, he would be able to accept responsibility for them. At least that was what he hoped.
"So I went to the bathroom, when I came into the bedroom, I found John and Diana lying on the bed, toying with each other. The red light bulb was on. We smoked some more grass, this time laced with hash. Being very nervous, I take the initiative and am much concerned that John not feel left out. And then feel concern that Diana not be left out. I am involved in kissing them both, and having tongues of both genders in out of one's mouth is delicious. I find that I am very turned on by Diana because, leave us face it, aside from Miranda and Jean, I have slept with no other women for over three years. Diana has lovely breasts, and lovely, fair, silk-smooth (whatever that means) skin. It is delicious to be feeling and touching and kissing all that softness and when it almost gets to be too much, there is firm, bearded John to kiss. To go from the softness of Diana to the firmness of John is indescribable. So I am very turned on and telling myself to stop worrying about erections, stop worrying about who will do what to whom. Just get into it. Forget which mouth is kissing you and which you are kissing and get into the sensuality of it all. Get out of your head. It is difficult. Yet I am trying.
"Diana has an incredibly moist, moist pussy and I dig putting my fingers in and am freaked by its wetness and think of how pussy is like going home and I am fingering her asshole, something I have almost never done and I realize I am going to rim her and that I have always been uptight about rimming assholes and so I do.
"And it is different from eating pussy but it is not that much different and I am eating her asshole and (as they say in the porn trade) "plunging" my fingers in and out of her cunt and she begins to come. Her ass facing me, because her head is busy sucking at John's terrif cock and at one point I find myself saying that I really dig his cock almost as much as mine-which is a great compliment because you know how I truly dig mine. And Diana comments on how sensitive John's nipples are and I say yes and isn't it great because so are mine and I love the fact that we have this similarity and so I find myself sucking at his...."
George stopped typing for a moment. He was disturbed at his use of the phrase "find myself." It seemed like a cop out. He crossed it out and retyped:
"....so I suck at his and Diana's alternately and then I get my fingers in his asshole and I dig his asshole a lot, I even like the hair around his asshole; I have tried understanding the significance of having hair there, haven't come up with anything yet, but I at first didn't mind it and now I like them and I get my tongue into his asshole and it isn't much different than Diana's asshole. And all the while I am doing it I am conscious of what I am doing. And saying to myself: I am stoned and my tongue is up my buddy's asshole. And I like it. I like it...."
George found himself typing faster and faster. He was embarrassed, almost shocked by what he was admitting to. He wondered what he would do should these pages ever be read by someone else.
"My tongue goes in deeper as he gets his asshole opened wider with his left leg up in the air and I wonder at some points why he either moves so that I should stop and at other points he prefers me to remove my fingers from there. Perhaps I'll ask him or just continue to observe or perhaps it is not a major point at all. I am aware that I am not really very hard erection-wise-and try not to tune into it. So many factors are at work here and after all with most women and in most sex scenes that matter to me sometimes it takes several encounters before I get it really up and I am also aware that John is not rock hard either.
"The next day-Saturday-I am glowing because I feel-pretentiously put perhaps-that my sexual liberation is beginning. That hopefully my intuition, my dream, my fantasy, my strong desire for John to be a sort of sexual guru to me and turn me on to these things I have wanted so badly is commencing and all the next day I am aglow and also troubled because of it and thinking about John. And thinking about Diana ... But I am getting ahead of myself.
"Diana goes down on me and she sucks terrifically well. She gets into it. She obviously digs sex, digs cocks, and I wish that my erection would be firmer. But I try not to get uptight over it and I suck on John's cock. For the first time in my life, I take another man's cock in my mouth. I am aware John had once sucked me off. I am aware that I like him enormously and want to give him pleasure. Shit! I am also aware I am curious about the taste and feel of another's dick. But he's not that hard either. So Diana comes twice, once with me eating her and I like-I think I like-the large lips she has. Miranda and Jean's labia are much smaller. It is nice to have lips to suck on. So she comes and then later-I am repeating myself-she comes with me fingerfucking her while she is sucking John.
"At another point, she is on her back and we joke about her getting drowsy.
"John: Diana gets sleepy after midnight.
"Me: Not to mention after two orgasms.
"John puts his dick inside her and pumps away and I am lying alongside her and John. John and I are kissing very passionately with me running my fingers through his dark hair and touching and stroking his terrific face and beard and neck. And then I move down and lick and kiss at his ass cheeks and asshole. I stroke his balls while he is fucking away inside Diana. I remove his dick from her and suck at it a bit.
"After a while, he says: This isn't working and stops. He and Diana fall asleep practically immediately.
"I am still awake. I am too turned on to go to sleep. After a while, I pull up the sheet and cover us all. I feel warm and loving toward both of them, especially John-may as well admit it. Finally I fall asleep.
"I meant to mention there was not much conversation during sex except for me asking Diana to stick her ass up in the air, or suggesting that John move to this side, etc.
"John does say: Isn't Diana dynamite? Referring to her cocksucking prowess to which I readily concur and Diana comments on his nipples which I previously mentioned. And John comments on my cocksucking abilities. Telling me how wonderful that I do it so well for a first timer."
George stopped typing. His body felt very tense. He felt almost like crying again. He could not quite believe what he had just written. Was all this true? During the sex, he had the impression all of them were doing things equally. It seemed to him that he had taken the iniative most of the time. He had this notion John was a sex magician. But John had been almost passive. Passive.
Was that John's number?
The phone rang. George welcomed the respite.
"Hi," a friendly, sexy woman's voice said almost breathlessly. "It's Diana."
"Diana! How are you?" he said, carrying the phone with him to the table. He sat down, his eyes were caught by various phrases on the pages lying to the left of the typewriter ... "she comes with me fingerfucking her ... I take another man's cock in my mouth ... my tongue is up my buddy's asshole."
George crooked the phone between his head and shoulder and turned all the pages upside down while Diana continued talking. She talks so much, he thought. Is it nervousness? Perhaps if I gave off more interested vibes, she'd relax. He chose not to make the effort. He didn't want her uncomfortable, unrelaxed. But he did not really care to take the trouble to help her...." yes and John and Keith are still scouting locations. John hasn't said, so I suppose nothing is happening at Circle with the "Bovary" project?"
"My fingers are crossed that they'll consider a strong soft-core version...." he said.
She laughed. "Strong soft-core. What a contradiction. By the way, do you remember Gene?"
"Yeah," he said, wondering how quickly he could get off the phone without being rude. He wondered if he were a male chauvinist pig. If this were a man, he would find it much easier to be rude.
"He asked a lot of questions about how you were sexually."
"Christ. Why?"
"I think he wants to make it with you. Interested?"
It's beginning, thought George. "I don't know what to say to that," he said uncomfortably. He wanted to tell her he was not queer. That because he liked sex with John and her, that did not mean he was queer. He could not bring himself to say that. It seemed much too middle-class. Much too self-righteous. It sounded almost like something Miranda would say. "Why is he assuming I make it with men?" he finally said, with some indignation.
Diana laughed. "George! He knows you made it with John and me. We were both candid in filling him in on what the three of us did...."
"That was different, Diana," he said very coldly. "I'm sorry to have to run. But I'm in the middle of something."
"Talk to you soon," she said. Was there a trace of amusement in her voice?
They both hung up.
It is beginning, George thought. I'll get a reputation as a faggot. He had tried convincing himself that it was different. In a way it was. He liked John. He didn't like Gene. He didn't really care that much for Diana. Yet he had had sex with her. The fact that she was female-did that make it better? If he were to make it with Gene-that too might be acting in bad faith-because he didn't care for him-but did the fact that Gene was male make all that much difference?
He got up from the table and put the telephone back on the night table. It was almost dark outside. He had spent most of the afternoon typing. He did not want to think anymore. He did not want to have to deal with any more choices. With any more thoughts of sex or Diana. He needed a relaxing evening. He thought of Jean.
Without permitting himself to weight the pros and cons of this choice, he quickly dialed her number. He was afraid if he thought about her too long he would decide he was not up to seeing her.
"Hello," she had a warm, very sweet, open voice.
"This is the West Coast Story Editor for Circle Pictures," he said assuming his most dramatic voice.
"Far out!" she laughed. "But I don't take dick-tation on Sunday evenings."
"Are you stoned, young woman?"
"You bet your sweet bippy!" She really was in a silly mood. Maybe he should have thought twice before calling her. "What's up, doc?"
The bright air he had originally assumed seemed too wearisome to maintain. He turned it off. "Are you into a health food salad?" he asked hoping she would say no.
"At the moment, I'm not," she giggled.
George could hear another voice and more giggling in the background. "What are you into?"
"My old man is into me. And he says you can join us, if you hurry over." More laughter.
George could not think of a thing to say. He knew that Jean had an "old man." She did mention him occasionally but somehow, George had never given him any credence. He did not feel jealousy. A twinge of surprise, perhaps. And, he admitted to himself, a little bit of shock at being invited to join their sex games. Especially in view of what his sex scene had been this weekend. Yet George hesitated to say he was not interested. He realized-in large part-it was because he did not want Jean to think him unhip.
"Missed your chance," she said breathlessly, "I'm going to come. Hang on if you like and listen."
"See you tomorrow," he said abruptly, hanging up.
This was the moment she always dreaded, thought Miranda. Lou Willis asked, "Are you tired?"
"No." She said, "Not too." His car pulled into her driveway. "A nightcap then?"
She nodded. As the car stopped, she unbuckled the seat belt and climbed out. Politely, she waited for him to lock the car and then began walking to the house. She got the keys out of her purse, just as he caught up with her. Casually, he put his arm around her waist. She almost flinched. But she let him leave it there. Do I like it? She wondered. Or am I reacting negatively to it simply because I am not used to an almost total stranger touching me? Or is my reaction because I really don't wish to be touched by anyone?
The arm remained.
Inside the house, Lou commented on how attractive it was.
"Why don't you sit?" she said politely. "I'll get you a Scotch and water." As she turned to the kitchen, she asked; "that is your drink?"
He smiled, sitting himself down. "How nice. You remembered."
She returned with a Scotch for him and a plain ginger ale for herself. Miranda sat down-on the other end of the sofa. He was well-dressed in dark pin-striped suit and a tasteful tie. His hair was expensively cut, fashionably long. He had a mustache, as dark as his hair and a ready, quite pleasant smile. A fairly successful lawyer, newly divorced, Lou was almost forty, although youthful looking. (Wasn't everyone in L.A, she thought.)
Was he the marrying kind? she wondered. Over dinner he had admitted that he did not miss his ex-wife, but he did not like living alone either. Miranda had evaded answering his question: Did she feel the same way? In some ways, Lou reminded her of George. Their coloring was similar and they both had a sweet, nice-guy quality. George had not tried anything on their first date, would Lou?
Miranda tried not to make too many comparisons, but they seemed inevitable. What experience did she have with men really? Aside from Cris a few weeks ago, she had not really seen any for three years. She was half hoping that Lou would try something. This way she could use that as an excuse for not seeing him anymore. She was not about to be rushed into anything. And if some guy tried rushing her, he would not get a second chance.
Lou put his glass down on the coffee table. A bit of it spilled. The wicker table was not level all around. He did not even seem to notice. He's careless, thought Miranda. He put his right leg up partly on the sofa and faced her.
"Are you living here long?"
"Since April. When we first moved out here." Miranda said, sipping her ginger ale.
"Hardly anybody seems to be from here."
"S'true," she said, "But you are."
"Well, not really. I'm from San Francisco."
There was a few minutes of silence.
Why doesn't he leave, thought Miranda.
He took another drink of Scotch, and then cleared his throat. "I'll tell you the truth, Miranda," he said, nervousness apparent in his voice. "I'm new to this. Very new."
"To Los Angeles?"
He laughed. "To dating." He laughed again. "I'm not even sure dating is a 'hip' word anymore. I'm very out of touch. I was married for fifteen years...."
"You got married very young," she said politely.
"Right out of college." He looked away from her. "And I'll be very frank, in spite of what my wife was doing behind my back, I'd still be married. I didn't mind looking the other way. We had a comfortable life together." He drank some more Scotch. "But she left me. Nothing I said would change her mind." He laughed nervously. "She said she was bored."
Miranda was torn between a feeling of sympathy for him and the urge to say: Why are you telling me all this? She said nothing. Her face had the look of compassionate disinterest she wore at the Welfare Office.
"I don't like living alone," he said, looking at her. "I don't like sleeping alone," he said, looking away from her.
Here it comes, she thought.
