Sixteen Year Old Bride
by Carol Fleming
(SOHO-3039)


FOREWORD 

Joan Harper started young, moving to New York City at the age of sixteen. It 
was easy for the shapely, sensual-looking girl to land a job as a waitress. 
Soon Joan noticed that the customers were more interested in her body than 
her bill of fare, especially Maximilian J. Tower, a regular customer who 
could not take his eyes off the young beauty. 

Maximilian was a jazz musician, an occupation that intrigued Joan Harper. He 
took the girl to a party in his hotel room and Joan stayed late, knowing 
that it was time to disencumber herself of virginity. Maximilian seduced the 
young girl easily, and then found himself head over heels in love with her. 
Two months later, they were married. 

However, Joan was not willing to share her husband with the man's career. 
Rather than seek a divorce or confrontation, she allowed herself to be 
picked up and then seduced by Russel Walker, an upper-class Englishman, 
living in New York with his estranged wife. Russel gave Joan her first 
orgasm, and then his wife took up the slack. 

Joan was shocked to be approached in sexual terms by a woman, but it did not 
take long for her to yield to Sonia Walker's undeniable charms. The tall, 
sophisticated woman showed Joan that she could be happy in a woman's tender 
arms. Their affair was brief and tempestuous going on until Joan realized 
that she could deceive her husband no longer. 

 CHAPTER ONE 

I was only sixteen when I arrived in New York, full of dreams and 
"ambitions, meaning to make it big. That was the only thing on my mind and I 
didn't care how it happened. I've changed my standards a lot since those 
days, but that's another question, one that will have to wait awhile to be 
answered. 

The first thing that happened to me, the thing of any real importance, was 
meeting Maximilian J. Tower, the man who was to become my husband. I was 
working in a restaurant at the time, as a waitress of course, and Max was an 
up and coming jazz trumpeter. He was also a handsome, domineering, sexy man, 
almost impossible for me to resist. 

I didn't think too much of myself in those days, but Max seemed to like me 
just fine. The thing is that I was pretty womanly at a young age, almost 
hated my big tits for the trouble they caused me. Anyway, Max was one of the 
regular customers at the coffee shop, and it didn't take long for him to 
invite me to a party being held in his hotel room. 

I went without thinking much of it, and was glad when Max greeted me 
personally. Most of the people there were musicians which left me pretty 
well out of things. But Max was solicitous as hell, explaining things to me 
whenever necessary. Of course I'd had the usual education along classical 
lines, but I didn't remember much except for Elise. I stood listening, 
therefore without turning around, without wanting Max to know I was 
eavesdropping, yet curious to understand more of what it was that held these 
people together and gave such a spark to their existence. Any thing that was 
lively, that radiated pleasure in life, I wanted to know about. 

While I was feeling this and drinking the rye I felt a hand touch my 
shoulder. A big, warm, possessive hand that came down on me strongly, but 
somehow lightly, giving me enough room to move beneath it and to pull away 
if I wanted to. 

It was Max's hand, and I didn't want to move at all. 

"Well, Ellen, having a good time?" 

I was rather tired and dragged out and pale and the resemblance between my 
appearance and how he was looking at me was strictly on the humorous level. 

"Come here, I want to show you something," Max continued, turning me around 
with the pressure of that hand. The fingers slid down from my shoulder to 
the elbow. I sensed how that sensitive touch was learning me, learning my 
body in rapid, almost intuitive streaks of experiment in tactile 
observation. 

The hand finally stopped at my wrist, and held me there as though I were 
three years old while he led me though the crowd to the window, and pushed 
aside dusty, double curtains. 

We were on the seventeenth floor. I could see out along Broadway, which to 
me was still a novel and exciting panorama of syncopated light rhythms. 

"Do you like all that out there?" said Max and his voice dropped a decibel 
or two to a reverberating intimacy. 

I felt flattered that Max was speaking to me of his personal feelings. I did 
not know, could not know that people, particularly showmen are able to let 
loose and talk at anyone, to anyone, who will give half an ear or plain 
silence of acting the audience role. The people I had know were strictly 
self-contained, and so was I at the time, even more so than I realized. 

"I love it," I answered quietly, wanting to encourage Max to keep on 
talking. 

"Sure you do," he said. "The whole world loves Broadway, and believes in it, 
but that's not what I'm feeling. Princess, I want you to know what I'm 
feeling so that you won't say I never told you." He took my hand and pressed 
it to the windowsill into a filmy layer of soot. In his enthusiasm and 
self-absorption, Max did not realize that we were touching dirt. "The secret 
of Broadway," he continued, "Is to possess her but not to love her. If you 
give your heart to the bitch, she eats you alive and spits out the bony 
parts bit by bit." He shook his head slowly and with that utter calm 
confidence that I was to learn about so very personally, "No, I don't love 
Broadway," he continued gently with a rationality and cool sense of 
distance. "I don't love her and I don't trust her, and that's why she's 
going to come to me. Understand?" 

I thought I understood. Most of all I was simply turning around inside my 
own feelings. Max had begun to open a door just enough for me to peek 
through into his world, and the tiny bit I saw enchanted me. I sensed 
possibilities. I sensed involvement, all of it combining into a strange 
alertness as though I had just come out of the eggshell and was standing in 
the daylight. 

"I know you'll have everything you want," said I. 

"Thanks kid," Max laughed and there wasn't any smirk in the laughing either, 
but something serious as though my statement of faith were a conviction 
projected into the world, and reverberating there as a directive to fate 
that it comply. 

Max took the glass out of my free hand and drank down what remained in it 
without bothering to concern himself about my own interest in the whiskey. 
He seemed to know that I wasn't a drinker, or maybe he didn't want me to be 
one, or, if I am to be utterly realistic, perhaps even at that stage of our 
friendship, Max was not particularly interested in my personal needs, or 
desires, where they were divergent from his own. 

He let go of my wrist, and touched me lightly on one hip in a kind of pat, 
as though he were telling me that I was all right, maybe a little more than 
all right. That he liked me, of course, and that I would do. 

I can think back upon it and say that the game was stacked against me, or in 
Max's own language, that the bastard had gall. It must have been easy to 
impress a youngster. That Max didn't care who I was, what I was, or the 
state of my utter availability. He just didn't care. Blindly could not care. 
The fact is, I don't really blame him either. I had come to New York. I had 
taken the job. I had accepted his invitation to the party, and I was 
listening to him with both my ears and all my reflexes waiting to be 
redirected into the channels most conducive to his satisfaction. I might 
have been young and inexperienced but never, never was I without free 
choice. 

That is the meaning which comes through everything that I have done in my 
efforts to find my own balance on this earth. I do not and cannot offer 
excuses for my behavior and intend to set down here exactly what I did, how 
I did it and the resultant consequences. 

The inescapable link of cause and effect which dogged me is all the 
punishment or justification that I have been able to find. The consequences 
of extramarital affairs were, for better or worse, never predictable. 

Summer went quickly. I did not see as much of Max as that first evening 
promised. He had club dates out of town, a string of small places cross 
country. Sometimes I would receive a postcard with a picture of the Grand 
Canyon, or a Kodachrome close-up of a pineapple. He never wrote anything 
except, "Thinking of me?" and it never occurred in my head to respond 
otherwise than "Yes I am. When will you be home?" 

The fact is that when Max finally came home, we did not see each other for 
the first nine days. I know what kept him occupied a great deal of the 
time-women, as I later found out. In fact, so much had to do with women that 
it is a wonder to me that he was at all interested in pursuing a girl who 
did not know what sex was all about. I was a novelty, I suppose. I was 
making malteds, but wasn't a malted-maker by profession, if you know what I 
mean. And Max probably sensed some kind of a double life running through me 
which intrigued him. 

When he did at last come into the coffee shop, I was taking off my apron and 
preparing to leave for the night. When I turned around and saw his big rosy 
face grinning at me, sparkling with that diamond-like sparkle, leaning over 
his elbows which he had rested on the counter. Neither of us remembered that 
there was anyone else in the place. 

I would have done what was expected of me and I wanted to do it, anyhow. I 
came racing around and flung myself into his arms with that illusive delight 
of loneliness suddenly unexpectedly relieved. 

He kissed me all over my face, lots of delicious little statements of his 
pleasure at seeing me again. There was no one else in New York who cared to 
see me at all, one way or another. And I believed that Max had actually 
missed me, and looked forward to returning. 

"You look beautiful," he said. "Come on, I want to talk to you. Let's go 
upstairs." 

And I believed that too. That he wanted to talk to me. 

I went upstairs without thought, without any premonition that my life was 
about to turn a detour and enter the heart of a passionate wilderness that I 
could never have expected lived in my own body. 

At sixteen and a half, I was one hundred per cent a virgin. I had the trust 
and the utter faith, because I had never been mishandled, that my body would 
do whatever was right. 

Max's room was dark and quiet with a faint hint of dead air, heavy with 
cigar smoke and garlic sauce. I guessed he hadn't been home very long, 
certainly had not stayed in his room very long. When he put the lights up, I 
saw as though for the first time the essential condition of upheaval in 
which Max lived. The room looked like a party had just exploded here, but I 
knew it was the remnants of some part a few weeks old. I let my mind play 
around with these trivial thoughts because I sensed a certain closeness 
pressing in upon me as though my clothing were suddenly too tight. 

"You missed me?" Max said without ceremony. 

I answered yes, by nodding my head rather than speaking the words, for it 
was true that I had missed him and I was too riddled with emotion to say 
anything. 

"Good." 

I knew it was good. 

"Yes, I missed you too, Princess,', he said. "I didn't think I would, but I 
did." 

What had there been to miss, I wondered. 

In answer to my question, he came over to me, put his arms around my waist, 
and lifted me up from the floor as though I were made out of wicker. 

It was the first time in my life that I slid along the length of a man's 
body, and I felt all of him, all at once, against all of me. 

Something in me came to a dead halt. It was as though my body were taking a 
deep breath before diving deeply. I remember that sensation of being 
suspended in a limbo of eternity during which I looked deep into Max's eyes. 
They were eyes which usually smiled, and they were smiling now. I felt as 
though I were drowning in those eyes, possessed by them. 

"Sweetheart, you look so good to me," His voice had a tremulous, breathy 
note, which I had never heard before. 

I wanted to say, Max I love you. But even then, in the midst of this 
strangeness, this newness of physical sensation, I somehow held my voice 
back from speech. 

I don't know how long a time passed before we kissed. I felt my head moving 
slowly toward his face, again with that sensation of being drawn toward him 
by something larger than my own will. And yet it was my will. I knew that 
then, I know it now. It was the will and desire of my body taking possession 
of . me, leading my brain and stifling all thoughts of discretion. I had no 
need for intelligence when my flesh so strongly demanded its due, so 
strongly asserted its right to find expression. 

His arms, which were holding me tight to his body, began to move as our lips 
touched. I was braced by the strength of his forearms and hands. I became 
aware of everything simultaneously. The suction of his tongue as it drew 
mine into his mouth. The exploratory circling of his large palms along my 
spine and ribs. The rise and ease of his chest as my tits flattened against 
his broad muscle. I wanted to withdraw the touch of my breasts from him, yet 
I could not, and suddenly I sensed something dangerous, something astir and 
challenging. 

Of course, I had kissed men before, or should I say I had kissed boys. Boys 
my own age who did not know, could not have known how to overwhelm me. The 
kissing I had done before had given me little experience as to what to 
expect when I would finally be in the arms of a man. 

The tingling that spiraled through my tits found apex in prickly sensation 
at either nipple, and I was consumed with anxiety to relive the thrust of 
growing desire. 

I felt the pressure of his mouth arching my head backward. His tongue dug 
deeper now past the edges of my teeth invading my own mouth. Max became like 
an army, driving forward. Somewhere in the back of my throat, I gasped, but 
the sound never came up. I was overwhelmed and yet I was also strangely 
equal to what was happening for I wanted it to continue wanted to know the 
sensation of victory over the new drive which was my response to our 
contact. 

I flung my arms around his neck, hardly aware that the equal and opposite 
force of my own body was meeting Max's demand. He to enjoy keeping me up off 
the ground, holding me in his arms with all of my weight dependent upon his 
use of me. He walked with me to the couch. It was but a few steps away. 

I became aware of the ease with which Max handled me as he lowered me onto 
the cushions of the sofa. I did not, however, have a second to pull clear of 
him, even if I had wanted to. He lay me down on the couch and immediately 
covered my body with his Own, bracing his enormous weight straddling my 
thighs. I felt the radiation of his body heat penetrate my own flesh, 
burning, it seemed through our clothes. He had not made a single move to 
undress me, but I felt already naked in front of him. Perhaps it was that I 
yearned so to be disrobed, to be visible, to be touched, and appreciated by 
this man who was conquering me. 

Expectations had no place to go except outwardly toward him. 

"How are you baby?" he said. "Tell me how you are. Feeling good?" 

It was not a question really, but soothing reassurance. I sensed that he 
wanted me to talk to him, to tell him what I was feeling, that I was all 
right, that I wanted him to continue. 

I sighed, unable to find the enormous words to express the enormity of my 
feeling. I was possessed by tremors of pleasure that stole to my lips. All I 
could do was make sounds. Small animal cries, they were, telling Max that I 
loved what he was doing and wanted more of it, wanted more of whatever he 
chose to give me. 

"Talk to me, baby. Tell me." 

Why was he insisting, I wondered. And yet I felt that Max needed something, 
a gentle reassurance too. Yes, even he needed to know that it was all right, 
that I was all right. 

I had no way then of knowing that what concerned him was my age, my lack of 
experience. I thought with a sense of flattery that Max was interested and 
focused upon the mysteries and integrity of my small life. 

It was a beautiful thought, and one which permitted me to move on among the 
delights of self-expression which hitherto had been unknown except in my 
dreams. In fact, I believed then I was half dreaming because the sudden 
condition of being flung from loneliness and aloneness into the security of 
a beloved's arms, into the protection of a greater, more experienced and 
knowledgeable being, what could it mean except that I was being blessed with 
permission to live and extend myself from the inner world of my yearnings 
into the external stage of life. 

Such happiness. I can hardly speak of it now without trembling at the 
naivete of those moments. I believed in Max, believed in him, and by 
extension, believed in myself. 

It was easy to give him my nakedness. Not only the nakedness of my body, but 
the bared desires which had lain restlessly beneath the surface, waiting for 
just this moment, for this man, for this opportunity to make themselves 
known. 

"Oh, I want you. I want you. Darling, I want to make you happy." The words 
came from me in a muffled slur of growing passion. I was squirming beneath 
him, knowing that I had to talk because he had asked me to, and struggling 
to speak out the confusion of feelings and hopes was almost more of an 
effort than I could manage. 

"Let's get you undressed." he said. 

I was suddenly aware, when he spoke of my clothing that I was not dressed in 
a seductive fashion of which I had sometimes dreamed. How I had wallowed in 
imagining myself the proud possessor of black lacy undergarments which would 
seduce my lover. But my clothing, the real me, was of so simple and 
unassuming a nature, that I blushed to have Max's hands come upon my cotton 
bra and underpanties. Why had I not thought to prepare for the moment? How 
had I managed to be such a romantic and so inept? 

But there was nothing I could do except let him find what there was to find, 
and I began to undo my dress. 

"Let me help." 

His lingers covered my own hands and together we fumbled with my clothing. 

"Do you want to use the bathroom?" I said. 

"Oh, yes," I said eagerly, grasping at straws. I wanted to do something, 
anything which would heighten my attractiveness. 

He let me out from underneath him. I stumbled toward the small John where I 
could be alone and try to pull myself together in some attempt at the 
glamorous. 

His bathroom was a place more for convenience than anything else. I opened 
the medicine cabinet, a small box over the sink. What had I expected to find 
there? Perfumes? Powders? Of course not. Some bottles of hair oil half open, 
a shaver, aspirin. My eyes glanced hopelessly helplessly over the array of 
pharmaceutical products which had no relation at all to my need. At last, 
with a desperate plunge, I ducked my cupped hands under the faucet and 
splashed my face and neck with warm water, then combed my hair back 
smoothly. The sight of my face in the mirroj; showed a creature half wild. I 
was dizzy. 

Everything blurred to my view. I sighed, knowing that there was nothing more 
I could do to improve upon myself, and I returned to the room where Max 
waited for me. 

He had, I saw, taken off his own clothing. 

The sight of Max in the flesh jolted me. What had I expected? What shreds of 
prudishness still clung that I would expect him not to have disrobed? Yet my 
eyes were strangely honest as they searched the sight of his body, finding 
the proportions of him strong and his prick already half erected. 

Yet I myself had not removed one shred of my clothing. 

"Well, now," he said, "Let's get those things off you." 

And the nakedness of him came toward me. 

His hands which had been so gentle before, so magnetic, were now demanding, 
and directly adequate. He whisked off the dress. His thumbs slipped into the 
straps of my bra, pulled them from my shoulders. They did not move readily, 
and I suddenly alive with helpfulness and eager need, reached down behind 
and opened the hook that would finally loosen the bandeau. The bra fell. I 
heard Max sigh as my tits came into view. 

"This is the first time," I said, speaking to myself. I sensed air touching 
my tits, and playing with my nipples, and knew the hungry stare of Max's 
eyes, as they focused first upon one and then upon the other of my heavily 
fleshed breasts. He bent over. The sigh turned to a grunt as he made contact 
with my left nipple. I shuddered, felt my eyes close. Dizziness started 
again. 

One of my hands reached out and clutched into Max's hair, hung onto him to 
keep myself steady. It was all so beautiful, so frightening. I knew what to 
do without really knowing if there were a book of rules or a procedure to 
follow, which would make our love more beautiful. 

His fingers reached inside the elastic band of my panties, while his mouth 
played with my tits. I felt the underwear yanked away and his hands grasp 
the flesh of my hips kneading with strong fingers that took me as though I 
belonged to him, as though he had purchased me, as though I was his to do 
with as he pleased. It was so, I felt. He had bought me from life, owned me, 
could use me. As long as he would keep me and cherish me, he could do what 
he wished with my body. And I would be glad. 

I felt the underwear slipping down around my knees. Without realizing it, I 
stepped out of the confinement as it fell the rest of the way to my ankles. 
His hands, meanwhile, slid over my behind, grasped me firmly, high on the 
backs of my thighs. He came to his knees in front of me. His tongue pressed 
against my flesh, moving in a circular pathway down between my breasts to my 
belly over the curve there into the triangle at the top of my thighs. 

I began to tremble and did not wish to remain standing. Suddenly, there was 
no strength in my, only the fluid current of passion which rushed wildly 
through my flesh and bones. I grabbed at Max's shoulders in the hope of 
steadying myself. 

"All right, baby," he said. His voice seemed to understand what was 
happening to me. 

He stood up. Now I felt the brush of him directly along my legs. That firm 
cock like a magic wand, drew currents of passion from the depths of wells 
which I had not known existed. My hands with their own will reached to grasp 
him. I sighed and groaned and made other sounds that I cannot even describe 
as my fingers caught hold of his vital part. 

"Do you like it honey?" he said. "Hang on to it. It's yours. Hold it tight." 

He did not have to tell me. I was imbued with a second spirit, it seemed. As 
though I were a knowing woman, with wanton needs which came rising to the 
surface and took control of my thoughts. Not only did I hold onto his 
erected prick, but I reached with my other hand for the pendulous sac and 
rolled it over my palm. Max laughed with appreciation. 

"Good girl," he said. "Stay with it." 

I did not recognize his tone, but knew only my own sense of urgency. I 
tingled and quivered with need to be touched and kissed and fondled and 
taken. 

"Let's lie down," I said, the words slurring. "Anywhere, please." 

Before I knew it, Max had pulled me down to the floor. There was a rug of 
sorts, enough to protect my bones from bruising against wood. I didn't care, 
didn't much care if we were lying on cold tile or beds of pebbles. It was a 
relief to be off my feet. I was lying on my side, and kissing his chest, my 
mouth finding its way through the curling mat of hair. I could hear the 
vibration of his heart beat. I knew it was reflecting the pounding of my 
own. I felt so voracious and gave into it, so hungry and gave into that, 
climbing over him, straddling him between my thighs, which trembled and 
quivered and clung. 

Did I want to ride him? I didn't think of it in exactly those terms. Only 
that I wanted to become part of him, and join his cock. I lusted with a high 
sea of passion, whose waves carried me aloft, beyond myself. 

But Max couldn't wait. 

With a sudden, fierce clutching of my hips, he sat me down firmly upon his 
dick. Our bodies met. I shrieked with the onslaught of sharp pain, felt 
flesh tear as he landed me with his hard cock. 

"No, no." I yelled but I didn't mean no. I meant only, stop the pain and 
give me back my pleasure. 

He began to raise and lower his hips lifting the slight weight of my body 
easily. I was riding a torrent and could not escape it now. I was impaled 
upon masculinity, flung into a chaos of conflicting sensations. Suddenly I 
knew that my virginity had been shattered, that I had given it away, that I 
had surrendered myself completely, that I was in the process of being marked 
forever by the male genital, that there was no turning back. I must fling 
myself further forward. Crawl through the trial by passionate fire, and 
pray, pray to come out on the other side a woman. 

How well, I still recall the fear and the drive interlocking. I trusted my 
body not to betray me, trusted that my feelings had not led me into the 
wrong channels. Yet the fullness that filled me, the stiff, pressing 
dagger-like object which speared me wide was not kindly, not loving. 

Although he lay beneath me and was thrusting upward, Max still had the 
reins, so to speak, and was driving me. I was on top but it was Max who was 
riding, and I the whipped, dumb creature certainly knew that now. I knew 
that he might have been gentler if he'd tried. But I didn't know then. 

At that time, I thought it was I who commanded the action, I who with my 
consent and body had turned Max loose inside me to run wild there between my 
thighs. I felt the pressure of him all the way up through my belly and 
wondered if I was to be split wide. There were some few drops of dark red, 
but I didn't know where they came from or what they meant except that the 
smear along the inside of my thigh gave me a second's pause. Then I forgot 
about it, could not focus upon something so trivial as blood. 

My kneecaps were pressed to the carpet on either side of his body, and I 
hunched forward, or rather fell. My breasts dangling forward grazed across 
his open mouth. He caught one nipple between the edges of his teeth. I 
gasped and my body seemed to give up its energy for in being penetrated 
fully, the pain suddenly eased, did not stop entirely, but eased 
sufficiently for me to relax and relinquish fear. 

"Move your hips, baby. Move 'em. Move 'em." 

His voice commanded and I obeyed. "What are we doing honey? Go on, tell me. 
Say the words, say them." 

"We're making love." 

"What else." 

"Touching." 

"What's touching, honey? Tell me, what's touching what?" 

All of a sudden, I knew what he wanted. He wanted dark words, the 
obscenities, the descriptive four letters forbidden at other times but 
necessary now. And I wanted to say them, wanted to yell them aloud and bathe 
in the words, too. 

