Sins and their sinners kept the Happy Inn Motel in business, and Elsie Bains, the sweet little old lady who ran it, counted her cash with a lewd chuckle. Night after night, the harlots and their studs kept things humming, and those who hadn't brought their own got expert mixing advice from Red, the helpful bartender who doubled as a lust-matchmaker. But it was on one night when Fern, the 32-year-old virgin Lesbian and Chester, the 17-year-old virgin runaway, decided to teach each other how to lust-without knowing how-and when Harry the salesman sold Judy on giving up her most precious possession, that the Happy Inn really lived up to its name. It took a little maneuvering to make good, solid sin-sense out of this scramble of amateurs, but Red and Elsie knew how to handle it. By morning, everybody had shared his experiments with everybody else, and even Red and Elsie managed to get into the act, on the night when the couples who checked in weren't any-thing like the couples who checked out!
CHAPTER ONE
Mrs. Bains was a sweet, old lady who ran a motel.
Actually, she wasn't really sweet enough, little enough or old enough to qualify as a sweet, little old lady, but that was the first impression you would get upon meeting her. She might remind you of your mother, and there was no denying that she was a motherly type. But after you got to know her better, she would probably start reminding you of your father.
Mrs. Bains gave the impression of being smaller than she was because of the startling grace of her movements. It seemed impossible that a lady of Mrs. Bains' size could be so graceful, so people tended to think of her as small.
That was illusion number one.
Illusion number two was the impression that she was sweet and old. She was sweet, but not in any expected way. We'll come to that in a minute. Suffice to say that Mrs. Bains looked sweet. She also looked old, which she really wasn't. In these days of vitamins and geriatric formulas, fifty-six is not old, especially in a woman.
But she looked old. This was partially because of her fat, and partially because of her eyes.
Her eyes were as old as time, and seemed curiously out of place in the face of a sweet, little old lady.
And that brings us to illusion number three, which falls as a natural consequence of the first two. If you decided that Mrs. Bains was sweet, and little, and old, you would probably also decide that she was, like all sweet, little old ladies, completely disinterested in love.
You would feel certain that beneath that plump, smiling exterior there was not the slightest thought of using a bed for anything except sleeping; that under the floral patterns of her old-lady dress there beat the heart of a woman who had not thought of such things for at least twenty years. You would figure Mrs. Bains for a sweet, little old lady who had dried up long ago.
So you would probably never guess that Mrs. Bains loved love better than anything in the world.
That was the reason she ran a motel.
The motel is the twentieth century's great gift to the game of love, ranking with the grape-stained divans of ancient Rome and the perfumed bawdy-houses of merry old England. In a rather blue-nosed century, the motel serves the timeless need of man and woman to let off steam. There would be no need for such an institution if people were not so self-conscious about love. But that is the way things are, and the motel has been capitalizing on it for many years.
A motel differs from a hotel in several subtle ways. For one thing, motels are designed for transients only. People can live in hotels as if they were apartments, and many do. But nobody ever lives in a motel. In this restless age of fast cars and super highways, the motel has only two functions: it is a resting place for legitimately tired people, and it is a bedroom for people who want to make love.
No one cares who you are, or where you're bound. No one expects you to stay for more than a night or two. You pay your money and you take your choice, and you use the room for anything that pleases you. It is a great arrangement and millions of people take advantage of it every year.
Of course, there are motels and there are motels, like everything else. Some motor courts are little more than flea-bag hotel rooms contained in sloppy individual cabins. Some are futuristic communities, with swimming pools, shopping arcades, and convenient churches. Like all extremes, it is best to avoid these.
In between the dumps and palaces lie the great chain of just average motels; quiet cozy little places with hot water, but no shower; fans, but no air-conditioners; radios, but no television; beds, but no armchairs. These are the best of all, not just for impatient lovers, but for anyone. These are the places where you will be left alone and it is almost worth the price of a night to discover what it's like to be left alone for a change.
These are the true heart of the motel phenomenon-America's roadside bedrooms. Some motel owners try to pretend that they are not aware what their establishments are used for (there are hypocrites, after all, in every profession).
Some know and don't give a damn.
Some like the idea.
Mrs. Bains was one of the latter.
It always warmed her heart to watch two young people in a fast new car drive up the gravel path to her door; to watch the intense, congested look in their eyes as they helped each other from the car with lingering grips and touches; to see the drunken way they walked toward the motel office, their arms around each other, their eyes on the ground, their minds consumed by a single thought.
She also liked to watch their faces as they requested a room, for just one night, signing an unfamiliar name to the register with a studied flourish. She liked the poorly concealed embarrassment in their eyes, the graceless haste of their movements.
But most of all, when the preliminaries had been disposed of, she loved the way they went off to their little love nest, arm in arm, brushing their bodies against one another. That was the best time of all, for them and for Mrs. Bains. They had signed the register; they had not been challenged, the room was theirs, the path was clear, the ways were greased, the gods were good.
Mrs. Bains would feel a little tug in her heart as the door of the cabin closed behind them, and she would wish them good luck and much pleasure in her motel.
And in the morning, when they came to check out, she would smile a secret little smile at the sight of their flushed, happy faces, and she would very gently say; "Thank you, folks. Come again."
And they would drive off, back to their individual realities. But Mrs. Bains went on forever.
The neon sign out front said: Happy Inn Motel-No Vacancies, but the bottom part was not usually lighted. Beyond the sign, a graveled court opened back from the road, framed by a semicircle of small cabins. In the exact center of the court stood a large frame structure.
This was where Mrs. Bains lived; it was also the central office, where you signed in and got your keys. To one side of the office there was a bar and grill where you could eat and drink and, in general, get primed for whatever you had come to the Happy Inn Motel to do. Mrs Bains had an infrared cooker in back of the bar that made hamburgers and franks in thirty seconds. There was also a small kitchen in back for those who wanted something more substantial. The kitchen was seldom used. Hamburgers franks, and something to wash them down with was all Mrs. Bains' customers ever seemed to want.
Of course, most of the customers were in a hurry to get back to their rooms.
Outside the central building, and around to the back, were the men's and ladies' rooms. There was another pair of rest rooms at one end of the long U formed by the cabins. So even if you got up in the middle of the night and found the toilet of your choice occupied, you always had some place else to turn. In case they were all being used, why there were always the dense woods behind the cabins. No one would have to be uncomfortable for long.
In the evenings, around six o'clock. Red Ballew would close his hardware shop in town, drive out to the motel and officially open the bar. Red was an old friend of Mrs. Bains, and had been a friend of Norman Bains, her husband. When Norman had died (of a heart attack, after some heavy drinking), Red had helped her keep the motel operating until the funeral expenses had been paid off and the business had begun to show a profit once more. It was hard in the beginning, but with Red's help, Mrs. Bains had managed it. She had been managing for twelve years. It had never occurred to her to operate the motel without Red. It had never occurred to Red either. They made a good team.
When Red opened the bar, it always seemed to Mrs. Bains that the day had officially begun. She thought of days as beginning around six or seven o'clock in the evening, reaching their noon at one or two in the morning, and tapering off to the sad farewells and the signing-out at ten or eleven A.M. Mrs. Bains knew when the day really began for her customers, and she liked to keep the same schedule.
Consequently, she seldom got to bed before three or four in the morning, which is a hell of an hour for a sweet, little old lady.
Sometimes, she and Red would sit in the bar after it had closed for the night and talk. Just talk.
Red would reminisce about the old days when he and Mrs. Bains and Norman would go to town on double dates and see the latest William S. Hart or Art Acord movie at the Cameo. Those had been the good old days.
The Cameo was still doing business at the same location, but Red and Mrs. Bains never went near it any more. They both felt that modern movies were not worth looking at. Color, wide-screen, sound; these were cheap tricks designed to conceal the fact that movies were worse than ever. There was nothing, as far as they were concerned that could replace the true excitement of a good silent western.
Mrs. Bains had loved silent western movies. They were so male, and she liked men.
Sometimes, Red and Mrs. Bains would get quietly stoned together. Red liked to drink and so did Mrs. Bains, but she held it better. After half a dozen or so, Red would start to nod, and one more would usually put him to sleep.
Mrs. Bains did not mind this at all. She would push his big, limp body around until it rested comfortably on the bar, and then she would cuddle up beside him and toy with his hair and think of the good old days.
It never went any farther than that.
If Red had managed to stay awake, it might have. But he never did.
After a while, Mrs. Bains would awaken Red gently and gaze into his sleepy, puffed face until his eyes focused. Sometimes, the wood grain of the bar would be impressed into his cheek and she would rub it until the marks went away. Then she would help Red to his car and aim him down the road toward town.
Red was one of those drivers who can drive perfectly in any state short of unconsciousness. He had never had an accident, and never had any trouble getting home.
He lived in a rooming house in town, with eight other men. He had never married. He never went out anywhere, except to the Happy Inn Motel.
Mrs. Bains never paid him a cent for running the oar.
Mrs. Bains slept alone. She did not really like sleeping alone, but the habit had formed after her husband's death, and by the time she began thinking of the connubial bed again, the pattern had been set. After all, she told herself, she was a widow now; a widow who wasn't getting any younger and who had left her figure somewhere a few years back. She had had her fling while she was young; she had been courted and sought after and loved by several fine young men, and she had picked from them a husband to be hers till death.
Well, the death had come, and much sooner than she had expected, but who is ever prepared for these things? The death had come; Norman was wrapped in pine and put into a quiet, shaded grave, and Mrs. Bains was a widow.
That was the way things were.
But she could still remember, on those nights when the occupied cabins were especially quiet with that tense silence she knew so well, and when the moon was shining in the window onto her plump, night-gowned body, and when the cars were hissing by on the road outside with that special middle-of-the-night sound-she could still remember the feeling of Norman in her arms; the way he had caressed her in all the ways she liked best; the way he seemed to read her mind and always had his hand or his mouth in the right place at the precise moment she wanted it there; the way they would struggle wordlessly, far into the night, their bodies perspiring and straining, their lips crushed in an endless kiss; the way the finish always took them unaware, unprepared for the glory of it, and carried them over the brink into that sweet, dark oblivion which they would ride through the night.
Norman had been quite a lover, and Mrs. Bains had enjoyed every minute of him to the fullest.
But that was all behind her now. She was getting old, and women of her age and size and station in life were supposed to forget about love.
It wasn't easy, especially on the nights when she let her mind wander back into the past, but she tried. She would close the shutters against the moon and the car noises and the silence from the cabins and she would wrap herself in her covers and ignore the old familiar ache until sleep came.
Sometimes it took hours. But Mrs. Bains would quietly tell herself that such things were all over for her, and after a while her tired mind would begin to believe it, and then she would be asleep.
But it wasn't really true.
So the days and nights passed, and Mrs. Bains derived her pleasure from the pleasure of her customers.
And it looked as if nothing would ever change the way things were at the Happy Inn Motel.
CHAPTER TWO
The kid walking beside the road was scared and angry at the same time. He was scared because he had just run away from home, angry because he hadn't wanted to. He was a virgin which made him angrier and more scared.
His name was Chester Simms. He was seventeen years and 364 days old.
He had been walking along this road for over two hours, waiting patiently for a car to pick him up. In the three days since he had left home, he had traveled over three hundred miles by hitchhiking, and he now felt confident that if he had enough patience, he could eventually travel completely around the world in other people's cars. This is a common delusion with new lucky hitchhikers.
The past two hours, however, had been discouraging. The fact that he had gone that long without a lift did not really change his thoughts about the ease of parasitic travel, but there was no denying that he had hit a snag in his plans.
His plans were not too well formed, when you came right down to it; in fact, he had no real plan at all. Just a goal-; one that was quite clear in his mind.
He had decided that when the first day of his eighteenth year dawned, he would no longer be a virgin.
Being a very inexperienced young man, he had no idea of how to bring this about. He couldn't even imagine a place where it might happen. His romantic imagination, stirred by his anger and general fright, conjured up images of wild seductions in the backs of cars, or in haylofts, or hotel rooms, or behind convenient bushes. Occasionally, he would envision a beautiful lady in a sleek car stopping and picking him up, although thus far he had traveled with nothing but men. But somewhere along this road, he was sure, there was a car speeding toward him and a rendezvous with his virginity.
He had a clear mental picture of how it would begin. The beautiful lady would stop just beyond him, thereby showing that she didn't pick up just anyone without thinking it over for a few yards. She would stop beyond him, then back up a bit so he would get the idea. She would put her head out the car window; her hair would be soft and fragrant in the golden afternoon sunlight.
She would ask, in a voice as sweet as honey, if he wanted a lift, and he would step forward and accept. And he would gaze at her boldly, as if being picked up by beautiful ladies was something he had enjoyed many times before. And she would see experienced, mature desire in his eyes and would be stirred by it.
Then they could drive for a while and talk, just to break the ice. Chester would speak of the world and himself and the complicated relationship between the two. And she would listen and be impressed. Then she would talk about herself for a while.
The picture grew hazy here. Try as he might, Chester couldn't imagine the background of a beautiful lady in a fast car who would pick up a teen-ager with the idea of going to bed with him. But no matter; there were all kinds of people in the world. She would be along eventually.
So they would talk and share each other's thoughts. And gradually, a warmth that wasn't entirely passion would grow between them That was im-, portant; be had always felt that two people should share a certain affection for each other beyond the mere desire to go to bed.
So the affection would grow, and desire would grow with it. And finally, conversation would die, and the beautiful lady and Chester would look at each other; their gazes frank, the true purpose of their meeting in the open at last.
She would chose a spot-say, the back of the car, or a hayloft, or a hotel, or behind a convenient bush. They would go there, just the two of them, and....
It was at this point that the whole thing collapsed.
It wasn't that Chester didn't know the ins and outs of the act itself-it was just that he could never succeed in imagining himself doing it. The prospect of actually sleeping with a woman was appealing, but fantastic.
Chester had enjoyed women in a limited way during his life, but had never come anywhere near the culmination of such a relationship. Well, that wasn't quite right-he had come damn near a few times. But he had always backed off at the last possible moment.
He wondered again why that was. He remembered kicking himself several times on mornings after, and thinking that when opportunity knocked you should bang it back. But something always restrained him. Even in the fantastic moments when he and some young girl were wrapped up in each other, their hands frantic, their bodies pressed close, there was always the small cautious voice in the back of his head which told him when it was time to quit.
He had thought for a while that this was a flaw of some sort in his character. After all, the other guys he knew would never let an opportunity like that go by without at least taking a try at it.
But after a while, he decided that he was actually a very noble individual, and not the sort to go around taking young ladies just for something to do. He decided that that should be a sacred thing-something to be reserved for the marriage bed and not something to be enjoyed as casually as a beer on a Saturday night. He had felt rather proud of this attitude, but never proud enough to tell anyone.
As a result of this thinking he came to the conclusion that girls who allowed boys to take them were tramps and not worthy of his consideration. This was an easy attitude to adopt because he didn't know any girls who went that far with their boy friends. A lot of the fellow in his gang spent Saturday night that way, but always out of town somewhere. They never seemed to get involved with local girls. At least, that was what they said Chester didn't care anyway. He had his principles. He also had a girl.
Her name was Rosanna and she was one year younger than Chester to the day You would never know this to look at her-her face and body were so completely matured that she seemed to be a full-grown woman.
Rosanna was a beautiful girl. Her body was lovely, with wide hips and long tapering legs. There were small shadows beneath the bones of her ankles which Chester loved to look at. Her arms were round and pretty, and her hands were slender and cool. Her throat was smooth. Her eyes were black. Her hair was brown with reddish highlights.
Then there were her breasts. She had two of them.
They were full, ripe, rich, heavy, soft and warm; they were firm, too, and stood out from her with little or no help. They were the nicest things Chester had ever held in his hands.
He could remember vividly the night when he had first held those breasts. It had been one month ago. He and Rosanna had driven to a drive-in movie in his father's car.
He could even remember the picture, although he had seen very little of it. It was called A Noise of Sameness; a long, dull, noisy adventure about the Bengal Lancers, produced by Schwerner Brothers and starting Sebastian Coons and Barrie Lock. That was the kind of mind Chester had. His memory for minor details was terrific.
He and Rosanna had watched the picture for about fifteen minutes before he put his arm around her. It had taken about ten minutes more for the tips of his fingers to venture down to the top of her breast.
Things had speeded up a bit when Rosanna took a deep breath-a breath which lifted most of her breast into his palm for one glorious moment.
After he had recovered from that, he allowed his fingers to slip slowly under the cloth of the low-cut peasant blouse that she wore. He had gone just far enough to discover that she wasn't wearing a bra when she suddenly sat up straight and took his arm from over her shoulder.
Chester had prepared himself for a rebuke, so he was taken completely off guard by what she did. She turned to face him, reached her hands up to the top of her blouse and pulled it down to her waist.
"Don't feel them," she said. "Kiss them."
Chester remembered staring stupidly at her breasts for a few seconds before his mind began working again. It was the first time he had ever seen breasts, although he had felt them before. They looked, he thought, even better than they felt.
He found out that they tasted even better than they looked.
Chester kissed Rosanna's breasts for quite a while, switching from one to the other at regular intervals, and putting his hand over the one he was not kissing at the moment. Rosanna lay back against the seat and ran her long fingers through his hair.
Since these were his first, it took Chester several minutes to realize the right things to do with them. But he caught on fast. Soon, Rosanna was breathing quite rapidly, rolling her head back and forth on the top of the car seat. Her hands in his hair grew nails suddenly, and became more frantic.
Chester could feel her excitement growing, and he began to get scared. He felt his principles slipping, and the little voice in the back of his head was screaming danger at him. But he couldn't stop.
She pulled his head away from her suddenly and bent to kiss him on the lips. It was a long, fiery kiss-a kiss which made him realize for the first time just what kissing was for. It had never occurred to him to open his mouth when he kissed a girl, and he would never have thought to put his tongue into that mouth. Now it was happening, and it wasn't disgusting at all. The inside of Rosanna's mouth tasted sweet; her tongue against his was soft and warm.
She put her hands on him then, sending a shock through his body. The voice in his head was shrieking with rage, but he ignored it as Rosanna's fingers did things to him.
He let the fingers of one hand wander up beneath Rosanna's skirt, and when she made no objection, slid his entire palm up her leg. The flesh was warm in his hand; she squeezed together, imprisoning his fingers for a moment.
There was a little ruffle of lace around the legs of her panties.
Chester and Rosanna went about as far as you can go in the front seat of a car in a drive-in movie. They tried everything. Once in a while, Chester would become dimly aware of gunfire and Arab war cries from the Bengal Lancer movie; then Rosanna would do something new and the picture would be forgotten again.
They went so far at last, that it happened. To both of them.
The Bengal Lancers fired a twenty-one gun salute.
He took her home the long way, driving slowly with one hand, wanting to feel her beside him for as long as possible. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hands in his lap.
The little voice in his mind was still mad, but grudgily admitted that his principles were still intact. Chester and Rosanna had indulged in some heavy petting, but they had not made love, so that made everything all right.
They went out together many times in the weeks that followed. Sometimes they went to the drive-in; sometimes they just parked in a dark spot.
They would kiss and caress and explore each other and play around for hours and hours and hours.
But Chester never took Rosanna. That was against his principles.
One night, right in the middle of the game, Chester felt Rosanna's warm lips against his ear. She was whispering to him, and it took a while for him to get the sense of what she was saying.
He realized all at once that she was asking him to take her.
Chester had been very shocked. He had tried to explain to Rosanna that such a thing would be wrong-that it was against his principles.
Rosanna had listened, then looked at him in amazement. Gradually, the amazement was replaced by anger. Finally, the anger was replaced by disgust.
She asked him coldly to take her home.
When Chester thought about it the next day, he decided that Rosanna was not such a nice girl after all. It was not like a nice girl to get mad just because her boy friend would not. Not that mad, anyway.
So Chester decided that Rosanna was a tramp and crossed her off his list.
He was completely unprepared, therefore, when his father came into his room the next evening and belted him in the mouth.
Rosanna, it seemed, had told Chester's parents that she and Chester had made love the night before. She wanted Chester to marry her.
It had been quite a scene.
Chester had watched and waited for a lull in the confusion, and when it came, he did the only thing a gentleman could do in such a situation.
He scrammed.
He had been on the lam for three days now, and in those three days he had done a lot of thinking. Here he was, a young man with a strict set of principles; a young man who had never strayed from what he believed to be right-and what had it gotten him? The shaft.
He decided that it was pointless trying to be a good boy. Nobody cared, when you came right down to it. Everybody, in fact, was perfectly willing to believe the worst about you on the strength of a mere accusation.
So Chester had made up his mind. The virginity had to go. There were no two ways about it.
He dragged his mind back to the present and scanned the road. There were no cars visible in either direction.
He put his suitcase down and sat on it. His feet were sore and burning; he eased off his shoes with a sigh.
His watch said six P.M. He realized suddenly how hungry he was, and looked up the road, searching for some sign of life. There was nothing. Just blank walls of trees extending as far as the eye could see.
Chester began to worry about the coming night. What if he couldn't get a lift? What if he couldn't walk far enough to find a diner or a restaurant? He would have to sleep in the woods all night, and on an empty stomach. The prospect was depressing.
Well, he decided, there was still light enough to walk by, and he had better take advantage of it while he could.
He slipped his shoes back on and picked up his suitcase. He had only walked a few steps, however, when he heard the unmistakable buzz of a car approaching from behind.
He put the suitcase down and tried to locate the car. There it was; a white convertible with the top up. It was a new car, very expensive-looking, and it was coming very fast.
He doubted if anyone driving that fast would pick him up, but it would do no harm to try. He took the standard pose and stuck out his thumb.
The car roared past him, then slowed. The screech of the brakes set his teeth on edge.
The car stopped completely for a moment; then, it backed up a few yards.