"What is your life like?" he asked.
Miranda felt indignant. None of your business would have been the appropriate response, she felt. But she restrained herself. "I don't mind it too much," she said lying. "I have my yoga classes, my job, I'm redecorating the house-" Lou had such a sympathetic look on his face, she felt almost like crying.
"Is it enough?" he asked.
"We hardly know each other," she said, catching herself, pushing down the urge to cry. "It sounds to me like you're proposing, practically."
His face took on a very hurt look. He took another sip from his glass, and then stood up. "I guess I'd better be going. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."
She had hurt him, she knew. And now she was torn: Let him go and probably never hear from him again, or be polite, and have him stick around a little longer. She couldn't decide if it made any difference.
"Have another drink," she said, standing up and reaching for his glass. Before he could answer, she had gone off to the kitchen to refill it.
He gave her a big smile as she handed him the Scotch. "I like you, Miranda. I like you a lot."
"You're a nice man, Lou," she said with no particular conviction. They both sat down.
He moved over closer to her on the sofa. "I'm sorry if I was coming on too strong. But I'm out of the habit ... of talking to women." He put his glass down. She noticed with faint distaste that he had spilled some more Scotch. "I'd like to kiss you...."
She said nothing. He moved even closer. She sat completely still. Lou put his right hand under her chin and pulled her face to his. His lips touched hers briefly. He smelled of Scotch. And after-shave lotion. Canoe. As he pulled away, Miranda was at least grateful he had not tried to put his tongue in her mouth.
He gave her another smile and reached for his glass. "May I stay the night?"
"You work fast," she said coldly. "I don't know. I'll be right back," she said, getting up. She went into the kitchen. Finding a bottle of vodka, she poured some into a tumbler, added some water from the tap, and downed it. It went through her very quickly, and in a matter of seconds she was feeling very warm.
What difference does it make? she thought, standing in the dimly lit kitchen. I don't like being in this house alone at night. I don't like feeling totally vulnerable. In New York, you lived in apartments. It was much more difficult for people to break in on you. Here, in a house, on the ground floor, you were subject to any kind of violation. And it could happen so quickly you'd never know it. So what if Lou was boring? He was a man. He was company. He was no threat. She could handle him. He wasn't like Cris. He wasn't wild. He did not insist on having his own way. If she slept with Lou, it would make no difference. None whatsoever.
She had always taken sex seriously. Very seriously. She had to know a man well before she would even consider sleeping with him. Cris was the only exception. And that had been disasterous. But at the moment she didn't care. She had taken matters of sex and fidelity seriously all of her life. Where had it gotten her? So had Lou apparently. And here they were the two of them. Alone. Tears began to form. Her throat felt hard as a lump formed. She was not about to give into tears.
I'm going to give in to him, she thought. She felt that instinctively. He would be company. He would probably be so grateful that she was going to allow him into her bed that she could take charge of the sex.
Pulling a sheet of paper towel from the rack, she" blew her nose. Almost automatically, her hands went to her hair. She brushed it back as she walked out of the kitchen. The vodka was making her feel pleasantly warm. She felt no sense of sexual arousal. But what did that matter? She was merely interested in not being alone.
As she walked back into the living room, very politely he stood up, she noted with mild amusement. He gave her a big smile. She noticed his teeth. They were remarkably even. She was suddenly reminded of Doug-the actor who lived down the road. Lou's teeth must be all capped, too, she decided. They seemed too perfect. So did his face, she suddenly thought. Nice, even, totally regular WASP featues. He is good looking, like something you could order from Sears Roebuck. His manners too. He was just perfect. That in itself was a little odd.
"Are you all right?" he asked in a low voice.
She nodded, while sitting down. This time she consciously made it a point to sit a little closer to the center of the sofa. It was not lost on him. Lou sat down right next to her. His leg touched hers ever so slightly. Miranda could not decide whether the warmth of his leg against hers was pleasant or disturbing.
He looked at her. "You know," he said looking directly into her blue eyes, "I was hoping we might get to know each other better ever since we met."
"You're very sweet."
"Can we go into your bedroom?" he said, moving his body slowly to the edge of the sofa.
"Isn't that abrupt?" she said, taken slightly aback.
He put his hand on her knee. "We both know what we want...."
"You know what you want," she said coldly.
His hand tightened on her knee. "Come on, Miranda." His liquor-smelling breath became more pronounced as his face came closer to hers. "You're as horny as I am," he whispered.
She put her hand on his and attempted to remove it from her knee. "Don't be vulgar!" His hand would not budge.
He laughed unpleasantly. "Oh, you're one of those." His other hand came up and held her other hand tightly. "You like games. So did my wife."
Miranda began to feel frightened. "I wish you would leave." She tried to stand up, but now both hands were holding hers. His grip was very strong.
"I'm going to fuck you, baby. I'm going to ream your ass!" He looked directly into her eyes. He had dark, almost sinister eyes. Why had she not noticed before?
"Let go of me!" She tried to pull her hands out from his grip. "I want you to leave. I don't care for this kind of treatment." She tried to sound firm, but she knew her voice was weak. She felt she was sounding imploring, rather than demanding.
"I like your attitude. You're turning me on. My wife liked to lay the bitch too...."
"You lied to me. You said...."
"Forget what I said." His face was inches from hers. He put his mouth on hers. She tried pulling herself away from him. He persisted. He let go of her hands. Miranda tried to stand up. He was very fast. He grabbed her hard by her forearms and pressed his lips to hers. His tongue tried to force its way inside her mouth. "Quit struggling, cunt...! he muttered.
Miranda was very frightened. She was going to be raped. Raped! Using her feet, she began kicking out at him. She managed to land a hard blow at one of his shins. He let go of her arms. Turning a look of pure hatred on her, he raised his right hand and struck her across the face.
Miranda was stunned. It took a few moments before she even tuned into the stinging sensation her face was feeling. She looked at him in disbelief, as tears began running down her face.
In a very low, threatening voice, he said, "I don't like that. That's not part of it. You do that again, and I'll take off my belt and beat you black and blue. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?"
She could hardly believe her ears. She merely stared at him. Then she moved her hands to her face to alleviate the stinging sensation. He reached over and took her hands again.
"Do you understand what I just said?"
She nodded her head, her eyes staring right into his. There was hatred in his eyes.
"Well, say so."
Choking back tears, Miranda said, "I understand."
"Good," he smiled. "Now take off all your clothes."
Quickly, she stood up and began to unbutton her blue velvet skirt. The tears were still running down her face. She tried to stop crying.
"Not so fucken fast," he said. "Pretend you're doing a strip."
Miranda slowed her movements. The skirt fell down around her feet. She stood there in her pantyhose and powder blue silk blouse. He was removing his jacket. Very neatly, he folded it over the edge of the sofa's armrest. He took off his tie and did the same. After he had unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt, his hand moved down to his crotch. He unzipped his fly; all the while looking at Miranda.
"Well!" he said, reaching inside his fly.
Quickly, Miranda began unbuttoning her blouse. As she let it fall to the floor, she realized it was going to get wrinkled. It was delicate-the fabric-it might even rip. She was too frightened to do anything about it. She let it fall on top of her skirt.
Lou had his penis in his hand she noticed with disgust. He was working it very hard. He could not seem to get an erection. She looked away and began to pull down her pantyhose. She did it very slowly. As she got down to her ankles, she realized she still had her shoes on. Bending over, she slipped out of them and then pulled her panty hose over her feet.
"Turn around," he said huskily.
Miranda began to feel sick to her stomach. She turned. Totally naked but for her bra, she stood there, bent over. Her buttocks were revealed to him.
"Spread your legs!"
She stood up. Turning around, she looked directly at him. The tears had stopped. She was slightly ill. But very angry. "This has gone far enough!" she said.
With his right hand manipulating his gradually hardening penis, he used his left hand to pull his thick black belt through the loops of his trousers. "You're very M. Just like your name." The belt was loose and in his hand.
She did not know what he meant. She looked blank.
"M, sweetheart. Like in S & M." He stood up, his erect penis protruding through his fly. His belt lashed out and caught her thighs.
"Please. Please," she screamed, running toward the kitchen.
He followed her, the belt flailing out at her nude body. He caught her by the neck with his left hand. She was right near the refrigerator. He slammed her against it. It felt ice cold against her skin. Her skin was burning where the belt had struck her.
Using just one hand, he managed to double the belt and struck her very hard with it across her belly.
Miranda screamed out and doubled over in pain. He caught her and held her up. The belt fell from his hand. "I warned you," he said almost tenderly. He was holding her with his two hands just under her breasts. Her back was to him and his cock was nuzzling at the crack separating her buttocks.
Miranda was crying almost hysterically. The pain in her stomach was subsiding. All she could think of was that he might kill her. Suddenly all the things she had ever liked about Los Angeles turned black. This was where Charles Manson's people had committed all those ghastly murders. Strange things always happened here. She was totally isolated. In New York, a neighbor might hear and call the police. But here? Here! She was totally alone. Her sobs grew.
"Let's take off your bra, honey," he said. Yeah let's do that," he said as though talking to an infant. "Let's see your titties. Poppa wants your titties exposed."
With one hand, he ripped her bra from her and flung it on the breakfast counter. He moved her-still in her doubled-over position-to the counter.
"Put your arms out across the counter."
Fearful the pain in her stomach would be worse if she moved her hands, she did so. He might hurt her worse if she did not obey him.
"Spread your legs."
Miranda did. She was now standing, crying, aching, with her back to him. She felt totally exposed, totally vulnerable. She lifted her head and tried turning to see what he was doing.
"Put your head down on the counter," he said quite cheerfully. "Poppa has a surprise for his little girl."
She started crying more loudly. "Oh, please, please ... what are you going to do?"
He reached over and began stroking the softness of her buttocks. "I'm not going to hurt baby. Poppa's just going to give you what you've been wanting...."
One of his fingers began roughly probing her anus. Miranda stiffened. She pulled her legs close together. One of his hands slapped her buttocks.
"Stop it!" And then in a gender voice, "Relax. You'll like it, if you don't fight it. It's what you want. Isn't it?"
She said nothing.
He slapped her ass again.
"Isn't it?"
She turned slightly, lifting her head from the counter. "I'll do anything you like," she sobbed. "Anything. Want me to go down on you? I will. I will...."
He laughed. "Oh, baby you play the game very well. Much better than Dana ever did. You could have been an actress." He started to laugh more heartily. His hands still on her ass. "I got a dandy idea. You'll love it."
He walked to the refrigerator.
"What are you going to do?" she said, her throat aching severely.
"Did you see that movie about Paris with Brando?"
Miranda lifted her head from the counter. He had his back to her, peering into the refrigerator. She looked over at the kitchen door. Could she make it there, open it, and run outside before he could catch her? For a fleeting second, she thought she could. Then she realized that if shecouldn't, he might kill her. Kill her!
"You don't have any butter?" he said, clucking his tongue sympathetically. "Not even any margarine."
Miranda continued sobbing. "Use the sunflower oil. Please use the oil."
"It's messy. What are you some kind of health food nut?" He said slamming the refrigerator door. "Afraid of cholesterol?" He was directly behind her again. Using one hand, he pushed her head down to the counter. "You should learn to listen!"
Miranda thought of George. She had a feeling of utter loathing toward him. She felt more hatred for him even than for Lou. She hoped wherever he was and whatever he was doing, he was suffering. She hoped his pain was even more intense than hers. She hoped he had cancer. She hoped he had leukemia. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine his body filled with wet, oozing sores. She tried to see horrible animals with large teeth biting at his nose, sucking his eyeballs out of his sockets while he screamed.
It helped her somehow, as Lou's finger forced its way inside her anus. Thoughts of her hatred for George seemed to help her. She had an absolute sense that this would not be happening to her if he had only kept his lecherous desires to himself. If only he had not persuaded her to move here to Los Angeles.
And then the worse part began. No amount of imaginings about George or his whore of a secretary could ease the pain of Lou's penis pushing its way into her virgin anus. She clutched the edge of the counter until several of her fingernails broke. She screamed out. She begged him to stop. He simply probed more deeply, breathed more heavily. He had his hands held on her shoulders holding her very tightly. He was forcing her shoulders down, touching the cool surface of the counter.
Miranda wanted to die. She wanted to pass out. She could not endure this pain. She could not. She could not ... he continued fucking her. It felt as though a huge log was being rammed inside of her. She tried moving her legs further apart. It seemed not to make any difference at all. The pain, the unbelievable, excruciating pain went on.
