enovel The Yearning Flesh Fletcher Bennett [Future Story Codes]

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The Yearning Flesh ....(74k)    by Fletcher Bennett

CHAPTER ONE

The store window was filled with photos of bare women.

The variety of types was staggering. Blondes, redheads, brunettes; big-breasted, medium-breasted, hardly-at-all-breasted; long legs, thin legs, strong legs, pretty calves, sensuous thighs, round hips, rounder bottoms, little winking navels, dips and moldings of woman-muscle, the delicate tracery of ribs, the flexing grace of little fingers and toes, glittering eyes, soft wet smiling open mouths-all spread out and bare so you could see them. There was even a picture of a Negro girl; her breasts like halves of chocolate Easter eggs, her thighs lithe with muscle, her hard hips framing a soft belly. And a photo of a Chinese girl, eyes demurely closed, arms together squeezing the breasts between them, near leg folded under kneeling, far leg raised, forming a V into which the delicate sweep of her abdomen fell, scooping under with soft secret promise.

Women. Poised and waiting. Bodies naked, bodies beckoning.

Of course, they were only photos. Chemically, just patterns of silver nitrate on light-sensitive paper. They had no reality, no warmth, no life, and the erotic promise of them was only a hollow illusion.

But the women themselves were real.

Somewhere, sometime, a woman had stood in a room, lifted her dress, taken down her panties, unhooked her bra, unsnapped her garter belt, unrolled her stockings, kicked off her shoes, stripped herself until every glowing inch of her flesh had been bare. And wherever and whenever that had been, a camera had been watching her, the cold glass eye of its lens feasting on her naked charms, seeing everything, everything.

The shutter had gone snap, and that particular moment, that moment when the camera and the luscious bare woman had faced each other, that instant of time had been captured and frozen forever on a sheet of glossy paper. The photos were souvenirs of the past, when nude women had shown themselves, arched their bodies and displayed their round breasts and bellies and sweet-fleshed thighs, all naked and soft and smooth. The photos were thin slices of time, and lust.

The window was filled with them.

Willie stood on the sidewalk, his face only a few inches from the glass. His hands were jammed into his pockets, so no one could notice their trembling. But Willie was aware of it. He was also aware of a deep-seated ache, down in the soft stuff just under his belly, down where the core of him was. It was an ache, but not of pain. It was an ache of something else. Willie knew what that was, too.

He let his eyes pivot slowly in his skull, sweeping his gaze from one photo to another. A girl sat on a high stool. Her thighs were opened wide. One of her hands was between those thighs, holding the rounded edge of the stool. The other hand was behind her head, the elbow bent, the arm lifted, lifting with it the meaty swell of her near breast. Even through the glass, Willie could see the roughened thrust of her nipple, and the tiny shadow cast by the hard little tip.

And there was another girl. On her back, lying all tensed and vibrant on a soft bed. One thigh extended flat, the other lifted slightly, only slightly, but just enough to conceal the ultimate flesh of her, the point where thighs and belly and curve of buttocks flowed together in dark beauty. Her hands were holding her breasts, palms cupped lightly at the sides, forcing the shapes up into soft cones, fingers curled lazily within inches of the rosy tips. Her head was thrown back. Her eyes were squeezed shut. Her mouth was formed into an open-lipped smile.

There were more. Plenty more. Standing, lying, brazen, demure, hard-looking, soft-looking, sweet and slut all mixed up together, and all bare.

Willie quivered slightly and hunched his shoulders. So many of them. And this was only the window display. Who could tell what might be inside?

He turned from the window and lit a cigarette. He tried to make the motions as casual as possible, but the trembling in his fingers made it difficult. The smoke was acrid in his mouth, strong and uncomfortable in his lungs.

But the cigarette was a necessary prop. A person couldn't just stand on the street doing nothing, especially not in front of a store window mled with naked pictures. That looked peculiar. That would attract attention, sooner or later, and attention was something Willie didn't particularly want.

With a cigarette in his hands, however, there was no problem. A man with a cigarette wasn't just standing, wasn't necessarily loitering. He was smoking. He was doing something ordinary and innocent. Nobody would look at such a man more than once.

The sensible part of Willie's mind told him this was true. But he could feel eyes watching him anyhow. It was always that way. He could never locate the owner of those watching eyes, never catch anyone actually staring at him, but he could feel the pressure of that gaze as surely as he could feel the sidewalk under his feet. Somebody was always watching.

And that somebody knew. Knew Willie. Knew all about Willie.

He puffed his cigarette and made an effort to talk himself out of the feeling. Nobody was watching him. Nobody could have any reason for watching him. After all, it wasn't as if he were a criminal or anything. He was an ordinary young man. He worked for a living. He didn't cheat or steal. He wasn't a communist or a child-molester or a pervert. He was just a guy. Why would anyone care enough about him to watch him? The whole idea was absurd.

But the eyes watched him anyway; watched and laughed, because they knew Willie, knew what he was going to do.

He looked bleakly at the street. It was past seven in the evening now, Saturday evening, and the lights were blazing in every store window, racing furiously around the marquees of the theatres, lighting the pavement with a shifting patchwork of illumination. Cars went by in the street, their glossy finishes reflecting and distorting the wash of light. People moved along the sidewalks, their faces mask-like in the crazy colors.

Forty-Second Street, New York, N. Y.

The Street.

People say you can buy anything on The Street. Anything at all. Anything your little heart desires. You name it, you can have it, provided you've got the loot to pay for it.

Hungry? You can buy American food, Italian food, Chinese food, Spanish food, hot dogs, orange drink, beer, knishes, indigestion.

In the mood for a show? You can see a pre-war Randolph Scott movie if you want, or you can see a Biblical epic that was playing on Broadway only last week. Or you can see a nudist movie, or a movie about Loose Women, or Women on the Prowl, or Girls in Trouble. There's even a freak show on The Street, in the basement under a penny arcade. If you pay a little extra, you can go into a back room and watch a girl dance behind a lot of veils.

In the mood for a girl? You can buy girls on The Street. Not to keep, of course. Just for a while. Just until you're satisfied. And you'll be satisfied, never fear. You can buy white girls, pink girls, coffee-colored girls, chocolate-colored girls, black girls. Or yellow girls. If you really wanted a green girl, you could probably locate one on The Street.

In the mood for a boy? It's your privilege if you are. Nobody's going to care. The police may pretend they care, but they really don't. On The Street, boys come in the same varieties as girls.

Willie knew all about The Street, and the stories people tell of it. He didn't know whether all the stories were true, but he believed most of them anyway. It was difficult not to believe once you got a look at The Street.

Willie knew about the girls. He had seen them. It was impossible to miss them, in fact, impossible not to realize why they were there, walking along the pavement in their high-heeled shoes, wearing skirts that fitted tightly across their rumps and swirled around their pretty calves, wearing blouses that showed the twin shapes of their breasts, showed the jiggle and sway of the flesh as they walked, wearing their hair in wild curls around their faces, hair a man could lose his hands in, hair that looked as if a man had just finished losing his hands in it.

Girls. Female bodies. Under the clothing, behind the barriers of bra and panties-flesh. Woman flesh. Hot and sweet and soft and trembling with lust.

And for sale. There was no mistake about that. One look at the girls told you they were for sale, their bodies were available, their wet mouths and skillful hands and scissoring thighs, everything was for sale. All you needed was the price. Or so the stories said.

But Willie knew different. Money was an important part, of course. Presuming a guy couldn't get any from the girls in his neighborhood or in his place of business, presuming he had looked around the Village or had spent some time in the suburban bars which were frequently worse than the Village, presuming he had drawn a blank with the blonde across the hall from his apartment or the housewife downstairs whose husband was never home-presuming he had tried everything and still couldn't get it for nothing, then such a guy would certainly need money if he was going looking for a pro. The girls on The Street would go, but not for nothing. Never for nothing.

Having the money was the first requirement. But there was another thing a guy had to have; in a way, it was just as important as the money, and maybe even more so. You could walk down The Street and watch the girls, with your pants pockets both filled to the brim with loot and with the world's biggest itch between those pockets, and if you lacked the other requirement, you wouldn't get a thing.

Nerve.

Or maybe courage is a better word.

Willie had the money. But he didn't have the nerve. He didn't have even the beginnings of it. He never had, not in his entire fife. And because he'd never had the nerve, he'd never had a woman, not in his entire life. And his entire life, so far, covered twenty years.

Standing now, smoking the cigarette down to a hot soggy butt, standing with his back to the window filled with nude photos and facing the glittering madness of The Street, he saw one of them. One of the girls. She was several doors down from him, strolling slowly and calmly. She would be passing him in a moment.

He had the money. He had the itch. Here was the girl, walking right into his lap. Wasn't this the time to make a move? She was for sale, after all, wasn't she? Didn't she want to earn money by entertaining him? Wouldn't she be pleased if he stepped away from the window into her path, stopped her, asked her to....

To what?

There was the problem. There was the big flaw in Willie's plan. There, basically, was the reason Willie had never gotten any.

He was a human being, and so was she. Underneath her clothes, she had a soft and secret body, a body designed for the use of another human being; a male. Her body could accept a male body, had been designed to accept, and in the process of that acceptance throw off vast amounts of pleasure, pleasure enough for both herself and the male. It was as basic as breathing.

But how did you ask for it? How did you walk up to a person-a person, with eyes that see and a mind that thinks and a body that feels-and ask if you may have the use of their body? How could anyone do a thing like that? Even if you knew beforehand that her answer would be an immediate yes, how could you put such an impossible request into words?

In order to do it, you had to pretend the girl wasn't human. You had to think of her as nothing more than a piece of lovely meat designed for your pleasure and entertainment. You had to convince yourself that she didn't really have any sort of mind behind those eyes, that there wasn't actually a heart beating inside her rounded breasts.

But if you once made the mistake of realizing she was human, the whole thing had to be called off. Because if she was human, if there was an individual and unique mind inside that pretty skull, then she was watching you, watching the way those invisible eyes were always watching. How could you ask a girl to come to bed with you, offer her money to lie on her back for you, when you knew all the while she was watching? How could you touch her, feel her body, taste her flesh, knowing she was watching? For that matter, how could you take off your clothes-and you had to take off your clothes; it wouldn't be any good unless you took off all your clothes-how could you show yourself naked and excited and stirred into action, when you knew her eyes were on you the whole time?

How could you possibly be so intimate with someone you didn't even know, someone who didn't even know you?

You couldn't do a thing like that with a stranger. At least, Willie couldn't.

So he just stood and watched as the girl drew nearer, as her pretty legs carried her casually along the street, as the impact of her heels on the sidewalk made the weights of her breasts dance inside her blouse, as the motion of her thighs molded the thin material of her skirt to her hips, her belly, her dark mysterious loins.

As she passed, she turned her head and looked at him. Her eyes caught the red of some neon for just a moment, and glowed like sin.

He flicked his gaze away quickly, trying to hold his features in an expression of unconcern. From the corner of his vision, he saw the girl pause, saw her head pivot at she scanned him, evaluated him. He thought, although he couldn't be certain of it, that a little smile was distorting the corners of her mouth.

How could you keep a stranger from laughing at you? From despising you? From hating you?

Willie riveted his gaze on a theatre marquee across the street and held his breath. And, after a heartbeat, the girl passed him by. Her face turned away from him and her legs carried her out of range, slowly, maddeningly, with a sensuous pivot of hips and buttocks, with a lustful flexing of firm calves and pretty feet.

When he found enough nerve to look after her, she had blended into the crowd. There wasn't a sign of her anywhere.

The cigarette had burned down to within a scant inch of his fingers. He felt the heat of it, and threw it away angrily. Then he lit another.

What was it like, he wondered. What was it really like? What did a naked woman look like, a real woman, a flesh and blood woman, stripped of clothing with her body exposed, lying on a bed, limbs opened to receive a man? Photographs could only hint at it. Photographs, for that matter, didn't even show the whole woman; at least, not the photos you could buy in a store.

What was it like to really see a woman in the nude?

What would it feel like to touch a bare woman, to actually feel a breast with your palm, to run your fingers along the inside of a thigh, to form your hand into a cup and hold the ultimate reality of a woman?

What would it feel like to have a woman touch you?

He didn't know. He had ideas about it, he had theories, he had dreams, but he didn't really know. It had never happened. Sometimes he wondered if it ever would.

He turned, calmer now, and looked into the window again.

There were his women. You didn't have to pretend with them. You didn't have to shut off your perception of their humanity. They couldn't watch you. They couldn't laugh at you or despise you. They couldn't have any opinion of you at all. They were only images in a sheet of paper; you could see them, but they couldn't see you.

He took a deep breath, then stepped past the window and into the entrance. The place was crowded. Narrow racks of magazines marched down one wall, and the aisles between them were choked with men. There wasn't a woman in the place. Just men. The old guys who wore hats paging through National Geographic. The young fellows with the serious glasses looking through the electronics and science fiction magazines.

The thick-fingered men with the broken nails pawing through carpentry and mechanics magazines.

On the opposite wall stood a single long rack. In front of it was a table of the same length. The space between the table and the rack was crowded with men.

Willie knew what the magazines on the table were like. For one thing, the titles were torn off all the covers. For another thing, the girls inside those magazines weren't naked. Not completely. Oh, sometimes you'd find a picture in one of those books that would be almost as good as a nude shot-a girl in a negligee, for instance, kneeling to face the camera, leaning forward on her hands so the front of her garment fell away and showed most of the breasts. Not all, though-not the nipples. Just the breasts. If you were lucky enough, you might find a shot of a girl wearing something sheer, you might just be able to make out the circle of the nipple as a protrusion against thin cloth, or as a disc of darkness through gauze.

But you never saw much more than that in the magazines on the table.

The magazines on the rack behind the table were a little better. They were the breasts-books, as Willie thought of them. You wouldn't find more than a hundred words of text in any of those books-every page was a picture. Naked breasts. Close-ups sometimes, tight camera shots of rounded flesh, lit to accentuate the puckering of the tips. Those magazines showed breasts. They didn't fool around with gauze or negligees or carefully-held arms. They showed you breasts, head on.

They also showed you thighs. And hips. And bellies. Sometimes buttocks. But, like the photos in the window, they never showed anything more. When, occasionally, a model would pose in a genuinely revealing manner, the photo would be touched up, painted over, and would reveal nothing.

The breast-books. They were all right, in their way, but they were far from satisfying. Willie bought breast-books only when he didn't have the money for something better.

Tonight, he had the money.

He headed toward the back, passing the ordinary magazines on one side, the breasts-books on the other, paying no attention to either of them. He went straight to the rear of the store.

There was a long counter against the back wall. On one end of the counter stood a cash register. Behind it sat a bored-looking man with a cigarette in his mouth.

The remainder of the counter was filled with ranks of cardboard boxes, boxes without lids. Inside these boxes, like cards in a filing drawer, stood row after row of cellophane-wrapped packages. Men stood at the counter, bent over the boxes and the packages, their fingers slowly flipping through the contents.

Willie stood for a moment without moving. There was a certain amount of nerve required here, too. The men next to you were no problem-after all, they were here for the same reason you were-but the man behind the cash register was something else again. He knew. He couldn't help but know. And it was hard to keep a straight face, hard to stay calm, when somebody looked at you with that knowing expression in his eyes.

This guy, though, didn't seem to be looking at anything. His eyes roamed around, never stopping to examine, just moving as if keeping track of business was the most important thing on his mind. The guy looked preoccupied with the problem of shoplifting, not with the individual personalities, short-comings, lusts of his customers.

Willie heaved a sigh of relief. He was willing to put up with the sly sneers and smiles to get what he wanted, but it was much more comfortable and pleasant to be left alone.

He went to the end of the counter. There was a man standing at the first box. He was flipping through the last of the cellophane packages, pausing now and then to examine one closely. Willie waited until he had finished and moved on to the next box.

Then Willie began.

Each of the little packages contained photos. Ten of them. The first and last pictures in each set were visible through the cellophane. The other eight could not be seen unless you bought the package.

Naked women. Sometimes alone, sometimes in pairs, occasionally in threes and fours. Once in a while, a set of photos showing a girl in the process of disrobing, starting fully clothed, ending totally naked. Once in a while, a series showing two girls, looking at each other's bodies, even touching each other, but only on the arm or the shoulder, never anywhere else. Once in a while, a set depicting a girl or girls in underwear, strange garters and halters and straps, black bands of elastic cutting into white woman flesh.

The photos in the cellophane packages didn't really show anything that couldn't be seen in the breast-books. Here and there, if you were lucky, you might catch a glimpse of something forbidden, a small patch of darkness that would never have been allowed on the pages of a magazine. But, for the most part, the photos were nothing extraordinary.

For Willie, however, the little pictures had a special quality-a quality which made them worth the extra money they cost.

The women looked real.

They didn't look like models. They didn't have magazine-pretty faces. They didn't pose in front of carefully-decorated sets, with their bodies arranged unnaturally, with their hair combed sleek and their makeup perfect.

No-the girls in the little photos weren't models at all.

They were whores.

The rooms in the pictures were hotel rooms or ordinary apartments, with cheap furniture and cheap rugs. And the girls were the same-cheap looking, with hard eyes and lustful smiles. They weren't hiding behind the mask of a model's makeup, or behind the airbrushing of a magazine artist-they just spread themselves out for you, let you see almost all of them, and the expressions on their faces left no doubt in your mind that they would be happy to reveal the works, go all the way, let you see everything there was to see, if the law permitted it.

They were whores, and they did things the girls in the magazines would never do-squeezing their breasts in their hands, for instance, or sitting spread-legged in a chair with their white panties rolled in a ball and stuffed between their thighs, or standing with one tightly-cupped hand making an indecency out of the law's restrictions.

They were whores.

They came ten poses to a set at a cost of one dollar. Or three sets for two-fifty. Or six sets for five.

They were whores and they didn't care if you saw them, feasted your eyes on them, let your imagination run wild over them.

And the best part of all-they couldn't see you. They couldn't watch, because they were only photos.

Willie spent an hour going through the packages. He bought eighteen sets, paid the bored man fifteen dollars, hurried from the store with the bulging paper bag clutched in his hand, and rode home on the subway, to Brooklyn, to his one-and-a-half room apartment in Flatbush, to the four walls behind which he could conceal himself from the eyes, the watching laughing eyes.

He spent Saturday night alone with eighteen different women.

CHAPTER TWO

Trixie found the guy in a bar.

She found most of her guys in bars. It was funny about that, since a bar had nothing to do with what the guys really wanted. Why a man would go to a bar and just sit and drink when he wanted a woman was something she couldn't understand. If a man had an itch, he should go looking for someone to scratch it, and a gin-mill wasn't a very good place to look.

But men were men; they had their ways, and one behaved much the same as another. When Trixie couldn't find a customer anywhere else, she knew she could connect in a bar. It never failed.

The guy was sitting alone. He had a half-empty drink in front of him with a lot of bills and change around it. That was a good sign. The cheap ones kept their money in their pockets, but the spenders just let it lie on the bar. Trixie liked the spenders.

She crossed the bar quickly, not wanting to be approached by any of the other men in the place before she had sounded out this particular prospect. It wasn't comfortable to walk quickly on the high-heels she was wearing. For some reason, the men loved those high-heels, so she learned to put up with the discomfort.

As she hitched her trim little buttocks up onto the stool next to" the mark, she felt her unbound breasts swing inside her blouse. That was another thing that turned the men on. Once they found out a girl wasn't wearing a brassiere, there was no stopping them.

Behind the bar, behind the rows of bottles, there was a mirror. Trixie looked at herself first, just to make sure everything was okay. Her lipstick was bright and red and unsmeared. Her green eye shadow was intact, and gave her eyes a crazy snake-like look. Her honey-blonde hair fell in sleek waves to her creamy shoulders, and the bodice or her dress rode down just far enough to show off the upper curves of her breasts without revealing too much.

Everything was fine.

She pivoted on the stool, smiled her sexiest smile, and said, "Hi."

For a moment, the guy didn't seem to have heard her. In fact, he didn't even seem to have noticed her arrival on the seat next to him. It wasn't a good sign. If he was too drunk to notice something as simple as that, then he was surely too drunk to be a customer.

She was considering saying "H!" again, when the guy slowly turned and looked at her.

What the hell was the matter with his eyes? Something was wrong. His eyes were hollow and pained-looking, as if something terrible had happened to him, or was about to happen. He looked like a man waiting to go to the firing squad. It was creepy, but she didn't let it show in her face. She was too good a businesswoman for that.