Well?" he coaxed. "Come on, tell me Princess. What?" 

The words tumbled from me. 

"Fuck," I said. "Fucking, fucking." 

To me it was a magnificent statement, a capturing of what we were involved 
with. The echo of the words in my own ears magnified the meaning, 
intensified the physicality, in which I was drowned. I became a willing part 
of the drama of sex. My oozing flesh opened like a hungry maw so that he 
eased even deeper into me, and I, pressing downward took him to the hilt. It 
was a wonder to me that there was so much room, that my vaginal capacity 
could stretch and hold so much maleness as that which was filling it now. 
For I recalled quite suddenly, the trouble I'd had once in trying to use 
internal protection for the menstrual flow. I had been unable to take a 
Tampax within me. But now there was all of him filling the space, and 
somehow, incredibly I was yearning for more. 

The yearning made my shake my behind in response to Max's movements. He 
seemed alive and transcendent. The obscenities I had given him had done 
their job. He smiled a grin of greed and fulfillment. 

"You want me to turn you over?" he said. "You want me to fuck you on your 
back?" 

I didn't know, couldn't know how best to please him. What he wanted I would 
give. There were so many actions, experiences yet to be learned. But I was a 
willing pupil, and said, "Yes, Max, turn me over, please," thinking that 
whatever he wanted, I wanted too. I don't recall exactly how he managed it, 
but Max got me on my back. Lying there, looking up into the broad face, the 
broader hunching shoulders, the flat, intense drive of his chest and belly, 
then lower, I knew that wherever life would lead me, I would inevitably have 
come back to this man, my very first lover. 

It was but a few seconds later, when Max suddenly hung suspended above me 
quite motionless. I felt a pulsing within him. His face contorted, sprang 
beads of perspiration. He held his breath. I saw his lips pressed tight into 
a grim line which looked to me like pain but which I knew could not be that. 

And then he relaxed. 

"Okay," he said. "Okay." 

I did not know what to answer. Was it okay? Was this everything? I was 
suddenly being told by him that we were going to stop what we had been 
doing. 

"Not yet," I said, speaking from the depth of my need. 

Max said," Don't think you're gonna come the first time, honey. It doesn't 
work that way." 

I was dumbfounded, confused. How could I answer his greater knowledge with 
my lack of anything at all? And yet my body, the hunted had not been caught. 
I knew I needed, knew that this could not be the end, that he dare not stop, 
that I dare not allow myself to be left as empty as I felt now, with action 
so abruptly halted. 

But my confusion could not voice itself so sensibly. I flung arms around his 
neck, and pressed my cheek to his and began to sob. 

Feelings of emptiness and despair and hunger were normal feelings. In my 
position, any healthy woman would have responded as I responded. To be left 
unsatisfied at the height of one's youthful abilities is a torment that 
cannot be written off, even after these many years, without the torture of 
its repeating itself just as vividly in the realm of recollection. 

I would imagine that years put pain at a respectful distance. Yet, if I 
think back to those first weeks of my initiation into the world of love, I 
become wretched with its torments once again. For I could not have known 
that Max meant to tie me to him by keeping me in a state of sexual 
excitement. He knew, I later discovered, that to satisfy me might mean to 
lose me. My youthful excitement, my youthful curiosity could have taken me 
beyond him to other love affairs, but he didn't want to lose me and 
proceeded to chain me to him via my hunger. 

What Max did not know or could not realize was that even I as young and 
confused as I was, would stumble out of the forest, and into the light of 
day whether he wished for me to do so or not. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Maximilian and me got married shortly after that little scene, although even 
at the time, neither of us were too enthusiastic about the idea. The thing 
is that I was young, really young, and needed whatever security I could get. 
Max seemed willing to oblige me, up to a point. 

After that, we began to travel together, the first time I had ever had a 
chance to change scenery. Of course, it was pretty lonely, traveling with a 
group of musicians, no matter what most people would think about it. I was 
left on my own a lot and that helped me grow up fast. 

Returning to New York was really good for me. I walked the familiar streets 
with a feeling of joy, looked up a few friends, did all the things I had 
missed out on the road. We were living in the same hotel room Max had always 
occupied but I didn't let that bother me either, figuring that we'd get a 
decent apartment sooner or later. 

But then I met Russell Walker and everything did an abrupt about-face. I had 
been strolling through the midtown area, and had stopped in an antique shop 
before I noticed him. 

As soon as I saw the man, I knew we were going to end up fucking. Don't ask 
me how I knew or why I wanted him so badly. It just worked out that way. He 
stared at me quizzically, and it was all I could do to keep myself from 
responding obscenely. 

Opportunity pounded through my veins with a hard, demanding pulse. 
Opportunity in the form of an aloof, handsome stranger. And yet I had no 
knowledge, no assurance of what I was walking into if I chose to start 
something. He might be a married man. I could be a home-breaker. All manner 
of evil might fall upon my head. 

Yes, I admit here in writing that it didn't matter to me. I was too selfish, 
too embroiled within my own growing thoughts and troubles, and facing, one 
might say, imminent hysteria. And that hysteria said to me, no matter what 
the price I would pay, I must break free and find myself. Regardless of the 
consequences. I would have the answer to my frustration and have it soon. 

And so it came to pass that I was the aggressor in this first foray outside 
of marriage. 

I left the antique shop without buying anything and walked with lingering 
steps along Madison Avenue thinking about the gentleman who had admired me. 
My thoughts were working at a high level of tension, for I had been addled 
by those first signs of flattery. Love-starved and attention-starved, I was 
to excess. Now when someone had, as it were, thrown me a bone, I was 
overreacting. The combination of my need, my essential youth and my 
determination not to be drowned in despair, all worked together creating a 
high voltage, so that I was, in part, driven to meet this stranger and would 
soon settle for nothing else that day. 

Flashes of Max now passed guiltily across my mind's eye, but did not remain. 
My love for him apparently was not as strong as my love for my own 
self-preservation. I paused at a shop window and glanced to the right, 
hoping to see the stranger approach me. My trepidations and exultation were 
as though I had been a prisoner, who had just climbed over a wall. 

At first, I was disappointed. No sign of my admirer appeared. I told myself 
that he had found something to purchase and knew that I would linger, wait 
for him, until he could catch up with me. I told myself that I had gone 
about this in much too hurried a fashion, that seduction was supposed to be 
languishing and certainly subtle, neither of which I was. I repeated that 
this eagerness on my part would be balanced out by a romantic nature on his 
part. I had only to wait and keep my patience intact. 

A wind bustled about the busy street, but I had no interest in weather or 
mass humanity. Although Madison Avenue was alive with a variety of traffic, 
I felt as though I stood alone in the world, separated by miles from any 
contact with the feelings of others. I knew only one point of focus. He 
alone held my thoughts. And as I waited hopefully, small prickles of 
nervousness crept along my flesh, for now I saw that I was vulnerable. If he 
came forward, I would be his without question. If he did not approach me 
then I was open to any man who might be interested to fill the vacant place 
where my expectation fluttered. 

I did not recognize all this specifically in words, or rationality but knew 
it through the tremulous sensations that contained me I did not recognize 
that I stood on the verge of committing a nameless yet indisputable crime, 
but I felt as though I had given up my integrity. 

I crossed diagonally into the patches of sunlight that fell on dress shop 
windows clustered near the corner, thinking that I could watch better from 
here, and perhaps even see into the antique store without making my interest 
too readily apparent to those who had no business knowing my intentions. 
Turning up my coat collar and clenching my fingers inside the pockets of my 
coat, I stood both with shame and yet in shamelessness waiting, openly 
waiting. 

Sometimes I think that Russel Walker knew exactly what was happening, and 
purposely delayed coming to me. 

When he appeared at last upon the street, a small smile of triumph crept to 
my lips for he stood there, looking to the right and left of him for signs 
of me, and finding none, shook his head with a certain apparent 
consternation. 

I knew without doubt that he obviously was indeed going to chase me down, if 
he possibly could. I continued to smile now on my little hill of triumph, 
for it was I who suddenly had the advantage over him. 

It did not occur to him to look across the street, for me. When he finally 
started along the avenue, moving uptown, I parallelled him on the east side 
of the street, until we reached the corner at which point I crossed, and as 
though by the merest accident, passed in front of him, where he could see 
me. 

At that point it all became clear to him. His long, somewhat austere 
expression changed into a grin that appreciated my little game. How could he 
know that I really wasn't playing at all? 

How I managed through it all to keep my desperation from showing I cannot 
say. But Russell was convinced that I was an impish one. 

"So there you are," he said, coming up to me now, as though we were old 
friends. 

I felt him touch my elbow, and through the cloth of my coat, I thrilled at 
the contact. 

"Oh, I was nearly gone." said I lightly. "What happened to you?" 

"The little bitch in the store," he said, "kept me over the Tiffany shade, 
you know." 

I could tell it was true, yet not exactly true; that he was playing back at 
me, with me. I looked up into his face, and enjoyed the music of his 
nonchalance which was partly a hint of a British accent. I had been right. 
He was no American, and yet something about him, a certain easy deviltry, 
was very American. Altogether, I was charmed and considered myself as having 
leaped the gap between gray reality and bright dream. 

"Shall we have lunch together?" he asked. There was something in his voice 
that took me for granted, that knew I would say yes, and this conviction of 
his partly swept me along. 

For the first time, I felt like an adult meeting another adult on equal 
footing. This strange man could have no secrets deeper than my own, nor a 
greater need. Whether I said yes or no to his offer, I realized that he must 
feel and share my desires for companionship and for more than companionship. 

Of course, I thought when he asked me to join him for lunch, that he meant 
in a restaurant. Foolish assumption. We strolled around the corner to Fifth 
Avenue, where I expected that he would open the door to his parked car or 
hail a taxi. But no. He linked his arm through mine and walked me beneath a 
canopy and into a large, old building that faced Central Park. 

Why hadn't I expected this? Why was I so surprised at the directness with 
which Russel pursued our mutual object? I felt a sudden sense of pause and 
inwardly dug my feet into the earth as though to break the forward speed 
with which I was lunging into something I had indeed bargained for, looked 
for, and even urged, but in some peculiar manner, did not expect to come to 
pass while I was still in a teetering state of unreadiness. 

Yet, I said nothing, did not hesitate, did not make an excuse or suggest 
that we have our lunch outside on more neutral and safer ground. No. I went 
along with the game smiling, casual, chatting about antiques and furniture 
and travel as though it were the most common experience for me to go 
marching up to a strange man's apartment at the first nod of recognition. 

A muddle of conflicting thoughts were distracting me so that I did not pay 
too much attention to the rather plush surroundings which was Russel's 
apartment. I don't know how I would have responded otherwise. Perhaps all 
the attributes of material comfort would have been too reminiscent of my 
childhood, for me to be entirely relaxed. And yet, and yet there was always 
the possibility that part of my original interest in Russell Walker was 
exactly this subliminal reminder of my early years. 

He lived on a high floor. The apartment that opened to me had more rooms 
than could be counted with a single cursory glance. The furniture was 
typical of many such homes I had seen in its old-fashioned mellow comfort. 
One had the sensation of many generations in the mellow, wood-paneled walls 
and soft leather chairs. I had, perhaps, three minutes to absorb this 
atmosphere before I realized that Russell and I were not alone. 

The woman who came through an archway smiled at me with warm welcome. My 
insides cringed guiltily as I realized she was quite young, quite beautiful, 
and quite possibly, Russell's wife. In a flash I wondered if I had made some 
dreadful mistake. But if I had read Russell's interest in me incorrectly, 
for what reason would he have brought me home? I could not imagine. 

Mustering every bit of calm and actress ability, I met the oncoming smile of 
her with one of my own, while Russell introduced me to Sonia Walker, who 
extended a warm hand and took mine, placing her other over my fingers in 
genuine hospitality. 

Involuntarily, I glanced down at those hands to look for a wedding ring, but 
found none. Then, I thought, well maybe this woman is his sister. But they 
did not look like sister and brother. She was dark and small-boned, and her 
warm manner was in fine contrast to his natural coolness. 

"Lovely," said she," to have you here. I was just setting up for lunch." 

Before I had a chance to make the usual remarks of courtesy, Russell 
interrupted us to tell Sonia a concise summary of information regarding 
Madison Avenue furniture. 

We were in the large dining room, where a buffet of silver serving dishes 
were set out with various cold meats and salads. 

Sonia served me abundantly, while they continued to chat about interior 
decorating. It all seemed so out of place and beside the point that I began 
to relax and believe myself mistaken about Russell's original intention 
toward me. What I set myself to doing then was in the nature of discovery. I 
purely and simply wondered about Russell's intentions while trying, as hard 
as I might to stifle my own. 

I did not realize till much later how frequently the phone rang, 
interrupting our talk and the meal. But it gradually dawned on me that most 
everyone who called was invited to visit that afternoon. 

I saw my original intentions with Russell Walker begin to go down the drain 
and decided to make the best of my disappointment. It seemed my fate to be 
with people who were overly convivial. First Max with his drive toward 
public relations, and now Russell and Sonia Walker with their drive toward 
social gatherings. 

I could not know, of course, the underlying reason for that conviviality. 

Soon, men and women, equally attractive and all seeming at ease, began to 
arrive. I did not feel any of the high tension, in the atmosphere, which had 
always been part of Max's parties. No, here in the Walker household, the 
feeling was one more of self-interest than of anxiety to impress, and I had 
the sensation of being part of a salon, or late afternoon soiree. 

Since I was familiar with parties from the very earliest years of my life, I 
glided easily I among the newcomers, and gathered through bits and pieces of 
conversation that Sonia and Russell were in fact divorced, though still 
living under the same room. 

I sensed that neither Russell nor Sonia were ever very far from me. 

One or the other of them was keeping a protective eye on my comings and 
goings. I felt amused by this, and gentled into the beginnings of affection 
for both of them, though I continued to ask myself what Russell Walker had 
had in mind originally for me. 

Admittedly, I was having a good time, simply conversing with new 
personalities. That one took my mind off the desperate problem of my 
entrapment in a marriage where I had, seemingly neither individuality nor a 
voice. Russell's considerable attention to me was a powerfully convincing 
overture of affection and without realizing it, I wanted to shine for his 
benefit. My conversation became animated, driven by the high intensity of 
heat that was my sexual urge in sublimation. 

I have since learned to observe the drifting pattern that gatherings assume, 
how they change and rechange again like the shifting of sands beneath a 
continuing breeze. Men and women who had come in couples did not remain so. 
Those who had come alone found interests sufficient for the afternoon's easy 
pace. But mostly, I noticed that the center of attention was myself in a 
bland and unstartling manner, of course. I was spoken with by most everyone, 
with more than the usual interest of social amenities. I was, as it were, an 
object, not a curiosity exactly, but perhaps a novelty. That's what I 
thought then, anyhow. For I could in no way account for the specific 
interest which was readily apparent between myself and every other person 
who came to speak with me. 

Soon, Sonia and Russell knew my history, I should say my background, for 
although I had mentioned where I came from originally, I did not speak a 
signle word of my marriage. Yes, I wore a ring, but no one inquired about 
this. 

I realized that the gathering was composed of people of the highest 
discretion. I felt that everyone here had a personal story better left 
unsaid. This understanding gave me a certain relaxation and security. I 
sensed, for once, that I was not the only one with troubles, that there were 
others also disturbed and trapped and seeking, each in his or her own 
fashion, an escape or some suitable answer to how best to manage the dilemma 
of living. 

"You know," said Russel to me, as he handed me my third scotch and water, 
"You have charmed Rogers out of his shoes. Just look at him, poor thing." 
Russell laughed in a quiet friendly manner. "Why don't you have a little 
pity, and spend some time with the man?" 

I followed Russell's gaze, to Rogers and saw that Russell was not 
exaggerating as I had expected. 

"Now, now," I said with a touch of deprecation for I wished to avoid the 
sweet but rather elderly gentleman, "It wasn't Rogers who smiled at me in 
the antique shop, was it?" 

A direct, frank offering on my part had slipped out of my lips. I had not 
intention of speaking them, the words which would put myself on a platter 
for Russell. Vet, for all the sweet music of conversation, about me and 
warmth and good food, I could not forget my original intention and hoped 
that Russell's reason for his original interest was the same as mine. 

"You mean you won't sooth Rogers' despair?" Russell grinned. 

"Don't play with me, dear," I said, with sudden adult directness and with a 
touch of annoyance too. "You don't want me to spend my time elsewhere, I 
hope." 

I noticed then, how Russell's laughing eyes changed. 

The lids lowered a perceptible fraction, and their easy, charming attitude 
hardened into something almost forceful. 

"Of course not, darling." he said. 

I heard the quality of his voice, the 'darling.' Did it ring true? It was 
hard to tell. I didn't want to reach conclusions, especially negative ones, 
without sufficient evidence, for despite myself, I felt a tremulous response 
to Russell so very different from the man who had been and still was my 
husband. 

The lids lowered a perceptive fraction, and their easy, charming attitude 
hardened into something almost forceful. 

"Of course not, darling," he said. 

I heard the quality of his voice, the 

"darling." Did it ring true? It was hard to tell. I didn't want to reach 
conclusions especially negative ones, without sufficient evidence, for 
despite myself, a felt a tremulous response to Russell, so very different 
from the man who had been and still was my husband. 

"You know," I said, dropping my own voice to an intimate but steady timbre, 
"I really would like to be alone with you, Russell." 

My teeth ground together. There. It was said. I had put my true feelings out 
for him to do as he wished. Just as long as he would do something 
conclusive. I had spent an afternoon being as charming as I could manage, 
but felt that my spirit for socializing had its limitations. I could never 
go very far from my original intent. It was up to Russell to join with me as 
his intentions had promised or cut me loose so that I would not waste any 
more of our time. 

"I'd love to be alone with you," Russell answered, "but how are we going to 
manage it." 

"I suppose that's up to you," said I, wondering if he meant what he said. 
For it occurred to me with no trouble at all that, were I in his place, or 
in possession of the money he seemed to have, I certainly would not bring a 
woman back to an ex-wife and a party. 

I should have understood, should have felt suspicious but I was not one to 
lift the rock and look beneath it for crawly things. 

"Well, you must have a back bedroom," I said with a sub-acid, teasing 
quality to take the edge off my challenge. 

"You're perfectly right," said Russell. "I'm a fool for neglecting-" 

I didn't hear the end of his sentence and thought I didn't have to hear. I 
had made my point and accomplished my purpose as he steered me across the 
room and into a corridor that attached to back apartments. I wasn't 
concerned at the obviousness of our departure. Nor, apparently, was Russell. 
Yet all the strangeness together in a single lump beneath my breast seemed 
to gather and caused my heart to pound with conflicting emotions as I became 
increasingly close to what was about to happen. 

How shall I describe the apartment in which I found myself? 

Perhaps surroundings are not always important or even often of influence. 
But in this case, I was definitely caught up by the suddenly exotic 
atmosphere. I had expected Russell to take me to a bedroom. Instead he 
brought me into a suite all done over with black and gold velvet. I felt 
like something in a Chinese movie theater and became immediately 
self-conscious as though some secret current in the air, some mysterious 
incense were enlarging upon my original feelings. 

When he began to kiss me, I returned his ardor with concern that I might not 
be able to live up to what he expected of me. 

Heaven only knew what it was that he expected, but it must be something 
quite unusual in the realm of sexual experience. And here I was, willing, 
certainly eager, definitely, but with flooding pulses that did not quite 
know how to take control of the situation. What I had to offer was my body 
and it was up to Russel to teach me how to use it. 

As he kissed me my eyes kept rolling around in a semi-stupid stare. I was 
trying to understand and make something out of the draperies and dark 
painted walls and gold figurines upon the mantel pieces. The air was warm 
but there seemed to be a current moving about as though it were being blown 
in from someplace else. I could not tell how many rooms were devoted to this 
decor, and Russell's embrace was urging me to abandon myself to the moment, 
and not try to think too much or too deeply. 

How willing I was. With all my heart, I wanted to give in and become what he 
wished me to be. Yet something stronger than my desire prevailed for my body 
remembered that once before I had given myself to a man with complete trust, 
and what had happened then- 

"Kiss me harder," said I to Russell, my voice strangely not my own, but 
strong and demanding beneath its hoarse whisper. 

My hands played along the back of his neck. I sent my fingers into the soft 
hair, and held his head angled so that I could press his lips with my t 
ongue. 

Little did I know my desperation or its strength. I knew only that it was 
about time that I got my way in some small portion. Russell was to be that 
portion here and now. 

I inhaled the subtle aroma of his after-shave lotion, a gentle citrus smell, 
perhaps Royal Lime. His body, much narrower than Max's, was easy for me to 
embrace, and draw toward my own. I wanted to encompass him as one contains a 
favorite toy for fear that someone will come along and steal it. I began 
pressing my lips around his mouth. Then moved my tongue across his cheeks to 
his ear, and back to his eyes, kissing him openly, unashamedly, and with the 
abandon that seemed so much part of our surroundings. A faint inner voice 
whispered from time to time what was to become of me, but I paid it no heed. 
For I, in the end, would provide all the answers myself, and would not need 
a conscience to keep my on the path that would lead only to unhappiness and 
sterility. 

"Do you like my tits," said I rubbing against him. "Touch me. Tell me how 
they feel." 

His lips were against my throat as I pressed his hands to my bosom, and 
moved them around on my boobs. The material of my undergarments made a 
rubbing sound against my dress, and Russell seemed to enjoy that. He reached 
his fingers in between the wool material and the nylon and lace, fingering 
the difference in textures there and then finally touching my flesh where it 
puffed out over the top of the bra. He was taking his time about undressing 
me. I suspected that he wanted me to reach my highest peaks of desire before 
we actually met in naked contact. How little he knew of me. 

Yet how could he know that I was bursting with excess of passion? I had made 
very attempt to be a loving partner, and at the same time, not reveal the 
dimensions of my need. I wanted to control myself. 

Yet I could not. 

I began to tremble and felt my face flush as his hands played over the 
brassiere beneath my dress. While he held each tit in each palm, he paused 
and suddenly looked at me with a new curiosity, cocking his head at an angle 
like a bird listening for some distant sound. 

"Is there something the matter?" said he in that gentle voice with its 
musical accent. 

"No, darling, nothing. Just make love to me and I'll be all right." 

I meant exactly that. My voice quivered as I gave the words to him. 

"So," he murmured half to himself. 

And then, I was hardly aware of the motion, he began rapidly to take off my 
clothing until he had me stripped down to bra and underpanties. 

These were much prettier than what I had been accustomed to wearing not many 
months before. I felt almost prideful to be standing revealed in the low cut 
nylon bikini with its elastic band that cross-cut my pubic area. I put my 
hands to my belly where the smallish curve rose and pressed my palms inward 
as though to contain myself within the burning confines of flesh that 
theatened it seemed, to give way and spill in liquid passion at Russell 
Walker's feet. 

"You take your clothes off, too," I said, hoarsely. "Hurry." 