.And then he was gone.
He had told her not to move. He had climaxed inside her and left the kitchen. She assumed in her agonized state that he had gone to the bathroom to wash himself. For long minutes, she stayed in position. Her legs, her throat, her thighs, her back, her anus-all of her in severe agony. She was too frightened to move.
And then she heard a car drive off.
Forcing herself to a standing position, she held onto the edge of the counter and then holding the refrigerator door handle, maneuvered her way out of the kitchen. She stood in the doorway of the bathroom. He was not there. Holding onto the edge of the sofa, she got to get to the front door. Opening it, she saw that his car was indeed gone.
She quickly locked the door. Inching her way over to the glass doors which led to the pool, she held onto whatever was handy. The doors were securely locked. The only other door was the kitchen door. But that was always locked. She had to be sure. Inside the kitchen, she tried the door. It was secure.
Still in severe pain, she forced herself to try all the windows. Each was now locked. In the bathroom, she drew a hot tub. It was almost scalding hot, but she nevertheless climbed into it. It felt as though her skin were on fire. She didn't care. The pain of the hot water took her mind off the pain she felt in her anus.
Miranda lost track of how much time she stayed in the tub. When the water eventually seemed cool to her, she rose. Her ass still hurt. She had a sure sense that it always would. She wanted it to be a permanent pain, somehow. On some level, she never wanted to forget this night. She was going to quit her job, move from this house, and return to New York. Before leaving Los Angeles, she hoped there was some way she could get even with George.
She went into her bedroom and swallowed three Valiums. She had to get to sleep. She lay on her side. Her anus still hurt too much. She dare not lie on her back.
After a half hour passed, Miranda was still wide awake. The image of herself lying across the breakfast counter with that pervert abusing her would not leave her mind. Even the tranquillizers didn't help. She started to cry again. What had she ever done to deserve this? She could not even call the police. How could she? She would have to admit to the horror she had been subjected to. How could she possibly tell that to total strangers? To policemen? How could she ever tell anyone?
If only George had not ... the rotten bastard ... if only he had not forced her to divorce him ... if only ... Cris was right. Everything was totally arbitrary. Totally. Life had absolutely no meaning. Things just happened. She was just at the mercy of totally meaningless events.
Still crying, still feeling more down than she had ever in her life, Miranda finally fell asleep. She slept deeply, she did not hear the alarm clock the next morning.
George could hardly believe what he was doing. He was both amused and embarrassed. It seemed so silly. He was in a singles bar right off the Sunset Strip. When singles bars became popular on New York's upper East Side, George was still unmarried, but the whole notion of them had turned him off. It was so blatant. The idea of going into a place with a lot of other people all with the same thing on their minds and no one-all too middle class-bold enough to simply say, "let's fuck!"
From what he had read about them, everybody behaved rather coyly. It was like a mating ritual. The boys bought the girls drinks. Everybody made dumb conversation about what they did for a living. Where they went on their vacation. It always seemed incredibly dumb to him. But that was New York.
Space's was very dark. The bar was quite long, as was the entire room. It was the middle of the week, George felt that explained why it was not too crowded. Rather nervously, he walked to the center of the bar and sat on a wooden stool. He looked up and found himself looking into a mirror. It was so dark for a brief moment, he did not realize he was looking at himself.
"Hi!" said a cute, young blonde bartender.
"Hi!" George said, trying to sound equally bright to her.
"Your first time?"
He nodded.
"It's fun here. And very relaxed. It gets busier later. Then the fun crowd starts coming in," she winked. He wondered what that meant. "What are you drinking?"
"Gin and tonic."
"You got it!"
She walked off. George looked after her. She was wearing red satin hot pants. Her ass was pert, nicely shaped. The hot pants were very flattering, but they seemed like something from another era to him.
She brought him his drink, and he popped some salted peanuts in his mouth. He turned slightly on his stool and looked around. Here and there were some men and women. Most were standing alone. A few were talking to each other. The atmosphere was like a party where the host or hostess had not done a proper job of introducing the guests.
After about ten minutes or so, George began to feel very depressed. He thought of leaving. Then he thought of the Sunset Cavalier. He was not up to facing that room so early in the evening. I'll really have to find an apartment or a house soon, he told himself. But living in a hotel had numerous advantages.
He thought of Miranda. She often popped into his head. He wished it were possible for them to be friends. Other divorced people managed to become friendly. He and Miranda were not really divorced yet. It would be some months before the decree was final. Perhaps by then, she'd be over her hostility. He hoped so.
George had another sip of his drink. He did not really know Miranda after all. That too was depressing. To be married three years and have so little inkling of what your mate was really like. Everything seemed to be kind of depressing lately. Even the L.A. sunshine and palm trees no longer seemed to give him that automatic turn-on each morning that they had when he first moved here.
"You're not from Los Angeles?"
He turned to his right. A brunette, maybe in her middle twenties, kind of shortless than five feet five-with a barely adequate nose job and a black dress-a size too small for her-was addressing him.
"No. I'm not," he said, instantly telling himself-no matter how desperate he was-he was not going home with her.
"Buy me a drink," she said, in a slightly slurred voice, "and I'll guess your home town."
George got the bartender's attention.
"I like champagne cocktails," the brunette said.
"That's all I drink. Can you tell I like to drink?" she said putting her hand on George's arm. "No," he said politely.
"You're very nice." She had dark, rather pretty eyes. "You remind me of the man I went home with last night."
George laughed.
"You're not shocked?" she said, throwing her head back, rather theatrically.
"It takes more than that to shock me," he said, affecting his man of the world voice.
"I bet you'd be shocked if I slid off this stool onto the floor and sucked your pee pee."
Just then the chick brought the champagne cocktail. "You're at it again, Annie," she said smiling.
George was amused, and yet rather turned off by her. "What do you do for a living?"
"Guess," she picked up her drink. "You're an actress."
She nodded vigorously. "But I gave it up."
"What films were you in?"
"Several top grossers."
"Maybe I saw them." He was about to say he was in the film industry, but thought better of it. Casual acquaintances who knew that fact would often hound him for jobs.
"Did you see "She Came On The Bus?" She downed the rest of her drink and beckoned the bartender. "Or "Sleazy Rider?"
George laughed. "Oh, you're a porn star?"
"Would you excuse me a minute," she said, getting up rather clumsily. "Have to take a pee," she whispered in his ear.
The bartender came over with another champagne cocktail. "Don't waste too much time with her," she said, in a conspiratorial tone. "She's a hoot, but if you're into making out, you're wasting your time."
"Thanks," he said, reaching for his wallet. He paid for her drink and wondered whether he should leave before she came back. The thought of the Sunset Chevalier or simply getting in his car and driving around did not please him. He decided he might as well make the choice of staying here and seeing what this led to.
The brunette came back. Stumbling slightly, she got back on the bar stool. "There was a dyke in there," she said in a low voice. "And she wanted to lick my cunny."
George nodded.
"You don't believe me?"
"Sure, I believe you. Why shouldn't I?"
"You like group scenes?" she said, lifting her glass to her brightly lipsticked mouth.
"Sometimes," he said, looking away from her. His stomach was beginning to feel nervous. He wasn't sure if it was nervous-feeling because new sexual scenes both turned him on and simultaneously frightened him. Or because the idea of sex with her was repugnant to him.
"I love them." She put her glass down on the bar, and rested both her elbows there as well. Looking straight ahead, she suddenly sounded sober. The slur in her voice vanished. "I love lying there completely naked with asses, cocks, cunts, mouths all over me and in me. ... I love being lost in sex. I love the feeling of not being able to tell where I begin and where the other bodies end." George did not know what to say. "But people take advantage of you. You can't just give yourself up to them." She looked at him. "People are freaky. They're on such ego trips. They do such numbers on your head. That's bad enough." She turned slightly, showing him some bare shoulder just above her dress line. "See?"
It was so dark, George could not. He pretended to. She was making him rather uptight. He thought it best to agree with her. "Uh huh," he muttered. "What is it?"
"Can't you tell?" she said with some exasperation. "They're cigarette burns!"
George's nervousness turned to a queasy feeling in his stomach.
"Are you into that?" she said.
He shook his head, looking away from her.
"A lot of people are, you know." She reached for her drink. "And how can you tell? You lie there, stoned, horny ... all ready to give yourself up to any and every sexual experience ... ready to lose yourself...." She looked directly at George. He wanted to look away, but her facial expression compelled him to keep looking. " ... ready to have the borders of your life crossed, interfered with ... by people like yourself ... people wanting the same thing as you...." She looked away from him, shrugged her shoulders. "But people want different things. I went to a shrink. He said that I was trying to give up responsibility." She put her hand on his arm. "If you do that, you're already dead. Sometimes I think I'm dead. I didn't even feel these burns when that freak did them to me...."
George shivered involuntarily. He gestured for the bartender.
"Another one?" she asked.
He wasn't sure. He had gestured simply to break the depressing spell the brunette had created. If he ordered another gin and tonic, he would have to sit here and listen to her. He did not want to hurt her feelings by leaving abruptly. He looked over at her. I'm an asshole, he thought. She's doing a number on me.
"No, can I have some change for the cigarette machine?"
The brunette gave him a very strange look. Jesus Christ! he thought. Did he have to say cigarettes? "I'll be right back," he said. The brunette nodded.
He walked to the front of the bar, past the cigarette machine, and out the door. The juke box was playing "Season of the Witch" as he left.
As George walked into the lobby of the Sunset Chevalier, the room clerk called his name. He handed George a telephone message slip. It stated that Diana had called at 9:30 p.m.
Riding up to his room in the elevator, he crumpled the slip up in his hand. Diana called him fairly regularly and he usually put her off. It had been several weeks since he had had sex with anyone. He had been to numerous porn films and had gotten into the habit of sitting down front and jerking off. On two occasions, he had even permitted other males to go down on him in the men's room. But since his threesome with John and Diana, he had been to bed with no one. Not even Jean. He had a feeling that he and Jean would probably not be making it together anymore.
Putting the key in the lock of the door leading to his room, George thought he should probably call Diana. He had this notion that if he were to see her she was somehow going to get him into bed with her. That was nonsense. And he knew it. If he chose not to have sex with her, he would not. She was not a witch. She did not have the power to force him into it.
He found himself somewhat disturbed about John. He thought they were becoming friends. But John almost never contacted him, except to ask if anything was happening at Circle with the "Bovary" project. George remembered thinking the first time John had been in his office that there was something of the con man about him. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps John's only interest in him had to do with how much George could help him.
George threw his jacket on a chair, and snapped on the stereo tuner. He laughed. "Season of the Witch"-this time sung by Donovan-came on the radio. It was as though he had not left the bar. God! that chick was depressing! Cigarette burns! Crazy! Sick! He also found himself very disturbed by her notion of wanting to completely abjure responsibility.
How sick! She hardly knew him and was apparently willing to put herself completely in his hands. No wonder she met so many freaks. That kind of self-destructiveness frightened him. We all have a tendency toward it, he thought. He sat down at the table, looking out at the moonlight rippling on the water in the pool. He wondered if that chick particularly repelled him because she forced him to think about such things as responsibility.
His ever-growing feeling that perhaps he had not the stamina, the-what was it?-whatever it takes to make it on his own. His sense of missing Miranda. It was not Miranda the person he missed. It was something that she represented. Some kind of security. But was it security? Or was it simply that she was a strong woman on whom he could heap responsibility? Having to worry about her, having to keep her pleased, having her around-all of it-was a way of not having to be responsibile for himself to a large extent.
Was that as self-destructive as the blonde's attitude? Was it any better? It was more acceptable middle-class behavior by society's standards. But was it really any better? Was one really being entirely responsible?
George was feeling fidgety. All of the philosophizing he had been doing lately was getting to him. He walked out on the balcony. The water looked so pretty.
Was that part of the marriage trip? Making the choice to live together, do things together, share things-were they simply a way of not tuning into the essential truth about life? The essential truth that life was totally absurd.
George walked back into the room. He dialed Diana's number. I'll freak out if I stay here by myself another minute, he thought.
As George began driving toward Diana and John, his mood began to lift instantly. Diana had called to tell him that John was back from Chicago earlier than expected. And why didn't he drop by? No sooner had he hung up the phone than George was out the door. So that's why he had not heard from John. John had been away!
George also realized that he could have ascertained this very easily by asking Diana during one of the phone exchanges they had had earlier in the week. But he always felt self-conscious when speaking to Diana about mentioning John. He tuned into the fact that it was his own concern with what Diana might think of him and his feelings about John that caused his reticence. If he thought John was a con man using him, it was largely his own trip. George realized he would have to take some of the responsibility for thinking John was simply using him upon himself. "I'm such an asshole," he said aloud.