"Buy me a drink, honey?" she asked. She tossed her head, making her hair dance around her shoulders. Once again, she felt her naked breasts shift against the cloth of the blouse. It was a little irritating to the sensitive tips, just enough to make them rise and pucker. She was careful to sit so that the cloth of the blouse would be pulled taut over the mounds, knowing that the sight of an excited nipple buttoning the cloth would do wonders to loosen a man up.

"A drink?" he repeated. His voice was hoarse, but not with drink. He seemed hardly drunk at all, but something was wrong with him. Trixie wasn't at all sure she liked the situation. But she stayed with it.

"Sure, hon," she replied. "A little drink together. What do you say?"

He looked at her face, puzzled. Then he looked at her breasts. He stared at them for quite a while. Trixie inhaled for effect.

"You're not wearing a brassiere, are you?" he asked.

It stopped her, but only for a moment. "You said it, hon. There's nothing inside this here blouse but me." She laughed.

"Are you wearing pants?"

Her smile slipped a little. It was a bit early to be sure, but this guy was acting like a genuine bird. She didn't like the smell of him at all.

!.

"Yes, hon," she said. "It's chilly out there. A girl's got to wear pants, or else she'll catch cold. You know what I mean?"

He pursed his lips and nodded. He was still looking at the front of her blouse. "You have very nice ones," he said.

"Very nice what's?" she asked.

"Breasts. Very nice. Very few girls could look as well as that without the help of a bra. They stand out so well. They're outstanding."

She watched his face to see if he was making a joke, but his dull expression didn't shift at all. So she didn't laugh.

"Thanks," she said. "I'm glad you like them."

"Oh, I don't like them," he answered. "I don't even know them yet. I just think they're pretty."

Doesn't even know them yet, she thought. Oh, brother.

"Listen, hon?"

"Yes?"

"You want to be introduced?"

"To your breasts?"

She nodded. "We could maybe arrange a little introduction, so you could get to know them, get to like them. How about that?"

He looked away from her blouse and let his eyes travel to her face. Once again, she felt uncomfortable in his creepy gaze. "Are you a whore?" he asked.

She considered getting mad, then decided the hell with it. He didn't sound as if he meant to insult her; he had just been stating a fact. A true fact, at that.

"Yes, hon. That's what I am. You in the mood for some fun?"

"Fun." He said the word as if he didn't understand it, as if it were a word from a foreign language.

"Sure. Fun. What do you say, hon? I could make you happy. I could really show you a time." The spiel, the inevitable phrases of her profession, the sweet words she always used, came spilling automatically from her mouth. "You look like a lot of stud, hon-you know? I bet you could really give a gal a ride. In this business you have to put up with all kinds of slobs, guys who don't know the first thing about making a girl enjoy it, but you don't look like that kind at all. You look like the real thing. Come on, hon, let's go tear off a piece. I'll even give you a special rate."

"How much?" he asked.

"Well, now-what I usually get is twenty-five-but for you-well, for a guy as good-looking as you, I'll knock ten off that." She smiled inwardly. The day somebody gave her twenty-five dollars for a throw, she'd retire.

"Fifteen dollars?" he asked.

"Fifteen-that's right, hon. And worth it, too. You're the kind of guy really warms me up-I got an itch to get under you."

He looked at her face, then at her blouse again. She had her hands in her lap, but when she saw where his eyes were looking she lifted one forearm under her breasts, making the soft globes rise inside her blouse, even threaten to spill out of it entirely.

"I think I like your breasts," he said, with the beginnings of a smile on his mouth. "Even without being introduced."

"They like you right back," she said. "The feeling's mutual. Speaking of mutual feeling, why don't we go somewhere? Come on, hon-I'm itchy."

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Trixie, hon."

He smiled. It wasn't much of a smile, but it was a good sign. "I like that name. It goes with you. My name's Ralph."

"Hi," she said. She moved her forearm, making her breasts bounce. "They say hi, too."

He laughed. He was loosening up. Some of the darkness was leaving his eyes, and the tight muscles of his face were relaxing. "Do you have a place for us to go, Trixie?"

"Oh, sure. But it'll cost you extra, hon. I made you a special rate, after all, and you can't expect me to pay for the room, too, now can you?"

"That's all right. I'll pay for the room, as long as you know where we can find one."

"Let's go there right now," she said. She leaned forward, pushing down on her arm so that the breasts rose in bold relief against her blouse. "I want to strip for you, hon. I want to show you a real good time."

"All right," he said. "Lead the way."

He got off the stool, and then, to her utter amazement, offered her his arm. The last time a man had done that, she had been in high school. For some reason, the simple gesture made her suddenly very fond of the guy.

She got off her seat and put her arm through his, making sure he could feel the softness of her breast against his bicep. He smiled down at her warmly, then began to move away from the bar.

"Hey, Ralph," she said, holding back.

"What?"

"Your change. Don't you want it?" He looked back at the bar. "Oh, I forgot all about it."

Man, she thought as he detached himself from her and went back to claim his change, I have picked myself a winner this time.

The hotel was only a few blocks away, on Forty-Eighth Street. As Trixie entered the lobby with the mark on her arm, she threw a wink at Perry, the night clerk. He nodded back and smiled.

"Don't we have to register?" Ralph asked as Trixie led him toward the elevators.

"Nope. These people know me. Just leave an extra five on the table upstairs, and I'll square it."

There was a car waiting. They stepped into it, and Trixie pushed the button for the sixth floor. As the car started up, she turned and looked at Ralph.

He was standing with his hands at his sides. His face had gone blank again.

"Hey," she said.

"What?"

"Don't you want to feel me?"

"Now? In the elevator?"

"Why not? Most men feel me in the elevator. You're paying for it, you know-you might's well get your money's worth."

She took a step toward him and picked his hands up from his sides. His palms were relaxed as she placed them against her breasts. "There. How's that?"

"They're very soft," he said.

"You like that?"

"Yes. I like women with soft breasts."

"Good." She said something obscene about men, and soft and hard. He never batted an eyelash, and usually a line like that got a rise out of a mark, in more ways than one.

The car stopped at the sixth floor and she picked his palms off her before the door opened. She took his hand and led him down the hall toward Room 609. She got the key out of her purse with one hand and unlocked the door.

"You have a key to this room?" he asked as she led him inside. "You always use this same room?"

"That's right, hon. I got an arrangement with the clerk. It saves sweat this way." She flipped on the lights and kicked the door shut behind her. Then she dropped the key back in her purse, put the purse on the bureau, and turned to face him.

"How about it, hon?" she said slowly. "Let's have a good one."

"Could I see you?"

She blinked. "See me? I don't get it, hon. What do you mean, see me?"

"Would you take off your clothes and let me look at you?"

She cocked her head. "Sure, hon. If that's what you want. You think that would get you worked up?"

"Yes," he said.

"Well, then, sure I'll strip for you. You just sit down there on the bed-no, wait a minute, that's no good. You still got all your clothes on. Why don't I get you comfortable so you can really enjoy yourself?" Her fingers came out and flipped open the buttons of his shirt with practiced movements. The shirt came off to reveal a hard-muscled bare chest. "Say, now, look at that. You got a build on you, old Ralph. I like hard men, I really like my men hard." She bent her head and bit lightly at his chest. "Yum. You taste good." Her fingers went down to his belt and unbuckled it. The top button opened at once, the zipper descended without a snag. In a moment, his trousers were riding his legs to the floor. "Come on now, hon, lift your feet-that's the way." The trousers came off his legs entirely. She bent to pick them up, then planted a quick bite on one of his hairy thighs. "Yum." She tossed the trousers onto a straight chair nearby. Kneeling before him, she made short work of his shoes and socks, even though she had to continually urge him to lift his feet.

In a moment, he was wearing nothing but shorts.

She pulled them down.

"Oh, Ralph-oh, hon-you're even better than I expected. You're really something." It was another of the standard lines, but for once she actually meant it. This mark was a whole lot of man.

After a moment, though, her smile of appreciation faded. "Hey, honey-you aren't excited at all, are you?"

"Excited?" He acted as if the word was from the same alien language as the word fun.

"Oh, well. We'll fix that up." She put her palms flat on his chest, then ran them down his torso, over the hard belly, down around the hips, sweeping suddenly across his loins. Her fingers closed briefly around him, then let go.

"Come on, hon-sit on the bed and take a load off. We'll have you there in no time."

He seated himself on the bed, but he didn't look particularly comfortable. He just looked tense.

"Here we go now," she said. She stopped slightly and crossed her arms, grabbing hold of the hem of her dress.

"No," he said. "Not like that."

"Not like what,.hon?"

"Not all at once. Make it slow. You know-stretch it out."

"Oh." She nodded and smiled. "I get you. You want to see a little strip dance, right?"

"Yes," he said.

"We can arrange that real easy," she said. "I ain't much of a dancer, you know, but I think I can do it so you'll like it."

"Go ahead," he said. "Do it."

She grinned at him, then turned to the bureau behind her. There was a small radio there, and she switched it on. "A little music ought to help get you in the mood, right, hon? Get me in the mood, too."

He didn't reply. After a moment, the soft strains of a dance band drifted from the speaker.

She turned to face him again. At first, she just stood in one spot, not moving, with her arms hanging at her sides. She enjoyed the sight of the man sitting naked on the bed, his big hairy legs stuck out in front of him, his hard belly breathing slowly. There was only one change needed to make the picture complete. If he needed a sexy dance to make that change take place, then she was going to give it to him.

She put her hands on her waist, then slowly ran her palms up along her torso, smoothing the cloth of her dress against the flesh. When her hands reached the breasts, she turned her palms upward and hefted the twin weights suggestively. Once again, the rounded masses lifted partially out of her low-cut bodice, accentuating the cleft of her cleavage.

She slid her cupped palms up until the nipples were centered in her hands, then gripped her breasts and rotated them against her torso, flattening the rounded shapes, making the flesh quiver and move against her fingers.

Trixie was beginning to get in the mood. It always excited her to have her breasts handled, even if the person handling them was herself. The soft music was helping the effect, too, and so was the sight of the nude man watching her. She wasn't sure, but she thought she noticed a faint stirring, a little twitch in response to her erotic display.

It pleased her very much.

She released her breasts suddenly, so suddenly that the masses bounced twice before settling. Then she ran her hands up the bare flesh above the low neckline of her dress, ran the hands up into her long blonde hair.

He twitched again. She smiled to herself.

Her hands came down out of her hair to her shoulders. Her dress was held in place only by two thin shoulder straps. It was sleeveless. Her fingers took hold of the straps and slipped them off onto her upper arms.

She grabbed the edge of the loosened bodice and peeled the material away, baring one round breast.

A small hiss of air blew between the mark's teeth.

Her hand was caressing the naked breast now, holding it, squeezing it, making it change shape for him, and he was really beginning to appreciate it. Trixie could see the evidence of that with her own eyes.

She took hold of the tip between her thumb and forefinger, and twisted it, making it rise and spread and darken in color. Then she peeled off the covering from the other breast, and went to work on it the same way.

Trixie knew from experience that her dance had already served its purpose. If Ralph hadn't been in the mood before, he certainly was now-as much in the mood, in fact, as it was possible for a man to get. According to the rules of her profession, now was the time to stop fooling around and get to business. The sooner she was finished with this mark, the sooner she could be out on the streets again, lining up another one.

But Trixie was enjoying herself. She was enjoying the sight of the guy's face as he watched her, the way his slow breathing had quickened, the way his flesh was reacting to the sight of her flesh.

So she kept it up. She let the dress fall to her waist, put her arms high over her head, and wriggled her body, making the rounded breast-globes shift and sway in time with the rhythm of the music. The sensation of her own meat moving like that only served to heighten her excitement.

After a while, she slipped the dress off her hips and let it fall to the floor. Her only remaining garments now were a pair of black lace panties, a black elastic garter belt, seamless nylon stockings, and her high-heeled shoes.

She took off the panties. Slowly, very slowly, slowly enough to drive a man crazy, she rolled them down her abdomen, baring the first rise of her pretty belly, baring the dimple of her navel, baring the long dark sweep which led to the termination of her thighs. And all the while she did this, she wriggled her hips and shoulders, made her flesh dance for him, made her limbs flex and move.

The panties fell to the floor near the dress. She kicked them away with one high-heel.

With her hands on her hips again, with her upper torso tipped back, with her face framed in the V of her thrusting breasts, she pumped her hips at him wantonly, thighs tensed and opened, calves flexing inside their nylon sheathes.

That was as far as she got.

"Please," he said. "Do it now."

She straightened up slowly and looked at him. "Are you ready, hon?" she asked. "Why, sure you are, ain't you? You're real ready."

He shifted himself, slid across the bed and reclined on it, making room for her beside him. "Now. Please."

"Listen, hon-don't you want me to take off my stockings?"

"Leave them on. I like it better that way."

She smiled knowingly. "Shoes, too, hon?"

"Yes."

"That's fine with me," she said. She came across the room and knelt down on the bed beside him. She put her arms on either side of his head, and bent, presenting the weights of her breasts to his face. "You like them now?" she asked.

His mouth came up greedily in answer, his lips leeched onto the firm tips, his tongue tasted her, his hands contained her.

Trixie sighed. This was really the life, and no question about it. Imagine having this kind of fun, balling with a man on a big soft bed, getting and giving the best sort of kicks there were, and being paid for it. Who could ask for a better deal than that?

Of course, there were plenty of whores who didn't enjoy men, didn't even enjoy sex. Some of them were so twisted up that they could only have fun with other women, and never got any kind of charge out of a man.

Trixie couldn't understand girls like that. As far as she was concerned, sex-just sex, with a man, with a woman, with anyone who had the proper equipment-plain old sex was the greatest thing in the world. You couldn't beat it, no matter how hard you tried.

Like right now, for example. The mark was kissing her front, and that was making her very happy. It was making him happy, too. Her hand, drifting down across his stomach, down toward his thighs, her hand could feel how happy it was making him. And feeling that only made her own happiness grow.

Two bare people, making it in ways that pleased them, all alone and touching and kissing on a bed-that was the biggest ball there was. And she got paid for it. What a gas.

His hands were drifting, too. Hesitantly at first, then more boldly, his fingers sought down along her torso, snapped the elastic bands of her garter belt, stroked the creamy mound of one hip and slipped around to contain the flesh of a buttock. And all the while his breath blew against her breast, hot and moist with excitement.

His hand felt along one nyloned leg, felt up past the little garter clasp, slipped onto bare warm skin and around the curve toward the delicate flesh inside the thighs. She shifted her knees on the bed, and allowed his fingers to explore.

They went on like this for some time, the mark handling and fondling and kissing. Trixie returning his caresses in much the same manner. The whole scene was getting her very excited, and she was beginning to ache for the finale. Playing around was all right within limits, but those limits were rapidly being reached.

She drew away from him suddenly, and rolled onto her back. She lifted her legs into an inviting cradle for him. "Come on, Ralph-come on, hon. Let's go now, huh? What do you say, let's do it now."

He lifted up on one elbow and looked into her face. There was a tense excitement in his eyes, but the dark sadness was still there behind it. He didn't move for some moments.

Then he said, "You know why I was drinking tonight?"

She blinked her eyes at him and frowned. "No, hon. How could I know that? What's the difference, anyway?"

"My girl walked out on me," he said. "She did?"

"Yes. We were going to be married. But she changed her mind. She told me she didn't love me any more. I loved her, but she didn't love me."

"Aw, hon-that's too bad." She put her hand on his cheek. "Why don't you just climb on board and forget all about her?"

"There are other women in the world, though, aren't there?" He lifted a hand and dropped it onto one of her breasts. "The world is full of women, isn't it? You lose one, you go looking for another. Right?"

"Right, honey. A good-looking guy can always find himself a woman. Don't you worry about it. You just forget about that lousy little gal of yours and have a ball with me, and tomorrow everything will look better. It will, believe me."

He held her breast in curved fingers, leaving only the nipple bare. His head came down suddenly, and he planted a sweet and tender kiss full on the coral circle. A little shock of surprise and pleasure sent a twitch through her flesh.

"Oh, nice," she said, meaning it. "You do that nice."

"Would you do something for me? Something sort of crazy?"

She pouted and her eyes grew wary. "Well, hon, that depends. How crazy?"

"Would you-" He paused and wet his lips. "Would you tell me you loved me? You don't have to mean it-just say it. Would you do that?"

Trixie looked deep into the man's eyes, and the pain back there made her wince. Men were so soft and helpless sometimes, like lost little kids. Aw, hell, she thought. You poor bastard. You poor sweet bleeding bastard.

"Sure-I'll do that, hon. Come on." She put her hand on him and led him gently between her nylon-clad knees, shifting her body until they were poised only an inch from each other. Then she reached up and took his face in both her hands, drawing his lips down to her own in a lingering kiss. Her tongue worked softly in his mouth.

When the kiss was ended, she said, "I love you, Ralph."

He slid the last inch down the guides of her thighs, she lifted her hips to meet him.

And there it was. It was good. He was good. He was even better than she had expected. He was all man, one hundred per cent man, and he knew how to use his manhood to its best advantage. He really made her thrill, made her nerves sing with sensation, made her heart shudder and pound against her ribs. His hands brushed her breasts, his belly slapped against her own, her hips and thighs ached sweetly with the driving force of him.

And all the while, with her palms on his shoulders, with her stockinged calves riding high on his back, she said over and over again, "I love you." And in a funny sort of way, she meant it. He was a man, after all, and she loved every last damned one of them.

That was the kind of girl Trixie was.

Afterwards, when they guy had finished, dressed himself and kissed her on the breasts and mouth and left her throbbing and breathing there on the bed, left the room and closed the door, she managed to lift her trembling body up from the bed. It wasn't easy-her muscles still twitched in the after-spasms of delight, and wouldn't really obey her commands.

But she managed it, got her head off the pillow far enough to look at the top of the bureau.

Right in the center of it lay a hundred-dollar bill.

CHAPTER THREE

Afterwards, Willie felt ashamed of himself.

He always felt ashamed afterwards, even though he knew there was really nothing to be ashamed of, even though he knew for a certainty that those damned eyes weren't watching him, couldn't be watching him here in the privacy of his own apartment. Nobody could see him. Nobody knew. So there was no reason to feel shame, now was there?

Besides, Willie had a book which told him there was nothing to be ashamed of. A book by a doctor. According to that book, it was perfectly normal for a fellow to indulge himself the way Willie did. It was a standard method for releasing sexual tensions, accepted as a valuable safety-valve by psychiatry. It freed the mind from endless aching thoughts of sex and let the brain concentrate on other things. Why, according to that book, there wasn't a civilization in the history of the world in which that particular thing wasn't done, and there wasn't a man alive who hadn't tried it at least once.

The book was by a doctor, and doctors should know. And the book said there was nothing wrong with it. In fact, the book was quite positive about that, even made a special point of informing the reader, in a round-about and polite manner, that he shouldn't feel any guilt if the urge ever came over him. In the absence of a female, when the pressure was really strong, then it was perfectly natural and right to let off steam that way.

But Willie felt ashamed anyway.

Because the book said a lot of other things about sex. Actually, the part that directly applied to him was only a few paragraphs long. The rest of the book was devoted to a broader view of the sexual scene, and the amount of space devoted to relations between men and women left no doubt in Willie's mind that his particular idea of fun was not regarded very highly.

In some ways, parts of that book were very exciting. Some of the key words were in polite Latin, of course, but the meaning of the sentences was quite clear. Willie liked the chapter about fore-play, about ways a man might arouse a woman, ways a woman could excite a man. Latin or not, those words conjured up wonderful pictures in the mind-visions of girls with slim cool fingers and bright red nails, fingers touching, nails lightly prickling, hands holding and stroking. And the words also made pictures of women-bare-bodied women lying sprawled on beds, waiting for the hands of their lovers to touch them and caress them in all the special ways the book mentioned.

Willie also liked the chapter about positions. The book mentioned fifteen of them. Some sounded more comfortable than others, but they all sounded great, because they all were designed to allow a man and a woman to come together in the most basic and wonderful way, to be a part of each other, and share pleasure.

Willie liked that book. Despite its stuffiness, despite page after page of dull doctor-talk and illustrations that looked like chicken-guts and spaghetti, the book opened windows for Willie. It enabled him to peek over imaginary window-sills, and see in his mind how it was done. That was exciting. And it was also valuable. Willie had to know how it was done, in case the opportunity to do it ever arose.