A beautiful lady with blonde hair stuck her head out the window.
"Want a lift?" she asked.
CHAPTER THREE
Fern Humphrey had been a schoolteacher.
She had also been a spinster. She had also been a member in good standing in the Library Association, a board member on the Commission to Improve Our Neighborhoods, an associate advisor to the League for Civic Decency, and a member of the Ladies Athletic Union. These things, dull as they were, had represented the sum total of her life now. They had stood for all that she was and all that she wanted to be. These things had been built up carefully over a period of thirty-two years, until they described the kind of woman Fern Humphrey was to perfection.
Now, they were all gone. All the comfortable, uncomplicated bits and pieces that comprised her daily living had been swept away. She was no longer a schoolteacher or a spinster, or a member of any city organization. In fact, she wasn't even a normal human being any longer. She was a creature of the night, now; an inhabitant of a half world she had never known existed before this. She had sold her life and all that she had worked to achieve, and had burned all her bridges behind her, in order to join a new organization-or perhaps sisterhood would be a better word.
Now, you could sum Fern Humphrey up in a single word.
She was a Lesbian.
As she drove along the gray, featureless highway, she tried to think calmly of what her life would be from now on. Where would she go? What would she do? All her life had been spent in a small town, playing the game of normality and never knowing the secret which lurked in her brain. How would she handle this new way of life?
She thought again of Benny-her first lover. She remembered the night when Benny had first taken her, the night when Fern had found out what she was. She remembered the horror which had come at first, and then she remembered the pleasure; the all-consuming pleasure that had driven everything from her mind. Benny had done it. Benny had been responsible for killing the old Fern Humphrey. Benny had conceived and delivered the new Fern Humphrey.
Benny, of course, was a woman. She had been a member of the Ladies' Athletic Union and one of the top athletes in the town. It was a standing joke, in fact, that you could set your watches by Benny's morning workouts more surely than by the passing of the 8:30 train. Every morning, without fail, Benny could be seen trotting down the tracks; her lithe, solid body touching the ground only at every third tie, her short, mousy hair bobbing around her face, her thin features set in an expression of determination.
Benny was a town character. Everybody laughed at her and made jokes about her behind her back. But nobody ever suspected just what Benny was.
It took Fern to find that out.
Perhaps, Fern thought, things would have been different if she had known about love. But only one man had ever broken through her defenses and shown her what love was. She knew about the union between male and female, of course, but she had never guessed that there was pleasure in it.
Men disgusted her. Men had always disgusted her. Ever since she was a child, ever since that ghastly time with the man in the car behind the school who had offered her candy and had driven her out into the woods and had....
She shook the memory away. That afternoon had been one of the most horrible times of her life. She would not, could not, ever forget that man. The way he smelled, the way he felt, the way he tasted-the things he tried to force her to do-the things he did to her.
She had been nine when that happened. She had hated men ever since.
She remembered the young men in high school and college who had tried to date her, and shuddered. She knew what they were really like. No matter how clean and handsome and considerate they seemed on the surface, she knew that underneath their carefully constructed exteriors, they were the man in the car. They were all the man in the car. They wanted only what he wanted, and they would do anything to get it. All men thought alike. All men wanted the same things. All men were ugly and brutal and hairy and smelly and hard....
In high school they had called her "The Iron Virgin."
In college, they had called her "Frigid Fern."
She didn't care. She knew what they wanted, and she knew that no man would ever have that from her again.
So she spent her life in organizations and clubs and unions, and she pursued her vocation of teaching young people the ways of the world as she knew them. Of course, she could never tell them what she really knew, never explain fully what the world was really like. But she tried to slip into her class room speeches a few small hints of the dark horror waiting for them.
She hated the little boys in her class and she left it show occasionally. She favored the little girls in every possible way, and liked to take them aside once in a while and try to explain things to them. She had gotten in trouble more than once over this, but never very seriously. After all, she told her critics, a girl must learn early to protect herself from the brutality of men. This was information necessary to every girl who was to reach adulthood with a whole skin. And when the critics asked her why she always accompanied these little after-school lectures with certain, rather intimate caresses, Fern had honestly not been able to understand what they meant.
She knew now, of course. Benny had showed her all about that.
She thought again of Benny, and the night it had happened.
Looking back on the chain of events, it seemed inevitable, but at the time nothing could have been farther from her mind. She had stayed late at the Ladies' Athletic Union meeting, because of a strange aching in her legs.
This was something which came to Fern about three times a month, and she was quite used to it by now. It had never occurred to her to wonder what the cause of it was. She tended to think of the ache as something connected with her monthly trouble, and tried to ignore it. The best way she had found to get her mind off the aching, was exercise.
So Fern had lingered behind in the gym long after all the other ladies had gone home for the night. She had exercised with a basketball for a while, then had switched to the parallel bars. She worked out as strenuously as she could, and gradually the aching had receeded.
Fern had taken a dip in the pool then; and, since there was no one present but her, she had not bothered wearing a bathing suit. She had floated on her back and slowly paddled from one end of the pool to the other, letting the tensions of her body flow away under the cool caress of the water.
Finally, she had climbed out of the pool and had gone into the locker room.
That was where she found Benny.
Benny was also nude, and standing in front of a mirror, drying her body with a towel. She glanced up and saw Fern's reflection in the mirror.
"Well, hi," she said, turning around. The towel hung from her hand; she made no attempt to cover herself.
Fern's eyes had been drawn to Benny's solid body almost despite herself. The woman had a leaness and hardness about her that was fascinating. Her breasts were compact and solid, with small nipples. There was a faint indentation of muscle beginning between her breasts, and sweeping down to her navel, which was set in a flat, tight-looking waist. Then, the line continued downward until it was lost. Her legs were straight and smooth, like those of a young boy.
Fern looked up into Benny's eyes and saw that the woman was examining Fern in the same way. For a moment, Fern had a tremendous desire to cover herself, but this passed when she saw the expression on Benny's face.
"Say, Fern," Benny said approvingly. "I never knew you kept yourself in such good shape. You must work out quite a bit to make your body so solid."
Benny's words were pleasing; without realizing it, Fern dropped her hands to her sides and posed fox the woman's admiration.
Benny glanced into Fern's face suddenly, an odd expression in her eyes. "I'll bet you're pretty tired out after all that exercise. I'll bet you're pretty sore."
Fern nodded. "I sure am. I feel as if I've been put through the wringer. I'm just going to take a shower and go home."
Benny put up a hand. "Whoa," she said. "Yon better not go to sleep without doing something about those muscles first, or you'll wake up tomorrow in knots. Take it from me; I know."
Fern shrugged. "What, for instance?"
"An alcohol rub," Benny said. "There's nothing like it after a good workout."
Fern thought it over for a moment. Yes, she thought, that did sound appealing. "Will you give me a rubdown?" she asked.
"With pleasure," Benny replied, her eyes bright, Benny had led Fern to a table and stretched her out on her stomach. Fern lay with her face against the smooth linen of the table-top and let her mind drift. She heard Benny opening a locker somewhere behind her.
Then she felt the woman beside her. After a moment, a splash of cold liquid struck her back. Fern jumped, but Benny's strong hands pushed her back on the table. "Take it easy," she said. "It's only the first handful that's cold."
Fern relaxed and let Benny's hands rub the alcohol into her skin. Benny began at her shoulders, and slowly worked down the back. Fern's muscles relaxed under the woman's expert hands. As Benny worked downward, Fern felt herself drifting off into sleep.
She came awake for a brief moment when Benny's hands came to her buttocks. The strong fingers closed over the full globes of flesh, and Fern felt a strange stirring inside her. But Benny's hands did not linger. Soon, they were sliding down the backs of Fern's legs and working the muscles of her calves. Fern thought it was one of the nicest sensations she had ever experienced.
She was so relaxed that she did not hear Benny when she spoke. The woman had to prod her to get her attention. "I said, turn over. This side's done."
Fern lifted herself on one elbow and turned onto her back. It occurred to her suddenly that she was completely exposed to Benny at this moment; that Benny was seeing her in a way no other person had seen her since she was a child. But no matter. It was so comfortable here on the table, and Benny's hands felt so good on her body, that all thoughts of modesty or embarrassment fled her mind.
Benny's hands were at her shoulders again working and kneading the flesh expertly Fern's mind drifted toward sleep once more as the lovely sensations relaxed her whole body.
Benny's hands slid downward slowly, and all at once, she was holding Fern's breasts. Fern opened her eyes and looked at the woman's face. Benny was bent over her, her lips, were parted and she was breathing hard.
Fern could not understand what was happening when Benny removed one of her hands and put her lips to the nipple. She tried to speak, but a sensation like one she had never known was spreading from the place where Benny's lips touched her. The aching was growing now, and a glowing, thrilling pleasure was engulfing her.
She put her hands into Benny's hair and drew the woman's face to her breast. Benny kissed the nipple gently, between her lips, prodding at it.
Fern felt Benny's free hand wandering down the length of her body; she felt Benny's fingers.
She held back for only a moment, then gave herself over to the woman utterly.
Benny's fingers found her.
Her last coherent thought was; So this is what it's like.
Then her mind went blank, and there was nothing but her body.
The next morning, Fern awoke with her mind made up. She knew with a crystal-clarity what she must do.
First, of course, she had to leave town. She knew enough about her neighbors and associates to know that an affair with Benny could not remain a secret long. Someone, somehow, would stumble on the truth sooner or later, and that would be a very uncomfortable situation. No, it was better to leave now, and let them wonder why she had gone. That way, no one would ever know what she was.
Except Benny. But Benny wouldn't tell.
She thought for a bit about the woman. What did she feel toward her first lover? What did she owe Benny for introducing her to this wonderful new world? They were hard questions to answer.
Benny had sworn her undying love last night, and Fern caught up in this glorious thrill of wanton pleasure, had replied in kind. But now, in the cold light of dawn. Fern realized that it had all been a sham. She didn't love Benny. When you came right down to it, she didn't even like her.
All she wanted was the pleasure that Benny had showed her, and she wanted it on a steady basis. Now that she had tasted love, she knew she would never be able to do without it.
So it was off to a big city, any big city, where she could be swallowed up in the crowd and no one would know or care what she was. And somewhere in that crowd there was a woman who could do for Fern everything Benny had done; perhaps even more. A new career stretched out before her. She was a pleasure-seeker from now on-everything else was secondary.
She drove out of town in her big white convertible her only expensive possession, and one that had been quite useless up till now. She kept her eyes before her and didn't look back even once at the town that had been her home for thirty-two years. The past was dead, and she didn't care if it was even buried. Let the corpse of that life rot in the sun, and good riddance.
Now, as the car purred easily down the broad stripe of the highway, her mind was at perfect ease. She knew what she was and where she was headed, and she knew what the reward of patience would be. Somewhere, there waited a girl who was hungry for the same thing that Fern hungered for, and together they would explore the dark joys which would relieve that hunger.
After several hours, and three hundred miles, Fern began to notice a gnawing sensation in the pit of her stomach. It was some minutes before she realized what it was. It came to her that she had eaten nothing since the night before, and that the growls and grumbles were simply the protests of an empty stomach.
She peered ahead up the road, looking for some sign of a restaurant. After a few minutes, a large diner came into view. The sign said: Red Apple Inn. There were two bright apples painted below the words.
Like breasts, Fern thought.
She pulled into the parking lot and braked to a stop. As she climbed out of the car and started across the asphalt to the entrance, she caught sight of her reflection in the plate glass of the front window.
The reflection was one of a beautiful woman.
Fern stopped for a moment, looking at the image without recognition. The figure was tall and graceful. The blonde hair was long and shining in the sunlight. The face was regal and cool, with a self-contained beauty that Fern had often admired in other women. The tight linen blouse was filled almost to bursting with the twin fruits of her breasts, and the tight skirt showed off the lines of her hips and buttocks to perfection.
There was something in the eyes too, something that didn't belong.
Fern was astounded. Of course, the skirt and blouse were too small; the only reason she had worn them was because they had been the first things to come to hand. And the gleaming blonde hair hung to her shoulders only because she had not had the time or the inclination to tie it up into its customary bun.
Because of all this, Fern was seeing herself for the first time, and she realized with a start that she was a beautiful woman. It had taken the hasty, accidental choice of clothing to reveal what she really looked like.
And she knew all at once what the new expression in the eyes signified. She was no longer a virgin. Not really. She was a woman who had been loved. It showed in her face, and the change was startling.
She pivoted slightly, trying to see how she looked in profile, and noticed somebody watching her out of the corner of her eyes. It was a man.
He was standing in a doorway near the side entrance of the diner. His hands were in his pockets and the expression on his face was unmistakable. She had seen the same thing written in Benny's features the night before.
She felt the man's eyes on her body, and was pleased. There was a perverse pleasure in the thought that the sight of her excited this man. How wonderful that she could stir him this way and make him long for something he could not have. She wondered if men experienced pain when they thwarted love. It was an interesting thought.
She thought for a moment of going up to the man brazenly and offering herself to him; leading him on with honeyed words and caresses, and, at the last possible moment, withdrawn the offer and leaving him. How wonderful it would be to torture a man that way. She knew that the beautiful face and body in which she had suddenly found herself could be used to good effect against the swinish male clan she hated so thoroughly.
But, no. It was yet time for such games. He looked strong; he would probably overpower her, given half an opportunity, and have his way with her whether she liked it or not. She would have to wait and gain experience before she could try anything as dangerous as that.
Suddenly, the man stepped from the doorway and started across the parking lot toward her. She realized with horror that she had been staring at the man for quite a long time, and that he probably thought she was giving him the come-on. The expression in his eyes was frightening, she could see his mouth drawing slightly away from his teeth in an expression of animal desire.
All at once, the bravado evaporated and she was afraid. She turned on her heel and walked quickly to the entrance.
Inside, she found a table and ordered. Despite her hunger, her mind was not on the food. She watched the door, waiting for the man to follow her inside. There was a cold knot of fear in her stomach.
The food arrived. The man did not.
She ate quickly, keeping her eyes on the door, but he did not appear. After a bit, she realized that he wasn't going to come after her.
She felt vaguely disappointed for an instant, then checked herself.
No matter; there would be other men, sooner or later. She would have her revenge many times over.
She washed the meal down with a cup of coffee. The waitress appeared at her side with a pot and refilled the cup. "Would you like anything else?" she asked.
Fern looked at the girl for the first time. She was young; no more than eighteen. Her body was not quite fully developed, but it had a firmness and promise that the severe uniform did little to conceal. Fern looked at the girl, and felt a twinge go through her.
"Yes," she said, keeping her voice level. "There is something else I would like. I would like to go to bed with you."
The girl was waiting the check as Fern said this, and she did not look up when she answered. "Get out of here, you freak, before I break this pot over your head," the girl said in a low, tight voice. She dropped the check on the table and walked back to the counter without a word.
Fern picked up the check with trembling fingers and went to the register. The little witch, she thought. I'll bet she takes men regularly enough. The tramp!
She scooped her change out of the dish and went through the door into the sunny day.
She looked for the man, but he was nowhere to be seen. The doorway where he had been standing was empty.
She gunned the car out of the parking lot viciously, her hands tight on the wheel.
Less than an hour had passed when she saw the kid up ahead. He was standing beside the road with his thumb out.
CHAPTER FOUR
Harry Clarke had often wondered what it felt like to be divorced. After such a long time married, he found it hard to remember what a bachelor felt like. Besides, being a bachelor and being divorced were not the same thing-of that he was quite certain. A bachelor was a man who had never sampled the dish and so had no idea whether it suited him or not. But a divorced man knew precisely what he had lost, and gained.
Or so you would think. The question had been bothering him for some time now Harry had been divorced for three weeks, and he still had no idea how a divorced man felt.
Sally. It was hard for him to think objectively about her; hard to appreciate the fact that he would never see her again, or hold her again, or sleep with her ever again. Sally had been so much a part of his life that losing her was as unthinkable as losing an arm. But it had happened. There was no changing that.
The imagine of Sally in the other man's arms sprang into Harry's mind with a vividness that was almost painful. It was as if a powerful film projector at the back of his head was throwing the shocking scene in a blinding square just behind his eyes.
He could see her as he had so often seen her; the lithe, nude body he loved so well and so frequently; the hard, up-thrust breasts; the long, rich lines of the legs; the parted lips; the hazel eyes; the chestnut hair; Sally.
But the breasts were covered by a pair of hairy, thick-veined hands, the lips were pressed to a stranger's lips; the eyes were shut tight in passion; the hair was limp and wet on the pillow beneath them. Every detail of the scene was as clear and perfect as if he was seeing it again for the first time And the pain was the same. The pain would always be the same.
Of course, divorce had been inevitable. She had wanted it that way and there was nothing for him to do but give her her freedom. He knew they were finished; that what she had done had destroyed everything between them. He gave her up, not because he wanted to, but because he had to.
Now it was all over, and he still didn't have any idea how a divorced man felt. He knew how a man would feel whose wife had died, but that was different. At least, it should be different. When a person died, you knew that they were lost and gone forever, that neither you nor anyone on earth would ever see them again. A dead person was a minus sign-something subtracted from the total. A dead person left a small vacuum where they had been and only time would fill up the space. A dead person wasn't just away. A dead person didn't exist. After a while, a dead person would never have existed.
But wasn't that the same? Sally was dead. The Sally he knew was as dead and fallen as if she had been ground to dust and scattered to the winds. Somewhere behind him, there was a stranger wearing her name, and her face, but she was an impostor. Sally was dead. Rest in peace.
His mind drifted back to Mr. Mayo, of Mayo, Penner, Wesley and Fink, the advertising agency where he had built his career. Mr. Mayo had been very kind and understanding about the whole thing; in fact, everyone in the office had been kind and understanding. Naturally, the office staff knew about it as soon as it happened. The circle in which Harry moved was very conscious of the game of changing partners, and the latest divorce or remarriage was a topic of coffee break conversation, like the ball scores. Harry had the horrible feeling that they had known about the affair that had felled his marriage long before he had.
But they had all commiserated with him; especially Mr. Mayo. "Clarke," he had said, peering around the damp butt of a cigar, "I want you to know we all feel your loss deeply. Very deeply. Believe me, I know what it's like to shed a wife. Happened to me three times already. I think number four is coming up. Hah!"
Mr. Mayo spat a thread of tobacco into the ash tray.
"But don't let it throw you, my boy. There is only one cure for a man who gets divorced. It's the same thing as falling off a horse. You have to get right on again or you lose your nerve. You get when I mean?"
Harry had nodded dumbly.
"Get right on again. Hah! Pick somebody out of the crowd and marry her as soon as you can. Nobody who's been married can live single-take my word for it. I'm not just talking about bed either, although God knows that's important. Right? Right. But there are other things too. Like, for instance, shirts and socks. A married man gets used to the idea that shirts and socks just grow in the drawer like mushrooms, or something, and that all he has to do to get a fresh suit is to open the closet. That just ain't so, Clarke. I guess you've been finding that out."
Mr. Mayo glanced critically at Harry's clothing, but Harry didn't notice.
"You need a woman to take care of stuff like that, my boy. Every man needs a woman, one way or the other. Find some girl at a party, or go look in the mailroom downstairs, but find one and marry her before you go to pot.
"I'm giving you this advice because I think a lot of you, Clarke. You're one of the sharpest copy men we have. The way you handled that Stoll's Bathroom Tissue account last year-" Mr. Mayo laughed and slapped his knee. "Hah! I don't think anybody will ever forget that commercial, even if it was shown only once. The Stoll people think we're God now.
"So I want what's good for you, Clarke, because what's good for you is good for Mayo, Penner, Wesley and Fink. I want you to be happy, because that's good business. A man who doesn't have to worry when his next shirt or meal is coming from is a man who can concentrate on his job."
Mr. Mayo's eyes had lighted then in sudden inspiration. "Say, Clarke, you want to meet Harriet? You know, that chesty girl in Media. I'll introduce you. She's made love to practically everyone in the office at one time or another, but of course what she's really looking for is a husband. You're a good-looking young man, Clarke. She'd probably go for you if you asked her right. How about it? Come on, I'll take you down right now."
Harry finally convinced Mr. Mayo that what he wanted was a vacation. Mr. Mayo understood. Harry was given a month's leave, with pay, which was very generous. But then, as Mr. Mayo had explained, Harry was a valued employee. It wasn't just anybody who could devise such an unforgettable way of selling toilet paper.
So now Harry was on the road. The Great American Cure-All. If things are bugging you, get in a car and drive somewhere. There's bound to be something better over the next hill.
Harry had been driving for a week. He was no closer to Shangri-La, no farther from what was eating at him. The week had been a worthless succession of cheap motels, cheap diners, cheap bars, and cheap booze. And in the mornings, with the dull, rusty blade of the hangover taking slices off his brain, Harry had pushed himself out onto the road again, still looking, still hoping that there would be something for him beyond the next horizon.
He was feeling a bit better on this particular morning. He had not gotten as drunk as usual last night, for one thing. Perhaps that compulsion was wearing off. He had gotten nine hours of solid sleep, and the morning through which he was driving had a scrubbed, clean look that was very appealing. The deep greens of the trees on either side of the road was restful to the eye, and the patches where the long shafts of sunlight stabbed through the leaves were pretty enough to make even the unhappiest man start thinking that maybe things weren't so bad after all.
High in the trees, the birds were singing. Harry listened to them and smiled. They sounded so damned cheerful, he thought. Who could resist that sound?
It struck him suddenly what the birds were so happy about. It was morning, and they were up there in their nests, tending to their cruddy little homes and providing for their families and perhaps even making love to their wives. Birds had to make love, he figured, or else where did all the birds come from?
So there were the birds, having fun, making love, raising families, while down below them a member of a superior species hurtled along a black tar ribbon in a metal, rubber, and plastic idiot-box, without even a clear idea of his destination. He wondered if the birds noticed him at all, and if so, what they thought. It was an interesting speculation.