I was giving myself away, but now I could not care, dared not bother to 
worry about propriety. 

"Hot little girl, aren't you." 

"he said curiously. 

I grinned and nodded, trying to make light of his sudden gutter attitude. 
But I could not drive off the truth. I was exactly that, a hot little girl. 
One who had to have her way. 

As I nodded, my own fingers stole down to the tops of my thighs, and began 
to creep along their curves toward my cunt. I saw his eyes watching me, his 
casual, aloof grin freezing. 

"Yes, do that." he said. "Move yourself. Let me see how you do it. Touch it. 
Go on, touch it." His voice purred, softly, with furry edges, enticing, 
encouraging, instilling confidence that I would find satisfaction here in 
this outlandish room and in these unreal circumstances. 

Everything strange, and yet so desirable. Strange and familiar and 
inevitable as though my whole life had been pointing to this confrontation. 

This strangeness, the inevitability that took charge of my will, moved my 
hand to inside the elastic top of the bikini underwear. I drew them down 
slowly past my thighs and knees and calves. I stepped out of the bit of 
lace, and let them stay where they had fallen upon the carpet. I stood with 
my legs spread wide, so that Russell could see the twin labial curves of my 
body. 

I wanted him to see, wanted to arouse him to the same fevered pitch where I 
trembled. 

"Look at me," said I, "and don't take your eyes off my cunt. I'll do 
everything you like. 

Everything." 

And then it occurred to me that it was I who should undress him. I ambled 
forward in my nakedness, to where he stood watching me from the heights of 
his lean, cool desire. 

That's what I couldn't bear, the possibility that he might remain more 
detached than myself. I opened his shirt collar, while loosening his tie and 
took off his jacket and shirt. He had a lithe, long chest, still with 
residual tan from some winter holiday. The Royal Lime essence touched my 
nostrils. I leaned into it, put my lips and tongue to the blonde, soft 
matting, ran the tip of my tongue down to his navel, continuing to kiss him 
there, while I undid the buckle of his trousers and then the zipper. But it 
was he who pushed down his trousers and pulled them off. 

To see the male erection, to see that quickening life blurred my vision. My 
throat became dry and tight. 

"Don't make me wait for you," I rasped. 

"Go ahead," Russell urged me. "What do you want to do? Do it. Do it all, 
baby." 

The "baby" was so out of place with his accent, that I smiled right through 
the searing heat of my passion. But even as I smiled, I was dropping to my 
knees before him. 

Without rein, I began to kiss his legs, the long tight muscle of his thighs. 
My hands grasped the backs of those legs, and moved up to the hard, tight 
buttocks. I knew where my face was going, what my mouth wanted as 
preliminary sustenance. It was there waiting for me, high and hard and large 
in proportion to Russell's natural body length. Even on my knees, his prick 
was somewhat above me. I thought to myself, high and mighty, with prickles 
of pleasure running down to my tits and circling the nipples with streaks of 
lightning or so it felt. 

One of his hands caught my shoulder, the other one reached to guide his 
prick where I wanted it. I opened my mouth, grasped hold of his bulbous tip. 
My tongue touched that point where a salty exudation had stood in one 
glistening droplet. I felt my own cunt growing moist, and came away with 
three slippery fingers. Yes, today I would have it, have everything. Be 
filled and fulfilled to orgasm. As I tasted the hard extension pressing in 
on my tongue, I believed that the gates of heaven were swinging open for two 
of the devil's chiefest advocates. We were going to storm the heights of 
vaulting passion together, and in those preliminary moments of mounting 
desire, I prayed that there would be no end to this day. 

He pressed his hands to either of my cheeks and his fingers curved past my 
ears. Then he began moving my head back and forth upon his totem. I 
continued this action as though nodding in slow obeisance to the god of 
virility. 

"I like your tongue," he said above me. "Come on, use it." 

I was glad to curl my tongue around the hot, phallic protuberance that 
filled my mouth. I wanted to stimulate him into mad need to take me. I, 
intent upon shattering his aloofness, pressed my hands into the curve of his 
buttocks, and clung to him. There was much I had learned from Max about male 
orgasm. How to bring it on, how to delay it. I dredged this knowledge up 
from the deepest recesses of my brain and brought it all to bear now upon 
Russell. I felt gratified as the tendons and blood vessels grew rapidly more 
taut, became increasingly sure of myself as the progress of his mounting 
need grew from the manipulation of my rigid tongue tip. 

And then I stopped clinging with my lips just behind the bulbous head. I 
opened my eyes and looked up into his face, which was hunched over with his 
chin pressing toward his chest. I saw that the color had drained from his 
cheeks and they were lined with tension. At the edges of his eyes were 
crinkles of concentration as though he were surging directly toward 
ejaculation. 

As I paused, his eyelids opened. He shot a startled look at me, that was 
filled with annoyance. 

I knew exactly what I was doing, and intended to continue the action my way, 
not Russell's. 

I lifted my mouth off him and said softly, "Darling, I'm an inside girl. 
That's where I want you, okay?" 

I saw the bobbing of his throat as she swallowed but he had no choice except 
to agree with me. The essential selfishness of passion was something with 
which he had to struggle as, I suppose we all do. 

"Whatever you wish," said Russell. "I want to make you happy dear." 

I don't know if he wanted to make me happy, but I took his words at face 
value for I intended to be happy, whether he would have it so or not. I 
thought love, I thought contact. I thought come. 

For the first time I noticed that there were no beds in the room, but a 
double divan, in an L-shape against two walls. Russell and I stumbled toward 
the black and gold striped object which was to couch us. I fell upon it 
eagerly and bounced upon the unexpectedly resilient springs of a firm but 
accepting mattress. 

I was overwhelmed by some final explosion of freedom inside me. If I'd had 
any hesitancy before, I lost all vestige of it as Russell landed beside me 
on the bed, and the full length of our bodies touched. 

I opened my arms and legs to him. 

He began stroking my body with his hands that assessed me as though I were 
an object of art. His fingers lingered around my tits, and caressed my 
belly, reaching round my waist to the back and sliding low over the soft 
flesh of my ass. 

"You are a lovely woman," said Russell. 

I didn't want to hear that I was lovely, but that I was desirable. His 
flattery meant nothing for I had been flattered too often before to no 
avail. I put my thumbs on his eyebrows and stroked them outward into the 
depression of his temples and then around the tops of his ears, while my 
fingers caressed his forehead. 

"Make love to me, Russell, do it now." I said. 

But this time the voices had drifted off, and I assumed were gone for good, 
nor did I know what Russell meant by being a sport just yet unless he was 
not accustomed to women being as immediately available as I was. But what 
had that to do with sportsmanship exactly. I wasn't going to pause in my 
activities with him, in our love making, to analyze his view of the matter. 

"Let's not talk anymore," I murmured for I was awash with eagerness. 

He grunted acquiescence and began to embrace me then, drawing me hard ot his 
body. 

I loved the feel of him, the litheness. Although he was direct and forceful, 
there was a certain gentle quality. He was not like Max, not a bulldozer. 
Russell gave me room and opportunity to express my feelings and desires and 
immediately I loved him for this. 

I think it is true of all women, this need for a sense of recognition by the 
object of her love. It is not so much that the female needs to be 
appreciated as she needs to be recognized for her separate identity and 
value as an individual, equal to me, equal to her man. A woman who is thus 
respected, will give her life for the lover of her choice. She will do 
everything and anything to help him, needing nothing in return other than 
that certain sense of existence which raises her higher than an abject for 
sexuality, on Jane's shoulder, "What's It was in Russell's nature, I think, 
to accord this quality. I felt from him a lovely awareness of my presence 
and needs. I kept thinking to myself how blind I must have been not to 
recognize its total absence from Max's nature. Now, with hindsight, I 
appreciated that lack in my husband and realized that no matter how many 
compliments, how much he showered me with attention and trinkets, he never 
had believed in my flesh and blood existence as separate from his own 
welfare. I felt suddenly heartsick with a rush of despair and flung myself 
for compensation into Russell's embrace. 

"Lovely, lovely bitch," he whispered. 

"I need you. Take me. Do something." 

I wrapped my legs around his and tried to draw him into my body, lifting my 
hips in such a way so that his hardened and straightforward member jabbed 
against my waiting thighs where they met, high up. I wanted him inside me 
fast, hard and totally. Somewhere I heard a sound of appreciation. A female 
voice it was, but none that I recognized. I assumed that there were other 
couples in other rooms, of the apartment, that the afternoon was perhaps one 
of those moments in Shangri-la, when people met love partners and had the 
courage to take romance as it came, directly, and without the pretenses of 
civilized ritual. I, for one, was somewhat blessed a adequate in this realm 
of conforming amenities. I had no interest at all in appearing respectable. 
To be a good girl had never held any charms for me. I had never noted that 
being good had helped me to achieve anything worth possessing. For even in 
the very few years of my maturity, I sensed that the only way to be 
available for happiness was to be honest and honesty meant being open and 
direct. 

With Russell I intended exactly this, to let him know what I needed and how 
much I needed of it, in order to give him a chance to fulfill me. If he 
would do that, my life would change. Otherwise, I knew with the hardened 
drive of practical self-preservation, I was perfectly capable of leaving 
him. 

His narrow body slide between the widening of my thighs. I clasped him with 
the insides of my legs, and brought his body to bear against my own, sighing 
with unadulterated pleasure as he guided himself into my waiting and 
desiring cunt. I felt like a riverbed that needed its dryness watered. I 
myself was oozing liquid and wished for the juices and sap of life to fill 
and nourish me. He was large and hard, I felt as he began to enter. The 
probing head of his rod began to insinuate itself, at the tender muscled rim 
of the vaginal tract. 

"Relax," he said. "Let me be inside you." 

I was and was not relaxed. The tension of sexual need was much too high to 
allow me ease. I withstood a small amount of pain because I could not take 
the time to relax as Russell wanted me to. attempted "No, I can't wait," I 
said in answer to his laugh of recognition. "I really need you. You must 
know it. I need you." 

"You feel good," he said. "But you're tight, dear. Open. Open." 

I tried. Biting down on my lower lip I attempted to loosen the sphincter 
muscle that was clenching round him and succeeded sufficiently so that he 
could press deeper into my waiting twat. 

"Lift your legs up," he continued, "that will help." 

I did that also, lifting my legs at first wide and then wrapping them 
together around his hips. With the inside of my calves I pressed on his hard 
ass, needing to push him as far in as he would go. 

"How long had it been?" he said, suddenly curious. "You're so hungry." 

"Oh God, don't ask, Russell. Just do it. Kiss me. Hold me. Come on, help me. 
Do it. Do it." 

I was mumbling, muttering, making sounds without sense as the energy of my 
desire transmuted into vocalization. I was everything, all things, nothing 
and nobody all simultaneously. I was love and emptiness. Enraptured by my 
own erotic vibrations, I was Venus incarnate and felt, for the first time, 
beautiful. 

I'm sure that Russell sensed this. How could he not pick up the intensity of 
my radiations, the charisma that comes and goes, emanating from the essence 
of soul as well as physicality. 

I believed that Tom was enchanted for he sighed against my throat and began 
to do what I needed him to do working himself hard, driving directly into 
me, giving that which I so desperately wanted. Heaven knows I had been 
stimulated beyond bearing for too long and, in a sense, I don't believe I 
was responsible for the extreme height of my magnetism. It was a 
conglomerate force created by Maximilian's sadism as well as by nature's 
hand. Of course, I alone was responsible for the means with which I used 
this electricity which would be neither lowered nor turned off. as my body 
encompassed Russell's prick, I began to feel an increasing sense of power. 
My physicality would not be denied and it could do no wrong. 

The yielding mattress became like soft earth. I would have given anything, I 
think, if Russell and I could have been trapsported to some country place 
far from the curiosity or intrusion of others. When I opened my eyes and saw 
the expotic and dramatic atmosphere in which we were making love, I refused 
to accept the truth, that we were not acting as part of nature's great 
design but were, in some way, creating an artificial set of circumstances. 
While this disturbed me in passing, it certainly in no way deterred my 
exuberant possession of the maleness that plied my body. 

My skin began to prickle with sensations of growing tension. I felt 
increasing belief in Russell, the thrust and knowledge that he would stay 
with me, stay inside me and continue to work me until I reached the state of 
ultimate satisfaction along with him. In Maximilian's case it had always 
been a matter of some few thrusts, a few minutes of activity and then 
finished, leaving me, as I have said, empty, alone, unsatisfied. 

But with Russell I knew it was not going to be that way. 

Sensations of my drive toward completion began to gather their stream and 
force. My tits, rubbing against the pressure of his hold on me, tingled with 
hot life. I was floating in a film of perspiration that lubricated me from 
top to toe, leaving out no part. I remember a specific twittering through my 
chest, the flutter of bird-like wings running up and down in circles and 
swoops and soarings. I was an animated creature set loose from gravitational 
forces into a wonder world of my own physical capacities for love. As 
slowly, slowly I climbed the ladder, I began to tell Russell the obscenities 
which Maximilian had taught me well. I did not know whether or not Russell 
wanted to hear those words tumble from my lips but the action was a learned 
part of me by then, almost reflex reaction and I babbled out four-letter 
nouns with full abandon until, in sudden explosion of satisfied desire, I 
screamed with all my heart the name of what we were doing. 

Who can understand the human heart? Even as I burst the ripened bonds of my 
flesh I knew that Russell was only a stepping stone on my way to other 
lovers, though I had no idea where or why I needed to go to them. 

This was but a passing flash of thought. Soon I felt quiet and easy and 
interested to repeat what we had just accomplished. I was full of wonderment 
at my capacity for gratification and lay on my stomach with my chin balanced 
on the knuckles of one hand staring silently across the exotic carpet into 
one empty corner of the room, thinking my thoughts with no urgency to speak, 
knowing that Russell was beside me smoking a rather acrid cigar and watching 
me from a small distance away. No, I didn't care what he thought. Nor did I 
much care how he felt. I was in a vacuum of isolation, trying to absorb what 
had just occurred, what it might mean to me and to my relationship with 
Maximilian. For now, in this ebb of satisfaction, I understood the ultimate 
pull of sexuality to humankind and realized or rather sensed, I think, for 
there were no words attached to it, how important was this relaxed state of 
being; how in the future I would do anything at any time to alleviate the 
tortures of physical frustration. 

Conclusions dripped slowly through my body as though I were percolating into 
a ripened intelligence about life. 

At last Russell said, "How are you over there?" 

I sighed and turned slightly to look at him. I realized the closeness of my 
partner and wondered what would come next between us. 

"Russell," said I, "do you like me?" 

He smiled a crooked smile as though my question were unexpected as well as 
childish. 

"Of course I do," said he, patting my behind. "You must know that." 

"I don't know." My voice trailed off. "No. I don't know what I know." 

"Don't worry about it, dear," said Russell crisply, in command of things 
again. "You'll find out whatever you need to know." 

"I'm sure of that." 

"Yes. You're the type who manages, you know." 

I couldn't really fathom exactly what Russell meant by manages, but I didn't 
question that. I said aloud what I thought. 

"Well, where do we go from here?" 

Russell shrugged. "That's up to you." 

For once I had no answer. It was indeed up to me, that much I realized. But 
I was too overwhelmed by my new abilities to be able to think freely or 
realistically about my situation. All I knew was that I had somehow gotten 
my hands into real living and I sensed that, for better, for worse, I would 
never let go. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

After my scene with Russell it was still easy with Maximilian. We were in 
our own worlds and just didn't get in each other's way. Of course, I had 
expected a lot more than that from marriage but I was young and still 
resilient in those days, emotionally and physically. 

And I continued to see Russell, having no intention of giving up fucking the 
first man who had managed to make me come. I dug him a lot and I liked his 
sister as well. At first I was pretty clumsy and nervous about arranging our 
meetings but after awhile I got good at it. Max was not the jealous type and 
it didn't take a hell of a lot to deceive him. 

Then he went away on tour and that gave me free rein. Oddly enough, I didn't 
bother to see Russell for the first two days of my freedom. I wanted to put 
it off and make our first unworried fuck all the better. Finally I gave in, 
putting on my coat and deciding to pay him a surprise visit. 

Russell wasn't home but Sonia was there and we got into a conversation 
immediately. I trusted her more than I did her husband and soon I had told 
her a lot about myself, especially about my rotten fucked up marriage. She 
gave me a little advice and then told me about her relations with Russell, 
which were not exactly beer and skittles either. Eventually I asked her why 
things were fucked up between them. 

"Russell was very good to me, patient and understanding. But I think by the 
time we found each other it was just," she shrugged, "a trifle too late in 
my life." 

"Too late?" I asked with a simple, direct curiosity of a child. 

Sonia nodded. "I don't suppose you understand me, do you?" 

"No," said I slowly, wondering what I had missed and whether she was going 
to fill me in. 

"Well time enough for that later." She dismissed the subject lightly. "The 
fact remained, neither Russell nor myself could bear each other during the 
earlier years when we were getting into bed and trying to find ourselves 
there. Both of us were demanding people. Russell loves his women," Sonia 
looked me directly in the eye as she said, "and so do I." 

I thought in my naivete that Sonia meant that she loved her men as Russell 
loved his women. I let the sentence make that kind of sense in my brain. I 
waited for further elucidation, waited for Sonia to continue her story. For 
awhile there was a silence between us which I saw she was in no hurry to 
fill. 

Part of the relaxed attitude in a person is the ability to allow silences to 
fall where they may without needing to clutter them with conversation. And 
that particular silence between us was strangely comfortable, though at the 
time I did not realize exactly how much at ease I was with this woman who 
was so very different from myself. I knew only a generalized sensation of 
well-being in her company and was not, therefore, unhappy because of 
Russell's absence. T suppose I needed friends as much as I needed lovers and 

Sonia was going to fill that particular emptiness for me. Little could I 
know how well she intended to try. 

The tea was soon brought to an end by Sonia who asked me, did I want to join 
her, for she was going to meet Russell at their country place some thirty or 
so miles north of New York. 

At this distance of recollection it seems very strange that I did not think 
in terms of questions but was only agreeable. Perhaps that was my early 
failing, this willingness to participate in anything offered me. Perhaps it 
was only another symptom of my essential loneliness. At any rate, I leaped 
at the chance to see Russell again, of course, and felt a small curiosity 
about their country home. It was getting on to winter and Sonia's 
description of the ski area where they lived put a light into my eyes. I 
have always enjoyed the outdoors. Physical activity of any sort was always 
good for whatever ailed me, using up the excess energies, giving me a chance 
to breathe the nippy outdoor weather and generally come alive with nature as 
my ally. And so I was pleased to join Sonia and also felt a certain 
deliciousness about not having to be concerned at the hour, what time we 
would get home or if we would, indeed, even return to the city that night. 

Sonia called downstairs to the doorman through some intercom unit. By the 
time we came out of the building, her black Lincoln convertible was waiting 
for us. It was not a new car but one of those classic models built in the 
early forties. I could tell by its new top and other equipment that the car 
had been custom designed. 

She looked small behind the wheel but was far from inadequate when it came 
to driving. Her gloved fingers handled the wheel with ease and confidence. 
Soon we were cross town and on the highway heading north. 

I reclined against the soft leather and gazed out the windshield at the 
crystal clarity of stars sprayed in the distant dark. For some minutes I 
thought about Max, wherever he was, playing his licks and riffs with the 
driving passion that made him such a dynamo on stage. How different Max's 
urges were from my desire at that moment. Yes, at that moment, I yearned for 
peace and wondered why I was always so far from it. Sitting beside Helen, 
however, was a soothing place to be. I drank in the quiescence which 
dominated the mood in the automobile. A certain closeness, an indescribable 
kind of intimacy prevailed. We drove for many minutes in silence, then spoke 
some few words that had no particular relevance but strengthened the bride 
of contact which was growing rapidly between the woman and myself. I found 
myself wondering how old Sonia Walker had been when she'd married and why 
she had chosen poorly. I thought about how popular she must have been with 
men, how desirable. With her coat collar turned up to the curve of her 
chin-line she seemed, though demure and petite, sturdy in a special sort of 
way. I had the feeling that Sonia Walker could prevail above most any 
trouble and, indeed, the method in which she had salvaged the relationship 
with Russell was both unique and enhancing to her self-esteem, I thought. 
They were vague, illogical thoughts, admittedly, and derived from my 
intuitive core rather than from any deductive conclusion. It is amazing how 
little I knew about either of the Walkers while at the same time I felt as 
though I were gradually drifting toward becoming part of their inner circle. 

We had traveled for, perhaps, half an hour when Sonia asked me, did I wish 
to stop for coffee. I shook my head no and said I would rather just continue 
if she didn't mind. 

Sonia replied in a murmur that she could hardly mind anything which would 
make me comfortable and I returned her smile without comment. 

"Russell will be surprised to see you," she said some few minutes later. 
"It'll be a happy surprise too, I think. He does like you very much." 

I felt embarrassed to add how much I, in turn, liked Russell. It seemed 
peculiar to be talking to a woman about her ex-husband in this way. What a 
strange triangle we were, I thought. How fascinating to be part of a 
shifting pattern of relationships where there was neither hostility nor 
jealousy nor urge to possess. I had never known so agreeable a time with 
anyone. There had always been some need to conquer or impress or push 
oneself forward. But in this case, cash and desire to make others 
comfortable were the dominating feelings; an irresistible milieu, of course, 
tantalizing and hypnotic to someone as pressured as I was. I daresay I would 
have given my life to remain within the social circle of the Walkers if only 
for the benefit of this relaxation which drifted down upon me like spring 
rain from one or both of them. 

It was somewhere between eleven and midnight when Sonia turned the car off 
the main road and onto the narrower tributary which she said would lead us 
to the house. 

When she asked if I were tired, I shook my head no and meant it, explaining 
how Max's hours had made me accustomed to being up at any time of day or 
night without strain. And it was true. I felt bright and alive and ready for 
anything, ready for greeting Russell in his country home. 

The road continued to narrow until it became hardly more than a dirt path 
over which the car slowly jounced as Sonia guided it up a steep and winding 
hill grown over with what I judged to be acres of trees. Soon the tree-line 
stopped. Beyond it in a clearing I saw a sprawling old-fashioned house which 
might at one time have been the high point of a rural compound. There were 
many gabled pitches to the roof and these were outlined by lights in 
windows. Now the driveway widened from the dirt road. The car slid into a 
crescent. Came to a halt in front of the wide porch. 

"Russell is expecting you, isn't he?" said I. 

Sonia smiled. "Why yes. Yes of course." 

I had a moment's hesitation because certainly Russell was not expecting me 
for company. Perhaps he would feel intruded upon. Then I brushed this 
thought away, for since I had not considered it earlier I had no business 
considering it now when obviously my trepidations were too late to deal 
with. 