And Willie's knowledge of technique and position also came in handy when he was indulging in his solitary sport. How much more exciting it was to look at a photo of a reclining girl and recognize her pose as Position Number Eight, how much easier it was to imagine yourself assuming the other half of Number Eight and making the picture complete. And how much excitement there could be in just looking at a nude woman's hands, noticing that the manner in which she held her fingers was the manner prescribed for a woman in the third paragraph of page eighty-nine in the chapter on fore-play. How much easier that made it to imagine she was holding her hand that special way for you, just for you-sometimes, it almost seemed as if he could step through the frames of those photos and actually touch the girls, seemed as if their hands might reach out and take hold of him.

The book did a lot toward helping Willie feed his dream. He had read many such books, and this was the only one that truly satisfied him.

There was, however, one thing in the book he didn't like. He had a doubt it was true, but it annoyed him anyway. It was a hell of a thing to say, especially after inserting those remarks about how normal and ordinary it was for a guy to entertain himself the way Willie did, and sometimes, thinking about that particular statement at the wrong moment, he would find all the edge being taken off his lonely enjoyment.

The book said, quite positively, that there was no substitute for the real thing.

The real thing. Lying there on the bed, his photos scattered on the floor, his body limp and more or less satisfied, his mind fighting shame, Willie closed his eyes and thought about The Real Thing.

He had never had it. He had come close a few times, but never close enough to touch it. He knew in part what a woman felt like. He knew in part what a woman looked like. There were areas about which he didn't really know anything, but his imagination supplied the details. He knew enough about women and about sex to construct a fairly accurate picture in his mind of The Real Thing.

But he had never had it.

When he looked back along the track of his past, he could see certain landmarks-important moments on the road toward the real thing.

Nine years old. She was blonde. She was kind of skinny, but there was something about her legs that got to him. She wanted to play doctor. She knew an old shed in a vacant lot where they could be alone.

So they went there. And she lifted her dress and pulled down her pants-they were just white cotton briefs, like Willie himself wore-and she let him examine her. She didn't have any breasts at all. In fact, her chest looked a lot like his own. But parts of her were quite different-quite, quite different. He had found out all there was to know about nine-year-old girls that afternoon in the shack. He had looked, he had put his hand on her, he had slid his fingers over her chest and her Utile bottom.

Afterwards, she had examined him in the same way. And that had taught Willie some surprising things about himself.

But, of course, it hadn't gone any farther than that. That's as far as most nine-year-olds can go.

Thirteen. A party, thrown by one of the fat girls in his grammar school class. A stupid kissing game, where everybody had a number assigned to them, and someone would be sent into the dark basement and be asked to name a number, odd for the boys, even for the girls, and the person belonging to that number would have to go down into the basement, too.

All you were supposed to do was kiss. But when Willie heard his number called and went reluctantly down into the basement, he found the girl down there with her blouse off. She actually had breasts, that girl did, even though she was only thirteen. They were small and hard, like little apples with soft stems. They had kissed, all right, but not in the manner intended by the game. They only got around to kissing on the mouth after the people upstairs started calling down to them, asking them what was taking so long.

And the next day, Willie found he didn't have enough nerve to follow it up. So he never kissed or felt the girl's breasts again.

Sixteen. The balcony of a movie house. A girl coming into his row, a girl he had never seen before, wearing a striped jersey blouse that made her breasts really stand out, wearing a light cloth skirt, chewing gum so that it snapped. She sat down next to him. After a while, she leaned a little, and he felt her breast against his arm. After a little while longer, he put his hand on her, felt her through the stripes. She had a brassiere on, but the material was light, and he could feel everything right there in his hand.

He kissed her on the mouth, and she tongued her gum into one cheek, then stuck her tongue between his lips. She tasted like spearmint. He got very excited. It could have been a good thing, if he had played his cards right. But, once again, he lacked the nerve, didn't know how to begin, what to say. He asked her, stupidly, if she would like some ice cream. She said yes.

When he came back with the ice cream, there was another young fellow sitting next to her. Willie left the theatre in a hurry, and threw the ice cream in a trash can.

Milestones along the road to the Real Thing. No-better call them gravestones. Gravestones marking the places where opportunity had been allowed to die.

Willie was twenty years old. In another year, he would be allowed to vote.

Why hadn't he ever had it?

Later on, he got up from the bed, gathered his pictures and put them in the special drawer with all the others. Then he took a shower and went to sleep.

He didn't dream at all, and he was glad of that. His sleeping dreams were seldom very pleasant. He much preferred the dreams he had when he was awake.

In the morning, Sunday morning, he woke up with an idea.

The statement in that damned book was getting through to him more and more lately. The fact that there was, indeed, no substitute for the real thing was taking a lot of the fun out of his personal substitute. And, in the process, seemed to be taking a lot of the excitement out of his girl pictures.

The sets he had bought last night, for instance-they had been a lot of fun to look at, but none of them had really turned him on. And a couple of the photos in those sets had been wild-that one of the girl lying on the crumpled bed, for instance, her open thighs facing the camera, with only a single fold of sheet concealing the darkness below her abdomen-that photo should certainly have gotten through to him. So should the one with the three girls standing in a row, holding their breasts out to the viewer, puckering their lips in a manner which left no doubt at all what they wanted. And so should the one of the girl sitting with her feet up on the couch against her buttocks, with nothing but her own delicate hand preventing the picture from toppling into obscenity.

They should have brought him to a real boil. But they didn't. Somehow, maybe because of what the book said about the real thing and maybe because of his own unshakable guilt, the photos hadn't had their special charm.

The fifteen dollars had been wasted.

As he ate a Sunday morning breakfast of orange juice and donuts, his idea began to really take form. The trouble, he decided, was that the pictures demanded too much from his imagination. They showed him a naked woman, but that was all. If he was to get any further charge than the simple pleasure of looking at nude femininity, he had to conjure it up himself, make pictures in his mind above and beyond the pictures in his hand.

And that was exactly what was wrong.

Pictures of girls-just girls-no matter how naked they were, and no matter how much luscious anatomy they might reveal-such pictures were too far removed from The Real Thing. After all, if you could look at a photo of a big-breasted sweet-thighed wet-mouthed woman and imagine she was spread out like that for the pleasure and enjoyment of a lover, you could just as easily imagine she was sound asleep, or resting with a headache, or just drying off her sweat after a hard day of housework. The nude girls in those photos weren't necessarily thinking of sex at all-in fact, they were probably worrying about how they looked to the camera, thinking about the things they would buy with the money the photographer was offering them, or maybe just hoping that the photo session would be over soon because it was so chilly to be standing around without any clothes on.

Imagination can work both ways. If you can imagine something you like, you can just as easily imagine something you don't like. Lately, because of what it said in that book, Willie's imagination had tended to run in the wrong direction.

Willie was sick of pictures of just girls.

Willie wanted some pictures of The Real Thing.

That special drawer of his contained thousands of photographs, thousands of girls, but nowhere in there was a photo of The Real Thing. Such photos were things he had only heard of, and never seen. He had no idea where they might even be purchased. The stories about The Street said that photographs of men and women indulging in the sort of games described in Willie's book could be found under the counter at used magazine shops and book stores-maybe even at the very place where Willie bought his girl photos.

He didn't know if it were true. He didn't know how much such photos would cost, or even how to go about asking for them.

But he made up his mind to try.

It was courage, of a sort. Nothing spectacular, of course, but a step in the right direction for Willie. The decision to try, to face the discomfort and embarrassment of actually asking somebody for dirty pictures, that decision didn't involve any real change in Willie's personality, but it did help prepare him for what was going to happen a little later on.

It paved the way. It was a milestone on the road to The Real Thing, even if he didn't know it at the time.

He got dressed and left his shabby little Brooklyn apartment. He wasn't sure if he would find any stores open on The Street on a Sunday afternoon, but he had made the decision to try and he wanted to take advantage of it before it dissolved, like all his other good resolutions.

He caught the subway in Flatbush and settled back for the long ride to Times Square. There were no young girls or women in the car with him, so he had nothing to look at.

As a consequence, he was just staring out the window, watching the tunnel lights zoom by and vaguely hypnotized by the noise and the patterns of color, when the hand touched his shoulder.

"Hey, bud," said a voice, low and tense as the voice of a spy. "You wanna buy some hot pictures?"

CHAPTER FOUR

Trixie left the hotel in a fog that Saturday night, stopping in the lobby only long enough to slip Perry his fin for the use of Room 609. The desk clerk sensed her lack of attention and asked her what was wrong. Trixie didn't hear and didn't answer, just walked across the lobby and through the doors to the street, leaving Perry scratching his head in bewilderment.

It wasn't like Trixie to pass a man she knew without at least an exchange of quips. Nor was it like her to turn down a prospective customer, unless she was already engaged with one. But when the man stepped out of the doorway at the corner of Forty-Seventh Street and Eighth Avenue and asked her if she was available, Trixie just smiled, shook her head, and patted the man gently with one hand on a surprising area of his anatomy. She told him absently that she was through for the night, told him where he might find a girl for himself, and left him standing there on the corner with his mouth open.

When she got back to her apartment on Forty-Ninth, she discovered Vera wasn't home yet. That was a pity, in a way, because she had a real itch to share the details of her fantastic evening with her roommate. But maybe it was just as well. She was still too stunned to be functioning properly. She decided the thing to do was go to bed and get a good night's sleep, and wait for the light of the morning before even trying to evaluate the events just past.

So that was what she did. Without bothering to take a shower, without putting on the pajamas she customarily wore, she just turned down the covers, slipped into bed, and fell immediately asleep with a big happy smile on her face.

She woke up in the morning still wearing the smile.

The room was bright with sunlight. Sometime during the night, she had kicked the covers down, and now her naked breasts were being warmed by the sunshine falling through the window. It felt nice. She felt nice. Everything was just wonderful.

From the bathroom she could hear the sound of water drumming in the shower. She turned her head and looked at the pillow next to her own, wondering if Vera had spent the night beside her or was just arriving home. The pillow had a scoop in it where Vera's head had been, so that solved that problem.

Trixie raised her arms over her head, and hooked her toes in a fold of the covers, throwing them off altogether. She arched her naked body luxuriously in the warm sunlight, growling contentedly in her throat, like a cat.

The shower water stopped. "Hey, Vera," she yelled.

The voice answered hollowly from the tiled enclosure of the bathroom. "You up, Trix?"

"Yeah. Come on out. I got something to tell you."

She reached out for her purse and fished a cigarette out of the crumpled pack. After a moment's thought, she smiled, and lifted her red leather wallet out of the purse as well. By the time she had settled back and lit up, Vera had come out of the bathroom.

The two girls didn't resemble each other at all. Trixie had blonde hair, wore it long and full so it fell to her shoulders, but Vera's hair was black as midnight and cut, short in the continental manner. Trixie's features were young and cute, with a small upturned nose and a full-lipped little mouth, but Vera had a more modish face, like the face of a fashion model-a straight thin nose, a very wide mouth, and large black eyes which she made seem even larger through the use of black eye shadow.

In fact, the only point of resemblance between the two girls was in their personalities and their outlook on life. They both felt the same way about sex. They shared the same attitudes toward men, and toward themselves. They even shared the same profession. So it was quite natural and convenient that they share the same apartment.

Vera was wearing only a large terry-cloth towel wrapped around her middle as she came into the room. She stopped for a second when she caught sight of Trixie's nude body glowing in the sunlight.

"My, my," she said, smiling. "Don't we look sexy this morning?"

Trixie giggled. "Get rid of the towel, and come sit here by me. I got a great story to tell you."

Vera shrugged and unwound the towel, tossing it over the back of a chair. Her body was unlike Trixie's in its physical details-Vera's breasts were rather small, but very round and very firm; her hips had a boyish angularity to them, and her belly was concave within the frame of her loins. Her legs were longer than Trixie's and not as fully-fleshed, but the thighs looked very strong and the calves looked very limber. All in all, despite the obvious differences in structure, the bodies of the two girls presented a similar aspect.

They both looked like sex.

Vera crossed to the bed and sat down beside Trixie. "Gimmie a drag of that," she said, reaching out and taking the cigarette from the blonde's hand. "One of us better go out for some smokes pretty quick. That pack of yours is all we got in the house."

"Sure-later. Listen, Vera, I got to tell you about this. Forget cigarettes and listen for a minute."

"Okay, Trix." The girl smiled. "You sure look excited about something. In fact, when I came in last night, you looked like you were gonna bust, right there in your sleep. What the hell happened, anyway?"

Trixie sat up and hitched the pillow into position behind her back. "Here's how it was," she began. "I found this guy in a gin-mill-"

She recounted quickly the details of her meeting with Ralph, her inability to understand why he looked and acted so sad, the strange conversation they had shared. Vera listed without comment, puffing on the cigarette.

"So I did this strip dance for him," Trixie said. "It wasn't much of a dance, really-I like just stood there and peeled without moving around much. But, you know, I had to get him worked-up some way, and that was what he wanted."

Vera nodded. "Yeah. So?"

"So, it worked. I got off everything but my belt and nylons and shook it at him a little, and it did the trick. He gave me the go-ahead."

"I don't blame him," Vera said. "I'll bet you looked great."

"Silly," Trixie replied, laughing. "No kidding around now. Just listen."

"All right. So I'm listening."

"I played with this guy-Ralph, his name was-and let him play with me. We went through the whole bit. He was good, too. He knew his stuff. He got me real warm there toward the end, and there ain't many guys who can do that."

"You're telling me. But what was so special about this Ralph? I still don't-"

"Listen-I'm telling you. After we finished kidding around, I rolled over and opened up for him and told him to come ahead. But he didn't. Not right away. He just looked at me again, with that same crazy-sad expression on his face. He was real good-looking, you know? And that look of his really did things to me."

"Yeah, yeah. Get to the point."

"I am. Lemme tell you what he said."

"What did he say?"

"He said he was sad because his girl run out on him. He said he was going to marry this here girl, but she decided all of a sudden she didn't love him, and she just run out. He was real broken up about it, because he still loved her. That's why he was drinking all alone that way, and talking so funny."

Vera shrugged. "That's tough. But it happens."

"Right. And then he asked me if there were other girls in the world-just kept asking over and over again if he wouldn't find somebody else to take that girl's place. So, naturally, I told him he would. A guy as good-looking as that and as much of a man as he was, he'd have no trouble at all. I just told him to pin me and have some fun and forget all about the little bitch who japped him."

"Did he?" Vera asked.

"Not right away. He asked me if I'd do something special for him."

Vera rolled her eyes. "Oh, oh. Another bug. What was it this time?"

"No, no-it wasn't nothing like that. I thought the same as you when he said it, but he didn't want anything crazy. He just wanted me to say something while he was working on me."

"Say what?"

"That I loved him."

Vera blinked her eyes. "Really? That you loved him? That's a new one."

"Yeah, ain't it? So, look, it was little enough to ask, so I did it. I felt real sorry for the poor bastard, you know? He was so torn up over that floozie skipping out-I did like he asked, said "I love you" in his ear all the while I was giving him the business. And while he was giving me the business. He was some stud, Vera, you take my word for it."

"If you say so, Trix. That's a funny story, all right."

"Wait. I ain't finished yet." Trixie shifted her back against the pillow and drew her fleshy legs up into an Indian squat. "So, after he finished with me, he got dressed and left. I was gone-I was just out of it. That's how good he was. I swear, for a while there I couldn't move a muscle."

"Oh, baby-you're not gonna tell me he bugged out on you without paying off. Is that what happened?"

Trixie grinned and shook her head. "Nothing like it. When I finally came to and got up off that bed and looked around, you'll never guess what I found on the bureau."

"An I.O.U."

"Nope." Trixie picked up her old red wallet and opened it dramatically. "A picture of Benjamin Franklin."

Vera's mouth fell open, and stayed that way. Slowly, unbelievingly, her hand came up to touch the bill. "He gave you a C? A whole C? Is it real?"

"It's real, all right," Trixie replied happily. "This one little hunk of paper is worth as much as you and I get for six or seven throws. Is that fantastic, or is it?"

"Boy. I'll say." Vera stroked the bill with her fingers, then crossed her arms under her hard breasts. "What're you gonna do with it, Trix?"

Trixie leaned her head back against the pillow and looked at the sunny window. "I don't know yet, Vera. I got an idea, sort of, but I'm not sure it makes sense yet."

"What kind of idea? How to spend it, you mean?"

"No-not exactly. I was thinking-maybe I'd take some time off. Live on this C for a while."

"Take a vacation from hustling?"

"Yeah. That might be nice."

Vera thought about it. "I guess so. Although it seems to me you could find better ways of spending a century note than just coasting on it. Think of the great things you could buy with all that dough."

Trixie didn't reply for a few seconds. "Hey, Vera?"

"Yeah?"

"You ever get the urge to give it away?"

Vera looked at her in amazement. "Give it away? You mean, he down for some John and not charge him anything?"

"Yeah. You ever get the urge to do that?"

She snorted. "Hell, no. That's crazy. What kind of a question is that?"

"I don't know. But sometimes-I like men, you know?"

"Sure. So do I, most of the time."

"Right. And that guy last night-he got me thinking." Trixie straightened up and leaned forward, using her hands for emphasis. "Let's suppose there's a guy like that guy last night-like Ralph. This guy's broad run out on him, broke his heart, made him all sick and sad inside. Just suppose."

"Okay. What about it?"

"And let's suppose that this guy ain't got the price of a hustler. He don't have no money at all. He's all broken up over what happened, he really needs a woman to make him feel right again, but he can't raise the price. Or maybe he don't have the nerve to ask. Something like that."

"I get the picture. What's the point?"

"Vera-wouldn't you feel sorry for a John like that?"

The girl pursed her lips. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Wouldn't it be a kick to give it to a guy like that? I mean, for nothing? Like charity, or something?"

"I can't see it, Trix. I can't see how it'd be any different from giving it for pay."

"Oh, listen-it would be a lot different, Vera. A John who can pay for it can get it from just anybody. If he picks you or me out, it's only an accident. It could just as easily have been two other girls. Right?"

"Right."

"So don't you think it would be nice to be really appreciated for a change?"

"Appreciated? How, Trix?"

"Give it to a guy who really needs it-a guy who can't get it anywhere but from you. Pick out some poor slob who's going around with this big itch on, pick him out and give him the works, give him every last goddamm thing he needs, and not charge him anything for it. Wouldn't it be nice to know that the John working on you really appreciated what he was getting-appreciated that you were you, that you decided to let him have it when you didn't have to give it to him at all? Don't you think that would feel just great?"

Vera lifted her plucked eyebrows. "Sounds screwy to me, Trix."

"Maybe." Trixie smiled and smoothed her long blonde hair with a hand. "But that's what I'd like to do. I'd like to find some guy who really needs a throw, but who can't get it anywhere. I'd like to give myself away, just once. Like do a good deed, make some poor John happy when he really needs it."

Vera shook her head. "It's your C, Trix. You can do anything you want with it. You wanna play Girl Scout, that's your business."

"Don't you understand at all, Vera?"

The girl thought for a moment, then smiled. "I guess maybe I do, Trix. Who knows, if that was my C, I might do the same thing."

Trixie nodded. "I'm gonna try it. Maybe I'll just waste the whole hundred, but maybe not. Anyway, it'll be fun seeing how it works out."

Vera put her hand on Trixie's naked thigh. "Hey, Trix?"

"What?"

"As long as you're gonna give it away, how about throwing a little piece in this direction?"

Trixie looked down at the hand and laughed. "Hey, you in the mood, Vera?"

"You bet I am," she answered. "I came home last night in the mood, but you were conked out. I had to sleep on that damned yen all night."

"Oh, Vera-you know you can always get it from me. Just anytime at all. That's part of the arrangement."

"The arrangement," Vera repeated. "Yeah, sure. But you like it, don't you? You enjoy it?"

Trixie smiled. Poor Vera. She was another one, like the guy last night. People shouldn't have to live life always aching for something. If the breaks were right, you could just coast along, have fun, do what you wanted and never take it seriously. But sometimes the breaks went the wrong way, and all of a sudden you couldn't play it by ear any more, couldn't take it cool, the way Trixie did.

Vera was another bleeder, like Ralph. She had this thing for gals, for making it with gals. And she felt guilty about it. Trixie was no head-shrinker, but she could recognize guilt when she saw it. And, to her, guilt was the saddest thing there was, for a whore or for anybody.

When they had taken the apartment together, Trixie had found out all about Vera. Vera was a dyke. She didn't want to admit it, but that was what she was. She enjoyed it with men, to a certain degree, but whores get kind of sick of men after a while, even straight whores. Queer whores get sick of men even faster.

So they had this arrangement together. They shared the rent and the grocery and food bills, and they slept in the same bed together, and every once in a while-not often; usually only once a week-Vera would want Trixie to ball a little, lessie style.