But the point had been made. They were up in the trees and happy because they knew what they wanted, and had it. Harry didn't. The difference was as simple as that.
Did birds get divorced, he wondered. Not likely. But maybe it happened once in a while that a bigger bird would come along and steal the wife of a ninety-seven gram weakling, and some poor slimoe of a bird would find himself less a wife. All right, here is this bird sitting on a branch, watching a big bruiser flying off with his missus. What does he do about it?
He finds another bird. Right? Right.
Mr. Mayo had the right idea there was no doubt about it. But Harry couldn't help thinking that it was much simpler for a bird than for a man. After all, one bird was much the same as another, even to another, even to another bird. But human beings came in such a variety of type that it was difficult to make a choice. Especially a choice upon which so much depended.
Harry had made the choice once. Now he had to make it again.
Well, the place to begin was in bed with somebody. You didn't have to be married for that. You just found a likely-looking, willing female, and you took her to bed. And from just such actions, many a mighty oak was known to grow.
If the chemistry was not right, then say good-bye and look some place else. You'll find it sooner or later.
Harry realized suddenly that he wanted a woman very much.
He was in bad spot for it. He was alone in unfamiliar country, for one thing. He had no place to stay, for another. Sure, there were plenty of motels along this stretch, but Harry didn't like to take girls to motels. Motels were about on a par with call houses, as far as he was concerned, and any girl who would let a man take her to a motel belonged in one. Harry longed for the comfort of his apartment back in the city, then shook the thought away. It was too far to drive, and he was supposed to be on vacation. So we must make do with what we've got.
Up ahead, Harry saw a sign which said: Red Apple Itm. There were a couple of unrealistic apples painted below the words. Harry decided that what he needed was a cup of coffee and some time to think. He turned the wheel and swung the car off the road into the parking lot.
He climbed out and stretched his legs gratefully. It was a pleasure to be out of the car for a while and standing up. Harry let the breeze air out the seat of his pants while he looked the place over.
That was another funny thing. You could drive through the most beautiful country on God's earth, drive until your tires wore down to the axles and your motor fell to rust, and never know just how beautiful your surroundings were. You had to stop for that.
The place Harry found himself in was delightful to the senses. The breeze was touched with a faint odor of pine and subtle green smells, and the blowing leaves across the road made a soft ragged edge against the blue, cloudless sky. Harry took a deep breath of the fragrant air. The hot metal of the car spoiled things slightly, so he stepped back aways. He found a doorway in one of the walls of the restaurant, and he stepped into it, standing on the step with only his heels, letting his legs stretch as his toes dangled in mid-air. He let his mind relax.
There was a flash of white on the road, and a big, fast convertible roared off the road and the parking lot. Harry's eyes were drawn to it, and the person in it.
It was a woman. Harry looked at her, fascinated. She was one of the loveliest creatures he had ever seen. Her long blonde hair was blown awry by the wind, so that delicate strands of it hung about her face and cheeks. Her costume was informal and simple, and showed off the fine lines of her figure in a wonderful natural fashion. Her face was devoid of make-up and quite pretty, in a plain, outdoorsy way.
Harry watched her climb from the car and start across the parking lot toward the entrance. He felt a pang for the loveliness of this woman, for the loveliness of all woman, for the loveliness of the woman he had lost. He wondered who had this woman, and whether he would ever have to give her up. He hoped not.
She stopped in the middle of the concrete parking field. Harry watched as she stood quite still and stared at something he could not see. Maybe she had come here to meet her man, whoever he was, and had just spotted him. But no, that couldn't be right. It was something else. Harry couldn't figure out what.
The woman was posing. There was no other word for it. She arched her body so that, the fine shapes of it stood out in relief against the material of her clothing. She acted precisely like a woman in front of a mirror. Harry had often seen Sally indulge in just the same thing. But Sally usually did it to get him aroused. And it always worked.
Why was this woman doing it then? There were no mirrors handy; that was obvious. So it must be for the benefit of some man. Who?
Harry glanced around the edge of a door and looked for the lucky stiff. There was no one visible. He glanced back at the woman.
She was looking at him, a strange expression on her face.
It hit him all at once that maybe, just maybe, she was posing for him Could it be? A woman as beautiful and desirable as that making a play for a man in the parking lot of the Red Apple Inn? It didn't seem possible.
But something was happening, and that was the only explanation he could find for it.
The expression on her face underlined the notion. She seemed to look at him without actually seeing him, as if she had something else on her mind. The rest of her body and the way she held it left no doubt that that something was bed.
Harry stepped out of the doorway and started toward her. It was all or nothing. She might yell for a cop, or punch him in the nose, or just run away. But he was going to ask her, first because he wanted a woman, a woman like her, a woman who could look clean and untroubled and fresh; and second, because he wanted to know if his judgment of her was correct, whether he was just dreaming or whether this beautiful woman was really available.
He walked toward her And as he watched her face, his heart sank. The far-away expression evaporated, and was replaced by a twist of fear. The woman's eyes went wide, and she turned suddenly and walked quickly to the door of the restaurant.
Harry stopped in his tracks and watched her go.
The glass and aluminum door swung shut behind her.
He stood for a moment, not moving. Then he turned and walked back toward the doorway where he had been standing.
He noticed that the Red Apple Inn was divided into two arts-a restaurant and a bar. The entrance to the bar was just beyond the doorway.
Harry went inside.
It was like coming home.
CHAPTER FIVE
Judy Wilcox was trembling. She stood behind the counter, right in front of the mess she had made. The mess was thick, and full of lumps, and steamy.
It was a plate of stew, the chef's special for today. Judy had just dropped it.
Mr. Flauten looked out of the window between the kitchen and the counter.
"What the hell's going on out there?" he called. "Judy-what did you do now?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Flauten," the girl said. Her voice trembled almost as much as her body. "I dropped a plate. I'm very sorry, Mr. Flauten."
Mr. Flauten's head disappeared from the window. Then he came through the swinging door from the kitchen with a rag in his hand.
"Damn, kid. Can't you even take a plate to the table without dropping it? What the hell's the matter with you?"
He kneeled down and gathered the mess of meat and broken china into the rag.
Judy forced herself to stop trembling. She bent every atom of her mind to the job of getting her body under control. She clenched her fists and her teeth and closed her eyes and stood very still for a moment, willing herself to become calm. After a bit, it started working.
When she opened her eyes, she was all right. Mr. Flauten was just climbing laboriously to his feet.
"Come on, kid. Get on the ball. We don't need a waitress so bad we can spare crockery for it. Yon get paid money here. You want to work off broken plates, let me know, we'll make a deal. Come on, now. Back to work."
He went back into the kitchen without waiting for a reply. Judy went to the window. In a moment, a fresh plate of stew was pushed through it.
She took it to the table where it belonged, and she noticed that her hands were steady as a rock.
That rotten, unnatural woman, she thought. She had read about people like that, but she had never really believed they existed until now. Maybe things like that happened in big cities, where everyone was a little crazy, but not out here in the green country. People weren't like that in places like this. At least, that was what she had thought.
Well, she was wrong. That was beyond a doubt. She had been propositioned by a Lesbian, right here, only three miles from where she had been born and raised.
She had handled herself well, she thought, considering the fact that this was the first time anything like this had happened to her. Of course, it was a lot Eke being propositioned by a man. It was almost the same thing, actually.
Judy had been schooled well by her father m the way to handle such situations. Daddy had always said that the simplest way to say no to a man who tried to get fresh was with an insult. Not only did this preclude any further conversation; if it was worked right and if you thought fast enough, you could really cut the fresh guy in a place where it hurt.
Judy had been propositioned before. She had always wormed her way out of it. A few times, she had squelched the guy so throughly that he had never wanted to see her again, much less make a play for her.
There were still some young men in town who would cross the street when they saw her coming.
Judy, needless to say, was a virgin.
Yes, she had been propositioned many times. But never by a Lesbian. The experience had shaken her more than she cared to admit. The trembling had subsided, but her mind was still in a turmoil.
How could there be people who could do such filthy things, she wondered. How could anybody be so peculiar or-well, crazy was the only word for it You would have be crazy to want to go to bed with a member of your own sex.
Judy knew only a little about love, but it was enough for her to know that there couldn't be anything more unnatural than making love with somebody built like yourself. It was the difference between boys and girls that made it fun.
She remembered the time that she and her cousin from the city had played doctor in the barn. She had been only a little kid then, and she had not realized what was happening until it was almost too late. Of course, they had both been too young to get in real trouble, but Judy wouldn't have been a virgin today if she had not stopped him when she did.
That was the first time she had any idea that boys were different from girls, beyond the length of their hair.
Her cousin from the city was certainly different from her. A lot different.
They had abandoned the original notion of the game rather early in the proceedings and had progressed to out-and-out exploration. The whole thing was fascinating.
She had asked him what was that for, and he had told her. Then he had shown her some rather peculiar things connected with it and the way it worked. That had been good fun, especially when he let her hold it for a while.
Then he had asked her what that was for, and she had told him. Well, she had told him as much as she herself knew. Which wasn't a hell of a lot.
He had touched her for a while, exploring and searching. And Judy discovered something else, this time about herself. Being touched was fun. Being touched was a lot of fun. Being touched was more fun that anything she had ever experienced.
It was a strange, new kind of fun. Most things that were fun were fun only for a while. Then they got boring. But this fun got better and better. The longer they played, the better it got. Then, all of a sudden, it got best.
That was the first time Judy had ever done anything like that.
Afterward, she had asked her father about it; about the difference and the fun. Her father had been very nice and understanding about the whole thing, and had told her a few facts that put the incident in its proper perspective. And he had warned Judy that, although things like playing around were part of growing up, she should never allow anybody to do anything like that to her ever again.
Her father also made sure that her cousin from the city didn't come to visit them any more.
In the years between that time and the present, Judy had learned a little more about the difference and the fun. She knew it was fun-she could remember what fun it was. But she also knew that it was something that happened only between married people. This was a discouraging fact, but a fact nevertheless. It was fun but with a catch.
So she never let boys touch her there, or anywhere, regardless of how they pleaded or how much she wanted it. She never let boys do anything but kiss her. After a while the boys had stopped bothering with her altogether.
She was unhappy about this, but the stern voice of her father and the things he had said still were quite clear in her mind. So, there was nothing to do but accept the situation as it was. The fun would have to wait until she got married.
Now, she was making a small living in the Red Apple Inn, and waiting for her husband to come along. So many people came into the Red Apple that she was sure the man for her to marry would be along sooner or later. She would just have to wait and bide her time and put up with Mr. Flauten until that day had arrived. It was not exactly her idea of a good rime, but it was the best she could do. And, until today, she had been more or less satisfied with it.
But the pervert had changed all that.
That filthy Lesbian had ruined the day for Judy, but she had done even more than that. She had reminded Judy of love again, just when she had succeeded in almost forgetting about it.
Lesbians were crazy but they had one thing in common with normal people. They were looking for fun. That fun. The fun.
That woman had wanted Judy to go to bed with her so they could have fun. Maybe she was interested in only her own fun; maybe she didn't give a damn whether Judy enjoyed herself or not. But the idea was the same. That woman might just as well have been a man. She wanted Judy for the same reasons.
And now the old yearning was creeping over her-the yearning for the fun she once knew out in the barn on that golden afternoon when she and her cousin from the big city had played doctor and learned about the difference.
The process of picking up the food and putting it where it was wanted was a completely automatic one for Judy, which was unfortunate. It gave her too much time to think.
It was a long, unhappy afternoon.
At around seven o'clock, the evening rush began. After a few hours, the crowds began to peter out, until, at ten o'clock, there was hardly anyone in the restaurant half of the Red Apple Inn.
The bar half had been filling up, however; now, the voices and the laughter from the bar sounded quite plainly through the connecting door.
Judy ignored the happy sounds and concentrated on carrying a cup of coffee to one of the tables without spilling any of it into the saucer.
Only a few more minutes, she thought, and I can go home. A few more minutes. Sixty minutes. Well, that sounded better than an hour.
It was Saturday night, she realized unhappily. Saturday night was no time for a young girl to be working. Saturday night was no time for a young girl to be going home and to bed at eleven o'clock. It just wasn't right.
But there was nothing she could do about it.
Even if she had wanted to go out somewhere with a boy, even if she had been willing to fight him off at the end of the evening, even if she possessed the energy required to keep the boy from doing anything bad, it was impossible. There weren't any boys. None at all. Not for her.
There was a roar of laughter from the bar. Judy listened, the yearning growing inside her.
Why had that woman asked Judy to do that awful thing with her? She still couldn't understand how it had happened. Why had the woman picked Judy out like that, at random? She couldn't have known Judy, or even have seen her before. The woman was just another passing stranger, a hungry face from the road, like most of the other customers. So why had she chosen Judy?
A little thrill of horror crept up Judy's spine as an explanation hit her. Can it be that I look funny? she wondered. Can it be that I look like one of those people? Is that why she asked me? Do I look like a Lesbian?
She put a sandwich in front of a fat woman, and walked quickly to the back of the restaurant, where the ladies' room was. Inside, she took a good long look at herself in the mirror.
The tight, trim uniform didn't do much for her, she decided. If anything, it made her look less feminine than usual. Her face didn't look too bad; just a bit too fresh and young, perhaps, but it was certainly the face of a girl. A normal girl.
Even her hair was feminine, without being spectacularly so. It might have been different if she was wearing her hair in a boyish cut, or tight to her head, or some unusual, unattractive way like that. But she had her hair in a pony-tail, and she always thought that it made her look very nice and very female. It might attract a man, but it shouldn't have any effect on a woman at all.
Then maybe it was her eyes. She leaned close to get a better look at the expression there.
Yes, there was something-something wrong, right there in her eyes. It didn't take an expert to see that there was a look in her eyes hat didn't belong in the eyes of a young girl.
My eyes look lusty, she thought I feel lusty. I need a man.
Yes, that was the answer. It was very simple. She needed a man. She needed a strong masculine person to make love to her, to tell her how nice she was, to whisper sweet nothings in her ear, to kiss her and caress her and to love her. That was all she needed; that was everything she needed.
Damn you, daddy, she thought Why did you tell me all that about how it should only happen when you're married. Every girl needs love, whether she's married or not. You can't expect a normal young female to go along doing nothing but working in a restaurant and watching television. And I'm a normal young girl. I am. I really am. Aren't I?
When she came out of the restroom, there was a new face at the counter. It belonged to a tall, good-looking man who was drinking a cup of black coffee. As Judy came nearer, she realized that the man was quite drunk.
Mr. Flauten came around the end of the counter and walked toward the kitchen door. As he passed her, he said, "You want to keep this job, you don't spend so much time in the John."
Judy ignored him. Her eyes were on the man with the coffee who was drunk.
He had a kind face, she thought, a fine, sensitive face. He looked like a gentle man, a sweet man, a man who would treat a girl right. She glanced at his left hand, but there was no ring there. Well, married men didn't always wear rings.
Now that she was close to him, she saw that he was a good deal older than she had first supposed. He looked at least thirty-five. Maybe forty. But he had a kind face, and that made it all right.
She came up in front of him and wiped the counter. "Would you like anything else, sir?" she asked. He looked up at her.
His eyes were wonderful; deep and brown and soulful, with a hurt somewhere deep inside them. That was fascinating. It gave his face a dark, tragic look, like a man who had suffered.
Judy found something very strange happening to her.
"No, thank you," he said. His voice was deep and mellow. She liked it.
The strange feeling was growing inside her. It was something she had never felt before, something completely new and throughly frightening. It was almost like being sick, the way she felt it welling up, out of her control. She tried to fight it.
"Are you sure, Sir, you wouldn't like something with your coffee? We have some nice apple pie. Or chocolate cake, if you prefer."
He smiled. "No, miss. Not tonight. I think I would like another cup of coffee, though." His smile was warm. The feeling was growing, growing.
"Yes, sir," she said, struggling to keep her voice level. She went to the coffee urn and drew a fresh cup. She brought it back and put it in front of him. She fought it.
"Here you are, sir."
"Thank you very much," he said.
Oh, God, she thought, I'm going to say it. I can't hold it back. It's going to happen whether I want it to or not. Daddy, I'm sorry.
The man was looking at her. "Is there something wrong miss? Miss?"
"Please," she said, and then it was too late to stop.
"Please, would you make love to me?"
CHAPTER SIX
Chester sat well over in the seat, about as close to the door of the car as he could get without actually being outside. Being outside the car was something he would have liked very much at this particular moment, but it was rather impractical, owing to the fact that the big, white convertible was traveling over seventy miles an hour.
It had happened, he realized with awe. The beautiful lady had come along, just as he had imagined she would. She had come zooming down the highway in her expensive car and had stopped and backed up and looked out at him and asked him if he wanted a lift And she had smiled. She surely had.
Chester thought the lady's smile was one of the most dazzling he had ever seen. Her teeth were pure white and as lovely as pearl, and her red, moist lips framed them perfectly.
But it wasn't only her smile that was beautiful. Nosiree. This lady was beautiful all over, from the glowing, golden crown of her hair to the delicate, dainty tips of her feet. She was full and rich, with skin like evaporated milk, and flesh as soft and yielding as a baby's behind. There was a difference between skin and flesh, as far as Chester was concerned. Skin was the covering, the top layer, the flexible outer shell; flesh was the inner fullness, the interior structure that made the skin fall into this or that hollow, mound, fullness, or curve. Chester had known girls in school with beautiful skin, but lousy flesh. Like that girl that sat in front of him in Biology II-the girl with the twenty-three-inch view. She had beautiful skin, almost as beautiful as the lady. But she had no flesh to speak of.
Then there was the other girl, the one who sat beside Chester in Music Appreciation. She had the biggest frontage he had ever encountered, and she knew it. She made every effort to assure that every boy in the school, including Chester, encountered them sooner or later. That was flesh. That was really flesh. But that girl had bad skin. She had skin like a relief map of the moon, full of pits and craters and mountain ranges. So the flesh was hardly worth considering, if you had to put up with skin like that to get at it.
Skin and flesh. Some have one or the other. Some have neither. Few have both. The lady was one of the few.
Her whole body was so perfectly constructed that Chester could barely stand to look at it. Watching the interplay of curves and dips as she wheeled the speeding car around a turn, watching the subtle workings of the' calves and legs through the thin material of her dress as she pushed the accelerator closer and closer to the floor, seeing her twin beauties pointing out over the dashboard toward the road-it was maddening. Chester had to literally sit on his hands to keep from reaching out and grabbing just one quick handful of that rich flesh, skin, woman. Chester was going quietly out of his mind.
Not all of his discomfort could be laid to the woman's beauty, however. Chester had other problems besides keeping his hands where they belonged. Chester had a bigger problem than he had ever faced before.
It had happened.
He was in a car with a beautiful lady, speeding down the highway through the deepening afternoon toward the end of innocence, the beginning of adulthood, the first landing on the moon. At least, that was what the script said.
But the script also said that it was Chester's move now; that is was up to him to strike up the overture, turn down the houselights and crank up the curtain. That, said the script quite positively, was his job.
Which was fine, except for one thing--Chester had forgotten his lines.
When the car had stopped and the lady had looked out the window and offered him a ride, Chester had been supposed to accept in an adult, debonair manner. That was the first line in his part. He was supposed to go up to the car, and say something mature.
It sounded simple enough on paper.
So, when the car stopped and the lady handed Mm his cue, Chester had stepped forward and opened his mouth. And nothing had come out. Chester had just stood there with his mouth hanging open, letting the balmy breezes tickle his tonsils, and not one single sound had come out. It had been quite a picture.
The lady had not seemed to notice Chester's flub. She played the scene like a pro, covering for his discomfort with bits of business. Like opening the car door; like saying, "Climb in," in a sweet, clear voice; like brushing her legs against him as he scrambled into the seat beside her. Yes, the lady had done fine, and the audience probably had no idea at all that anything was wrong.
But Chester knew. This big production was going to fall flat on its face unless he could think of his next speech.
He glanced sidelong at the lady's profile. She was holding her head high, looking at the road with mild interest. A small smile was at the corner of her lips.
She hadn't spoken a word since Chester had gotten into the car.
Now, take it easy, he told himself. Don't get flustered. She's not going to bite-at least, not just yet. Start talking, and let it develop. You know that this is the one you've been waiting for, and you also know how the scene is going to turn out in the end. There's no doubt about that. It follows the script too closely to work out any other way.
So there's nothing to get nervous about. Just play it the way it's written and wait for developments. Open your mouth and say something debonair. Come on.
"Pardon me, lady," he said, in a finely wrought imitation of Henry Aldrich.
She turned her golden head and looked at him. Her eyes were dark and mysterious. "Yes?" she asked.
"Do you-" He swallowed and tried again. "Do you always drive so fast?"
The lady laid her head well back and laughed. "Fast? Why, this isn't fast at all. I don't call seventy miles an hour fast. Now, this is fast!"
She jammed the accelerator flush with the floor board and the car leaped ahead with a roar. Chester felt himself being pressed back into the seat, like a man on his way into orbit. The trees on either side of the road blended into one continuous blur of green.
Chester felt himself becoming sick. He closed his eyes, expecting the impact of collision, or the sickening lurch of a flat, at any moment. This particular bit of business hadn't been in his copy of the script.
It lasted a long time-to damned long, as far as Chester was concerned. Finally, he decided that he had had enough.
"All right, lady," he yelled over the roar of the motor. "You've made your point. This is fast. You don't have to kill us both to get that idea across."
The lady let up on the pedal and the car slowed to a more reasonable speed. She turned and looked at Chester, and he noticed with surprise that her expression was somewhat hurt.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to do that. I guess I just wanted to show off. It was a foolish thing to do. Will you forgive me?"