After embracing in the doorway, Diana, dressed in a dark blue work shirt tied loosely above her bare midriff and a pair of cut-off jeans-led George into the dimly lit house.
"Tonight, it's nothing but candles," laughed Diana. She put her arm around his waist. "It's nice to see you, G." George was not sure he liked being called that by her. He let it pass.
They wandered into the kitchen, where she handed him a cup of tea and a lit joint. In the center of the room Was a large blue candle, perhaps four feet tall, and eight inches thick.
"Jesus!" he said, inhaling on the joint.
He wondered where John was. After making small talk with Diana and finishing off the joint, he decided it would be stupid not to ask his whereabouts.
He did.
"Oh, he's up in the bedroom," she said. "Go up. You know where it is. I have something to finish here."
Stumbling several times, he made his way from the dimly lit kitchen to the dimly lit main room up the dimly lit staircase. He found the bedroom, which in his stoned state had the appearance of what-he in his younger days-would have called a den of iniquity. There were two small candles burning, but the major light was provided by a red light bulb. As he peered in, he saw several naked bodies lying on the bed. He stood in the doorway, partly attempting to make out exactly what the scene was. And partly trying to see if John was there.
"G!" he heard John's voice exclaim. "Get your ass in here! The water's woooderful!"
George laughed a little nervously and stumbled in. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the light. John was lying nude on the mattress, observing another male having his cock sucked by someone with long blonde hair. George hoped the someone was female. John was attempting to rise to greet George but the dark-haired male was resting his head across John's thighs, effectively holding him down.
"Come over, luv, and give us a big wet kiss," John laughed.
George made his way over to the mattress and sat on the edge. John's hands came up and pulled George down to him. His soft bearded face touched George's and then his lips kissed George. George put his arms around John's bare shoulders. Feeling a mixture of extreme joy and-was it fear?-George held John very tightly.
He put his moist tongue in John's mouth and the two men began kissing each other passionately. After a few long moments, John pushed George-away slightly. He looked into George's eyes. George looked deeply into his. "How ya doing, baby?" said John. "You're some kisser!"
Aware of movement to his right, George turned his head. The dark-haired male resting on John's thighs was apparently coming. His pelvis moved upward and the hands of the blonde person-George realized it was a woman-reached up and clutched at his thighs.
"She's an incredddible cocksucker!" said John, reaching his hand inside George's shirt and beginning to caress his left nipple. George was incredibly aroused. His cock felt as though it could burst through his jeans. He wanted to have all his clothing off. He wanted to be lying with John. He wanted to be sucking John. He didn't even care that there was a woman present. Fuck her! he thought. She can think whatever she likes.
George stood up, and unzipping his jeans, let them drop to the floor. John's hand came up and began moving the foreskin back and forth over the head. As George unbuttoned his shirt, John's head came forward and began licking George's cock.
The dark-haired male lifted his head from John's thighs and moved over to the head of the bed. He put his head down on the pillow and watched John begin to work on George's cock. The blonde chick, first wiping her semen-wet lips on the white sheet, smiled over at John.
He winked at her.
She had a short, rather squat body, tending slightly to overweight. Her most outstanding feature were her breasts. They were enormous. Still standing with his jeans around his ankles, George looked over at her. She hopped off the bed and came round to him.
"I'm Lulu," she said, putting her hands up to his balls. Feeling quite foolish, George smiled at her.
"I'm George," he said, laughing. "I've never made introductions while my cock was being sucked."
John removed his mouth from George for a moment. "And it's some piece of meat. Wooonder-ful!" he said kicking his feet up and down on the mattress.
Lulu untied the shoelaces on George's sneakers and as he lifted each foot, she removed first the shoe and then the sock. Finally, she managed-he almost fell over-to pull his jeans off as well. She moved back to the bed and getting on her knees, spread John's legs slightly apart. Resting herself between them, she then took his cock in her mouth.
Still standing, George observed John sucking on him, while Lulu sucked on John. The dark-haired guy lay there, grinning, watching the spectacle.
I'm not even self-conscious, thought George. I'm not even embarrassed. I like this. I love it. "I love this!" he said aloud.
John removed his mouth from George's cock, although his hand kept pushing the foreskin back and forth over the moist head. "You'd be an asshole, if you didn't," John said laughing.
Lulu applied herself very diligently to working on John's cock. For long minutes, George was hardly aware of John's labors on his behalf, so absorbed was he in watching Lulu's talented mouth and tongue glide over John's quite substantial cock. George, of course, had sucked on John's cock himself several weeks earlier when the two men and Diana had spent the night together. He was aware that he was better hung than John. He liked the fact. Not that it would have disturbed him if John were better hung than he. It was that John was so much more experienced sexually, so much less hung up, so much looser about things that George felt less inferior by being physically larger. It balanced them off somewhat.
The dark-haired guy reached his hand out and put it in Lulu's hair. She raised her head up from John's cock. Taking one last swipe at his erection with her tongue, she moved away from him. George stood there watching her movements. Feeling somewhat emboldened, he put his hands in John's hair. John's eyes looked up at him. Even in the darkly lit room, George could see John's glistening blue eyes. The two men stared deeply into each other. John's mouth continuing working on George's cock. George began to feel weak in his knees. He thought he would come in seconds if he did not control himself. His hands tightened in John's hair. John's hands moved from under George's balls. The hands moved up and each of them caressed one of his nipples.
As John's fingers began to pinch George's nipples very lightly, George removed his hands from John's hair. He put his hands over John's.
"If you keep that up, I'll come right now...." he whispered, feeling very embarrassed because of the presence of Lulu and the other guy. He glanced in their direction. They seemed to be oblivious to him. Lulu was sitting atop the dark-haired man's cock and riding up and down.
They could care less about me and John and my self-consciousness, thought George. He looked away from them, thinking that if he couldn't see them perhaps he would forget them.
"Lie down with me," said John, gently pushing George toward the mattress.
"I should have thought of that," he said in a breathless voice, which he hardly recognized as his own. He felt young, ridiculously boyish somehow.
John moved over on the mattress and George lay down alongside him. John's body was almost completely hairless above his waist. His ass and thighs and legs were hairy, however. Telling himself that all there was was this moment, George moved his own body closer to John's. He wanted to feel John's flesh against his own. He wanted his clean-shaved face pressed to John's bearded cheek.
He realized, with some shock, that he wanted very much to fuck John. When the two of them had made it with Diana, he had had his fingers and tongue in John's asshole. But as shocked as he was in retrospect remembering-and writing down-his outrageous behavior-(he had been stoned out of his head on grass and hash-after all) it had never occurred to him to want to fuck John. Now he wanted to. His erection was hard, almost achingly hard.
John put his arms around George and the two men lay facing each other, holding each other very tightly. George's tongue explored John's upper lip. He ran his tongue back and forth, and then did the same with John's lower lip. It felt strange because of the hairiness. He caught John's tongue between his lips and began sucking it. John's quiet, gradually building moans of pleasure, turned him on all the more. He wanted to turn John on. It seemed vitally important somehow to turn John on. He wanted John to know that he dug him. Really dug him!
George's hands moved down and began caressing John's flat and hairy asscheeks. He clutched each one in his hands, pulling John closer to him. His tongue never stopped working in John's mouth.
"They're really into it." George heard the deep baritone voice of the guy fucking Lulu. He and Lulu both laughed. George told himself to pay them no mind. Not to get uptight. What did it matter what they thought? They think I'm queer! thought George.
"Man, you seem to be more interested in what they're doing than in balling me," Lulu said.
The guy laughed.
"What's the matter?" John said, putting his hands up to George's face and holding him tenderly.
John smiled, unconvincingly. "Nothing's wrong." His erection was diminishing slightly and he knew it. "I'm just a little ... uptight ... I guess," he whispered.
"You don't dig making it with me alone?" John asked in a very low voice.
The look in John's eyes practically brought tears to George's. "Oh, no," he put his hand in John's hair. "Oh, no. I love it. I love it...."he said with great tenderness.
"Well SHOW IT!" John shouted, pushing George down on his back, and sitting on him. He sat right on George's stomach and looked down at him. "Give me a BWK."
George laughed. It was like being in dorm with a buddy. "What's a BWK?"
John bent down and planted a big wet kiss on George's lips. "Ain't you never had a big wet kiss?" he said in a comic bass voice. John began to plant moist little kisses all over George's face. He kissed his eyes, his eyebrows, his forehead, his cheeks, and even sucked the tip of George's nose into his mouth.
"Buddy," George whispered, "have you ever been fucked?"
"G. you ask the damndest questions!"
George felt defensive, and began to feel paranoid again. Were the other two listening? "It's just ... well ... you know that I...."
Still sitting on George's stomach, John turned to Lulu and the guy fucking her, and said loudly: "George is new to having sex with other dudes. Do you believe that? He's afraid you'll both think he's queer...."
"John ... fchrissakes...! George said, feeling both pleasure and discomfort at his friend's openness.
"Not to worry!" he said gesturing broadly. "He's been married. Not a faggot. Got it? If not for my filthy undermining influence, he would still not know the joys of sucking ... But what happens when his divorce comes final? That's the question. Will this clean, upright," John reached down and grabbed George's cock and moved it back and forth, "American boy remain sexually free and liberated or," John raised himself somewhat and moved his ass downward and attempted to put the tip of George's cock inside his asshole, "or will he choose to marry again and go back to a safe and sane boring sex life?"
To George's amazement, about a quarter of his cock slipped inside John. Geoerge realized he was holding his breath. He was nervous and frightened. He turned his head to Lulu. She was paying absolutely no mind to John's ranting. She appeared to be close to coming. Her eyes were shut and she was starting to moan loudly. George looked away. To his surprise, he found himself disinterested in her orgasm. He looked up at John, who was smiling at him.
"Relax, baby, you're doing very, very well for your age group." He reached both hands behind him, and spreading the cheeks of his ass further apart, pressed downward on George's cock.
George kept staring at John's face. He was absolutely fascinated by the incredible looseness that John displayed. He felt more turned on than he ever had in his life. John closed his eyes. His facial expression was one of ecstatic abandonment. George began moving his pelvis upward, trying to get more of his cock inside John.
"Wanna lie on my back," John said.
George shifted his body, causing his dick to slip from John's ass. John lay down on his back. "Enjoying the cruise?" he said poking the shoulder of the guy lying next to him.
"Dee-lightful," the other said cheerfully.
"We must all meet up on A-Deck later on and play some shuffleboard." John said, raising his legs up in the air.
George was on his knees between John's legs, not sure how to place himself.
John reached his hands out and putting them behind George's neck, pulled George toward him. John's feet rested on George's shoulder.
George, using his right hand, and resting himself on his left, tried getting his cock inside John. With some annoyance, he thought of how much easier it was with women. The plumbing was completely right.
John reached behind, and grabbing a pillow, put it under his ass. Raised as he was now, the angle was right and George was able to insert his still firm erection inside John. With one of his arms on either side of John, he was in the standard missionary fuck position. He was both amused and surprised. It didn't really feel any different from fucking women. The position was the same.
As his cock began to slide more deeply inside John, George began tuning into the indescribable sensation. The tip of his cock ached slightly. It was dryness, he decided. The same kind of slight ache he used to feel when fucking Miranda when she was unprepared. Which bethought, feeling bitchy, was most of the time.
John began to moan. His eyes were closed and his head was moving ever so slowly back and forth on the pillow. He was obviously very much into it. George found himself very turned on by John's pleasure. He loved watching him. He kept trying to take his mind away from all the inevitable comparisons that kept coming to mind but could not. He remembered Miranda's face. She almost seemed to be in pain when he was really inside her. He remembered all the times he had closed his eyes because he had no desire to see the look on her face. He hated pain. Pleasure's my trip, he thought.
"Oh, baby, that's so good...." John said, opening his eyes and looking briefly at George.
George lowered his knees somewhat very slowly. His ass now felt wide open. His cock seemed to be at exactly the right angle. His cock felt tremendously hard. He felt so much into fucking John that for one of the first times he could remember he could forget his cock. Whether fucking Miranda or Jean or any of the other women he had ever known, he was always concerned about his erection. There was always that fear that he would lose it. That it would slip out. And that it would not be hard enough to get it back in properly.