I took the three steps up to the porch while Sonia came around the other 
side of the car and then moved ahead of me to unlock the door. I stood there 
wishing that she would knock instead of barging in with me, but no such 
thought seemed to occur to her and I took solace that she expected Russell 
would welcome me as warmly as I wished him to. 

Inside, a warmth blossomed and surrounded us. There was a smell of roasted 
chestnuts, I thought, or perhaps it was just the aroma from a fireplace that 
had burned a fragrant kind of wood. 

"Russell?" Sonia called. Her voice traveled lightly through the sprawl of 
rooms on the first floor. 

When there was no answer she shrugged. "I didn't see his car outside," said 
I helpfully. 

"Well perhaps he's gone into town for something, but hell just be a moment." 

She was so light-hearted that I could not but agree that all would work out 
for the best. I gave Sonia my coat without second thoughts about staying. 

She did not seem at a loss simply because Russell was not present and 
proceeded to show me through the house which was furnished with American 
Colonial antiques. 

I've always liked the cozy comfort of braid rugs and Windsor chairs and the 
deeply burnished woods of solid, hand-crafted tables, the flowered prings of 
overstuffed sofas and chairs. Each welcomed me. In the living room, Sonia, 
without ceremony, bent to her knees and rekindled the fire which had 
recently gone out, I saw, for there were still sparks glowing in the dead 
ashes. Obviously, Russell had let it die and I began to wonder if he indeed 
did intend to return shortly. 

I watched the new flames catch and crackle among fragile twigs, spreading 
their thrusts of orange points into increasing intensity until the back log 
seemed all at once to take light again. The radiation of warmth and the 
incense-like smell were hypnotic. I did not realize that I was, in fact, 
tired, not from the ride as much as from the sense of pressure which had 
dominated my life until Max's leaving. 

Without waiting for Sonia to invite me I stretched out on a nearby sofa and 
gazed into the fireplace, letting my thoughts ride and roll where they 
would. 

Sonia's light footstep was a comforting presence. 

"Would you care for a little nightcap?" said she in the most casual of 
tones. 

"Um hun." I hardly paid attention to either . the question or my answer. 

She came to sit beside me, handing over a mug which she directed me to hold 
still while she poured liquid into it, then heated the concoction with the 
red end of a poker. 

"Mulled wine," said I smiling. "We used to have this during the holidays." 

I enjoyed the warm, strong brew with more than my share of appreciation. 
Sonia, sitting close to me, seemed dearer than an ordinary friend because of 
her ability to anticipate my desires and fill them. 

"I wonder what could be keeping Russell?" she said after awhile. Then she 
began to laugh more to herself than aloud. 

"What's so funny?" said I. 

"I'm just wondering," Sonia explained, "whether we have crossed our circuits 
tonight." 

"What does that mean?" I asked, still at ease, mildly curious, expecting 
nothing but pleasantry for that was how I was geared. 

"Well, life can be funny sometimes. It's just possible," said Helen looking 
at her watch, "that Russell thought I wasn't coming tonight and took off for 
the city again." 

"You're not serious." 

"Why should I be joking?" said she softly. "Well?" 

"yes, I'll phone and see if he's home." 

I was so innocent, so trusting that I believed the whole picture exactly as 
Sonia delineated it to me and watched her with true interest as she dialed, 
then waited for an answer at home. I was, of course, genuinely startled when 
I heard her speaking with Russell. 

She hung up and we looked at each other, both our faces saying: Yes, that's 
what has happened. 

"All right," Sonia said. "No harm done." 

I didn't trouble to hide my disappointment. So much did it show on my face 
that Sonia came to me and patted both my cheeks and said, "Don't you think 
we can make do without Russell, just until tomorrow?" 

Her eyes as I gazed up into them were so warm, so attentive, so concerned 
with my discomfort that I could do nothing but say, "Of course we can." 

She leaned over and kissed me lightly on the forehead. "I'll try to pleasure 
you this evening, my little one. Perhaps you will learn something that will 
delight you as much as it does me." 

I was stupid and sluggish, not wanting to understand what Helen was telling 
me so clearly. 

The mouth that kissed my forehead slid slowly down along the bridge of my 
nose, kissed my cheek and grazed lower to one corner of my mouth. 

Then, as I heard the increased depth of her breathing I began to understand. 

How strange it all was and still I did not believe because Sonia was so 
femine, so gentle. The women I had seen in New York who were homosexuals had 
nothing in common with this gem of a creature. I did not feel as though I 
were headed into a strange debauch but seemed more to be floating 
disoriented. I had no background out of which to respond. Sonia's lips 
moving to center upon mine, touched me so lightly, so delicately, I felt as 
though my face were the surface of a calm lake and hers a gauzy winged 
creature coming to land, with the lightest brushing of wings. Because there 
was no barbarism, no rough gruff pressure upon me I felt no urge or need to 
pull away from this new love being offered to me with such gentle, intimate 
affection. There was no fear in me, no trepidation. I found myself accepting 
her kisses and inhaling the faint residual perfume from her hair and skin. 

She lifted her face perhaps an inch or two from mine and looked upon me, her 
eyes peaceful, without question, somehow calm with the certainty that I 
envied. 

"I know you want Russell," she whispered, "and you'll have him tomorrow. I 
promise." 

Is it believable that I, in that instant, had forgotten Russell and was 
completely involved with sensations of the moment? As I recall that scene I 
must admit that Sonia in her unique way had intrigued me and drawn from me 
responses of a nature I never knew I had possessed. There was not the 
leaping of familiar passion but rather she had drawn from me a gentle but 
profound secret, the hidden secret of my own nature. 

I sighed. Sonia touched my shoulder. I leaned against the couch as though my 
body were made of paper and she had become the breeze that blew me backward. 
Something in me, I know, gave Sonia the signal. I touched her wrist, I 
think, and my fingers squeezed with a pressure that meant I was available if 
not downright vulnerable to whatever she wished to offer me that night. 

If I were shocked, if I felt unfamiliar, if I did not know what to do or 
what I would receive, I also understood that one evening carved out of a 
lifetime would not necessarily change the entire course of my existence. 
There was something rock solid inside me which would always keep me in line 
with my own identity and this night's foray into a realm of love with 
another woman could not shatter my innate strength and knowledge. 

I was willing to give myself up because I would rather have something than 
nothing. 

I did not have to tell Sonia, of course, that I.d never had a woman. 

She leaned again toward me. Her lips were parted, perhaps half an inch, just 
enough for me to feel the very fine tip of her tongue as our mouths again 
made contact. 

I kept thinking to myself, You'll do anything. You'll do anything. Won't 
you? Anything to be free of Max ... and it was true. 

She did not take me upstairs to a bedroom. In fact, we did not sleep at any 
time during that night but remained in front of the fireplace glow, bathed 
in the warmth, protected from the night winds that rattled the small window 
panes. 

Our undressing seemed to follow naturally from our kisses. I watched with 
curious eyes the slow revelation of Sonia's body to my view, knowing that 
between two women there could be no danger. It was more like the dalliance 
of a child's game occurring between two adults. 

When I, myself, sat at last naked on the couch, Sonia stared with open 
admiration upon my tits. Then she put out her hands to touch each 
simultaneously. 

I shuddered as her words reminded me of Russell. She said, "How beautiful 
you are," and her mouth came down into the lift of my bosom. Her lips 
pressed lightly into the soft flesh of each boob until she had taken full, 
direct focus upon one nipple. 

As her tongue played there I could feel my response leaping without 
hesitation. But it was a woman's mouth kissing me, a woman's hands caressing 
me, a woman's love reaching out for mine. It made no difference then. I had 
already consented and my availability reached tentacles toward Sonia as 
though I were a flower stretching toward sunlight. 

In the final analysis, I do not know what courage possessed me. Perhaps I 
needed to cater to an urgency and merely did so. I look back upon it with 
neither shame nor excuse, remembering the pleasures which were mine during 
that moment. Pleasures far greater than any pain later on. 

I gave myself up to Sonia for the first feminine embrace of my life. It 
helped, I suppose, that we were far from New York, far from anything 
familiar. The unaccustomed sensation of soft tits pressing to my own seemed 
right in the far away atmosphere. What a curious sensation it was at first, 
the unexpected softness, the small frame within the circle of my arms, small 
yet radiant with desire as large as anything I'd ever known. She whispered 
soft, cheering words along my skin, nothing evil or obscene but simple 
encouragements of affection and reassurances. While she spoke her hands 
began to move exploringly over my body. Her fingers were naturally facile 
and the skin warm. Easily she undid my clothing. I was hardly aware of it 
coming loose but observed the disrobing of my body as though it belonged to 
another person. 

Crazily I kept thinking to myself: in the morning I'll go back to Russell. 
In the morning it'll look different. 

Yet the morning was so far away. I thought it would take until eternity to 
reach daylight. 

The sexual pact between two women had never interested me and I wondered at 
my own eager responses. The key was that I had never known a woman such as 
Sonia. She removed my dress and my bra with loving gestures that caressed me 
continually and somehow, miraculously, took off her clothing too. 

Now the naked pressure of our breasts, each to each, confronted me with 
unexplored sexuality. My mind floated with the images of what was to happen 
next. I dared not think ahead. 

"What do you prefer?" Sonia whispered, her lips and tongue touching my ear. 

My laughter held a low, apprehensive twinge mingled with expectations of 
delight. For answer I made the plunge, pressing my mouth hard and 
aggressively upon Sonia's while moving my hands down to catch hold of her 
buttocks. I pulled her body up and onto my own. 

I was lying in one corner formed by the sofa back and its arm and we were 
diagonally stretched out. One of my naked feet rubbed against the braid rug 
which had taken on warmth from the fireplace. 

Sonia lay with most of her weight on top of me. She had her arms around my 
neck and kept looking into my face, I suppose to see what my reaction was 
and if I needed any further attention to propping up my morale. I couldn't 
help smiling at Sonia's concern and kissed her lingeringly upon one eyelid 
then the other to assure her that I did not have to be coddled at this time. 

To assure her of this in my own way, I lifted her head and slid down until 
my own face was pressing upon the compact and fragrant bosom that seemed to 
be waiting for me. I heard a small gasp from her as my mouth made contact 
with the swell of her flesh. That sound of pleasure drawn inward reflected 
my own, for as my lips sank into the yielding beauty I was suddenly swept 
underneath a current of passion that came upon me with an unexpected rush. 
So forcefully was I Overwhelmed that I bit into her tits. The gasp turned 
into a sound of pleasure-pain. 

I felt a cold, dreadful shiver of power. For the first time in life it was I 
who inflicted rather than received, I who was in a position to dispense 
pleasure or pain, I who could stop the proceedings right at that moment if I 
so desired and leave another being as frustrated as 

I had myself been left. 

This knowledge of my own command and awareness of my own power filled me 
with new strength. I seemed to be moving from peak to peak. First, with 
Russell I had experienced the release of orgasm and now with Sonia I was 
living through the sensation of being in control. It was as though I had 
suddenly become immortal. 

I lifted my hips. Sonia slid off from my body onto her side, caught between 
the sofa cushions and the full length of me. I pressed myself forward so 
that I rubbed against her, eager now to touch all of her with all of me and 
know the full depth of the lesbian experience. 

She sighed and whispered, "I'm glad you like me." 

I had no answer. There was much more to what I felt than mere liking. There 
was a thirst for taking that which was being offered to me, a hunger which 
seemed to stretch, to encompass that which was being given, the unknown was 
suddenly desirable and waiting for me with loving, open arms. 

Our mouths and tongues met in a mutual suctioning and we clung thus. Sonia 
began to roll her hips and her belly. She tensed her things and the small 
but high mound reached for mine. She lifted one leg and I slid between her 
thighs, aware, very consciously aware that there was no extension, no 
protuberance, nothing to jab forward and press deep into the love canal. 
Yet, surprisingly, it seemed unnecessary to possess a prick. The sensation 
of her dampness encouraged me and instilled the knowledge that we were 
sufficient between us, needing neither phallus nor maleness to complete the 
passion whose flame we shared. 

"Open your legs to me, darling," Sonia whispered. 

I did so and she slipped her hand between my thighs, cupping me with eager, 
knowing fingers that began to massage my moist labia. I felt the slip and 
slide of her touch. Her fingers became firm and began to press into the 
opening that waited for her. 

"Oh darling," Sonia murmured as her fingers went easily in. 

I shut my eyes and gave myself up to my feelings. I lifted my hips with a 
natural swing and let my legs spread to give her all room and access to me. 
Raising one leg high, I began to move my ass in the classic fashion of 
intercourse and then, realizing and feeling Helen's heartbeat, I searched 
down with my own hands for similar entry into her body. 

She was easy to find and warm, and just as willingly did she spread to me. I 
saw her prop one leg upward and onto the back of the couch, catching the 
corner of a cushion with her heel. That leg, so shapely with its pulled, 
taut calf and thigh muscles with their resilient tendons made a graceful 
design in flesh and bone and muscle, a design that poured upward into the 
lovely curve of her hip. I did not have a free hand to stroke her, for with 
one arm, I held her close to me and the other was seeking deep inside to 
where the secret moisture and tremulous pulse of a sphincter muscle needed 
my touch. She was wide and sucked my inward. Her hand reached down and 
placed my thumb upon the small protuberance of her clitty. Her hips began 
circular motion which told me how she needed to be rubbed as well as 
invaded. I understood. How well I understood a woman's need. I saw in Sonia 
a reflection of my own frustrated months with Max and felt a tremulous 
sympathy. This woman would not be frustrated tonight. I would be the bearer 
of good will, of fulfillment. I would give her everything so that she would 
dream of me with loving tenderness in times to come when there was no one 
around to please her. 

Yes, I saw in Sonia a reflection of myself. I saw an alter ego, an identity, 
a chance to wipe out the tortures and torments of my own suffering. 

"Tell me what you want me to do," I echoed Sonia's question. "I'll do 
anything. I will. I will." 

My hand was moving with increased speed as I spoke and I knew that Sonia's 
thoughts had left the practical. They were with me in the realm of dizzying 
passion. 

Before I had a chance to find out what else Sonia might have wanted from me, 
I felt the convulsions begin in the pit of her stomach and knew that she had 
been catapulted into orgasm. 

This observation took me by storm. As I felt Sonia riding my hand, the 
sphincter muscle tightening and releasing and tightening in steady rhythm 
upon my fingers, I too began with similar response. We clung to each other 
in desperate, steady outpouring of love at its peak of ecstasy. 

I suppose that among my readers there are many who can see no especial 
thrill in what amounted to mutual masturbation. And for those who are not 
sufficiently imaginative to realize that love-hunger and loneliness were the 
operative factors, I will not attempt to explain how it was possible for me 
to give myself up in wanton delight. But for those who do understand, who 
are sympathetic to the peculiar feminine need for continuing warmth and 
attention, I will say that the night spent with Sonia gave me an essential 
inner balance which had been missing from my relationship with Russell. 

I bring up the name Russell with a faint smile because, after that night 
with Sonia, I realized that I did not wish to see Russell again, that I 
wished to completely sever myself from this husband and wife team which 
operated in much too much of a sharing capacity for my taste. They had come 
into my life, both Sonia and Russell, at a time when I needed someone, 
anyone, anything to free me from my bonds. But I knew that I could not 
endure for very long the bouncing back and forth between male and female 
which was what they had intended for me in the very beginning, from that 
first moment when Russell had spotted me as a likely source of pleasure in 
the antique shop. 

It was not without regret that I parted from Sonia the next morning and 
returned to the hotel room which I was maintaining until Max's return. 
Almost sadly, I said farewell to this overture into the world of free-love. 
And I mean 'free' in its ultimate form, for I felt launched and on my own at 
last. 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

I was through with Russell and Sonia Walker but that didn't mean that I was 
any happier with my husband or home life. Actually, there wasn't much to 
speak of in the way of domestic arrangements. Even when Max was in New York 
I hardly saw him, busy as he was with rehearsals and performances. 

I liked it better when he was out on the road, even though I didn't have 
anything going for me at the time. Plenty of men were interested in me but I 
had decided half consciously to take a vacation from sex. Unfortunately, 
Benny Davis, the publicity man, had other ideas in mind for me. 

At first he was pretty shy about coming on to me, being my husband's good 
friend and business associate. But that man really had the hots for me and I 
got to enjoy leading him on. However, Benny wasn't the kind of man you could 
do that to. He was smart as a fucking whip and it didn't take long for him 
to convince me that it was time to split from Max. 

We used to sit in the hotel room together, playing cares, watching 
television, everything but fucking, which is what we both really wanted. One 
night I smiled at Benny and told him I was going to move out on Max in the 
man's absence. Benny offered to drive me to a new hotel or apartment. He 
left soon after and I was glad to get rid of him. Five minutes more together 
and we would have been naked, fucking in my marriage bed. 

He agreed without objection and I immediately relaxed for I was looking 
forward to getting out of this evening's confrontation with him and I 
suppose the relif showed on my face. 

"I never saw you so glad to get rid of me," 

Benny grinned, putting his eyeglasses into his shirt pocket and taking the 
jacket that I handed him, a tweed, sporty affair. It was springtime, I 
remember, and even though there was no fragrance of green there in the 
center of New York, it was certainly warm enough to realize that somewhere 
in the world nature was turning pleasant. 

He left without much ceremony. I closed and locked the door and sighed, then 
walked to the window and looked out upon Broadway, remembering how Max had 
called it a bitch not to be trusted, a bitch that he would one day possess. 

Then suddenly I was gripping the window sill and asking myself the same 
question that Benny Davis had put to me. What was I doing here? Why was I 
living a nothing life with no where to look forward? I could pack my bags 
and walk out on Maximilian J. Tower. Find a decent future or, at least, make 
the attempt at one. Why did I hang on to thin air? Was I crazy? Was I 
masochistic? Was I just plainly a fool? 

The turning point had come whether I willed it to do so or not. Benny had 
found the crack in my pretensions. Now thoughts began leaking through that 
crevice. Increasingly as the days passed I felt that I had to do something 
concrete to change my way of life. A dozen times I packed a suitcase and 
started to walk out of the apartment with nothing left to Max except a note 
saying I had gone. Once I even did get out of the apartment and spent the 
night in a hotel on the east side of town which seemed to me like a thousand 
miles away. It was obvious that I was running but it felt as though my feet 
were attached to a treadmill which I could make spin faster and faster while 
I myself got exactly nowhere. I suppose these were the preliminaries to an 
actual change of status. But, at the time, I felt like a woman in a cage who 
could not find the lock and, wherever I turned, wherever I ran, there seemed 
no getting out from my sense of entrapment. 

Benny Davis saw me in action. How could he miss the signs? 

Eventually the moment came when he was-striding down the corridor toward me 
just as I was leaving with suitcase in hand. 

It took him two seconds to see and know the complete picture. Then a light 
went on behind his shrewd eyes. 

I knew that I could no longer deny the truth. 

Benny took the suitcase out of my hand. "Come on, kid, I'll help you," he 
said. I didn't want Benny to help me. I didn't want him to be part of my 
reason for going or my crutch. 

"Thanks," I said, trying to take the suitcase back from his grip, "but this 
is one thing I'd better do by myself. You understand?" 

"I understand, baby, but I don't agree." 

That valise was passing back and forth between us like a medicine ball. Both 
of us saw the humor in the situation and relaxed. We laughed as we stood 
opposite each other in the hallway while people from other apartments came 
and went and glanced at us as though we were having a lover's quarrel. 

There are some people one gets to know later on in life. Yet one feels they 
have always been around, always been part of things. Somehow, they are 
mysteriously important. 

Unreasonable though it may have been, this is how I felt that afternoon 
about Benny Davis. So I let him, at last, take the bag from me and went with 
him into the elevator thinking that he would drive me to the new hotel cross 
town and leave me there to my own devices until I was ready to phone him for 
help, if that time should ever come. 

Without questioning me further, Benny put my valise into the back seat of 
his car. I got in beside him and we started into the midtown traffic crush. 

"Where to?" Benny said. "Jersey? California? Toronto?" 

I didn't mind him making fun of me. In fact it took the dreadful gloom off 
things, for, in leaving Max, I was facing up to defeat. And though in the 
long run I might feel better about it, at the moment I was feeling pretty 
much the prisoner of despair. 

I gave him the name of the hotel, a small place but a good place near 
Madison Avenue. 

Benny whistled when I said the name and threw me a wise-aleck grin which 
seemed to ask, did I have a John who was picking up the tab for such a 
splurge. 

The fact was that I had managed to get some few dollars together out of the 
rather decent allowance that Max sent me now that business was picking up 
for him and the clubs in which he played were becoming larger and more 
opulent. But this was none of Benny's business, however, and I didn't bother 
to explain to him the source of my revenue but let him think what he would, 
hoping to keep some sort of wall between us that way. But Benny wasn't 
affected by my own standoffishness, took in stride that I didn't want to say 
anything about anything just now. He settled for getting through Central 
Park and over to the address I'd given him. 

When he pulled up in front of the hotel I said, "I don't suppose I have to 
tell you not to write to Max about this. I'm doing it myself." 

Benny lifted his shoulders and said, "Do I butt in?" 

I could have laughed in his face, knowing how easily Benny Davis would butt 
in if he felt so inclined. He wasn't the kind of a man to have trepidations 
about anything that could be interesting or useful or practical and I felt 
that my warning was not out of place. 

"Look, you're Max's best friend," said I, and those last two words dragged 
from my tongue. "He'll know that you know where I am." 

"No he won't baby doll. Max knows that I don't mix into his personal 
business." 

Benny was relaxed behind the wheel. He looked at me standing there on the 
sidewalk. And yet there was something in his gaze which held me fixated. 

"Well, so long, Benny," I said. 

There was so much misery that seemed to pour directly from my soul into that 
farewell that we both broke up laughing at its over-exaggeration. 

"Look, I'll take you to dinner," he said, glancing at his watch. "Give you 
half an hour to set that valise on the bed and pull out another pair of 
shoes. How about it?" 

Stubbornly, I insisted no. I was breaking all ties, I explained and ties 
with Benny were almost as personal as ties with Max. 

I'm flattered," said Benny, disregarding the fact that I was making an 
effort to dismiss him. "I didn't know you really considered me to be such a 
close friend." 

I turned around so that Benny wouldn't see my expression for I knew my face 
would be showing all kinds of feelings which were part of the moment but not 
really part of me. I had no compunction about leaving Benny Davis, 
certainly. If I could leave Max; I could leave his public relations man and 
that wasn't what bothered me. What bothered me ultimately was, indeed, 
leaving Max. Heaven only knows shy. Call it love. Call it stubbornness. But 
because I was not certain about leaving Max, I therefore, could not leave 
Benny Davis who was, so to speak, his stand-in and the symbol of my 
marriage. 

Benny saw my hesitation and leaped in. Actually he got out of the car and 
caught hold of my arm, the arm that was not holding the valise. He walked 
with me to the lobby entrance, telling me all kinds of sweet sounding 
verbiage about needing friends and having people to lean on and how it had 
been when his marriages had broken up, etc., etc. It was a lot of garbage, a 
lot of Benny Davis garbage and I didn't fall for any of it and yet I fell 
for the whole business because I wanted to. 