Chester stared at her, unable to believe his ears. She had asked his forgiveness. Nobody had ever asked him for that before. It was a heady feeling, a feeling of power. More than that, he now had the upper hand. She was off guard. Now was his chance to put the scene back into its proper perspective. Now was his chance to do the mature bit.
"I suppose we all get the urge to show off now and then," said Chester, in what he hoped was a wry tone. "It's part of being a human being to want to show off now and again, even in such a small thing as this."
Well, now. That wasn't half baa.
The lady was looking at him steadily. The little smile was creeping back to the corners of her mouth. "You make it sound so right," she said.
Chester wondered what that was supposed to mean, but his cogitations were interrupted by the realization that the lady was looking at him. Looking steadily at him. And not at the road.
Steady, Chester. Say it cool. "Don't you think it would be a good idea if you looked at the road now and then?"
The lady snapped her head back with a start. The road lay empty, and straight as an arrow, before them. "I-I'm sorry," she said. "I don't know what's come over me. I'm usually a much more careful driver than this. You must think I'm a very foolish woman after the exhibition I've been putting on." Her eyelids drooped demurely.
Hey, thought Chester. This is working out just fine.
"Nonsense. It's difficult to concentrate on driving for long periods of time. There are so many other nice things to think about."
Was that too broad? Or. too narrow? And had that leer that he tried to put in the tone really come off? He watched and waited for a reaction.
The lady smiled a full-fledged smile, her first. "Such as?" she asked sweetly.
"Oh." said Chester. "Well..." He faded, Damn it, now the play was squarely in his lap. How far could he go at this stage of the proceedings? Was she ready for an out-and-out proposal, or was more verbal fencing required before the main event? "Well?" she said.
"Well," he said, "like ... what a beautiful day it is, and all." Phooey. That line should have come out in rehearsal. "And how lovely the sky is in the afternoon, and the way the trees blow in the west wind." Come on, Chester. That's not debonair. That's like fey.
The lady didn't seem to notice anything amiss. She listened carefully, and nodded when Chester had finished. "Yes,-I agree. It's a pity that we can't stop somewhere and drink in the beauties of this afternoon."
Whoops. There it goes again. Your ball, Chester.
"Well," he said, around a wad of cotton which had somehow become lodged in his throat "why not?"
The lady didn't move. The lady didn't say anything. The lady kept her eyes fixed on the road.
Now, thought Chester, I have torn it. Now I have torn it for real. It was too soon; I didn't give it a chance to develop properly, and now I've killed the whole thing. Damn it all, after having a chance like this dumped in my lap, I have to go screw it up-screw it up beyond repair.
He felt a sort of anger at himself for blowing the bit, but at the same time he was a bit relieved. After all, losing one's virginity wasn't something you did every day. In fact, it was pretty important step. And despite the fact that Chester had that very thing in mind, the approach of the moment of truth was beginning to frighten him more than a little. So, maybe it was best this way after all. Perhaps there would be another beautiful lady along sometime. If he did this often enough, he might get the knack sooner or later.
The lady turned the wheel suddenly and swung the car off the road onto the shoulder. The car bumped and lurched across the rough earth and squealed to a halt beneath a large tree.
Chester sat frozen to his seat as the lady put on the hand-brake and switched off the ignition. She turned and looked at him. "Well," she said, "here we are."
The wad of cotton in Chester's throat had turned to rock. Nothing, but nothing, could get past it. He sat, completely dumb and stared at her.
The lady settled back in her seat and stretched her magnificent body luxuriously. "Ah," , she said. "It's good to stop for a while. Too much driving can make you stiff."
"Grg," Chester said.
"Mmm?" the lady said, turning to face him, and drawing one leg up on the seat. Chester watched her dress hike up her leg with fascination, and horror.
"Yes, it's nice," he said, staring at her creamy flesh.
"You like it?"
"Oh, yes." Which did she mean? The leg or the afternoon?
The lady aimed one dimpled knee at Chester's hip and moved across the seat until contact was made.
"Listen to the birds," she said. "Don't they sound happy?"
"Sure," said Chester. Birds? What birds?
"Think of it. All those birds up there in their airy little homes, nesting together-making love. Listen to the sound of that. Doesn't it get you?" She prodded his hip slightly.
"Yes-yes, indeed. They sound very happy." They should have troubles like I have, he thought.
"You know...." the lady said, slowly. "I think I would like you to kiss me."
"Really?" said Chester, aghast.
"Why, of course. A man of your experience should know that there is nothing a lady likes better on a nice afternoon like this than to be kissed. It makes everything so-so dear."
Well, he had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but he couldn't possibly misunderstand her request. She wanted to be kissed. She said so.
So kiss her.
Chester leaned forward and put his lips to hers. He kept his mouth closed, afraid to use his tongue, afraid that the lady would think him too bold.
The lady grabbed him around the back of the head and pulled his face tight up against hers. Chester felt her tongue brush his lips. He opened his mouth slightly and her warm tongue forced its way between his teeth and deep into his mouth.
Chester felt little creatures with ice-bags on their feet begin to scale his spine. The lady's tongue squirmed wildly in his mouth, he tried to meet it with his own tongue, but kept missing. The soft wetness was all over the inside of his mouth; the roof, behind the teeth, under the tongue, everywhere.
This, he thought, was a kiss?
The lady took one of his hands and put it on one of her breasts. Right hand. Right breast. Right.
They were even nicer than Rosanna's-firmer, and at the same time, more yielding. Breasts, at least good breasts, can only be described in contradictory terms like that.
Chester's hand went into its breast act, like an old trooper. He remembered what Rosanna had liked, and the rest was automatic. Apparently, the lady liked the same things.
Chester cupped the breast and rotated it slowly, his fingers squeezing the fullness, his palm pressed flat against the nipple. He felt the nipple growing firm against his hand.
The lady's breath was warm in his mouth; her tongue was frantic. He slipped his free hand around in back of her blouse and searched for the buttons.
There was one. Got it. There was another. And another. Got 'em. Now. one more. There. Now, pull the hem of the blouse out of the skirt, like so Right. Now, feel around for the snaps of the brassiere. There they were. Snap, snap. And snap.
Now, take the hand off the breast, and never mind that you don't want to, because if you're strong now, for just a second or two, there's all sorts of goodies awaiting you on the other side of this clothing. Keep calm; do it slowly. Get your fingers around the edges of the blouse and be sure you've got a grip on the ends of those brassiere straps and draw the whole shebang forward, over her shoulders, over her arms, down to her lap; pull the arms out of the sleeves, like she wants you to do, and she does because she's helping you a little, going all limp and slack so you can get the blouse off more easily; pull the arms free and let the blouse and the bra fall in her lap.
There, now.
Chester detached his mouth from the lady's and attached it instead to one of her boobs. The lady's whole body stiffened as his mouth touched the pink roughness and he kissed it. She moved her hands on his back.
Chester remembered some more of the things that Rosanna liked, and tried them. They worked fine. He was rapidly coming to the conclusion, with that part of his mind that was still thinking coherently, that all women were very much alike. They enjoyed the same things, in the same way, and apparently to the same degree. That was encouraging. If every woman's responses were as predictable as this, Chester would have no trouble being the world's most debonair, nature, successful, and busy busy busy love artist.
Vistas were opening.
The lady's hands, not to be outdone by Chester's, were also doing things. He noticed, from a distance, that the buckle of his belt was hanging alongside one of his legs. He could feel it swinging against his pocket and clinking against the change.
Chester's rational mind began to shut down, bit by bit, until he stopped thinking altogether. There was nothing in the world but the beautiful lady, and her beautiful flesh, and her beautiful hands.
He slid back on the seat gradually as the lady bore the weight of her body against him. He felt the coldness of the plastic seat-cover against him.
Where did my pants go, he wondered.
Now, the lady was sprawled against him, completely, utterly. He could feel her resiliant flesh touching his hips; he could feel the weight of her breasts against his chest.
A star-shell went up into the dome of his skull and burst into red, white, and blue flowers. Inside the flowers, there were glowing words. Congratulations, Chester. Hooray for Chester. We knew you could do it, boy. Bravo. Chester; today you are a man.
Now something absolutely great was happening. Chester could find no words to describe it. It came and went in pulses, like waves crashing on a beach, like a pendulum slicing a chocolate cake, like a steam locomotive chugging up the slope of the Big Rock Candy Mountain going full tilt. It was utterly fantastic.
Chester went limp as a rag doll, and waited for the finale.
And then, she stopped.
It was a long moment before Chester realized what had happened. He couldn't believe it. It was impossible. But there it was.
The tide went out, the pendulum stopped dead, the engine slid slowly down the slope and into the darkness of the valley below. In a few seconds, it was almost as if it had never happened at all.
Chester opened his eyes and found that the lady was staring at him with an intense expression. There was something buried deep in that gaze that sent a little chill through him.
Then the expression flickered out, and the lady's face arranged itself into a look of frustration. "No-this is no good," she said.
"No good?" Chester could barely speak.
"It's wrong. The mood is all wrong. Here, on a patch of dirt, in a car-it's just not right."
"But," he said.
"No." The lady moved away from him, and slid back under the wheel. She started to arrange her clothing. .
"But-we can't stop now. Please. We just can't!"
She looked at him sidelong, her face completely expressionless, her eyes opaque. Her voice, when she answered, was strained. "Not here. Not in a car. It must be in a bed. It won't seem so-so dirty in a bed."
All at once, Chester became aware of the condition of his clothing. He glanced down and winced. He pulled up his pants hastily, trying to turn away from the lady, wanting privacy, wanting to conceal himself from her.
His brain began ticking over again, like an automobile on a cold morning. Gradually, his thoughts began to thaw out and make some sense.
What happened? What did I do wrong? Why did she stop, why did she stop then, then of all times of all the times to stop? What's going on?
He felt a numb sickness in the pit of his stomach. It had all seemed so beautiful, so wonderful, so great and grand; and now, everything was ruined. The whole thing was spoiled, thoroughly.
His dreams had come true; in every detail: the beautiful lady had picked him up and responded to his advances and taken him to a dark, shaded spot and allowed him to touch her and undress her and make love to her and everything had been so fine and the virginity that bound Chester to his past had been peeling away, layer by layer.
And now, the key had turned in the chastity-belt once again, and Chester was the same, ordinary scared kid he had been before it started.
With one exception. Now, Chester wanted nothing better than to get out of the car and forget the beautiful lady forever; to forget all beautiful ladies; to forget everything. The whole idea was repulsive to him. Something had happened, deep inside him, and he wished he could be out of this place and away somewhere, somewhere alone.
He buttoned up his shirt and stuffed it into the top of his pants. He glanced at the lady.
"I'll be seeing you," be said. "Thanks for the lift" He put his hand on the door latch.
The lady's eyes got wide all of a sudden; a look of fright crossed her face. "Wait! Where are you going?"
Chester returned her gaze tiredly. "I'm going back out on the road and see if I can't thumb a ride from some nice, hairy track-driver. At least that way I'll know where I stand." He pulled down the handle and opened the door.
"But-but don't you want to make love to me any more?"
Chester stopped halfway out of the car, and looked back. "What?" he said.
"Don't you want me?" she asked. "Don't you want what I can give you?" Her voice held a note of desperation that was unsettling.
"Look, lady-" Chester began.
She cut him off. "I don't want it to be here. It's too cheap. I want it to be in a bed. Just the two of us, in a bed."
"Lady-"
"Come," she said, taking hold of his arm and pulling him back into the car. "We'll drive somewhere-somewhere where it can be done right. Please." Her fingers were tight on his arm.
Chester let her pull him into the seat beside her. She reached across him, and slammed the door. Without a word, she turned the key in the lock and gunned the car out onto the black-top.
A half-mile later they both saw the sign up ahead.
It said: Happy Inn Motel.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harry was sobering up rapidly, but it wasn't helping at all. In fact, as the fog of alcohol cleared from his brain, the increasing coherence of his thoughts made the thing even harder to understand.
In the Red Apple Inn, the incident had seemed reasonable enough--here, quite simply and natural-ly was a girl who wanted to go to bed with him. All right that wasn't so hard to imagine. In his life, he had met a lot of women who wanted to go to bed with him. One in particular-but we weren't going to talk about that, were we?
Yes, a lot of women. Harry had never counted, but he knew the total must run well over twenty-five. Perhaps even as many as fifty. It was hard to keep track of all of them, especially since he was almost always drunk when it happened. Like right now. His recollections were pleasant, but confused.
But he could remember the kind of woman each of them had been, even if he had no memory of their names or faces. They all had projected a certain worldliness, an indefinable quality of experience and knowledgeability-they all had, in other words, a past. This was the one thing all of Harry's loves had shared in common.
So there lay the difference between what he knew, and what he was about to know. Because, regardless of how drunk he was at the time it happened, the moment this girl opened her mouth. Harry knew she was a virgin. There was no explaining how this was so; what it was about her that told him. He had no idea himself. But the fact was there, and inescapable. The girl was a virgin. No doubt about it.
She was also a girl, and this was a key word in the puzzle. Not woman. Girl. She was only a young kid, little more than eighteen, if that old. Harry was forty. Forty.
I'm getting old he thought. I'm too old for a kid like this. Doesn't she realize how old I amt Doesn't she know what she's getting into?
He took his eyes from the road for a moment and looked at her. She was seated beside him, one leg drawn up beneath her in a graceless, little girl fashion. Now that the edge of the drink was wearing off, he could examine her in an objective manner.
She was young, yes, but quite lovely. Much of her loveliness was adult in its way, despite the overall impression of youthfulness. In fact, now that he looked closely, he realized that the youth was concentrated in her face. It was a smooth, simple, open face, with large child's eyes, a small tilted nose fair cheeks, and a small, sweet mouth devoid of any trace of make-up. There was nothing sensual in that face, nothing at all. It was a face, that would one day adorn a beautiful and desirable woman, but that day was some years in the future. Now, there simply wasn't enough in it. It was an empty page, waiting for life and experience to fill it in.
Her body belied the face somewhat, but in an unexpected way. Her breasts were not a woman's breasts-they were perfectly formed, but small and delicate. He could see the outline of them through the thin blouse as the lights of the passing cars illuminated her briefly. They looked firm, and sweet, and inviting, but they were the breasts of a young girl.
The rest of her body, however, was a different matter. He had noticed, as he helped her into the car in the parking lot of the Red Apple Inn, that she had superb, remarkable legs; legs any woman would be proud to own. Her calves were smooth and round, tapering to ankles as delicate as a violinist's hands. The flesh of her calves was smooth and flawless-they were the precise size and shape to fit a man's hand.
Now, watching her in the sporadic illumination of the headlights, he could see that her legs and stomach matched the calves perfectly. The legs were full and shapely. Even covered as they were by the dull blue cloth of her waitress's skirt, Harry could see how they swelled up from her knees in one lovely sweep. Her stomach was also fully rounded, which is surprising for a girl so young. It was the stomach of a full-grown woman, with the fullness of flesh that usually comes only with the fullness of time. Looking at the curve of it, Harry could imagine the soft pressure of that stomach against his own.
So there was part of the puzzle. She was a complete woman from the waist down, and a growing girl from the waist up. It was very strange. Harry couldn't recall ever seeing a combination quite like it.
But that was only a part. There was still to be explained the reason she had asked him what she had.
Five words. Five simple words. One simple thought.
Of course, he had been propositioned before, but never with such directness, never with such complete lack of pretense. The girl had wanted one thing, and she had no intention of playing around. She asked for it, directly and simply, in words of one syllable.
And yet, there was nothing brazen in her request.
It seemed perfectly right and natural, and, to Harry, very appealing. She had wanted a man to go to bed with her. She had seen Harry as a likely candidate. She had asked him. That was it.
And Harry had accepted. Without pause, without qualm. Harry had taken one look at the gift the gods bad dropped in his lonely lap, and had grabbed it before it disappeared.
But now, here in his car, as they purred down the night-time road watching for the bright lights of the first motel, Harry was beginning to have second thoughts. Was it right for a man his age to take advantage of a girl so young? Did he have any business going to bed with a female young enough-yes, there was no getting around it-young enough to be his daughter? Wasn't it unnatural? Wasn't it a sign of approaching senility when a man started looking for bedmates twenty years younger than himself?
He looked at her youthful profile again.
I don't even know her name, he thought. She doesn't even know mine.
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but before he could get the sentence started the girl turned to him, her large eyes fixed on his own. The words died in his throat as he looked into her calm face.
"I bet you think I'm a tramp," she said, in a flat, even tone.
"Why-" Harry faltered. He could think of no answer to this.
"I bet you think I'm a tramp, or something. I guess you have reason enough for thinking that."
Harry kept his eyes on the road. He said nothing. "Well, I'm not," she said. "I'm really not a tramp."
He could feel her watching Aim intently. He kept his face expressionless.
"Do you believe that?" she asked. "Yes," he said.
"I'm not. I'm really not. You hare to believe that. I'm-I'm just a girl, that's all. I want-I want to go to bed with you. But I'm no tramp. Believe me. Please."
"All right," Harry said.
The girl suddenly burst into tears. The sound of her sobbing filled the car. Harry looked at her, amazed. She was turned away from him, her face hidden in the space where the seat met the door frame. Her shoulders shook with her sobbing.
He looked up the road and spied a large red neon sign. It was a motel. He eased up on the accelerator and pulled the car off the road just a few hundred feet short of the motel sign.
The car bumped to halt and stopped. Harry let the engine idle as he shifted around in the seat to face the crying girl.
Her sobbing diminished somewhat, but she kept herself turned away from him.
All right, Harry told himself, this is the moment of decision. Now is the time to make your choice. You are parked just a few minutes from a motel, and you have a young crying virgin sitting here beside you. You are a man of the world, a mature human being who knows precisely what he is getting into and what the results of your decision might be.
There are those who would look upon this as the chance of a lifetime. A young willing virgin, a girl who asked you to, is sitting right here, waiting for you to make your move. And every man, especially a man your age, knows the premium placed on pretty young virgins. For a divorced, forty-year-old has been like yourself to even get a chance at such an innocent girl is pretty far-fetched. It would make quite a story in years to come.
Sure, she's crying. But so what? They all cry for a while when it's the first time. That's to be expected. Sally cried when you took her virginity on your wedding night. Remember? Before, during, and after. But she wasn't crying because she was in pain, or because she didn't enjoy what was happening, or because it was not done with her consent and desire.
She was crying over what she had lost.
Youth. Innocence. Virginity.
Men try to lose these at as early an age as possible. Women try to cling to them all their lives.
But there is another school of thought to be considered here. Some men maintain that young virgins are not to be disturbed. Young virgins are out of bounds. Virgins should be reserved for some man's wedding night. You should not, you must not, take a girl's innocence just for the pleasure of the moment. It is more important thing than that.
No, a man with a conscience should limit himself to women who have already lost their innocence.
Let the blood of that be on another man. Take only those women who know exactly where you are taking them and who stand to lose nothing that their bodies cannot replace.
Those are the schools.
Those are the rules.
And what is your decision going to be?
Harry put out a hand and placed it gently on the girl's shoulder. She stiffened slightly, but did not turn.
He could feel the warmth of her flesh through the material of her blouse. It seemed ages since he bad felt a woman's warmth against his palm.
She had stopped crying when he touched her. Her body slowly relaxed. He could feel the tension drain out of her.
He put his hand around her shoulders and turned her to face him.
Her eyes were bright. Her face was streaked with tears.
No, a man with a conscience leaves young virgins alone. A man with principles doesn't allow his glands to lead into the destruction of innocence. A man with any kind of moral strength avoids such things.
God help me, he thought. He leaned forward and kissed the girl softly on the lips.
She did not respond at first, and Harry felt a wave of remorse building inside him. Then, slowly, she began to return his kiss.
The beginning was awkward. Her kiss was closemouthed and childish. He forced her lips apart with his tongue and plunged it into her soft mouth.
It had been a long time. Too long. Harry had almost forgotten what it was like to kiss a woman's lips, to taste a woman's sweet mouth with your tongue, to feel her tongue warm and frantic against your own.
The girl was responding to him. Her kiss became quickly passionate, and Harry felt the tide of desire building inside him.
His hand found her soft, small breast. He could feel the shape and size of it through the rough cloth of her bra. It was yielding in his palm, but with that wonderful inner core of firmness that marks a true woman.
Some day, he thought, she will be a beautiful woman. How much of what she becomes will I be responsible for?
Her breathing became more rapid. Her breast rose and fell in his palm.
His hands went to her legs; his fingers slipped carefully under the hem of her skirt. She wore no stockings. Her skin was warm and dry against his fingers.
Her body arched against him as his hand moved upward. Her arms went around his neck. She crushed her lips to his.
His hand found her.
She broke off the kiss and threw her head back on the car seat. A shudder passed through her. "Oh...." she said. "Oh...."
He put his lips next to her ear. "I'll be gentle," he said. "I swear to you I'll be gentle. I'll make it good for you. So help me."
Her head came up to his shoulder. He could feel her breath in his ear.
"Yes," she said. "Do that, now."
For one brief moment, Harry felt himself slipping. There was a firm blade of desire probing him and he felt his mind closing down to a single pinpoint of passion.
Then, somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought came to the surface.
This is wrong. The first time should not be in a car. No girl should become a woman in a car. The first time should be in a bed. Don't make her remember the smell of plastic seat covers and gasoline and hot metal all her life-let her memories be of crisp sheets and a soft pillow and a yielding mattress. Think of her. This can only happen once.
"No," he said, drawing away from her slightly. "Not here. Not now."
She raised her face and looked at him.
Her eyes were bright. Her lips were wet. "Please...." she said. "Please do it."
Sally, he thought, She looks like Sally. The eyes The expression. The way she holds her head.