Trixie didn't mind. She preferred men, but she didn't mind balling with a woman. Maybe it was queer, but it was sex, and sex in any form was better than a lot of things she could think of. It was a kick, and kicks were what life was about.

"Silly girl," she said, putting her hand on Vera's cheek. "Sure I enjoy it. Can't you tell?"

"Yes." Vera smiled a little. "You act like you do-but-"

"Aw, honey-I think it's just great. Come on, he down here with me and let's jazz a little."

Vera squeezed Trixie's thigh, then shifted herself into a prone position on the bed. Trixie looked down at her tenderly.

"You want a quickie, or should we stretch it out?"

"A long one, Trix," Vera said, wetting her lips. "I-well, I need a good long one."

"Sure, honey. I know all about it. That's okay. We'll make it good and long, for both of us."

Trixie tossed the pillow on the floor and slid down beside the other girl. She slipped her fingers gently around one of Vera's firm little breasts. Slowly, the tips of her fingers climbed the mound toward the tender disc of the nipple.

"You like this, honey?"

"Oh, Trix-oh, you know I do. I love it when you touch me."

Trixie made her hand into a cup and fitted it over the solid breast. She could feel the tip rising into her palm, tense with pleasure. She moved her fingers skillfully, testing the shape of the breast, pressing it flat against Vera's solid torso, then drawing it up in a lingering caress.

Vera closed her eyes. Her lips opened and slow long breaths began blowing in and out of her mouth. She rolled her head on the crumpled bedsheets.

It was a funny sensation to be feeling another woman's breasts. Trixie knew she would never really get used to it. Lying here like this with a nude female at her side, she had an idea of what it felt like to be a man-and, as if the act were somehow a mirror of sensation, she could almost tell how she herself felt to the excited exploring fingers of a man.

In a crazy way, she got a triple charge out of jazzing with Vera. She enjoyed handling sex-flesh, even that of another woman-she enjoyed pretending she was a man, enjoyed the exchange which somehow let her see into the mind of an excited male-and she enjoyed the simple pleasure of stimulation.

As she caressed Vera's stiffening flesh, she lifted her free hand and grasped one of her own breasts. That way, she could feel it three times. She could feel a breast in her left hand, another one in her right hand, plus the sensation of a hand touching and exciting her own tender flesh. Three separate feelings that flowed together into one great feeling.

When she had Vera really trembling, Trixie leaned her head forward and removed the cupped hand from the girl's breast. She swung her hair above Vera's body, brushing the long blonde strands across the hard circles of the nipples. Then, fitting her hands carefully around one of the tight hemispheres, she dropped her mouth to it.

Vera stiffened and sucked in air. Her hands came searching, and found the pendulous shapes of her lover's breasts, caressing them with trembling fingers as Trixie's mouth danced against her sensitive flesh. The two women caught at each other eagerly, passionately, revelling in the sensation of touching and being touched.

And being kissed. Vera pulled Trixie around, slid her head on the sheets until the blonde's lovely breasts were hanging massively just above her face. Vera's fingers guided them down as her wide-lipped mouth opened into a wet O.

Trixie could almost imagine that the breast she was kissing was her own, that the mouth kissing her was her own mouth. The whole thing was turning back on itself, like a wheel rolling-only a little wheel at the moment, but one which would soon grow larger, roll faster, really start to move.

Trixie shifted her fleshy body until she was reversed on Vera. She kissed one breast, then the other. Beneath her, Vera did the same.

Then Trixie began moving.

Her mouth kissed the valley between the firm bowls of flesh, drifting downward across. the tight torso, leaving little wet hp-circles along the rib cage. Vera's mouth was doing the same thing. As Trixie slid her face toward a new goal, her body moved against Vera's kissing lips, against her warm darting tongue.

She kissed the little hollow of Vera's navel, and felt an answering kiss against her own navel.

And still her mouth moved downward, like a snail slowly coursing over the nude and trembling flesh, kissing and mouthing everything in its path.

They were two snails, two snails named Trixie and Vera, and they were crawling against each other.

Down across the flat vibrant plane of Vera's abdomen the Trixie-snail moved. Down to the small fold of flesh where abdomen ended and limbs began. Slowly, the Trixie-snail climbed the roundness of a lifted thigh.

The Vera-snail did the same.

There was a find down on the leg-a soft fuzz which tickled Trixie's lips. She liked that. For some reason, that excited her tremendously. Her hands lifted, touched the backs of Vera's knees, then slid cupped down along the thighs and under to clutch the tender mounds of the buttocks.

Once again, Vera's hands echoed and imitated. Trixie's own bottom was suddenly possessed in a two-handed caress.

In the one sensible moment left to her, the one moment remaining before the awesome kick of sex drove all reason from her mind, Trixie had a funny thought. She seemed to see a big wide space, stretching off as far as the eye could see-like a parking lot, or an airfield, or something. And right in the middle of all that emptiness, a vast line of people standing shoulder to shoulder. They were mixed male and female. They were all naked. They all had the same look in their eyes that Ralph had worn the night before, that Vera had worn when she asked if she could have a little loving. They all looked just like that.

And they were all bleeding. Trickles of red blood ran from their bodies and wound like snakes away from them in all directions.

The bleeding bastards. The ones who can't take life cool, because the breaks keep lousing things up. Millions of poor bleeding bastards, broken by the lousy breaks.

She loved them all. She wanted to run to them, get out bandages and salve, heal up all those wounds and stop them from bleeding like that.

But, of course, there were far too many of them. Millions and millions-no one person could possibly take care of every poor bleeder in the world. A person would be lucky it she could really help just one of them.

Trixie sighed for the bleeders.

Then, the snail of her mouth shifted, and hung poised in mid-aid for a single breathlessly intimate moment.

The firm columns of Vera's thighs closed against Trixie's head, pressing hard against her ears, filling her senses with a roaring like the distant surf heard in a seashell.

The girls fell together, their bodies locked, then-hands filled with each other's buttocks, their breasts crushed against each other's bellies.

Outside, beyond the sunny window, the bleeders bled on.

CHAPTER FIVE

At first, Willie was scared.

The man looked like a nut of some kind, with narrow close-set eyes and a wet mouth that kept changing shape, never settling down, never ceasing its moist twitching.

Besides these details, which were bad enough, the man's cheeks were gray with stubble-in fact, his skin itself was very nearly as gray as his beard. His clothes looked as old as the paint job on the subway car, and smelled a little like a public men's room. His breath wasn't much better.

Willie thought at first the man was a lunatic. He got this terrible picture of a big knife hidden inside that shabby coat, a knife designed to cut the guts out of innocent young men on subways, a knife made to satisfy a maniac's murderous whim.

But after a few seconds, he decided the knife was only a figment of his imagination. If this smelly twitching man wanted to kill him, he would have done it by now-there wasn't a soul in the entire length of the subway car besides the two of them. Since he wasn't seizing this great opportunity, then he couldn't have murder on his mind.

Dirty pictures. Was that what he had said? No-hot pictures.

Weren't hot pictures the same as dirty pictures?

"How about it, bud?" the man asked, still speaking like Secret Agent X-9. "You want some pictures?"

"Pictures?" Willie repeated foolishly.

"Yeah-you know. Hot pictures. The real stuff, too. Action poses, like you hear about."

"Dirty pictures?" Willie asked, just as foolishly.

"Yeah, yeah-dirty pictures." The man's mouth twitched and changed, as if he were rolling an invisible cigar between his lips. "Come on, bud-yes or no? You want 'em, or don't you?"

"Yes," Willie said, very foolishly.

The little eyes opened a fraction of an inch, revealing two wet black pupils. The crawling lips pulled back over teeth the color of wet cigarette butts. "I thought you might be interested," said the man. "When I saw you, I thought you might want some good stuff."

Willie winced slightly. "What's that supposed to mean?" He was jabbed by the sudden sharp conviction that this man belonged to the eyes, the eyes that knew all about Willie, watched Willie all the time, and laughed. The man sounded as if he somehow knew.

But it was only an illusion. When he saw the expression on Willie's face, he backed down hurriedly. "Hey, I didn't mean nothin', bud. I meant only that you looked like a connoisseur."

The French word rolled off his tongue as if it were the foulest and most unprintable obscenity. Willie was reminded of the breast-books he had seen-the ones which said For Connoisseurs Only on their covers.

"Listen-what do you mean, hot pictures?" Willie asked.

The man's lips stopped twitching for a moment. "What the hell do you think I mean? Hot pictures, that's all."

"I don't understand," said Willie.

"Hot pictures," said the man, very slowly and with great feeling. He looked baffled.

"You mean," asked Willie, "pictures of bare women?"

"Naw," the man replied, waving his hand contemptuously. "Nothin' tame like that. I'm talkin' about action poses."

Willie had the distinct feeling he was making an idiot of himself, but he was still unwilling to believe his good fortune. To strike out blindly on a Sunday morning in search of photos of The Real Thing, and have a man come out of nowhere and literally drop them in your lap-well, that was a lot more luck than Willie was used to.

No matter how embarrassing it might be, he had to make certain before he could allow himself to get excited.

"I still don't get you," he said. "What do you mean, action poses?"

"Come on," the man said. "You know what I mean. You gotta know what I mean. Action is-action."

"Photos of bare women jumping around?"

The man's mouth twitched so violently it threatened to jump off his face. "Naw-not just bare broads."

"What, then?"

"Guys and broads."

Willie's own mouth twitched slightly. "Men and women?"

"Yeah."

"In the same picture?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"Naked?"

"Yeah-now you got it, bud. Naked men and women."

"You mean," asked Willie, "the kind of pictures you buy under the counter on Forty-Second Street?"

The man shrugged massively. "I guess so. I don't know what the hell you buy under the counters on Forty-Second Street. I get my pictures from New Jersey."

"These naked men and women-"

"What about 'em?"

"Are they-what are they doing?"

"Doing?" The man's upper Up lifted in a sneer of surprise, which was an expression Willie had never seen before. "What the hell kind of question is that? What do naked men and women do with each other besides that one thing?"

"Are they-" Willie searched his mind for a word. He discarded the filthy ones-he didn't much like them, and felt uncomfortable saying them. He ran through the words in that doctor-book-intercourse, copulation, conjunction, sexual union-and couldn't find a single appropriate one.

Finally, he compromised. "Are they making it?"

"Making it? Yeah, if that's what you call it. Yeah, they're making it."

"Pictures of people making it?"

"Yeah, yeah-hot pictures, like I said."

"Pictures," asked Willie leaning forward intently, "of The Real Thing?"

The man smiled. It was a disgusting thing to watch. "That's it, bud. The Real Thing. Authentic action photos, the kind you hear about, the kind men like. Now you got it."

"The Real Thing," said Willie, with awe.

"You want some? I got what you want, bud."

"Yes," Willie replied. "I sure do."

When the train reached the next station, Willie and the man got off together. They came up out of the subway on a corner in downtown Brooklyn, the large shopping area just across the river from Manhattan. Since none of the stores were open on Sunday, the streets were almost completely deserted.

The man led Willie into a neighborhood he had never seen before, along streets lined with faded brown-stones, down narrow alleys full of garbage and cats, and came finally to a ratty-looking four-story apartment building.

It was a walk-up. Naturally, the man's apartment was on the fourth floor. By the time they made the landing, Willie was righting for breath, although the man seemed hardly winded at all.

The apartment was small, and smelled just like the man. The rooms and the tenant were made for each other. Willie thought of asking the man if he would open a window, then decided he'd better not.

The man went straight to a closet and took a big battered suitcase down from the upper shelf. He carried it across the room with effort, and let it fall on the smelly bed. Then he flipped the catches and lifted the lid, stepping back like a ringmaster who had just introduced a circus act.

Willie moved across the room to the bed and looked down into the suitcase.

The Real Thing.

It stared at him from hundreds of little wrapped packages, little cellophane windows beyond which men and women struggled timelessly in the classic poses of The Real Thing.

And this time, for once, there were no carefully placed hands, no coyly lifted thighs, no twists of bed-sheets or wisps of underwear to hide anything from the viewer. Nothing at all was hidden from the viewer. Absolutely nothing.

With a pleasant shock of recognition, Willie spotted Position Number Five. It had always been one of his favorites, and he was surprised to see that his mental picture of it had been quite accurate. And there, right next to it, was Number Nine. And Number Three. And, of course, Number One-good old Number One. There were other surprises, too. The whole chapter on fore-play came to life inside that suitcase-all the little tricks and caresses and kisses Willie had read about were shamelessly displayed in those photos-man and women caught quite thoroughly in the act by the cold flash of a camera which saw and revealed all.

Willie decided that one picture certainly was worth a thousand words, especially if those words were in Latin.

There were books in that suitcase, as well as photos. The books were wrapped in cellophane so it was impossible to see their contents, but one look at the photos on their covers left no doubt as to what might be found inside.

Pictures of The Real Thing. Books about The Real Thing. A whole suitcase full.

"Listen," said the man, touching Willie's shoulder. "There somethin' special you want? I got all kinds of stuff in here. You name it, I got it."

Willie tore his eyes from the display with difficulty. "You mean, besides what's here?"

"Sure," said the man. "You like some shots of gals making it together? Dykes going at it? I got those, if you want."

Willie recalled another chapter in the doctor-book, a chapter which had always held a certain dark fascination for him. "Yes, I think I would like some of those."

"Fine," said the man, rubbing his hands. "How about clothes? You got any special fondness for garters? Or girdles? Or high-heel shoes?"

"I don't know," Willie said frankly. "Better give me some of those, too."

"Wonderful," said the man. "How about big groups? Five, six, seven people all going at it together. Hail, hail, the gang's all here?"

Willie laughed. He was beginning to feel just great. "Some of those, too."

The man went on, happily naming category after category, sub-category after sub-category, until Willie's head began to spin. Actually, he wanted them all. Each and every item in that suitcase was a more accurate window into The Real Thing than he had ever seen before, and he hated to pass any of them up, for fear he'd miss an important point.

Willie and the little man went on like this for a while. Gradually, the contents of the suitcase diminished, and a pile of cellophane-wrapped packages grew on the bed beside it.

When all the possible variations had finally been exhausted, Willie and the man stepped back from the suitcase and surveyed their handiwork proudly. For just a moment, a sort of comradery grew up between them-their mutual enjoyment gave them something in common.

Willie shook a cigarette out of his pack and offered it to the man. He accepted it without a word. They lit up, blew clouds of smoke out into the room, and stared at the pile of packages on the bed.

"You know," the little man said, "that's an awful lot of stuff there."

"It sure is," said Willie.

"I don't mean to get nosy," said the man. "But you sure you got enough money to pay for all that?"

Willie tilted his head and thought. "I don't know. Depends how much they are, doesn't it?"

The man laughed. "Yeah, that's right, ain't it? Boy, you hit the nail on the head that time."

"I'll take as much as I can pay for," Willie said. "Add it up."

"You want I should add up how much for the pile?"

"Yes. If I can afford it, I'll take them all."

Rubbing his hands, twitching his lips, the man went to the bed and sat down. "Now, these here packs of photos-they normally go for five dollars each, but seeing as how you're such a good customer, I'll knock the price down for you."

"All right," Willie said. "That's good of you."

"Let's see-you got ten packs of photos-that's fifty dollars-for you, I'll let 'em go at thirty. Thirty for the bunch. Okay?"

"Fine," said Willie.

"Now, the little books go for seven-fifty, and you got three of 'em, so that comes to twenty-two fifty, regular price. Make it eighteen dollars. That's forty-eight clams so far, right?"

"Right," said Willie.

"These here big books with all the pictures are supposed to be ten bucks each, and you got three. That's thirty, which we'll make-oh-twenty even. Okay?"

"Sure," said Willie.

"Then you got two of the big picture sheets, the ones with all the little photos on 'em-they go for two-fifty, but-what the hell, I'll throw 'em in for nothin'."

"Thanks," said Willie.

"Don't mention it. So, all told, you owe me sixty-eight bills. Right?"

"Right." Willie reached for his wallet, opened it, and looked inside. After a moment, he said, "sixty-eight dollars?"

"Yeah. Sixty-eight. That's right."

"That's a lot of money," Willie said.

The little man sighed and stubbed out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. The comradery died with the cigarette. "How much you got?"

"Forty dollars," Willie said.

The man shook his head, as if the weight of some terrible burden were resting on his shoulders. "Take it away," he said. "For forty."

Willie pulled four tens from his wallet, and refused to look at the few lonely singles he had left. He dropped the bills on the bed, then put his wallet back in his pocket, and scooped up his purchases.

"Hey-one more thing."

The man looked up. "What?"

"Can I have a bag for all this stuff?"

"A bag." The man's face reflected pain. "A god-damm bag."

"Well, after ah," Willie said. "I can't ride the subway carrying stuff like this in my arms. I'll get arrested."

"Yeah. All right. Just a second." He got off the bed and went into the kitchen. After a bit, he came back with a large brown grocery bag. As he handed it to Willie, a cockroach ran out of it.

"On the house," the man said. "Any roaches you find, you can keep them, too."

Willie dropped the cellophane-wrapped packages into the bag and rolled it shut. Then he went to the door.

"Nice meeting you," he said over his shoulder. "Sure," the man replied.

Willie glanced back once as he closed the door behind him. The man's lips were twitching like lunatic worms.

It wasn't until he got back on the subway and was riding toward his home that it really hit him. The Real Thing. A whole bagful.

Without knowing it, Willie had taken another step on the long road to what he really wanted. There were only a few steps left to go.

CHAPTER SIX

By Monday evening, Trixie had the whole thing straight in her mind.

She was being very silly about this charity bit, and she knew it. Actually, she agreed with everything Vera had said. It was pretty rare for a Times Square hooker to get one hundred dollars all in a lump the way Trixie had, and by rights she should be spending it on some kind of good time. Maybe a few new dresses-just regular dresses, not dresses designed to mold and cling to her curves, show off her body to customers. Or maybe dinner in some nice restaurant and a Broadway show. She had picked up many a John outside those fancy theatres, but she had never seen a live stage play in her entire life.

Or, most sensible of all, perhaps she should just put the C-note in the bank where it would be safe. After all, she wasn't getting any younger; the day would eventually come when she would be too old and dried up to work, and anything she could stash away now while she was young and still earning would come in mighty handy later on.

She knew these things, and acknowledged the wisdom of them all. But she had this crazy idea, had this uncontrollable urge to try it out, and so she let her emotions override her good sense.

That's a hazardous state of mind for a whore.

Trixie had thought it out before leaving the house that evening, and had formed a plan. First, she would have to find a bleeder. That wasn't going to be easy, because real bleeders didn't usually show it. Like Ralph, for instance, or Vera. Looking at them, not knowing anything about their backgrounds, a person would never suspect just how torn up they were mside, just how poorly life had treated them. Genuine bleeders preferred to bleed in private, hiding their pain from the world.

But finding a bleeder, as hard as that was going to be, was only the beginning. What Trixie wanted was a bleeder with the sort of problem she could solve. For instance, if she were to run across a sad little man who mourned the death of his mother, allowing him a free roll wasn't going to touch the core of his sadness. Nor would her prostitute's skills make any impression on the sorrow of a fellow who wanted a million dollars, or wanted furiously to be the first man on the moon. Bleeders bled for all sorts of crazy reasons.

What she had to find was one who bled for a sex reason.

It was as simple, and as difficult, as that.

The way she saw it, the sudden unexpected gift of a hundred dollars had freed her body for this experiment. At the customary twenty dollars a turn-fifteen for herself and five for Room 609-she would be able to give it away five times and come out precisely even. Five chances to find and help a bleeder. Would those chances be enough?

She was running another risk, she realized, besides the more obvious ones. Right now, she was feeling very sorry and sympathetic toward the bleeders of the world, and wanted terribly to help a few of them. But suppose she couldn't? Suppose she managed to locate five legitimate bleeders, and found her talents and skills insufficient? Suppose she was given five tries, and muffed them all?

Wouldn't that just make it worse? For the bleeders, and for herself as well? Might she not be taking a chance of turning into a small-time bleeder herself?

She arranged everything in two columns in her mind, columns marked Good and Bad. In the Bad column, fine after line of things wrong with her plan marched down the page, like names in a telephone book. In the Good column, there was only a single entry.

Maybe, said the Good column, just maybe, you can actually help somebody.

For Trixie, the two columns balanced.

She found the first one standing outside a theatre on The Street.

The minute she saw him, she smelled pay dirt. He was a small man, balding and fortyish, with baggy clothes and a shaggy little moustache. He had cheap shoes on his feet, a tarnished silver ring on his finger, a lost and bewildered expression on his face.