But now, he was feeling so much at ease with John, so much as though he and John wanted the same thing, that he did not feel fearful. Both he and John wanted pleasure. He had no way of knowing for certain, of course, but he felt that John cared about George's pleasure. That they were friends. Two friends. Two men who dug each other. Enormously. Two men who wanted to have a good time together.
"I love to fuck you...." George whispered, bringing his mouth down to John's.
"I love the way you fuck me, baby...." John said as their tongues began working together.
Both men had their eyes opened. They stared into each other's eyes. It was a strange angle and George mainly saw one blue eye and a face framed by a dark beard. But the look in that one eye and the breathing and the movement told George how much John was digging their sex together.
George heard gasping, panting, moaning sounds to his right. Lulu and her friend both seemed to be coming. Their motions became so frantic, so intense, that they shook John and George's side of the mattress.
"Oh, let's come now, too, baby...." John said, as he moved George up from his body slightly. George was puzzled. Could John come while being fucked? He realized quickly what John meant. As George moved upward, and his thrusts became longer, John reached down, and grabbing his cock in his left hand-George suddenly realized that John was left-handed (so was Miranda-why had he never noticed?) began to jerk himself off.
There was such a look of pure pleasure on John's face, that George could not really contain his orgasm any longer. He loved the look on John's face. He loved the notion of someone whom he could talk to while having sex. Someone with whom to laugh during sex. A friend whose face delighted him during sex....
George's ass and pelvis began moving almost involuntarily. He felt shivery all along the back of his calves and thighs and in the upper part of his back. As his cock went all the way inside John and then pulled outward, almost slipping outside his asshole, the delicious, almost frightenly joyous, shivery sensation became apparent in his lower back. In spite of his intense involvement with his orgasm, with John's orgasm, with the movement on the next bed, he could not help but be aware that it was not a total pelvic number. He decided not to tune into that. He was often not really into his orgasms because he was so busy gauging them. He was doing it now. This was not the perfect orgasm. The perfect orgasm that Reich advised all to strive for. George was still striving for it.
Shit, he thought to himself, here was his semen shooting out of his cock and into John and he was reviewing as though it were a performance instead of feeling it. I can tune it out, he told himself. He concentrated on the sensation of his cock sliding very, very slowly in and out of John. John's hand was furious-masturbating. George could feel the motion and the touch of John's knuckles against his stomach, as he thrust in and out. His mind quickly jumped to how different, and how curiously similar it was to fucking Miranda. The sensation was not so different. He would not have believed it possible to experience almost exactly the same kind of sexual pleasure from fucking a man. Yet with his eyes closed, there was no real difference. And with his eyes opened-it was better!
With a sense of ever-growing joy, George looked at John as John's orgasm overcame him. His head continued to move back and forth. Low, sensual moans left his lips. His eyes were partly open and his eyeballs were unfocused. Although he himself had never been fucked, George felt as though he was experiencing what John was. It turned him on. Seeing his friend in the grip of an orgasm spurred on his own. He cared about John's pleasure. He felt as though he had never really cared about the sexual pleasure of any woman he had ever fucked. But now, here with John, he cared. It made a difference to him. Not out of guilt. Not out of a feeling of inadequacy. Not out of a feeling that he had to produce. Had to perform. The sense was of two people-two men-locked together in the grip of a number, which at this moment, was stronger than either of them. It was a purely male thing, George felt. Two men doing something together out of choice. Not necessarily out of biological need. Out of choice. Out of wanting to do something together and do it wonderfully well.
George let go. His ass and pelvis seemed to take over. He felt as though his body were fucking John. His body had a need to fuck and John was going with it. He was for long moments able to tune his head out completely and then fear would take over. A strange, primeval fear would come upon him and he would start using his head again. His head would tell him that John was already coming. John was not a woman and therefore could not fully experience the thursts of George's cock, ass and pelvis. That he should stop. That one could not go this far. They were the same fears that overtook George when he and Miranda would really get into fucking. George would open his eyes and look to Miranda. Or attempt to put his mouth to hers. Her eyes showed pain. Her mouth would move away. George looked at John. John was with him. With him!
His thrusts became more insistent. He sensed that he was losing himself. He kept looking at John's face. The look of pleasure, of total involvement, John's joy, instantly reassured him. He could turn off his head. Completely go. He could go with his thrusts. Completely, totally ... His hands reached down and held the incredibly soft, sensual skin at the back of John's neck. He came in closer and placed his right arm under John's neck and held him tightly. As his stomach touched John's," he became aware of the cool wetness of the semen that seemed to be all over John's navel and chest.
George's moans became very guttural. John's body movements were so much with him, that he was able to give in totally to deep, stomach groans. His orgasm went on....
"We should be filming this," he heard Lulu's friend saying. "Dig them! They're really into it."
Lulu moaned and muttered something incoherent. John laughed. Although startled by his renewed awareness of other presences, George found himself laughing, too. Jesus Christ! he thought with delight, I'm still coming, and I'm laughing. His laughter grew. He raised himself upward and looked at John. John winked at him.
"Baby, you're the best fuck I've ever had!"
George laughed. "This is ridiculous. I don't believe this!"
John began to move his legs. "Must put my legs down."
"Oh, I'm sorry," said George, moving upward and allowing his still-hardened cock to slip from John's ass.
John's legs were now down and resting flat on the mattress. "Oh," he sighed. "That's better." He looked at George, who was lying on his side. "Don't get uptight. They just got tired of being up in the air."
George smiled at him.
"Man! Man, oh man!" he heard the guy on the other side of the bed say. "The energy in this room would be enough to light up Hollywood Bowl!"
Everyone laughed.
"The vibes between you two and Cris and me....Wow!" Lulu exclaimed, reaching over and kissing John. "Dynamite!" Her face moved over to George. She inserted her moist tongue in his mouth and they kissed intensely for a few long seconds.
As Lulu pulled away and lay down between John and Cris, George, laughing, raised his head. "Oh, that's your name," he said. "I'm George Saxon."
"How ya doing?" said Cris. He thought a moment and then said, "You know a blonde woman named Miranda?"
George felt a terrible tightness in his stomach. "Yeah." Instantly, the old defensiveness he always felt about Miranda was there with him again. He was generally very open about most things. His friends knew that and used to joke about his forthrightness. When he married that had changed considerably. He almost never discussed Miranda with his friends. His friends became aware that she was not someone whom they could comment on. Invariably, pre-Miranda, George's general attitude invited comments and observations on the women, the people, the things George was into. That had changed.
Over the past few months, George-partly through John's influence, and to be fair, Jean's as well (she was a very open chick) was becoming more open again. But suddenly hearing Miranda's name like this, with two strangers who had observed him in perhaps the most outrageous sexual episode of his life, Miranda's name which for him still conjured up, secretiveness, privacy, and-reluctantly George let the word happen in his mind-uptightness.
"You the old man she ditched?" Cris laughed, but not unkindly, "because you were making it with your secretary?"
Lulu laughed. So did John. Defensive at first, George realized it was comic. He laughed. "That's me.
"She's some far-out chick!"
George said nothing. A sense of guilt came over him. He was not sure why. But she had been on his mind somewhat. Perhaps he should have called her. "What is she into?" George asked.
"Control." He lit up a joint. "But you must know that better than me."
Jesus Christ! thought George. Do I need this now?
CHAPTER FOUR
Miranda was sitting on the sofa in her white terry-cloth robe. It was not really a cold night. But for weeks now, she had been feeling chilled. With her legs tucked under her, she sipped at a cup of hot camomile tea. She had brought home several files from the office, but her mind was not on reading them. Lately, she had been very busy at work for which she was very grateful. The days passed very quickly. She almost never had time to go out to lunch. In fact, to save money, she had gotten into the habit of bringing her lunch. In the evening, she brought work home.
There was no one to see anyway. She was perfectly content to stay at home evenings and work. It was another way of saving her money. She had to make up her mind whether to return to New York. If she did, she would most certainly need as much money as possible. Returning to New York would mean starting all over again. The divorce would not be final for some months. With the California divorce laws being what they were, she could have made out very well financially. After all, George had a job which paid remarkably well, but she wanted nothing from him. It would have been nice to have some support, like having him pay the rent on this house. But to hell with it. And to hell with him. She stubbed out a Vantage in the saucer holding her tea cup.
She reached over to the coffee table and lit another one. Smoking had its bad points, which all her yogic breathing barely helped, but in the evenings, reading these cases or watching television, smoking was very pleasurable.
Money. What a problem. She did not use the swimming pool much at all, but if she moved from this house, she would miss it. She had some dim notion that once she left a house with a swimming pool, there was no reason to live in Southern California. If she did move it would be for financial reasons; the rent here was very high. Especially for someone who was employed by the city. The welfare department paid almost as badly as it had in New York.
The doorbell rang.
Miranda stiffened. She quickly put the Vantage to her lips and inhaled deeply. She had not heard a car drive up. L.A. was horrible. If she did not answer the door whoever it was would or could peer through the window. I'll never live on the ground floor of anywhere again, she vowed silently.
Every time the bell rang, which fortunately was not often, she thought of him. Miranda never used his name. He was just that man who had been here that night.
She stood up, as the doorbell rang again. If it's him, she thought, I'll put my cigarette out in his cheek. Or his eye. Quickly slam the door shut and call the police. I can lock myself in the bathroom until they get here.
Almost calm, she walked to the door.
"Yes!" she said loudly.
"It's Doug. Open up."
She put her left hand on the doorknob, turned it to the left, and then when it had unsnapped, reached up with her right hand, unhooked the latch. She opened the door.
"Why didn't you call?" she said coldly.
"Nothing like a cold greeting on a warm night!" He stepped inside. "What's with this chain lock?"
"I live alone." Almost by reflex, she tightened the robe cord around her waist. "Frankly, I don't like people dropping in on me unannounced."
He gave her an exasperated look, and then theatrically pushed some of his blonde hair from his forehead. "Jesus Christ, Miranda! Can I please sit down?"
She nodded, gesturing toward the sofa. He sat. Miranda continued standing. "I'm waiting." Pretending innocence, he said, for what?"
"Honestly, Doug! I'm in no mood for games."
"Aren't you going to offer me some tea? Do you realize how far I had to walk to get here?" He gave her one of his dazzling toothpaste commercial grins. "All uphill?"
"You could have driven." , "Vicki has the car. The Porsche. Hers is out of commission." He picked up a manila folder from the sofa, glanced at it briefly. "How boring. Why don't you do TV commercials? With that fabulous hair ... He quickly reached inside the pocket of his bleached dungarees, pulling out a small watch. "It's almost time."
She looked blankly at him.
"That's what I'm here for. The fucken-sorry about that-the gol'danged television set is on the fritz and I want to see my new spot. It's supposed to be televised at 9:04 on Channel 5." He put his watch back in his pocket. "Your TV is working?"
"Yes," she said, still standing several feet from the sofa, "but it's in the bedroom." She turned. "I'll get it."
As she snapped on the light in the darkened room, he followed her in. "You don't have to ... it's only 60 seconds long...."
"I'd rather. Go outside. I'll be right in with it."
Placing his hand on his chest, he idly scratched at his left nipple through the fabric of his red silk shirt. "You see too many movies, Miranda. Or maybe you read too many Gothic novels!"
"What is that supposed to mean?" she said, facing him, her hand on the handle of the black and white Zenith.
"Just because an attractive, swinging," he gave her a big flashy smile, "tall, blonde Scandinavian actor is in your bedroom doesn't mean you're going to get raped."
She gave him a look of total disgust.
His smile faded.
After a pause, he asked: "Is there a plug in the other room?"
She didn't answer. Miranda carried the set to the living room and placed it very carefully on the wicker coffee table. The cord from the set was long enough to reach to a wall outlet behind the sofa.
Doug sat down on the sofa and turned on the set. Miranda remained standing. He was about to tell her to relax and sit, but thought better of it. Freaky chick! he thought. The look she gave him in the bedroom was a real turn off. Ever since Vicki had told him that she and George were being divorced, he had been trying to figure a way to get the three of them together. Vicki was blonde, too. The thought of her and Miranda getting it on while he watched was a fantasy he had had for quite a while now. Almost since he had first met Miranda and George. He had intimated to Miranda and to George-separately-that he would have dug a group scene. However, Miranda's reaction had always been disdain. George's had been of some interest. But his feeling had always been that George was under Miranda's thumb. He had not pursued that.
He flipped the dial to Channel Five and waited patiently while Clint Eastwood-as a disk jockey-and Jessica Walter-as a madwoman with a knife-struggled on the cliffs of Big Sur.