Sally looked like that for me. How many other men saw Sally like that?
He drew away from her embrace and slid back behind the wheel. "No. Not here. We can't do it here."
The girl was watching him, her eyes large. The stiffness left her slowly; the heat left her eyes; the flush in her cheeks died.
"I want to go home," she said.
Harry put the car in gear and rolled it out onto the highway. He did not answer.
"Take me home," she said.
"No. We're going to that motel up ahead." He nodded in the direction of the neon sign. She glanced up the road at it.
"No. I don't want it any more. I don't want you. I want to go home."
"You're a virgin," he said.
There was a moment of silence. Then she said, "How do you know that?"
"You're a virgin. You want to be a woman."
"How do you know all that?" Her voice was bewildered.
"My name is Harry," he said. "I'm divorced. My wife was unfaithful to me. I loved her very much, while it lasted. Now that it's over, I have nothing. Nothing at all." He glanced at her. "What is your name?"
"Judy," she said.
"You want to be a woman, Judy. I made a girl a woman once. I know what can happen to a girl when she crosses that bridge. I also know what drives a girl to want that. If I take you home now, the opportunity will pass. But not the desire. The desire will be the same. And another opportunity will come along in no time at all. The desire and the opportunity will mesh again, the way they did tonight."
The girl was silent. Her hands were folded in her lap.
"I'm not much of a man, Judy. I'm forty years old. I'm divorced. In many ways I'm a failure. There will be a lot of men in your life finer and better than I am. But I am experienced. I am mature."
The motel sign was looming up ahead. Harry slowed the car to give himself time to say what he needed to say.
"I know what makes a woman tick, Judy. I know how you think, and how you feel. It's not all unselfish; I want you for myself. But I also want to give you as much as you give me. That is the difference between me and the other opportunities you may find.
"I know women, but, naturally, I know men better. I know how they feel toward women. When a man is young, he thinks of a woman as a goal, a prize, a symbol of his manhood. A young man rarely wants to give a woman anything. He wants only to take. This is the way young men are. They don't understand, they have no conception of how much a man can hurt a woman.
"Later on, if they are unlucky, they may find themselves hurt. That can sour a man for life. To a man like that, a woman becomes a necessary evil, something to be used and discarded like a cigarette or a paper towel. A man like that could hurt you even more than a stupid boy your own age.
"Love, when it happens, can straighten all this out between a man and woman. Love, real love, can make it all right. A girl like you should wait for love before giving up your innocence. But there isn't time for that. You want to be a woman now. You want to prove yourself. You don't want to wait. You want to know."
He braked the car to a halt in front of the motel. He put his hand on her arm.
"Do you understand? I want you for myself, but I don't want you to pay for my desire. I want it to be good and right for you. I want to give you the best I have. I want you to remember me later on as a friend. I don't want you to hate me, or yourself, after it's over. I know how to make it that way. And I swear to you that is the way it will be."
Harry stopped. He felt drained. I'm getting old, he thought. I'm getting foolish in my old age. She doesn't understand a word of what I've been saying. How could she? I don't really understand it myself.
The girl was looking at him. The expression on her face was one that Harry had never seen before.
"Yes," she said.
Harry put the car in gear and rolled slowly up the gravel driveway toward the motel office.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Something was wrong.
Mrs. Bains could feel it, without being able to give it a name. Something was very, very wrong.
She had been in the motel business long enough to know how the minds of her customers worked. She had seen all kinds of couples, both before and after, and she knew when they were right for each other.
Of course, this wasn't the first time that a mismatched pair had asked for a room in her motel. She had seen many aging men with young foolish-looking girls on their arms retire to the unit of their choice. She had seen many frantic, unhappy ladies squiring sullen boys through the door of her establishment. She had heard many times the sound of their strained laughter echoing across the court in the middle of the night.
Those were things she understood. Men, feeling their youth fleeing from them, feeling the old urges and desires fading from their bodies, trying to plunge themselves into the fountain of youth, trying to regain their dying manhood in the arms of a silly young girl. Women, seeing their charms falling, watching the wrinkles and sags creep across their bodies, feeling the changes time was making deep inside them, knowing that part of their lives was ending forever.
Frightened men. Frightened women. And a plaything for the night.
That was part of the normal course of things.
But this was different. These people were wrong. None of them fit the pattern she had come to know so well. In fact, they fit no pattern at all.
The older man and the young girl were strangers. She could tell that immediately. They didn't know each other at all.
The obvious conclusion was that the girl was a hooker. But Mrs. Bains could not believe that. The girl looked too innocent and sweet.
Nor was the man a despoiler of voting girls. Mrs.
Bains had searched his face carefully, and there was no hardness there. He looked like a good man, a gentle man, and not the type to take advantage of an innocent girl.
In fact, Mrs. Bains had not been able to read anything in their faces but desire. And that had been unmistakable.
Well, they were in their room now, and whatever was going to take place between them was happening at this instant. Perhaps there would be some clue in the way they acted afterward.
Now, the lady and the boy were another problem altogether.
They were sitting at a table in the corner of the bar, facing each other tensely over their fifth round of drinks.
They had been like that, fencing, avoiding, refusing to look into each other's eyes, all afternoon.
The woman was frightened, but Mrs. Bains could not figure what was frightening her. She thought for a while that it might be the boy, but she had come to the conclusion that he was as scared as she was. He concealed it better. But it was there, and no mistake.
There they sat, nursing their drinks, letting the ice melt and drinking their liquor warm, watching each other's hands and not speaking more than half a dozen words to each other in an hour.
Mrs. Bains had been thinking about these people for quite some time. And she was no closer to a solution than when she had started.
The husband and wife from Number 17 came into the bar and picked out stools. Red went over and took their orders.
They were easy to understand. Mrs. Bains would guess that they had been married about ten years, that they had a child or two away at summer camp somewhere, and that they now knew everything there was to know about each other. You could see this in the way they sat together, speaking only occasionally, and only when there was something to say. Their attitudes told you their thoughts quite plainly; I know you and you know me and what else is new?
Too bad, she thought, but none of my concern. They have what they want. That's more than some people can say.
Red placed two icy glasses onto the bar and filled them from a shaker.
Planter's Punch, she thought. A good drink for a hot night. It helps you sleep, if sleeping is what you want.
The young couple at the end of the bar signaled Red. He went down to them and refilled their glasses.
Mrs. Bains smiled. They were going to spend the night in Number 10. They were going to enjoy themselves very much. You could see this plainly in the way they sat together, hips touching, arms brushing, legs and hands making contact. They were the kind of people Mrs. Bains liked best-young, happy, in love for the moment. She knew what they were doing and she approved. It's always best to take a shower and have a few drinks first. It's better if you let it build for a while. Then, when it happens you're both ready for it.
It had been that way with her and Norman. Always quiet and easy. Never rushed; never strained. And a few drinks could do wonders, before, during, and after.
Yes, except for the two odd couples, business as usual tonight. But Mrs. Bains could not get them out of her mind.
Red came down the bar, wiping his hands on a towel.
"Pretty good night, hey, Mrs. B?" he said in a jovial voice. "Business should always be this good."
Mrs. Bains nodded. It occurred to her that perhaps Red would have more success figuring her problem than she had. Knowing Red, as she did, in fact, it seemed altogether un-likely that he had even noticed the couples as being anything out of the ordinary. A man like Red was not the sort to analyze people. He was the type to accept what he saw at face value and let it go at that.
But there was no harm trying. A fresh viewpoint might be just what the problem needed.
She opened her mouth to speak, when a motion from the rear of the room caught her eye. She turned and saw the woman and the boy pushing back their chairs and standing up.
Red watched her face as her eyes followed the pair toward the door. "Is anything wrong, Mrs. B?" he asked.
"Later, Red," she said absently.
They were holding hands.
They were holding hands as if to keep themselves from falling from a cliff. She could see the whiteness of the flesh where their hands met in a hard grip.
At the door, the woman stopped and said something to the boy. He looked back at the bar and made a wry face. Then he nodded and stepped outside.
The woman came up to the bar and fumbled her purse open. Her hands were trembling. Red stepped forward to serve her, but Mrs. Bains cut in front of him.
"Yes, Miss?" she said, watching the woman's face intently.
The woman glanced up, apparently startled to hear a woman's voice where she had expected a man's. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Mrs. Bains. Then, the expression fled and the eyes went opaque.
I'm not worth considering, Mrs. Bains thought. She's got something more important to worry about. What on earth can it be?
The woman drew a ten-dollar bill from her purse and laid it carefully on the bar. "Would you please give me a bottle of liquor?" she said.
Mrs. Bains started to ask her what kind, then suddenly changed her mind. An idea had come to her all at once.
"I'm sorry, Miss, but we aren't allowed to sell bottles of liquor over the bar." Red started to speak, but Mrs. Bains stepped quietly on his toe. She heard the sharp intake of his breath behind her.
The woman looked from Mrs. Bains to Red and back again. An expression of anger and frustration whisked across her face and was gone. She reached out and picked up the bill from the bar.
"All right," she said. She turned and started away.
"I'm very sorry," Mrs. Bains said. "It's a State law."
The woman stopped and looked back at her. "I said, all right." Her face was puzzled.
"However," Mrs. Bains went on, "if you would like to have a bottle sent to your room, that's perfectly permissible."
The woman came back to the bar. "You mean, like room service?"
"Yes. That's permitted."
"Oh. Yes, I see. All right, please send a bottle of liquor to Number 13 right away." She put the ten-dollar bill back on the bar.
"Certainly," Mrs. Bams said. "What kind?"
"What?" The lady seemed to be at a loss.
"What kind of liquor?" Mrs. Bains kept her voice even and business-like, not noticing the lady's ignorance. "Scotch, rye, bourbon-what?"
The lady looked at the bill on the bar. She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Anything. What's the difference?"
"You were drinking rye, lady," Red said from behind Mrs. Bains.
"Yes-rye." The lady smiled distractedly. "Rye will be fine, thank you."
"A fifth?" Mrs. Bains asked.
"Is that a bottle?"
"Yes. That's four-fifths of a quart."
"Fine." The lady glanced again at the ten-dollar Dill. "Is that enough?"
"Oh, yes." Mrs. Bains gave her her sunniest smile. "You wish to pay for it now?"
"Yes, please," The lady glanced toward the door. There was a mixture of anticipation and dread in her face that sent a chill up Mrs. Bains's spine.
She took the ten-dollar bill and pushed Red out of the way as she went, to the cash register. She rang up the sale and scooped the change out of the drawer. Red stepped aside for her as she returned and placed the change on the bar.
"There you are, Miss," she said.
The lady took the money without looking at it and dropped it into her purse. She glanced at Mrs. Bains. "Quickly please?" she said.
"Yes, certainly. Right away."
"Thank you." The lady closed her purse, and held it close to her body as she walked rapidly to the door.
Mrs. Bains watched her go. After a moment, the lady and the boy passed the bar window. The neon in the window outlined their profiles in red for a brief instant. Then they passed from sight.
"You want to know what's going on there, don't you?"
Red's voice startled her. She turned and saw he was smiling at her.
"Oh, I'm not so stupid at all that," he said pleasantly. "I know you well enough to know that you couldn't leave something like that alone until you figured it out."
"You noticed, then? I didn't think you paid any attention to them."
"Sure I noticed. I've been serving them drinks all afternoon, haven't I? How could I help but notice?"
Mrs. Bains took Red's arm and pulled him over to the cash register. "What do you think, Red? What kind of people are they?"
He shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me. I know one thing for sure. They don't like each other very much."
Mrs. Bains nodded. "I know. That's what's bothering me. They act like they hated each other. But if they really are like that, then why are they going to spend the night together?"
Red's eyes widened in surprise. "Why, Elsie Bains, what a dirty mind you have."
"Pooh," she said, flapping a hand. "Don't you think I know what people use motels for? I'm not such an innocent as you think."
Red laughed. "I guess not," he said. "But I still think you got a dirty mind. It's possible, you know, that they are just going to sleep tonight. They may not have anything else in mind at all."
"Oh, Red. Use your brains. What would a young man like that be doing in a motel room with a woman that age? And why would they order a bottle of liquor, unless...."
"Whoa," Red said, putting up his hands. "You're getting carried away. First of all, what gives you the idea that they're both going to drink that liquor? After all, she ordered it. Didn't you ever stop to think that maybe she's the drinker in that family?"
"Family?" Mrs. Bains' voice was amazed.
"Sure," he said. "Family. You got such a dirty mind, you never even thought of that. They could be brother and sister, or aunt and nephew, or something like that. Just because they're going to the same motel room doesn't mean they're going to have an affair." Red's eyes were twinkling.
"But-but he was drinking, too. You served him drinks along with her."
"Well, sure. If the kid's old enough, he drinks. Isn't any of my business what his relations let him do."
"But didn't you see the way they sat together-so strained and unnatural?"
"That looks to me to be just the normal hatred of one relative for another. Nothing unusual about that. I hate most of my relatives myself."
Mrs. Bains shook her head. "Maybe you're right." she said. "But I'm still not satisfied."
Red nodded. "I know. That's why you want to get a look at them."
Mrs. Bains smiled. "You figured that out, did you?"
"Sure. Why else that song-and-dance about state laws? Selling bottled liquor over the bar isn't illegal in this state, and you know it."
Mrs. Bains laughed. "Red, you're sharper than I gave you credit for."
"Well, where you're concerned, maybe I am. I can tell when you're itching to find out something about somebody without them getting wise."
He picked an unopened bottle of rye off a shelf in back of the bar. "Dexter's" he said. "That ought to be good enough, don't you think?"
Mrs. Bains nodded. "I didn't take out enough to pay for anything better than Dexter's."
"Shall I wrap it, or do you want to carry it over just like it is?"
"Put it back for a while, and stop teasing me. I'll take it over when I'm good and ready." She took the bottle from his hand and replaced it on the shelf. She looked toward the door. "I want to give them a chance to settle down," she said.
The young couple at the end of the bar signaled Red for another. "Excuse me, Mrs. B., but I've got customers to wait on. Don't do anything rash." He laughed and put his arm around her waist.
"Watch out you don't get in trouble, Mrs. B.," he said, squeezing her quickly. "Watch out you don't get your nose cut off, sticking it where it don't belong."
"Go wait on your customers, you big boob, and leave me be." She slipped out of his embrace.
Red went down the bar, laughing.
Mrs. Bains sat down on a high stool behind the bar. It took a moment for her to realize what had happened.
A simple thing, really. A man you've known for years puts his arm around you for a moment, and squeezes you a Utile. What's so unusual about that? Happens all the time.
But then why was she trembling like this? Why was that old familiar feeling stirring inside her?
She thought, Am I such a dried-up old maid that a man can make me flutter just by putting his arm around me? Am I that far gone?
Time to worry about that later.
One thing at a time.
She let fifteen minutes elapse before she took the bottle from the shelf, put it in a paper bag, and started across the court toward Number 13.
CHAPTER NINE
What do I do now, Fern wondered. What do I say to him? Where do I start?
Fern Humphrey was a very frightened woman.
It is strange how simple a thing can sound in the abstract and how complicated it can be in actuality. Even the most basic progression from one point to another rarely is as simple as it seems, and when the points involve individual personalities, the whole thing tends to become complicated beyond all reason.
With any luck, a person finds this out early in life and guides himself accordingly.
Fern was learning the hard way.
She leaned against the door of the motel room, her hands behind her back clutching the knob. Chester was standing by the bed. He was not looking at her. His eyes were looking at the colorful bedspread and the small area of white where the spread had been turned down.
His hands hung loosely at his sides. His whole body was casually relaxed.
This was my idea, she thought, so naturally he's waiting for me to make the first move. I took the initiative in the car, and he expects me to carry through. After all, he's only a boy.
And I'm a woman.
Fern closed her eyes and tried to think. Yes, it had seemed simple in the beginning. Too simple. That should have been a warning.
But how was she to know? How could she have told in advance that her plan had such a flaw in it? How could she have been aware of the traitor inside her that would destroy what she had set out to do?
Very simple. Lure men to destruction with your body. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but possible under the right conditions. And appealing. So very appealing.
And where better to start than with this boy, this beardless youth, this stammering virgin? He was surely a virgin, she thought. And his terror of her and her beauty had been quite unmistakable.
So the plan had proceeded on schedule. Fern had taken him to a secluded spot and aroused him and led him on.
And it had taken her no time at all to discover the error in her thinking. She knew what was wrong almost immediately.
When his hands touched her breasts, she felt a dim suspicion of the truth.
When his lips kissed her, she was almost sure.
When his hands caressed her legs, a chill of fear engulfed her.
But it was too late to stop. She knew what was wrong, but her mind forced her to continue. She pushed ahead, hoping against hope that somehow she could regain the mental balance she needed to carry the plan through to its conclusion.
So she helped him with his clothing, and she teased him into passion, and she set herself astride him. And all the while, she thought of the man in the car, the dirty hairy man that had defiled her as a child.
But it was no use.
As she settled against him, she knew the truth. It was good.
It was better than it had been with Benny.
There was pleasure in having your breasts kissed and fondled by a woman, but it was also rather silly. The pleasure was real, but the edge was removed by the ludicrousness of the pairing.
You kiss my breasts, dear, then I'll kiss your breasts for a while. Then you touch me, and I'll do the same for you. Then I'll kiss you in that special way, and why don't you kiss me that way at the same time? It's so much more efficient that way.
There, wasn't that nice?
Yes, it was very nice. But nowhere near as nice as a man.
When Chester's lips had touched her breasts, she had felt a thrill of pleasure for which she was completely unprepared. She had glanced down and looked at his mouth where it touched her.
It was the face and head of a man at her breast. It was the teeth of a man she felt against her. It was the breath of a man that warmed her. It was the hair of a man that brushed her skin.
It was the hand of a man that touched her.
It was the essence of a man that followed close behind.
A shudder ran through her as she remembered that moment. The glorious feeling as she was transfixed with his manhood.
She began to move then, and the waves of pleasure washed over her mind. All reason was gone in an instant. All thought was suspended. There was nothing in the world for her but the amazing, consuming thing that was taking place.
Benny had brought her to a pitch of excitement she had never known before. But this transcended anything Benny had done. She had reached the point to which Benny had taken her, and the end was still not in sight. On and on it went, bigger and higher and thrilling beyond imagination.
For an instant, she had felt it happening; the ultimate release, the explosion, the searing climax.
It became too much. It became unbearable. Her body froze, her limbs paralyzed.
It had receded then, slowly, unwillingly, leaving an ache and a longing behind. Gradually, her vision cleared and her mind came back to life.
It might have happened, she thought, it would have happened, if it hadn't been up to me. If he had been the aggressor, there would have been no stopping U.
But she had been forced to stop, and in a moment it was all over and past.
Then, the fear had struck her. She had clambered away and retreated behind the wheel. Her whole body had trembled as the realization of what had happened struck home.
For the first time since her childhood, she had felt the sensation of a man, and it had been better than she had ever imagined. It had been overpowering, it had been overwhelming, it had been wonderful and terrifying at the same time.
So, she sat behind the wheel, and waited for her heart to stop pounding, and tried to force back the realization that all her weapons were useless, that her plan for the conquest of the male was doomed to failure, and that-worst of all-this ineffectual youth had given her a taste of something that destroyed Lesbianism for her forever.
Without even realizing what she was saying, she forestalled his inevitable question by suggesting the motel. The thought crossed her mind in that moment that the best course would be to throw the boy out of the car and drive away from him quickly, but she rejected this. In fact, she had held him when he tried to leave of his own accord.
It was only when they reached the motel that her mind cleared sufficiently for her to realize why this was.
She wanted him.
She wanted that sensation again, she wanted the fulfillment that had been so close, she wanted him with her; she wanted this more than anything else in the world.
But the fear was still there. She could not entirely divorce her desire from the memory of the man in the car, and the dirt and the feel and the smell of him and the things he had made her do. The desire and the memory warned inside her until her mind was numb with the strain of it.
So, she suggested the bar, and he reluctantly agreed, and they passed the afternoon in a vacuum of strained silence, waiting for night to fall.
And here they were.
The moment had arrived, finally. They stood facing each other across the motel room, and each waited for the other to make the first move.
He's just as frightened as I am, Fern thought, but that doesn't help a bit. It doesn't make any difference that he is afraid of the moment when I move toward him, when I give him the signal that I'm ready to receive him, because I can't make that move. I could never do it. I'm afraid.
She had a sudden irrational thought that perhaps they would simply stand here all night, each waiting for the other, and that the dawn would find them still waiting. That, in a way, would be a solution, but only a temporary one. Even if Fern turned the boy away now, told him that she no longer desired his company, sent him back onto the road, the desire would remain behind. She would have to seek out another man. She would be forced to find a male somewhere who would do to her what she wanted and needed. And the whole thing would begin again.
It's so simple for a man, she thought. A man can lose his virginity to any tramp, a loose woman who would show him the ways of love. A man could pay for his education and learn the ropes with no difficulty whatsoever.
But a woman did not have this advantage There might be male prostitutes in the world, but Fern would have no idea where to find them.
An idea struck her all at once. She glanced sharply at the boy beside the bed. He was still standing as she had last seen him; relaxed and waiting.
What about the truth?
It's funny, she thought, that it took me so long to think of that. Am I the sort of person who uses the truth only as a last resort.
She tried to read the expression on his face, but it was impossible. His eyes were still cast downward to the bed. His pose was noncommittal.
What kind of person is he? she wondered. How would he react to my story? What would he say if he knew that the woman who had made love to him this afternoon was an inexperienced fool, a silly old maid who thought she was a Lesbian because she had never really had a man? Would he laugh at me? Would he hate me? Would he run from me?
Or would he understand, and lead me into it slowly, and be gentle with me?
She shook the thought away. No, that would not work. He is a child-he doesn't know himself. He is as terrified of the moment of truth as I am.