"All right," I said, relenting. "But give me a couple hours, Benny. Meet me 
at eight o'clock, will you? Just have the desk clerk ring and I'll come 
downstairs." 

Benny's lopsided grin told me he recognized the fact that I didn't want to 
be put to the test by him coming upstairs to the room. My own, very private 
personal room. The place where I could roll in the hay without any guilt 
concerning Max because I had officially cut the ties. Only the legal papers 
had to be gone through. But because my intentions were clear cut, I was free 
to make love with whomever I chose. Finally. 

Yes, all these cross-currents of feeling and situation were thick between 
Benny and myself in those couple of minutes before I pushed through the 
revolving door and left him standing outside. 

As I walked to the counter for my room key and to sign the register, I 
purposely did not look back to save so long. I felt that I really was going 
to date Benny Davis tonight through some kind of external coercion. I would 
have preferred to have dinner with someone entirely strange, with a new face 
out of the future rather than an old one out of the past. 

But one doesn't always have one's way, exactly. And the future seemed to be 
hovering reluctantly out there ahead. I could not yet see what it had in 
store but I could feel. And I felt that, in having left Max at last, I had 
made one stumbling step in a direction suited to my best welfare and 
enhancement. 

I signed the register with a flourish and wallowed in a sense of selfishness 
as though I were standing up to my knees in delicious hot fudge sundae. 

I entered my hotel room on the crest of a secret thrill as though I were 
walking into a palace. I sensed that these four walls with their nondescript 
furnishings were my secret refuge and that nothing could reach in to 
dissuade me or alter the determined direction in which I was facing. I was a 
ship headed out to sea, to vast unlimited possibilities. All I required was 
time to organize my thoughts. Soon thereafter I would determine upon a means 
of self-support and possibly a career so that I would be independent at 
last. 

I tipped the bell hop and went immediately into the shower, meaning to scrub 
from my flesh all traces of Max and wishing I could erase his memory as 
well. But that, of course, was impossible. The most I could hope for was 
that time would blur the painful images upon me. As I stood beneath the 
needle spray and turned my face upward into the stream of cleansing water, I 
decided that I would stay in action, keep moving, keep doing things and the 
momentum itself would carry me over the first humps and obstacles to change. 

As I passed the small cake of hotel soap over my breasts, I seemed to feel 
again the many caresses, the many mouths which had lingered there upon them, 
some gently, some less so. I realized that the time for romance had somehow 
slipped away. I would never be able to live contentedly with some young man 
who believed in me and in our togetherness. 

It was a jolt to feel this wave of cynicism verging on impatience with the 
notion of love. I tried to rationalize by telling myself that certainly now, 
in the first stages of separation from Max, I could not be expected to be 
available for anything reminiscent of my starry-eyed availability to him. 

I did not realize it but I was considering myself something less than 
desirable because I was, in effect, a divorced woman. 

I dried and dressed leisurely and put on my most attractive dress, more for 
my own sake than for my evening's date with Benny. I knew I had to do 
everything possible to keep myself optimistic and decided that the best 
approach would be to cater to any whims which might indicate the direction 
my fulfilment was to take. 

I don't know what it was about Benny that looked different when he called 
for me but there it was. Maybe the fresh shirt and the pressed suit made a 
difference. I was surprised at the glow that surrounded him and, for a 
moment, I wondered if this were the same man I had left earlier. 

The amusing part was that he seemed to be looking at me with the same 
thought. We greeted each other like two friends who hadn't met face to face 
for months. 

I almost blush to describe how Benny wined and dined me that evening. Though 
part of me partook of the invigorating atmosphere of the imagine restaurant, 
another part of me was sitting back and watching as though I were engaged in 
some kind of game that I could not lose no matter what I did. Benny, with 
his attentive manner, his purposeful steering of conversation away from all 
topics that might associate with Max, gave me a sense of being invincible. I 
could make no mistakes. I was surrounded by a buffer of protection in the 
form of Benny Davis himself. 

After dinner we did the rounds of small clubs and then, somehow, before I 
realized it, dawn was breaking over the city. 

To watch the first paling, bruised tones of light lifting slowly over the 
jagged horizon of buildings gave me my first awareness of desolation. I 
slipped my hand through Benny's arm and instinctively, certainly without 
awareness of what I was doing, I squeezed him, looking for some minor bit of 
momentary protection. The city air smelled as clean as it would at any time 
now with traffic at its slowest ebb, cool with hints of warmth presaging the 
sun. Without speaking much, we strolled along the wide thoroughfare of 
Madison Avenue where sleepy doormen sat behind glass enclosed entry ways. 
When we reached my hotel I said without Benny having to ask me, "Won't you 
come up?" 

My affair with Benny Davis was a tempest of flesh. 

I recall with extremes of pleasure and chagrin our love making, our 
arguments, our moments of tenderness and the many promises we made to each 
other, made I think only to be broken as though the purpose of promise was 
to find ultimate fulfillment in disappointment. In my own way I loved Benny, 
not for what he might have been but for exactly what he was, a hustler with 
a heart. 

My hotel bed was large and comfortable, always with fresh sheets and plump 
pillows. I remember how Benny used to drag one of the pillows down, place it 
behind me, propping up my buttocks so that my spread thighs pointed that 
central orifice upward to full view. He liked to sit back upon his knees and 
look at me there, stare at me thinking, heaven only knows what thoughts 
behind his motionless face. It was the only time his expression was ever 
dead-pan, the mobility drained into depths and distances of his dreaming. 
Would you believe that I felt afraid to ask Benny what he dreamt those times 
when he looked and reached a tentative finger to touch the place. 

He liked to see my quiver and jump to his fondling. 

I was sensitive, extremely delicate in the sexual area. My cunt seemed 
overly alive with desire flashing through. The hotel room its impersonal 
atmosphere, aided that quality of abandon in which I was immersed. 

Benny would keep his hands upon my labia and lower his mouth to it, play his 
tongue slowly, languidly all along the outer edges and my nerve endings 
would strain to reach and re-direct him. But he knew what he was doing and 
how to seduce me properly. 

I demanded much of him also for he was one of those who could maintain an 
erection inside me for hours at a time it seemed, so that I rolled with him 
until my thighs and buttocks and back ached with fatigue while mind and 
spirit went on endlessly. There was no bottom to the well of my desire. Sex 
was the train on which I traveled far from my surroundings. 

Benny's arms provided a comforting protection, a cradle within which I 
writhed out my infinite desires. I enjoyed clutching his hair at the roots, 
pulling back his head and biting into his lower lip, crying into his mouth 
my sounds of passion, later, whispering while the spring air cooled our 
naked bodies. 

Our relationship was clandestine in the classic sense for we knew too many 
people in common who also knew Max. Though I had left the requisite note of 
departure in our old apartment, Max had not yet returned to find it. 

The logical question is why I had not gotten in touch with Max wherever he 
was and told him directly of my separation. Somehow I couldn't face up to 
that. I didn't want to speak with him, didn't want to-go through the 
imagined tortures of his protests against my so solid conviction that I had 
to get away. But I didn't think of this often, didn't think about the real 
and precarious position in which I was now dangling. And Benny, of course, 
with his lively company, protected me from thinking too much about what I 
ought or ought not to do. I allowed myself, therefore, to slide into an 
uneasy contentment with my semi-divorced status. 

Separation had its rewards. Strangely, I felt a pressure to be not only with 
Benny Davis but to deceive him with others. I didn't think in terms of 
deceit. Yet as I examine back upon my feelings I can see that it was deceit, 
the deceiving of Benny that I craved. 

How well I remember Benny leaving me at two ayem of a morning. When he had 
gone my own urges would rise anew, as though we had never made love that 
night. I would dress again and then go out simply to walk and walk, I told 
myself. And it would start out that way. Inevitably, however, I would find a 
lonesome friend. 

Basically my deceit was a degrading state of affairs. I went through a phase 
of what might be called prostitution without reimbursement. I simply could 
not get enough of men, and wondered if within my soul I harbored a secret 
nymphomania. Of course, it was a childish thought. Yet I felt almost 
convinced that there must be something pathological in my make-up. I 
remember faces clearly; the rough stubbly chins that rubbed down along my 
tender flesh ... the smooth cheeks of younger men probing my body as though 
exploring a new country ... the married ones, secretly gleeful to be engaged 
in something dirty ... the single swingers who took me as though I were 
their right. 

My life was in bed. My position, a wanton spread of legs and offering of 
breasts and belly and hot, receiving thighs. I whirled in a thick ooze of 
sexuality and wondered if I would ever skid to a halt or hit bottom or 
catapult over some brink into disaster. 

Strange to say how much I enjoyed my variety of lovers when I wasn't 
concerned with self-preservation. I was like the essence of woman, fulfilled 
within her fertile yearnings. I could almost feel the ejaculation of semen 
leaping forward and swimming to die in the jelly of the diaphragm that 
protected me from my lascivious self. That's the word for it, lascivious. 
Lecherous. I was a wench rolling in the hay at random. My riches, the riches 
of plentiful orgasm as though, like an army waiting to burst through the 
gates into triumphal possession of my body. 

I think that Benny Davis suspected but was too shrewd to ask me directly. He 
must have seen the signs of wear and tear on my face. I certainly did. 
Make-up could hide just so much but it could not camouflage the tautness 
around my mouth and the deep growing pockets beneath my eyes. Thank heaven 
my face was too young to succumb to the ravages of dissipation, and the look 
I took on was one of a deepening thoughtful maturity, which was a laugh. 

I do remember the night he sat on the edge of the bed after we had made 
love, and said to me, "I hate to break the news to you, doll, but Max will 
be home day after tomorrow." 

I felt a shudder of cold dread race through where there had been warmth and 
relaxation. I looked down upon my bruised thighs and thought of Max who had 
never been so good as to damage me. 

"Well, it'll come to a head now won't it?" I mused. 

"He'll find you if he wants you." Benny's voice held a warning. 

"So he'll find me," I repeated, mustering all the courage and bravado that I 
had. "What can he do? Jail me? Shoot me? The most he can manage to do is 
demand a divorce. Which is exactly what I want anyway. So, all is looking 
up, Benny. Never fear." 

I sounded like I knew what I was talking about, like I understood myself and 
the situation and Max too. But I didn't understand a single, blessed thing, 
and how men are when they've been cheated upon. I did not understand, could 
not have predicted Max's response to what I had been doing behind his back. 

Benny, on the other hand, had a very good idea, partly I suppose because 
he'd been through it a number of times, but, mostly, because he knew Max and 
had known him intimately for many years. 

"You don't want to mess with that man, honey," said Benny. 

"You're right. I surely don't," I agreed with an attempt at keeping the 
thing light. "Just let him stay away from me and I'll be glad to do the 
same." 

"You want me to carry that message?" Benny's grin, with its lopsided 
deviltry told me I was living in a dream world. 

"No. You don't have to make out as a go-between, Benny, thanks. But if you 
want to give me the name of a good lawyer, I'll be happy to take it from 
you." 

"The lawyer is the least." Benny stood up, went to the bureau where a damp 
towel lay in a heap on top of my underclothing. 

I watched Benny wipe down the film and residue of our love making with 
careful, cleansing gestures. It occurred to me that Benny could walk in and 
out of our love affair with the greatest of ease, that he had nothing to 
face or deal with concerning Max. 

But I had responsibilities which one day I would have to take the burden to 
manage into my two hands, look Max square in the eye and tell him that he no 
longer had any control over me. I was willing to do it and, in a sense, 
eager to get the worst over with. So it did not really make sense that some 
small voice inside of me whispered that I was not quite ready. 

How am I to account for the fact that I stared with nervous anxiety at 
Benny's schedule? He was to return on a Wednesday and each day leading up to 
it sounded, at dusk, like the death-knoll of a heavy bell. How am I to 
account for the fact that, though I had taken major steps-had packed and 
moved and been unfaithful so often-nevertheless, I was not up to that 
confrontation with Max which I knew was inevitable. 

I do not pretend here to be able to analyze why I was not yet ready to make 
the total break from Max. I simply record the truth and let the mystery of 
it ride. Yes, Max was due back on a Wednesday and on the day prior to it, on 
a Tuesday, I returned to our dingy hotel room and settled my clothes once 
again in their old, accustomed places. I looked at the note I had left and 
laughed at myself with a twinge of bitterness. Then I tore it into a million 
pieces and set a match to those pieces, driven to demolish every vestige 
that might give away my intention. 

And so my life for awhile settled into a pattern of pretense and double 
dealing. When Max was home, I played all the necessary roles. When he took 
me to bed I was sufficiently separate from the act of physical love to watch 
him go through the motions and not suffer myself the pains of physical 
frustration. My heart, however, continued to break at the outrageous game in 
which I partook. 

Very subtly, gradually, hardly aware of the changes, certainly without 
sensations of acute pain, I adjusted to my Jeckyl and Hyde arrangement. But 
there were differences, differences I could not avoid as Max became more and 
more successful in his career. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

I remember how my desperation for privacy increased as Max's reputation 
grew. As much as he loved being the center of attention and having all 
lights focused upon his comings and goings, I, completely opposite to him, 
cringed from any examination. Of course, I was afraid. Afraid that 
inadvertently my personal life would be revealed. And the nature of that 
area of my existence had begun to take on the kinds of wild activity which 
would never withstand scrutiny by strangers. I realized that my reputation 
as an adoring and admiring wife was important to Max's interests and 
sometimes, late at night when I was off upon my adventurous travels, I would 
think how easy it was or might be to set Max's career back a dozen years. 

You see, it was inevitable that sex with men, that normal, predictable 
heterosexual adventure would lose some of its interest to me in time. 
Without love the physical act must begin to pall, and then one seeks for 
novelty to take up the empty spaces. 

The kind of novelty I sought was very different from the kind that found me. 
I was looking for the perfect male and found, instead, entree into the gay 
bars, the secret love-caves uptown on the fringes of Harlem where people 
went who had nowhere else. 

I remember that first night. It must have been about two-thirty in the 
morning and felt like five ayem. had consumed a good bit more of beer than 
usual and wandered into a bar that seemed to promise a little bit of life 
and cheer for the late night hangers-on. 

To my surprise I saw that there were no men at all at the bar, only a 
variety of women with blunt, short hair and heavy, rough, masculine 
clothing. 

Immediately I remembered Sonia Walker and how beautiful our night together 
had been. These women were not reminiscent of her at all and I didn't think 
I would be able to make the scene. But I was in a warm place on a cold night 
and another beer or two was what I wanted immediately. I hiked myself onto a 
stool and signalled my wants to the bartender, a raven-haired beauty, once 
you could see through the shapeless sweater and apron wrapped round her 
midriff. 

I drank my beer and kept watching the bartender, associating the dark hair 
with Sonia's dark hair, and lulling gradually back into memory. There was a 
brand of slow music on the jukebox, the kind that echoed lonely hearts and 
was conducive to close dancing. But no one was dancing. I don't think anyone 
had the inclination and, besides, it was a small, narrow bar with no space 
provided for anything besides spending money on booze. 

It wasn't long before the bartender struck up a conversation with me in that 
easy fashion for which bartenders are noted, and we chatted on and off about 
whether or not it was going to snow soon, the latest in Forty-Second Street 
movie styles and, inevitably, women. 

I don't know how she steered me around to it but soon we were on the subject 
of artificial limbs and this led, with the greatest of ease, to artificial 
genitals. I had no idea what was in store for me but I was new to the place, 
obviously quite femme and, I suppose my friend the bartender, Lee, was just 
seeing what she could see with a new woman. 

I didn't mind. I drank my beer and told myself to be content with the two 
men I'd already had that night. Tomorrow, I consoled myself, would be 
better. 

But Lee wasn't interested in my thoughts and didn't try to probe into them. 

She set one foot up on the rail and leaned across the counter to me. I saw 
her eyes were a very luminous dark blue. That Irish combination of black 
hair and blue eyes was completed by a beautiful fair complexion. And though 
the features were large and solidly formed, and she had done everything 
possible to erase every feminine trace from her appearance, nevertheless, a 
certain female softness came through and I was intrigued. 

She told me small details about herself, the kind to give one an appearance 
of familiarity. I discovered that she was in from Chicago and was living 
alone just around the corner. I didn't give her details in return but merely 
listened. Lee didn't seem to mind that I was absorbing everything and 
offering nothing. She simply rattled on with that glib, easy style of 
conversation and even took in to our circle comments of the other women who 
were listening. 

It didn't seem to me that Lee was on the make for my body. Everything was so 
casual. I simply assumed that she would know I had toddled into the wrong 
place by mistake. I did not realize, however, even if she understood the 
situation she would refuse to respect it as a hands off state of affairs. 

But I didn't really expect it. I know that I was listening with both ears, 
not to what she was saying but to the massaging tone in her voice. The more 
I listened, the more I thought about how she would be in bed, what those 
hands would do, and that mouth. What she would pull out from underneath the 
pillow and use on me. I could see that Lee was not a hesitater. She had the 
experience and the confidence to go along with it. Bed with Lee would be a 
new and different kick for me. 

And I felt ready. 

So I drank more beer. More than anything else, it made me tired and pushed 
away any real thinking. The sharp edges of life became softer and more 
accommodating. The ache of loneliness, the sensation of empty insides began 
to ease off as I considered that my night would not wind up back in the 
hotel room, but in an apartment around the corner with this woman. 

I sat patiently on the stool, listening and talking and drinking until it 
was closing time. The women wandered off in various directions, disappearing 
into the night like stray cats. Lee did the locking up and then put one 
large, consoling arm around my shoulder and steered me across the street. 
Obviously we both had known that I was going home with her. 

She lived in a brownstone walk-up, of course, on the third floor. We took 
the steps slowly, not talking now, leaning against each other not because we 
were drunk or overtired so much as to begin that intimate prelude. 

The knowledge of a female form beneath the masculine clothing sent prickles 
of shuddering desire through my own flesh. I did not know what was going to 
happen to me but could guarantee myself a strange, marvelous time tonight, 
which was enough for me in my mood of desolation. 

I let my hands reach along the woman's sides and found the curve of one 
breast well hidden beneath the baggy shirt. She wore no bra, I suppose, 
because she didn't want those contours to be lifted and, therefore, more 
noticeable. As I touched her, she cringed and I realized that the fact of my 
recognizing her tits was something of an insult. 

Despite myself I grinned and said, "But, honey, let's face the facts." 

"Yeah, sure," Lee grunted. "But I got my preferences, you know. like anyone 
else." 

Of course I knew and decided that I ought to respect Lee's desires if I 
wanted her to cater to me. Besides, it was no fun to irritate her; I wanted 
to turn her on, not cause pain. Although, of course, with some people the 
two are synonymous. 

The apartment was like every other furnished place I had ever seen. It had 
that elusive musty smell of dead bugs in the wall, I suppose. The furniture 
was dark or light, I don't remember, but seemed to be dark. It seemed also 
to be solid though when you touched things they swayed. I remember a large, 
bubble-filled, yellow stained mirror of an old-fashioned dresser. There were 
snapshots curling in the frame of the mirror, pictures of young girls 
mostly, probably conquests of Lee's. There was also a large, glossy 
photograph of Ava Gardner and one of Johnny Weismuller as Tarzan. 

"You want some refreshment?" Lee said, opening the door of a small 
refrigerator and bending into it. 

"Let's get on with it," I said, suddenly frank and direct. 

Lee jerked her head around to me. The softness in her eyes took on a 
gem-like hard glitter. "You're my style," she muttered. "Okay." 

And the next thing I knew, I was in the woman's arms being pressed to her 
large body with a fierce, hugging embrace that took my breath away. 

I felt her through her clothes. She was tough but all woman, whether she 
wanted to admit it or not. There were the hips, something I could grasp 
onto, and the hard buttocks jutting out in back with a solid curve, all 
meat. Meat-rack, I think they call it. 

She had my clothes off in a minute and her mouth was on my nipple. I felt 
the edges of her teeth nipping at my skin and my flesh began to quiver with 
delight. Yet my eyes searched hungrily about the room, wondering if I would 
see that object which she had insinuated she would use upon me if I wanted 
it. 

I was standing in the middle of the room and she began to lower herself 
along my body, remaining completely dressed, not wanting me to get her 
clothes off, not wanting to reveal her feminine body to my own. I couldn't 
make it clear to Lee that I was interested in the fact that she was a woman, 
that I liked the idea. She resented it. I don't know what she wanted to be 
to me, since she could not really be a man. I suppose a make-believe man was 
her idea of a success., and I had agreed to go along with this notion. 

"Well do something," I said. "What are you going to put into me? What are 
you going to shove inside?" 

I was abrupt, quite cruel I thought. Yet Lee didn't think so, because she 
was prepared. 

I cannot explain to you the compression of time. I don't know whether we 
were dallying with each other for seconds, minutes or hours. I only know 
that she did not want me to touch her, and it gave me a feeling of 
impatience because I did not quite know what to do with my hands. I could 
not, obviously, use them upon myself, nor did I need to. She was everywhere 
on me. Everywhere all at once, and I was giving in gladly but wanted Lee to 
do her stuff, to show me everything she had to give. I was bargaining for 
big-time action, not any of the simple kid stuff with fingers up and tongues 
on. 

But Lee wouldn't say anything just yet. She wanted, I suppose, to see me 
squirm for it and perhaps to beg and plead. I was willing to play that game. 
Why not? Master and slave. A little bit of sadomasochism thrown in for 
kicks. 

"You must have it, honey," I urged. "You have it somewhere. Why don't you go 
and strap it on?" 

Yes, it was all jumbled just like I am describing. No dalliance. No logical 
build up. Just this rough-house back and forth. like a game of jai-lai, the 
ball of passion bouncing off walls at high speed, coming at you from sharp 
angles, aimed right at your head, threatening to knock you over if you 
aren't agile enough to cope. 

But I was up to m Lee's standard of swift retort and retaliation. She heard 
me, saw me and knew it. 

"You know, girl. You, I like," she said, and there was decision in her 
voice. 

My challenge brought Lee up short. She went to the dressing table and from a 
bottom drawer extricated a long, erected object made of rubber, I thought. 
The color was quite convincing and the proportions implied that I was really 
going to have the time of my life. 

With her back to me she got out of the clumsier portions of her clothing 
and, indeed, did strap on that which she promised to use. 

I scrambled onto the bed and lay back. The preliminary hour of talking and 
dwelling upon subjects related to sex had already primed me for this. I 
touched myself and felt the moistness, the waiting, open condition of my 
cunt. 

I watched her come toward me now and my throat went dry involuntarily as she 
walked with that thing bobbing up and down. She held it with one hand as a 
man would hold it and, if I squinted, did not press too hard the reality of 
the situation, I might believe that this woman had gone through a major 
transformation. 

She touched the edge of the mattress with one knee. 