He stood just to the left of the box office, staring at the glass display case. The current show at the theatre was a double-bill-a nudist flick called SUN ROMP, and a grade-Z turkey called GIRLS IN DUTCH. The display case was filled with still photos from the films, but, of course, the majority of the scenes were culled from the nudist picture. Nobody ever went to a theatre to see girls in dutch unless they could also see girls in the nude.

The small man was staring at the photos intently. His fingers twitched at his side as if he ached to reach through the glass and peel off the little patches of black tape which barely made the stills decent. Something about the look on his face gave Trixie the impression that he had been standing there for some time, gazing at the running jumping women, trying to imagine away the black rectangles which concealed their salient points.

He looked like as good a place as any to start.

She shifted her handbag into the crook of one elbow, pulled the waistline of her dress into shape, patted her honey-blonde hair, and sauntered over.

The small man didn't even notice her. At the moment, he obviously had eyes only for the rectangle-girls in the glass case. Trixie stood beside him for several seconds, waiting for him to look up, but nothing happened.

Finally, remembering Ralph, she decided that maybe bleeders didn't know how to speak unless they had first been spoken to. "Hi," she said.

She might just as well have jabbed a pin in his seat. The small man whirled, like a shoplifter caught in the act, and looked at her. He was a very "small man, smaller than Trixie, so when he turned he was face to face with her heavy breasts.

Trixie took a deep breath for him. As usual, she was wearing no bra; as usual, the breath did fantastic things to her twin-globed front.

The small man's eyes bugged from his head, looking almost like a pair of breasts themselves-miniature white breasts with black dilating nipples.

Then he looked into her face.

"W-W-W-What?" he stammered.

"I said, hi, hon." She smiled a big wet smile. "Hi."

"Hi?" Slowly, his eyes receded into his skull. At the same moment, a fine beading of sweat sprang up on his creased forehead.

"What's up, hon?" she asked.

"Up?" he repeated.

"Yeah. You going to the show here?"

"The show?"

Little Sir Echo, she thought. "Yeah, hon-the show. Or did you see it already?"

He moved his hands helplessly and his nose twitched, reminding Trixie of a rabbit. "No," he said.

His reply didn't answer her question, but she let it pass. At least he was replying, and that was the first step.

"You all alone, hon?" she asked.

"Alone?" he echoed. "Oh, yes." Twitch-twitch went his hands, his nose.

"Aw, that's too bad," she said, making her voice soft and sweet. "Would you like some company?"

"Company?"

"Company, companionship, whatever you want to call it. You know, hon."

He stared fixedly at her face, and seemed thoroughly stunned. "Are you-" he began, then stopped, unable to complete the sentence.

Trixie could read his thoughts as surely as if his skull were made of glass. "Try me, hon," she said.

"I-I don't-" Again, he couldn't get any farther.

"You broke, hon?" she asked.

He pressed his lips together and nodded bleakly. The look in his little bugging eyes tugged at Trixie's heart.

"Oh, now, that's okay, hon-really, it's all right. I don't want no money."

"No money?"

"Uh-uh, hon. Not a cent. And that's the truth."

"But-" He paused, then pushed the rest of the sentence out. "Then, what do you want?"

"Let's put it this way, hon," Trixie said. "What do you want?"

"Oh, my," said the small man.

She practically had to lead him by the hand to get him away from the front of the theatre, but somehow it was managed. Walking with the little guy at her side, she could sense the nervousness and agitation in him-without looking she knew his hands and nose were still twitching. If he was reacting this violently to the mere presence of a woman at his side, then the sight of her naked and beckoning would probably paralyze him completely.

She spotted a bar up ahead, and steered the small man toward it. A few drinks would surely loosen him up, oil whatever works he possessed. Besides, Trixie felt in the mood for a couple herself. If she was reading the signs correctly, her mission of mercy had connected right off the bat.

They sat opposite each other in a booth. Trixie was unable to get the small man to express any kind of preference, so she ordered double vodkas and tonics for the both of them. She knew from experience what a deceptively innocent mixture that was, and how very plastered a person could get on it before he knew what was happening.

She tried several times to draw him into conversation, but nothing worked. He just sat across from her, hands clenched around his drink, occasionally taking a pretty healthy swig, the rest of the time staring at her. He looked at her face now and again, but mostly he kept his eyes fixed on her breasts.

When all attempts to get him talking had failed, Trixie tried a different approach. She glanced around, made sure none of the customers or the bartender was looking in her direction, then picked her hands up off her lap and put them just under her breasts. Only a slight upward pressure was necessary to make the rounded beauties really bulge.

"You like me, hon?" she asked, her voice hushed and coaxing.

His mouth came open. He said, "Ak."

"You like the way I look?" she persisted. "How about it, hon? Do I look good to you?"

Mouth still open, eyes bugging, he nodded his head.

She moved her hands, making scoops of her palms, and hefted the meaty breasts suggestively. "I ain't got no bra on, hon. Can you tell?"

He made a little sound, which might have been a yes.

"I don't like to wear bras," Trixie purred. "I don't like to tie them up like that. I like it when they're loose. I like to feel them swinging around."

The small man's hands were formed around his drink tightly enough to shatter the glass.

"Hey, hon? You like this part of a woman?" She jiggled herself for emphasis.

He nodded. He still seemed incapable of speech, but at least his head was working.

"I'll bet you do, hon. I'll bet you really go for these. How about it? Do you?"

He nodded.

"You see a lot of them?"

He started to nod, then shook his head.

"No, huh? Aw, hon, that's too bad, seeing as how you like them so much. You get to touch them very often?"

His head shook again, slowly and mournfully. "Poor honey. I'll bet you really like to touch them, too. Ain't that right?" He nodded.

Poor sad little bleeder, she thought. Bald and forty, doesn't have the price, doesn't get any. That's so sad.

"Would you like to look at mine?" she asked.

His head froze on his neck, then nodded once jerkily.

"Would you like me to take off my dress and let you look at them-really look at them?"

Nod.

"Would you like it if I let you feel them, hon? Put your hands on them and find out how nice they are? Like I got my hands now? You like that?"

Nod, nod.

"Oh, hon," she said, letting her fingers drift over the tiny mounds in the material which pinpointed her nipples. "I got so many goodies for you. I'm gonna make you real happy. You think I can make you happy?"

Nod, nod, nod.

"Come on, hon. Let's go somewhere and make you happy. Drink up and we'll do that. Okay?" Nod.

He watched her wordlessly as she paid for their drinks, followed her meekly out of the bar, let himself be aimed down the street as if he had no vohtion of his own. If her experience was any criterion, and it sure as hell should be, this little guy was walking on clouds. For him, it was Christmas and Easter and his birthday, all rolled into one, all rolled into one roll, on a bed, on the house, on big soft sexy Trixie.

It made her feel all warm inside, like giving a quarter to a street corner Santa Claus.

The lobby of the hotel was a bit crowded when they came through the doors, but Trixie managed to catch Perry's eye and toss him the customary wink. He nodded a go-ahead, and Trixie dragged her little bleeder to the elevators. There were people in the car, so she couldn't let the small man put his hands on her the way she usually did with her customers. The people in the car looked at the pair of them curiously, the women glancing once at Trixie, then watching the bleeder and frowning, the men glancing once at the bleeder, then watching Trixie and smiling. She discovered a tall guy next to her trying to get a look inside the neckline of her blouse. She rounded her shoulders and blew a breath out of her mouth, letting the material fall away from her flesh slightly. The guy saw what he wanted to see. It made his whole evening.

The car stopped finally at the sixth floor, and Trixie took the small man's hand, hauling him into the corridor like a child. He stumbled along the carpet, still silent, still apparently stunned. She had to hold him up with one hand while she fitted the key into the lock of Room 609.

"Here we are, hon. Come on in and let's have a little ball together."

The small man entered the room slowly and timidly. He still seemed unable to believe what was happening.

Trixie closed the door behind him and turned the lock. Then she took him by the arm and led him to the familiar bed.

"Sit right down here, now," she said. "You want to relax for a while? Have a cigarette, maybe, before we get started?"

He shook his head.

"I guess," she said with a grin, "you just want to get started, right?"

His hand came up and hesitated in mid-air right in front of her bulging blouse. She saw it, let her grin turn into a smile, and leaned herself forward into his palm.

"There, hon," she purred. "How's that?"

At first, his hand simply held her breast unmoving, the fingers locked into a cup, the palm flat against the tip. But, gradually, the small man's hand began to find some courage. The fingers unfroze and started to move, and the palm flexed against the warm fleshy thrusting.

Trixie sighed and put a hand palm-down in the small man's lap.

"You like this?" she asked sweetly.

Amazingly, he spoke. "Yes."

"I like it, too. I really like it when a man feels me. It really makes me feel like a woman. You know what I mean, hon?"

"Yes."

"Hey, hon-you like this one better than the other one?" She feigned a pout.

The small man considered the question. "No," he said.

"Then how come you're leaving the other one out? It'd like a little squeeze, too."

It was difficult to tell, but she thought she detected a softening in his frightened mask-like face. "All right."

His hand shifted, and the other globe fitted itself warmly into his palm.

"Mmmm," she said. "That's nice. You like them both."

"Yes."

"I like you to like them. Honest, hon, I really do."

"Yes."

"Hon?"

"Yes?"

"Don't you think," she said, drawing her words out, "it would be better if there wasn't all this cloth in the way?"

"Huh?"

"Wouldn't you like it if I took the front of my dress down?"

The softening of his features made the corners of his mouth stir in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. "Oh, yes," he said.

"All right, hon-now, you let go for just a second, and I'll get this down, and then you can really tell me how much you like them."

The dress she was wearing was made the same way as the dress she had worn for Ralph. The little shoulder straps pulled off easily, and she freed her arms of them in a single motion. Then, holding the material between the thumbs and forefingers of both hands, she drew the bodice of the dress down to her waist.

The air touched her breasts and made them glow.

"There, honey," she breathed. "Isn't this nicer?"

His hands, both of them this time, fluttered up from his lap and encased her.

Poor guy, she thought fondly, looking down at his fingers as they spread and worked across her soft flesh. She had bared herself this way for more men than she could count, but none of them had ever shown anything like the delight and enjoyment of this little bleeder. Most of her customers looked upon breasts as things to be quickly felt, kissed perhaps once, then forgotten in the drive toward more important things.

But here was a little man who really appreciated the spheres of flesh hanging from her torso. Here was a man who liked them for their own sake, liked them because they belonged to a woman, because they were so heavy and yielding in his hands, because there was such enjoyment in holding this part of a woman, caressing her, giving her pleasure in exchange for your own.

At least, that was the way it seemed to her. She knew quite well that she might be overestimating this little guy. It was possible such pretty thoughts had never crossed his mind. It could be he merely had a thing for breasts, like a lot of men-enjoying a woman's breasts better than any other part of her because they reminded him of mother, or something.

The expression on the small man's face, however, led Trixie to believe her initial judgement had been correct.

"Honey?" she said, bringing the word up out of her throat gustily. She hadn't expected her voice to sound like that; she was only now realizing that the small man's caresses were beginning to arouse her.

"Yes?" His voice sounded about as strangled as her own.

"Why don't you put your mouth on me, honey? Why don't you give me a nice kiss?"

His fingers paused, the tips of them set lightly around the perimeters of her nipples. He seemed hesitant.

"It would make me very happy," she said. "Honest, it would. I love it when a man gives me a nice kiss."

"Kiss?" he repeated.

"Yes, hon-a kiss. Right there-right where your fingers are touching."

The small man turned his head and looked at his fingers. Then he removed them and stared at the rosy circles of pebbled flesh he had revealed.

"Come on, honey," she said, putting her palms on the bed behind her and arching her body, making her breasts rise invitingly toward his face. "Kiss them for me."

The small man's hand came out, slipped around the underside of the globe nearest him, lifting it in his palm. His head descended in little jerks, like the head of a badly-controlled puppet.

His lips closed, he kissed her the way a little boy might kiss a visiting aunt.

"Oh, honey," she said, moving her body so the flesh of her danced beneath his face. "Not like that. Not just a little peck. A real kiss-you know what I want."

His hand came up again, caught and held the swaying flesh. Once more, his mouth descended. She watched his lips open, then flung back her head and closed her eyes as the kiss enclosed her.

Shudders of delight pumped through her body. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of erotic pleasure. The small man might have to be coaxed, she thought, but once he got started he was a champ.

She couldn't recall her flesh ever responding to kisses in quite this way before. His slowly-working mouth, his flicking tongue, produced a fantastic enjoyment in her. She felt as if the dual mounds of her breasts were growing larger, filling with warm honey, sending that honey flowing sweetly along her veins to the darkest and most secret corners of her body. It was weird, but it was very, very wonderful.

He did the same for them both-first one, then the other, then back to the first-switching his mouth and his hands in a tingling pendulum of aching excitement. The sweet honey was filling her whole body now, drowning her brain in pleasure, backing up in her abdomen like water behind a dam. The pressure of it was tremendous-a straining pleasure-almost uncomfortable enough to be called pain.

She lost control of her arms. The elbows bent, her body fell away from his mouth, her head bounced against the softness of the bed.

She lay there, breathing hard, unable to speak for a moment, cherishing the tight bottling of pleasure which filled her flesh.

When she opened her eyes, the small man was opening his trousers.

He stopped when he saw her looking, but her smile apparently reassured him. "Yes, hon-that's the way. You're doing right. It's time for that now."

His eyes were bright as he undid the buckle of his belt. She noticed with vague surprise that the fellow's pants had buttons where there was usually a zipper. She hadn't known they still made men's pants with buttons.

As she watched the trousers slide down the small man's legs, she found strength enough to move her own hands, sliding them along the bed until she had hold of the hem of her skirt. She drew the material up to her waist, bunching it together with the upper half of the garment. She lay there, breathing heavily, naked and shuddering from head to waist, clothed only in lacy black panties below. Her nylon-clad legs hung over the edge of the bed, moving now and then in a spasm which made the sheer material swish against the sheets.

When she looked at the small man again, everything below his beltline had disappeared. And, surprisingly, he wasn't such a small man after all. He wasn't King Kong by any means, but he would do-he would certainly do.

His fingers touched the flesh of her waist. She felt the hardness of his fingernails as he hooked onto the elastic band of her panties, drew them down over the soft hill of her belly. She slid her knees closed, allowing the garment to follow his hands down her legs to the floor.

Then his hands were on her knees, slipping back to back between them, urging her thighs apart.

She didn't require much urging.

For that matter, neither did the little man.

He was good. Once again, not the best by any stretch of the imagination, but damned good just the same. He used what he had effectively, swinging against her sprawled nakedness with a skill many a muscular longshoreman might envy.

And somewhere along the line, he did something completely new to her. Without pausing or missing a beat, with no cessation of his driving rhythm, she felt his hands slip over her shoulders, down past the indentations of her collar bone, then up onto the dancing spheres of her breasts, catching them and holding them with clutching kneading fingers.

Nobody had ever held her front like that before-not while she was actually in the process of being had. His two-handed possession of her breasts somehow honed the edge of that other excitement, made it grow and flower in her guts until every inch of her thrilled with electric enjoyment.

Then, the dam burst. It ruptured wide open with a colossal thunder, and waves of honey poured from the breach, drenching her senses and pulling every nerve in her body taut with pleasure.

When she could think again, she thought: Wow.

She lifted herself into a sitting position and looked at him. He had his trousers on, and was just pulling his belt tight. The smile which had been threatening to appear had finally shown up on his face.

"Oh, honey," she said, her voice vibrant. "You're terrific"

"Thank you," he replied shyly. "You're very good, too."

Trixie put her hands between her knees and leaned forward. Her head still felt as light as a balloon. "Honey, I mean it. You're just great."

His smile grew. "Quite a few whores have told me that," he said. "So I guess it must be so."

"You'd better believe it, hon. I don't-"

All of a sudden, she heard what he'd said.

"It was very nice of you to let me have you for nothing," he went on, still smiling, still a bit shy. "That never happened to me before. I really wanted a woman this evening, but I just didn't have the price. It's my own fault, I guess-I should never have bought that convertible. The payments are really killing me."

"Wait a minute," Trixie said, trying to sort his remarks into some kind of sense. "You mean, you go to whores regularly? You get it from whores all the time?"

"Well-" He lowered his eyes. "Not all the time. There's my wife, of course."

"Your wife?"

"Yes. It's only-well, just at certain times of the month, when my wife isn't available, then I have to come all the way into the city and see if I can't find something for myself. This evening-well, I had planned to merely enjoy that nudist film-I do like to watch naked women, even if only on film-but then you came along and offered your services. And I must say it was very generous of you. I'm glad I made you happy."

"But-but-" She shook her blonde head, but the motion did nothing to clear it. "You acted so-so shy. You acted so goddammed embarrassed. Like a guy who never had a woman in his life."

"Well, you know-I am a little uncomfortable around prostitutes. After all, ladies in your profession are so lower-class-not my sort of people at all. No offense intended, of course, but surely you can understand-"

"You-" She choked, unable to think of an appropriate word.

"Also," he went on blandly, "it has been my experience that prostitutes frequently feel sorry for the shy little man, feel a sort of sympathy for his apparent lack of experience. I like to be treated that way. Besides, a woman in such a state of mind tends to put her best effort forward, with the result that-"

"That's all," Trixie said. "Get out."

"Get out?" His smile faltered. "Oh-do you have another engagement pending? I thought you and I might sit and talk for a while. Prostitutes do fascinate me so. It's such a cheap and degrading way of making a living."

Trixie lifted a trembling arm and pointed at the door. "Move, you little turd, before I put you through the wall! Move on, now!"

He straightened his tie, then smoothed his palms down over his jacket. "Very well," he said huffily. "But, after all, it was your idea."

She started up from the bed, but the small man scurried out of range and headed toward the door. He opened it and paused, his face reflecting a mild bewilderment. "I'll never understand the minds of women in your profession," he said, shaking his head. "But, then-I suppose one has to be a little twisted mentally to earn a living through the sale of one's body-"

She jumped off the bed howling and waving her arms. The small man back-pedalled into the hall. The door swung shut all by itself.

Trixie sat back down on the bed. The trembling of enjoyment had been superseded by the quiver of rage, and it was quite some time before she could get her brain working again.

She had handed out a free ride, and had been taken for a ride herself. Maybe she deserved it for not being more careful. Apparently, it was harder to spot bleeders than she had supposed. The next time, she had better make sure beforehand that her target was a legitimate bleeder, even if it meant actually watching him bleed.

Or should there be a next time? Was this whole campaign of hers as crazy as it seemed at this moment?

Maybe the small man is right, she thought. Maybe I'm just plain nuts.

Only time would tell.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Willie was expecting surprises.

He had seen enough while at the little twitch-mouthed man's apartment to know that his newly-acquired hot pictures and story books would be just filled with fascinating facts and revelations. Of course, he hadn't been able to look at his purchases as closely as he would have liked while he was buying them, nor had he gotten any opportunity to examine the contents of the bag on the subway ride home. For some reason, the car was filled with people, and Willie had the distinct impression they were all wondering about that brown paper bag he was carrying on his lap. He knew this was foolishness, but the feeling persisted, and Willie sat through the whole ride thinking: Groceries.

When he got off the train, the eyes were watching him.

They were watching him more closely than they had ever watched him. As he hurried down the street toward his apartment building, he could feel the eyes pressing into his back, as if holes were being burned in his jacket. And he could almost hear the sneering laughter that went along with the eyes.

But, finally, the door to his building swallowed him up, and the eyes were left watching and laughing outside. Clutching his Real-Thing bag to his chest, Willie took the steps two at a time to the second floor, fumbled out the key to his apartment, jumped inside, and bolted the door.

Willie and his bag were alone at last. He had been expecting surprises. He wasn't disappointed.

After hanging up his jacket, making himself a cup of instant coffee, lighting a cigarette, clearing a space on the kitchen table and moving a brass standing lamp in from the other room to provide light-after puttering around, setting the stage, deliberately torturing himself for a while by postponing the moment of unveiling, he finally brought the paper bag into the kitchen and set it on the table. Then he pulled up a chair, took a sip of coffee, tapped his cigarette once in the ashtray, and opened the bag up.

He resolved to take it slowly. After all, it wasn't every day a guy such as himself had an opportunity for this kind of enjoyment. Also, this was the first time in his life he had ever seen the sort of pictures in that bag; had ever, in fact, gazed upon the naked truth of The Real Thing.