I must get away. I can't face this.
There was a loud knocking on the door behind her suddenly, and Fern jumped away, startled. The boy glanced up sharply.
The liquor, Fern remembered with a wash of relief. She had forgotten about the liquor.
She reached out her hand and opened the door. The old lady from the bar was standing on the steps with a paper bag under her arm, and a pitcher in her hand.
"I took the liberty of bringing over some water and ice," she said pleasantly. "I thought you want something cold. Do you have glasses?"
It took Fern a second to absorb what she was saying. "Glasses? Why, no-" She looked at her suitcase. Of course not, she thought. The last thing I would have packed would, have been glasses. "No, I forgot about that. Don't you put glasses in the rooms?"
The old lady smiled. "No, not any more. We lost too many of them. You understand."
Fern noticed that the lady's eyes were peering around her into the room. She seemed to be watching the boy intently. Her gaze flicked from him to the bed, then back again.
Fern's eyes narrowed. What is she looking for? she wondered. What does she want?
The old lady was looking at her, and Fern could almost swear that she saw compassion in her face.
Does she know? Has she guessed there is something wrong? Why is she looking at me like that?
"Well, you're going to need glasses," the lady said. "I'll just go back to the bar and get a couple for you. It'll only take a minute. Meanwhile, you can take these." She held out the frosty pitcher and the wrapped bottle toward Fern.
"Yes-all right," Fern answered, taking them from her. She walked across the room, past the boy's still figure, and put the pitcher and the bottle on the bureau. As she came back to the door, she was sure she felt the boy's eyes on her back.
"I'll come over with you and get the glasses," Fern said. "Wait just a moment."
The lady looked up at her in surprise. She started to speak, but Fern shut the door firmly in her face.
The boy was staring at her, puzzled. Fern took a few steps toward him.
"I'm going to get glasses," she said lamely. w
"Why?" he said.
Fern spread her hands. "Well-for the liquor. You don't want to drink from the bottle, do you?"
"I don't want to drink at all," the boy answered evenly. His eyes watched her closely.
"Yes, but-well, we paid for the bottle. I paid for the bottle. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."
The boy shrugged. "If you need booze, okay," he said. "I don't want any more."
"Need...." Fern repeated. "But-you don't understand. I don't need-"
"Look, lady," the boy said, folding his arms. "I don't know what's the matter with you, but if you don't make up your mind soon, I'd better go back on the road. You keep stalling like this, and well both waste our time."
He's not frightened of me at all, she realized in horror. She felt her own fear growing as he waited for her reply.
"No-" she said, "please. Stay here and wait for me. I'm-I'm sorry. I'll be back in a minute."
I can't let him go, she thought. Oh, God, what am I to do?
"Lady," the boy began.
Fern backed away from him. Her band found the doorknob behind her. "I'll be a minute," she said, pulling the door open. "Wait for me." She turned and went quickly through the door, pulling it shut behind her.
She stood for a moment on the steps, leaning back against the hard wood of the door, and letting the night breezes blow across her hot brow. There was a hard fist of fear in the pit of her stomach, and for a moment she was afraid she was going to be sick. After a few seconds, the feeling passed. She swallowed once, and opened her eyes.
The old lady was standing a few feet away, watching her.
"What do you want?" Fern said.
"I beg your pardon, Miss?"
"I said, what do you want? Why are you watching me?"
The old lady looked suddenly frightened. "Why-why, nothing. Nothing at all. I'm not watching you."
"Yes-yes," Fern said, shaking her head. "Yes, you are. Please leave me alone. Stop watching me. Stop looking at me."
"Miss-" the lady came toward her slowly. "Miss, what's wrong?"
"Nothing!" Fern cried. "Leave me alonel Go away!"
"But what about the glasses?" The old lady was almost to her now. "You said you wanted to go with me to get the glasses."
"No! Go away! Forget the glasses! I want to be left alone!"
The lady stopped at the base of the steps. Her face was puzzled, concerned.
"Please tell me what's wrong, Miss. Why are you so afraid? Is that boy . .
Fern felt the tears welling into her eyes. She tried to stop herself, but it was too late. The sobs rose from deep inside her and burst through her lips.
The old lady was beside her suddenly. "Miss-"
Fern felt herself falling, and then the lady's arms were around her shoulders.
"Help me," she said, as the tears wracked her body. "Please help mel"
CHAPTER TEN
Judy awoke slowly. It seemed to her that she was surfacing from a great depth, that she was rising slowly from a deep, warm darkness, like a child issuing from the womb.
Her entire body was relaxed and at peace, but her sensations seemed heightened and as she came gradually awake, she felt her surroundings in a complete and total way that was new to her.
She could feel the bedsheets beneath, her; it seemed that she could almost count the fibers that pressed against her naked back, that she could number the stitches that bound the mattress together. She could feel a crisp sheet lying across her knees, and the gentle touch of the cool night air as it brushed across her nakedness. She could hear, softly but with great clarity, the sounds of the cars buzzing by on the road outside; the sound of the conversation and quiet music from the bar across the court; the soft talk and rustling sounds of clothing and bedding from the other motel units. She could almost hear the breeze in the trees behind the cabins and the breathing of animals deep in the black woods.
These sensations touched her and she acknowledged them. But only briefly. For now a new wonder came to occupy her attention.
Her body.
The totality of sensation which brought her the small sounds and stirrings of the night now turned inward, and she became aware of herself in a curiously detached fashion that she had never before experienced.
She could feel her arms and legs in a new way-feel the space they occupied, feel the manner in which they touched the sheets, feel the warmth of the skin and the soft down that covered it and the blood moving through her flesh.
She became aware of her breasts; she could feel the weight of them above her for the first time, as if they had been newly added to her body. She could feel the skin where it drew together at the nipple, and the lingering circles of sensation still printed there.
She could feel her stomach; she could sense the curve and swell of it as it rose from her waist in a graceful curve and fell downward sharply.
She opened her eyes.
The curtains were blowing softly at the window and a pale ray of light was falling gently into the room.
She knew without looking that she was alone in the room, but the thought did not disturb her. He is gone, she thought, but that's all right. I want to be alone for a while.
Thinking of him, the deep, rich sensation within her began to come to life once more. She closed her eyes, and smiled.
She could almost feel his hands again as she lay there; for a moment it seemed as if he was beside her, touching her and caressing her.
She relived for a moment the sensation of his hands over her breasts. She could feel the strong curve of his fingers against her yielding flesh and the hardness of his palms against her straining nipples.
She could feel the pressure of his lips; against her mouth, against her brow, against her eyes, her nose, her chin. She could feel his breathing in her ear, the brush of his stubble against her cheek.
She could feel the muscular length of him; the faint prickle of hair on his chest, his hard bones that pressed into the softness of her own, the solidity of his buttocks.
And, for a moment, it seemed that fulfillment had come upon her again-she could feel the fantastic swell of it as it rushed upward, as her body chilled in its wake, as her muscles locked in pleasure and the ultimate moment arrived.
Then, the slow, sweet descent; the quiet feeling of his hands and his lips as he helped her down from the height she had scaled with kisses and caresses.
Then, sleep.
She stirred on the bed, and the moment passed. The feeling of her limbs against the cool linen brought her mind to the present.
She opened her eyes again. The room was dark and cool above her.
Has he gone for good, she wondered. Has he left me? It was difficult to judge. She had no way of knowing how much time had passed since sleep took her. It was still night, but beyond that she could not tell.
She wondered briefly if she would see him again. Perhaps he had done all that he had intended and had faded back into the night, back to whatever life he had. She was surprised to realize that this prospect did not disturb her. If he had gone, she wished only that he would find happiness as fine as he had shown her. She hoped that he could achieve for himself something as wondrous as what he had given her.
Of course, she had given him pleasure; she was sure of that. But what was pleasure in exchange for the miracle he had brought about with her?
I am a woman, she thought He had done it-he has done what he said he would do. He has made me a woman.
She thought suddenly of the lady who had asked her to do the filthy thing back at the Red Apple Inn. Poor soul. How she must need a man Judy found it hard to believe that any woman could desire the love of another woman after being in the arms of a man. She knew that many of the sensations which Harry had called forth within her could have been produced by almost any sort of human being, even a woman or a girl like herself. Many, but not all. The ultimate pleasure, the final, blinding release, could only come from a man.
She wished all at once that she could share her discovery with that unfortunate woman. She felt a wrench of compassion for her twisted loneliness and the life that had led her into such an emotional dead end.
Where was that lady now, she wondered. On the road somewhere, searching for release from the thing coiled inside her? Or was she in the arms of some unfortunate like herself at this moment, straining with her toward something neither of them could ever achieve?
Wherever you are, she thought, I hope you find a man. I hope it isn't too late for you to gain the happiness that every woman needs.
She smiled to herself. Harry had altered her view of the world. She would never be able to look at a human being again without thinking of this act, without a consciousness of this transcendent moment in a human life.
She snuggled her head into the pillow.
Thank you, Harry, she said to herself. Thank you for this.
Her mind closed slowly; she felt herself receding into sleep. The rich relaxation was coming to engulf her again.
She slept.
She was not aware of the quiet opening of the door.
She did not hear the careful footsteps as they crossed the room.
She did not see the glittering eyes of the stranger as they examined her nakedness.
She stirred in her sleep as the figure lowered itself gradually onto the bed beside her.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Red drew himself a beer and drank it quickly.
He stood still a moment, considering the glass in his hand. Then, the bubble of gas he had been expecting rose from his stomach and gurgled into his throat.
He smacked his lips and drew another glass. Red cast his glance around the bar in one professional sweep. He noticed that several customers were due for a refill, but decided to let them wait for a few minutes, Usually, when Elsie wasn't around, Red would wait on the tables himself, but he was sure she would shortly. Besides, he simply didn't feel like stirring himself. He eased back onto the stool behind the bar, and sipped his second beer.
She was taking quite a while to deliver that bottle, he thought. He glanced at the clock. It was one of those rotating devices with a clock-face on one side and an illuminated advertisement for beer on the other. Naturally, the wrong side was facing him. Red couldn't remember ever glancing at the thing and seeing the clock.
He waited patiently until the device completed its slow orbit and showed him the time.
Twenty minutes. That was strange. He hadn't been aware that so much time had passed. What the heck could be keeping her so long.
He thought of Mrs. Bains, and smiled. Silly woman. What difference did it make to her what these people were doing, as long as they didn't make any trouble? He couldn't understand her fascination with other people's business. As far as he was concerned, people could do anything they damn well pleased, as long as they didn't do it to him.
Yes, he thought, that trait of hers is going to get her in trouble one of these days. She's going to go peeking into the wrong person's business and get her head chopped off. She'd better have me around to keep an eye out for her, or she's going to step into something she can't step out of.
He thought again of the feeling of her waist against his arm.
It was funny that it had never occurred to him in all these years what an attractive woman Elsie was. Of course, she was no chicken, but neither was he. God knows they both had used up more days than they had left.
But she was still good-looking, in a comfortable, cushiony way. He had known this in the back of his head for quite some time, but it had taken that brief contract to bring it out.
He realized that he had been thinking of her all along as a married woman. She and Norman had been such good friends of his for so many years that he bad tended to think of them as a team long after old Norman's death.
My God, he thought, that was more than ten years ago.
He cast his mind back to the days when he and Norman had been young men, and the first time he had met Elsie. He remembered thinking then that she was an attractive young lady, and he recalled the jockeying for position that had gone on between him and Norman. He had almost forgotten about that, but now he could remember quite clearly that he had been drawn to the girl almost as much as Norman.
But, as fate would have it, at the last moment he had run up against another girl friend of his, and she had leeched onto his arm for the evening. And that had killed it. He couldn't even remember that girl's name any more, and he had no idea what had happened to her, but that one chance meeting had killed his chances with Elsie, and had changed the lives of everybody involved.
He chuckled to himself and sipped his beer. Well, Norman won fair and square, and they had been good enough friends to respect each other's victories, so Red kept his distance from then on and never tried at Elsie again.
Eventually, Elsie and Norman had married, and that had ended it for good.
But Norman has been dead a long time, he thought. And then he thought; I wonder if he'd mind?
A voice said something, and Red snapped out of his reverie. There was a new customer at the bar. Red swore at himself for not noticing him.
"Excuse me, mister," he said, climbed off the stool. "I guess I was dreaming." He went over toward the man. As he approached, he realized that he had seen and noticed this man that afternoon, but he could not recall in what connection. The fellow had come into the bar briefly for some reason and had drawn Red's attention. And Elsie's too, now that he thought of it. He simply couldn't remember why.
The man was smiling, but only with his mouth. His face seemed preoccupied, and he seemed to resent the necessity of devoting even a part of his attention to a bartender.
"I'd like a beer," he said.
"Yes, sir," Red replied. He went back to the taps, picking up a glass on the way. As the beer foamed into the glass, he searched his mind, trying to remember who this guy was. But it just wouldn't come.
He took the beer back down the bar and set it in front of the man. The fellow's eyes were cast downward; he didn't seem to notice Red's arrival at all. Red took the opportunity to study his face.
He came in here this afternoon, Red thought, and I noticed him. There must have been some reason for that. He tried to recollect the incident.
Let's see-did he come in alone? No-no, ke had been with somebody. Was it a woman? That seemed likely, but Red couldn't picture her. II not a woman, than what? A girl? Yes, that was it. A girl. The girl.
He looked closely at the man's face. Yes, this was the guy who had come in with the young girl, the one who couldn't have been more than eighteen. Being a bartender, Red was an expert at judging the age of an individual, and he was certain that the girl was no older than eighteen. In fact, he had made up his mind not to serve her unless she could produce some proof of her age.
But the guy had not tried to buy anything to drink. He had merely gone up to Elsie and asked for a room. And she had led them through the connecting door to the office.
So now he was back at the bar. Red wondered what had happened to the girl. Was he through with her already? Had he taken her and sent her packing?
Looking at the man's face, this didn't seem likely. He didn't seem happy enough to have done that. Maybe the girl wouldn't go for him when the chips were down. Probably served him right.
Funny, though; the guy didn't look like the kind who took young kids to motels. His face had too much in it. Red had seen many men who liked to take innocent young girls, and their faces were always dead giveaways. Especially around the eyes. Guys like that were an open book to an old hand like Red. and the book had only one four-letter word in it.
This guy was not a member of that group. Red was certain of it. In fact, the longer Red examined his face, the more positive he became that he would like the guy if he ever got to know him.
"Mister?" he said, clearing his throat.
"Hmm?" The man glanced up.
"That'll be fifteen cents." Red gestured at the beer.
The man shook his head quickly. "Oh," he said. "Sorry. I was thinking about something else." He fished into his pocket and scattered some change on the bar.
He looked up into Red's face then, and all at once Red knew what was coming. A bartender gets to recognize that expression after a while, since it is the one he sees most often. The guy was wearing the face that preceeds the long, sad story.
Oh, well, Red thought. I wondered what was going on, didn't I? So now I'm going to find out.
He glanced once more at the clock, which was, as usual, not facing him. Where the hell is Elsie? he wondered.
The man was opening his mouth, but Red cut him off. "Just a second, pal," he said. He walked down the length of the bar and around in back of the slowly rotating clock.
A half-hour had passed since Elsie had left the bar. That was too long.
He went back to his customer, slowly stroking one thumb across his chin. The man was watching him curiously.
"Listen," Red said, leaning over the bar, "when you came in here, did you see the lady who signed you in around anywhere?"
The man looked baffled. "Lady?" he repeated.
"Yes. You know, the one who took you into the office." Red deliberately avoided any mention of the girl.
"Oh," the man said, "you mean that little plump one?"
"Yeah," Red said. "That one."
"Why-why, no." His brow furrowed as he thought about it. It was clear to Red that this distraction from his own thoughts had taken the guy completely by surprise. He seemed amazed that there could be any problems in the world besides his own. "No, I can't recall seeing her. Of course, I wasn't looking for her either."
Red frowned. There was a small itch of worry growing at the back of his mind. Had that silly woman gotten herself into some kind of dutch?
"Look, pal," he said to the man, "I've got a problem here. I think you better hold your story until later on."
The man smiled "Was it that obvious?"
Red smiled back. Yes, he liked the guy; there was no getting around it. "I don't mind listening-that's part of the business. And if talking about it helps any, well fine. But I got to clear this up first."
"Sounds like a fair exchange," the man said. "I listen to your story, then you listen to mine."
Red laughed. "It's a deal."
"Shoot," the man said, picking up his beer and sipping it. His eyes watched Red over the rim of the glass.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chester stood in the middle of the room, staring at the closed door. There was a numb lump stuck in the passage leading to his mind; he could barely think around it.
He glanced at the bureau and noticed the wrapped shape of the bottle lying there. He went over to it and stripped off the paper He slit the seal with his thumb-nail and twisted out the cork. He looked for a glass, then remembered that there were none. He shrugged and tilted the bottle to his lips.
The liquor burned past his tongue into his throat He coughed and lowered the bottle quickly, wiping a smear of liquid away from his mouth with the back of his hand. After a moment, he lifted the bottle and took another swig.
The liquor began to have the desired effect after a minute or so; the wheels of his mind were turning again. He took the bottle over to the bed and sat down on the edge.
It must be me, he thought. I guess I'm responsible. She's a grown woman, probably with a lot of experience, and I'm just a young kid. She'd like to get rid of me, now that she knows what I am.
He sighed, and took another belt.
It was stupid of me to try it in the first place, he thought. I should have known better. I'm no kind of man for a woman like that.
He thought back to the interlude in the car, and winced. The image of that event was branded painfully into his mind; he doubted if he would ever succeed in forgetting it. Just thinking about it was embarrassing.
There he had been, in the car with the lady of his dreams, making out like a musketeer, the advantage seized, the prize in his hands. And he had let it slip.
Sure, she had been on top; but that was the result of the situation. He couldn't have pushed her down on her side because the steering wheel was in the way. And transferring to the back seat would have been awkward, to say the least. He remembered thinking that any attempt to scramble into the back would have killed the whole thing. And getting out of the car was impossible, considering the condition of their clothing.
So he had just lay back and let it happen. He had let her start it, and the greatness of it had made him forget his responsibilities. He knew enough about love to know that it was the man's job to do most of the work. And despite their position, he could have done what was expected of him.
But he had forgotten. The moment was so fine, and the realization that his virginity was dying was so overpowering, that he had just subsided like a lump and let her do it.
So she had stopped.
Another mouthful of liquor gurgled into his throat. It didn't burn this time; the sensation had dwindled to a mellow warmth.
She had stopped. She said something then, he remembered; something about not wanting to do it in a car. Chester wasn't fooled by that. He knew almost immediately that he had failed her, that her talk about motels and beds was just a blind to cover up her disappointment in him.
At that moment there had been nothing in the world he had wanted so much as to leave the car and the lady and go hide somewhere. He was ashamed and appalled at his failure.
But she had insisted that he coma along to the motel. So he did.
Then, there had been the long hours in the bar, and the uncomfortable silence, and the strain of trying to appear unconcerned at what he knew was a disaster. And somewhere in that time, a horrible thought had occurred to him.
In a bed, there would be room enough for them to come to each other in the proper way. In a bed, there would be no excuse for half-measures and graceless positions. She still wanted him, despite what had happened in the car, and she expected him to do right by her when the time arrived.
Chester had realized with a chill that he didn't really know how to go about it. The experience in the car had taught him nothing, beyond the fact that he tended to turn into a lump at the worst possible moment. And his past had been limited to petting and fooling around. Thinking back, he realized that he had always thought instinct took over when a man finally got a woman. This, obviously, was not so. Instinct, if there was such a thing, had certainly failed him in the car. The only instinct he had was to he back and enjoy it.
So there he was drinking and stalling with the lady as the darkness fell outside, and nursing a chill deep in his stomach at the thought of the moment that was approaching.
I'm going to disappoint her, he thought. She expects me to make love to her, and I don't even know how it's done.
He had wanted to run. He had wanted to run so badly he could taste it. The idea of freedom, the thought of being relieved of this burden, was almost more than he could take.
But it was impossible. He had several chances-when she went to the ladies' room, for instance, or the time she left him outside and went back to order a bottle. He could have made his break with ease.
But something was commanding him to go through with it, and it could not be denied. So, he had waited for her, and as they walked across the crunching gravel of the court toward unit number 13, he had felt the same sensation of impending doom that must come to men walking the last mile.
The warmth of the liquor in his stomach was gradually reaching up into his head. He took another long swallow.
Well, she was gone now. He wondered if she was coming back. Maybe she had gotten the message at last, and had realized that Chester was nothing but a fumbling kid. Perhaps she had finally seen him as he really was and had taken off in disgust. Could be. He had stood waiting for her to make the first move long enough to tell her that something was wrong.
What a stupid thing for a man to do, he thought. Go into a motel room with a nice, big, soft bed and a nice, big, soft lady, and just stand there waiting for something to happen. It would serve him right if she had pulled out on him.
Gurgle-gurgle, said the bottle. Gurgle-gurgle, replied his stomach.
Well, to hell with her, then. If she expected more than he could give, whose fault was that? Hers, of course. After all, he hadn't misrepresented himself, had he? If she was so experienced, how come she couldn't tell that he was only a kid? A woman who wanted something fancier than him should be able to spot it. Right? If she was so damned experienced, she should be able to judge these things.
It was her fault. Chester drank to that.
Now that we've settled that, he thought, what now? It was a good question. She might not come back, and that would solve one of his problems. He didn't relish the idea of paying the bill for this room in the morning, since he would never have taken a double if he had been alone. But, so what? He had to sleep somewhere, and he could afford it.
That part was simple enough. But the major problem had yet to be solved. Now that he thought about it, the major problem was not only unsolved, but had become even more of a problem than ever.