"What do you want to do, baby?" she whispered hoarsely. "Suck it first?" 

I tell you I went into a frenzy of desire, stimulated by the fairy tale 
situation in which I was flung. I was not making love with a man; I knew it, 
could not forget it no matter how much I saw resemblances. It was very well 
within my awareness that I lay with a woman who had added to her body. And 
what I did was grasp hold of the object as she wished me to. But with my 
left hand, I reached low and found her own natural body. 

She tried to pull away but I wouldn't let her go. I was going to touch her 
and make her come every bit as realistically as she would do to me. That was 
my pleasure. The finding of her hidden behind the masculine role. The 
ripping off of the mask, the destruction of the charade, the revelation of 
female truth and beauty, the rising of Phoenix from the dregs. 

At first, of course, she fought me off tooth and nail, with both knees and 
hands pushing, but I would have none of this and told her so. 

"You're a woman, damn you Lee, and I'm gonna have it. I'm going down on you. 
Do you hear me? I'm going to make you come." 

I thought she would punch me at one point and knock me senseless, but that 
moment passed in a shuddering, livid flash. And then as she jabbed forward 
to press the dildo inside of me, my own hand slipped around and made contact 
with her where I knew it would do the most good. So that was the compromise, 
you see. She was inside of me and I had her by her own cunt. 

I began to massage her clitoris in rhythm with the hunching movement back 
and forth of that dildo within my own body. I can't say which it was that 
gave me the greater pleasure, but certainly the combination was a kick and a 
half, I kept telling myself, using that light, impersonal language to make 
sure that I maintained the proper mood for the moment. After all, this was 
fun and games, wasn't it? 

Yes, I vacillated between accepting my responsibility and my position with a 
rejection of all that was happening. I rejected it by not admitting that 
either Lee or myself could be serious about what we were doing. And yet our 
bodies were dead serious. I felt my own responding with leaps of lust. The 
muscles of my love-chasm clung to the item inside me as though it were a 
living totem instead of a more than reasonable facsimile. My flesh 
perspired. My legs clung to the outsides of her thighs. And though she would 
not remove her shirt, would not bare her boobs to me, I nevertheless felt 
them. The cloth of her shirt was not sufficient to detract me from knowing, 
from experiencing, the full length of Lee's feminine body. 

Despite herself, she began to grow tense to my touch and I knew that her own 
flesh was climbing toward orgasm. I adjusted the massaging motion of my 
fingers upon her so that she and I would experience climax simultaneously. 
It was a neat trick to pull off, and one that would pleasure my instincts 
for hedonism. I pressed my nose to her ear, inhaled the aroma of Vitalis, I 
think it was, from her slicked back hair which was no longer slick. I 
whispered encouraging words to her and heard them returned to me. We were 
united in a unique fashion which I knew would never again be repeated by me. 
And this, all by itself, was sufficient to stimulate my senses to their 
utmost. 

I began to lunge into orgasm and told her so. At the same moment, I dug my 
fingers deep into her own body, rubbing her harder, more insistently with a 
demand in my touch. She could not resist me, could not resist the onrush of 
my sexual command of her and began, in turn, to respond with the shuddering 
contractions. 

I had the feeling that this was Lee's first orgasm in a long while. I 
suppose she was the type who had taken pleasure merely from satisfying other 
women without looking to be stimulated or touched by them. But I was having 
none of this one-way stuff, and when it was over I sat up and looked down 
into Lee's face and said, "Well, girl, how did you like that?" 

She grinned. And then I watched Lee drift off into sleep. 

 CHAPTER SIX 

Benny got my husband a few bookings in Europe and we all decided to go by 
ship. It would have cost a lot to take the various musical instruments on an 
airplane and we had plenty of time to make the journey. I can see now that a 
kind of fate was planning the whole thing out for me. If I had gone by 
plane, I never would have met Marcel. 

Marcel Durand was young, younger even than myself. I saw him the first day 
we were on ship, but didn't think too much of it one way or the other. I had 
met plenty of good-looking lads in my day. Still, there was something about 
Marcel that kept nagging relentlessly at the back of my mind. 

We spoke briefly on the A deck and I didn't get too much out of the boy, 
other than that he was French and had spent a lot of time in New York. I 
figured that he was a rich woman's son, used to having the best. We hung 
around together a bit and met a few other people, including a couple of 
young college girls who immediately made me feel old and jealous. 

Anyway, I knew that I had to have Marcel, had to fuck him sooner or later. 
He knew it too, but was very cool about the whole thing, going so far as to 
let me introduce him to my husband, which went over fairly well. I had to be 
careful with all our friends on the boat, but that was not going to stop me. 
Max was ignoring me more than ever, giving me every chance in the world to 
cheat on him right under the bastard's nose. 

Max has never been an early riser and was resigned to missing breakfast 
every day of our seven day trip. I, on the other hand, was glad to leap out 
of the bunk bed, dress and run from the small room as fast as I could go. 

The morning air, true sea air by now, was fresher than fresh, completely 
odorless and we were out of the sight of land. 

I walked the decks with my hands thrust deep into my pockets and scanned all 
the horizons. I wasn't looking for anything, but just enjoying the sense of 
space and distance uncluttered by the cluster of New York buildings, free of 
exhaust fumes and sounds of traffic. 

As I walked the decks, I was quite consciously thinking of what I would say 
if I ran into Marcel. But it wasn't Marcel I met at that hour, it was the 
two girls. 

They were easy to talk to when I approached them, each turning faces like 
rosebuds to me, open and expecting nothing but good things. I introduced 
myself by name and they returned the offer of acquaintanceship. The blonde 
one, Jennifer, had a slight Bostonian flatness to the vowel sounds and Liza 
spoke with very hard r's. She was from Vermont and, in a sense, reminded me 
of the tall trunks of maple trees, although of course she had a fragile 
quality in her slenderness. 

Our conversation had to do completely with the goings-on aboard ship. Both 
were on their way to France for eight weeks holiday and then off to England 
for further school. At that point, I had a twinge of regret at the lack in 
my own education, at the opportunities that I had senselessly yet willfully 
tossed aside in order to find myself. But I was long since past stages of 
remorse on that score, and I listened to their sprightly chatter with a 
growing pleasure and enjoyment of youth at its threshold of maturity. 

No mention of Marcel was made in that conversation. Neither of them had 
reason to do so, since they did not know I had met him earlier. In a few 
moments, girl-talk amongst us revealed to me that both Jennifer and Liza had 
not yet decided upon a shipboard romance but promised each other to remedy 
that situation as fast as possible, hopefully tonight at the get-together 
dance in the combination bar and ballroom. As they spoke of this, I asked 
what time it was to be held. . 

"Oh not till way past dinner," said Jennifer. "If you want to see today's 
schedule it's posted beside the purser's office." 

I quickly recalled Max's conversation and knew that after dinner he would be 
busy rehearsing with the boys in the library. So I would be free then to 
join Jennifer and Liza and, more importantly, Marcel. 

It was this thought that buoyed me up throughout the long morning and 
afternoon while I watched the ship plow its way through the seas on what 
appeared to be an endless voyage. 

Because it was a small, classless and therefore informal ship, I did not 
have to be concerned about getting dressed in such a way that would provide 
question from Max. I donned a basic black which is every woman's best friend 
and, when after dinner Max left me to go about his business, I proceeded 
toward the ballroom with hopes rising high. I had not even caught a glimpse 
of Marcel all day. It seemed to me that our meeting had to be tonight or 
never. 

The barroom was already crowded. Everybody on board was eager to meet 
everybody else and they were jammed three feet deep at the bar, buying 
drinks for maybe one fourth of what liquor cost in the United States. A 
large percentage of the crowd was young and mixing with that special ease 
and nonchalance of youth. I caught the feel of the atmosphere in five 
seconds and was glad to give myself up to it. I even began to think that if 
I didn't find Marcel, there might be someone else to interest me. But I 
didn't really believe this. For though I gazed upon many a handsome face, 
none of them seemed to have that special personal quality to make me want to 
reach out and stroke a cheek or forehead. 

But I didn't have to look for long amongst them. There was Marcel standing 
with his side to the bar, holding a tall glass of something and sipping at 
it while his gaze traveled from one female face to another. 

In that moment I realized that his morning's encounter with Jennifer and 
Liza had been casual enough and that he had already forgotten them, probably 
would not think about them unless they met again. Quickly, I made 
comparisons and wondered if he would even remember me if I worked my way 
next to him at the bar. 

Well, I was willing to take my chances. Certainly, I could renew our 
acquaintanceship or start it again from scratch if necessary. I only knew 
that I wanted to make the attempt and see what might come of it. 

I did not, however, plow directly through but eased my way, bit by bit, 
closer until I was sure that Marcel would have a clear view of me. It would 
have been a small point of satisfaction if I could have Marcel make an 
effort in my direction first. But I did not depend on this. I merely gave 
him the opportunity if he wished to avail himself of it. 

I turned and looked at him between the heads of others. At last his gaze met 
mine. 

I felt a flush of satisfaction as his face wrinkled into a smile. 
Immediately he lifted his glass overhead and began to come toward me like a 
swimmer moving through shoulder high waves. 

"Ah, good evening. How do you like this for a party? What are you drinking? 
Scotch, I hope. They have good scotch here. And where is your husband, not 
with you tonight?" 

Marcel said all these things not waiting for me to answer, I suppose, 
because he didn't expect he would be able to hear my answer very clearly 
through the din of voices combined with the ship's band, a very formidable 
group that was amplified and augmented by tape recordings. 

I showed him my glass; that it was still half full. 

"Shall we find a table?" he asked. 

I realized then that Marcel had certainly not forgotten me or, at any rate, 
was pleased to renew our acquaintanceship. Obviously if we were going to sit 
at a table, he was offering me the information that he was quite content not 
to meet anyone else new, at least this evening. 

I accepted his invitation in my own apparently nonchalant way. We, found a 
small rectangle of space which seemed hardly large enough to hold our two 
glasses. Moments afterward he was asking me if I wanted to join the others 
milling around on the dance floor. 

I saw no reason why not. I knew where Max was and that he was safe from 
seeing me. 

Besides, who would take this boy seriously? Would I? 

All superficial factors pointed to the conclusion that Marcel was my 
appointed shipboard distraction. Our relationship would not, nor could it, 
go any further than the time limit of our Atlantic crossing. I felt certain 
that the moment we docked at Le Havre, Marcel's path would diverge from mine 
and we would never see each other again. It was a pleasant fairy story to 
tell myself and I almost believed it. How sensible it seemed to believe that 
a young man would not have the patience to last in a long-time affair with a 
woman, especially a married woman so much older than himself. 

How little I knew of Marcel then. 

How little I suppose I wanted to know of him. For would I have proceeded had 
I been told anything of the future that we were to share? 

And how little I knew of myself. 

Meanwhile, at that moment all was light, almost innocent. I moved onto the 
dance floor and entered the circle of his arms, feeling the warm effects of 
the whisky but none of the giddiness. 

He did not dance in the American style, but insinuated his body against mine 
with such subtlety that I felt the first warning thrills of sensation, the 
first indications of our sexual interplay. 

I did not ignore these signals, but neither did I give them weight of 
meaning. Touching against any male body was bound to do something to mine 
and a young, handsome lithe man inevitably had to stimulate my own keenly 
sensitive nerves. 

I did not try to pull away, nor did I press forward. My body became like 
sand fitting itself to the contour of the container that held it. When two 
bodies blend as ours did, the inevitable becomes apparent and I became 
suffused with the warm glow of expectation. My flesh began rapidly to heat 
in intimate places. The tell-tale hardening of my nipples inside the 
tightness of the bra cup served as irritants. I could no longer resist the 
urge to press against him somewhat in order to relieve, if I could, the 
surface tensions that had already begun to plague me. Perhaps you think that 
plague is an exaggerated term and that a woman with as much diversity of 
sexual experience as I'd had up to then would be able to withhold herself, 
certainly control the flow of her desire. But I tell you that control was 
beyond my means and not part of my nature. That was the torture of it all. I 
had formed the habit of being able to satisfy my needs as they rose. Here, 
with Marcel, was simply another case in point. 

I hesitated to look up into Marcel's face. My gaze settled upon the Merchant 
Marine style sweater. I put my cheek to the shoulder where rough wool could 
rub me and take my mind away from other regions of my anatomy, on. She Or so 
I hoped. But truly I did know better. I knew that any touch, anywhere, on 
any part of my body would only stimulate responses in other places. Each 
nerve had a connection with every other one. I was a network of cravings 
that had lain in waiting for proper stimulus. And now I had that stimulus. 

"Do you like the music?" Marcel said against the side of my hair. But he was 
not serious. He was telling me that the band was really awful and we both 
knew it and could laugh at it, not take the music seriously, perhaps not 
take each other seriously. 

"I don't mind," I said. "You want to stop? You want to go outside?" 

"No, I like it here." His voice was gentle yet there was that fine undertone 
which really said, I like holding you in my arms. 

I knew it. Didn't I know it though. That he liked me. How could he help 
liking me when I was giving off such strong emanations of desire. I think 
that the secret of my small success with men has been just exactly the fact 
that I am never able to withhold my feelings from view. I may not stare 
brazenly into a man's face and say, I want you. I need you. But somehow the 
meaning seems to exude from me as though I were a rosebush giving off the 
incense of my passion. 

Thus was I with Marcel. 

We did not talk for another little while. I noticed that he tightened his 
grip upon my back. I felt the spread of his large fingers there, low where 
my spine curved and I could also tell that his arm around me was really 
appraising the fullness of my body. I knew what he knew now, that I had 
large eager breasts, at the rest of me was perhaps a bit too slender for 
them except where the hips jutted out. He also could feel my hips with the 
edge of his forearm. What he had not accomplished with his eyes he was 
accomplishing with the tactile sense and I wanted him to complete his 
searching to his fullest satisfaction. 

Where do we go from here, Marcel? Where? You must know by now that I want 
you. What do I know of you? Nothing. Yet everything. And you must know 
everything of me. Everything that's important anyhow. 

Hours slipped by, eons, until the selection of music, I think three songs, 
were completed and the orchestra paused for a break. The end of the music 
was like a thrust of my head into cold water. Marcel and I were suddenly not 
moving against each other any longer but standing on the dance floor 
reluctant to part yet forced to do so because of the circumstances. 

"Yes, let's go outside," I said. "Let's go for a stroll." 

"I'd love it." 

We wormed our way through the crowd, out and up a few steps onto the deck 
where the night air was blowing chill, whipping my clothing and my hair 
against my cheek. It was a brisk night, not exactly pleasant to be out in. 
Yet for the first few moments I felt a welcome relief from the heat, the 
noise, the smell of whiskey, the closeness of cigarette smoke. 

For awhile we strolled beneath the lights. Then approaching the prow we 
walked into darkness where there was nothing except the sound of water 
rushing past the hull. Suddenly we were in the center of utter blackness, 
total except for a high, red eye of light which was a warning signal to 
other ships, I suppose, and had nothing to do with the passengers. 

I sensed the presence of couples necking in corners, boys and girls who had 
found each other and were busy exploring possibilities. 

Was this what Marcel and I were going to do? Is this what we were going to 
mean to each other? Was that all? Was it enough? 

Yes. Yes. More than enough. I could only live one day at a time, one hour at 
a time really and an hour could be a lifetime in my schedule of events. 

Marcel had ceased talking. I sensed that he did not feel any press for 
conversation. Nor did I. I was the last one on earth, I thought, who needed 
the time consuming waste of conventional talk. 

I leaned back against a metal pole and looked up at Marcel and waited. 

He understood. Perhaps in his youth and willingness to live he understood 
more of the essentials about survival than I. 

And then his hand touched my waist. His fingers curved. My body leaned 
forward. 

And I was in his arms. 

The first kiss, when it is meaningful, is in a sense always a shock to the 
nervous system. It eats you alive, draws the blood right up through the 
marrow of your bones. It sucks you dry, leaves you hollow, shaking with 
weakness and need. When this happens it is the signal that all which may 
follow will be important in some way, will leave its mark upon your being 
for better or worse. 

I opened my lips and felt the entrance of Marcel's tongue into my mouth. 
Abruptly I became aware that I was not involved in some casual physical 
connection but had embarked upon a romance which would take its toll of my 
flesh and spirit. 

His tongue sought eagerly about inside my mouth and I returned the pressure 
of his kiss with the rigid point of my own. He knew what to do. His pliant 
lips and flexible tongue played with my lips and tongue and told me that 
when taht mouth reached other parts of my body I would be sent to heaven, or 
drop to hell if you'd rather look at it that way. 

I took a deep breath and leaned forward with the full length of my body, 
pressed my rib cage to him, felt the flatness of his stomach and the sharp 
corners of his belt buckle against my dress front. Lower along his body 
there came to life that certain tell-tale bulge and as his erection grew 
into full stature I began to tremble. 

Sometimes my body needs to be toyed with but there are other times when the 
simple, direct entry of the male organ into my waiting flesh is what I 
crave. That moment with Marcel was one of those times. I could have slipped 
to the deck and spread my legs for him right then and there. But .of course 
such an act was out of the question and it was this conflict between what I 
must do and what I so strongly needed that set me to shivering. 

Marcel whispered in my ear, "Come downstairs. Come to my cabin. The boy who 
shares the room with me won't be true, promise." 

I wanted to go. Needed to go. But ghosts and trepidations raised their 
threatening heads. All of them had Maximilian's face. 

"I can't. Can't," I said, my voice tremulous and barely audible. 

"Surely you can. What's to stop you, dear? Who'll see you? Who'll know." 

"Please, don't tempt me." Marcel sighed and abruptly let go of me 
altogether. We stood with some inches of space between our bodies and it 
felt as though we had gone miles from each other never to talk again or 
touch. I couldn't bear it. I was alienated, alone and in need. The familiar 
dread of my physicality rose and roared in my ears. Other larger more 
dangerous demons that Maximilian grinned at me from inside my head, 
threatening to end my survival. 

I sighed aloud. "Marcel," I said. "Marcel, how are we going to manage this." 

"Oh, it's simple. Just come along." What could I do? I was a lamb eager for 
its own slaughter. I allowed Marcel to lead the way back into the light of 
the center deck and down the metal stairs to the level where his cabin was. 

I listened to the clicking of my heels on and off the carpeting and wondered 
why it was that I hadn't already run into Mike or Jim who , would tell 
Maximilian, if not Maxie himself. I realized that it was long past practice 
hours. Perhaps Maxie was looking for me right now, at this very moment while 
here I was chasing off with a boy, for he was really hardly more than a boy, 
completely oblivious to the threat of being discovered. Oblivious, caring 
but not caring, beyond the ability to care, beyond the ability to watch out 
for myself with the good sense that I ordinarily possessed. 

Marcel's cabin was on B Deck, one lower than Maximilian's and mine but 
located in the center of the ship. The key to the cabin was hanging in the 
case of keys on the wall which told us that the boy who shared it with 
Marcel was out. 

I did not look either to the left or right as Marcel opened the door for it 
was too late to try to cover my footsteps, too late to attempt being 
sensible, besides which I was alive with desire and not capable of any other 
thought than immediate privacy with Julian. 

He closed the door behind us. Before he switched on the light we were in 
each other's arms, holding madly close, unable to think about any of the 
formalities of comfort. In the moment of that first abandoned kiss, I 
understood Marcel needed me as much as I did him but, as yet, I did not 
understand the reason for it. I knew only what I sensed, that this hunger of 
his was as deep as mine. It was the hunger of youth of course, that 
all-consuming passion for experience. 

Our hands groped and found each other's bodies. Eagerly we touched and 
clung, felt and probed. I was flattered that Marcel was so hot for me that 
he could not wait but pressed me up against the wall with his body. His 
hand, reaching down, went beneath the hem of my dress and lifted it. I felt 
strangely naked in this way, completely dressed and yet utterly accessible 
to his fingers. They climbed along my leg, beneath the slip, over the top of 
my stockings and into the elastic band of my underwear. Stretching that 
elastic, they found me, those sensitive searching fingers and pressed deep 
between my labia to the very center of my vulva. I felt the strength go out 
of my knees and leaned against Marcel for support, wanting him to continue 
feeling me in this fashion yet wondering if I could manage to remain 
standing under the onslaught of his relentless massage. Sensations were too 
large, too overwhelming, too strong for me hot to surrender completely right 
where I was, as I was. 

"Marcel, can't we lie down?" I whispered. "Whatever you say." 

I stumbled through the darkness toward the bunk and fell upon it. There was 
another one overhead and I grazed my temple against its sideboard but hardly 
noticed the bruise in my eagerness to be horizontal with Marcel. 

"Hold me. Kiss me," I murmured. 

"I'll do everything you want of me. I want to love you the way you like to 
be loved." 

"Oh gosh, you're marvelous. I love the feel of your hands. Do you want to 
take my clothes off?" 

"Just your panties." 

"Don't you want me naked, darling?" 

For answer he lifted my skirt high over my hips and pulled down my 
underwear, undoing the-garter belt and the stockings. His hands, amazingly 
skillful, moved rapidly with the clothing until I lay exposed from the waist 
down with Marcel on his side very close. 

He took his time, playing with the curves of my thighs and my hips, 
squeezing the flesh here and there as though he were modeling me in clay or 
seeing me through the tips of his fingers. I felt the sensation of being 
touched as it had never come upon me before, as though Marcel were reaching 
down through my skin to my heart. His hands seemed to grow larger and to 
encompass all of me as though I could fit into his palm and be held there 
upon it. He was surrounding me with his hands, loving me, enjoying me, using 
me as I was meant to be used. I was woman and like Venus, Marcel was 
responding to me with total physical adoration. 

My body reacted. My tits seemed to grow and the cavern of me widened with 
infinite yearning to encompass and possess Marcel. 

"Slide between my legs, darling. I want to feel you," I whispered, reaching 
for his belt buckle, finding the tab of his pants zipper and moving it down. 

I felt no shame or hesitation about reaching inside to find and grasp hold 
of him. My fingers came in contact with his warm but hard muscle which had 
stiffened and seemed ready for its part in our love making. I enjoyed the 
largeness, fin ding in it a certain security and basking in the difference 
between the sexes, that eternal, blissful difference. 

"You have a good body," he said, "firm, lovely." 

"What did you expect?" I laughed. "An old woman?" I was in the full flood of 
confidence, for though I was an older woman I certainly had maintained the 
firmness, the resiliency of flesh which makes a woman desirable. Being on 
the slender side had made it easy for me to keep in shape. Now with Marcel's 
hands and then his face roving my flesh, I felt glad for the first time of 
how well nature had endowed me. 

"Where would you like me to touch you?" he murmured, his mouth against my 
belly. 

It was rhetorical, I knew. For answer, I sighed, touching my palm to his 
skull and resting myself there, letting Marcel do with me as he wished. 

"I have a lot to learn," he said. "I want you to teach me. I want you to 
show me how to be an ardent lover." 