It was an event, and he was determined to savor it.

His hand went into the bag blindly and closed against a rectangle of crinkling cellophane.

It was a set of photographs. The one on top, just beneath the cellophane, showed a girl lying on a bed, alone. Her hands were behind her head, her elbows winged-out on either side of her. Her knees were raised slightly, her bare feet flat against the bedsheets. Oddly enough, the detail Willie noticed first was that her toes were flexed, the tips of them digging into the material of the sheet as if her body was possessed of some secret excitement.

It was a great touch.

An instant later, of course, he noticed the fact that the lower portion of the girl's anatomy was facing the camera, and that her spread knees were allowing an unhindered view of that anatomy.

Willie viewed, his mouth gone suddenly dry.

What a difference, he thought, from the drawings in the doctor-book.

The picture reminded him quite a bit of the photos in his special drawer. A naked reclining woman, her body arranged to suggest lust in its most primitive form, her flesh sensuously exposed. Of course, this one picture exposed a hell of a lot more than all the other pictures put together, but the similarity was unmistakable. The photo in his hand had the same look of reality, of urgency, that the others had. The girl on the bed looked like a real girl, not like a model. She looked like the sort of girl you might meet on the street, just an ordinary girl, not necessarily a whore. Just a plain girl, stripped of her clothing, laid out on a bed, her body arranged in the most arousing and revealing fashion imaginable.

Somehow, this lack of sophistication made the photo much more exciting.

After gazing at the picture for some time, absorbing its every detail-and there were plenty of details to be absorbed-Willie turned the package over and picked the cellophane seam apart with his fingernails. The material peeled off with a crinkling noise; he rolled it into a ball and tossed it across the kitchen into the garbage pail. Then he turned the pack of photos straight up again, and stared once more at the girl on the bed.

He was surprised to see that many more details were visible now that the slightly-clouded cellophane had been removed. But, then, he was still expecting surprises.

He enjoyed the sight of that totally naked woman so much, he was reluctant to pass her by for a look at the next picture. Finally, however, his curiosity got the better of him. He picked off the top photo and passed it reluctantly to the bottom of the pack.

The same girl was in the next photo. She was lying on the same bed, in much the same position. Only the expression on her face and the angle of her head had changed significantly. Where before she' had been lying with eyes closed and face composed, she was now looking to one side, and her eyes were open. And she was smiling.

There was a man kneeling on the bed next to her. Willie did a double-take, then looked again.

The man was as completely naked as the girl. He was a pretty muscular guy, with thick arms and a big chest. He held himself, even in that kneeling position, as if he were very proud of his build.

But Willie didn't particularly notice the man's build. What Willie saw first was his hand.

That hand was cupped possessively over one of the girl's naked breasts.

Such a simple thing, really-an unclothed girl lying on a bed, an unclothed man beside her, his hand holding the mounded flesh of her breast. How many times a night must such a scene take place, in bedrooms ah over the world-a million different naked girls, a million different nude men, a million such caresses, a million such excitements. It wasn't even the ultimate excitement, but only a preliminary designed to get both parties in the mood for The Real Thing.

But Willie had never seen a hand touch a naked breast before.

He knew what breasts felt like-he had felt them himself a few times-and he knew what breasts looked like-the photos in his special drawer displayed every kind of breast there was. But he had never actually seen one, not in the light, nor had he ever had the pleasure of seeing a hand holding one, not even his own.

They were smiling at each other, that bare man and that bare woman-smiling as if they shared a secret.

Still prepared for surprises, Willie slipped the photo to the bottom of the stack and looked at the next one.

In this photo, the girl was decent. There wasn't a thing showing that couldn't have been shown in the lowest-class kind of breast-book. And yet, her position hadn't changed, nor had the position of the camera. She was still lying on her back, her knees raised, her thighs open.

The object responsible for her decency was a cupped hand.

It belonged to the man.

He was lying on the bed beside her now, both his hands filled with her flesh. While one hand made her decent, the other was curled around a breast, the fingers pressed into the yielding flesh so that the crinkled tip was forced upward.

Willie could only see the very edge of that rosy tip. The man's mouth concealed the rest.

One of the girl's hands was tangled in the man's hair. The other was resting lightly on her unoccupied breast. The expression on her face was blissful and serene.

Willie swallowed hard, and slid the photo from the top to the bottom.

The man was sitting astride her, his thighs straddling her upper torso. The girl's hands were just above his thighs, holding the masses of her breasts so tightly together that the tips were a scant inch from each other.

Willie realized after several baffled moments what they were doing. He blinked his eyes. There was nothing in the doctor-book about this particular bit of business-he was certain of that. And yet, looking at the couple indulging in that off-beat embrace, he had no trouble seeing the charm of it. The more he looked, the more inevitable it seemed that two romping people, male and female, would enjoy the feeling of each other's flesh in that manner at some point in their sexual proceedings.

Willie learned something important from that picture. He learned that the carefully-described Latin-worded descriptions in the doctor-book were not the last word on the subject of The Real Thing. There were a lot of ways for a fellow and a girl to have fun together besides the ones listed on page eighty-nine. In fact, there might even be more than fifteen positions. It didn't seem possible, but who could tell?

He dealt the photo to the bottom of the deck, prepared for more surprises.

They were lying side by side now, still having preliminary fun with each other's bodies. The man had retained his two-handed grip on the girl. The girl now had a two-handed grip on the man, one set of fingers closed into a cylinder, the other set formed into a cup.

That wasn't on page eighty-nine.

There were three more photos of things that weren't on page eighty-nine. Perhaps, he thought, the Latin language was inadequate to describe such things. He could see no other reason for omitting them. They looked like fun, they were comfortable for both parties, and they were all just as inevitable as that thing with the squeezed-together breasts and the straddling male.

Willie began to wonder if there was any limit to the things a man could devise with a woman's body at his disposal. He couldn't see where the limitations might be, except, perhaps, in the imagination of the participants. With his own rather complicated male body on the one hand, and the lushly complicated anatomy of a woman on the other, Willie was certain he could himself devise a lot of caresses, kisses, joinings and holdings of hands and mouths and flesh that weren't listed on page eighty-nine, or even represented in this stack of photographs.

And so, he learned yet another new thing, also quite important.

He was still braced for surprises when he flipped off the latest picture and saw the one below it. There it was. The Real Thing.

Position Number One, in fact-there was no mistaking it. The raised feminine knees, the kneeling masculine torso, the meeting of male and female abdomens, the partners face to face, the man's hands spread and tensed palm-down on either side of the girl's shoulders, the girl's hands curled against his back, fingernails needling the flesh just under his shoulder blades.

The camera caught it all-the entire classic scene. And it also caught the meeting of them-the secret joining which no amount of Latin could ever really describe. No language in the world had words to describe it.

The man and woman were no longer smiling. Their faces had taken on a look of terrible urgency to match the tension of their bodies. The girl's toes, which had relaxed since the first of the photos, were now curled again, digging into the sheets more furiously than ever.

The next picture showed Position Number Eight.

This time, the man was on his back. The girl knelt astride him, her round buttocks flush against his hips. The man's hands were clutching the girl's solid thighs. The girl's hands were behind her, holding the man's knees. Her body leaned backward, accentuating the globe-shapes of her breasts.

The man's eyes were closed.

Willie closed his own eyes for a moment, and wiped moisture from the corners of them. A torrent of sweat seemed to be cascading from his brow at the rate of a quart a minute, running through his eyebrows and into his eyes. It was only when he passed his hand over his brow that he realized just how sweaty he was.

There were more. Much more. In fact, just about every position mentioned in Willie's doctor-book was acted out by the couple in the photographs. Their unflagging enjoyment and enthusiasm was wonderful to see.

In addition, there were several poses showing positions the book didn't even hint at. Willie was certain they qualified as positions, since they enabled the partners to accomplish the same thing as One through Fifteen.

He decided it was the same as it had been with the fore-play-the book was not the final authority. The limitations, once again, depended only upon imagination.

So Willie learned another important fact about The Real Thing.

In a way, his education was almost complete.

After spending a long, long time examining the wildest of the non-doctor-book arrangements, really enjoying the fabulous way the limbs of the two people tangled together, the way the key portions of their anatomies managed to touch and meet almost in spite of their position, Willie passed the photo to the bottom of the pack, and saw the last of them.

It could only be the last. The man and the woman lay side by side on the bed, legs stretched out flat, faces relaxed and smiling once more. Their hands were joined between them. In their free hands, they held lit cigarettes.

Their faces were turned on the pillows, and they were looking at each other.

Willie felt a pang in his guts.

Two naked people, spent and happy on a bed together, sharing the pleasure of tobacco as an aftermath of sharing the pleasure of each other's flesh.

Willie could almost imagine such a moment in his mind, and how great it would be. The couple in the picture were happy and satisfied-it was written all over their faces, as well as their bodies. They might not be through with each other-maybe the man had plans for the girl, maybe he intended to roll onto her and have another go at it as soon as he finished his cigarette. Or perhaps the girl had plans for him-maybe she planned to suddenly grab him, suddenly fall on him with her pretty little mouth, force him with crazy caresses back into action.

But, for the moment, they were finished. They were satisfied.

The line from the doctor-book, the one Willie didn't like, sprang into his mind.

There is no substitute for The Real Thing.

Slowly, he slipped the last calm picture to the bottom of the deck. The first photo, the one of the girl lying spread-legged and alone on the bed, looked up at him.

The set had come full-circle. From desire through arousement right on to fulfillment, the classic ballet of sex had played itself out.

And now she was ready again, her limbs tense, her arms raised so that her breasts rode high on her torso, her eyes closed, her toes digging at the bedsheets. And, Willie had no doubt, the man was also ready, waiting somewhere outside the frame of the photograph, looking at the naked loveliness of his partner, and smiling.

Willie put the set down on the table and stared into space for a while.

The Real Thing, he thought. There is no substitute for The Real Thing. There are other ways of having fun, sure-ways of satisfying the urge, gratifying the itch-but none of them can hold a candle to The Real Thing.

The doctor-book had been trying to tell him that all along, but it had gone about telling him in the wrong way. You can't make a point like that with Latin. You can't make a point like that with any kind of talk. The only way to get an idea such as that across-an idea as important and cosmic as that-is to demonstrate.

A person has to be shown before he can be expected to understand.

The pictures showed it all. The pictures made the point.

Willie finally understood.

He got up from the table slowly and painfully, his limbs creaking. When he looked at the kitchen clock, he saw to his surprise that it was almost midnight. He hadn't realized he had been sitting at the table that long, bending over that set of photographs. He estimated dully that he had spent at least three quarters of an hour with each of them.

He was very tired. His body was tired, his eyes were tired, and, most of all, his brain was tired. The mass of new ideas, the tremendous revisions which had taken place in his thinking, were making his brain ache and throb.

He left the pictures where they were, left the contents of the paper bag undisturbed, left the kitchen without a backward glance, and went into the other room. He undressed, letting his clothes fall on the floor around him. His eyes looked at a blank wall, but didn't see it.

When he finished undressing, he took a pair of clean pajamas from his bureau drawer, the one just above the special drawer, and put them on. Then he crossed the room and climbed into bed.

In the darkness, his eyes remained open for a while, staring at the dim white expanse of the ceiling. He was aware of the lateness of the hour, aware that he really should get some sleep. It was already Monday, and he would be late for work if he didn't have a few hours rest. Besides, he had to make a special trip to the bank sometime that day to replace the wad of cash he had spent on the hot pictures.

In spite of all these considerations, however, it took forever for sleep to come.

There is no substitute for The Real Thing, he thought, again and again. The Real Thing.

Finally, he fell asleep.

And he never even noticed the most surprising thing about his evening with the hot photos. He had been prepared for suprises, but the biggest surprise of all passed right by without his seeing it.

He fell asleep with his hands flat at his sides.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Trixie wanted to go home.

It was still early when she finished with the small man; according to her usual schedule, there were quite a few working hours left. Ordinarily, she didn't quit until well past midnight, unless she had done an unusual number of turns before that-five or six at least. Sometimes, when business was exceptionally good, as on Saturday nights or the eves of holidays, Trixie would stay on the job until dawn, entertaining eight or ten men before she finally crawled into bed alone.

But the small man had done her in. She still felt irritated over the incident, and wanted to spend some time by herself, sort out her thoughts, redraft her plan of action. Most important of all, she wanted a few hours of rest so that her mind could return to its normal cheerful state.

On her way out of the hotel, she stopped by the desk and slipped Perry his customary fin. She offered it folded into a square half the size of a match-book, and Perry took it as deftly and unobtrusively as a pickpocket.

"How's tricks, Trix?" he asked, repeating the joke for perhaps the thousandth time.

She manufactured a cute smile for him, although in her present state of mind it wasn't easy. "Having their ups and downs, Perry," she said.

"Har, har," laughed Perry. He was a big man, barrel-chested and keg-bellied, with too much flesh on his face and not enough hair on his head. Trixie had never particularly liked him, but she dealt with him because of the convenience of their arrangement. Perry always made sure Room 609 was available for Trixie and her customers by registering a fictitious person into the room whenever she was working. He charged Trixie five dollars for every mark she brought to 609. Since the room normally went for ten dollars a night, the first two of Trixie's turns made Perry exactly even. Anything over and above that found a home in Perry's pocket. The management of the hotel had never caught wise.

It was a good arrangement. Trixie regarded the five-buck bite as a fair one, considering the amount of sweat it saved her. She would have used up a lot of valuable time if she had to scout for accommodations every time she picked up a John. This way, she was always sure of a place to work-all she had to do was make the connection, drag the mark up to 609, give him the business, send him on his way, and leave five with Perry on the way out. From pickup to her return to street patrol, the process seldom took much longer than a half hour.

So she dealt with Perry, and put up with his dumb jokes and pasted pretty smiles on her face for him, and in general behaved like he was a very important man in her life, even though she didn't really like him.

Perry liked her, however. He made no secret of that.

"You're a laugh, Trix. I swear, you break me up."

"A gal's gotta stay on her toes around you," Trixie answered.

"On her toes-except when she's on her back. Right?" He laughed again, and slapped his knee.

Trixie just smiled. "Well, Perry-I'd better move on. You got work to do."

"Hey, what's the rush, Trix? Come on, hang around for a while. Or do you have another throw lined up already? You're so damn quick, it wouldn't surprise me.

Trixie was about to tell him she did have another customer, then thought better of it. If she handed him such a story and didn't turn up again later on with her turn, Perry would think she had brought the John to another hotel, and get annoyed with her. "No-there's nothing on the agenda right now. I just feel like cutting out for a while-maybe going back to my pad and catching some shuteye."

Perry's smile fell and he looked concerned. "Something wrong, Trix?"

"Wrong? No. Why do you ask?"

"I dunno. You just don't seem like your regular self. Saturday night, for instance, after you came down from taking care of that good-looking guy-you acted like you didn't even know I was here-like you was in a fog, or something. That ain't like you at all, Trix. You sick, maybe?"

"No. I'm all right."

"I bet I know what it is," Perry said, his smile reappearing.

"What what is?" asked Trixie, trying to hide her boredom.

"What's eating you-why you don't feel up to par."

"Tell me, doctor," she said, leaning her elbows on the desk. "What's your diagnosis?"

"Too much," Perry said. "Too much what?"

"Aw, come on, Trix. You know damn well too much what. I don't have to draw pictures for a gal like you, do I?"

She twisted her mouth. "That's how much you know, Perry. Boy-some doctor."

"What do you mean?"

"Perry, honey-there ain't no such thing as too much. And you can quote me, if you want."

Perry started to laugh, then stopped and looked surprised. "Is that on the level, Trix? Don't you never get sick of it.?"

"Are you kidding? Sick of it? That would be like getting sick of food, or air. You're looking at one gal who really likes her work, and I don't mean maybe."

"I always thought whores got sick of it," Perry said.

"Some do, maybe, but not this one."

"I hear stories about whores who get sick of it," Perry said.

Trixie looked at his face. The smile was still there, but only on the mouth. The rest of his fleshy features wore an odd expression. In spite of her desire to get away and spend some time alone, she felt herself being drawn into further conversation.

"What kind of stories are those, Perry?"

"Well-you know. Stories. Like, about whores who get too much."

"All right. So they get too much. What about it?"

"Well-that's a terrible thing, don't you think?"

She nodded. "I guess it is. Depends on the girl, really."

"Sure, that's right. Depends on the kind of girl. Some can go at it all day and all night, seven days a week, and never get sick of it. Like you."

"Sure," said Trixie.

"Whereas, other kinds of gals get sick of it right off the bat, stop enjoying altogether. Some of them just lay down to make a buck and don't think about what they're doing at all. Some of them just don't get nothing out of it. Am I right? Ain't there whores like that?"

"Plenty of them," Trixie replied. "You see that all the time."

"Okay-then that's what I meant. That's what's so sad."

She shook her head. "Sad? Sad how? I don't follow you, Perry."

"Look," Perry said. "You're a whore, correct?"

"Correct."

"And you enjoy your work, right?"

"Right."

"And your work is sex. Sex is how you earn your bread-laying down and having sex with some guy and letting him have sex with you. Check?"

"Check."

"Now, me," Perry said, "I think sex is just about the greatest thing there is. For my money, there ain't nothing can beat it. To climb on a good-looking gal and really tear one off-that's the biggest kick in the world."

"I guess that's why it's so popular," Trixie said. "Sure. But that's only the way I feel. Women sometimes feel different about it."

"How do you mean?"

"Well-like we were talking about. Gals like you, gals who really enjoy it, they got no problems. But what about the gals who don't enjoy it? The ones who get sick of having men lay on them? What about them?"

"Well? What about them?"

"What do they do for sex? How do they get their kicks?"

Trixie narrowed her eyes, suddenly realizing the direction of his conversation. "Is that what you were talking about before, when you said you heard stories?"

Perry licked his lips. "Yeah. Sort of."

"Well," Trixie said, "if you heard stories about it, then you must have some idea what gals like that do. Right? So what are you asking me for?"

"I just-wondered about it. That's all. I mean, those stories are only stories. Guy like me, he hears stories all the time. Once in a while, they're on the level, but mostly they don't mean nothing at all."

"Uh-huh," said Trixie. "So, what kind of stories do you hear about whores who don't like men?"

"Well," said Perry.

"Come on. You tied me up here with all this talk, you gotta have a point to make. Spill it."

"Well," he said again. His fingers nervously pushed pencils around on the desk top. "You hear this particular thing a lot, you know. I ain't just making it up, Trix. Don't think I am."

"Making what up? Will you say your say, for Pete's sake?"

"The stories I hear-" Perry paused and looked down at his pencils. "Well, they say that when whores get sick of having sex with men-"

"Yeah? Go on."

"They have it with women." He blurted the last phrase out, then looked up quickly, his eyes flinching as if expecting a blow.

Trixie smiled coldly. All of a sudden, it didn't seem so important to her to stay on Perry's good side. Somehow, she got the feeling that she had the upper hand over him, although she wasn't quite sure how it had come about. "That's what the stories say, huh, Perry?"

"Well-yeah. I told you, it's only what I heard. I ain't saying it's so. I don't know, tell you the truth."

"But you'd like to know, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," he answered eagerly. "I mean-I think it's real interesting. Unusual, sort of."

Looking at his face, hearing the naked curiosity in his voice, Trixie was reminded of the small man. Prostitutes do fascinate me so, he had said. Such a cheap and degrading way of making a living. I suppose one has to be a little twisted mentally-

"You guys ain't never satisfied until you find out what makes a whore tick, are you?" she asked him.

"Now, Trix-don't get your back up. I was only asking-"

"It ain't enough that we lay down for you. You gotta know what we do on our time off, too. You can't be satisfied just getting into our bodies, you gotta get into our goddamm minds. If you guys had your way, a whore wouldn't have no privacy at all."

"Trixie-keep it down, for Pete's sake." The loudness for her voice had frightened him, and he was glancing around the lobby apprehensively. "Don't get mad at me. I didn't mean nothing."

She dropped her voice to a tight monotone. "All right," she said. "You're in such a sweat to find out, I'll tell you. I'll tell you just what you want to know about whores who don't enjoy men."

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want," Perry said, the expression in his eyes giving the he to the statement. His fingers gathered the pencils all together as he leaned forward expectantly.

"Gals like that," Trixie said, "go queer for their kicks."

"Turn lessie, you mean?" he asked eagerly. "Turn into dykes?"

She nodded. "That's right, Perry. They go looking for their fun with other gals."

He nodded vigorously. "Well, that's what the stories said. I only wanted to know if it was true, that's all."