How the hell was he going to lose his virginity if he didn't know the way the act was managed? He could travel a thousand miles, and meet a thousand willing women, and never get any further than he had gotten tonight.
He lifted the bottle to the light, and noticed that it was almost half empty. That meant he had consumed almost a pint. He smiled. That was more than he was used to. Now that he thought about it, he realized that he was drunker than he supposed. Booze tends to creep up on a sitting man.
He set the bottle on the floor and stood up. There followed a crazy moment when the room tipped at a forty-five degree angle.
Then he was on the bed again.
He picked up the bottle and let a little trickle into his mouth.
One of his teachers had once explained the medical technique of the counterirritant and the memory of it came back to him. Muscle soreness, for instance; when a muscle was cramped, the application of heat to the general area drew blood away from the afflicted tissue and made the sufferer forget about his pain. Very simple, really.
He had never thought that the same technique might be applied to the mind. But here it was. He had been puzzling over a variety of knotty problems for the past few hours until his brain was sore with the effort. And without even realizing it, he had been steadily applying the counter-irritant that would turn the trick.
Now, the idea of his failure with the lady, or his failure with the ladies in general, didn't seem quite so important. Neither did the question of whether or not this particular lady would return to him. Nor the money he would have to pay for the extra bed.
All these problems had been counter-irritated out of existance by something new. Chester was drunk.
Fine, he thought. What could be better? I didn't want to think about those other things anyway.
He couldn't recall ever having been quite this drunk before. But, of course, he had never consumed such a quantity of booze in such a short time before. That was the answer. In fact, he soon realized that this particular drunk was only just getting rolling. A good deal of the alcohol he had taken aboard was still in his stomach. Little by little, it was trickling into his blood-stream. He could feel this simple, natural process slowly pickling him from head to toe.
He wondered what the lady would do if she came back to the room and found him passed out. The picture this made struck him very funny, and he began to laugh. He stopped long enough to take another inch or so out of the bottle, then he laughed some more.
Ha, ha, he thought, what a burner on her. The big man she picked up on the road is no good for anything any more. He drank up all her booze. She paid for it and he drank it, and she's up the creek.
Maybe she would wait around until the morning, and try to get what she wanted from him by the dawn's early light. That would be a lost cause. Chester knew what mornings were like after a very simple drunk, and nothing was further from his mind in that state than mind. The morning that would follow this particular bat would, he was sure, put all the others in the shade. The nice lady would be lucky to get a groan out of him, much less....
He laughed again. The bottle slipped from his fingers and went thump on the floor. He heard the remaining liquid burbling out of it. Oh well, he thought. I've had enough jor all practical purposes. Good-bye, old bottle. You've been a sport.
Chester relaxed and closed his eyes. The gentle rocking and spinning that had been growing in him took over completely when his vision was cut off. He felt himself being lulled to sleep.
There was something wrong. He was halfway into sleep, and comfortable on a soft bed, and warm and happy, but there was something wrong somewhere. It took him quite a while to identify it.
Oh, he thought, opening his eyes.
He struggled upright on the bed and looked blearily around the room. There-was that it? He got up and went over to a door in the wall. He pulled it open.
It was a closet.
Well, that surely wasn't what he wanted.
He looked around the room again, but there were no more doors to chose from. Except the front door.
Well, it must be outside, then. He walked unsteadily to the door and stuck his head outside He looked up and down the length of the row of cabins, trying to spy a sign indicating the presence of a toilet.
There were none.
All right, then, he thought. To hell with it. If there aren't any facilities provided for a man in need, I'll just go off the end of the steps.
He pulled at his clothes. This simple act only served to point up just how desperate he was. The sound of the zipper was a thing closely associated with running water, and the familiarity of it made the need doubly urgent.
Before he could, however, a distorted rectangle of light spilled out of one side of the central building. A door had opened. Two figures came through it and started across the court.
Chester swore under his breath and trotted down the length of the cabins. He darted around the end of the last unit and found a clump of bushes.
Ahhh, he said to himself.
When he had finished, he adjusted his clothing with inept fingers. He managed to catch a fold of his underwear in the zipper track. It took several minutes for him to get the whole thing completed properly.
When everything was finally ship-shape he walked carefully to the end of the cabin and peered down the line. The two people, whoever they had been, were gone.
The booze was gaining ground. The art of standing up began to elude him. He weaved gently, and put a hand on the cabin wall to steady himself. The urge to laugh was strong, but he fought it down.
Let's see now, he thought fuzzily, as he staggered down the line of cabins, which one do I want? He couldn't remember the number of his cabin, and they all looked distressingly alike. He walked the entire length of the row without seeing anything familiar.
As he came to the end, he heard voices from behind the last door in the line. There was a sign over the door that said: Ladies.
He cocked his head and listened for a moment. Funny-it sounded as if there were men talking in there. He chuckled. Whatever was going on, he hoped they were having fun.
He stepped away from the door and considered the row of motel units before him. It had to be one of them; that much was certain. But which one?
Logic, he thought. Logical analysis. It couldn't be any of the cabins nearest him because he hadn't run that far to get to that last cabin. So it had to be one well past the middle. It had to be fairly near the other end of the line.
He walked slowly down the row, looking at the numbers on the doors. Number 20, Number 19, Number 18-no, it couldn't be Number 18. That was a magic number for him, and he would have surely remembered it.
He wondered suddenly what time it was. If it was after midnight, then he was eighteen years old. Happy Birthday, Chester. Happy Birthday, Virgin.
The cabin he wanted was in the teens somewhere; he was sure of that. The early teens. He walked until he was abreast of Number 10. He could hear a radio playing behind the door, and the sound of a woman's laughter. Well, that couldn't be it. Nobody would he laughing behind his door.
He back tracked, watching the numbers. Number 11, Number 12, Number 13-he stopped. Was it Number 13? That had a familiar ring to it. But how could he have forgotten such an unlucky number?
Sure, he had been distracted when he entered the unit, but it seemed logical that he would have remembered that number regardless of his state of mind.
He didn't like the sound of Number 13 anyway. He had enough bad luck for one night. Number 14, Number IS, Number 16-he stopped again. Was it Number IS? He backed up and looked at the door. Once again, he wasn't sure, but a small voice in his head told him to try it. He weaved across the gravel and attempted the steps. He had a bit of trouble at first, but finally he managed to scale the stoop and arrive at the door.
For a moment, he considered what would happen if he walked into the wrong room and into something that was none of his business. I might get punched in the nose, he thought. This prospect did not disturb him. In fact, it sounded like fun.
He turned the knob and let the door swing open.
The room was in darkness. Was that right? He seemed to remember leaving the lights on when he left to answer the call of the wild.
He could see the bed dimly in the faint light from the rear window. He moved toward it, then stopped.
There was a figure on the bed.
As he came closer, he saw that it was a woman.
Well, he thought, she came back after all. She came back and got undressed and into bed and here she is waiting for me.
He stood beside the bed and stared at the woman's body. Gradually, he felt the warmth penetrating the haze of alcohol inside him and begin warming him.
The figure on the bed was lovely. The face was in shadow, but the rest of the body was clearly outlined in the window's faint glow. Her breasts were smaller than he remembered, and this puzzled him for a moment. He decided that his first impression was unreliable. The interlude in the car was muddled in some respects, and perhaps his estimate of her was incorrect.
They were small, but they were perfect. He noticed that they were standing quite well without any outside assistance. The nipple aimed almost straight upward, with very little sag to either side.
The legs were long and shapely, curving upward from delicate ankles.
Her body was more beautiful than he remembered. Looking at her, lying there on the bed, the idea of making love to her no longer seemed so impossible.
Maybe it's bottle-courage, he thought. But what difference did that make? The opportunity had presented itself once again, and this time Chester felt obliged to take it.
He felt the old familiar twinge contracting the muscles of his stomach, and knew he was ready.
All right, he thought. Let's try it and see what happens.
He lowered himself onto the bed and reached out his arms for her.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harry had never been in a ladies' room before.
He was rather surprised to note that it differed from a men's room to a very minor degree. There was nothing but sinks and stalls.
Stalls, he thought. That's what I'm doing. Stalling.
He wished suddenly that he was back on the road, and away from all this. He wished he had never gone to the Red Apple Inn, or the Happy Inn Motel. He wished he had never met Judy, or the bartender, or the little old lady, or the blonde.
You never know how big a mistake can be until you've made it, he thought, and then it's too late.
He wondered what Judy was doing at this moment. Was she still asleep? Or had she awakened and found him gone? He closed his eyes for a moment and frowned.
She couldn't know what happened, he thought. She's only a little kid. She couldn't have any idea that it was anything less than perfect.
He remembered the feel of her body. Yes, it had been good for her. He was certain of it. Only the most experienced woman could simulate passion like that, and only when she wanted something more than love from the man with her. Judy was a child and a virgin-or rather, had been a virgin-and no girl that young could react in such a classic, totally female way unless she was actually feeling the deep stirring of passion and excitement.
It had been good for her.
How could she know that it had been so bad for him?
I'm not that old, he thought. I'm not a dried-up old man yet. I'm still in my prime-there are plenty of years of life ahead of me.
But if that's so, then what happened?
He remembered the deep satisfaction he had felt when Judy gave herself to him, when he had felt her slim body against his. It had been wonderful to feel a woman in his arms after so long a time without one; to feel her soft breasts against his chest, her arms across his back. He had felt the passion lift them together and she had matched his rhythm with one of her own. The motion, the moment had been as old as time-
He had felt her lithe body against him-he had seen her lips part and the pale gleam of her teeth as a hoarse breath escaped her mouth.
Then, she had subsided, her body slowly going limp, her hands slipping from his back, slowly settling on the bed.
It was over. For her.
There had been nothing he could do. She had subsided into sleep almost immediately, saying his name softly. Her face had cleared of passion and soon he saw a child-like innocence steal across it. Her breathing became deep and regular. He was alone.
There was no use trying to regain the moment that had been so close. She was asleep-she didn't know. Waking her and beginning again would be a cruelty that Harry could not even consider.
So, he had quietly moved and left her with her dreams. He bad climbed from the bed and gone to the bar.
She is young, he thought, and the urge had been strong within her. Perhaps it wasn't my fault. If I had been closer in time to her, maybe it would have happened to both of us together.
He smiled quietly to himself. I gave her what she wanted, he thought. She is a woman now, a woman with her whole life before her.
What do I have to look forward to?
He opened his eyes and found the bartender beside him. The big man was staring at the two women near the sink.
Harry looked at the blonde, still unable to believe it. There was no doubt whatever in his mind-this was the same beautiful woman he had seen in the parking lot of the Red Apple Inn. He wondered what sequence of events had brought her here, and what twist of fate had done such havoc to her.
The blonde was crying. The sobs were the most total and heart-felt that Harry had ever seen-they came from deep inside her and set her body trembling as they burst forth. It was painful to watch her cry like that. Harry felt a wrench of sympathy for her grief.
The bartender was speaking to him, but Harry missed the beginning of the sentence...." all right, she says. Nothing to worry about. She thinks the woman's just drunk, or something. She took her here to try to calm her down."
Harry tried to gather his thoughts. "What's wrong with her?" he asked.
The bartender shrugged. "I don't really know. Elsie says she's frightened of something. She can't get the story straight. Anyway, she says for us to wait outside for a while. Come on."
He took Harry's arm and led him out through the door. He cast one glance back over his shoulder and saw that the woman was resting her head on the old lady's arm. They were talking, but Harry couldn't catch what was being said.
Outside, the bartender pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and handed one to Harry He took it without a word, and they silently lit up. Harry blew a plume of smoke into the night air. A glow of red light from the bar across the court touched the cloud briefly. Then the wind took it.
"That woman is going to get in a lot of trouble some day," the bartender said.
Harry looked at him. "Which one?"
"Elsie. The lady who runs this place." He shook his head.
"What about the blonde?" Harry asked. "Do you know her?"
"Hell, no. I never saw her before in my life. She just came in today-this afternoon, in fact. She had a young boy with her."
Harry frowned. "A young boy?"
"Yeah-a kid about eighteen or so. They took a room together."
Harry puffed on his cigarette for a moment is silence. Then he said, "What do you think about them?"
The bartender spread his hands. "I had an idea that they were relations, or something. The ages looked about right for aunt and nephew or something like that. Elsie thought they were going off together to make love. I told her she had a dirty mind."
The bartender smiled. "Now, I'm not so sure."
"I wonder what happened to them? Something must have happened to make the blonde cry like that. Did the little louse hurt her?"
"I thought about that," the bartender said, "and I don't think so. I saw the kid, remember. He didn't look like a trouble maker to me. He was just a kid, that's all. Whatever happened to that woman, he wasn't responsible for it."
Harry said, "Where is he now?"
The bartender looked at him and raised his eyebrows. "That, pal is a very good question."
They fell silent for a time. Harry thought of the image of the blonde crying in the old lady's arms. What could have done that to her, he wondered.
The memory of his encounter with her in the parking lot came back to him. The way she posed and preened and displayed herself. He had formed an immediate opinion of her there-she seemed to him to be a woman going to meet a lover.
Now, he had to revise his thoughts completely. Having seen her torn apart by sobbing, the image of the self-contained, self-possessed woman was no longer valid. The old lady seemed to think she was frightened of something, and Harry couldn't help agreeing with her. The blonde was terrified.
Harry felt a momentary urge to go back into the ladies' room and comfort her, then shook it away. It was none of his business. None of this was any of his business.
"I got to get back," the bartender said. "I can't leave the bar untended." He turned to Harry. "Stay here, will you? Stay here until Elsie comes out. Make sure everything's all right."
"Sure," Harry said.
The bartender reached out and shook Harry's hand "My name's Red," he said. "Harry."
"I hope whatever's bugging you works out okay," Red said.
Harry smiled. "I'll be all right. I hope you and Elsie work everything out too."
Red stared at him for a moment, then returned his smile. "Yeah. Thanks."
Harry watched the bartender as he walked across the court to the bar. A door opened and closed.
Harry sat down on the steps and nursed his cigarette. It occurred to him that he had better return to Judy soon. She was probably awake now, and wondered what became of him.
He wondered whether he should make love to her again. No, he thought, that wouldn't be any good. Once, and he could talk himself into thinking it was a noble gesture. Twice, and he was a louse.
I'm a louse already, he thought. Nothing's going to change that.
As he thought about it, he knew what he would do. The girl would be better off if she never saw him again; if she slept the night alone and found him gone in the morning. It would be best if he paid for the room and left right now, removing himself from her life forever. Nothing good could come from his hanging around. He had done what he had promised her; waiting around would only spoil it.
The best thing would be for him to go to his car now and drive out of this territory for good. He should put as much mileage between himself and Judy as possible before morning.
He shook his head. No that was no good. He had promised the bartender that he would wait until the business in the ladies' room resolved itself, and he didn't want to break his word. He would have to remain here for a while at least, until the two women came out. Then he could leave.
He listened carefully for a moment, but there was no sound coming from inside the room. He wondered what was happening. Then he wondered if everything was all right. Perhaps the blonde had gotten sick. Perhaps the old lady needed help-
He stood up and flicked his cigarette off into the dark. He was just mounting the steps when the old lady appeared in the doorway.
They stood and looked at each other for a short time. Then the old lady said, "What kind of man are you?"
Harry wasn't sure he had heard correctly. "What did you say?"
"Who was that young girl you brought here with you? What did you to to her?"
Harry knew he should be offended at the question, but the woman's face was so calm and her tone so reasonable that he felt no offense at all. "She's all right," he said. "I didn't hurt her."
"Did you make love to her?"
"Yes," Harry said.
"Did she want you to make love to her?"
"She needed it," Harry said "She needed it from somebody that wouldn't hurt her."
The lady nodded. "What are you going to do about her? Are you running out?"
"Yes," he answered. "If I stay here, she may decide she loves me, and that would be a big mistake."
The lady watched his face closely. "Does she have a home to go back to?"
"Yes," he said "She'll be all right. She has a home and a job, and she'll find somebody to love her. She's a woman from now on."
The lady came down the steps. "That woman inside...."
Harry waited for her to finish the sentence. Finally, he asked, "What about her?"
"She needs a man," the lady said. "She needs a man more than anything else in the world. She needs him right now. I don't know what's going to happen to her if she doesn't get a man soon."
The old lady turned and walked away before he could reply. He watched her cross the court.
I'm a pacifier, Harry thought. I make women happy. I make them forget the cares of the day. First a young virgin, now a crying blonde.
He looked up. The blonde had appeared in the doorway Her face was washed of make-up. Her eyes were still bright with tears.
She's beautiful, Harry thought. Am I going to take her to bed to satisfy an old lady's whim?
He came slowly up the steps toward her. She looked at him with apprehension in her eyes.
"Who are you?" she said.
He took her hands in his own.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
"Who are you?" Judy said. She felt the body beside her stiffen.
"What?" His voice was touched with panic.
"Why are you in my bed?" Judy was frightened, but she managed to make her voice sound stern.
There was a second's strained silence. Then, the figure beside her leaped from the bed. "Holy Cow," he said.
Judy reached out an arm and found the lamp beside the bed. The sudden light blinded her for a moment and she covered her eyes. After a bit, she opened her fingers slightly and peeked past them at the person standing beside the bed.
It was a young boy-a boy about her age. He was tall and well-built, she noticed, and would probably be very good-looking when he wasn't so frightened. He was also just a little drunk, she decided, but he was sobering up rapidly.
"Miss," he said, squinting against the light, "don't yell, or anything. Please I-I made a mistake. I got into the wrong room." He started backing toward the door.
Judy watched the play of expression on his face. He looked so completely at a loss, and so thoroughly frightened of her, that she began to giggle. She took her hand from her eyes and covered her mouth with it.
The boy stopped and stared at her. His mouth was hanging open.
It occurred to Judy that she was still naked; that the sheet was still in a pile around her feet. She realized that she should cover herself, but she was enjoying the effect her nudity was having on the boy. She watched his eyes as they flickered from one part of her body to the other, and she felt a wave of pleasure flush her skin.
"It's all right," she said, trying to suppress her giggling "You just made a mistake "
"You're-you're beautiful!" he said in a cracked voice.
"Why, thank you," she said. She dropped her hand from her mouth and let it fall on the bed beside her. Her young body was completely exposed to him and she was surprised at the pleasure of having a man examine her nakedness with his eyes. His stares were almost caresses. A little quiver ran through her.
"What's your name?" she asked.
It took a second for the question to penetrate. Then he stammered it out in a rush, as if trying to make up for the pause. "Ch-Ch-Chester."
"Chester," she repeated. She had always thought of Chester as a rather silly name. She had a cousin named Chester. But somehow the sound of the name lost its foolishness when applied to this handsome young man. "Chester-that's a nice name."
His hands were slowly clenching and unclenching. His eyes never left her body.
"My name is Judy," she said.
"Don't you think I better go now?" he said.
"No," she said. "Come over here and sit down beside me."
The amazement on the boy's face almost set her giggling again, but she controlled it. A warmth was stealing through her veins, a feeling of pleasure and anticipation that had nothing to do with laughter.
He's very good-looking, she thought. He's tali and he has a good build. He's just about my age.
She held out an arm toward him and said, "Come here, Chester."
He followed the sound of her voice like a sleep walker, crossing the room with hesitant steps. Finally, he got to the bed. She put her hand on his arm.
"Sit down here" she said, nodding at the edge of the bed.
He lowered himself without taking his eyes from her. She could see his gaze traveling across her body. His eyes came to rest on her breasts.
A small thrill twinged inside her as she watched his face. She felt her nipples begin to stiffen and she saw his eyes widen slightly as he noticed it. The expression of surprise and dismay on his face was slowly giving way to something else.
Yes, she thought, it's going to happen. I'm going to have it again. The thought warmed her.
"Are you here with anyone?" she asked.
"Yes," he said dreamily, his eyes fastened on her breasts.
"Who?" She wondered if he had another woman waiting for him in this room. The idea didn't bother her.
"A lady," he said. A small knot of worry crossed his brow and he looked up into her face. She was surprised at the look of pain in his eyes.
"A lady?" she repeated.
He nodded. "A pretty lady."
"Did you make kwe to her?" Judy asked.
"No," he said. "I was supposed to, but I didn't."
"Why not?" Judy felt one of his trouser-covered legs pressing against her nude hip. It felt hard and solid beneath the cloth.
The pain in his eyes spread into his face. Then he stood up and started toward the door. "I better go now," he said again.
"Why not?" Judy called after him. "What happened?"
He stopped at the door and turned to look at her. "Are you here with a man?" he asked.
"Yes." Judy thought once of Harry, then dismissed him from her mind.
"Wait for him," he said. "You don't want me. Wait for your man." He turned and put his hand on the knob.
Judy pushed herself up and climbed out of the bed. She came across the room to him. "Wait, Chester," she said. "What's wrong?"
"Go back to bed," he said, his voice bitter. "Wait for your man."
She stopped a few feet from him. "You think I'm a hooker?" she said.
His eyes went wide. "No-no, I don't. My God, no-I don't think that."
"Then why are you going away?" She crossed her arms under her breasts, letting the weight of them rest on her forearms.
He spread his hands m a helpless gesture. "You don't want me! Believe me, I'm not for you!"
The expression on his face was painful to watch. On a sudden impulse, Judy went up to him and put her arms around his neck. Their faces were inches apart.
"I want you," she said. "I'm not a hooker. I don't want money. I'm not trying to get you in trouble. I just like you and want you. Why can't I have you?"
He averted his eyes from hers. "Is it the woman?" she asked. "No-" he said. "It's-it's me." She put up a hand and turned his face toward her. "There's nothing wrong with you."
His eyes looked into hers for a long moment. Then, all at once, she saw tears beginning there. He threw his arms around her and buried his face between her breasts.