On several occasions, Doug had driven or walked past Miranda's and sneaking through her gate, had peered in her window. She always seemed to be alone. No boy friends. No girl friends. She had always been somewhat hostile toward him, but tonight she was being an aboslute bitch. Maybe he would have to send Vicki around. Vicki dug both guys and other chicks. Maybe her technique might soften Miranda. But he knew when he was batting zero.
"Here it is!"
In silence, the two of them watched as Doug wearing black slacks and a black turtle neck, strikingly photographed on the beach at Malibu in bright sunlight, sang the praises of Good-the new metholated toothpaste.
"They dubbed my voice!" he said in some annoyance. "I did the entire dumb song about fifteen times. And then they decided they wanted a professional singer." He turned off the set. "What'ya thing of that?"
"You looked very good," she said with polite disinterest.
He brightened. "Thanks, Miranda." He stood up. "That. And I repeat: that may be the first nice thing you've ever said to me."
She looked away from him and began walking toward the door.
"Well," he said, clapping his hands together loudly, "that's a subtle touch. The Iron Maiden wants the sexy actor to leave her hymen-bound castle."
Miranda stood at the door. "Good night, Douglas."
"Why can't you ever relax?" He gestured like an Italian. "What'sa the matter for you?" She opened the door.
"Thank you for a lovely evening. The conversation was stimulating. And your hospitality was...."
As he walked through the door, she did not hear his last word. She noted with some disgust that he moved his hips and buttocks rather more seductively than a man should. Unable to move for a second, she continued watching him as he walked to the gate. She could barely see him, but she stood there.
Feeling great annoyance with herself, she finally closed the door. She hurried over to the wicker table. She needed a cigarette.
Closing the door quietly behind him, George nodded to Don Munchkin's plump middle-aged secretary.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Saxon?" she asked in a kindly tone.
He laughed. "I've just been fired."
She looked very upset. "Ohhh...."
George reached over and patted her arm. "It's okay. I'm just a little taken aback...."
She started to rise from her chair. "If there's anything...."
"That's very sweet, Millie. Thanks." He wanted to get back to his office. "I'll see you later to say goodbye."
He hurried down the plush, carpeted corridor and rather than wait for the elevator, took the stairs.
"How's it going, George?" Bill Blackston, a minor executive in the 16mm. department, gave him a friendly smile as they passed on the stairs. Bill stopped as though prepared for a lengthier conversation. He was in his mid-forties, prematurely gray, middle-age spread, the sort who plays a lot of golf, thought George.
"Not bad, Bill. How you doing?" George said in a tone so calm and natural it surprised him.
"Tell you the truth, George," he whispered, "I'm a little nervous. With Munchkin here-you know whenever a new vp in charge of production comes in-heads roll. Louise and I just moved out from New York ... not that long ago...."
"I know. So did I."
Bill Blackston did not seem to hear him.
"It's not for me, but Louise and the kids...."
"He just fired me," George said flatly.
Blackston gave him a very startled look. "Oh, George, Jesus! My God! That's too bad...." He looked at his watch. "I'm late. Let's have lunch," he hurried up the stairs, "before you...."
George looked after him for a moment, as the slightly paunchy figure hurried up the stairs.
George continued down. The irony of his symbolic trip downward was not lost on him. He felt cheerful in an odd way. It was true, he was dying for a cigarette, but he did not feel depressed. Yet. Maybe I won't at all, he thought. He felt amused, somehow. When Munchkin was announced last week, George wondered what it might mean in terms of his job. He was not quite prepared for such immediate action. As far as he knew, his being fired was Munchkin's first official act. In an odd way, George felt almost flattered.
He arrived at Jean's desk. She looked at him. He smiled at her. "Oh, I knew it!" She said jumping up from her stenography chair. "You're being promoted! I knew when his secretary called this morning...."
George shook his head. This was beginning to seem unreal. "I got the axe."
"Oh, George. George...." Her face fell. "I feel like an asshole." She lowered her voice. "You want an 'up?' Or a joint?" She reached for her purse.
"No. Nothing. Thanks, Jean. I want to clean out my desk...."
"Oh," she said sadly, "that can wait."
He laughed. "No, it can't. You know how they do things around here. I'm supposed to be out by the end of the day."
"Those creeps!"
"You better call the personnel department. See what's to be done about details." He was thinking about Jean. He hoped it didn't mean she was out of a job.
Back in his office, George walked over to the windows. Windows. In L.A. everything was windows. Windows to see out and to have light come in. He would miss this office. I'm being an asshole, he told himself. Do people really miss offices? He certainly never had.
He sat down at his desk. He was all excited, nervous, something. He felt as though he had had too much coffee. He couldn't quite sit still. He wanted to call people. Tell them. Somehow it would have more reality if he spread the word to other people. In New York, there would have been lots of people to call. But here? He was certainly friendly with a fair number of people. But what a bummer to call casual friends and have them react like Bill Blackston did.
He thought of calling John. John had been on his mind a lot lately. But he didn't feel he wanted to intrude on their friendship. This was heavy. He didn't want John to think that he was the sort of friend who whined, laid heavy numbers on his buddies.-He didn't want to become dependent on him. John often talked about a certain formality which could and should exist among friends. It was a way that George had never thought before. It had always been his way to let everything all hang out. Bad news, good news, whatever. When you were friends with someone over a period of time, you began to take each other for granted. There was something nice. Something relaxing and friendly about that.
George was beginning to realize, through John's influence, that friendships might be nicer if they were very intimate-his with John was certainly intimate-but if a certain distance was preserved. George was such an extremist. That may have been his trouble with Miranda, he thought. Wanting everything to be just so. Perhaps if they had been more formal ... perhaps if he had become more like her, instead of expecting her to become more like him....
"Bullshit!" he said aloud, opening the center drawer of his desk. He had become more like her. And as far as he could tell, she had not become one iota like him. Perhaps he should call her. In spite of her hostility toward him, she might be sympathetic to this turn of events. Who knew? She might think he was looking for sympathy. Which he wasn't. Or was he?
The last thing he felt like doing-as he looked at the odd bits of paper and clippings in the drawer-was examining this shit from the past. He saw a slip of paper with John Vincence's phone number on it. How funny, he thought. Why had he saved this? The first time John had called for an appointment, George had been away for a weekend in San Francisco with Miranda. When he got back, he had gotten this message and Jean had gotten John on the phone.
George wondered about the significance of his having saved this particular bit of paper. He felt like calling John right now. Diana would probably answer. He did not want to speak to her. John would certainly have told her about their sex scene the other night. She would immediately begin discussing it with him in her usual dispassionate manner. He didn't feel like doing so. He liked being able to speak so frankly about intimate sexual details. But he was afraid he would start pumping her about John's reactions. She would certainly tell him. But he did not want to play those games. If he did not have the balls to frankly ask John his feelings about the terrific sex they had had together, he was not about to sneak around and ask John's associates.
He also felt badly about "Bovary." Circle had sat on the project for over a month, and it was quite clear they were not going to finance it. He would certainly tell John. But he was not into giving him that particular piece of bad news today.
George slammed the drawer shut quickly. Could that be it? He wondered, with a sinking feeling, if "Bovary" had been the thing that had done him in. George had long felt that he should have come up with some surefire box office screenplay to impress his bosses. Several had done well enough. But nothing sensational. He had not brought them a Godfather or an Exorcist. And then, to advocate their doing a sex film on the order of John's adaptation of Madame Bovary ... , Did Munchkin suddenly decide that the company did not need someone like him around?
Fuck it! He opened the drawer again. He would probably never know why he was fired. And what did it matter? The fact that he was out of a job was what mattered. The fact that he had a fair amount of money in the bank to tide him over mattered. He was probably eligible for unemployment insurance.
The buzzer sounded. It was Jean telling him that Cris Forster was here for his luncheon appointment with George.
"Tell him to wait a minute." Shit! he thought. At the time he and Cris agreed to meet for lunch, he had a feeling that when the day arrived, he would not be into it.
As George and Cris drove to Francisco's, a Mexican Restaurant George especially liked, neither said very much at all. Occasionally, George glanced over at Cris, who was staring straight ahead, seemingly unconcerned about the absence of conversation. It lay heavily on George, but other than John and Miranda-whom they both knew in common-or his recent firing-he could think of nothing to talk about. And at the moment none of those topics turned him on.
Sitting down in the restaurant, George adjusted his vision to the darkness. It was always startling to have lunch here because of the extreme contrast of the bright sunlight outside to the intense blackness of Francisco's. It was almost like being at the bottom of a mine shaft. At any rate that was how it seemed to him today.
"Want a Margarita?" asked George. "They make them terrifically here." Cris nodded, and George ordered two. "Lunch is on me today."
Cris gave him a surprised look. "Thanks. Why?"
"I just got fired."
Cris propped his jaw up in his right hand and rubbed himself lightly. "Hmm. Is that heavy?"
George shrugged his shoulders. It occurred to him that he had not done that in years. "I don't know. I just shrugged my shoulders, though when you asked me. That was a habit of mine in high school, which I broke, like stopping biting my fingernails. I don't know. I'm always looking for the significance of things. Maybe I feel unburdened now. Maybe the weight on my shoulders is lighter so I can shrug again." The drinks arrived. "Or maybe I'm talking a lot of bullshit because I'm really very depressed."
They both took generous gulps from their glasses. In a matter of minutes, George ordered two more.
"You got some bread put away?"
"Some," George said, licking the salt from his lips. "I don't think I'm down. I feel kind of relieved. I've always wanted to be in L.A. And here I am. And I don't have to work for a while. Probably I would not have had the nerve to quit a job that paid so much. But the decision was made for me. And I'd like to tune into just having a good time...."
George thought of the Sunset Chevalier. He thought of his room there. He thought of the silence. He began to doubt whether he would really have a good time with so much time on his hands.
"I'm a rock musician," Cris said, downing his second drink, and licking the salt from the rim of the frosted glass. "Haven't played for money in a year and a half. Been living in a van. Sometimes this chick stays with me. She hustles some. Sometimes I take stray jobs here and there if things get tough. I do okay. I'm having a good time." George thought Cris had a dynamic speaking voice. It was very low. Almost like an alcoholic baritone's voice, one who had smoked too many cigarettes for too long.
"You have a wonderful voice," George said echoing John's pronounciation of the word "wonderful." Then, self-consciously, he added, "But I'm a little drunk; maybe I'm just getting carried away."
"That's cool, man. You don't have to find excuses for what you say. You said it. You think it's the tequila that's doing the talking?"
"No ... but I know when I'm being a little more forward because of booze or caffeine...."
"Your ex-old lady's like that, too. She thinks it's outside forces that make her behave the way she does. She disclaims responsibility. She thinks it's all your fault that she's dragged and uptight...."
George felt very down suddenly. "Is she? Jesus."
Cris shrugged. "Who knows? She was last time I saw her...."
"Did you sleep with her?" George asked nervously.
"I tried to fuck her." George thought he should be shocked or upset at Cris' calm statement. But he wasn't. "She's lousy. She's what they used to call a ball buster. Even that's cool, but she doesn't admit to it. She's very fucked-up. Why you looking so dragged?"
"I feel like I should do something. I don't know what, though."
"It's her trip. She's made all these choices. Ain't much you can do for people. You're a little like her. You keep thinking there's some grand design behind all this...."
"Oh, come on...." George protested.
"You keep looking for the symbolism, the significance of events," Cris gestured for the waiter and with his index finger and middle finger raised, ordered two more drinks. "You think the 'why' of things makes a difference. Man, all there is is what there is. That's enough to deal with.
Some jive-ass mugger chases you down a dark alley with a knife, you gonna worry about why he chose you, and what made him the way he is?"
"Well, there can be extenuating...."
"Kiss my what?"
George laughed. He had not heard that expression since his father died some years ago. "Man, all you can deal with is what confronts you. It don't mean shit why it's you being chased. Or why it's you that's been fired. Or why it's you that got caught socking it to your secretary."
"Wait a minute!" George said with some exasperation. "What are you saying? What does any of this mean? What am I supposed to do?"
"Do what you feel like doing. Just so long as you're willing to accept the responsibility of what happens from the choices you make."
George looked down at the whiteness of the liquid in his glass. He was not used to drinking a lot of booze. He felt very drunk. A shade numb. A shade depressed. A shade exhilarated. He realized that was how he felt before he got to this restaurant. He couldn't blame it on booze.
"How come you have so many answers?"
Cris laughed. "Got no answers. Man, if I had answers, I'd be asking fewer questions."