"Oh, wait a minute-I'll tell you something else. Maybe you never heard a story about this part."

Perry's eyes were very bright. "What part?"

"Perry, hon-there are some whores enjoy it both ways."

He blinked. "There are?"

"You bet there are. A lot of gals just like sex-any kind of sex. They don't care if they get it from a man or a woman, just so long as they get it. A lot of gals don't see nothing special about a man."

She could tell the last remark had rubbed him the wrong way. She smiled to herself. "That's crazy, though, ain't it, Trix? I mean, a gal ought to go to a guy for her balling, shouldn't she?"

"Not always," Trixie replied calmly. "You know, quite a few guys are no goddamm good in bed. In fact, I'd say the majority are nothing special."

The statement wasn't really true-at least, not where she herself was concerned-but she said it anyway, enjoying the look of pain it produced on the desk clerk's features.

"That so?" he asked, his voice small. "I didn't know whores felt like that."

She nodded her head positively. "If a gal has to go to another gal for some jazzing, it's because there aren't any decent men around. That's usually the reason. After all-" And she smiled. "-a whore sees ah kinds, gets a lot of champs. The average John don't have any idea of the talent he's following when he climbs on board a whore."

"Oh," said Perry.

"That answer your question?" Trixie asked innocently.

"Yeah." He shook his head, as if trying to clear some personal confusion. "No-wait. There was something else."

"You name it," she said. "Anything you want to know, just ask. After all, what's a friend for?"

"Trix-" He was playing with the pencils again. "You ever hear of places where guys can go and watch whores perform?"

She frowned. "You mean, watch through a peephole while a gal works on her John? Sure, I heard of them. There's a house like that up in the Bronx. In fact, you go in there looking for some privacy, you gotta pay extra money to get a room with no peepholes in it. What about it?"

"Well-I wondered if-if you ever heard of a place like that where a guy could go and see-"

"See what?" She was no longer able to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

"See like we were just talking about." Perry's chin was down against his chest and his eyes were hooded. "See two gals going at it, dyke style."

Trixie shook her head at him slowly, her eyes full of anger. "Yeah, sure," she lied. "I know a place like that."

His head came up with an almost audible snap. "You do?"

"Sure. In Flatbush."

"Flatbush? Brooklyn?"

"Uh-huh," she said. "On Kings Highway." It was hard to keep a straight face, hard to hold back both her anger and her rising amusement.

"Hey, Trix-you know the exact address of this place?" Perry's mouth was wet with drool. He passed the back of his hand across it quickly.

"Not off-hand," Trixie replied. "I can get it for you, though."

"Can you? Hey, would you?"

"Sure." She paused for a moment and smiled. "Of course, it's gonna cost you. It's kind of expensive, seeing as how it's so special."

"Oh, yeah-that's all right. You'd figure it would cost some." He thought for a moment, then his smile slipped a little. "How expensive is it, anyway?"

"Five hundred dollars," Trixie said.

"Five-" Perry looked for a moment as if he were strangling. Then, all at once, his face went sour. "Hey, Trix-you ain't pulling my leg, are you?"

"Why in hell should I pull your leg? A busy whore gets sick of a man's legs just as soon as the rest of him." She turned and started away from the desk.

"Hey, dammit, Trix," he called after her. "You got no call to play games with me like that. I was only asking a simple question, that's all."

"In your hat," she said.

"All I wanted to know is-like, what do gals do together?"

"Same thing boys do together," Trixie said over her shoulder. "Huh?"

She pushed through the doors into the street, laughing.

The laughter didn't last. Gradually, the anger began to build up again, drowning her amusement. The anger no longer boiled, but had formed instead into a cake of ice in her guts-cold bitter anger at the small man, at Perry, at all the males in the world who wouldn't let a whore be a person.

In a way, she decided, every hooker is automatically a bleeder. Give your body away enough times, and people start to think you're all body. They don't believe you've got a mind, or, like the small man, they think you're crazy.

Worse than that, because they can buy a part of you for a half hour or an hour, they think you're completely for sale-that you're a thing on a store counter, available twenty-four hours a day for examination or purchase.

Private lives? Individual preferences? Hopes? Fears? Dreams?

Whores don't have any of those. Whores are just walking pieces of fun-meat, without sense or soul. Whores belong to the world.

She walked. She didn't pay much attention to her direction. When she looked up out of her cogitations, she found herself turning off Eighth Avenue onto The Street.

Looking at The Street, thinking about herself, she got an idea.

It took only a few minutes to find what she wanted

-or, rather, who she wanted. The kind of person she was looking for abounded on The Street, and she located one with no trouble.

So, Phase Two of Operation Help-The-Bleeders began, Phase Two combined with a holiday called I Hate Men Night.

The woman was standing in the rear of a book and souvenir shop. She wore the costume of her type-a rough corduroy skirt, a plain mannish blouse, a big black leather belt, no stockings, and sandals. Her hair was cut very short and uneven, and she wasn't wearing a drop of make up.

Trixie went into the store, walked past the admiring gaze of the man behind the register, and went to the back. The rear of the place was filled with paperback books, and the woman was examining one of them intently. It was a book about lesbianism.

If I can't help a male bleeder without bleeding some more myself, she thought, maybe I can do something for a female bleeder.

"Hi, hon," she said, slipping into place beside the woman. "Getting any?"

At first, the woman was too surprised to comprehend what was happening. When the surprise passed, she grew embarrassed; She stuttered slightly, but her speech was very intelligent.

After a while, she began to realize what Trixie was offering. Stuttering so badly she could hardly be understood, she accepted.

The woman paid for a cab. Her apartment was in a shabby walkup on Fifty-Second Street off Second Avenue. She led Trixie up the stairs and into her place, apologizing all the while for the condition of the building, for the cheapness of her furniture-talking and stuttering continuously as if the sound of her voice could keep at bay something she didn't want to think about.

The anger in Trixie evaporated, and a warm sadness replaced it. This time, there could be no mistake. The woman was a bleeder. Trixie could see it in the helpless way she moved her hands, the awkward way she walked and stood, the hesitant put-put-put of her stuttering voice. Even the furnishings of the apartment provided proof, especially the small crammed bookshelf next to the sofa-shelves filled with books on psychology, books on abnormal sexual practices, novels about lesbianism.

The woman was still talking when Trixie went up to her and kissed her full on the lips. It was a gentle kiss in which their tongues played no part, but Trixie could feel the effect it had.

When the kiss ended, the woman asked a question. "Who are y-y-you?"

"Just a whore," Trixie replied. "A whore who wants to give it away to somebody who'll really appreciate it."

"Why d-did you pick mm-me?"

"You looked lonely, honey. You were just standing there bleeding-bleeding the way a person bleeds when the world steps on them. I know that feeling. I just wanted to help."

"Bleeding," the woman said. "Yes. That the w-word for it."

Trixie took her in her arms and walked her across the room to the bed.

At first, the woman didn't really respond. Trixie removed the woman's clothing without any help or cooperation. But the task didn't bother her particularly. She wanted to help, after all, and she was determined to help on the woman's terms.

The dull-colored blouse came off to reveal an aging grayish bra. The breasts incased within that bra, however, seemed young and full. The corduroy skirt zippered loose, sliding off to unveil plain black panties, slender thighs, and a pair of surprisingly well-muscled and symmetrical legs.

Trixie put a hand under one of the woman's calves. "What's your name, hon?"

"Susan," the woman replied.

"You have sexy legs, Suzy."

"Thank y-you. I'm a d-d-dancer."

Trixie smiled and squeezed the leg. "How about you and me do a little dance together?" She rose from beside the bed and took a cross-handed hold of her skirt. "What do you say?"

Without waiting for a reply, she peeled the dress off over her head. Suzy looked at Trixie's breasts as if she had never seen breasts before. She watched with a stunned and motionless face as Trixie stripped down her lacy panties, unsnapped her garter belt, peeled off her nylons.

"Hurry," Suzy said, her voice very tense. "I w-want to t-t-touch you."

Trixie, now completely nude, moved slowly over to the bed and looked down at the woman. "Not yet," she said. "There's a couple of things yet."

She reached down, slipping her hands under Suzy's torso, her fingers feeling for the clasp of her bra. Her breasts hung pendulously, almost touching the rough material of the brassiere. Then, the clasps opened, the straps pulled free of Suzy's shoulders, the cups lifted away.

Suzy's breasts were large and bowl-shaped, with small tight tips only a little larger than five-cent pieces. Trixie tossed the bra aside, then bent her body, until the softness of her own breasts yielded against the hard hemispheres below. The stiffening skin of the tips met with a tingle as Trixie lowered her mouth onto Suzy's opening lips.

A little later, Trixie discovered that Suzy's panties were gone, although she couldn't remember removing them. But what did it matter? The important thing was what was happening.

Sex.

The greatest thing in the world, as Perry had said. With a woman, with a man-who cared what your partner was like, as long as you could share sex together. Sex was an end in itself, and the means to that end didn't make a particle of difference.

Hands filled with wonderfully firm breast-flesh, mouth lipping and biting at the rounded mass of a hip, Trixie shifted herself all over the bed, all over the body of the woman beneath her. The pleasure and excitement of it were terrific, but she was aware of a difference between Suzy and Vera-a difference in the way they gave and received caresses. Vera always wanted the same pattern, the flesh-to-flesh reversal of bodies, each and every kiss and caress echoed and returned precisely. But Suzy wasn't like that at all. She innovated. She made it up as she went along. And she made it up with an intensity of hands and fingers and lips and teeth that was completely new to Trixie.

Trixie wouldn't have believed it would be fun to have a set of teeth suddenly nip the inside of her thigh. But it was. Nor would she have thought a woman's fingernails digging into the massive globe of her buttock could produce such a shock of pleasure. But it did.

And nothing in her experience prepared her for the insane and furious way Suzy's hot mouth found and drew on her breasts; pulling the pebbled aureoles up against the hardness of the teeth, teasing the delicate buttons into aching excitement with the flickering softness of the tongue.

And never before had Trixie returned a woman's caresses with such vigor, grabbing, clutching, mouthing, taking handfuls of warm flesh and squeezing them out of shape, pressing lips to every curve and darkened hollow she could find.

It was mindless. It was magnificent. It was sex.

Trixie didn't remember the original purpose of her mission until long after the interlude was ended. Disappointingly, it really ended only for Suzy. Trixie felt it happening as waves of passion distorted the flesh beneath her, made the legs straighten, made the thighs quiver and jump with muscle-spasms, made the breasts heave in a double-scoop of solid meat up against her.

Suzy arched her body and hung for a moment, supported only by her feet and shoulders, her buttocks high above the sheets and clutched in Trixie's hands, her frame as taut as a strung archery-bow.

Then, she subsided. With twitchings and shudders, her body lowered itself to the bed, leaving Trixie high and dry and uncompleted above her.

But, in a way, that was all right, too. Trixie hadn't gone into the thing with the idea of entertaining herself. The purpose had been to relieve the pain of a bleeder-a lonely one, a poor soul who really needed all the relief Trixie could devise. So it was only mildly disappointing to her that she had not arrived at the big moment herself. There would be other times for that. In fact, maybe Suzy would be ready for another go-around after she'd rested for a while.

At least, Trixie thought, she had done her bit to help a bleeder.

She slid herself into a sitting position beside Suzy's trembling body, and took the woman's breasts tenderly in her hands. The dark hard discs of them were relaxing now, as the last waves of passion drained from Suzy's body. Trixie watched the process through to its conclusion, her hands curled gently around the warm mounds, and when the twin circles had relaxed completely, she bent her head and planted a soft kiss on each of them in turn.

Suzy opened her eyes.

"How was it, hon?" Trixie asked, cupping her ringers over the firm flesh.

"Do you know how long it's been for me?" Suzy asked. For some reason, her stuttering had disappeared entirely.

"How long? You mean, since the last time you had sex?"

"A year," Suzy said.

"Oh, you poor honey." Trixie kept up the caress, knowing from her own experience how comforting it was to a woman to have hands holding her breasts. "That's too long, Suzy. You shouldn't have to bleed for it that long. Nobody should."

"Bleed for it," Suzy repeated. She closed her eyes. "But I wasn't bleeding for it."

"Sure you were, honey," Trixie said, kneading the handfuls gently. "Don't you think I can tell when somebody really wants some? I work on men, usually-but the signs are the same whether it's a man or a woman. I can tell."

Suzy opened her eyes. "Tell? You can't tell anything." Her voice was cold and bleak as winter.

Trixie paused in her caress, and frowned slightly. "Hey, honey-what's the matter? Is something wrong?"

"You shallow-minded little slut," Suzy said. "What do you know about bleeding? Do you know what it's like to really bleed inside-to feel your guts dripping day and night, dripping the rot that's oozing out of your brain? Do you know what it's like to bleed because you hate yourself?"

"Suzy-" Trixie looked at her in bewilderment. "I don't bleed for it," Suzy said. "I bleed because of it."

"I was only trying to help," Trixie said.

"I went a whole year without it," Suzy said. "A whole year of fighting it off, a year of backstage dressing rooms filled with naked girls, a year of living and sleeping alone, or running away from every situation that looked a little bit tempting-why, I couldn't even allow myself to have a girl-friend for fear I'd suddenly get the urge, grab her and throw her down and pull off her clothes and-and rape her."

Trixie removed her hands from the woman's breasts. "But-I thought-"

"A whole year. But I was getting used to it. It hadn't been bothering me as much lately. I had almost forgotten about it, about this-this sickness inside my head. Until tonight." She turned her face on the pillow and looked up at Trixie: "You caught me off guard. You caught me while my mind was on other things. You came out of thin air offering me pleasure, the awful rotten thrill of lesbian sex. Before I knew what I was doing, it was too late to stop myself."

"I'm sorry," Trixie said. "I'll get out of here now. I'm sorry I loused things up for you."

"Get out?" Suzy sat up as Trixie rose to her feet. "Are you crazy? You can't leave now."

"I can't stay around, Suzy, knowing how you feel. I only wanted to help, and I didn't help at all." She snapped on her garter belt and sat on a chair as she donned her stockings.

"You've got to stay," Suzy said. "I want more."

Stockings in place, Trixie stood up and pulled on her panties. "I don't want to make it any worse than it is," she said miserably.

Suzy leaned back on her elbows. The muscles beneath her round breasts flexed and moved. "I want more," she said, staring ahead into empty space. "I want it again and again. I'm through with fighting it. I spent a whole year fighting it, and I'm right back where I started. I'm a lesbian-that's all. I'm a lesbian who wants it."

Trixie pulled her dress on over her head, adjusted the shoulder straps, then stepped into her shoes. "I'm sorry, Suzy," she said again. "Goodbye."

The woman lifted her head and stared at her. "Don't leave."

Trixie turned and went to the door.

"Don't leave. I need you. I need more. Now."

She turned the knob, pulled the door open.

"Please? Please come back? Kiss me again? Put your hands all over me? Let me feel you, taste you? I need that so badly."

She stepped into the corridor.

"Oh, please-" Suzy's voice rose up the scale. The stuttering reappeared. "D-d-don't leave me alone-t-touch me-thrill m-me-don't leave m-me alone with mm-myself!"

Trixie shut the door.

As she descended slowly and tiredly toward the street, she thought she heard a woman screaming from somewhere above.

CHAPTER NINE

Willie woke up that Monday morning to a world in which everything had been spoiled.

As he choked down a quick breakfast, brushed his teeth, and got dressed, he tried to figure out how it had happened. For a while, he couldn't even pin down precisely what was wrong with everything-he knew only that the world had been spoiled during the night. Things weren't the same any more. Things had changed.

It wasn't until he left the house and got on board the train to work that he began to get a glimmer of his problem. He thought back to the previous evening, back to the long hours he had spent poring over those dirty pictures. He remembered the magic and excitement of those pictures, the wonders they had revealed to him. He remembered the wild sensation of actually seeing The Real Thing, spread out and nailed down for him to look at.

Then he remembered that he had a whole bagful of pictures and stories yet to be enjoyed.

Why hadn't he looked at them last night? Why had he spent such a long time over that single set? These were both good questions, and he thought about them, but he couldn't come up with an answer. He knew such behavior was contrary to his Usual actions, but he was unable to account for the switch.

Anyhow, that was only the beginning of the problem, or the reason why the world was spoiled.

He arrived at work, said an absent-minded hello to his fellow sufferers, and plunged into the dull work of sorting mail. After all, that was what the firm had hired him for. And his bosses would have been very upset if they had known just how little of his mind he devoted to the job that Monday.

Okay-so he had looked at only one set of pictures, so he hadn't gone through that bag in his normal beady-eyed fashion. It was unusual, sure-but it was no reason for his present state of mind.

There was something else eating on him. Something else had happened last night-a subtle thing that had taken root in him, grown all through the hours of darkness, and spoiled the world by the time he got up.

What was it? He couldn't imagine.

At noon, he went to the bank and drew fifty dollars. Then he ate lunch by himself. He continued to think about his problem, continued to get absolutely nowhere with it.

He passed the afternoon the same way as the morning. And along about three o'clock, he suddenly realized what was bothering him.

It wasn't something that had happened last night-it was something that hadn't happened last night.

His ringers paused among the envelopes and he stared into space with a very blank expression on his features.

It hadn't happened last night. He had come home with a bagful of dirty photos-pictures designed to arouse the viewer into a state of-well, excitement. Wasn't that the whole idea behind pictures of The Real Thing?

Sure, it was.

But it hadn't happened. Not once.

It hadn't happened, and neither had the thing that inevitably followed it, the thing the doctor-book spoke of as being so normal, the thing he always felt guilty about.

None of it had happened.

The more Willie thought about it, the more he realized just what a weird state of affairs it was. After all, that particular solitary sport, enjoyed in the comfort of the home, fed by photos and dreams, was an important part of his life. It had been going on for years, and he had been expecting to go on for many years to come. That simple lonely pleasure had been the reason he spent so much money on whore photos from stores on The Street. It had also been the reason he had dropped such a wad on that bagful of hot pictures. What else?

And after spending all that money, he hadn't gotten a thing out of it. He had passed the whole afternoon and evening looking at pictures of The Real Thing, and nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

He left work that evening and rode home on the subway, still thinking about it. He was finally aware of what a revolutionary change had taken place in his thinking, but he still couldn't quite understand why the world felt so spoiled.

When he arrived home, he made his supper on hamburgers and bread, eating only because it was supper-time and with no enjoyment at all. After he finished, he threw the frying pan and the dishes into the sink, sat down at the kitchen table, and looked at the photos.

The pack was still lying where he had left it. The girl with the curling toes still lay spread out and intimately revealed on that bed.

He looked at the pictures for some time, going through the entire pack, but nothing happened.

Pushing the pictures aside, he pulled the bag to him and dropped a hand into it. He came up with another set of photos. They featured a different couple, but the couple was engaged in the same activity as the first had been. The photos were very similar, even though the fellow and the girl went at it differently.

He went through that entire set, learning a few more points about The Real Thing which were new to him, and still nothing happened.

He dumped the contents of the bag out all over the table, and pawed through them. The packages containing pictures of men and women indulging were shoved to one side. The two large sheets of photos displaying similar activities he also disregarded. He had seen enough of that by now to know the effect it had on him-none whatsoever-so he looked through the cellophane packages carefully for some of the strange variations the little man had mentioned. Maybe during the night he had turned into a fancier of the more exotic forms of sexual enjoyment.

He found a set showing two women making love.

One of them was blonde and full-breasted, and wore her hair in braids like a Swede. The other was small and thin, with little pointed breasts, slim boyish legs, and raven black hair. The thin blackhaired one seemed to be in charge of the situation, and played all over the body of the blonde the way a child might play on a sand pile. She gathered great handfuls of the girl, caught her braids in her teeth, buried her face between the blonde's enormous pillowy breasts, printed kisses all over the blonde's body, and eventually lost her head completely in the V of the blonde's fleshy thighs.

Through it all, the blonde just lay there, looking rather stupid and completely unmoved.

Willie felt the same way about it.

He had heard of lesbianism, and the idea had always fascinated him. Many times he had fed his solitary interludes with thoughts of women embracing, and he had spent several happy evenings going through all the photos in his special drawer, examining the nude girls closely, trying to decide which of them would go for that particular perversion, and which wouldn't.

Now he had a set of photographs before him that showed the whole process-showed a very well-built and exciting blonde being gone over by a thin but stimulating brunette. He was looking at the naked depiction of the most secret and intimate caresses imaginable.

And nothing at all happened.