She put her hands in his hair and held him close. She could feel the wetness of his tears against her skin.
"I don't know how," he said, his voice muffled. "I never did before."
It took a moment for the full impact of his words to hit her. Then she threw her arms around his head and pulled his face tight against her body.
The memory of what Harry had said in the car came back to her. He had told her what to expect of men-how they thought and what they were like. But he had left something out, she realized. There was one kind of man that he hadn't mentioned.
The young virgin.
Like herself.
He took me here, she thought, and made love to me. He showed me what it's like to be a woman. He is a mature man with a lot of life behind him and he shared that with me because he knew that was what I needed. Now, it's my turn to do that for someone.
She drew away from the boy and lifted his face with her hand. He looked at her, then jumped away. "No," he said, "let me go."
"I want you to make love to me, Chester," she said, walking toward him. He backed away from the door and she slowly circled until the bed was behind him.
"No-no! You don't want me? I don't know how!" There was desperation in his tone.
"I will show you how," she said. "It will be good for both of us. Let me show you how."
He backed up against the bed. He seemed startled as he felt the edge against the backs of his knees. He glanced over his shoulder in panic, as if he stood at the rim of a pit.
She came up to him and put her hands on his chest. "Let me show you how," she said.
Her fingers went to the buttons on his shirt and began to undo them, one by one. His body was stiff beneath her hands. She did not look at his face.
She opened the last button and pulled the shirt out of his trousers. He wasn't wearing an undershirt. His chest was thin, but well-muscled, with hard ridges outlining the structure beneath the skin.
"You're very well-built," she said, sliding her palms over his smooth chest. She felt him quiver under her touch.
Her fingers went to his belt-buckle. The belt opened. Her hands found the zipper and pulled it down.
She felt a brief touch of him as she pulled the trousers from around his hips. He's ready, she thought with a glow. He's not that frightened.
She pushed him down on the bed and pulled the trousers completely off. Then she stripped off his shoes and socks.
She threw the clothing across the floor and stood up to face him. His only clothing was a pair of boxer shorts. They had come open in the front.
She felt a chill cross herself as she looked at him. "You're a man," she said.
He arose from the bed slowly, as if hypnotized. He pulled the shorts off. Then he reached out his arms and drew her to him.
Judy felt a touch of fire as their bodies met. His lips found hers and they shared a long, probing kiss. She moved her hands against his hard back.
He turned her around in an easy, graceful gesture and let her down onto the bed. Then he stretched out beside her. His lips found her breast.
Once again, she felt the consuming pleasure wash through her as he kissed her nipple; once again, she felt the deep incredible stirring as he caressed her.
But this time was better.
The realization startled her. But it was true. As much as Harry had given her, this boy was giving her more. His lips combined with her in a chemistry that set her whole body quivering.
She felt the bed creak and sag as he moved against her.
He touched. With one move he took her.
He lifted his lips from her breast and put his head beside her ear. His breath boomed in her car. "Judy," he said.
They began together. Slowly at first, letting the sensation build upward. The tide of passion caught them both, and they let it rock them in a rhythm as old as time.
Her fingernails needled his back as the dark swell rose toward its crest.
She felt a crushing thread of fire being drawn from her. There was a blinding moment when her whole body arched like a strung bow.
Then, the wave crested.
The world burst like a bubble.
Somewhere, a clock solemnly tolled the hour of midnight.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Slowly, sweetly, the world reassembled itself. The consciousness of sound and light, of gravity and existence returned to her, and with it came the rich satisfying realization that she was a woman.
She had been touched. Somewhere a gate had opened and poured forth something she had never known was there. Her prison had been broken, the citadel bad crumbled, she was transformed.
I am a woman, Fern thought.
She felt the weight of the man's body against her and clutched him to her.
"Thank you," she said. "Thank you, thank you."
His lips kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her nose her brow. The soft brush of his mouth on her face made her tremble.
It has happened, she thought. He has erased it all-the men in the car, Benny, the boy-everything. All the pain and failure are behind me. He has made a woman of me and nothing can ever take that from me now.
His lips found her own and they kissed gently.
So quiet, she thought. So sweet. So unhurried and relaxed. To feel the weight of a man on you, to feel the aches of pleasure where he has loved you, to feel his lips moving against yours, his tongue curling against your own-what could be more perfect than that?
Fern felt a part of the world for the first time in her life. She was no longer an outcast. She had joined the race at last-she was a member of mankind.
She could feel the doors to her past closing behind her. Never again would she feel the hatred that had soured her life; never again would she look upon a woman and desire her. The dark years of loneliness and pain were behind her forever. She was a woman.
How wonderful it is to be a woman, she thought. What a great and glorious thing to know what you are and what you can do-to know the pleasure and the happiness that can come to a woman.
Now that the love-making was ended. Fern felt a different stirring-a consciousness of a whole of which pleasure was only apart. She had never thought before of the potential that might exist between two people. It had never occurred to her that two human beings might share anything so rewarding. And now that the release was past, she felt a new desire coming to take its place-a yearning to give and receive something she could not name, a wish to share with someone, to open her heart and loose its secrets, to air out her soul and open the windows of her mind to a person who could see and forgive. She felt a deep need to share her life with someone-completely, utterly, with nothing held back, nothing diluted.
The desire shook her and she clutched the man to her tightly.
"Don't leave me," she said.
His body stirred against hers. She could feel his heart beating against her breasts.
"Was it good?" he asked, his breath warm against her cheek.
She rolled her head on the pillow and moved her body under him. "Yes," she said. "Oh, yes." She opened her eyes and saw his face in the dim light from the window. "Was it good for you?" she asked.
He smiled down at her. His face had an open, unrestrained expression on it that was altogether new to her. "Y'es," he said. "I only wish I could tell you how good it was."
"Do you love me?" Fern asked.
The expression changed; his eyes turned inward. He looked away.
"I'm sorry," she said. "That was stupid."
"I don't know you," he said.
"It's all right," she answered, drawing his face down beside her own. "I'm sorry."
"No-I don't know."
"Please," she said.
"I wanted a woman," he said. "I needed a woman. I never thought beyond that. I thought I would find someone who would relieve that need, and that would be all. I didn't think-"
"You don't have to explain," Fern said. "It's all right."
"No," he said. His voice was touched with some deep emotion. "I forgot. It's been such a long time for me, that I forgot the kind of person I am. I forgot what I once had. I never realized that I wanted more than-more than just a woman."
Fern ran her fingers through his hair. "Don't," she said.
"I have to tell you," he said. "I can't pretend it's over now that we've-made love. That isn't an ending."
Fern turned her face until her cheek was against his. The unhappiness in his voice pained her, but he was saying something she wanted to hear.
"You're a human being," he said. "I can't pretend you're anything less than that. Some people block that out when they want something badly enough, but I can't. I can't."
"I understand," she said.
"No-no you don't. I don't believe that." He fell silent for a moment. Then, he began to speak.
"When I was a young man, I desired women. Like all young men, I thought of a woman as something to be conquered, something to be used for pleasure. That's the way a young man thinks. Some men think that way all their lives.
"But as the years passed, I began to realize that there was more to it than that. The body can tell you what it wants-the body can convince the mind that its desires are an end in themselves. There isn't any way to control that. But after the body is satisfied, then the mind has to evaluate what the body has done. That's the terrible part-trying to justify what the body had made you do."
"I understand," she said again.
"I married," he said. "I found a girl and fell in love with her. I wanted her with both my body and my mind, and I thought she felt the same way about me. Perhaps she did, at first.
"But something happened. We spent many years together, and I thought we would stay together for the rest of our lives. But something was eating at the foundations of it. I still don't know what it was. Maybe I'll never know.
"It was happening right under my nose, and I didn't see it. I didn't catch even the slightest hint of the decay. I had to have my face pushed into it-I had to find my wife in another man's arms.
"Maybe the whole thing was my fault. I lived with my wife for years-I thought I knew her. But I didn't. Not really. If I had known her, then I would have known what was happening. How could I help but know? So maybe I hadn't given enough of myself to her, and maybe that was what drove her to another man. I don't know."
He lifted his face and stared into her eyes.
"Now, I'm afraid. I've been hurt. I'm sure my wife was hurt just as badly. Maybe she's finding what she wanted with her new partner. I hope so. But I've seen now how two people can hurt each other. I'm afraid to get too close."
"It's all right," she said. "I'm satisfied."
"Don't you see?" he said. "There are many words for what we've done-there are filthy gutter expressions and biological terms and polite little ways of hinting at it. But only one expression covers everything, from the beginning to the end. You can say it almost anywhere, and nobody will be offended, and everybody will know what you mean."
"Making love," she said.
He seemed surprised. "Yes. That's right."
"You're not unique," she said. "Do you think you're the only person in the world who wants that? I've been looking for it all my life. I didn't even know what it was I wanted, but the want has been eating at me for years."
"I didn't know," he said. "I thought...."
"I know what you thought. I saw your face when you looked at me in the parking lot."
"You remembered me?" He seemed amazed.
She smiled. "Yes. I remembered you. I thought of you later on-when I picked up that young boy. He thought I was a woman. He looked at me and decided that I was a person who knew what she wanted, and knew how to get it. You thought the same thing."
"Yes. I did think that."
"It's not so. I wanted to hurt that boy. I wanted to hurt you, but I was afraid of you. I had the need, but the hatred was turning it into something else. I wanted to hurt all the men I met-I wanted to give them pain."
He rested his body on his elbows and cupped his palms around her cheeks. "What did that?" he asked.
"When I was a little girl," she said slowly, "a man did something terrible to me."
"Damn," he said, closing his eyes. "Oh. Damn it."
"He took me in his car-and made me...."
"Oh, hell-" There was a helpless rage in his voice. She felt his fingers tighten against her tace...." he made me afraid," she said. "All I could think of was pain when I looked at a man. Pain and hate. I wanted to destroy him. When I saw you, I wanted to destroy you, too."
He opened his eyes and looked into her face. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry there are such people in the world. A thing like that makes me ashamed to be a man."
Fern felt a numbness stealing over her as the words left her mouth. "I was seduced by a Lesbian," she said. "It was the first time I ever knew there could be pleasure-"
All at once, she was crying. It happened so swiftly and unexpectedly that she was not prepared for it. His face blurred in front of her and she turned her head and pressed her lips against his palm.
His lips brushed her ear. "Please...." he said, with pain in his voice. "Please...."
"Don't you see what you did for me?" she cried. "You took me out of all that! You wiped it all away! You made love to me...." The tears overtook her voice, and she could no longer speak.
She felt his lips caressing her. His hands slid into her hair, his fingers trembling. "Please...." he said again.
Fern let the flood gates open completely. She let the tears wash across her scars; she let herself go, utterly, for the first time in her life. Everything poured out of her with her tears.
It was some time before she was drained. But at last the sobbing subsided and the tears went dry. Slowly, she came back to life.
His mouth was touching hers. "Come with me," he said.
Fern could not speak.
"Come away from here. Come with me for a while."
Her mind could not accept what he was saying.
"We've both been hurt," he said. "Maybe we can heal each other."
She found her voice finally. "Make love to me," she said.
He held her face tenderly. "Make love to me again Please. T love you." His mouth covered hers. She sensed him coming to life.
"Yes," he said.
It began. And it was new again, as if it had never happened before.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes. Do that-I want you. I want to share with you. Put your hands on me. Feel me. Love me. I want to know you're touching me. I want to be with you."
They moved together.
"Hold my breasts," she cried. "Cover them. They're yours. Take them. Yes-like that. Oh, yes-just like that. Oh, that's so good. Yes-yes-"
This time was utterly new. This time was slow in building. This time, the rocket of pleasure mounted slowly, without haste, without strain. She felt like the track of a meteor across the night sky.
"Love me-" she said. "Love me-love me."
"Yes," he said.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The day dawned warm and clear. A faint green smell carried down on the breeze as it hissed through the high leaves of the trees across the road. The first rays of the sun began to warm the semicircle of cabins long before their occupants were completely awake.
Mrs. Bains stirred slowly as the sounds of the morning penetrated into her room. She turned over and drew the thin spread up around her face, trying to shut out the light and the faint twittering of the birds.
But it was no use. She lay quietly for several minutes, trying to find sleep again, but it eluded her. Unaccountably, she was awake.
She sat up in bed and looked at the small alarm clock on the table beside her. It was seven o'clock She sighed and looked at her pillow longingly. It had been some time since she had seen the day so young. Her duties at the desk and the bar usually kept her awake far into the night and she rarely set the clock for any hour earlier than noon.
As if waking up at this hour wasn't bad enough, she thought with disgust, I have to anticipate the clock. She peered at the small hand which indicated the setting of the alarm. The clock wasn't due to go off for another ten minutes.
She thought for a moment of lying back again and trying to catch a few more winks, then rejected it. Ten minutes wasn't enough time to fight over.
She sighed again and swung her legs off the bed. Her head felt heavy and cottony; she found it difficult to get the wheels turning. Her eyes kept closing slowly, despite her efforts to keep them open.
This is stupid, she thought. Why am I getting up so early? Why don't I just shut off the alarm and go back to sleep? I'm not going to be any good for anything today if I don't get some sleep.
She looked at the clock again. There was no doubt about it. She had set the alarm for seven-ten.
Now, why had she done that? She tried to recall the night just past. What could have made her want to arise this early?
Then, all at once, she remembered.
She sat up straight on the edge of the bed Her eyes came open and she glanced around the room. She listened carefully, but no sound came to break into the morning stillness.
She got up from the bed and padded across the room to the window which looked out into the court. The cabin doors were closed. She could see no sign of life or movement anywhere.
She turned and walked back across the room to the window overlooking the parking lot. Yes, they were still there: the black, dust-streaked sedan and the flashy white convertible.
The man-the girl-the woman-the boy; they were all still here. The little drama wasn't finished yet.
She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. The shock of it brought her completely awake. Her mouth tasted stale and sour from lack of sleep, and she brushed her teeth carefully, noting with pleasure, as she did every morning, that they were still her own.
She returned to the bedroom and listened at the door which led into the registration office. She could hear no sign of life.
She felt rather gritty and unwashed-she wanted to be sure that she would not miss the departure of either of the couples. The events of the previous night had set her itching with curiosity, and she wanted to be sure to see the finale.
At last she decided that a quick shower would be a good idea. It was still early. She doubted it either of the couples would be up and about yet. She pulled her nightgown over her head and went into the bathroom.
As the water splashed against her body, she listened intently for any sound from the office. Gradually, however, the soothing warmth of the spray drove all thoughts of urgency from her mind. She soaped her body luxuriously, letting the hot water wash the stiffness out of her sleepy muscles.
When she was done, she stepped out of the shower stall and towelled herself dry. Then she walked nude back into the bedroom. The mirror over the bureau caught her reflection and she paused to examine it.
She was pleased to see that she looked younger naked than she did when dressed. It had been some time, she realized with surprise, since she had looked upon her unclothed body. She was fat, but the plump areas of her body were without sag or wrinkle, and there was a youthful firmness in the understructure of muscle and bone.
She laughed at herself and watched her large breasts jiggle. II Red could only see me now, she thought, I wonder what he would think.
She shook the thought away and went to the bureau.
She paused for a moment over the piles of underthings in the top drawer; then, on an impulse, she reached to the bottom of the pile and pulled forth a bright red brassiere and a pair of panties to match it. This was a combination she had purchased on a whim several years ago, and she never wore it unless there was nothing else clean. It seemed rather foolish for a woman of her age and station to be wearing anything so bright and young-looking, but she felt an unde-finable urge to dress daringly for the day to come.
I'm a silly old woman, she thought as she placed the bra and panties on the bed. She glanced into the drawer again, looking for a slip. Then, she shook her head and pushed the drawer closed. She didn't own anything that would do justice to the gaiety of these red underthings. No slip today, she decided. Let's live dangerously.
When she was dressed, she went through the connecting door to the office. Red was behind the desk. Mrs. Bains stopped, startled.
He glanced up from the register and smiled at her. "Hi, Mrs. B. Up kind of early, aren't you?"
"Red-" she said in surprise, "I didn't know you were here. When did you come back?"
He laughed. "I never left. I stayed in Number 22 all night."
"Number 22? You mean, you didn't go back to town at all last night?"
He reached around the desk and grabbed her hand, pulling her in beside him. "You think you're the only one who's interested in other people's business?" he said. "You don't fool me, Elsie. You're up its early for the same reason that I stayed here last night-I guess we both want to see how this all comes out."
Mrs. Bains laughed. "Why, you're as nosey an old coot as I am. I thought only women were like that. I didn't know big strong men like to peek through keyholes."
"It all depends what's on the other side," he said.
She leaned over the desk and glanced at the register. Suddenly, she stiffened with surprise.
"Red-that man-it says here-"
"Yep," he replied calmly. "He left about fifteen minutes ago."
While I was taking the shower, she thought cursing herself. A thought struck her and she looked up at Red. "What about that young girl? Did he take her with him?"
"Nope," Red replied. "He didn't leave with the girl."
Mrs. Bains shook her head sadly. "It's a bad business, Red. That young girl-"
Red cut her off. "He left with the blonde," he said.
Mrs. Bains couldn't believe her ears. "The blonde? You mean, that woman I took to the ladies room?"
"That's the one," he said.
"But what about the boy who was with her? And the girl? Where are they?"
"They're in Number 14," Red said. "Been there all night"
Mrs. Bains felt her mouth slowly opening. "You mean-they-switched?"
"I guess that's what you'd call it," he replied with a shrug. "There are some things about what happened last night that we're never going to know."
"He left with the blonde," she said, still unable to believe it. "Did they say anything?"
"Not much. The guy paid for both his room and the blonde's, and left some extra money in case the kids wanted to stay on a while. Oh, and the blonde left this." He reached under the counter and brought up a pair of keys.
"Keys?" she said. "For what?"
He took her by the arm and led her around the front door. He pointed off into the parking lot, his finger aimed at the white convertible.
"That," he said.
"The car?"
"Yep. The blonde said she didn't want it any more. Said it reminded her of too much, or something like that. She said that maybe the kids could find some use for it. The guy said he would stop in the next town and make arrangements to transfer the ownership. Then they went out to his car and drove off. They looked pretty happy."
Red paused, and glanced down at Mrs. Bains. "Oh, and one more thing. He told me to tell you thanks. How come?"
Mrs. Bains smiled. "I'll tell you later," she said. She put her hand on his cheek and turned his head toward the cabins.
The boy and the girl were coming across the court, hand in hand.
They were very surprised when Red gave them the money.
They were astounded when he gave them the keys and told them what they were for.
Later, they watched the young people sitting in their car, counting the money and talking happily together. They kissed once-a lingering, gentle kiss. Then the boy put the car in gear and pulled out onto the highway. He aimed the white convertible north and it disappeared down the road.
"She said something about the Red Apple Inn," Red mused. "They're heading the opposite way."
"I wonder where they're going," Mrs. Bains said quietly.
"Who knows?" Red answered. "Where's anybody going?"
The morning passed swiftly. By noon, the motel was empty of its occupants.
Red was in the bar, washing up and lining the clean glasses in neat ranks along the gleaming wooden shelves. He whistled softly to himself.
Let her sleep, he thought. Poor old girl is tired out.
He glanced up at the clock, and caught it with its face toward him. "Well, I'll be damned," he said aloud. He decided it was a good omen.
I'll give her another hour, he thought. Then I'M go wake her up.
He smiled. I wonder if she knows that I could see that red brassiere through her blouse? he thought. I wonder if she knows what I have in mind?
The decision had been growing in him since the previous night. It had been the principal reason for his staying on at the motel. He was interested, of course, in the outcome of that business with the couples, but he was more interested in Elsie.
It's about time I took the bull by the horns, he thought. I've been sitting on my hands for ten years years now, and that's too long for anybody. Too long for her, as well as me.
He chuckled softly.
Why the hell should the customers have all the fun? he thought.
When an hour had passed he went through the office and into the bedroom. The shades were drawn. Mrs. Bains' bed lay in shadow.
He walked quietly over to her and sat on the edge of the bed. She stirred and turned toward him. The sheet fell away and Red found himself looking at the bright crimson brassiere.
"Elsie...." he said softly.
She remained still for a moment. Then she opened her eyes and looked up at him.
"Time to get up?" she said, smiling sleepily.
"Not yet," he answered, leaning over to kiss her softly on the lips.
She drew away, startled. "Red-what are you doing?" Her eyes were wide, but the expression was not fear. She seemed to be unaware that the sheet had fallen away from her breasts.
"Just felt like kissing you," he said. "You looked so pretty, lying there in your red underwear."
She laughed. "Why, you dirty old man! Stealing into a lady's boudoir and looking at her underwear! I'm surprised at you!"
"I'm surprised at myself," he answered, "for not thinking of this ten years ago." He slipped his hands under her arms and around her back. She felt his fingers at the snaps of her bra.
"Red-" she said faintly, as the elastic bands parted. He pulled the bra over her arms and dropped it to the floor.
He put his lips to her naked breast.
Mrs. Bains felt the old ache across her. He put her hands on his bead, drawing him close against her.
His hand slipped under the edge of the sheet and down across her round stomach. He lifted his head and put his mouth next to her ear.
"We're not so old as people think," he said, pressing her back with the weight of his body. "There's plenty of time for us yet."
"Oh, Red-" she breathed. "It's been so long."
Her hands helped and encouraged him as he struggled out of his clothing. She felt the cold touch of the air as he slipped the red panties from around her hips. Then his body warmed her.
Once, while the old pleasure was engulfing her, and she was being touched with new life, the ghost of Norman flittered across her mind.
Don't be angry with me, my love, she said to him. I'm still a woman. And you've been gone such a long time.
The figure looked at her and smiled, and suddenly she felt young again.
The rays of the setting sun touched the Happy Inn Motel with gold.