I knew he was offering me a courtesy, for Marcel, despite his lack of years, 
seemed quite knowledgeable in the realm of female need. His tongue lingered 
on the curve of my belly, moving gradually lower into the triangle of hair. 
His hands pressed the hardness of the mound and continued to find again 
their initial place of refuge between my thighs. He wanted to linger, I law, 
with hands and lip and tongue upon me. I spread my legs to give him room to 
do with me as he wished, enjoying his wandering, his lack of hurry, his 
appreciation. It was the European style, I suppose, to give a woman 
everything that she could possibly dream of, and was very much, therefore, 
in contrast to my life with my husband. 

I suppose if ever I really had the strength to run away and leave Maximilian 
it was during my liaison with Marcel. I felt so secure with him, so sure of 
myself, so loved. And yet, what was it? Only an atmosphere, an aura, an 
illusion because Marcel loved womankind and loved me, therefore, as its 
exponent. I say exponent because in my own way I carried the flag for 
feminine rights, the feminine right to find fulfillment. 

It was a narrow unresilient bed upon which we lay yet that made no 
difference. We were as though stretched out on a great field beneath 
sunlight as we lay, in fact, in the cramped, dark. I felt the hot, pulsing 
flesh of his erection. I held and guided it toward my cunt knowing I would 
be able to take him inside me' and keep him there for hours and hours, never 
to have enough of that lovely virile strength which promised Elysian fields 
of satisfaction. 

My mind lingers over the details of our first union as though I were leafing 
back to a golden moment, unique in all my sexual history. Will you believe I 
felt pure, almost virginal with Marcel? His hands touched me and it seemed 
that I was, being touched for the first time. His magnificent penis with its 
large, seeking head found the opening of me and slipped into the ooze of my 
lascivious twat which, though indeed carnal, nevertheless partook of some 
ancient mystery. My body was a sibyl forecasting futures of bliss. Marcel, 
the idolator, who, with his totem, gave himself up to me not in sacrifice 
but in god-like offering of blessed pleasures. 

I felt down between our stomachs to guide him more deeply into my orifice 
then lifted my legs wide so that he might press into deepest entry. I wanted 
him inside further than anyone I had ever known. 

"Do it harder," I whispered. "Harder, please." 

My small breathless cries told Marcel that I meant what I said. I backed up 
my demand upon him with solid swinging movements of my hips which lifted me 
closer, closer to blending into a single body with his own. The bed groaned 
beneath its unaccustomed burden but held us securely as we continued the act 
of coitus with utter abandon of ourselves for the night. The sound of water 
banging against the sides of the ship seemed to come through to me. I do not 
know whether it was in fact the ocean or a roaring of passion inside my 
skull. I am inclined to think it was the latter, of course, for I was 
outside myself, beyond my normal limits and overreaching every passion I had 
so far experienced. Yes, as I say, I felt virginal and pure in the sense 
that I was giving Marcel every part of me and not a single thought of 
Maximilian entered my mind during our love making, not a twinge of remorse, 
not a twitter or flutter of guilt or regret. I had come to Marcel. Somehow 
fate had led me to him and brought him to me. All I could do was ghank my 
lucky stars that I had at last found a man who could understand and love and 
fulfill and cater to those needs which nature had given me, certainly not 
for the purpose of lying to rot unused, to decay in some hidden corner 
unfulfilled. No. I was made for love. Now I was coming into my own, giving 
my all to this boy of the night, this mysterious stranger who had drifted 
into my arms and who had taken me, uplifted me, saved m from the depleting 
sensation and degradation of remorse which was, I felt, not rightfully my 
portion. 

I covered his face with eager, wet kisses and murmured love sounds into his 
mouth. I pressed my lips to his eyelids and his nose and his cheeks and chin 
and the side of his neck. My hands moved along the material of his clothing 
and I regretted that I had not been able to wait long enough for both of us 
to undress I regretted that neither had Marcel been able to linger long 
enough for us to have come to each other in that proper state of nudity. Yet 
we were naked in our souls toward each other, facing one to the next wit 
open heart and mind and eager, giving bodies. Yes, although we were lying 
clandestinely in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, neither Marcel nor I felt 
any sense of being lost. On the contrary, each of us, I know, felt alive and 
discovered at last one by the other. 

It is often said that women are unlike men in their sexual drives and needs; 
that women require security of home and appreciation in order to give the 
most of themselves in love. My experience agrees with this. But there is 
also another possibility and it was this other possibility that I felt in 
Marcel's presence. Together we had only each other. No possibility of 
marriage existed for us, of course, nor did I ever think in those terms with 
him. And yet, I had my home and it was a secure, quiet refuge existing 
within Marcel's heart. I would look into his eyes and know the high esteem 
in which Marcel regarded me. I basked in this appreciation and, when we were 
not together, my memories would return to images of him and I would feel 
inspired. I remember the first time when he held me, driving himself home 
within my fuck box. There was within my abandonment an utter trust which had 
never before occurred with any man. The feeling emanated from passion of 
course, yet seemed to come from a deeper, more profound source. It was as 
though I had reached the bottom of my well and had found there a new vein of 
richness. I thought how strange that here, with this boy, with this unlikely 
partner, I was at peace and felt so right. It only goes to show how little 
one can predict of what one needs or when one will be able to find it. 

Those days aboard ship, I led a double life of the most extreme sort. I did 
not sneak out of Marcel's cabin at four in the morning but walked forth as 
though I had every right to come from where I had come; certain that even if 
I confronted Maximilian in the passageway, there would be on my face such a 
look of purity and lack of guilt that he would not be able to believe that I 
had just emerged from a tryst. 

Of course, fortune favors one at the unlikeliest of times. 

I left Marcel feeling alive, exhilarated, yet I knew my face was pale from 
all the exertion that had gone into the physical aspect of our meeting. I 
walked along the corridor, stroking my hair into place and dreamily 
re-living what had just transpired in its uniqueness. I couldn't have cared 
less about Maximilian. I felt as though I were alone on the ship. Except for 
Marcel, no one else mattered. Not my husband. Not even my individual being. 
For the first time I was complete and lived only in relationship to another, 
so that, as I walked I felt as though I were sharing the length of an 
invisible cord along which passed electric sparks of life between myself at 
one end and at the other end Marcel. Upon reaching A Deck, I forced myself 
to remember my surface responsibilities and proceeded with lagging steps 
back to my own cabin. I saw that the key was still hanging in its place and 
knew, therefore, that Maximilian had not yet come in. I wondered with a 
sudden little twinge of irritation if Maximilian had completely forgotten my 
existence. But the irritation was not with my husband really but with myself 
as I came face to face with what it feels like to be ignored. And I was 
indeed ignoring Maximilian as much certainly, some might say more, than he 
possibly could have been ignoring me. 

I had no urge to go to sleep but I did feel a great desire to be alone with 
my thoughts to relive my love sensations with this new, marvelous person who 
had entered my life. This man who understood my womanly needs and who seemed 
to fill them with unerring instinct. I unlocked the door, threw on the light 
and went inside. For awhile, I stood gazing at my face in the small mirror 
over the sink. Then I poured water from the pitcher into a glass and began 
preparations for bed. My body was languid, drained and seemed ready for 
sleep, I thought. 

Yet, on another level, I was so exuberant, so exhilarated, so tremendously, 
poignantly alive that sleep was the last possible condition which I could 
secure for myself. like a robot I began to take out my nightgown but could 
not really resign myself to lying there in that empty bed alone when I 
should have been sharing Marcel's bunk, lying with him silently, arms 
entwined, not saying much or even thinking much. But simply being together. 

The unnaturalness of my single state got to me. Instead of putting on my 
night things I changed into sweater and slacks, re-combed my hair and went 
out of the cabin again thinking that I would go find a nightcap or someone 
to chat with before calling an end to this momentous day. 

Retracing my steps to the ballroom where I had found Marcel, I ran into Mike 
and Jim from the band, who had each found a female companion. The four, 
seated at a table in the semi-deserted ballroom were obviously in the last 
stages of social chit-chat before separating into couples and going off for 
the obvious conclusion to the night. I saw empty liquor glasses, littered 
ashtrays, bits of sandwiches still cluttering the small table. There was 
that tell-tale tension in the group and I wondered how long they had been 
seated there, how long ago they had finished practice and had separated from 
Maximilian. 

For the first time, I began actively thinking about my husband. Being on a 
ship, we were flung together into a strange proximity of which I wanted no 
part but which I could not dispel. I found myself walking over to the table 
to confront Mike and Jim. 

"Hi, looking for Max?" said Mike. "Yes." 

"Did you try the card room?" 

"No," said I hesitantly. It was the first time that the idea had been 
mentioned to me. I didn't even know that Maximilian was a card player. I'd 
never seen him do so. 

"Oh sure. You'll find him there," Jim grinned. "Go on. Go break it p if you 
can." 

Jim and Mike had spoken as though with one voice and the feeling they shared 
about Maximilian's card playing was obvious. 

"Oh, quit kidding," said I. "Don't make it sound so serious." But I thanked 
them for the tip, turned and started for the other end of the deck wondering 
exactly what I was going to find there. Was Maximilian a gambler? How 
strange. How irrelevant to my life. 

And then, wickedly, I thought, so this is what takes up Maximilian's time. 
No wonder he doesn't care to keep tabs on me. He has a bigger and better 
passion than sex. 

I came to the door of the card room and could barely see through the smoke 
to the players where they sat at various small square tables. Sure enough 
there amongst them, his face bent in creased concentration, was my dear 
husband. 

A stack of chips sat in front of him. I knew immediately that he was in the 
midst of poker. I understood little about the game, must the barest details 
of the rules for I had never been interested in betting anything except 
myself. 

I sauntered up to where the players were. They are the last people on earth 
one can disturb with impunity. As I silently watched the procedure there was 
no doubt that Maximilian's intensity of interest was nothing casual in his 
life. He didn't see my approach. I stood for some minutes behind him, 
observing the deals a d plays, not much concerned with whether or not 
Maximilian were winning but whether or not he was going to end this soon and 
come down to bed. It seemed to me, privately, that it would be a total waste 
of time to go back to the cabin if Maximilian was not going to know the 
difference. I might just as well live the night out with Marcel as long as 
Maximilian had no intention of joining me, of being my jailer. 

I think I would have told him so had he turned and asked. 

Yet nothing of the sort transpired. He did notice my presence at last, 
glanced up at me and gave me an impatient grunt, saying, "What time is it?" 

"Quarter of five." 

"Late." 

I didn't answer. There was nothing to reply. Maximilian's obvious 
distraction meant that if he gave up the game it would be begrudgingly. It 
had nothing to do with the hour but more with the stamina of his opponents 
at the table. 

I looked them over and realized that Maximilian's absorption was not only 
shared but intensified by the group feelings . 

"I'll see you later then," said I, quite quietly an without the least amount 
of challenge. 

Maximilian didn't even bother to reply. I sauntered out of the card room 
feeling both consternated and relieved. All of a sudden I understood. 
Maximilian had a life that was quite complete without me. In one area he had 
his music and his career, wit the driving ambitions and various 
complications that had to be met. Then he had this other, equally strong 
obsession. And between the two it was suddenly quite a surprise to me that 
he found any time at all to spend with his wife. With new clarity and 
insight I saw why he had been just as willing for me not to come along with 
him on his various tours through the States. Having me around would have 
included the necessity of spending time with me. My company would never be 
as interesting to him as these other occupations. 

I grinned with a devilish glee as the burden of Maximilian seemed to lift 
forever from my shoulders. He was just as glad, I felt sure, that I did not 
bother him, that I found modes of keeping myself occupied. The little game 
he had played with sex, the titillating me and not fulfilling me had, with 
time, lost its fascination in the total scheme of things. He had wanted to 
tie me to him out of a basic lack of interest in my sexuality. Because he 
had not really wanted to be bothered with the responsibilities of a wife, he 
had sought to control me by artificial means. 

That he had succeeded, did not enter Maximilian's head, not because he was 
stupid but because he was not really interested. I understood that he was 
just as glad if I could amuse myself without including him. 

And so, Maximilian and I were at last on equal footing, I thought, inhaling 
the night about on the deck and listening to the waves rush by in the 
darkness. He did not want me. Nor I him. Our marriage was a puppet's game. A 
farce. Not even a melodrama. A nothing, really. Too empty to think about, 
much less describe. I leaned over the rail and felt the cool, stinging spray 
and understood that whatever I might do with Marcel was perfectly acceptable 
to everyone, including Maximilian. And I believed it. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

We docked in Le Havre during a rush and frenzy of preparations. The press 
and push of people and baggage was lit by the fire of excited arrival. 
Marcel had given me his Paris address, but except for the approaching 
weekend, I had been unable to tell him where we would be staying. 

I disembarked with a mixture of enthusiasm and downheartedness. At best I 
would not be seeing Marcel for the next couple of days. In the single week 
we had spent together I had already begun to realize that I would find it 
difficult to relearn how to live without him. In one short week I had 
created a new way of life. Now I seemed to be walking in limbo as I followed 
Maximilian through customs. 

The French are a vociferous people and very attractive in their unique 
fashion. I remember being pleased by the herds of small cars with their 
shrill beeping horns. Dockside was a busy place. I was caught up in many 
human flurries until we were finally on the train that would take us 
directly to Paris. 

I settled down with Maximilian and Jim and Mike in the dining car, drank 
coffee and tried to eat a sampling of the French cheeses that the waiter 
brought us with much flourish. But my heart wasn't in any of this. I gazed 
out the window at the countryside rolling by, thinking only one thought, the 
phone number that Marcel had given me. 

Paris in the fall was more beautiful than even I had expected. After we were 
settled in the small hotel, Maximilian bestirred himself sufficiently to 
take me on a sightseeing tour of the city of lights. He made the effort. 
That much I must give him credit for and I did not even sense in him an 
impatience to be through with the responsibility he had assigned himself for 
my amusement. I let Maximilian play the role of custodian to the hilt and 
dutifully walked through the exhibit at Notre Dame, at the candied nuts for 
sale on almost every street corner as well as a French style hamburger at 
the Drug Store which was mobbed with young, beautiful people. It seemed to 
me that Paris was the city of youth and my heart ached for Marcel who so 
much embodied the romantic feelings that stirred me. I was walking with 
Maximilian and listening to the boom of his personalized guided tour while 
inside echoed Marcel's soft, loving voice. 

It was after dusk when Maximilian brought me back to the hotel. Night had 
crept up slowly and my body had not yet become accommodated to the time 
change between hemispheres. 

Maximilian kissed me goodbye, and I waited in the hotel room while he and 
Mike and Jim went off to their first night on the job. 

I waited half an hour and then went to find a telephone to fumble my way 
through my minimal French to Marcel. My heart fairly crashed about behind my 
ribs as I listened to the phone ring, wondering if he might be out at just 
this moment, or otherwise engaged. He had to have a family and friends 
waiting to see him, eager to take up his time. I thought that he must also 
have a girl, something blonde and fragile and beautiful in a trench coat, 
something that outclassed me in chic. 

And then I heard his voice saying hello in the French way. 

"Marcel." I only said the one word and that was enough. 

"Where are you? Where are you staying?" 

"I told you. Yes, I told you, Marcel. Are we very far from each other? I 
don't know where you are." 

"Only fifteen minutes by bus," he laughed. "I'll be right there." 

"No, don't come to the hotel. That's too risky." 

"All right, I'll meet you somewhere else, if you wish." 

He gave me directions but I was not sure that I could follow them. 

"Supposing we meet at the Drug Store," I said. 

Marcel laughed into the phone. "So you've been there already?" 

"The ninth wonder of the world," said I. "Yes. All right then. Half an 
hour." 

"Yes, Marcel, yes." 

I felt like a fool. All I had been able to say to Marcel was the voicing of 
my fear of losing him and the yessing and yessing of anything he might wish. 
But that was exactly how I felt, completely open to him and agreeable, 
willing to do whatever Marcel might ask of me, anything as long as we might 
continue the Elysium which had begun aboard ship. 

Bless my lover. He arrived at our appointed meeting place before I, and so 
spared me the harassment of waiting, of being nervously stimulated by the 
fear of missing him in the crowd. 

No, my Marcel would never disappoint me. He was there, dressed in a very 
French cut suit, easy yet fashionable. He had also taken a haircut and was 
exceedingly trim and beautiful. His face was open as always with its 
familiar eagerness to see me and gladness at" our meeting. 

I realized as we ran toward each other that all my fears had been based on 
one single fear: that the atmosphere of shipboard romance would come to an 
end with a shattering thud for him at the sight of me on land where we were 
surrounded by so many other people and such a myriad of different 
opportunities. I must say that because of my fears I did not do Marcel 
justice. I had not given, him sufficient credit. I had worried that he 
survived on novelty as was prevalent amongst those of his age. Why should he 
wait for me, depend upon me when there were so many women, younger, more 
beautiful? The French beauties were shining like lights all around and 
Marcel, himself no slacker, would have been able to start a dozen different 
affairs if he had wanted them. 

But I saw immediately that Marcel had eyes only for me and I thanked the 
fates that had given me such good fortune. I allowed my dazzled brain to 
accept Marcel as my true husband and I flung myself into his embrace as we 
came together. 

Arm in arm we walked to the corner and around to where he had a small blue 
car, a Renault I think. I folded myself up into the front seat, ready and 
willing to go wherever Marcel chose to drive us. 

"I'm taking you home," he said. "You'll like my place." 

"Of course I will." My heart leaped again but this time without the crashing 
and pounding of nervous fear. It leaped instead with the renewal of my 
passion. 

Marcel was taking me home, to his home where we would be alone, where we 
could embrace as we needed to embrace and fulfill the desires which had 
outlived the separation they had encountered. 

Yes, some things are forever. Some things are like a diamond, hard and 
bright and forever of value in a special way with which nothing else can 
compete. 

Id did not even look around me at the sights as Marcel drove but leaned 
against the door and stared at him, eating him alive with my gaze and 
unashamedly telling him how much I had missed him even though we had been 
separated for hardly a day. Already he was an obsession with me and I would 
have Marcel regardless of the cost. 

He drove past the Sorbonne and into an attractive street of small houses. I 
remember what a haze it all was to me, parking the car, walking half a block 
up a hill, climbing stairs of an old fashioned hallway, entering an 
apartment with a skylight. A small apartment with rooms at odd angles to one 
another, I don't know how many there were but the cozy atmosphere was 
exactly what went well with Marcel and we were again united as the door 
closed with a soft click that seemed to lock us from the world forever. 

We had that capacity with each other, this ability to float off into 
Shangri-La, untouched and untouchable by anything beyond the four walls that 
protected us from view. All existence became meaningless except for this 
limited yet limitless world which we created and shared. Out hands touched 
again. Our fingers entwined as Marcel's lips met mine, gently at first, ever 
so gently in greeting as friends greet friends. 

Our lovemaking took on the climate of something extra-special, 
extra-precious and we began to draw out the process to make it last as long 
as we might. Our mouths lingered in touch. We undressed each other slowly, 
fondling parts of the bodies that we contacted in the process of disrobing. 
I pressed my lips to Julian's chest and closed my eyes, sighing against his 
warm solid muscle and laying my cheek upon him. The bed which was beside the 
window gave me a full view of the sky and the Paris rooftops, those crooked, 
beautiful patterns f shadow. Marcel held me in his arms and together we 
looked out at the night while feeling each other's closeness and warmth and 
desire. 

His hand played over my tits and I am sure that he felt the heartbeat racing 
inside me. Filled as I was with love for him I knew that I would have to 
express it in some ultimate major way for I wanted to manifest my love 
completely. It seemed so incredibly total in its possession of me that I 
needed, I thought, to externalize my feelings so that I could hold them in 
my palm and look them over and examine all their details. But the 
manifestation was Marcel's body. I realized that this was enough. That he 
existed and that I had found him and that we loved each other was indeed 
sufficient for me. I rolled over and, lying on my side now, pressed against 
him. I lifted one leg and put it over his hips feeling the beginnings of 
life that stirred in his maleness. There was a certain special secret that 
transported itself between my body and his, a current of passion perhaps yet 
more, certainly more. I felt myself given over to a sense of immortality. In 
Marcel's arms I could do no wrong, would never be harmed, was free to love 
with every inch and depth that I possessed. I massaged the inside of my calf 
up and down along his prick .enjoying the feel of its growing size. I knew 
intimately every response of his and had examined his body with the 
curiosity which emanates from love but I never tired of looking at him, of 
stroking him and probing my love object. Now I reached my hand down and took 
hold of the sac beneath his erection and felt the warmth and the weight upon 
my palm as though I were holding a bag of golden nuggets of priceless value. 

"How I missed you," I murmured, which was really senseless to say and yet 
meant everything to me to say it. 

"Have you been busy? What were you doing? Tell me. Do you like my city?" 

"Oh so you think of Paris as your city? More so than New York?" My voice 
inadvertently rose on a nervous pitch. 

"I didn't say that, my love. I do think of 

Paris as my city though. Paris has been good to me in so many ways." 

"You have your friends here." 

"Many. But I have friends in New York also." 

"Yes, you say you divided your time between the two. But I don't think you 
said equally, did you Marcel?" 

He stroked my hair and tried to soothe my nervous prodding. 

"I have very close friends in New York and family too, remember that dear. 
Don't be afraid." 

"Am I?" 

"Of course you are. And why shouldn't you be?. It's strange to you here, so 
new, so different. How could you help but be uncomfortable in some ways?" 

"But I'm in your arms and that's all that matters to me Marcel. You must 
believe it. I don't care what city in the world we're in or if we're lying 
on a desert as long as I'm here like this with you." 

I began a frenzied kissing of his body as though I could with my mouth and 
ardent passion dispel whatever disturbing thoughts had began to ruffle me. 
It was the wrong time to be disturbed. I did not want to mar our first 
meeting this way. Our reunion was supposed to be something special and 
especially intimate. 

Yet here I had flung a discordant tone into our essential harmony and, 
having done so, I also instantly regretted my act. Yet it had come from 
somewhere inside me, somewhere honest. There was no questioning my 
insecurity and I had to accept Marcel's word for the fact that these 
undesirable sensations were due only to the fact of being in a different 
place. I tried to imagine how comfortably at ease I would feel if we were in 
a hotel room in New York City. But try as I might, the fact was that we were 
in Paris, that I did not know how long we would be together or exactly where 
in the country I would find myself from one week to the next. How would I be 
able to keep Marcel informed of my whereabouts? And even if I could do that, 
would he be able to respond always to my call? Of course not. He had his own 
life. No matter how much I might try to overlook the fact, the truth lay 
there, big and bulky as a baby elephant between us. Marcel had his own life. 
And what did I know of it? What could I know of his life? How little time we 
had spent asking each other questions in the realms which had seemed at 
first of no immediate importance. Now, suddenly looming large and pressing 
against me with an insistent sharp nudge all the unmasked questions rose. 