He tried another set. This one featured three girls and two men. After looking through the pictures, he decided they were acrobats. It was the only explanation he could think of. The five naked people in those photos couldn't possibly be doing those things for fun-there was far too much physical labor involved. How could a man enjoy himself if he was helping a girl stand on her head by holding an ankle in one hand, supporting a second girl by the buttocks with his other hand-how could he find any enjoyment in the portion of the third girl which hung before his face at his disposal?

The five people made complicated M's and W's, and even an R. Like human alphabet soup, he thought.

Nothing happened with those photos, either.

He tried a set featuring two men and a girl. The men were completely naked and very excited. He couldn't figure out what they were so excited over, unless it was the sight of the girl. They weren't doing anything to her that Willie could make any sense out of. Furthermore, the girl wasn't even completely naked-her breasts, which were very large and tipped with enormous dark nipples, hung free from her body, but her loins were encased in a complicated arrangement of garters and straps which reminded Willie of a parachute harness.

She was also wearing high-heels, a detail that seemed kind of out of place, considering the circumstances.

The men did things to her with fake-looking whips and clubs and lengths of rope. They pretended to hurt her, but they weren't leaving a mark on her body. It would have been quite a pleasant body to look at, too, if not for that crazy assortment of straps around her middle. All that elastic got in the way of her nudity, and Willie liked his women nude.

Nothing happened.

He looked at every set of photos he owned. He saw a lot of things he didn't understand, saw a few others he recognized only from dark hints in the doctor-book, learned about many variations on the basic act of sexual enjoyment which turned that pleasant pastime into hard work.

Nothing happened with any of them.

After he had exhausted the photos, he read the books. They had pictures illustrating them, but he passed the illustrations right by, since they were the same kind of thing he had just looked at. The stories, which were poorly written and printed even worse, didn't get to him at all. For one thing, they used all sorts of gutter words for the acts and functions of the human anatomy, and Willie was used to reading Latin descriptions of such things. He liked the Latin a lot better. It sounded nicer.

For another thing, the story books were so miserably printed that he couldn't read half of what they said. He had to decode one particular four-letter arrangement before he realized it was just that old familiar men's-room-wall word with its letters hopelessly switched around. When a dirty story book couldn't even spell those words right, what was the point of even printing it?

Or, for that matter, even reading it?

Nothing happened with the story books, either.

And so, finally, Willie was forced to admit the truth.

He still wasn't sure exactly what had done it. Maybe it was the sudden shocking sight of The Real Thing staring him in the face. Or maybe the photos hadn't had anything to do with it; perhaps it had just been time for his thinking to change, time for a re-evaluation of the things he wanted, the things he enjoyed.

He dumped everything back into the paper bag and went into the other room. Once again, the evening had passed him by; it was nearly time to go to bed. He undressed, went through the usual routine, then climbed into the sack.

It wasn't going to happen tonight, any more than it had happened last night. The world hadn't been spoiled after all-at least, not the entire world. The only thing spoiled had been Willie's enjoyment of his private fun.

The pictures had made the point.

There was no substitute for The Real Thing.

Willie was resolved not to settle for anything less.

Tomorrow evening, he would take a trip to Times Square, to The Street. He would stand in front of a store or a theatre and wait for a whore to come by. He still had no idea what he would say to her, how he would get the conversation rolling. In fact, the very idea of stopping a prostitute and asking for her services still filled him with terror.

But he had to do it, because he wanted The Real Thing more than he had ever wanted anything before.

And, of course, when a man wants something badly ' enough, he usually gets it.

CHAPTER TEN

It was Tuesday.

Trixie sat at the small kitchen table, glumly staring into her first cup of coffee for the day. Vera sat opposite, just finishing a plate of scrambled eggs and a crust of toast. Their small kitchen was filled with sunlight. The clock on the wall pointed just past noon.

"Out late last night, huh, Trix?"

Trixie looked up from her cup. "What? Oh-yeah. You were out like a fight when I came in."

"I know it. I never knew you were there, not even when you got into bed with me."

Trixie smiled vacantly and returned her gaze to the coffee cup.

"Well?" asked Vera.

"Well what?" Trixie said, not looking up. "Well, how did it go? The big plan. You tried it out last night, didn't you?"

Trixie watched her own reflection in the brown coffee. "The big plan. Yeah, I tried it."

Vera spread her hands. "So? How did it come out? You do your good deed, or what?"

Trixie didn't reply right away. The surface of the coffee rippled, distorting her features. The rippling reminded her of Suzy's stuttering.

"You want to know something, Vera?"

"Sure. What?"

"You can't do favors for people."

"You mean, people won't let you?"

"I mean, you just can't. It's impossible. Like flying to the moon."

"Hey," Vera said with mild concern in her voice. "What happened last night? Did something happen?"

"No-nothing special. I'm all right, honey."

"Oh. Okay. Only, for a moment there-the way you sounded-"

"You can't do nothing for people," Trixie said. "And you know why?"

"Why, Trix?"

"Because they're none of your goddamn business, that's why. You got no call messing into their lives any more than they have messing into yours. If they got problems, the best thing you can do is leave them alone."

Vera shrugged. "Okay. I'll buy that."

"You know what happens when you try to do somebody a favor, Vera?"

"You tell me."

"Either one of two things, both bad. Either you get taken for a ride, because you dropped your guard at the wrong time, get japped out of something because people like to take advantage of favors-"

"Or?"

"Or, you just make it worse. You just foul up somebody more than they were before."

"Boy," Vera said, laughing nervously, "you sure are mad about something."

"I'm all right," Trixie replied.

"Hey, Trix?"

"What?"

"Are you saying that your Girl Scout thing is a bust? Are you going to quit it?"

"That's just what I'm saying. There's no point in trying to help people. You either louse them, or louse yourself, and you don't accomplish a damn thing."

"Okay. I get you." Vera pushed her plate to one side and lit two cigarettes, passing one of them to Trixie. The blonde took it silently and stuck it in her mouth.

"Hey, Trix?"

"Yeah?"

"What are you going to do with the hundred? I mean, now that your plan's gone bust?"

"The hundred?" Trixie looked up finally from her coffee. She had forgotten all about the hundred. "Who knows? Spend it on booze, I guess. Or maybe put it in the bank. What's the difference?"

"Oh." Vera tapped ash from her cigarette. "I just wondered."

Trixie caught the wistful expression on the girl's face, and smiled. "Why do you ask, honey? You got any ideas how I should spend it?"

"Well-no. Like, it's your C, and how you spend it is up to yourself."

"What's on your mind, hon?"

Vera picked some imaginary lint from her robe. "Trix-did I ever tell you about that place my uncle had up in Vermont, the place I used to go when I was a little girl?"

"You mean, the cabin in the woods? Yeah, you told me about it."

"I been thinking lately," Vera went on shyly. "Maybe-you and me could get away for a while. You know, take a vacation or something?"

"Hey, Vera," Trixie said, her face lighting up. "You want to go up to that cabin?"

"I don't know. It's your hundred, like I said before. But, I thought-just the two of us up there in the woods-we could have a week or two away from all this crud."

"Vera," Trixie said. "That sounds just great."

Vera looked at her and smiled hesitantly. "You mean it, Trix?"

"Sure, honey. Sure, I mean it. That lousy C was the cause of all this in the first place. You and me, we should spend it on a good time."

"You think we could manage a week on a hundred bucks?" Vera leaned forward excitedly. "I haven't seen that cabin in years. We might have to put some money into it."

"Don't sweat," Trixie said. "If we run out of dough, we'll just take a trip into town. They got men in Vermont, same as New York. Gals like you and me, we carry our business with us."

"Oh, Trix," Vera said, her eyes very bright. "That would be so nice-"

Maybe, Trixie thought, this is one favor I can do for somebody. This favor, and one other favor-never tell Vera about Suzy.

"Kid," Trixie said aloud. "It's a deal."

They spent the afternoon and early evening planning the details of the trip. To be on the safe side, Vera suggested, they should work out the remainder of the day, turning as many tricks as possible, building a sock in case of emergency. Trixie agreed to this. They decided to leave late the following afternoon.

And so, at eight PM Tuesday evening, Trixie found herself walking The Street again. But things had changed. The Street itself looked different to her, and so did the people on it. The neon seemed to have lost some of its brightness, and there was more garbage underfoot and in the gutters than she could recall ever seeing before. There was a tooth-marked wedge of pizza on the sidewalk in her path, and she gouged a heel in it as she went by. It didn't mean anything, but it made her feel better.

No, she thought, The Street hadn't changed. It never would, and neither would the customers. And neither would the bleeders. Everything would go on the same until the end of the world, and there wasn't a thing anybody could do about it.

Trixie herself had changed. Ralph had started it. From him, she had learned there were such things as bleeders. And with that lesson in mind, she had really seen poor Vera for the first time.

That had been Lesson Number One.

Lesson Number Two had been administered by the small man. Keep your guard up at all times, because that's the law of the jungle. Mankind's basic philosophy: Hooray for me, and the hell with you.

Lesson Number Three had been taught by sad bleeding Suzy. No matter how lousy your problems are, no matter how miserable life is for you, the interference of another person is only going to make everything worse.

As she thought about it, she boiled it down to just two rules.

People bleed, was the first one.

You can't help, was the second.

It was all very simple, really. But it changed Trixie. Some of the bright sex-happy femaleness went out of her, and a lot of her softness went with it. She was starting on the road to hardening-up, as so many whores had before her. The process was only beginning, but it would take a miracle to prevent it from running its course.

After a while, she cleared her head of thought and looked around. She was standing on the south side of The Street. Directly in front of her was a store window, filled with photos of naked women-one of those places that always managed to look so evil, but never sold anything the law wouldn't allow.

Standing in front of the window was a guy.

Just a kid, really. Not much older than twenty, from the looks of him. Trixie, being twenty-five herself, decided he was a kid.

The kid was standing in one spot, not moving, not doing anything but smoking a cigarette. His back was to the display of nude women, his face was turned toward the passing crowds. His eyes seemed to watch every face, especially the faces of the girls. His fingers nervously flicked the cigarette every few seconds, never giving ash any time to form.

Trixie stopped a couple of doors away, and watched him for a while. There was no doubt in her mind-the kid was money in the bank. The look on his face, the nervousness in his hands, betrayed the itch under his belt as surely as if he were naked.

Patting her hair, adjusting the pivot of her hips, smoothing her dress over her un-bra'd breasts, pasting a prostitute's come-hither smile on her face, she sauntered up to him.

"Hi, hon."

He dropped the cigarette. They both looked at it for a moment. Then Trixie extended one foot and ground the butt out.

They stared at each other, Trixie's face masked with friendliness, the kid's face frozen with fright.

"You looking for a good time, hon?" she asked.

Slowly, as if it were the most difficult thing in the world, he nodded.

"You think maybe you'd like to have that good time with me, hon?"

He nodded again.

"It'll cost you twenty," she said. "Fifteen for me, and the rest for the room. But it'll be worth it. I know how to give a man a real good time, hon, and you look like just the man to make the most of it. Let's go now, huh, hon?"

The kid seemed to surface from a trance. His hand came up from his side jerkily, like the arm of a mechanical man. Trixie felt the sudden unexpected touch of his fingers against her own.

The kid was holding her hand.

She hesitated for just a moment, then slipped her palm against his, allowing their fingers to twine. Oddly enough, it felt nice. She didn't stop to examine the sensation.

They made the trip to the hotel quickly, hand in hand, not speaking. The kid seemed to feel more comfortable in silence, so Trixie didn't push it. In a funny way she enjoyed the feeling of just walking along a street, not talking, holding hands with a young man. It was so simple-a simple thing in such a goddamn complicated world.

As they crossed the lobby, Trixie glanced at Perry. He nodded his usual nod, but wouldn't meet her gaze. She surprised herself with the thought that maybe she had been too hard on him.

There was a passenger in the elevator, so Trixie and the kid were unable to exchange caresses. They didn't look at each other until the car had arrived at the sixth floor and Trixie had led the way to Room 609. She opened the door, let the kid go past her, locked the lock, and flicked the light switch.

Usually, both the ceiling light and a floor lamp went on when that switch was thrown, but this time the overhead bulb was out. The remaining light was sufficient, though-besides, she thought it gave the familiar room a cozy look.

The kid was standing helplessly by the bureau, looking at her.

"There's the bed, honey," she said. "Let's go."

Without waiting for a reply, she pulled her dress over her head. Her breasts spilled away from her like soft fruit. Her panties came down next, down to the floor, baring her round belly and the honey-colored natural-blonde triangle beneath it. The snaps of her garter belt opened, her stockings peeled off her legs with a whisper of nylon. Last to go were her shoes. She kicked them off, heard them clump away across the floor.

Then she looked at the kid.

He looked as if he were going to die.

A funny feeling grabbed at her, and she heard her voice go very soft and gentle. "Aw, come on, sweetie-there ain't nothing to be scared of. We're just gonna lay down together for a while, that's all. There ain't nothing scary about that. Why, that's the most natural thing in the world."

She went to him and ran her hands over his chest. In spite of the kid's youth, there was a pretty good build under that shirt. "Let's get all this stuff off you, so you and me can be bare together. Wouldn't you like that, honey? Sure, you would. Here-" And she pulled his shirt tails free of his trousers, unbuttoning the shirt quickly and skillfully. "Now, come on, lift up your arms so we can get this here undershirt off you-there we are. Isn't that better? Now-"

She reached for his belt buckle and saw his entire body stiffen with panic. She put her hands around his waist and looked into his frightened eyes. "Honey," she said. "It's only a man and a woman all nude together. That's all. That's what makes the world go round. There ain't nothing better, not anywhere. Relax, sweetie, and let it happen. Okay?"

He seemed to relax a little. At least, he didn't fight her as she dropped his pants to the floor, pulled off his shoes and socks, then, with a slow deliberate movement, stripped his shorts away from his loins in the final unveiling.

"What's your name, hon?" she asked, pushing her naked body up against him.

"Willie," he said faintly.

"I'm Trixie," she said. "This is your first time out, ain't it?"

He set his lips and nodded.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of, Willie. There's gotta be a first time for everything. The longer you wait for it, the better it is. You'll see."

He nodded again.

She moved him to the bed, made him recline, then slid into place beside him. She picked up one of his hands and set it on her breast.

"Feel that, Willie?"

"Yes," he said.

"That's all for you. Right now, right here and now, that's for you. And the other one. And the rest of me.

You got a woman with you now, and you can do anything you want with her. She's all yours, Willie."

"Yes, Trixie."

"That's good," she said. "Call me by my name. Remember my name. Remember it was Trixie gave it to you the first time."

He started to reply, but she heaved her body over on top of him, and sealed off his words with a clinging tongue-lashing kiss. Her thighs opened, then closed on him. She worked her shoulders, making the round masses of her breasts shift and press against his chest.

Then she lifted herself from him, and rolled onto her back again.

After a few moments, the kid raised up on an elbow and looked at her. He was breathing hard. The fear was almost completely gone from his face.

Trixie slid her hands up her torso, catching hold of her breasts and lifting them high. "You ever see a pair this close up before, Willie?"

"No," he said.

"Would you like to kiss them?"

"Is it all right?"

"Oh, sure, it's all right, honey. I'd like you to. That's part of it."

His hands came out and replaced her own. His head lowered. His lips opened.

Her flesh was received into his mouth.

And this was the biggest and most fantastic kiss Trixie had ever experienced. Not even the small man, not even Suzy; for that matter, not even Vera, had ever paid homage to her breasts in such a magnificent way.

The kid's mouth was warm and tender, but brutal, too. He leeched onto her, making the already-excited flesh darken and swell even more, making her tremble with an arousement that was utterly new to her.

"Oh, honey," she breathed. "Oh, that's so fine-that's so good-"

He caught her breast in both his hands and worked his mouth furiously. She heard him make a small sound in his throat. For some reason, that, tiny sound made her excitement grow.

She tensed her body, thrusting herself up against his face. She could feel the faint bristling of stubble beneath her breast, the soft blink of his eyelashes above it. Her own eyes closed, her mouth opened into a slack oval, her entire body shuddered under his kiss.

Time passed without her awareness. And, all of a sudden, he was there.

She felt his lean hips fitting themselves between her thighs, felt his palms slipping up under her shoulders, felt the pressure of his abdomen against hers. All the while, his mouth never left her breast.

Then, she felt another touch.

As big as the world-as basic as Adam and Eve-the touch came to her, invaded her, impaled her like a fluttering butterfly on a cardboard square. But the square wasn't cardboard; it was a bed. And she wasn't a butterfly; she was a woman. And the instrument which held her wasn't a naturalist's pin; it was a man.

A man.

She felt as if she were on a boat. All around her, the sea had been churning, water lapping against the huh, skies threatening a storm. Now the storm was breaking, and the waves were coming larger and larger, charging against the hull with a fantastic power. The boat began to rock.

The power moved the boat, moved her with it, and in every motion there was a tingling thread of pleasure, reeling out of her body's deepest places, like fishing line howling off a spindle as some deep-sea monster plunged to the bottom with the hook in his mouth.

But it wasn't the hook that was in his mouth. The monster had her breast in his mouth, still in his mouth, and the line played out of her furiously, making her nerves sing, and the boat rocked and rocked and rocked.

And then, the biggest wave of them all came roaring up out of the sea, a wave so big it filled the sky.

She felt her mouth open back over her teeth, heard crazy sounds coming from her throat.

Moans.

She had never moaned before.

She was still moaning when the wave fell onto her.

There was a long period of darkness and oblivion. Trixie knew nothing, felt nothing. Her body had been crushed under that awesome wave of pleasure, and all her senses had been crushed with it.

At last, she began to function again. Her mind came under control first, and she thought: This is the only way to help people. Give them pleasure. Just straight pleasure. And get pleasure back in return.

She opened her eyes.

The kid was sitting on his haunches between her lax thighs. His hands held her knees, and he was watching her face.

He wasn't a kid any more.

"Thank you," he said.

She smiled at him. "Oh, Willie-you don't have to thank me for nothing. You were-really, you were the best I ever had."

He grinned a little, and said nothing.

"I thought you told me this was your first time."

"It was," Willie replied.

"Then where did you ever learn that kind of technique? A guy could go through his whole life and never be able to take care of a woman like that."

"I read a book," Willie said.

Trixie laughed. It was the first genuine laugh she had enjoyed in some time. "Boy-that must be some book."

He grinned a bit more. "Thanks again," he said. "I mean it." He passed his knee over her thigh and climbed down off the bed.

As he dressed, Trixie watched him without moving. It would, she realized, be a little while before she would be able to navigate again. She didn't mind waiting at all.

"Hey, Willie?" she called.

He was just buttoning the last button on his shirt. "Yes-Trixie?"

The sound of her name made her glow for some reason. "You keep saying thanks all the time, Willie. I don't get it. Thanks for what?"

He looked at her in surprise. "Why-for making it so easy."

"Easy?"

"Sure. That's why I-never had any before this. I didn't know how to start. I didn't know how to talk to a girl. The ones I saw-they all looked so hard, like they were challenging all the men in the world to take them on. They scared me off, made me hide away by myself. You know, I used to think all the time that eyes were watching me, making fun of me for being a virgin. But-maybe those eyes were my own. I think they were my own all along."

"Willie-how did I make it easy for you?"

"Well, because you were so nice. You didn't tease me, or try to make me feel small. When I was scared, you talked me out of it. You made me feel like I was more than just a kid who didn't know anything-you made me feel like a man."

"A man," Trixie said.

"That's right. Thank you for that."

"But-that's crazy. I'm just a whore. Whores can't help anybody."

"You're a girl, Trixie," he said, coming over to stand beside the bed. That's the most important part. You're a girl before you're anything else. And a girl-a girl who doesn't try to pretend all the time, doesn't hide behind smart talk and making fun-a girl like that can make a guy really feel like a man." He paused. "Nobody could ever have done me a bigger favor than that."

Trixie didn't say a word.

The kid-the man-leaned over the bed and kissed her on the mouth. Then he went to the door.

"Thanks again," he said. "Thanks, Trixie." The door closed.

Trixie and Vera went to Vermont the next afternoon. Vera just couldn't understand the overnight change which had taken place in Trixie's disposition. All of a sudden, the old Trixie was back again-the nutty happy Trixie with the uncontrollable sex-drive. The gloom of the previous morning seemed to have vanished, and Trixie acted as if she were in love with the world.

When they got to the cabin, Trixie didn't even let Vera unpack. She threw the surprised girl on the bed, pinned her under her body, and just gobbled her up.

THE END
The Yearning Flesh ....(74k)    by Fletcher Bennett





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