George was getting pissed off. "Bullshit!"
"Right on, brother!" He said slapping George's shoulder. "When do we eat?"
Miranda stood by the swimming pool. It was late in the day. There had been a lot of brilliant sun earlier, but now darkness was coming on. She felt chilled, even wearing a sweater. She walked back into the house. It looked so strange. Aside from three suitcases, it was completely empty. She had, after quitting her job, placed ads in several newspapers. Over the past three weeks, the ads had paid off and numerous people had appeared to buy furniture, books, a television set, even her plants.
When the larger items were gone, Miranda had then gone into the kitchen and carefully piled all the dishes, flatware, crystal, pots and pans in five boxes. She possibly could have sold these, too. But it seemed like a lot of trouble for what would not have brought in very much money. If she had had a garage sale perhaps ... It seemed important to her that the entire house be rid of everything. Very carefully, she had carried the boxes out to the pool and dumped them in. At first, she had carefully thrown every knife and fork and plate in individually. But she was getting chilled out here and what was to be done with the boxes? So she had thrown everything in.
She sat in the middle of the room on the floor in lotus position, making certain to keep her back straight. After meditating for a bit, she thought she would call the airport and make a reservation. Her family was not expecting her and she had not been in touch for some time. So it made no difference when she left. It was true that tomorrow, the rental agent would be here with the new tenants. Tomorrow was the first of the month.
Until tomorrow, she had use of the telephone and the electricity. All would be disconnected then. That was fortunate, because she had sold the car, too. She needed the phone to call for a taxi. She felt in a very good mood. She felt as though she had acted definitively. There were no doors left-open. She had effectively closed off communications with the Welfare Department by not appearing for three weeks.
She still was not fired, so she had gone to her office, destroyed most of her case files and then resigned. She had also been very rude to most of her associates there. So all that was behind her. No danger of anyone contacting her. She had no friends here really, so once she left for New York, LA. was an entirely closed book for her.
Miranda breathed very deeply. A pranayana. The floor was cool under her. It was tile. She kept her back straight and her eyes closed. After she finished meditating, she would have a cigarette. Cigarettes had become her treat of the day. Cigarettes and enemas. She had been dieting somewhat. Fasting actually. Every other day or so, she would not eat or drink anything all day.
Then on alternate days, she would eat a diet heavy with protein-yogurt, soybeans, milk, cheese, nuts-and give herself long enemas in the evening. She had never felt better in her life. Miranda wondered if she had packed the enema bag. She couldn't possibly have....
Relax, she told herself, I'll check later. After meditating. She began to tremble with excitement at the realization that soon she would be up and having an enema in the bathroom.
First she would run the hot water for a long time to get the pink-painted room very warm and steamy-she hated being chilled-and then she would put some vaseline in her anus. Very gently. And then after she had filled the bag with hot water, she would insert the nozzle in her anus.
"Later!" she said aloud, knowing it was important to keep her mind from wandering while meditating.
The telephone rang.
Miranda took another deep breath. Much as she tried, she could not shut out the ringing of the phone. Carefully, raising herself out of the lotus position, she stood up and walked to the phone.
"Mrs. Saxon?" It was a puny little voice.
"Who is this?"
"Anthony Sucess," he stammered, "your rental agent"
"I will be leaving here tonight What is the problem?"
"There are two men. Really nice gentlemen," he said. Miranda could just see him on the other end, sweating. Profusely. He was always sweating. "Could they come see the place tonight?"
"Tonight? I thought you said the place had been rented to a husband and wife who were moving in tomorrow." Miranda had even met them. Both overweight and middle-aged. She remembered them well. They were very rude and had looked in every single cupboard, in every nook and cranny.
"They changed their minds. Can't you please help me out? I want to get the place rented as soon as possible-"
"Oh, all right," she said, abruptly hanging up. If she hadn't agreed, he would have kept her on the phone all night. She walked to the bathroom, trembling slightly.
Cris sat on the sofa in George's room smoking a joint. He sat with his legs spread widely apart, and leaning each of his elbows on each of his knees. As George came out of the bathroom, Cris handed him the joint.
George stood in front of Cris, one hand holding the joint and the other the white towel around his waist. He had not tied it securely and it was beginning to slip. He handed the joint back to Cris. Pulling a straight back chair over to him, he sat down facing Cris. To be near the joint.
As he took another toke, he stared at the area between Cris's legs. His crotch. Cris was wearing dungarees and there was a reddish-orange-yellow patch at the crotch.
"You know what I feel like doing?" he said to Cris.
Cris shook his head.
"I'd like to suck your cock," he said nervously.
Cris inhaled deeply on the joint.
"Did I upset you? I like you a lot. I don't want you to get uptight. I mean I really-"
Cris looked at him. "Man, cool it." He blew out some smoke. "I heard what you said. I'm thinking about it. Stop worrying about my reaction so much. Okay?"
The moment had passed, George decided. He was a little drunk from all those margaritas. And now he was stoned on this dynamite grass that Cris had laid on him. It had given him the courage to say what he did.
"I was saying all that I did because I'm not willing to take the responsibility for-"
"You're telling me!" Cris laughed. "I don't know if I really want to go down on you. I've never done it before, except with John, and that's different...."
"How?"
"I know him. We're friends." George said, aware of the defensiveness in his voice. "Every time we come together, it's natural ... it's ... But I've never just come and said to a guy what I just said to you!"
"What'd you say to me?"
"You know!" George said in exasperation. "You mean about sucking my cock?"
"Why do you always come on like this? You always seem to be baiting me." George stood up. "I thought you were loose, together." I thought you were like John, he thought, but did not say that out loud. George walked over to the terrace doors. Opening them, he stepped outside. He held the towel tightly around him. It was a beautiful night.
I probably should have gone back to the office, he thought, instead of getting drunk with that schmuck outside. I don't mean that, he thought. Basically he liked Cris. He wished Cris liked him. George found himself crying. Oh my God, he thought, as the tears streamed down his face. He felt as though he had no control over them. His nose was running, too. He leaned against the stone wall of the terrace. It was very cool on his back.
I have a choice, he told himself. I can stop crying. I don't have to give in to this. Yet the tears overtook him. His shoulders and chest began heaving. In his mind's eye he saw Miranda sitting next to him on the plane with tears in her eyes the day they flew to L.A. He opened his eyes and he saw the Sunset's swimming pool. He immediately saw the one that he and Miranda had shared. He thought of Annie, the girl in the singles bar with cigarette burns on her back.
"I'm an asshole," he said aloud. Yet the thought of Annie, whom he did not even know, made him cry harder. He thought of a line from one of his favorite songs, "I thought the only lonely face was on the moon" and he cried some more. George clenched his fists and held them to his jaw. I've got to stop, he told himself. But he kept crying. He thought of Cris in there and wished he'd leave so he could go inside and turn on the phonograph. That might help him to stop crying like an asshole infant.
As the moisture continued to stream down his face, George thought of the silence. He thought that even if he moved from this hotel, there would still be the silence wherever he went. There was no escaping it. Once you had become aware of it. Once you had tuned into it. It would always be with you. "It's all right," he said aloud. "It's all right." It's just the end of my innocence, he thought, it's all right....
At noon the next day, George drove to Circle Pictures. Jean greeted him warmly. They kissed lightly on the lips.
"I put all your things in that box," she said pointing to a large, neatly wrapped cardboard container. "Are you all right?" she whispered. "When you didn't come back yesterday ... But then why should you?"
Jean filled him in on all the appropriate information about tax forms, vacation pay, and he gave her an address where he'd like to have his mail forwarded. George barely heard her. It was hard to believe that one's whole life could be so altered in just one day.
Yesterday he had a cushy job making $29,000 a year. Today red eyes from a crying jag the night before. Cris' word for such events was arbitrary. George liked the sound of it. It was a great word. It summed up the very nature of what had been happening to him in recent months.
"Does your job seem safe?" He asked. The question was absurd. What did "safe" mean? In this context. In any context?
"Don't worry 'bout me."
He smiled. "Okay."
"Keep in touch," she said, her tone almost plaintive. "I'm learning how to cook. That's a lie. My old man is learning. You can come do a food trip with us."
He leaned over and kissed her on the lips. "That would be nice."
George picked up the cardboard box and walked out to the parking lot.
When Miranda awoke, she did not recognize the room she was in. She felt very frightened. As she slid her legs from the floral patterned sheets covering her, she heard noises outside the door. The door was about four feet from the bed. Very quietly, she was able to put her feet on the carpeted floor. As she stood up, she felt very dizzy. Her head ached. She thought she must have been drugged.
Miranda put her hand out and felt the coolness of the wall. It steadied her. After a few minutes, the dizziness left. Her head still ached, however. She could no longer hear movement outside the door. It might be safe for her to approach it. Moving very slowly, she did so.
With her heart pounding very loudly-it was the only sound she was aware of-she put her ear to the door. Silence. She put her hand on the door knob. She looked back at the room. It was dark. She knew it was daylight because there was sunlight behind the slightly opened white shutters. The room was sparsely furnished. The bed, a chair, a dresser, a small bookcase, a night table, some lamps. It was totally unfamiliar.
She wondered if she should look in the drawers for other clothing. All she was wearing was a white terrycloth robe. She almost let go of the door knob to walk to the dresser. Miranda decided not to. A robe was certainly decent wearing apparel for whatever she might encounter outside.
She turned the doorknob. As she pulled the door open toward her, she used her free hand to touch her heart. She felt touching it would diminish the noise it was making.
It was a hallway. The floor was carpeted and there was light at either end. Bright sunlight. It had a familiar look.
"Miranda! You're up."
She turned. It was Vicki. Oh my God, thought Miranda, this is Doug and Vicki's house.
Vicki, dressed only in the bottoms of a red bikini, walked toward her, smiling. "How are you feeling?"
Miranda found herself smiling. Vicki was nice. She was always friendly. She had long blonde hair, just as long as Miranda's. And beautiful blue eyes and long lashes. Miranda had always enjoyed seeing Vicki, except when Vicki was with Doug.
"This is probably going to sound completely ridiculous," Miranda said, feeling pleased that she was in such control of herself. "But," and she forced a giggle, "I don't remember coming here."
Vicki came closer and putting her right arm around Miranda's shoulder, began guiding her toward the kitchen. Miranda remembered very clearly that the area at the other end was the kitchen.
"Do you want some coffee?" Vicki asked as they walked. "Come into the kitchen, we can talk there."
Miranda found herself looking at Vicki's breasts. You're tan all over?"
Vicki shrugged. "Does this make you uncomfortable, I'll cover up."
"No."
George lay on the bed in his room at the Sunset He had just smoked the roach of the joint that Cris had left behind last night. It had been good for six tokes. He felt very stoned.
Unzipping the fly of his dungarees, he reached in and began massaging his flaccid cock. He thought about Cris. He remembered the reddish orange-yellow patch at his crotch. Still pulling on his cock, George tried to imagine himself on his knees in front of Cris' spread legs. For several moments, he imagined himself licking at the colorful patch. But fantasy did not turn him on.
He thought of Cris jerking himself off with George on his knees watching.
Nothing.
He imagined Cris lying nude on the bee alongside him sucking on George's cock. Nothing.
With his cock dangling out of his fly, George walked over to the stereo and snapped off the sound. Aretha Franklin was too distracting while trying to work up a good fantasy.
George stood in front of the turntable and with his right hand began pulling the foreskin over the head of his cock. He did it quite energetically. His cock began to harden somewhat. He felt as though he were not really into jerking off. But there was nothing else he felt like doing. He shoved his cock back inside his jeans and zipped up.
He walked over to the terrace and looked down. There were numerous people in the pool and quite a few others sitting alongside it enjoying the brilliant afternoon sun. Several were women who appeared to be alone. He walked to the closet. As he pulled out his white bathing suit, he suddenly realized he was not really into picking up one of these chicks.
George stood there with the suit in his hands. Flashing in his mind's eye was the notion of going down there and sitting next to the most attractive of the chicks there. He saw himself making dumb conversation. After a suitable time, and depending on how interested in him she seemed, he would suggest coming back up here to smoke some grass. She might agree.
The notion of eating her or fucking her or getting blown by her struck him as an unappealing an idea as going down on Cris. It seemed very ironic to him that now that he felt sexually free enough to make it with whomever he chose, he no longer felt like casual sex.