"Oh my, oh my,. ' said Marcel trying to quiet me with kisses upon my mouth. 
"We'll talk about it. We'll talk about everything. But later, my darling ... 
Afterward." 

I agreed with Marcel. Time enough afterward. Time enough. 

I agreed with Marcel. Time enough afterward. Time enough. 

Our bodies rubbing against each other had stirred the cravings that were 
there so close to the surface waiting only for contact to again leap into 
life. And now Marcel was kissing me, from one nipple to the next and 
underneath the weight of my breast into the secret crevices there. He 
stroked my arms and the armpits and down my sides, feeling the rib cage and 
the convexity of my belly. He pressed his mouth to the navel and lingered a 
while as his hands went around my hips, caressing my buttocks. Separating 
the two halves and inserting a finger there he felt me carefully where I was 
not accustomed to be felt except by him. Yes, Marcel had brought a newness, 
a kind of novelty in our sexual explorations. To Marcel I had given my total 
freedom and would permit him access to every part of my body in any way that 
he chose. 

"Spread your legs, darling, wider." 

I did so and Marcel's hands proceeded now deeper inside while his mouth 
continuing down the front of me widened the crevice so that his tongue could 
fit in between the inner labia until it touched and began to massage with 
its rigid tip the clitoral point of female sensation. 

I, without shame, made Marcel turn around so that my mouth could be upon his 
prick at the same time. My lips, forming themselves around the stem began to 
move in long stroking action so that I felt the stiffened muscle and all its 
various components yielding to me and giving me what I wanted from him. Yes, 
I wanted Marcel to reach the heights of pleasure. I wanted him to believe 
that only from me could he get everything of what he wanted. I wanted to 
bind Marcel. I wanted Marcel to become addicted to what I gave him and what 
I had to give. I wanted. I wanted. 

And everything came to pass physically between us. I had no compunction 
about his orgasm as it spurted and hit the roof of my mouth. The pulsing 
stimulated me to respond in kind and I began to tremble and rise to that 
ultimate peak until, as though something squeezed me, I began also to expel 
in writhing undulation the epitome of ecstatic fulfillment. 

Our first orgasm, happening almost simultaneously, took place I think only a 
very few moments after we had begun to fondle ome another. Both of us were 
expectant and able. Afterward there were moments of complete quiet. Then I 
left the bed and wandered about the room, aware that Marcel was watching me 
in my nakedness, surveying my shape. I put my hands upon my hips and turned 
and looked at him and enjoyed watching him look at me. The few lights in 
various strategic places illuminated my body and cast it into becoming 
shadow. It was a room to compliment a woman and I knew that I could live 
here forever, cook dinners for Marcel and me in the small adjacent kitchen. 
I could be happy ever after in this fairy tale of love if the fates would 
let me. 

And Marcel seemed to understand my thinking for he said, "What time do you 
have to be home tonight, darling?" 

I shrugged my shoulders. "Not any time especially," said I. "I seem to be 
more of a free woman than I had hoped." 

"Good." 

The single word did not carry all the weight of pleased reception that I had 
subconsciously expected Marcel would show me. 

"In fact," said I pursuing the matter with a sudden urge to reach my goal, 
"I can probably stay through the night if you'd like me to do that." 

"Of course, my dear, of course." 

His laconic, unexpected monosyllabic retort was so unlike, so abruptly 
unlike Marcel's previous attention to me. I felt disconcerted, almost angry 
but didn't know what to do, didn't know how to deal with something I could 
not quite put my finger on. 

"Only if you want me to stay," I repeated. "Do you darling?" 

"But you know I do," Marcel had propped himself up on one elbow and was 
reaching for a small telephone book. "I have only a call to make," he said, 
"and I'm yours the rest of the night." 

I knew I had better not ask Marcel who he was dialing. It was none of my 
business and, since Marcel did not press to know what was doing in my life, 
I had no reason to assume he would welcome any investigation on my part. 
Beside which I had a husband. He knew I had a husband. My relationship, by 
the very nature of that previous tie, was limited in what it could offer 
Marcel in terms not of feeling but of time. Had I, therefore, caught him off 
guard? Had he expected to be with me for an hour or two or three or more but 
to be eventually free for someone else? 

Why not? 

My heart sank as I listened to him speak in French. The' words made his face 
mobile and beautiful and I could only catch the meaning of two or three in 
the long stream of rapid fire sentences. I had no way of knowing whether he 
was speaking to a male or female but I simply assumed it was a woman and he 
was canceling out on some later appointment. Yet there was the ugliness of 
it. Any later appointment would have to have been one which included a 
physical relationship. What kind of woman would he be seeing him at three or 
four in the mourning? Not a sister certainly. Not an aunt. It had to be a 
girlfriend. 

I turned my back upon the telephone conversation as though to show Marcel 
that I didn't care, would refuse to care, could never acknowledge that 
anyone who took his time could take it up as importantly as I. 

My first signs of jealousy barbs were sharp ones. 

How they dug into my flesh. How I trembled inside. How I didn't care whether 
the trembling showed or not because I was so powerless to control it. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the receiver was cradled. 

Marcel said. "All right, darling, stay with me till morning. We'll go out 
for breakfast then and I'll drive you through the city at dawn. It's 
beautiful, you know. You'll love it. I know you'll love it." 

I turned slowly and said, "Marcel, am I disturbing your life?" 

He laughed an uneasy laugh. "Of course you are. You have to. Love always 
does that. I love you." 

I heard his reassurance but it did not reach me where I might respond in 
kind. I thought: well he's telling me these things to keep the relationship 
smooth. Marcel is a gentleman and he doesn't want to hurt my feelings. Not 
now. Not so soon. I thought all manner of ridiculous female fluttering but 
there was no way out for me. I knew that I would have to remain with Marcel 
until the grim fangs of truth bit and tore my flesh, until the blood ran and 
there was nothing for me to do but run, run for my life. 

Was it happening so soon? Was my own true love rejecting me? And can one's 
own true love reject or must it be a mutual act? 

"Marcel," said I, taking my last stand with him, "would you prefer it if I 
were single?" 

All this he could provide and when he laughed aloud and stared at the 
ceiling and ran his hands through his hair and seemed at a loss as to what 
to answer me. 

"Well tell me the truth, for heaven's sake, Marcel. Speak. Answer me. Tell 
me. You are not at a loss for words, not you, not the Frenchman." 

The bitterness was already in my voice. I was running rapidly downhill. From 
my Elysian peak I was tumbling headlong into the depths of unhappiness and 
powerless to stop the cumulative landslide. 

"Oh my dear girl, you must never ask me such a thing." 

"Why not? Can't you answer me yes or no? It's a simple question." I was 
staring at him. "Isn't it simple?" 

"All right," Marcel sighed, "I would prefer it if you were single." 

"Are you telling me the truth?" 

He shook his head from side to side and I could tell by the puzzled 
expression in his eyes that he could not understand what had come over me so 
suddenly. And I was the last one on earth who could enlighten him. It was as 
thought I were suddenly possessed of an ancient devil who was going through 
its ritual of torture acts upon my psyche. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," said I, sinking to the bed, "I'm sorry, Marcel, my very 
dearest love. I don't know what's gotten into me. I really just don't know." 

It was the truth. Here I was in the midst of the most promising love affair 
of my life, certainly the one that was touching me more deeply than any 
experience I had ever known but I could see myself willfully proceeding to 
destroy the closeness of that very love and felt powerless to turn myself 
off. 

I suppose you can imagine the horror that struck me as I saw this unexpected 
undercurrent in my nature surfacing to contradict everything about myself I 
had believed up until this moment. 

Marcel, I realized, could not possibly understand, as hard as he might try. 
Marcel with his straightforward spontaneous nature saw only the black and 
white of our relationship and his was the more satisfying view. 

"Darling," he said in his attempt to reassure me, "why don't you relax and 
try not to worry?" 

I was not worrying. I was stricken as though a great dragon inside me were 
breathing fire and consuming with that fire my hopes as well as my love. I 
flung myself back into Marcel's arms praying that with kisses and passion I 
could erase this rising threat, destroy it before I was destroyed by it. My 
mouth sought with desperation to suck in all that was Marcel's life force nd 
love for me. I pressed him close to my heart and with eyes shut tight I 
clung to his warm, lighe strength. 

"Oh, hold me tight." My voice was a sob. 

I think that Marcel knew better than I that sexual passion would not erase 
my troubles. Nevertheless, he gave in to the new outburst of desire that 
overwhelmed me and we sank down onto the throw rugs. Soon we were entwined 
and half connected in the sexual act. 

To make love out of desperation, to earnestly pray that one will be consumed 
in the flames was like a child swearing in blood that he will be forever 
true. With all my strength I squeezed my thighs around Marcel's hips 
pressing him to blend with me and surely, it happened in the act that I rose 
above my distraught condition and loved Marcel truly, completely. 

Shortly after the realization that I bore within me the seeds of my own 
destruction, my behavior began to change. 

I began to look not to Julian for love but to the streets again for 
expiation as though by giving myself up to strange lovers, people without 
names, I would someday in some way destroy that counter-current which I 
understood had ruled me all these years, ruled me secretly with a primeval 
shrewdness. I recognized that if I saw Marcel continually I would allow him 
to see too much of this negative nature and, eventually, he would have to 
let me go. 

Because I could not bear the idea of that separation, because I could not 
survive, I thought, if Marcel rejected me, it was I who created the very 
conditions for rejection and initiated our arguments. 

We were walking through the Tuilieries one sunny afternoon, talking about 
nothing important. Having just come from the Louvre we were both filled with 
the exquisiteness of human endeavor, some forms of it anyway, and Marcel was 
in the midst of a sentence on Leonardo do Vinci when I tugged at his jacket 
sleeve and said, "Darling, you know this is to be the last time we'll see 
each other." 

Marcel stopped short and looked down at me, his face so expressive and open, 
was more bewildered at the moment than anything else. 

"What are you saying?" 

"Yes, it's true. Today is our last day together." 

"Why? Are you leaving for New York? I go, too, soon, on the thirteenth of 
next month." 

I shook my head, unable to control my voice as a harsh lump seemed to rise. 
I could not bear the sight of his profound puzzlement. In his mind there was 
nothing that could keep us apart. Yet here I was, doing it all by myself, 
making the separation, taking full responsibility for it. 

I glanced away from Marcel and stared through blurred vision at the rapid 
darting of those small cars I had learned to love. Marcel misunderstood my 
silence and continued. 

"Is it your husband?" he said. His fingers squeezed my arm with strength 
that demanded I answer. "Has he found out? And even so, you can leave him." 

I had never heard those words from any man, that I could leave Maximilian, 
that I ought to leave Maximilian. 

My blood went cold. My heart seemed to stop in the middle of a beat. My 
thoughts went blank. I was the shell of a human being, without notion or 
feeling or direction. I was a silent point in the center of time, empathy 
meaningless. Leave Maximilian '? I should have left him years ago. I should 
have left him before I had married him. And here was Marcel, my very own 
true love, telling me that I should leave Maximilian now. Did that mean what 
I hoped it might mean? 

"If I leave him," said I very softly and with hesitation, "what then, 
Marcel? What will I do?" 

"Oh-ho, you know very well," he said trying to take heart from my question. 

"I know nothing," said I abruptly, the brusqueness hiding my hope. 

I was thinking: Tell me Marcel. Tell me what's on your mind. You seem so 
certain of yourself and you know I'm not at all sure. I need your 
certainty., Marcel. Spell it out for me. Tell me what you are thinking. 

Ah, but you must know," He was not impatient so much as at his wit's end 
because of my seeming lack of direction.. 

"I suppose I would leave Maximilian," said I taking the plunge, "if I could 
run to you, my darling." 

Marcel's laugh had a ring of discomfort like a haze around the moon. 

And so I knew the truth, knew the inevitable. How had I dared to conceive 
that Marcel felt himself in any posit on for marriage. And if he did, why 
would he marry me? I was fine for a love affair, for a clandestine thrill, 
for a heart to heart romance. But marriage? Marriage was a practical 
venture, a statement that one was ready to settle down and take all the 
rottenness along with the good times and Marcel wasn't ready for that. I 
knew it. He knew it. And now because I was cornered by my own nature, I 
flung this knowledge in Marcel's face to let him see that I was desperate 
perhaps, but nobody's fool. 

"I would think," said Marcel, "that you would enjoy having your freedom for 
awhile so that you might," he hesitated, "get to know yourself a little 
better, my dearest." 

"I've had enough of freedom," I answered, my words exploding with 
conviction. "I know what it's like to . ... " The sentence trailed off as my 
imagination brought to mind all the men I had seen and known in my 
lifetimes. My marriage had not been real, and the horizons of my experience 
were not beautiful. Quite the contrary. Because of my peculiar relationship 
with Maximilian I had taken wing. What I wanted now was not to be free but 
to be tired to someone I enjoyed, someone to whom I could willingly and 
devotedly give my all. Yes, I wanted to be married. The state of marriage 
was everything, every opportunity, every atmosphere, every security. And to 
be a woman on the loose, roaming the world, picking up lovers and dropping 
them was not my idea of freedom. It was not my nature. 

"You must think your thoughts through," Marcel said. 

"I am clearer now than I have ever been, my darling," said I, tugging his 
arm. "And I think we are clear about each other now also, isn't that so?" 

It was so. We both fell into silence, facing the reality that had been 
pushed so far away by our mutual love. How strange it felt to know that we 
adored each other, that we were everything to each other but that what we 
felt was not based on any foundation that might develop into a solid home 
life. I had a rude jolt to see how possible it was for love and marriage to 
be utterly unrelated one to the other. This awakening shook me and turned my 
values upside down. Would I ever see Marcel again. No. Today was indeed the 
last day. I was leaving him not out of fear or disappointment. I was leaving 
Marcel because our love, as heated and profound as it was, had nowhere to 
go. And because I was I, there had to be someplace. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

I recall with humor as well as sadness the variety of Frenchmen that I 
picked up and discarded during the next few frenzied weeks. With Marcel out 
of my life, there was a vast emptiness that had to be filled and I also had 
to content myself with doing it clumsily. Something was better than nothing, 
I decided, and rushed headlong into every affair that offered its smiling 
face. Of course, because I had nothing more to lose, I grew increasingly 
careless in my protective covering, almost hoping that Maximilian would 
catch me in the act and confront me at last with the inevitable. 

I suppose one might say that I even set up the situation, for when it 
happened, although I did not realize that I had done so purposely, it is 
easy to see at this distance how I had constructed events so that Maximilian 
would have nowhere to walk except right into the center of my 
unfaithfulness. I no longer blame him for my fate but I cannot say what sort 
of life we might have had together if Maximilian had been more interested in 
me, in us, in our marriage. 

Yes, I began bringing men home to the hotel room during the hours when 
Maximilian was out on a job. You know how hotel clerks are. They discretely 
turn and look the other way when a woman wishes to indulge in romance. 

My routine was a simple one. Maximilian would leave the house at a specified 
hour. I would leave maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after he did and return 
often in less than an hour with someone new. Oh, there was a variety of men 
I brought back, of every size, of every social level. I didn't care. Rich 
ones, poor ones, rough ones, they were men and that's what mattered. I 
suppose the management began to think of me as Mrs. Tower the nymphomaniac 
and perhaps that description was accurate. When sex is used to take the 
place of other facets of living can it be called anything else? I didn't 
know I was rushing through a forest of phallic delights, embracing each as 
though it were a magic wand that would transform me, lift' me out of my 
whirlwind of confusion up into the rarified air of peace and understanding. 

How futile a gesture. How thoughtless. How helpless. Yet, as I have said, 
subconsciously the mind was working on my own better behalf. Little could I 
know that the impending trial by desire would draw me through its flames and 
out on the other side burnt but in some strange way purified. 

It was a Friday night. The man I held in my arms was, as usual, faceless but 
strong. There was a faint aroma of brandy on his breath as he kissed my hair 
and ears and explored along the sides of my neck down to my bosom. The lips 
felt like many another set of lips upon my flesh, seeking, stimulating. His 
cheeks were somewhat rough with a beginning stubble of beard. The hairs had 
a blonde glint in the light of the bedside lamp. I smelled of Chanel No. 5 
very strongly, very alluring to him. He held my skull in his giant palms, 
turned my head this way and that. I moved my shoulders and my breasts 
jiggled beneath the bed sheet. He sighed at the sight of my nipples outlined 
by the sheet as puckered points grew harder in twin erections of need. He 
was not a Frenchman but, of all things, an American, a teacher on sabbatical 
leave. But that wasn't important. It seemed to me nothing could be important 
except the physical. And the part of him that interested me I was touching 
with my knee, enjoying the response of his torrid cock coming to life as I 
rubbed against it. His body covered with a thick matting of hair had a 
certain smooth, soft resiliency to it. I was moving my hand through the 
pubic area and sighing with shivers of expectation. I'd had a few brandies 
myself and though sober my blood was exceedingly warm. Desire climbed 
youthfully. I felt that my female powers were in their prime and would 
remain thus at their peak for a long time to come. I was satisfied with the 
condition of my craving. I enjoyed the fact that I was excited, that I would 
become even further aroused and that this faceless, nameless male would 
penetrate me shortly and bring to a peak my ecstasy. 

 CHAPTER NINE 

Yes, I had no business feeling so abandoned to the moment, so secure that 
the door would not open, so certain that Maximilian would not come home 
before daylight. 

But he did. 

Does ii matter the reason? I think that Mike and Jim later told me that they 
had, in fact, not gone out to play that night. Maximilian had simply 
neglected to inform me that he was off to a card game. Only the card game 
for some reason had not materialized. The players had left from some casino 
or other which Maximilian would not go to and instead returned to the hotel. 

Anyway, as I say, the reason is immaterial. Only the fact of Maximilian's 
sudden presence in that bedroom is important now. 

How well I remember not believing it as the door which I hadn't bothered to 
lock simply opened and in stepped Maximilian. I remember the funny thing, 
that he was carrying a bottle of wine and a long unwrapped loaf of bread as 
the French do. He was starting to say something about having a late snack 
with me and was holding the bottle aloft when he saw what he saw. 

It was a death-like moment. 

There was no covering anything of course. I was naked, stretched out, the 
strange man lying half on top of me just about ready to enter. Maximilian, 
stricken speechless and rigid, stared with unblinking, large penetrating 
sight upon the scene which made no sense to him for a minute. I could tell 
how his brain refused to register the meaning of what his eyes took in. 

I felt the man beside me swallow. I merely lay as I lay, looking back at 
Maximilian feeling an icy dread combined with a certain strange challenge on 
my face. I knew. A challenge that said to Maximilian, well you never would. 
Somebody had to. 

He lowered the bottle slowly and set it down on the bureau, put the bread 
beside it. I heard the bottle clatter as glass hit glass top and I knew his 
hands were trembling with an attempt to control his rage and outrage. I 
believe that in that moment he would have been capable of murdering me but I 
tell you he never would have succeeded My own ambitions for self survival 
were stronger than I realized and they rushed to my defense. 

He stood staring at the wall, then turned and said, "So this is what you 
need?" 

I didn't answer. And because I didn't answer, Maximilian was free to find 
his own direction. 

"Now I know what's the matter with you," he continued, "What's been." 

"Nothing's the matter with me," I flung back suddenly, clinging to the man 
for an instant then thrusting him aside. "I'm a normal, healthy woman. 
Nothing's the matter with me." My voice was raised with strength and belief 
and the knowledge that I would not be dominated by Maximilian ever again. 

"You're a lousy, rotten," he said more softly now, "fucker." 

It was true. I was what he told me. "Yes, I'm that. What are you going to do 
about it?" 

"Do about it?" He echoed my thought which seemed to strike him as though his 
brain were a drumhead. Abruptly, without another word, he slammed out of the 
room. 

I heard the heavy footstep go down the hall and then stop. I knew Maximilian 
was standing there in blood red fury. And then I heard the sound of the 
steps again, returning. He entered the room like a bull. All reason, I saw, 
was gone. His blood was up. Maximilian, in full feeling, assailed me. 

"You wanna fuck?" he rasped, gripping the bedpost. "Well, go ahead and do 
it. This I gotta see. This I gotta know. Bitch. Go on sonny," he said to the 
man. "Stick it into her. Go ahead. Make her scream. I want to see that bitch 
come. I want to see it happen. Go on. Screw her. Screw her until she chokes 
on it." 

I could hardly believe that what was happening were real. It seemed as if it 
were a dream and that this were something out of a nightmare. 

His voice was harsh and brittle and he was seething with hatred for me. 

But something about the thought of making it with this faceless stranger 
while Maximilian watched was something that intrigued and thrilled me. 

"Alright," I said. "I'll fuck him and you watch." 

A pallor came over his face. He could not believe that I had actually said 
that and that I had every intention of carrying it out. 

I was willing but that cock that I was with was not. 

He looked between Maximilian and me and mumbled something about not wanting 
to get involved with a couple scene. 

He dressed quickly and left in a hurry. 

I was left to face Maximilian alone. 

"What do you think you're trying to prove?" he asked me, his voice seething 
with violence. 

There was nothing I could say. I wasn't trying to prove anything at all. I 
just wanted to fuck. 

He began gathering his clothes, threatening to leave me high and dry in this 
city. 

"Calm down, Max," I said to him. "We can work this out. Just try to be more 
understanding about this whole thing." 

He was furious. He was boiling with anger and that self-righteousness of 
being wrong by an evil woman. 

"That act went out with Queen Victoria," I said to him. "Where the hell have 
you been the last thirty years," I said. 

"You fucking slut. Can't you keep your hands off anybody's cock. Do you have 
to fuck all the fucking time?" 

"Yes. I fuck when I want to and with whom I want to. You can do the same." 

"I'm leaving," he said. 

"Go then. If you can't stand the heat get out of the kitchen." 

"Don't hit me with that kind of bullshit," 'he said. "Don't give me some 
stale axiom trying to make excuses for the slut you really are." 

"Alright then, Max. Pack your things and leave. I'm tired of making up with 
this shit." 

He got as many things together as he could and then split. 

I was left alone and in a way that was what I wanted. I was now left to do 
anything I wanted and with anybody I wanted. 

Men were all that mattered to me and I knew that as long as I could fuck I 
would have little to worry about in the way of being sheltered or clothed. 

I could always find some man to take me in for a few days, give him a good 
time in bed and then go off searching for another guy. 

It was a good enough life for me and I knew that one of these days, if I 
played my cards right I would be able to latch on to some real man with a 
lot of bread. 

That would be just fine for me. I knew that there were a lot of lonely old 
men with nothing to do but spend their money of women. 

Being kept appealed to me and that was what I wanted. There's no shame in 
it. There's only satisfaction for me in knowing that some man wants my cunt 
badly enough to be willing to pay for it and support me in a way that I 
want. 

I feel that if a girl can do it she should be able to go out there and make 
it with some rich old fuck that has nothing better to do than throw his 
money away on her pussy. 

There's no better life for me than that. 


The End