I'm not being honest with myself, he realized. The one person with whom sex was a dynamite idea was with John. He dug making it with John. For some reason, he could not quite get himself to completely acknowledge that fact. He knew he was copping out. He also knew he was frightened. Just because he was feeling loose enough to start making it with men. Now that he was thirty years old. Now that he was willing to risk having people think him queer. He wondered if Cris would see Miranda again and tell her what George was into?
"Fuck it!" he said aloud. She can think what she likes. Even so, until he got more used to the idea, he would prefer if she didn't know.
He thought of John. He thought of John with his legs resting on George's shoulders. He thought of the effortless, wonderfully erotic sensation of fucking John. George found his cock becoming hard. He wished John would keep more in touch with him. He wanted to spend more time with him. Who am I kidding? he thought. I want to have sex with him again. Lie with him. Joke with him. Look into his eyes.
George threw down the bathing suit and walked back to the bed. He unbuttoned the top button of his dungarees, unzipped the fly and let them fall to the floor. Still dressed in his white T-shirt and nothing else, he lay back down on the bed. He moved his left hand up to his chest, sliding it under the tee shirt. He began to caress his nipples, imagining it was John doing it to him.
His cock became very hard. George began to work it frantically with his right hand. The more he had thoughts of John and drifting apart the more frantically his hand worked. George felt almost like crying again. John did not keep in touch with him. John liked him well enough if George were around. But not well enough to seek out his company.
George's hand stopped moving.
I never call him, he thought. I never do. I'm so afraid of his thinking that I'm pushy. That I'm trying to lay heavy numbers on him that I never contact him!
Geroge's erection was fading. He sat up in the bed. Is that true? Is it really my fault that we have not become better friends? Why have I been so passive and assumed that he had to make the moves?
He hurried to the phone.
Miranda did not care for coffee very much. But she felt it would be rude not to drink it. She forced herself to swallow about half a cup. It was making her feel jittery. Nervous. Very up.
"Do you have a cigarette?"
Sitting across from Miranda at a small, round cafe table, Vicki looked surprised.
"You smoke?"
Miranda nodded. "I like to," she said. Why not admit it, she thought.
Vicki handed her a half-finished package of Kents. Miranda lit up.
Not looking directly at her, Vicki said quietly: "Do you want to talk about it?"
"Tell me what you can." She inhaled deeply. It almost instantly gave her slight pain at the temples. She liked the feeling. It was why she had started smoking again.
Vicki crossed her arms in front of her, covering her bare breasts. "Doug was driving up to your place last night. Must have been seven, six-thirty, something like that. I was here washing my hair and so he said he would go alone." She smiled. "I know he prefers that. He likes you. A lot." Miranda did not react. "Don't you find him appealing?"
Miranda inhaled and took another sip of the black coffee. She was beginning to remember that Vicki was dizzy. Scatterbrained. Talked a lot. Was very young. And like Doug, sex mad. But she had a nice smile. I'll let her go on, thought Miranda. I can control myself while she babbles.
"He has nice teeth," she said flatly.
Vicki did an exaggerated double take, and then laughed raucously. "You're terrible," she said, reaching over and giving her a brief slap on the right hand.
Aware that it had taken five Kents before Vicki told her the story, Miranda was feeling much better. She was glad to be here. The ugly details of last night hardly mattered. She had been walking along the road in her robe, crying, and Doug had stopped his car. She had refused to get in. He had followed her. Finally she got into the car. Crying wildly, she told him two men, ostensibly arriving to see the house had come in and attempted to rape her. Doug had driven her here and Vicki had given her two tranquillizers. Two very strong downs.
"And later, when Doug went back to your place." She laughed. "He's such a coward, I had to persuade him. He said there was no one there. The place was deserted except for some suitcases." She poured some more coffee in Miranda's cup. "Are you going back to New York?"
"Yes. Vicki," she stabbed out her cigarette, "Do you have an enema bag?"
George and John were lying nude next to each other in John's bedrooom. John handed him a lit joint. George inhaled and passed it back.
"Where did she go?" he asked.
"Up to Modesto to see her family. She'll be back in a few days." He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling, his right hand bent and touching the right side of his lips. "They're hidddeous! Uglier than a mud fence."
George laughed. He reached over and caressed John's nipples. "Yours are not very sensitive."
"Work on them."
"Have you ever been into your nipples?"
John blew out some smoke and handed George the joint. "Your questions are incrreddible!"
George continued running his fingers back and forth across John's hairless chest. "I'm sorry about "Bovary"...."
John shrugged.
"You know, John, I think you're terrific!"
"So are you, baby." He looked over at George. "Does it make you uptight if I call you that?"
George laughed, a little embarrassed. "I like it." He put his hands on John's face and pulled it to him. George began to lick at John's upper lip and then he inserted his tongue. John closed his eyes. George's remained open.
"Why do you close your eyes?" George asked, moving his lips from John.
"I don't do it deliberately. It just happens. I get into kissing ... If you like, I'll try to keep them open...."
George kissed him again.
As George drove away from John's house, he felt both exhilarated and a little let down. Sex had been terrific. He had felt very loose with John. Not self-conscious. They were alone and that had made things easier for him. Yet he felt as though John did not like him as much as George like John. He felt silly about it to a large extent. But there it was.
He turned on Sunset Boulevard and headed toward the Sunset Chevalier.
He was being very active. Sex with a man was new to him. Yet he was being very active. He was rimming John and sucking his cock and fucking him. It seemed that John could pay more attention to his body. He thought he had made it clear that he loved having his nipples played with. John hardly ever touched them.
In spite of a tremendous orgasm, George felt as though they had not really been very close together.
In his room, George sat down on the sofa.
I'm being a total idiot, he said to himself. What do I expect from John? He's a man. We're friends. This is different. He is not Miranda. He is not my girlfriend. He is a man. And I am choosing to have sex with him. Right now, he is the only person with-whom having sex with appeals to me. He likes to have sex with me. We have hardly had sex together at all except for four times. Once was a blow job. It hardly counts. Twice with other people.
Today was the first time we had sex alone. I fucked him. I had the best orgasm I've had in years. I want to repeat it. I'm scared, and I'm behaving like an ass. I have never craved sex with a man before. Now I am choosing a man. And it is freaking me out.
George was also aware that John was a much cooler character than he was. John was a man who, while effusive in many ways, was not given to warm, consoling, comforting talks. He was not George's father, after all. He expected George to decide for himself what he wanted. If George liked what he got, George would continue.
If not, not.
George felt this was the truth. He didn't like it. He thought of Miranda. Somehow with Miranda, it was different. "She mothered me," he said aloud.
He felt like crying. Was that what he was missing? Mothering? He and Miranda were not equals, he realized. She either had the upper hand. Or he did. They rarely acted as equals. Suddenly, he was with a man who treated him like an equal. Christ! he thought. He would have to grow up to have a true relationship with John.
Divorced. Fired. And now he would have to grow up.
It was funny somehow. He could choose not to grow up. He could choose to find another woman to hide in. Another woman who might make him forget the silence. Or he could choose John who would help keep him utterly aware at all times.
Utterly aware.
"Heavy!" he said aloud, laughing. "Heavvvvy!" Utterly aware at all times. Being with John would mean having no excuses. No dodges. No cop outs. Constant-and probably-painful-knowledge at all times that there was nothing here but what was here. What was here and what was happening.
John had said, regarding their relationship, "It is as it is." Where they went, where they were both coming from, mattered not at all. All they could do was deal with each other in the here and now. George could not hope to lose himself in John. They were two men. George could lose himself in a woman. But not with a man. With John there would be no losing of himself. He would be constantly conscious of who he was and what he was choosing and that he would have to be responsible for all his choices.
George had been reading Camus. He remembered a passage from one of his stories having to do with the blind instinctual need men had. The heroine is thinking about her husband. During the day he assumes an appearance of wisdom and total control. But then the madness-the awareness of the silence-would seize him and hurl him desperately toward her body. And then without desire, he would seek to bury in her, everything terrifying that solitude and night reveals to him.
Not for him, George decided. Miranda had been for him-for three years-an escape-practically a cop out.
There were tears very close to the surface. George also felt a shivery, delightful sensation up and down his spine.
He started to laugh.
MIRANDA
Doug was sitting on the edge of the tub. He had his cock in his hand and it was rapidly becoming erect. He watched as Miranda bent over, exposing her asshole to Vicki.
On her knees, Vicki reached for the tube of KY, smeared some on her fingers and gently inserted two of them inside Miranda's anus.
Miranda moaned and Doug could see her body stiffen slightly.
"Relax, baby...." Vicki mumured, stroking the cheeks of Miranda's buttocks very gently. She planted some kisses on the two cheeks, while simultaneously reaching for the nozzle of the enema bag. The bag was filled with warm water and some Ivory soap. It was hanging from a hook above the toilet tank.
Vicki had the nozzle in her hand. She moved her face away from Miranda's buttocks. Miranda was standing over the toilet bowl. The toilet seat was up and Miranda was poised with one leg on either side.
Doug was becoming more excited now, as Vicki's hand moved closer to Miranda's asshole. His hand continued working away on his cock. He would really have dug fucking Miranda in her ass. But she would have none of it.
Over the past few months-ever since she had been staying with them-he had tried repeatedly. Miranda always protested loudly. She would allow Vicki to do just about anything to her. Doug was permitted to watch but she would not let him lay a finger on her. It was just a matter of time he felt. After all, in the beginning she would not even let him watch.
Doug could be patient.
Vicki inserted the nozzle. Miranda moaned again.
"Oh, stop! Stop for a minute!" she uttered through clenched teeth. "It's too much...." Vicki did not.
The water continued rushing down the hose and into Miranda as she groaned loudly.
Doug's hand worked more furiously as he watched the two women.
GEORGE
Gene was in a good mood.
He picked up the 16mm. Bolex camera and strapped it to his shoulder. Sound work was a drag. He did not like the heavy equipment involved in the recording of sound. He had always been more visually oriented anyway. It was more sensible to be a cameraman. Fortunately, these sequences were being shot silent.
Gene looked over at Diana. True, she was main camera person (or so she liked to be called). He was operating the second camera. That was all right with him. As second cameraman, he had more autonomy. Diana was responsible for recording all the main action. He could move around more liberally and film little bits of action that she might miss.
He could capture little moments. He looked down to the mattress.
As George moved his mouth upward from John's cock, there was a thin ribbon of semen extending from the tip of John's cock to George's mouth, It was thin, delicate, like the beginning of a spider's web. Gene moved in for a close-up, gesturing for George not to move.
George understood. He remained still, his mouth about four inches from John's still erect cock. Gene no longer found George a pain in the ass. At least, George had learned to stop looking into the camera. Photographing John and George making it was always a ball. But in the beginning, George had a terrible habit of addressing Diana during filming.
"Beautiful," Gene said. "You can lie back now and relax if you want to."
"This is really good stuff," said Diana enthusiastically. "George is really relaxing in front of the cameras."
George smiled. "John makes it easy to."
"You're so cuuute," said John giving him a quick kiss on the lips.
"Let's get to the fucking," said George, kicking his legs up and down on the mattress, in an imitation of John. "Let's get this show on the road."
"I don't know about the lighting in here today," Diana said, placing her camera on the mattress and then sitting down. "I think we should film elsewhere. This bedroom does not have enough visual interest."
"I beg your pardon!" said John in a deep bass voice. "I think this room is very amusing."
"Besides," added George, "John and I are the focal points of this sequence, not the room."
Diana looked pensive.
Gene was about to say something but thought better of it. He hoped the fuck sequence would be done now. He dug watching John and George go at it. It never failed to turn him on. He could hardly wait to see how audiences would react. But it did piss him off a little that he was always excluded from their dynamite twosomes. John's attitude toward him had changed a lot.
"All right," said Diana, standing up. "Let's try it. But I'm doubtful."
"How do you do, Ms. Doubtful," said George, turning on his stomach and reaching under the pillow for the Amyl Nitrite inhaler.
George popped the little yellow module, forced it inside the container and closed it. He put the inhaler to his nose and breathed in very deeply. Reaching behind him, he handed it to John.
John inhaled deeply in both nostrils, then sealed it. George settled himself on the mattress with his ass slightly up in the air.
John, also on his stomach, placed himself between George's thighs. He began licking at George's exposed asshole.
"Do it! Do it!" said Gene, moving his camera in closer to George's head on the pillow. His head was moving back and forth in joyous abandonment. Gene really dug watching George's uninhibited enjoyment.
Perching herself on her knees on the edge of the mattress, Diana's camera moved in for a really tight close-up of John's tongue as it darted breathlessly in and out of George's asshole.
